𐙚 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐞 ִ ࣪

“F-fuck, do you feel me baby?” he whispered, slow and reverent, fingers parting you gently. “Y-you’re so soaked.” You whimpered softly, the tension you’d been holding onto all day was unraveling with each slow stroke of his fingers. “Ah… mikey fuck—don’t tease.” Ignoring you, his fingers parted you slowly, tracing your folds. Teasing every slick inch like it was his favorite thing in the world. And it was. “All this’ for m’ baby?” he murmured, fingers gliding up to swirl over your clit, light but deliberate. “You don’t have to act shy wit’ me mama, when your pussy’s begging you jus’ tell me alright?”

Your legs fell open without thinking, hips moving toward his big hand like your body had completely given up on pretending it didn’t crave him. The wet disgusting sounds of his fingers working you open made the heat twist tighter in your belly and throat, your breathing shallow and uneven as he circled your clit. You whimpered, thighs trembling around his wrist. Your head leaned against his shoulder, pressure building between your legs and the way his fingers moved on your heat. He slipped two fingers inside you without warning, and you cried out, your hand shooting up to grip his arm hard. He groaned at how tight you clenched around him, curling his fingers deep, fucking you slow. “Soooo wet… mmhh fuck, you’re dripping, mama.” He muttered, lips dragging hot down your neck.

Your shaky, grinding harder on the thick length of his fingers, it also made you cling tighter to his shirt as your thighs still trembled around him. “Mmmhh so good for me, f-fuck, I know baby—needy girl, huh?” he teased, a soft chuckle leaving his mouth. “M-Michael…. P-Please…” you whined, voice barely above a whisper. His grip on your thighs (to keep u open.) tightened, guiding your thighs to stay open, as he did that he tilted his head to look at you, lips parted and eyes basically rolling. “Yeah? You feel good? Mmhh i know you do, don’t you mama? you’re making me so hard f-fuck baby.” Your only answer was a soft, desperate moan as you rocked against him again, your panties damppppp, Michael licked a stripe up your neck before sucking another very visible mark into your skin, right over your collarbone, slow and possessive. Your hips moved on instinct now, slow, needy rolls that made your clit even more throb. Making it feel like your 2th orgasam.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

Your whole body was trembling now, every movement of his fingers pushing you closer to the edge. He knew exactly where to curl them, how to angle each thrust, how to grind his thumb over your clit just right. Your moans had turned to helpless little cries, your body rocking into his hand, chasing the high he was so expertly giving you. “Mike—Michael, I’m gonna cum,” you gasped, voice nearly breaking as you teetered right on the brink. And then he stopped. You choked out a whimper, the sudden absence of his fingers leaving you aching and empty. “N-no —Michael, please. Baby please.” you whimpered, hips still twitching, trying to chase the pressure he’d stolen away. He pulled back slowly, trailing his wet fingers up your stomach as he leaned in to kiss your jaw, your cheek, and then your mouth, all soft and sweet. His kiss was gentle—too gentle, considering the way your body was still shaking with need.

then slammed his two fingers back in, hard. You cried out, body jolting beneath him as he set a brutal rhythm, each thrust deep, the sound of skin slapping echoing in the dark room. “Say it to me baby,” he panted, his pace unrelenting. “Say you’re mine, and tell me what you’re about to do.”

“I—I’m yours, Michael! Fuck!” you moaned, voice high and shaking. “All yours b-baby!” He leaned down, teeth grazing your neck as he fucked you harder wirh his fingers again, the bed creaking under his pace. “Damn right you are my baby, cum for me.” Your moans came out in broken little sobs, your hands scrambling to hold onto his hair as each thrust knocked the breath out of you. He was so deep, his fingers are so thick and stretching you to your limit, the sound of his hand slapping against your soaked cunt obscene in the dark room. You then came hard on his fingers with a loud, shuddering scream. “Michael—! Fuck, I’m cumming—!” Your entire body convulsed hard, thighs clamping around his fingers, shaking your head and stopping his hand, powerful waves of pleasure crashed through you.

“Fuckk.. atta girl, mmhh so, so good.” Your pussy clenched and fluttered around his fingers gushing wetly on his lap and fingers while he continued to rub your clit, to see a small reaction. “Mean, huh? aww look at you mama…You did so good. Took it all for me.” Once you were clean, he crawled back into bed and pulled you into his chest, wrapping you up in his arms, his hand rubbing soft circles into your back. “I adore you so much baby, i love seeing you feel good. Now go to sleep mama, I got you.” he murmured, lips brushing your forehead. (๑ᵔ⤙ᵔ๑)

❤︎ © 888latte.

1993 soul train music awards

You knew you couldn't avoid this forever.

But you didn't expect seeing him again to come like this, although you should have, because if not for a public award show, where else would you see him again? Where else would your worlds be forced into the same space long enough for it to matter?

You haven't spoken in 7 years, not anything substantial besides the formal 'hello', 'how are you', 'you look nice' at industry events, the kind of exchanges that felt more like habit than connection, over before they ever had the chance to become anything real. But now you had to present him with an award? At least you'd be presenting alongside Eddie Murphy; he could be the buffer between you, something solid to focus on so you didn't have to stand there alone with him and everything that never actually got resolved.

Both you and your boyfriend were nominated for awards tonight. The atmosphere around you was filled with excitement and anticipation that you couldn't quite match. His single was nominated for Best R&B Soul Singer—Male, but you knew Michael's single Remember The Time was also nominated for this category, and you had a feeling you knew who would win, the certainty settling quietly in your chest before the envelope was ever opened.

You were nominated for Best R&B Soul Singer—Female, your own name existing in the same lineup as his again in a way that felt too close, like the distance you'd spent years building between your lives had suddenly collapsed without warning.

You stood backstage with Eddie, waiting for your cue to go on stage to present Michael with the Humanitarian of the Year Award, and Eddie could tell something was off, even if you hadn't said a word.

Everyone knew that you and Michael famously dated... and broke up, but nobody knew the details. Neither of you talked about it. Neither of you allowed interviewers to ask about the other, shutting it down before it could ever turn into something public. Michael never spoke ill of you in the media, and you did the same, never speaking one bad word about him. The tabloids did it enough, filling in the silence with whatever version of the story they wanted, and you had no reason to add fuel to the fire.

But of course, that didn't stop them from speculating. You two had gone public with your relationship at the 1981 American Music Awards when you walked the carpet together, posing for pictures, and Michael kissed your cheek for the public, the cameras catching a moment that felt effortless back then, before everything became complicated. And then in 1986, it was over. 5 years, and nobody knows what happened, something that had once been so full, reduced to a question people thought they were entitled to an answer for.

Some tabloids said you broke up with Michael because you couldn't keep up with Michael's fame, even though you made a name for yourself in music, able to stand on your own right, never needing to exist in anyone else's shadow.

Other tabloids said that Michael ended the relationship because he wanted to promote Bad as a single man, reshaping his image into something sharper, more untouchable. Thriller was a cute time to be a man in love, but Bad was grittier, sexier.

All of it was far from the truth.

"I can do most of the talking if you want," Eddie's voice pulls you from your thoughts, grounding you back in the moment before it can slip too far. Although Eddie is friends with Michael, and that's how you know him, he's not close enough to know what happened between the two of you. The only ones who know besides the two of you are Elizabeth Taylor, Bill Bray, and Janet.

"I'll be fine," you say as you shake your head, the words coming out steady even if they don't fully match the tightness sitting just beneath your ribs, and Eddie nods as he looks at you.

"This the first time you've seen him since..." he trails off, and you nod.

"At least, longer than 5 minutes in passing," you say as you shake your head, the truth of it settling heavier now that it's spoken, like it makes the years feel more real than they did a second ago.

Then you hear Luther Vandross, one of the hosts, announcing your name and then Eddie's name, the sound cutting clean through everything else. Eddie holds out his arm, and you smile and loop your arm through his as the two of you walk out onto the stage, your body moving automatically even as your mind lags a step behind, still trying to catch up.

The crowd applauds, Eddie waves with his free arm, and you smile, keeping your composure, the expression practiced enough to hold even when your thoughts are anything but steady. You find your boyfriend's eyes in the crowd, and he smiles at you, but it doesn't do much to calm you, not when the tension building inside you has nothing to do with him.

Once the two of you reach the podium, you release your arm from his as Eddie takes the mic."Thank you, thank you, thank you. Thank you so much. What a warm round of applause. Isn't she beautiful? I know," Eddie says, and you shake your head, the reaction automatic, but the warmth of his words still manages to break through the tightness sitting in your chest, pulling a genuine smile from you.

"I have the honor of co-presenting to a very good friend of mine. Michael Jackson," Eddie starts, and the crowd starts cheering again, the sound swelling through the room, loud and overwhelming, but instead of drowning you out, it settles somewhere deep inside you, familiar and comforting in a way you hadn't expected. You had always been in awe of how much Michael is adored, how effortlessly he could fill a space like this without even saying a word.

"Now, Michael, everyone knows you've broken every sales record known to man, and you've had the number one and number two best-selling albums of all time, and the number one selling single of all time. It means you're the biggest-selling artist ever," Eddie says through his laughter since the crowd is still cheering, and then he turns to you.

"But we're not here to talk about that, right now we're here to talk about your achievements as a humanitarian, your concern about the well-being of children, brothers and sisters everywhere, and the Earth. I've had the honor of seeing firsthand just how genuine your heart is for others," you say as you take a deep breath, steadying yourself before the words leave your mouth, because they aren't just lines to you. They're memories, moments you lived through with him, things you witnessed up close that no one else in that audience could fully understand.

In the crowd, Michael doesn't move at first, but something in him shifts as your voice reaches him, not because of what you're saying, but because it's you saying it, because the way you speak about him hasn't changed, still grounded in something real, something personal. He lowers his gaze slightly because your words pull him somewhere else entirely, somewhere quieter.

He sees it as you're speaking: those hospital rooms that never made headlines the way his performances did, the way you used to stand by his side, watching him with that same understanding you carry in your voice now; how gentle you were with each of the children you visited. He remembers the way you would look at him after, not praising him, not surprised by him, just... seeing him, like what he did for those kids was the most natural thing in the world.

And then, without trying to, his thoughts shift again, not to those moments alone, but to you within them, your hand brushing his arm as you walked out, the quiet conversations afterward, the way those nights always felt different from everything else in his life. The kind of moments that didn't belong to the world, only to the two of you.

For a second, the room fades for him, the noise, the applause, the awareness of where he is now slipping just enough that it feels like he's sitting inside those memories instead of in the audience, like time folds in on itself in a way he hasn't let it in years.

And then Eddie smiles.

"Just play the... play the film!" Eddie exclaims, and on the screen behind you shows a montage of Michael's concerts, and the multiple hospitals he's visited, letting kids into his home to go to Neverland's amusement park, and news articles of how he donates all of his concert funds to children's hospitals, and Eddie's voice is narrating the video.

As you watched the montage, it made you emotional. You remember a lot of those hospital visits because you were there with him, and the memories don't come back all at once; they come in flashes. The way he would lower himself to their level, as if nothing else in the world mattered except making them smile. The way his voice softened, how careful he was with them, how real it all felt when it wasn't for cameras, when it was just you and him in quiet hospital rooms that didn't feel so heavy because he refused to let them.

Seeing how deeply he cared for the children you were trying to make smile had always been what made your love for him run so deeply, something rooted in moments like those, not in the version of him everyone else thought they knew. Since you know the cameras are watching you, you wipe your eyes before the tears can fall, catching them before they can become something you can't take back.

"Please welcome the recipient of the 1993 Humanitarian of the Year Award, the man who will always be close to our hearts, Michael Jackson," you say with a smile.

"Michael!" Eddie echoes as you both start clapping with the crowd. Everyone stands up, and you see Michael grab his crutches as Bill Bray helps him up the stairs, and you softly smile. You had heard that he twisted his ankle rehearsing for his performance yesterday. But hearing about it and seeing it are different; seeing the way he shifts his weight, the careful placement of each step, the quiet reliance on someone else to steady him, it pulls something softer out of you before you can stop it.

Once Michael is up the stairs, Bill helps him along on his crutches, and as he's approaching you two, you freeze, going still in a way that feels almost instinctive, like something in you recognizes him long before your thoughts can catch up.

He looks stunning, as he always does, but something about him is so ethereal that it takes your breath away. The black outfit molds to him, the straps crossing his chest drawing your eyes without permission, framing him in a way that feels both controlled and undone. The red on his arm catches the light every time he shifts, subtle but impossible to ignore, a contrast that makes him stand out even more against everything else on that stage.

And his hair. The way it falls just enough into his face, soft where everything else about him feels controlled, framing his features in a way that makes him look almost untouchable and completely familiar at the same time. It's the same way you remember it, the same way you used to brush back without thinking, the same way it would fall again, no matter how many times you fixed it, like it had a mind of its own.

Bill stands behind Michael, keeping a hand on his back to balance him, as you hold the award in your hand. You're suddenly aware of the weight of it, the way your fingers tighten around the award without meaning to, as if holding onto something physical is the only thing keeping you from unraveling in a moment that's supposed to be simple.

As Michael approaches you, his eyes soften as he looks at you, and to him, you're still the most beautiful woman he's ever seen.

And that's what undoes you.

Not the outfit, not the way the crowd is reacting, not even the fact that he's right in front of you after all this time, it's that look. The same one, unchanged. Like the years between then and now never happened, like he never learned how to see you any differently.

You step in, giving him a side hug as you hand him the award.

The contact is brief, appropriate, exactly what it's supposed to be, but the moment your arm wraps around him, it feels wrong how familiar it is. Like your body remembers the shape of him before you can stop it, before you can remind yourself that this isn't yours anymore.

And then you hear his voice in your ear. "Will you wait for me backstage?" he whispers to you. You step away from the hug, letting a tight smile take over your face, something controlled, something safe, but you nod as you help Michael set the award down on the podium.

Michael smiles when he sees you nod, and there's relief in his smile. He wasn't sure what you'd do until that moment. He shakes Eddie's hand before the two of you step back to let Michael take the podium fully to give his speech. In true Michael fashion, he apologizes for his ankle and the crutches, and Eddie teases him, saying he has to tell everyone what happened. So, he explains how he was doing a spin during rehearsal, and he ended up twisting his ankle.

Then Michael teases you, saying he heard you had a new album out, so you're the dangerous one, which makes you involuntarily blush, the reaction immediate, instinctive, something that doesn't belong to the version of you who learned how to live without him. And Eddie keeps teasing him about his ankle, and then he grabs one of his crutches from Eddie, stating how he's in a lot of pain.

Once his speech is finished, all of you go backstage, Bill and Eddie helping Michael on his crutches, and once you're out of the public eye, Michael calls out for you, making you stop where you are, your name catching you mid-step in a way that feels almost instinctive, like your body responds before you can decide whether or not you should turn back, and by the time you do, it's already too late to pretend you didn't hear him. Eddie claps Michael on the back and gives you a knowing look before he leaves to go back to his seat, and Michael looks at Bill and nods.

"Michael, you should sit," you say, your voice coming out softer than you intend, because now that you're close to him again, the distance gone, you can see what the stage had hidden, the careful way he shifts his weight, the tension in his posture, the quiet effort it takes for him to stand there like nothing's wrong, and you don't want him pushing through it for your sake.

"Only if you'll talk to me," Michael says.

"I haven't been avoiding you," You say, and Michael nods, his gaze staying on you in a way that makes it harder than it should be to look anywhere else, like he's searching for something in your face that you're trying not to give him.

The two of you go somewhere that you can sit down and talk, and once you help Michael settle onto one of the couches, you sit down next to him, the closest you've been to him in years, close enough that the space between you feels unfamiliar in how familiar it is, and before you can stop yourself, your thoughts slip somewhere you've spent years trying not to linger.

The late nights the two of you spent together. You're back in those quiet rooms where the world outside didn't matter, where it was just the two of you surrounded by scattered papers and unfinished lyrics, the soft, steady sound of pens moving across paper filling the space between you in a rhythm that always felt effortless.

You would get lost in it, completely absorbed in whatever line you were chasing, so focused that everything else faded away except for the quiet awareness of him nearby, a constant presence that you never had to look at to know was there, and then, gradually, something would shift, subtle enough that you didn't notice it right away, until the sound of his pen stopped and the silence where it should be began to press in, quiet but intentional, pulling your attention whether you wanted it to or not.

You wouldn't look up immediately, because you already knew what it meant, because you could feel it: the way the air changed when his focus shifted from his work to you, and before you could react, before you could pretend you hadn't noticed, he would be there, close enough that you'd feel him before you fully registered it, his lips brushing against your cheek without warning, soft at first and then again over your jaw, and again down your neck, until your pen slowed, your thoughts slipping away under the distraction of him, a quiet laugh leaving you before you could stop it as he continued, completely unconcerned with whatever you had been trying to finish.

You would tell him to stop, but it never came out like you meant it because neither of you believed it, and he would keep going until your pen slipped from your fingers entirely, until you finally turned toward him, giving in without needing to think about it, your hands finding him just as easily as his had found you, the two of you falling into something that had always been easy, something that had never needed effort.

"I should probably get back to my seat," you say softly, but you don't move, the words coming out more like something you feel obligated to say rather than something you intend to follow through on, because the moment feels too full to leave unfinished.

"Back to your boyfriend?" he asks, and you can hear the slight bitterness in his tone, but you don't react, not because you don't hear it, but because acknowledging it would mean stepping into something you're not ready to face.

"Michael... you asked me to wait for you backstage... here I am," you say, and Michael takes a deep breath, like he's steadying himself, like whatever he's about to say matters more than he expected it to.

He didn't have anything he wanted to talk about, not really... he just wanted to see you.

"I miss you," he lets slip, and the words land heavier than they should because they're honest in a way neither of you has allowed yourselves to be for years, and you look down at your hands, which are tightly pressed together on your lap, your fingers curling into each other like if you let go, everything you've kept contained will spill out before you can stop it.

The truth is, you miss him too, and the ache has been persistent, following you through the years, in moments where something felt off and you couldn't explain why, in comparisons to your current boyfriend that you never said out loud, in the realization that nothing and no one ever quite felt the same after him, and your breakup wasn't anybody's fault, not really, it kind of just... happened.

"Michael..." you say cautiously.

"I know you're with someone else... so if you look at me and tell me that you don't miss me too, I'll leave it alone... I'll leave you alone, we can go back to just saying pleasentries at these events," he says, and you slowly exhale as you look at him, the air leaving your chest heavy, like it's pulling something deeper with it, because his eyes aren't asking for anything complicated, they're just asking for the truth.

And that's what makes it so hard.

"I have to get back to my seat, Michael," you say as you stand up, the decision coming before you can hesitate, because staying feels too dangerous, like it would lead somewhere you're not ready to go. "Do you need help getting somewhere?" you ask, and he shakes his head.

"Bill's around the corner, and I have to change before my performance," he says, and you nod, and even though you changed the subject, even though you didn't answer what he said, you also didn't deny it, and for Michael, that's enough.

"It's good seeing you... You look good," you say sincerely with a smile, the words simple, but the meaning behind them heavier than you let show.

Michael bites down on his lip as he looks at you.

"You look better, like always," he says, and you let a small smile slip through before you turn away, leaving the area and making your way back to your seat, each step carrying you further from him again, even though it doesn't feel like you've really left at all.

Your boyfriend turns to you when you sit back down, noting how long you had been gone after presenting the award, his attention settling on you in a way that feels heavier than it should, like he's trying to read something in your face that you're working too hard to keep steady. "Everything alright?" he asks, and you nod.

"Everything is fine," you say, but you know deep down it's not, because the words don't land the way they're supposed to, don't settle anything inside you, and there's already a quiet certainty forming that you're going to find Michael when this award show is over and finish your conversation, whether you want to admit it or not. Patti LaBelle comes on stage to announce Michael's performance, and then there he is.

Sitting on a chair in the middle of the stage, his presence is still just as powerful as if he were standing up, like the room bends toward him without effort, like nothing about him needs to be louder to be felt. Remember The Time, you recognize it immediately, the first notes are enough to pull something loose in your chest before you can brace yourself for it.

You had always wondered... suspected, if Michael had written the song about the two of you, because you knew your single that you're nominated for, I Will Always Love You, you wrote about him.

Throughout his performance, Michael keeps catching your eye, but it never feels accidental, never feels like a passing glance lost in a crowd of people. You notice he always looks at you when singing lines like, "Do you remember the time, when we fell in love?" "When we first met."

But the line that really gets you, the one that holds you in place in a way nothing else does, that he looks at you through the entire time he sings it is, "And girl, no matter what was said. I will never forget what we had," and there's something in the way he doesn't look away, something steady and certain, like he isn't performing that line so much as remembering it, like he's saying it to you in a way that reaches past the stage, past the audience, straight into something you've spent years trying to keep buried. But it was the whole song that got you.

Mentions of talking on the phone don't feel like lyrics when you hear them; they feel like memory, like being pulled back into those late nights where the world was quiet except for his voice coming through the line, sometimes soft, sometimes tired, sometimes filled with things he didn't say to anyone else.

Because that was what the two of you did a lot when he was gone for the Victory Tour, and you were recording your album, both of you existing in different places but trying to meet somewhere in the middle of it anyway.

Late nights on the phone, him talking about the shows, or about Joe, and telling you how even though he hadn't said anything to anyone yet, he knew this would be his last tour with his brothers, his voice lowering when he said it like he was letting you in on something private, something real. You would tell him about the songs you were working on, give him some previews of them, and holding the phone closer like that somehow made the distance feel smaller than it actually was.

The mention in the song about being together all day long pulls you somewhere else entirely, back to a time that feels softer, easier, before everything became something you had to work around. Which is how it was in the early days, before Thriller elevated him to a level that had never been seen before, before schedules and expectations and distance started shaping everything.

When you two were still dating, before things were official, Michael used to carve out days in his schedule, specifically for the two of you to spend the entire day together, not worried about anything or anyone else, days where time felt like it belonged to you, where nothing interrupted it, where you didn't have to think about when it would end because it just... existed.

And then you see it, the way Michael gets lost in the music, and you can see how badly he wants to stand up and dance. You don't think the background dancers are doing him any favors, and you know how much of a perfectionist he is and how unhappy he would be if he could see them behind him.

You've always loved the way music lived in Michael. It was present in every fiber of his body, not just his voice, but in the way he moved, too. He always says that when he performs, he becomes the music and oftentimes doesn't have control over what he does. As the crescendo builds, you see it in him, and you know he's not going to be able to stay seated for long.

Your suspicions are confirmed when he hits a note and stands at the same time, making a small move, but keeping his leg with his bad ankle off the ground. You see how he practically has to force himself to sit back down, because you know he just wants to keep dancing.

By the time the performance is over, you excuse yourself from your boyfriend to go to the bathroom, your voice steady enough to pass, your body moving before your mind can catch up to how much everything has shifted inside you.

Michael had pulled emotions out of you that you had thought you had long since buried, not gently, not slowly, but all at once, like they had never actually gone anywhere to begin with.

Once you're alone in the bathroom, which was far more elegant than a normal bathroom, with full couches, multiple sinks, and mirrors for makeup fixes, the quiet feels too loud, too open, like there's nothing left to distract you from what you're feeling.

You grip the marble of the sink counter, hoping the cool feeling will help settle you, give you something solid to focus on, but it doesn't; the tension is still sitting tight in your chest, unmoved. You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself, just as you hear the door open, but you don't turn your head until you hear the lock click.

Michael is standing there.

"What are you doing in here?" you ask.

"You know what," Michael fires back as he hobbles closer, the frustration in his voice sharper than anything he's shown all night, like whatever restraint he had on stage didn't follow him in here. Seeing him on crutches makes your heart ache in a way that feels immediate and familiar, your instinct to take care of him rising before anything else, and you point to the couch.

"Sit down, please, especially since you know you shouldn't have stood up while you were out there," you say. Michael goes to the couch without argument, and he sits down, the movement slower than it should be, controlled in a way that makes it obvious he's pushing through more pain than he's letting on.

You look at him through the mirror, unable to turn around and fully meet his gaze, because seeing him directly feels like it would undo whatever composure you're still holding onto.

"Did you like the performance?" he asks, and you take a deep breath, the question sounding simple, but it doesn't land that way, not after the way he looked at you out there, not after everything it pulled out of you.

"Michael—" he cuts you off.

"I wrote it about you... about us," Michael says, and you hang your head, not out of discomfort, but because the admission lands deeper than you expect, settling into you in a way that feels warm and overwhelming at the same time, like something you didn't realize you needed to hear until he said it.

"I wrote my song that was nominated tonight about you, too," you say, and this time, you do turn around to meet his eyes, because not saying it while looking at him would feel like hiding something you've already decided to give him.

You see the way his expression shifts, the softness that settles into his features, and you catch it, the flicker of something else underneath it, the instinct to get up, to close the space between you, to reach for you the way he used to.

It's there for just a second, but it's enough to make your chest tighten, because the only thing stopping him is the fact that he physically can't, and somehow that's the only thing keeping you from falling right back into him. "Of course, I miss you, Michael," you answer his question from earlier.

"So why did it end?" he asks, and you sigh, the sound leaving you heavier than you intend, because you've asked yourself that same question more times than you can count, and the answer has never gotten easier to sit with.

"Michael, you remember... we were both so busy, after you got back from the Victory Tour, you were doing appearances, you started the Bad sessions. I was making a new album and doing appearances, we'd go for months without seeing each other, weeks without speaking, we were barely in a relationship anymore," you say as you frown, the words coming out steady, but the memory behind them isn't.

You remember the waiting without calling it that, the missed moments that never felt like a breaking point at the time, just small gaps that kept widening until there was more distance than there was connection. You never blamed him, never resented him, and he never blamed you either. The price of fame was heavy, and in this case, the price was your relationship.

"I would've tried harder," Michael said.

"You were already giving so much of yourself to so many other people and other directions. You were preparing for a world tour, you were exhausted," you say, because you remember that too, the way he would sound at the end of long days, the way you could hear it even through the phone, the way he kept going anyway.

"You were always more important. Do you know how empty I felt on tour? How many shows I almost canceled because everything felt so unbearable without you?" Michael says, and you take a deep breath, the words hitting somewhere you've spent years trying not to revisit.

"You can't say stuff like that to me, Michael... not anymore," you say softly, because hearing it now feels different than it would have back then, heavier, more complicated. You know how much Michael loves his fans, and he would never cancel a show and disappoint them. Hearing him say that he almost canceled multiple shows because your breakup affected him that badly hits you deeply.

Because you almost canceled finishing your album for the same reason, but your manager told you to channel that heartbreak into the music and find healing through it, and that's what you made yourself do. You went on to win 4 American Music Awards and 4 Grammys for that album in 1987.

"Do you love him?" he asks, and you close your eyes while taking another deep breath, because that question doesn't leave you any room to stay where you've been: safe, detached, unaffected. Michael doesn't want to hurt you with this conversation, but he needs to know the truth.

"Michael..." you say as you open your eyes and look at him, the hesitation sitting right there between you.

"Come here," Michael says. It's soft, but there's something underneath it that you've always responded to without thinking, something that makes your body move before your mind can catch up.

You walk over to where he's sitting on the couch, and you sit next to him, closer than you were the last time, close enough that the space between you feels intentional now instead of accidental. He looks at you again, his eyes searching yours for the truth.

"Do you love him?" He asks again. You try to look away, the intensity of his gaze pressing in on you in a way that feels too exposing, but he gently grabs your jaw and doesn't let the eye contact break, his touch careful but firm enough to keep you there.

If you were going to tell him that you were in love with another man, he wanted you to look him in the eyes and tell him. You don't even realize you're crying until Michael lifts his other hand to wipe away the tears, his thumb brushing them away with a familiarity that makes your chest tighten.

"No..." You say, but your voice sounds hollow to you, like the word isn't just an answer, but a realization you've been avoiding. "No, I don't love him," you say, and the moment the words leave your mouth, everything shifts.

Michael's lips are on yours instantly, like he couldn't wait a second longer, like he needed that answer to let himself cross the line he's been holding back all night. The kiss isn't hesitant; it's immediate and deep, and the feeling of him after seven years hits you all at once, overwhelming in a way you weren't prepared for, like stepping back into something that never actually left you. You kiss him back harder, the response just as instinctive, just as immediate, like your body never forgot how to meet him there.

Michael's hand moves from your jaw to your waist, and he pulls you onto his lap without breaking the kiss, the motion firm but careful, his grip tightening just enough to keep you there. Your hands come up to cup his cheeks, holding him in place as the kiss deepens, both of you pouring everything you never said, everything you never got to finish, everything you've carried for the last seven years into it.

The world around you fades without effort, the noise, the expectations, the reality of where you are slipping further away the longer you stay there, until the only thing that exists is him, the way he feels, the way he's always felt, like something you were never meant to lose in the first place.

When he pulls away from the kiss to trail kisses down your exposed skin, shoulders, collarbone, and your breasts, slightly peeking out from the top of your dress, you're breathless. You hold him close, feeling his warm lips move against you, and you let out a quiet moan as a shudder overtakes your body.

"Does he make you feel like this?" Michael mumbles low into your skin, and you shake your head.

"No," you say breathlessly. Michael leans up and kisses you again, harder. You can feel his arousal growing beneath you, poking into your thigh as you straddle him. Michael's hands feel up your dress, lifting it until it's resting above your hips, as his tongue fights yours for dominance of the kiss. It had been so long since you felt pleasure like this. Michael's lips and hands on you had always been enough to weaken you, before any actual intimacy took place.

Your hips instinctively grind against him, and when Michael feels your thigh rubbing against his growing arousal, he moans into your mouth, making you kiss him harder. Hands are everywhere, in his hair, squeezing your waist, gripping you tighter to him. You feel his hand press between your thighs, cupping you, and he groans again.

"Already so wet for me, mama?" Michael says with a smirk, and you softly whine as you feel him teasing you.

"I have been since the moment I gave you that Humanitarian Award," you whisper in his ear. The look Michael gives you is deeper, darker, with desire as he kisses you again while slipping his hands into your panties. You feel his thumb rubbing against you, and you kiss him harder, grinding into him. You feel a finger slip inside, and your body shudders as Michael kisses you through it. His finger moves quickly, his lips move harder, and you pull away to catch your breath while a moan slips through.

"Shh, shh... You don't want to get caught, do you, baby?" he teases as he kisses your throat right as you swallow back another moan. You feel a second finger of his slip inside, and you keep rolling your hips, riding out the feeling as his thumb rubs against you and his fingers move inside of you.

"Michael..." you softly whimper.

"He doesn't know how to make you feel good like I do," Michael says. He uses his free hand to slip the straps of your dress off your shoulders until your breasts are exposed. Nipples hard and already perky, he leans forward, taking one into his mouth.

"He doesn't know the way you like to be touched," Michael says against your skin. You lean your head back, suddenly overwhelmed. The movement of Michael's fingers and thumb between your legs, coupled with the feeling of his tongue swirling across your nipple, nearly undoes you.

Michael feels you clench around his fingers, your entire body trembling on top of him. "Let go, mama. Come for me," Michael says before attaching his lips to your other breast. You lean forward, resting your lips against his ear as you moan his name through your release. Michael squeezes your body close as your orgasm soaks his fingers. Your body is shaking in his arms, your moans low and irresistible in his ear, making him need you more than he already does.

You're breathless when you look at him, and Michael lifts his fingers from between your legs, placing them on your lips. You part your lips, and Michael slips his fingers inside, instructing you with his eyes. You taste yourself coated on him as you suck his fingers, and Michael groans in pleasure. When he pulls his fingers out, you're still breathless.

"I need you," Michael says as he swallows. "I need to feel you around me again, baby," Michael says.

"Then take me," you say, already reaching down for his pants. Michael slightly lifts his hips off the couch to allow you to pull down his pants and boxers. His length springs free, slapping against his stomach, and you bite your lip. You haven't felt him for so long, you're almost undone by the anticipation. "Your ankle," you say.

"I'm okay, baby," he says, and you nod.

You reach down, gripping him in your hand, and he groans as his body shudders. You start to stroke him, slowly, spreading the precum from his tip across the rest of him. Spit comes from your mouth, mixing it into the precum as you continue to stroke him. Michael bucks his hips, pushing himself more into your hand, and your name spills from his lips. You lift up, lining yourself up with him, and Michael grabs your hips.

You slowly sink down on him, both you and Michael's breath hitches upon contact, and you slowly sink onto him, pushing inch by inch slowly as your body stretches and adjusts to let him fill you. You shudder as you place your hands on his shoulders, as you sink all the way down until you feel his balls press against you.

Michael groans as he leans his head back on the couch. "You feel like home, mama," Michael groans as you start moving. The feeling is sensational and everything that you missed. Your boyfriend didn't feel like this; being intimate with him didn't feel like it did with Michael. Your body didn't make you feel like every part of your body became ignited at his touch.

"I missed you," you say as you kiss him again. Michael's hands go to your hips, guiding your movements as you bounce on top of him. His length sliding in and out of you at a perfect rhythm that makes you clench once you take him back in. You start moving faster, moving up and sinking fully back down into him until you feel his balls slapping against you every time you come back down.

The sound of skin slapping together against skin, combined with you moaning Michael's name, and Michael whimpering yours, filled the bathroom, but neither of you cared if you were overheard; you could only focus on the fact that after so many years, you were coming together like this again.

The sound of his name coming from your lips only made Michael need you more. He holds your hips in place and begins to thrust his hips upwards, meeting your pace, spilling into you, and you throw your head back, your eyes rolling in the back of your head as you feel dizzy, overwhelmed with pleasure. Michael reaches down with one hand,  his thumb finding your clit, and he rubs it relentlessly, sending another shockwave of pleasure up your body, making you ride him harder.

Michael watches you in awe, your breasts perked up in the air from the way your back is arched, watching his dick disappear deep inside of you with every thrust, hearing your moans and whimpers spilling into his ear, only making him fuck you harder.

"He can't make you feel like this. He doesn't know how to fuck you like I do," Michael says low and possessively, and you shake your head. "You're mine," He nearly growls, something primal taking over him now that he has you again. The sounds of the two of you echo louder off the bathroom walls as he fucks you harder. Tears spring in your eyes from the pleasure as you grip his shoulders tightly.

"Michael..." you whimper as you throw your head back, your eyes shutting tightly. Your clit painfully throbs, and Michael feels you clenching around him, and he rubs your clit harder. Your breathing is heavy and wild, your eyes are clouded with tears, you can barely see, and you feel the pressure building low in your stomach, every move feeling like flames being lit underneath your skin.

"Say it, mama," Michael says lowly, his thrusts unrelenting, making you whimper again.

"I—I'm yours," you're able to say between gasps and whimpers, and Michael squeezes you harder.

"He doesn't know how to make you feel good like I do," Michael says, and he feels you clenching around him, and he keeps going. "He doesn't know how to make you cum like I do," he says as he attaches his lips to your breast, his tongue swirling around your nipple as you cry out and then quickly cover your mouth.

"Does he?" Michael demands as he lifts up, and you shake your head.

"N–No," you whimper through a moan. Michael leans back down, attaching his mouth to your other breast, and you reach down between your legs, but Michael uses his free hand to slap your hand away, as he continues to fuck you, his thumb still putting relentless pressure on your swollen clit, the pleasure building harder.

"Michael..." his name falls out breathlessly and almost like a whimper again, the sound of it barely leaving your lips before it dissolves into him, like you don't have the strength to hold it on your own.

"Come, mama," Michael says and you do, the release hitting you all at once, your body tightening and giving in completely as it moves through you, strong enough to pull you forward into him, your head dropping into his shoulder as you try to contain the sound that follows, your breath breaking against his skin as your body reacts in waves you can't slow down.

Your fingers curl into him, holding on without thinking, grounding yourself in the solid warmth of him as the feeling continues, your body still responding even as the peak begins to fade, leaving behind a tremor that you can't quite steady yet.

Michael slows his thrusts, fucking you through the aftershocks, not letting you drift away from him, his arms firm around you as your breathing struggles to settle, uneven and soft against him. You feel him twitch inside of you, and his release comes soon after. Fluids from both of you are mixing and seeping out from you, dripping down his balls and down your thighs.

Your breaths mingle as you kiss, Michael moaning against you as he finishes his release, and he pulls back from your lips, running his thumb across the swollen surface as he looks at you. "I love you... I never stopped," Michael says, and the words land deeper than anything else has tonight, cutting through everything else, leaving no room to hide from what's still there between you.

You lean in to kiss him again, slower this time, the urgency fading into something softer, something that feels more like what you remember, what you missed. He kisses you back the same way, with more care than desperation, more emotion than intensity, and it still makes your head spin.

"Come back to me, baby," he whispers, and you nod.

"I will... I love you too... but how do we know what happened last time won't happen again?" you ask, the question quieter now, but no less real, because the past hasn't disappeared just because you found your way back to each other for a moment.

Michael reaches up, tucking your hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering just slightly longer than they need to, like he doesn't want to lose the contact.

"Because we won't let it happen again, we'll stay intentional. I never want to lose you again," he says, and you nod, because this time it doesn't feel like something fragile, it feels like something chosen.

"You won't," you whisper.

1992 california

The desert was impossibly hot.

The California sun was always hot, and even now in March, it was hot, but the desert made it worse. The air itself felt heavy and dry, the heat pressing against your skin relentlessly the second you stepped outside. Dust clung to everything out here, the old stone buildings being used for the set, the equipment, the crew members constantly wiping sweat from their foreheads between takes. Even the breeze carried warmth instead of relief.

You could already feel sweat beginning to form, not too much, but enough that you could feel it collecting lightly along your chest and the back of your neck beneath the harsh sunlight filtering through the open makeup trailer doorway. You were sitting and getting your makeup done, the artist brushing bronzed tones across your skin to enhance the sun-kissed look the short film called for, and Amelia was seated next to you.

She had been quiet most of the day, observant in the way she always became whenever Michael was involved because she knew better than anybody how deeply he affected you emotionally, even now.

You had called her immediately after your 'audition' weeks ago, and told her everything: how Michael set it up and purposely kept the details vague, how he refused to do the video if you didn't co-lead, and his reasoning why, and then his apology.

Amelia had listened to every word carefully that night, and afterward, she asked you all the questions you expected her to: Did you really want to do this? Were you going to be okay if you did it? Did you know what it meant for you and Michael? And maybe the hardest question of all: Did you want it to mean anything for you and Michael?

None of them were simple questions, especially when your feelings for him had never actually disappeared.

You had to sit with those questions for days afterward, turning them over endlessly in your mind while trying to separate nostalgia from reality, love from loneliness, history from hope. And Michael, surprisingly, hadn't pressured you once during that time.

After the audition, he told you to think about it carefully before making any decisions, and for the first time in a long time, he seemed genuinely willing to let you move at your own pace instead of unconsciously pulling your life into the orbit of his.

That was weeks ago.

Yet somehow, everything between you and Michael had slowly started shifting after that day. Michael waited one week after the audition before he contacted you and asked if you would have dinner with him, and you said yes.

You still remembered how nervous you felt driving to Neverland that night, how your stomach twisted the entire way because part of you was terrified that seeing him outside of that emotionally charged audition room would remind you why the relationship fell apart in the first place.

Instead, dinner had gone well, so well that it almost scared you.

The second you sat across from him again at Neverland, tucked away in one of the quieter rooms after the staff had given you privacy for the evening, everything felt achingly familiar. Michael still reached for your chair automatically before you sat down. Still watched you while you talked with that soft, attentive look in his eyes, like the rest of the world faded away whenever you spoke. Still absentmindedly reached for your hand across the table halfway through conversations without even realizing he was doing it.

It felt like old times.

It felt like the countless private dinners the two of you used to have before award shows or after long studio nights. Like the vacations hidden away from cameras, where the two of you would spend hours talking over candlelit dinners while music played softly in the background. Like those nights at Neverland when Michael hired private chefs just because he wanted uninterrupted time with you away from everyone else.

And honestly, it terrified you a little how easy it was to slip back into him emotionally. Even though technically, the two of you weren't together in that way anymore.

The conversation eventually shifted toward the Dangerous album, and somewhere between dessert and another glass of wine, Michael admitted quietly that he wrote Remember the Time, Give In To Me, and Can't Let Her Get Away about you.

The confession didn't exactly shock you.

When you first heard the album months ago, parts of those songs already felt painfully familiar because some of the lyrics sounded too connected to your relationship not to recognize. You remembered sitting alone in your apartment listening to Give In To Me for the first time and feeling your chest ache because it sounded like Michael mourning something he didn't know how to let go of.

Now, hearing him confirm it while sitting across from you made everything feel even more intimate somehow, but the two of you also had the conversation that needed to happen. The real one.

You talked about that night, the missed anniversary. The breakup.

And for the first time since everything fell apart, Michael spoke about it with a level of honesty and self-awareness you had desperately needed back then.

He apologized again and admitted that after you left, he spent a long time replaying the relationship in his head, finally realizing how selfish he had become without intending to. He confessed that somewhere along the way, he got too comfortable with the fact that you always rearranged your life to fit around his. He never consciously wanted you to sacrifice yourself for him, but because you loved him and kept doing it, he stopped noticing how unfair the imbalance had become until you were finally gone.

Hearing him say that mattered because for years, you felt invisible inside that hurt.

You also apologized again for leaving the way you did, just disappearing before he woke up and leaving behind nothing except a note on the hotel bed. Even now, years later, guilt still twisted inside your chest when you thought about it because deep down, you knew how badly it must've shattered him waking up alone that morning.

But as you told him in your note, you knew yourself too well back then. You knew if you had stayed until morning and looked into his eyes, you would've forgiven him immediately.

Michael's eyes had always been your weakness. The softness in them whenever he looked at you apologetically, the warmth and tenderness he reserved only for you.

No matter how angry you were with him through the years, you could never hold onto it for long once he looked at you like that. And deep down, you knew if you had stayed that morning, the cycle would've continued exactly the same way because you loved him too much to walk away properly while he was standing in front of you, asking you to stay.

Michael, however, did not tell you about the engagement ring he had been planning to propose with that night. He still had it, of course. Hidden away carefully, where nobody else would ever find it.

Despite everything that happened between you, despite the breakup and the years apart, he still wanted to give it to you someday when the time was finally right. He knew nothing between the two of you was magically fixed now, and he wasn't naïve enough to believe one dinner erased years of hurt and imbalance.

But for the first time in two years, he felt hopeful again.

And once all of that was out on the table, truths presented, apologies and forgiveness given, everything felt lighter between you and Michael. The tension between you softened after that dinner, no longer carrying the same painful uncertainty that had existed the day of the audition.

Which meant now, sitting here in the makeup chair preparing to film the most intimate project of your career with the man you still loved, your nervousness wasn't really about him being your ex anymore.

You were nervous, however, about being that intimate in front of other people.

Yes, it would be more controlled because you're filming a music video, but this was work, where there were cameras and crew members everywhere, which meant that every touch and look between you and Michael was technically choreographed.

But you were still nervous.

"You alright?" Amelia checks in when she notices your leg bouncing. You look at her and nod, not even aware of the nervous tick that you're doing.

"Yeah, why?" You ask. Amelia only subtly points to your leg, and you lay your hand on top of your thigh, feeling the movement of your bouncing leg beneath your palm before forcing yourself to stop. "Right... It's fine. I'm fine," you say, though you weren't entirely sure if you were trying to reassure Amelia or yourself more.

Amelia nods quietly, clearly not fully convinced, but she doesn't push any further. The makeup artist finishes, and you stand up from the chair and take a deep breath, trying to settle the nerves twisting through your chest.

You and Amelia walk onto set, and you're immediately greeted by Michael, who has on a pair of sunglasses, and you take a moment to look him over.

The white tank top clung slightly to his chest and shoulders from the heat already settling into the desert air, exposing the toned lines of his arms in a way that felt almost unfair after two years apart. His black pants sat low against his hips, fitted enough to emphasize every movement when he walked, and his dark hair was pulled back into a low ponytail for the short film, though the humidity and sweat had already loosened damp curls around his face and neck.

He looked devastatingly beautiful, like he always did.

And somehow, the sunglasses almost made it worse because they gave him this untouchable edge that contrasted painfully with the Michael you knew underneath all of it, the man whose head used to rest in your lap during late nights at Neverland, the man who used to mumble half-finished lyrics against your skin when he got tired enough to stop guarding himself.

Michael stopped, too, because you look breathtaking.

The white fabric wrapped around your body left your skin glowing beneath the sunlight, the cropped top exposing the soft rise and fall of your breathing, while the slit fabric at your hips moved with every step you took toward him. Your hair fell freely down your back in loose waves already slightly tousled by the dry desert wind, and the simplicity of the styling somehow made you look even more sensual than if you'd been dripping in glamour.

For a second, neither of you says anything. You just stare at each other, and it was dangerous how quickly the rest of the set seemed to disappear around you whenever Michael looked at you like that.

Neither of you knew if you were going to make it through the video.

The director, Herb Ritts, calls you both over and gives you instructions. He wants to film your individual shots first before filming the shots of the two of you together, and there's something almost merciful about that decision because it gives you a few extra minutes before you have to touch Michael on camera. Herb gestures to you first, and you smile automatically.

You've worked with Herb before, numerous times on photoshoots. Alongside being a director, he's a renowned fashion photographer, so you know him very well, and that familiarity settles your nerves just slightly; at least here, you're in known territory.

He sets you up where he wants you, adjusting your position with practiced precision, telling you to channel the same sensual energy that you've done for previous photoshoots the two of you have worked on together. You nod, because that part you understand. That part is muscle memory. Michael stands just off camera, watching you, and even though you can't see his eyes behind the sunglasses, you can feel them on you. Herb tells you to just feel the music and let instinct take over.

You nod as you take a deep breath before you hear the music start, and the first beat slides through the air like heat.

The cameras are set up, and Herb calls action.

You do as he says, letting the music wash over you, and your body moves on instinct. Your hands slide slowly over your waist and hips, fingers curling lightly into the white fabric resting against your skin as your body rolls naturally with the rhythm. The desert heat only adds to the sensuality of it, sunlight catching against the sheen beginning to form along your skin while your movements grow softer, slower, more fluid beneath the cameras.

Michael tries to stay focused on watching professionally from off-camera, he really does, but then your hands drag slowly up your stomach, fingertips brushing across your skin while your head tilts back slightly to the music, and he immediately feels his concentration start slipping.

Suddenly, this doesn't feel like acting anymore; it feels intimate, a little too intimate. Especially when your fingers disappear briefly beneath the soft fabric at your hips before sliding back out again, your body swaying instinctively to the beat while Herb encourages you to keep going.

"Beautiful... yeah, that's it," Herb calls from behind the camera.

Michael swallows hard.

His eyes stay locked on you behind the sunglasses, completely forgetting for a moment that there are dozens of people surrounding the two of you right now because all he can think about is how many times he's watched your hands move across your body like this in private instead of under studio lights.

Herb calls cut, and Michael bites down on his lip hard enough that his jaw tightens beneath the sunglasses. Watching you do this was quietly devastating, because every movement your body made under the cameras dragged memories out of him that he'd spent the last two years trying not to drown in.

He remembered when it was his hands running along your body like that instead of yours, remembered the feeling of your skin beneath his palms late at night when the rest of the world disappeared, and it was just the two of you tangled together somewhere private.

His hands twitched at his side the entire time you were filming that part, and he almost hated how instinctive the reaction still was.

He knew your body too well. He knew the feeling of your hands, the look in your eyes when you were feeling playful and teasing, and knew the slow sway of your hips because he'd spent years touching you in private moments that suddenly didn't feel so private anymore now that cameras were involved. Watching you move like this beneath the desert sunlight while everyone else stood around pretending this was just another music video shoot felt almost cruel somehow, because Michael couldn't separate the performance from the memories attached to you.

Especially not when you moved exactly the way you used to move for him when you wanted to drive him crazy on purpose.

Herb sets you up for the next shots, stepping closer to adjust your positioning slightly while crew members reset the cameras around you. The music starts, low and rhythmic against the desert heat, and Herb calls action again, and you start again, letting yourself feel the music as your hands travel over your body, slower this time, softer, your fingers dragging along your waist and stomach while your hips roll naturally with the beat.

But halfway through it, your thoughts drift to Michael without your permission: the way he used to touch you, the way his hands always lingered, and the way he used to look at you like he could spend hours memorizing every inch of your body and still never be satisfied. Suddenly, you could feel his eyes on you even without looking at him directly.

Your breath catches slightly as your head tilts back instinctively, fingers sliding into your hair while the music pulses through your body, and somewhere off camera, Herb immediately smiles because he knows he's getting exactly the footage he wants, because the cameras were catching something real now.

Everyone could tell you, and Michael wasn't acting, you weren't pretending, they were seeing the real want and desire between the two of you.

"Beautiful... beautiful, keep going," Herb encourages from behind the camera.

And when he finally calls cut, Michael has to look away for a second just to pull himself back together.

Michael takes off his sunglasses as Herb says he now wants to get the open shots of the two of you together, and the second his eyes fully meet yours, without the dark lenses hiding them, your stomach tightens all over again. There was always something dangerously disarming about Michael's eyes when he looked at you directly like this, especially now, standing only a few feet away, dressed like this beneath the desert heat with tension already hanging thick between the two of you.

You take a deep breath as Herb sets you and Michael up in front of the wall, the sunlight casting uneven shadows across the stone behind you while crew members quietly adjust cameras around the two of you. Michael steps closer when Herb guides him into position, and suddenly you're painfully aware of everything: the heat radiating off his body, the faint sheen of sweat along his chest from the temperature outside, the familiar cologne lingering against the warm desert air.

The music starts again, low and rhythmic, and Herb calls action.

The first take starts with the two of you circling each other slowly, your hips swaying naturally with the beat while Michael watches you with an intensity that immediately makes your pulse jump. His hand hovers near your waist at first, almost hesitant, before finally settling there, fingers spreading carefully against your skin like he's trying to remember how to touch you and resist you at the same time.

Herb keeps the cameras rolling; the second take is closer and more intimate.

Michael steps directly into your space this time, chest nearly brushing yours while your body arches instinctively toward him with the music. The chemistry between you becomes impossible to hide beneath the choreography because every movement feels too natural, too familiar, like your bodies still remember each other even after years apart. Michael's eyes drop briefly to your mouth before lifting back to your eyes again, and the look on his face almost makes you lose focus entirely.

"Beautiful... stay right there," Herb encourages from behind the camera.

Another take starts, and this time Michael's hands slide lower along your waist while you move against him slowly, your head tipping back slightly as the music pulses through the set. The cameras catch the drag of his fingertips against your skin, the subtle way your breathing changes when he pulls you closer, and somewhere in the middle of it, you stop thinking about where the crew is standing.

Suddenly, it doesn't feel like performing anymore; it feels like the two of you are remembering each other in real time.

The next shot is tighter, focused almost entirely on touch. Michael's hand glides across your stomach and hip while your fingers curl lightly against his chest, the white fabric of his tank top damp beneath your palm from the heat. His jaw tightens visibly the second you touch him like that, and you feel his breathing change against you almost immediately.

And Herb notices.

"Oh, that's it," Herb says quickly. "Keep that energy."

Michael lets out a quiet breath through his nose, trying to stay professional, but it's becoming harder with every take because every movement between you feels loaded now. The cameras were supposed to capture sensuality; instead, they were capturing history, two years of unresolved love sitting just beneath the surface of every touch.

Herb wants to make the next take darker, more silhouetted, to draw out the tension.

The crew quickly adjusts around the two of you, shifting the cameras while the sunlight cuts through the slatted structure above, casting long shadows across the wall behind you. The desert heat still clings heavily to your skin, but now the lighting changes everything, turning the two of you into dark shapes moving against gold light instead of fully visible bodies.

"Action."

The music starts again, and this take has the two of you moving slower than before, almost teasingly slow. Your back arches lightly while Michael leans toward you, your silhouettes nearly melting together against the wall as your hands brace behind you. The shadows catch every curve and movement instead of details now, and somehow that makes it feel even more intimate.

Michael's body moves closer until there's barely any space left between you. Your head tilts back while Michael hovers over you, both of your bodies swaying together with the rhythm, and the tension between you becomes almost unbearable because nothing about this feels choreographed anymore. It feels instinctive and familiar, like muscle memory.

Herb keeps the cameras rolling while Michael dips his head lower toward yours, his silhouette nearly swallowing yours completely beneath the harsh desert light filtering through the beams overhead.

"Yeah... stay there," Herb calls softly.

The next take shifts again, moving closer to touch instead of movement. The camera focuses tightly on Michael's hand sliding along your upper thigh, his fingers spreading slowly against your skin while your hand grips against his leg for balance. The shot is quick, intimate, almost stolen-looking beneath the warm lighting and shadows.

And the second Michael touches you like that, his jaw visibly tightens, because he remembers the feeling of your skin beneath his hands too well. He remembers the way your body would always respond to him, and how he responded to you as well.

Herb sets you both up for another take.

Your silhouette presses back toward his while Michael leans over you again, one hand planted near you while the other drags carefully along your waist. The lighting only catches pieces of you both now, outlines, movement, touch, but somehow the lack of visibility makes the chemistry feel even more intense.

Like the cameras are capturing something private they shouldn't be seeing, and that's exactly what it feels like for both of you, too.

Herb wants to move to the windmill structure next, loving the harsh shadows it casts against the desert ground and the way the sunlight filters through the wooden beams overhead. Crew members reposition the cameras while you and Michael move into place, and the second you lean back against the structure, you can already feel how much closer these takes are going to be.

"Action."

The music starts again, low and heavy against the desert heat, and this take opens with Michael moving toward you while your body sinks lower against the base of the structure. One of your legs bends instinctively as you lean back, your skirt shifting against your thighs while Michael steps between your legs slightly, his hand reaching toward you as the cameras circle around the two of you.

The angle of it feels almost unbearably intimate, especially when Michael looks down at you like that: not like a co-star or a performer, but like a man trying very hard to remember cameras are watching him right now.

Another take starts immediately after, the camera's tighter this time, while you remain leaned back against the structure. Michael moves closer again, his hand lifting near your face while your body arches subtly with the rhythm of the music, hair falling behind you as the desert wind catches it.

"Good... stay there," Herb calls from behind the camera.

Michael's eyes stay locked on you the entire time, and it is becoming harder and harder for either of you to hide how real this feels.

The next setup has both of you standing again beneath the wooden beams overhead, the sunlight cutting sharply across your bodies while the camera angles upward toward the two of you. Herb tells you both to play with the tension more this time, to let the push and pull between you build naturally.

You barely have time to process the instruction before the music starts again.

Michael steps toward you immediately during this take, one hand lifting between the two of you while your body sways closer almost automatically. The movement is teasing, charged, your faces inches apart while your skirt flutters lightly in the wind beneath the structure.

And then Michael points toward you during the choreography, his expression shifting into something playful and challenging at the same time.

It catches you off guard for half a second because it feels so familiar. The kind of teasing energy he used to slip into constantly when the two of you were alone together.

Your body reacts before you even think about it, hips shifting closer while your fingers brush lightly across your stomach with the music, and Michael immediately bites down on his lip to stop himself from smiling too hard in the middle of the take.

This didn't feel emotionally dangerous anymore; it felt impossible. Impossible to keep pretending there wasn't still something alive between the two of you when every look and touch kept pulling it right back to the surface.

The last setup Herb wants to film together is quieter than the others.

The crew lowers the lighting until the two of you are mostly silhouettes against the warm desert glow filtering through the wooden slats behind you, and the second you see the setup, your stomach tightens because this doesn't feel like choreography anymore.

It feels intimate in a way that's almost impossible to hide behind acting.

"Action."

The music starts softly again, and this take begins with you lower to the ground while Michael stands over you, the cameras capturing only outlines and shadow instead of full detail. The lighting turns both of you into dark silhouettes against gold light, your face tilted upward toward him while he slowly steps closer.

Until there's barely any space left between your bodies.

Your breathing slows instinctively as Michael looks down at you, and even though the cameras can't fully catch your expressions anymore, they don't need to. The tension between the two of you was living in body language now, in the way you leaned toward each other without thinking about it first.

Herb keeps the cameras rolling.

Michael bends down slightly during the next movement, as you're slowly lifting from the ground, your hands trailing along his chest as you do. His face is hovering close to yours while your head tilts back toward him, and for one dangerous second, it genuinely looks like the two of you are about to kiss.

The entire crew goes quieter because they feel it too, that line between performance and reality had disappeared a long time ago during filming. Now there was only this.

Your hand lifts slowly against Michael's chest during the take, fingers curling lightly into the fabric of his tank top while he stays suspended over you, his forehead nearly brushing yours. The shadows cast across the two of you make the moment look almost dreamlike beneath the camera lens, all soft outlines and restrained tension.

Michael's breathing changes again; you feel it before you fully realize it. You feel the slight rise and fall of his chest beneath your hand while his eyes stay locked on your mouth for just a second too long.

"Beautiful," Herb says quietly from behind the camera, almost like he doesn't want to interrupt the moment. "Stay there."

Neither of you moves, and honestly, neither of you wanted to. After an entire day spent touching each other, looking at each other, and remembering each other beneath studio lights and desert heat, the truth had become impossible to ignore anymore.

You were both still madly, deeply in love with each other.

"Cut."

Even after Herb calls it, the two of you stay there for an extra second anyway, still caught inside each other's space while the rest of the set slowly starts moving around you again. Neither of you knew it yet, but the music video had just become the beginning of finding your way back to each other.

Herb decides to grab a few more individual shots before officially wrapping the day, wanting extra footage to weave between the more intimate scenes of you and Michael together.

He points toward you first.

"Just give me attitude," Herb says with an easy grin from behind the camera. "Feel the music."

You laugh softly and nod, already knowing exactly what he wants from you after years of working together on fashion shoots. The cameras reposition while the music starts again, and you let yourself settle into it naturally, hips swaying slowly while your hands glide over your body with the rhythm.

The desert wind catches your hair during the take, loose strands blowing across your face while your body rolls fluidly against the beat. One hand slides along your thigh before drifting upward across your waist and chest, your head tipping back slightly as you move. The sunlight catches against your skin beautifully beneath the cameras, and somewhere behind them, Herb immediately starts smiling because he knows the footage is gorgeous.

And honestly, so does Michael.

He's standing just off camera again, watching you, but this time he's trying much less to hide how affected he is.

Because watching you like this: confident, sensual, completely in control of your body beneath the music, reminded him painfully of all the private moments the two of you used to share when you'd tease him just to watch him lose composure.

"Beautiful," Herb calls. "Keep going."

Your fingers disappear briefly into your hair while your hips continue swaying naturally with the beat, and the second you glance toward Michael during the movement, his mouth immediately curls into a smile he can't quite suppress.

The cameras catch it. Herb notices instantly and motions for one of the operators to stay with Michael. Because his reaction was real.

Michael keeps moving with the rhythm automatically, shoulders swaying lightly to the music while he watches you with that soft smile spreading slowly across his face, the kind of smile that only ever appeared when he forgot cameras were around. His head dips slightly as he bites down against his lip for a second, clearly trying not to look too distracted while still staying on beat.

But it was impossible not to be distracted by you.

Especially when you looked back at him again like that.

The smile on Michael's face only grows warmer after that, and for a brief second, the footage catches something unexpectedly tender beneath all the sensuality, a man completely gone over the woman he's still in love with, watching her like he can't believe she's really standing in front of him again after two years apart.

Herb finally lowers his hand after the last take and exhales, satisfied.

"That's it," he calls out, his voice carrying easily across the set. "We got it."

The music fades, and for the first time all day, the desert feels quiet again. Crew members begin moving immediately, cameras lowering, assistants stepping forward to adjust lighting rigs, someone calling out about wrapping equipment before the sun shifts too much, but you and Michael don't move right away.

The heat between you doesn't disappear just because Herb said cut. If anything, without the music and direction guiding you, it feels more exposed now. Raw in a way that's harder to hide.

Michael's hands drop slowly from your waist, though he doesn't step back immediately. His eyes stay on you for a second longer than they probably should, no choreography to justify it now. No lens to hide behind.

Just the two of you.

"Beautiful work," Herb says as he approaches, clapping Michael lightly on the shoulder before turning to you. "Both of you. That was exactly what I wanted."

You smile politely, nodding, but your pulse is still elevated. Your body hasn't quite caught up to the fact that filming is done. Every place Michael touched still feels warm. Every look he gave you still lingers.

Crew members begin congratulating you both, some of them buzzing quietly about how intense the footage looked on monitor playback. You catch a glimpse of one of the screens as it's being wheeled away, silhouettes, slow sways, that almost-kiss moment, and your stomach flips again.

It hadn't looked like acting.

Michael shifts slightly beside you, clearing his throat in that soft way he does when he's trying to gather himself. "You were... incredible," he says quietly, just for you, the faintest hint of that earlier smile returning.

And you almost laugh, because he knows exactly what he did to you out there, too.

"So were you," you answer softly.

There's no teasing or performance, just truth.

The sun begins to lower slightly in the sky, casting everything in warmer gold, and for a second, you both stand there in the aftermath, dusty, warm, emotionally exposed, knowing something changed today.

────୨ৎ────

As soon as the door to Neverland closed behind you when Michael let you in, he was already on you.

The drive here had felt longer than necessary and absolutely torturous, every mile stretched tight with tension after the way the two of you touched and looked at each other all day beneath those cameras. Michael hadn't needed to say anything to you as soon as filming wrapped; you knew you were going home with him, and he knew it too. The second the front door shut behind you, whatever restraint either of you had been clinging to finally snapped.

His lips met yours in a passionate kiss that you haven't felt for two years as he pressed you against the door, his body pressing firmly against yours like he physically could not get close enough after spending all day forcing himself to stay controlled in front of the crew.

You kissed him back immediately, melting into him the way you always have, even after all this time apart, your body still knows exactly how to respond to him. The kiss turns desperate almost instantly, all heat and breath and built-up longing finally spilling out after two years of pretending distance changed anything between you. Michael's hand trails up your body, both of you still in the clothes from the music video, and Michael had asked you not to change. His hand comes to rest on the side of your neck, pulling you closer while his mouth moves against yours like he's trying to make up for every second he spent without you.

"You were driving me crazy, all day, mama. You have no idea what you still do to me," Michael mumbles into your skin, his voice rougher than it usually is as his lips drag down your neck.

And based on the feeling of his hardened arousal pressing insistently into your thigh, you could take a pretty accurate guess that you knew exactly what you still did to him.

"Michael," you softly moan as he gently licks and bites over your skin, leaving little marks, claiming you once again after two years apart, like some possessive part of him needed visible proof that you were back in his arms. Your head tilts to the side automatically, giving his lips more room and access to your exposed skin while Michael holds you tightly against him like he's scared this might disappear if he loosens his grip even slightly. "Take me upstairs," you say.

Michael doesn't hesitate.

He quickly picks you up in his arms, and the sudden movement pulls a surprised laugh from you before it melts into another breathless sound when his mouth finds yours again on the way upstairs. He carries you through Neverland like he's done a hundred times before, his hands firm beneath your thighs while your arms wrap around his shoulders instinctively.

Your old bedroom.

The room still has traces of you in it because Michael couldn't fully let go. Some of your clothes were still folded in the drawers exactly where you left them years ago, and your pictures still sat around the room untouched, like some part of Michael refused to accept a version of his life where you disappeared from it completely. He had always hoped that one day the two of you would be back in this room together again.

Michael sets you down as soon as you're in the room, but the second your feet touch the floor, you're already reaching for him again. You start to walk him back to the bed until he's sitting down at the edge, his eyes never leaving your face for even a second, dark with want and something even more emotional underneath it.

You kiss him again as you place yourself on his lap, your knees on either side of him, and his hands immediately go to your waist like pure instinct. You feel his large, warm hands roaming over your body, slow and possessive, hiking up the skirt you're wearing until cool air brushes against the exposed skin of your thighs and butt.

Michael lets out a shaky breath against your mouth at the feeling of you in his lap again, like this was the thing he'd been starving for.

You kiss Michael harder as you feel him touching you, your tongue brushing against his lips, and he parts for you immediately, gently squeezing the exposed skin of your butt in reaction to the sensation of your lips. A quiet sound leaves him, soft and wrecked, and it sends heat straight through your chest because nobody ever reacted to you the way Michael did, like touching you, overwhelmed him every single time.

You run your hands down his chest slowly, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath the thin tank top from filming, and you feel Michael shiver underneath you the second your nails lightly graze downward.

Your hands stop at the waistband of his pants, unbuckling his belt and pulling it off. You kiss Michael harder as you unzip his pants, and when you pull back from the kiss, a choked sound comes out of Michael from the sudden loss of contact, his lips parting slightly while he watches you with blown pupils and uneven breathing.

You stand up from his lap and smile. "Can you take them off for me, please, baby?" you say. Michael's eyes are intensely staring into yours as he nods his head, already breathing harder before he even moves.

He grabs the waistband of his pants and pulls them down, discarding them to the floor, and you point to his boxers. "Those, too," you say.

Michael wastes no time pulling them down, and you see his length lightly slap against his stomach, already throbbing. The sight of him like this after two years apart sends heat straight through your body because nobody had ever affected you the way Michael did. Nobody ever would.

You lay your hands on Michael's chest, pushing him to sit again, and you lean in to kiss him. Michael kisses you back immediately, leaning up into you like he can't stand the thought of losing your mouth for even a second. Your hands find the back of his neck, moving up until he feels your hands on his ponytail holder. You slowly undo the ponytail holder without breaking the kiss, pulling the band out of his hair and letting his hair fall down his shoulders, damp curls immediately framing his face again, and then you pull back.

Michael opens his eyes and watches as you use his ponytail holder to gather your hair up into a high ponytail before you sink to your knees in front of him. Something deeply intimate about the gesture makes his entire body shudder in anticipation because it feels familiar in a way that almost hurts, like the two of you are slipping effortlessly back into roles your bodies still remember despite the time apart.

Michael moves closer to the edge of the bed as you sit up on your knees. You rest your hands on his thighs, leaning in and pressing gentle kisses against his skin, and Michael's head immediately tips back at the feeling, one shaky breath leaving him after another while your lips continue trailing slowly upward.

"Mama..." Michael trails, his voice already strained, and you gently shush him, your lips continuing to trail inward while your hands run across his skin, making him shudder harder beneath your touch, pushing his lower body more into you.

You wrap your hand around the base of his length, giving Michael one slow stroke, and his entire body jerks at the contact like he physically can't help it. You watch as his hands tighten around the sheets beneath him.

You lift your hand to his mouth. "Spit, honey," you say. You see the shift in his eyes immediately.

Michael obeys without hesitation, his gaze never leaving yours as he spits into your hand twice before you bring your hand back to him. You slide the wetness over the tip slowly, your touch deliberate, teasing, and Michael's grip tightens harder against the sheets as a low groan escapes from deep in his chest.

You lean forward without breaking eye contact with him as your lips and tongue move slowly over him, taking your time in a way that has Michael visibly trembling beneath you almost immediately. Every soft touch of your mouth pulls another broken sound from him, his body twitching while he watches you with dark, overwhelmed eyes.

And the sounds he's making, you missed them. You missed the way Michael always unraveled so beautifully for you.

A broken whimper falls from Michael's lips as your mouth finally closes around him fully, and his head drops back almost instantly, one hand flying forward to grip your ponytail while he struggles to stay still beneath your touch. His hips buck instinctively once, chasing more before he catches himself, his chest rising unevenly while you continue moving against him slowly.

You hollowed your cheeks to take him in when he thrusts again, letting your throat relax as you take him deeper until you feel your lips press against your fingers that were stroking him at the base.

"Please... don't stop, mama," Michael chokes out.

The sound of his voice nearly ruins your composure completely because there was always something devastating about hearing Michael like this: so vulnerable, trusting, and completely surrendered to you. A low guttural sound leaves him when he remembers again that you took his ponytail holder and used it to put your hair up, as he grips your hair tighter, and the realization alone seems to push him further over the edge emotionally.

His head falls back as you continue in rhythm against him, your hand still wrapped around what your mouth can't fully take while Michael's breathing grows more and more uneven beneath you. The wet heat that wrapped around him from your mouth, combined with your hand still stroking him, started to create a sloppy mess around you.

The room fills with soft, wet sounds and broken whimpers from Michael as you quicken your pace, his hips thrusting upward sporadically whenever he loses control of himself completely.

And through all of it, neither of you looks away from each other.

You take him deeper again until your lips touch your fingers again, and you feel his tip press gently against the back of your throat. Michael's entire body is tense beneath you. A broken sound leaves him immediately, low and wrecked, his head falling back while his hand tightens in your hair.

You hold him there for a moment, saliva spilling from your mouth and coating him as your free hand drifts lower, moving to massage his balls gently in ways that make another guttural moan tear from his chest. Your name leaves his lips in a half-whisper, half-sob, like he can barely hold himself together anymore beneath the weight of finally having you back like this after two years apart.

The room fills with heavy, uneven breathing as you move against him again, your hand and mouth working together while Michael's composure slips further with every passing second. The sensation overwhelms him completely: the warmth of your mouth, the softness of your touch, the intimacy of you kneeling in front of him again after so long spent trying to survive without you.

He was unraveling quickly because of it.

Michael gently presses his hand against the back of your head, not forcing, just holding you there like he needs the closeness as much as the pleasure itself. His moans grow louder, more broken, his hips lifting instinctively whenever control slips through his fingers. Praise spills breathlessly from him between gasps of your name, his voice rough with emotion and want while you continue taking him apart piece by piece.

Then suddenly, Michael is pulling you back up toward him.

You come away breathless, lips swollen, and before you can even fully catch your breath, his mouth crashes against yours again. The kiss is messy and desperate in the best way, all built-up longing and relief while he holds you tightly against him like he still can't quite believe this is real.

His hands move quickly along your body, tugging the skirt from your hips and tossing it somewhere onto the floor while you pull the cropped top over your head, both of you too impatient now for anything slow or careful.

Michael turns you over carefully, guiding you onto your hands and knees in front of him. "Grab the headboard, mama," Michael instructs, his voice low and uneven.

You nod, moving closer to the headboard and gripping it while your knees spread apart instinctively for him. Michael's hands slide slowly along your legs, pulling your panties down as he settles behind you, his touch surprisingly gentle considering how undone he sounds right now. His fingertips move up and down your thighs soothingly before his lips press softly against the inside of your leg, and the contact alone makes your body shudder.

Michael lets out a quiet moan at the sight of you, soaked and glistening for him, clearly affected by how responsive your body is to him. His tongue gracefully moved along your folds, parting you with a firm, wet stroke that made your hips twitch. He moved almost reverently, like he was trying to reacquaint himself with every reaction he used to know by heart. He licked again, deeper this time, his tongue tracing your swollen clit at the top. His lips close around your clit in a slow, sucking pull that sends a spark straight up your spine.

"Michael," his name spills out between a breathless moan. The sound alone nearly destroys him.

"Let me show you how much I missed you, mama," Michael says softly before his mouth finds you again.

Every movement of his mouth feels intentional, devoted, like he's trying to pour two years of missing you into every touch. Your body reacts immediately beneath him, thighs trembling while pleasure builds lower and lower inside your stomach with every passing second. Michael keeps going, sucking gently at first, then harder, alternating pressure in strokes that make your body shiver, and broken moans and gasps of his name spill from your lips.

The sounds coming from him only make it worse: the soft moans against your skin, the praise, and the way he keeps whispering your name like he can't help himself.

You gasp sharply when the pressure finally starts tightening unbearably low in your stomach, your entire body shaking beneath the intensity of it.

"Michael, I'm so close, please," you whimper between moans.

Michael moans softly against you in response, the vibration making your back arch immediately while his hand squeezes reassuringly against your hip. His pace changes again, alternating between eating you slowly and then quickly, the sudden changes in pressure and intensity being enough to send you over the edge.

Your thighs shake violently as release finally crashes through you, Michael's name falling from your lips in a loud cry while he stays with you through all of it, kissing you gently, tenderly, refusing to pull away while your body trembles beneath his touch and breathless sounds continue spilling from your mouth.

When Michael pulled away, you felt his chest press firmly against your back, his skin warm and slightly damp against yours, while his lips immediately found the soft skin of your neck again. The contrast between the rough pace he'd just pushed you through and the tenderness of the kisses trailing along your skin made your entire body shiver. His hand slid slowly down your back, unclasping your bra with practiced ease before you pulled it off completely and let it fall forgotten onto the floor beside the rest of your clothes.

Michael's breathing was still uneven behind you, and so was yours.

You felt his hand wrap around himself as he lined himself up with your entrance, teasing you slowly first, dragging the tip through your slickness while his lips continued pressing distracted kisses across your shoulder and spine like he couldn't stop touching you anywhere he could reach.

"Michael," you softly whine, instinctively pressing yourself back against him.

You feel him gently bite down against your skin before he finally pushes into you. Both of you groan immediately at the feeling. Nothing could've prepared either of you for how emotional it would feel being connected like this again after two years apart.

Your fingers tighten around the headboard while Michael pushes into you, inch by inch, slow at first despite all the desperation between you, both of you overwhelmed by the intimacy of finally having each other again. Every stretch pulls another shaky sound from the two of you until he's finally fully inside you, buried deep, while your body immediately clenches around him like it remembers him just as well as he remembers you.

Michael breaks first.

The restraint he'd been barely holding onto all night finally snaps as he starts moving against you harder, his hips driving into you with all the longing and frustration and love he's been carrying around since the day you left. His hand grips tightly against your hip while the other reaches around you, his thumb finding the sensitive bundle of nerves and rubbing at the same pace his hips were snapping, which immediately makes your knees weaken beneath him.

You cry out softly, pushing yourself back against him without thinking, chasing the feeling of him deeper, and Michael moans at the reaction instantly.

The room fills with breathless sounds and uneven gasps, your bodies moving together in a rhythm that feels almost instinctive despite the time apart. Every thrust, every touch, every broken sound from Michael when you clench around him feels loaded with emotion beneath the physicality.

Like he's trying to show you how much he missed you through touch alone.

"Can you feel how much I missed you, mama?" Michael breathes against your ear, his voice rough and wrecked. "I can feel how much you missed me." The words alone nearly push you over the edge.

You can barely answer him properly, only soft whimpers and broken moans escaping while pleasure keeps building tighter and tighter inside your stomach. Your eyes are glassy, slightly rolling as Michael takes you harder. He tilts your head back until it's resting against his shoulder, and he presses another messy, passionate kiss against your mouth.

The kiss turns deep immediately. His tongue slides against yours while his movements grow more uneven, more desperate, and you can feel how close he's getting now by the way his breathing keeps breaking apart against your skin, and Michael can feel how close you're getting from the way your body is shaking against him.

"Michael, please... I'm so close," you whimper.

You feel him groan softly against your mouth at the sound of it, his hand tightening around your hip while his pace grows even more relentless. The pressure building inside you becomes almost unbearable, your entire body trembling beneath him while Michael keeps whispering praise against your skin between broken breaths.

And when release finally crashes through you like a violent wave, it hits hard enough to pull a cry from your throat. Your whole body shakes against him while Michael immediately wraps his arms tighter around you, holding you securely through it while he continues moving with uneven thrusts, clearly chasing his own release now.

Then you feel him finally break too.

Your name leaves his lips again as he buries his face against your neck, broken whimpers spilling out while he holds you tightly against him, completely undone beneath the weight of finally having you again after all this time apart.

For a moment afterward, neither of you moves.

The only sound in the room is both of your breathing slowly trying to steady again, while Michael keeps his chest pressed against your back, unwilling to let even an inch of distance form between the two of you now.

His lips brush softly across your shoulder with another kiss, then another, more tender now, almost reverent, like he still can't fully believe you're really here in his arms again.

"I love you... I love you so much," Michael whispers into your skin as he slowly slips out of you.

The words land heavily against your chest, not because they surprise you, but because hearing them now, in this room, in this bed, in the home the two of you built together, makes the full weight of everything you've been carrying for two years finally surface. You turn around to face him immediately, not wanting distance even for a second, and pull him into another kiss. Michael melts into it, his hands sliding around your waist and up your back with instinctive familiarity, holding you like he's afraid that if he loosens his grip even slightly, you might disappear again.

When you pull away, your finger trails slowly along his jaw, memorizing him all over again, and tears spill from your eyes before you can stop them. You were overwhelmed by everything he just made you feel, the way he touched you like you were still his, the way he looked at you like you never left, the way your body and heart both responded to him without hesitation after spending so long trying to pretend that distance dulled it.

Michael sees the tears, and his entire expression shifts instantly, concern softening his features. "Baby?" he asks, his voice gentle and careful.

You shake your head quickly and press closer to him.

"I love you, more..." you whisper, burying your face in the nape of his neck because if you look at him too long, you might start crying harder. You love him more than your pride, more than the hurt, more than the years apart. And tonight proved that nothing about that ever changed.

Michael exhales slowly against you, relief flooding through him as he realizes these aren't tears of pain. He lets his body fully relax into yours, holding you tighter while pressing a soft, lingering kiss against the top of your head, his hand smoothing gently down your back like he's trying to ground both of you at the same time.

"Come on, mama, let me clean you up," he says softly.

You nod and let him lift you into his arms again. He carries you to the bathroom with the same ease he always has, setting you carefully on the edge of the tub before turning on the water. You watch the steam rise slowly, the room filling with warmth, already knowing how much your body needs it after the desert heat, the filming, and the emotional intensity of the night.

When the bath is ready, you sink into it with a quiet sigh, your muscles loosening almost immediately as the warmth wraps around you. You close your eyes and let yourself settle into the water, into the calm, into the quiet. Michael watches you for a moment before joining you, and there's something almost reverent in his expression as he takes in the sight of you here again.

You're back in your home, the home that the two of you chose together.

For two years, he walked through these halls with your absence sitting heavy in every room, and seeing you here now, relaxed and safe and leaning into him again, overwhelms him in a way that feels almost sacred.

He slides into the tub behind you and pulls you against his chest. The familiarity of it makes your throat tighten. Michael grabs a cloth and soap and begins washing you slowly, carefully, as if he's not just cleaning away the sand and sweat from the day, but washing away the distance that's been sitting between you for so long. His hands move gently over your skin, steady and deliberate, and you let yourself completely relax into him, trusting him the way you always have.

Your eyes close as he washes you, your breathing evens out while his lips brush occasionally against your shoulder or temple. There's no rush or desperation now. Just tenderness and the quiet intimacy of being held again.

You don't even realize you've drifted off until you feel yourself being lifted. Your eyes flutter open slowly as Michael places you back into bed, his movements careful so he doesn't wake you fully.

"Hey, baby... You drifted off in the tub. I was just about to get in bed with you," he says with a soft smile.

Still half-asleep, you glance down and notice he's dressed you in your soft cotton shorts and one of his old Bad tour shirts, your favorite one. The sight of it makes your chest ache in the best way because it means he remembered. He didn't just miss you; he remembered the details.

"You remembered my favorite shirt," you whisper, your voice thick with sleep and emotion.

Michael chuckles quietly and presses a kiss to the top of your head. "Of course I did," he says, like it was never a question.

You smile sleepily and curl into him as he climbs into bed, resting your head against his chest because you haven't heard his heartbeat like this in nearly two years. The sound steadies something inside you immediately. Your legs tangle with his, bodies fitting together naturally, and Michael's hand slides slowly up and down your back in a soothing rhythm that makes your eyelids grow heavier by the second.

"Come home, mama," Michael whispers softly into your hair.

You nod gently against his chest. "I already am, Michael," you murmur.

His heart clenches at the words, relief washing over him so completely that he finally exhales the breath he feels like he's been holding since the day you left. He listens as your breathing softens, as sleep fully pulls you under, and with the reassurance that you're not walking away again, that you're choosing him, choosing this, Michael closes his eyes too.

michael’s wrapped up in the way your hips swirl in front of him in graceful little movements, aviators low on his nose, watching intently how you slide off your tiny skirt in a slow glide. his bottom lip disappears between his teeth, eyes flickering over your long legs, your soft stomach.

his large hands are jammed into the pockets of his trousers, adjusting his dick to make himself even more comfortable as he licks his lips.

the lights are all dim, casting an amber glow across your skin as michael’s big hands can’t help but caress every inch of your exposed, soft skin as you kick off your skirt, leaving you in your tiny top and panties, your perfect body sliding down his spread legs.

your movements falter a little when you notice michael’s heavy stare behind the glasses, his smile all dopey and satisfied at seeing your plump ass move in front of him. his pretty girl doing a little private dance for him.

“why you stallin’, angel?” he murmurs when your ministrations quiver. your cheeks feel warm when you notice his nimble hands wanting to reach over to your figure.

the flat of his hand sharply taps the middle of your ass cheek as a hint for you to giddy up, his long fingers digging into your plush flesh to douse the sting blooming across your ass.

“oh.” your voice sounds small when you realise what michael did. what he did to your ass. hitting it. branding it as his — and only his — to touch.

his warm hands roam over your hips at the exact moment you want to bend down in front of him. “don’t be shy, baby,” he croons at seeing the black lace of your panties shoved between your ass cheeks. “show me what that ass can do.” michael says in a way that makes you feel small.

the words sound so vulgar coming from his lips. the wetness in your panties blooms at realising how extremely obscene the scene looks in your mind. “know my baby can dance real good f’me.”

you try to move your waist to the sensual rnb tune playing in the background, michael’s fingers still feeling heavy and present on your hips, using your core to move up and down, all flexible.

“thaaat’s it, angel. y’r a natural,” he praises, voice lazy as you bend over even more. “look at’cha. don’t even need my help.”

a tiny, helpless whimper escapes you at his shameless praise.

“oh— y’like that?” michael’s face is so close to you, his breath coating the globes of your ass as you feel his soft mouth pepper kisses over the skin there, leaving wet dots as he alternates between the two cheeks, free hand cupping your cunt as you hump against it out of desperation. “y’like when i kiss on that pretty little ass?”

he noses the skin there, all sweet-smelling, knowing grin on his face. a needy, breathy “yes” from you shows that his special attention to your backside turns you on even more, back bowing deeply into a curve.

“love ’er too.” michael groans, ignoring the strain in his trousers, hand coming in firm contact with your butt, eyes transfixed on how your flesh bounces from the impact.

his steady hand on the soft of your ass gets you even more messy. “y— that’s so nasty, mike—” you sigh, slick sliding down your legs already, feeling so exposed and vulnerable for the man behind you.

“look at that, baby, milky lil’ hole ‘s droolin’ already, yeah? gonna leave a handprint—” another smack to your round ass, “right there.”

you flutter your eyes shut, hips jerking back when you feel michael’s fingers wriggle under the elastic around your hipbones.

“wan’ your mouth on me,” is all you can verbalise, your hands coming back to push michael’s hands onto your ass cheeks again, pushing them up and open for his eyes to take in. you spread your legs wider, cool air swishing between your walls. “fuck, p-put your mouth on me again, please.”

“and i am the nasty one?” michael huffs amusedly, teeth grazing over the soft flesh. “baby, you’re the dirtiest from the two’f us.”

the noiret’s teeth hook around the slim strip of fabric that disappears between your full ass cheeks, pulling it out, letting it snap back as he delivers wet smack after wet smack to the side of your ass, pressing kisses all over, from where your ass meets leg all the way over to the inside of your thigh, smelling your seeping arousal.

the echo of skin hitting skin travels across the room, so obscene and filthy. your pitchy moans get increasingly louder the more michael smacks your flesh, the muscle jumping dramatically as his eyes remain fixated on your reddened skin.

“jus’ lemme love on that needy ass,” he promises, more to himself, as his large hands rub over it. your whines get wetter, needier, unconsciously humping the air to get some satisfaction.

“look at’chu, shovin’ it in my face like the sweet girl you are.”

a/n: do we all know that clip of him adjusting himself because omg his hands look so big and warm and large and thick i know he’d be able to cover my whole face with just one hand. + omg also that clip in which he’s walking behind that model and slaps the air behind her goodbye???? please smack my ass while i ride ur dick with ur abnormally large fingers in my mouth thanks

It started on your first day — an old blouse too tight around your chest, fighting back as you attempted to pull it looser against your obvious bust, and a tartan midi-skirt that your Mother forced you to wear. You looked like a house wife out of the 40’s. You hated it.

You were nervous, oh so nervous. Rightfully so — this job was a big deal. Being a Personal Assistant was an important role in a successful person’s life — you made sure everything in their world ran smoothly. No fuck up’s — not even one to test the waters. And it didn’t help your nervous system that whom you were personally assisting was the King of Pop, global superstar, Michael Jackson.

The thought of him had your heart hammering in your chest — you had never even seen a celebrity up close, let alone worked for them. You had no idea how you even managed to land this job with how little experience you had — but clearly your street-smart book-smart combination pushed you to the top of the list of applicants.

Walking swiftly through the hallways of Westlake Recording Studio, your heels clicked so loud that you cringed — suddenly feeling so out of place in such an important building. This was where a superstar made magic with his voice — certainly somewhere you thought you didn’t deserve to be.

The reception area of the studio took you by surprise — oh so this place was serious about not letting just anyone in. You forced your saliva down as you approached the mahogany desk where an older lady resided.

"Hello there." You greeted, the woman peering up at sound of your presence, "I’m Mr Jackson’s new Personal Assistant. I-It’s my first day."

The lady smiled, "Oh, yes, I’ve heard all about you. Come with me, sweetie, I’ll show you around."

She introduced herself as Susanna, 65 years-old, who should be retired but revealed she just loved the job too much. As she guided you through each hallway, she told you she’d been working in and around the music industry since she was a little girl in the late 20’s and had never seen a performer and musician quite like Michael Jackson.

"Now, Michael isn’t the only performer we have here, but he’s the most frequent, probably why Frank wanted you to come here first." She said, referring to Michael’s manager, Frank DiLeo, "Over there’s the lunch-room, and to the right of it is the ladies room." She stared, your eyes following her manicured fingers as they pointed in the direction of the rooms, "And up ahead is Michael’s studio."

Your heart thumped wildly in your chest with anxiety — you’d always pictured yourself with a simpler, less demanding job. Something where people didn’t rely on you too much as to not embarrass yourself or get into trouble. But, being the Personal Assistant of the world’s most well-known man was far from that. Which, rightfully, had your stomach churning.

"Now, as you probably know, he’s a little shy." Susanna chuckled, the cigarette smoke puffed from her thin lips left a stench in the air that crinkled your nose, "But, he’s a sweetheart, honestly. I’m sure you’ll get along just fine. Don’t worry too much — he’s not as daunting as he seems."

Her words provided little comfort as she stopped in front of a door labelled ‘Jackson’, with a blurred glass window in its middle. You knew from the way she came to an abrupt stop and smiled at you wishfully that you were on your own now.

"Thank you." You managed to squeak out, ignoring the way your voice wavered, your nerves peaking as you reached for the door handle.

"Have a good day, honey." Susanna smiled. With a soft squeeze to your shoulder and a wink of good luck — she walked away.

Fuck.

A shaky breath left your lips as the door knob burned into your retinas — the power it had over you taking over your body as you stared, your hand hovering over the metallic surface.

If it wasn’t for the money, you’d have run for hills right now. Part of your future self wished you did — but instead, with a soft knock and a push of the door, you walked into what you’d soon regret in 3 years time.

The inside of the recording studio was nicer than you’d pictured — warm lighting, cosy interior with quiet laughter and soft voices filling the air, a relaxing environment evident in its walls. Two familiar faces met your awkward frame, confused expressions smeared across them.

"Hi there, little lady. You lost?" You could tell from the sweet-talking slickness of his voice and familiar laid-back persona that you were talking with famous producer Quincy Jones.

"No, actually, Mr Jones, I’m Mr Jackson’s new assistant." You started, a bead of anxious sweat crawling down your back, "It’s my first day."

"Oh, yeah, Frank mentioned you were getting a new PA." Quincy nodded, wagging his finger in the air, "Thank god, the last one was a complete bust."

You gulped, silently wishing your fate didn’t end up like hers.

"What’s your name, baby?" Quincy questioned, bringing a pen between his lips as you revealed it, "Hm, cute." He smirked, eyes trailing up and down your frame, "Well, you’ll be listening to Frank while you’re not here, but when you’re here with us, you can answer to me, honey, okay?" You nodded quickly, eyes never leaving his own, "And we don’t bite, so don’t worry. But, I suppose for your first task, you can grab us some drinks from the coffee house down the road?"

"S-Sure, anything, what do you like?"

"Michael here, will have an orange soda," He started, "And I’ll have a black coffee with a couple sugar’s — but I suppose you can just stick your finger in there, huh?"

"Quincy. That’s no way to talk to a lady."

Michael was even more beautiful in person — the soft and gentleness of his tone had you repressing a relaxed sigh that threatened to escape your lips. He sounded so calm and collected, more so than any of his gorgeous songs. And by God was he handsome — the ringlet curls that framed his face and the contagious smile that adorned his lips had you blushing more than you cared to admit.

Quincy laughed as Michael stood up, approaching you quickly, "I’m sorry about him. I’m Michael." He extended his hand out to you, a small smile on his face as he towered over you.

"I-I know." You blurted out, flustered, grasping onto his hand. Your words hit you like a brick to the face, suddenly flushing your cheeks pink, "I’m sorry, that sounded better in my head. I’m just nervous."

Michael laughed, a slight chuckle that left his smiling lips, "You’re okay. Everyone’s nervous on their first day of a job, no matter what it is." He reassured, "I promise there’s nothing to be worried about. We’re all great friends here. Like one big family."

You nodded, listening intently — absorbing in every word he spoke like a sponge in the ocean. You didn’t notice the way Michael glanced down at your connected hands, his smile wavering slightly.

"When’s the wedding?"

His voice baffled you at first, the question hitting your ears in confusion as you held your gaze with one another still, "Sorry?"

Michael glanced down to your hands once more, his own in contact with your engagement ring that clad your ring finger. You connected the dots as you laughed awkwardly, "Oh. It’s so recent, I’m still not used to that question." You admitted, tucking a stand of hair behind your ears as your hands slipped apart, coming down to toy with the gold ring, "November 8th."

"Ah, soon." Michael grinned, "What’s his name?"

"D-Daniel."

"Well, congratulations. Daniel is a very lucky man."

"Thank you." You whispered, peering up at him, noticing the flicker in his eyes at your words, as if there was nothing threatening to be seen. Envy? Disappointment? You couldn’t put your finger on it, but you could sense Michael knew you’d seen too, "A-Are you married?"

"Yes. Only recent, much like your engagement."

A similar, questionable feeling crept up your spine at his words — something you also couldn’t place as you nodded. This clearly wasn’t in the press yet as you hadn’t heard about it, either way, you definitely felt something about it, but you weren’t sure what. Yet.

"How about those drinks, sweetie?"

Michael rolled his eyes with a smile at Quincy’s words from behind him as he lit a cigarette, "Ignore him. Classic 80’s Producers." You giggled softly at his joke, "I know you’re more than that." Your heart throbbed, "Come and talk to me anytime if you’re nervous or upset or don’t know where to go. I’ll always be here to help. Just say the word."

Your nods of agreement grew increasingly more rapid as Michael went on, your eyes, bulging with adoration, peered up at him once more before leaving him with a smile.

And as you pushed the door open, glancing back to observe Michael joining Quincy in the swivelled chairs, scolding him for not being a gentlemen, you couldn’t help but smile — a burst of sensation in your chest swelling at the sight, one you weren’t used to. You left, grinning ear to ear, like a little girl with a crush.

And that’s how it stayed for the rest of your career at Westlake.

Every morning, you’d bring Michael and Quincy a drink — either a warm tea with a spoonful of honey or a freshly squeezed orange juice for Michael, and always a black coffee, accompanied with a ‘dip your finger in it, sweetie’ sugar joke, for Quincy, everytime without fail.

You began to adore your job working for Michael — running errands for him, refilling his tea, sorting out scattered papers in the studio, scheduling meetings with managers and potential features with other artists’ for his new album. Everything, as simple as bringing him his lunch, made your day.

But soon, as all professional male and female relationships do, things became not so simple.

Brushes of hands as you passed over a drink, a buzz of electricity shooting through your veins and an overly thankful smile back from him, accompanied with comforting hands atop one another when times got hard, or a gentle kiss on the cheek when he was nominated for his new album in congratulations, had you questioning everything.

Your relationship was purely flirtatious, subtle and under-wraps — something to toy with at the comfort of your employment, and never to take home with you.

But, in the immaturity of your heart, you let yourself get personal. You let the professionalism slip. You began to feel things you shouldn’t. Anyone unwed would call it a crush — something juvenile and invalid longterm. However, the way your heart fluttered as he looked at you, or how your cheeks flushed red as he touched the small of your back — you knew were more far gone than you cared to admit.

And fail to admit your feelings, you did. Every night you lay beside your now husband, every interaction between yourself and Michael replayed in your head, drowning out the man beside you’s snoring. You knew deep down it was wrong to think of another man as your husband slumbered next to you — but, he was your friend, your boss, someone you spent everyday out of the week with. You saw him more than your own husband — leading you to secretly often referring to Michael as your work husband.

But no marriage was perfect — your own was far from it. In the darkness of the night, when your mind would graze over your boss, it would also land on the evident feeling of numbness when you looked at your husband. You were practically forced into marriage by your Mother — Daniel being someone familiar from childhood, simple, reliable, and intelligent, someone easy. Someone to sign the leases, fix the pipes, file the taxes — all the mainstream, traditional marital aspects of a man. And every time he’d rock into you unprotected, hoping for a baby, you’d lay there, faking every noise and every orgasm — wishing and hoping for something more. Convincing yourself that when your mind slipped to Michael as your husband lazily thrust into you from behind, that it was simply platonic with no underlying intention, and just a way to escape from the sheer displeasure your husband brought you.

Your husband, clearly butt-hurt that he wasn’t the breadwinner, hated your job. He would often badmouth every aspect of your job, the outfits you wore, how late you worked, how many date nights you missed to attend to a request made by Frank. But, what he hated most was Michael. He hated how infatuated and dedicated you were to him — pulling a face of disgust every time you mentioned his name or answered a phone call about him. This lead to relentless arguments — him claiming you cared too much about another man, and you persisting that it was your job and he was being controlling.

Just like today.

"Daniel. For the last time - it’s my job." You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose as your knuckles flexed around the phone handle that was held up to your ear, "No, God—Daniel, are you serious? Cheating? For Christ’s sake, get a hold of yourself!"

The noise of his incessant rambling on at you had you zoning out, shaking your head as his voice drowned out in your head. You were so tired of this — the moment you took this job you knew he’d have something to say about it. He knew exactly what he was getting himself into when he proposed to you, but still decides to fight you about it every chance he gets.

"Daniel. I’m sick of this. I’m at work, I’m busy. Stop calling here because you’re bored at home with nothing better to do — go do something, okay? Get a hobby, find something to fix or clean — just leave me alone for once."

You slammed the phone down harder than intended — a wave of annoyance washing over you as his words repeated in your head. Accusations of unfaithfulness and infidelity once again — you were growing tired of it. And him for that matter.

You were ready to leave the studio for the night — now wanting nothing less than to leave and head home for the day. You couldn’t be bothered to continue the argument when you arrived home, something that you knew your bored husband would want to do. Instead, you took your time closing down the studio for the night. Deliberating taking longer to stroll the halls — switching off each light, locking each door, checking each room for stragglers. At last, you reached the familiar blurred glass door — one you’d come to grow fond of.

Knock, knock!

"Michael?"

In your many months spent growing closer to the popstar, you began to feel comfortable to address him by his first name. Pushing open the door, you peered your head around it, your eyes meeting the man you called for, all alone, his hunched over frame meeting your gaze.

"Hey, come in. Everything okay?" He spoke, glancing over at you briefly with a smile, before returning his focus onto the sound board.

"Yep, just wanted to let you know I’m heading out for night." You informed him, jingling your keys, "Shall I leave these out for you?"

"Actually." Michael started, "Would you mind staying for a little while? I would love your help with something."

Your eyebrows furrowed, ignoring the way your stomach flipped at the thought of the one-on-one interaction, "Oh, uh, sure." You let the door slide shut as you entered the room, "What’s up?"

Michael shuffled, pushing stray pieces of paper out the way of all the various buttons you weren’t familiar with, "Take a seat."

You swallowed, your throat suddenly dry and tight as you did as he asked — sitting comfortably in the chair next to him.

"Listen to this and tell me what you think."

Without allowing your words of protest to exit your lips — Michael pressed a few buttons before sliding one upwards to increase the noise of a demo that began sounding throughout the room.

It was his voice — his angelic, magical voice that hit your ears. You smiled softly as you looked down at your hands, ignoring the flash of your wedding ring as you admired the beautiful work that flowed around the room. He sounded amazing.

It ended abruptly, silence filling the space once more. He turned to you, "So?"

"Wow." You breathed, "Michael, you’re so talented. That sounds incredible."

Michael smiled bashfully, bowing his head at your kind words, "Oh, thank you. I really appreciate it." He started, "But, I just feel like something is missing."

You scoffed out a laugh, "Boy, do I know how you feel." You shook your head, eyes fluttering shut briefly at the thought of your controlling husband.

Michael peered over at you, eyebrows knitted together in confusion, "What do you mean?"

"Oh, hah, nothing. Just my husband."

Michael’s attention was fully on you now — his chair swivelled to face you as you spoke, "Why? What’s missing?"

"Nothing, nothing." You brushed off, fearing you said too much, "Just a joke."

"Didn’t feel like a joke." He spoke softly, pursing his lips together, "Hey," His hand came to fold over yours delicately, igniting flames over your skin, "You know you can talk to me about anything."

Michael missed the way your breath hitched in your throat. The touch and the closeness bringing heat to your body like a furnace as your breathing became irregular.

Your mouth opened as you went to speak, ready to vent about all your marital issues — complain about his lack of respect for your job, his boring attitude and his profound sexual incompetence, but words failed you.

Michael noticed this.

"It’s okay." He spoke, giving your hand a squeeze, "I understand how you feel."

Your heart lurched up at his words — your despaired expression meeting his own, "You do?"

"Yes." Michael breathed, "Marriage isn’t easy."

You despised the way your heart throbbed with hope.

"Are you having problems with your wife too?"

Michael peered up at you, revelling in the way your doe-eyes, fluttering through your lashes, gazed at him with more love and attention he’d seen from a female in years. He, too, hated himself for the way he looked at you sometimes with such captivation — longing to reach out and touch you further after a brush of a finger, or to lean down and capture your lips in a kiss after you laughed at one of his jokes.

And he, like you, despised the way he felt a sliver of optimism at the depleting description of your partner.

Michael nodded, a saddened expression present on his face — mismatching the twinge of anticipatory excitement that bubbled in his chest.

"Oh, Michael." You breathed, your voice soft and attending — playing with his damaged heart strings, "It’s going to be okay. We always have each other."

God, you were so sweet. It physically hurt him to look at you when you had that irresistibly spellbinding look on your face — like a single tug of your plump lips into a smile could send a man to Heaven and back. He thought you were utterly gorgeous — something he’d believed in since the moment he locked eyes on you.

Michael’s hand twitched above your own, knocking your attention down to your enclosed hands. With one small, calculated move — you managed to manoeuvre your hands upwards, now palm to palm with Michael. You noticed the intense silence that flooded the room, both your fixated stares latched into your hands — touching so subtly, yet fuelling the desire in both of your souls. Michael shuffled ever so slightly, forcing your hands to slide against one another — now connecting fingertips.

"Your hands are so soft." You whispered, breathing out a soft laugh, your voice hushed and tender — both of your gaze still on your touching fingers.

"So are yours."

The honesty in his voice paired with the feather-light touches had your head spinning — the potent smell of his cologne fogging your senses, rendering you brainless as all you could focus on was him. Him, and his beautiful eyes, beautiful smile, beautiful lips, hands, fingers, body—

You gasped in a quiet breath as your mind ran a mile a minute. Michael peered up at you momentarily, sliding his fingers in-between yours — interlocking your fingers so slowly, if he were anyone else, you wouldn’t have noticed. But, that simple gesture had your legs tightening as they crossed.

"Talk to me, doll."

The nickname had your mouth hanging agape ever so slightly — the sheer volume of desire that burst inside of you, oozing out of you like molten lava as your eyes fixated onto your interlocked hands.

"Michael, please." You whispered — the neediness in your voice so visible, Michael could’ve passed out.

"‘Please’ what, angel? Tell me what you need." His voice was so sincere, so full of warmth with an undertone you so desperately wanted to uncover, that it had you trembling against him.

Your eyes flicked upwards — landing on his pretty lips, the way they glistened in the light from his previous wetting of them, before sliding up his face to his eyes. He was staring down at your hands, the way they connected so perfectly, so intimately, something so dangerously beautiful about the way you slotted together.

When his eyes fluttered up to meet your gaze was when the mask slipped.

You lurched forward — your once connected hands now flying to his face, cradling his burning hot cheeks in your hands as you connected your lips in a ferocious kiss. Your body lunged at him — legs straddling his hips, forcing the wheeled chair backwards as the intensity of your jolt pushed you both in a dazzling smoulder flying across the room. Michael, kissing your eager lips back, slid his hands up your back in an attempt to drag you closer. The chair slammed against the wall, making no attempt to slow you both down as you attacked each others lips — whines and breaths of pure desperation exiting your needy mouth.

Your hand clutched at the wall behind you, nails scraping down the plaster as Michael’s swollen lips latched at your neck, licking and sucking your warm skin.

"No marks." You breathed, a hand snaking into his hair, clutching at his curls, "We’re married, remember?"

Michael hated the way his body had no reaction to your words — right now, he didn’t care.

"Happily?"

The one word rhetorical question he asked, huffed against your neck, before returning to grazing his teeth along your collarbone, had your back arching into his chest, a breathless moan leaving your mouth.

You hated that you didn’t need to give him an answer — he already knew it.

No, you weren’t happily married.

Your hips involuntarily ground down into his crotch, skirt bunched around your waist, a gasping whine leaving you as your throbbing nub nudged against him. Hard, thick and prominent — a proud statement of his arousal. From then on your hips didn’t stop — the roll back and forth on his hardened length had him whining into your neck, stopping every so often to regain his breath from the way you humped his clothed cock.

"Michael, please, need to feel you."

That was enough for him.

Michael was a gentlemen — and had been from the very moment you met him. But, right now, he had to fuck you like a greedy slut.

Michael picked you up quickly, wrapping your clothed legs around his waist and flailing you both to the floor, with a handle cradling your head to brace the fall.

He sat up on his knees, freeing himself quickly from his slacks and boxers, forcing them down his thighs swiftly. While doing so, you worked your way on the buttons of your blouse, fingers fumbling on each one as you shook in lust.

"Fuck this."

The profanity that left his gentle mouth had you gasping as he leant down to rip your blouse apart, buttons spraying across the room as your bouncing tits sprung free.

He didn’t stop there.

His hands, shoving your shirt further up your stomach, reached the crotch of your dark tights, before ripping a hole as wide as a basketball, revealing your soaked panties.

"Michael!—“ "Shut up — Need you, now. Can’t wait."

His bold, harsh words stung pathetically pleasureful in your chest as his nimble fingers pushed your panties to the side. They slid between your folds, gathering your slick on his digits, nudging your clit with each slide. You whined beneath him, a manicured hand reaching up to grasp his flexed biceps as he slid two fast working fingers inside your eager hole. Your back arched off the floor, head pounding as he worked you open.

"That’s it — give it to me."

His words only egged you on as they abused the spongy, sweet spot inside you, his thumb rubbing tight circles on your throbbing nub.

For the first time in years, or maybe even in your life, you were about to cum around a man’s hand.

"M-Micha—Michael, I’m gonna—I’m gon—"

"Cum for me, doll. Show me how much you need me."

The next twenty-three seconds had you reeling. You saw stars, your nails digging into his tensed arm as he worked you open — your first-time flowing juices oozing down his fingers as you squirmed and cried beneath him, sobbing into the air as your first real orgasm hit you full force.

Michael wasted no time lining his cock up to your quivering entrance after you came down — sucking your essence off his fingers before pressing the tip of his throbbing manhood into you.

You whined — the feeling of his cock forcing you open so perfectly had you huffing and whinging around him, your head falling back against the wooden floors.

"Lord — so fucking wet for me." Michael huffed, stuffing you full, inch by inch, too caught up in his own arousal to ease you open.

He bottomed out with a groan — head lolling forward into your neck, his hot breath against your chest perforated goosebumps over your skin. You were so full it rendered you speechless — his cock was much bigger than your husband’s, length and girth, forcing you further open than you’d ever been before.

His name left your lips like a chant as he moved with swiftness beyond belief — his hips snapping flush against you as he fucked into you like a slut on his Studio floor, which creaked and groaned beneath you. Michael lips remained hot and heavy on your skin, pressing kisses from your tensed collarbone to the sweetness of your mouth, as he pulled your legs around his waist, further up in the air so his cock angled deeper inside you.

With a cry he’d only ever imagined in his late night pleasures — Michael knew he was fucking you like you’d never felt before. The way you dragged your nails down his shoulders, ground your heels into his lower back to force him further into your tight cunt, and the way your noises refused to quieten — he was certain he was going to be the best you’d ever had.

His wife was nothing compared to you.

The way your pussy clenched and squelched around his twitching dick had him tightening his grip on your hair — his fingers tangling in the locks, tugging ever so slightly to make you whimper into his mouth.

"So close." You whined — mumbling against his lips, voice muffled from the feverish kiss he held you in, tongue swiping your lower lip to gain access to your filthy mouth.

You let him in — the hot muscle exploring your mouth, savouring the way you taste like spearmint gum and how you moaned even louder when muffled against him.

"You wanna cum for me again, baby?" Michael pressed, his pelvis rubbing so sweetly against your pulsating clit, "Let me feel it — let me feel you. Give me what you won’t give him — what he can’t make you do. Cum for me. Harder than he’s ever made you."

"He never has." You panted, eyes locking on his as your private confession hit his ears.

"O-Oh, Lord."

Michael’s broken prayer left his lips as his hips snapped into you a few more times — revelling in the way you admitted he’d made you feel better in one night than your husband ever has in two years. Whining as you came around him perfectly, legs tightening around his waist, before he spilled inside you himself. You both finished together — lips clattering together messily as you panted against one another.

As the climax fluttered to a stop — reality set in.

You, married, had just fucked your boss, also married.

Panic flooded your system. Instant, unwavering, unstoppable panic.

"Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God — what the fuck? What the fuck, Michael!" You exclaimed, instantly shimming him from inside you, your breath hitching at the loss of fullness as he sat upright on his knees, panting, "We just had sex."

Michael furrowed his eyebrows, catching his breath, "Baby, calm down—“

"Don’t call me that! I’m not your wife! Oh my God, you have a wife. And I have a husband."

You were rambling — blabbering panicked nonsense as you scrambled to grab your clothes, forcing your unusable blouse around your breasts spilling from your bra. You shoved your skirt down your front, covering the gaping hole in your tights and Michael’s cum dribbling down your thighs, as you slipped into your heels.

"Angel, wait!"

You didn’t stop for a second after half dressing yourself before flying out the Studio door — racing down the quiet, darkened hallway before he could catch you. Michael stood in the doorway, chest heaving, guilt threatened to creep up his spine as he watched you sprint away.

Guilt never came.

For either of you.

It bugged you.

The way you got home, tears streaming down your face as you crept up to bed, after tossing all of your besmerched clothes into the trashcan outside, and slithering into bed with your husband, who only turned the other way as you weighed down the bed, and the only thing you could feel was ecstasy.

Sure, you panicked at first — but even in your frantic rant, not one bone in your body felt guilt or remorse for your actions. Just pure shock at what you’d done after waiting so long for it.

You hated the way you slept next to your husband that night — clit throbbing lovingly after getting the attention it so desperately needed as Michael’s seed drooled out of you, soaking your panties.

That was where your affair with Michael Jackson started.

The next day, after your late-night rendezvous, Michael sought you out at work. You’d been hiding from him all day — trying to do as much as Quincy asked you before actually having to speak to Michael. But, he found you and cornered you.

"Michael, please, not here." You pleaded, eyes darting behind him as he backed you into the small corner of a hallway, "We can’t talk about this at work."

"So, we can have sex here, but not talk here?"

Your eyes shot open at his words, "Michael." You hissed, sending a shove to his chest which moved him nowhere.

Michael grabbed your hand that thumped his chest, eliciting a surprised gasp from your throat at the sudden contact, "I’m telling you now, I don’t feel sorry about what we did last night." Your mouth fell open at his words, eyes meeting his meaningful, but serious ones, "My marriage is…ruined beyond repair." He admitted, "I needed you. I still need you. And I think you need me. Please. Don’t give up on me just yet."

Words failed you initially, the seriousness and vulnerability of his words setting in, "M-Michael, I-I do need you, but.."

"But, what? Can’t we just be what we are?”

"We’re married, Michael. That won’t go away."

"I know, I know. Things like that take time — I know." He spoke, reaching up encase both of his hand around your own, "But, I also know you’re not happy." He admitted, "And after all these years, I make you happy, don’t I, sweetheart?"

Your aching heart throbbed lovingly at his words and glint of adoration in his eyes as he gazed down at you — your lips parted slowly, before you nodded your head.

Michael leant down, pressing a long, tender kiss to the back of your hand, then another to your fingers — missing the shaken breath that slipped past your lips.

"Let me continue to make you happy."

In that moment, words failed you. You swallowed thickly at his promise — nodding meekly, blushing at the way he pressed another affectionate kiss to your knuckles.

From that moment on, Michael was no longer your boss. To you, he felt like the husband you were deserved but never got. Expensive gifts would show up at your door for your birthday —Flowers before he took you to a private, secluded dinner — Late-night talking as you nestled against his chest after an evening of love-making. He truly felt like your man.

Until you went home — where you were met with your legal husband, who had never felt less connected to you in your whole marriage. You were distant, cold, snappy — wanting absolutely nothing to do with him. And, every night when you trudged home, sheathed in Michael’s cologne, hair a mess, clothes battered and a soreness between your legs — your husband knew what was going on.

"You’re fucking him, aren’t you?"

You jumped — you thought he was asleep. His gruff, exhausted voice hit your ears like a horn as you froze. You knew you weren’t even trying to hide your affair anymore — but, you didn’t expect him to confront you.

"No."

"Don’t lie to me."

You gulped, not daring to move a muscle as your back faced him — not brave enough to look him in the eye. Silence filled the room as you failed to answer him — that speaking more words than you ever could.

"Do you love him?" Yes.

The word hit your brain faster than you anticipated— feeling surprised by your own inner dialogue as you tensed again, sleep suddenly feeling like a foreign concept as you glared at the darkened wall.

"Go back to sleep, Daniel."

Your dismissive response gave him every answer you failed to give — Yes and yes. You both didn’t sleep that night, just listening to the silence and the occasional shuffle of the sheets as the ever reminding final factor swirled your brain.

Your marriage was over.

He knew it and you certainly knew it.

By the time your husband woke up that morning — you were gone. Clothes packed and divorce papers you’d had saved for months on the countertop.

You were finally saying goodbye to this chapter of your life.

Walking into work that day, giddy with excitement, finger free of a ring, you couldn’t hide the smile on your face. You knew the secrets and the lies would come to an end now you had decided to take the leap of faith and end things with your husband. You’re only reasoning? Michael had promised you that whenever you decided to leave him — he assured you, he would leave his wife.

So, when you called Michael late last night, shoving clothes into boxes and whispering your plan to be gone by the morning, with nothing but a sticky note attached to the divorce papers demanding he sign, he promised you he’d leave her that coming morning.

You heard Michael before you saw him — his sweet laughter filling your ears before you turned a corner, clutching your clipboard of To Do list’s to your chest, your heart fluttering at the sound of his voice.

This was the moment you wished you never took the job as a naive, money-hungry, selfish young adult.

Your heart, once skipping beats at the sound of Michael’s laughter, was now threatening to stop at the sight before you.

Michael stood, arms wrapped around his wife, a genuine smile on his face as he pressed kisses to her face — revelling as she giggled into him, hands sliding around his back, pulling him closer.

"Oh, honey, I love you." His words forced bile into your throat as he connected their lips — fluttering her eyes closed.

Michael, pressing his lips into hers, opened his eyes for a split second. His heart stopped, too, once he caught sight of you. Tears streaming down your face, a distraught expression plastered across it as you watched in horror. He knew you knew he had lied — he was never planning to leave his wife.

His giggling spouse pulled away from the kiss, looking up at catch his eyes, fixated on a figure behind her. You turned away before she could see your tear-streaked face, your hand coming up to wipe away the tears.

Michael caught sight of your bare finger — his chest on the verge of collapse as the realisation of his actions hit him.

"Who’s that?" His wife asked, furrowing her eyebrows.

He stared at you, your eyes meeting for the last time, speaking a thousand words, before you turned on your feet, back the way you came.

Guilt had finally set in.

"No one."

michael chuckles, lips merely inches away from your pussy. “yeah? i can tell princess,” the action sends a wave of heat over your skin. his hair tickles the insides of your thighs, and your legs are on the verge of closing around his head. “she’s fucking dripping. so wet f’me, all mine.”

you can feel your slick spreading over the fabric of your panties while he noses through your folds like an obedient cat. “smells so delicious, baby, fuck. gonna eat y’up.”

your legs shake every time the tip of his nose bumps over your clit, back arching off the bed as he presses a tiny kiss over the sloppy, wet material of your underwear, right over your empty, fluttering hole. “she’s so good f’me. can only reward my best girl.”

and that’s the moment his brown eyes flit up to yours. his tongue meets your clit through the thin fabric of your panties. your hips immediately shoot up from the bed, and you let out one, drawn out whimper.

the heavy weight of his tongue against your folds has your head lolling back into the mattress. “shit, mikey, i—” white spots flash before your eyes, unable to keep your eyes open due to the delirious friction from his tongue lapping up, sucking up, your essence.

“keep feelin’ it, princess. that’s it,” he praises you in between licks and soft nips to your clit, voice strained and broken. “can taste you on the fabric, baby. shit—”

at this point, the material of your panties is so soaked and wet, it clings to your lips, perfectly outlining you through the lace while michael eats you out like a man starved. he alters between gentle nibbles at the fabric and nudges of his tongue into your entrance, only a thin layer of lace separating his tongue from your cunt.

“swear y’have the cutest lil’ pussy i’ve ever seen,” michael mumbles as he distances his face a little from your sex. the lace is so wet and creamy that it stays poking into your hole from where his tongue prodded into you just moments ago. he slides one light kitten lick over your clit. “purrin’ for attention. don’t worry angel, i’ll give it to ya.”

“oh my— you’re so nasty, mike,” you whine out, hips bucking up into the air before michael pushes you back down.

“feel how i was juuust in there?” he pushes the thick tip of his middle finger right into the little dip his tongue made, slowly twisting his fingertip around at a maddeningly torturing pace, practically fingering you with a layer in between.

the touch of his fingers to your creamy, messy panties produces the echo of a squelching sound, like a sponge being wrung out, like honey sticking to his fingers. under the pathetically sodden fabric of your lace panties, your warm slick bubbles around your hole, your white cream mixing with his spit, dribbling over the crease of your opened thighs, meandering over the globes of your ass.

part of you feels ashamed of how filthy you are. how thick, slimey globs of cum just gush out of you with every contraction of your hole, and because of the barrier of your panties, it has no place to go. the only option to seep out the sides of the panties’ gusset, as if revealing a dirty secret of how aroused you really are.

“pretty, dirty girl,” the man beneath you praises, voice cracked open in admiration. “should see how messy she’s for me, baby. ‘s a fuckin’ work of art.”

later, when you find your panties thrown on the floor of the bedroom, you notice tiny, little, miniscule holes right around the middle part of the gusset.

“mikey, you nibbled on my panties. you ruined them!” you exclaim in disbelief, holding the pathetic excuse of what you’re supposed to call panties between your thumb and index finger.

BONUS (bc i’m disgusting)

when his fingers pry off your drenched panties, michael’s eyes stay directed on the transparent, white strings extending from your drooling entrance to the sloppy lace material. “so messy y’are for me,” he says, lopsided grin on his face. “push it out. wanna see.”

“see what, mike?”

“see this,” he holds up your panties, gooey remnants of your thick cum glued to the material. “wanna see it pour outta you, baby. up close.”

your bravery sickens you. you clench your abdomen together, gaping hole opening and closing as another sticky wave of white shyly oozes out of you. your face heats up out of embarrassment when you feel the cool, wet patch under your ass spread out.

you cover your face with your hands.

“d’awhh, baby. don’t be shy,” michael places a kiss on top of your bare mound. “don’t be shy w’me. you’re so sexy when you’re being nasty for me.” he coos as he places another kiss to your pussy lips. “y’r just your mikey’s nasty girl.”

what’s worse, you feel warm drops of wetness dribble out of you again at his praise, right against his soft lips.

“fucking beautiful. look at’cha, pretty.” your boyfriend puckers your pussy lips together, trying to coax another glob out of your sex. instead, your tacky lips stick together, and michael peels them open again. “don’t want my baby down here poutin’. gonna lick ‘er clean.”

you’re all mellowed out, his words not really getting to you. your chest keeps heaving, your skin coated with a thin filter of sweat, drool piling up at the corners of your mouth, trickling down your cheeks as you give yourself completely to michael. you just let it happen now.

he’s going to have his way with you, anyway.

this continues the entire night like so. michael just playing with your pussy, literally, whilst you’re trying not to go insane.