June 16, 1979

The engine of the rented, unpretentious Chevy Nova purred softly against the curb of Hayvenhurst, its dark green paint bleeding into the shadows of the overhanging oak trees. It was just past eleven o’clock on a warm june night. The air was thick with the scent of jasmine and the faint, sweet tang of exhaust.

Inside the car, you gripped the steering wheel, your heart doing a rhythmic tap-dance against your ribs. You adjusted the rearview mirror, checking your reflection under the dim dome light. Your afro was picked out perfectly, a soft, rounded halo that framed your face. You wore a pair of high-waisted, fitted denim shorts that hugged your curves, paired with vibrant orange and yellow striped halter top that tied securely behind your neck. You looked good–curvy, soft, and distinctly, undeniably ‘70s.

A shadow darted from the side gate of the Jackson family home. The figure was slender, wearing an oversized, floppy newsboy cap pulled low, a corduroy jacket despite the warmth, and thick-rimmed glasses that obscured half of his face. He moved with a dancer’s innate grace, even while trying to appear small.

The passenger door opened, and Michael slipped inside, closing it with a muted thud. For a second, he sat rigid, peering through the windshield to ensure no cameras or overzealous fans had materialized from the bushes. When the street remained quiet, he let out a long, shuddered breath, his shoulders dropped a full two inches.

He turned to you, and the most radiant, brilliant smile broke across his face, instantly melting the tension in the car.

“Hey,” he whispered, his voice soft, high-pitched, and laced with that distinct, gentle sweetness that defined him outside the recording studio. “We made it. I can’t believe I actually sneaked out.”

“I told you I had it covered,” you laughed, reaching over to squeeze his hand. His skin was warm, his fingers long and elegant. “You ready for a real night out, honey? No bodyguards, no press, no autograph books. Just you and me.”

Michael laughed, a high, fluttering sound that made your chest ache with affection. He pulled off the ridiculous glasses and tossed the newsboy cap into the backseat to reveal his beautiful, tight afro and those deep, expressive brown eyes. He was twenty years old, at the absolute peak of his youthful radiant beauty, yet he so rarely got to just live it.

“Man, you don’t even know,” Michael said, turning in the vinyl seat to face you, his eyes scanning your appearance. A soft, distinct blush crept up his high cheekbones, and his gaze lingered on the soft swell of your chest beneath the halter top before dropping to the curve of your thighs. “You look… wow.” You look really beautiful, girl. Serious. That outfit is just… far out.”

“Thank you, Mike,” you said, feeling an intense flush of heat rise up your neck that had absolutely nothing to do with the California summer. “You don’t look too bad yourself, even in that disguise. Now hold onto to your seat. We’re going to the rink.”

As you shifted the Chevy into drive and pulled away from the curb, Michael reached down and turned up the volume on the radio. A heavy bassline filled the cabin, and within seconds, his right foot was tapping a frantic rhythm against the floorboard, his fingers drumming a complex, syncopated beat against his knee. He looked out of the passenger window, watching the neon signs of los angeles bleed together in a blur of gold and electric blue.

“It’s just so nice,” he murmured softly, almost to himself, his eyes reflecting the passing streelights. “To not have to be ‘Michael Jackson’ for a few hours. To just be Mike. People… they don’t see me as a real person sometimes, y’know? They just see the records, or the television shows. But with you… it’s different. Thank you for doing this for me.”

“You deserve to be a normal twenty-year-old, Michael,” you replied gently, taking one hand off the wheel to place it flat against his thigh. The denim of his jeans was rough beneath your palm, but the muscle underneath was solid and warm. “Tonight, you’re not a superstar. You’re just a guy out on a date with a girl who really, really likes him.”

He placed his larger hand directly over yours, intertwining his long fingers with yours, pressing your palm closer against his leg. “I like you too. A whole lot. More than I probably say. It’s just… sometimes I get real nervous around girls. But not with you. Well, maybe just a little bit right now,” he confessed with a shy, breathless laugh.

The venue was called The Cosmic Roller, a local slightly tucked-away spot nestled in a valley strip mall. On a typical Friday night, the place would be packed to the gills with teenagers and young adults sweating under black lights, the air thick with the smell of cheap concessions and teenage hormones. But tonight, the asphalt parking lot was completely empty, illuminated only by a single, buzzing sodium light.

You had pulled some massive favors–and spent a considerable portion of your savings to rent the entire venue out for three hours after closing. The manager, an older gentleman who had been a fan of the Jackson 5 since their early Motown days, had promised absolute discretion, leaving the back employee door unlocked and the main system primed for your arrival.

When you pulled the car around to the rear entrance and killed the engine, Michael peered out the window at the glowing neon sign of a winged roller skate in the window, his eyes wide with pure, childlike wonder.

“We really have the whole place?” he asked, turning back to you with an expression of utter disbelief. “Nobody else is gonna walk in? Not even Marlon or Randy?”

“Nobody but us, Mike. I promise. Come on.”

You grabbed your custom outdoor skates from the trunk–classic white leather with bright pink polyurethane wheels while Michael carried the brown leather rental pair the manager had left on the bench for him. Stepping inside the darkened rink was like entering a temple of pure, unadulterated funk culture.

The floor was a massive, gleaming expanse of polished hardwood, reflecting the overhead neon rings of hot pink, electric blue, and vibrant green that hovered like flying saucers above the track. The air smelled familiarly of floor wax, popcorn, and old vinyl records.

Michael practically bounded over to the carpeted benches near the rental counter, his earlier hesitation completely evaporated. He kicked off his loafers and began lacing up the high-top skates with quick, eager movements, his tongue sticking out slightly between his teeth in concentration.

“I used to skate a lot when we were younger, you know.” he said, looking up at you through his eyelashes, a playful, competitive glint dancing in his dark eyes. “Back in Gary, and when we first moved out here to Encino, Marlon and I used to tear up the rinks. I’ve got some serious moves, girl. Don’t think you’re gonna have to carry me around the floor tonight.”

“Oh, really?” You stood up, testing your balance on your wheels, your hips automatically swaying to the faint, ambient hum of the building’s amplifiers. You looked down at him, letting your eyes track the lean, elegant line of his torso, the way his black silk button-down shirt was tucked neatly into his high-waisted denim. “We’ll see about that, Jackson. Let’s see if you can keep up with a girl with a little more cushion to her pushin’.”

Michael’s jaw dropped slightly, a deep, breathless chuckle escaping him as a dark contrast to his usual high laugh. “Oh, you’re bad. You think you’re real bad, don’t you? Saying stuff like that. Man, you make my head spin.”

“I know I am,” you winked, rolling backward toward the rink entrance with effortless, practiced grace, the wheels humming smoothly against the wood.

Michael stood up, his long, slender legs slightly wobbly at first as his center of gravity adjusted to the slickness of the hardwood. He let out a dramatic, high-pitched yell, his arms flailing for a split second before he caught his balance, locking his core with the instantaneous control of a master dancer. He skated toward the track, his movements a bit stiff initially, but gaining an undeniable rhythm with every passing stride.

You rolled over to the master control booth near the edge of the floor, flipping a heavy toggle switch. Instantly, the house lights dimmed into a deep, atmospheric twilight, leaving only the vibrant, rotating neon wheels to cast long, dramatic shadows across the empty room. You pressed the heavy play button on the reel-to-reel tape deck.

The heavy, unmistakable bassline of Rufus and Chaka Khan’s “Any Love” began to throb through the massive house speakers. Chaka’s rich, velvety, impassioned voice filled the cavernous space, the slow-to-mid tempo funk groove pulsing right through the floorboards and into the soles of your feet.

Michael was already out on the floor, gliding into a wide, sweeping circle. The neon lights washed over him in successive waves–blue, then pink, then gold highlighting the sharp, gorgeous geometry of his cheekbones and the damp, shining curls of his hair. He began to catch the rhythm of the track, his shoulders dipping low, his hips swaying to the heavy plucking of the bass guitar.

“Oh, this is my jam!” He calls out, his voice echoing in the empty rink. He attempted a quick spin, his wheels clicking sharply against the wood, though he stumbled slightly at the tail end, his arms shooting out to stabilize himself against the air.

You skated out to meet him, moving with smooth strides that accentuated the fullness of your frame. Your hips rolled perfectly with the music, the denim shorts showcasing the soft curve of your backside. When you reached him, you didn’t stop; you looped tightly around his body, brushing your shoulder against his chest, leaving the scent of your perfume in his wake.

“You call that a spin?” you teased, looking back over your shoulder with a playful smile. “Come here, let me show you how we do it on the West Coast.”

Michael skated up beside you, his breathing already a little heavy from the excitement and the physical exertion. “Show me then, big shot. Let’s see what you got.”

You reached out, taking both of his hands in yours. His palms were warm, slightly damp, his long fingers wrapping securely around your wrists. “Okay, look at my feet. You gotta keep your center of gravity low, Mike. Don’t stand up so straight. Use those hips. I know you know how to use ‘em.”

Michael laughed, his eyes fixed intently on yours, ignoring his feet entirely. “I know how to use ‘em on stage, but this is friction, girl! The floor is slippery. You trying to make me break my legs?”

“Trust me,” you murmured, stepping closer until the space between your bodies virtually disappeared. You dropped one of his hands, placing your palm flat against the small of his back, right above the waistband of his jeans. You guided him, pulling him directly into your specific rhythm. “Feel the bass. Cross your right foot over your left, then slide. There you go. Just let it flow.”

Michael followed your lead, his movements smoothing out as his natural, unparalleled sense of timing took over. He stopped overthinking the mechanics of the skates. He crossed his foot, slid and suddenly he was gliding perfectly in sync with you, his chest almost pressed flush against yours.

The proximity was dizzying. Every time the overhead neon wheel spun, it illuminated the intense, burning heat gathering in his dark eyes, mixed with raw vulnerability. He wasn’t looking at you like a casual friend anymore; he was looking at you with a deep, concentrated longing, his gaze dropping repeatedly to your lips before sliding down to the exposed skin of your collarbone and the heavy swell of your breasts lifting and falling against the tight halter top.

“You’re real good at this,” Michael whispered. His voice had dropped an octave, becoming that raspy, intimate murmur he used when he was being completely, entirely serious. He moved his hand from your waist, his long fingers sliding up the bare skin of your back, his palm resting right between your shoulder blades where the fabric tied. The heat of his touch sent a violent jolt of electricity straight down your spine.

“I have a good student,” you breathed, your wheels naturally slowing down until you were both just drifting at a snail’s pace near the center of the rink, completely enveloped in the dark, warm atmosphere and Chaka Khan’s soaring vocals.

“No, it’s not just that,” Michael said, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath catch in your throat. He stopped moving entirely, locking his skates. He pulled you a fraction of an inch closer, his chest pressing against your breasts. “It’s you. The way you move, girl. You got so much rhythm, so much soul. It drives me crazy, y’know? Just watching you walk down the street drives me wild. It makes me feel… real grown up, but real scared too.”

“Michael…” you whispered, your hand resting on his shoulders. The fabric of his shirt was thin, and you could feel the rapid, hard thud of his heart hammering against his ribs. You shared that exact fear, the electric terror of the unknown.

“I mean it,” he said, his voice thick with a sudden, heavy emotion. “I spend all day with people telling me what to do, who to be, how to sing. But when I’m with you… I just feel so free. Like I can breathe. And you look so beautiful tonight. I can’t stop looking at you. I don’t want to look at anything else.”

He leaned down, his face inches from yours. You could smell the sweet, clean scent of his cologne mixed with the faint, musky heat of his skin. His lips, full, soft, and slightly parted, brushed against yours in a teasing light soft ghost of a kiss.

Before you could close the gap to deepen it, Michael attempted to shift his weight to bring both arms completely around your waist. His rear wheel caught a microscopic groove in the hardwood floor.

“Whoa—!”

He lost his footing, his long arms flailing. In a sudden panic, he grabbed onto your waist for dear life. But your center of gravity was already compromised by the sudden shift. With a loud yell and a chaotic, echoing clatter of wheels against the wood, both of you went down.

You hit the floor with a dull, heavy thud, landing squarely on your backside, which fortunately provided plenty of natural padding against the impact. Michael landed right over you, his long legs tangling completely with yours, his hand planting firmly on the hardwood floor on either side of your head to prevent his full weight from crushing you.

For a long second, the massive rink was completely silent save for the echoing music of Rufus and Chaka Khan, the horn section currently blaring a triumphant, funky solo through the overhead speakers.

You looked up at Michael. His hair was slightly mussed, a few tight curls falling over his forehead, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. He looked down at you, his eyes wide with surprise, and then, the pure absurdity of the moment hit him.

He burst into a loud, uninhibited roar of laughter. It was a deep, infectious belly laugh, the kind he rarely let out when the cameras were rolling. He collapsed forward slightly, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his chest vibrating intensely against yours as he laughed until his ribs ached.

“Oh my god,” he gasped, his hot breath tickling the sensitive skin of your collarbone. “Oh man! Did you see that? I totally wiped out! The great Michael Jackson, flat on his face in front of a pretty girl!”

You laughed too, your hands automatically coming up to wrap around his back, holding his slender, muscular frame close to you. “I told you to keep your center of gravity low, Jackson! You got cocky because Chaka came on!”

“I did, I did,” he chuckled, lifting his head slowly. But as his eyes traveled down to meet yours, the laughter died instantly in his throat.

The position you were in was intimate. You were flat on your back, your legs spread slightly with his torso positioned right between them. The friction of the fall had caused your halter top to shift slightly sideways, exposing a deep, tantalizing glimpse of your full cleavage. Your hips were pinned flat beneath his, and through the heavy denim of his jeans, you could feel a distinct, rigid hardness pressing right against your pelvic bone.

The mood in the vacant rink shifted instantly, the playful energy evaporating into something thick, heavy, and suffocatingly hot. The rotating neon wheel above turned a deep, seductive crimson, casting a red, primal glow over the sharp lines of Michael’s face.

Michael’s eyes darkened, his pupils dilating until they were almost completely black, swallowing the brown. His breath hitched, his lips parting as he stared down at your mouth. His hands, still planted on the floor, twitched against the wood. Slowly, deliberately, he shifted his weight, pressing his groin down just a fraction of an inch into your softness. A nervous tremor ran through his frame, a silent acknowledgement that neither of you had ever been this close to anyone before.

A soft, involuntary gasp escaped your lips, your hips tilting up slightly in response.

“Mike…” you breathed, your voice trembling with a sudden, overwhelming need, your own heart thudding in time with the anxiety of the unknown.

“You’re so soft,” he whispered, his voice completely stripped of its usual boyishness. It was deep, gravelly, and dripping with a raw, adult desire that made your stomach clench. “Every time I touch you, you’re just so soft and warm. It’s all I think about when I’m in the studio. It’s all I dream about. But… I don’t want to mess up, y’know? I want to make it nice for you.”

“You won’t mess up, Mike,” you whispered back, tracing the line of his jaw. “We can just go slow.”

He lowered his head, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin just below your earlobe. A violent shiver tore through your entire body. He licked a wet slow path up your jawline, his tongue warm and rough, before his mouth finally crashed against yours.

The kiss wasn’t just passionate; it was an exploration of two people learning the contours of desire together. It was hungry, desperate, filled with the pent-up frustration of months of longing, of secret glances in crowded recording rooms, of quick, stolen touches backstage. Michael’s tongue slid into your mouth, deep and demanding, swirling against yours with a possessive tempo that mimicked the heavy funk beat pulsing through the floorboards.

You groaned into his mouth, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him down as hard as you could. Your thighs clamped around his hips, your heavy skates providing a strange, grounding weight that anchored you to him on the hard floor.

Michael groaned—a deep, guttural sound from the back of his throat that made you wet between your legs. He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged, his eyes wild and unfocused as he looked down at you, the heavy weight of his innocence and yours hovering in the air.

“Not out here,” he panted, his chest heaving against your breasts. “Someone… what if the manager comes back early? What if someone sees us through the glass? I want to be alone with you. Really alone.”

“The manager’s office,” you whispered, your hands reaching up to cup his face, your thumb rubbing over the smooth, warm skin of his cheekbone. “He said it’s unlocked. In the back, past the arcade games.”

Michael didn’t say another word. He scrambled to his feet, his skates clicking loudly and frantically against the hardwood. He reached down, grabbing both of your hands, and hauled you up with a surprising, wiry strength. Without letting go of your hand, he began rolling toward the back of the rink, his movements urgent, completely discarding any pretense of smooth skating.

You followed him, your heart hammering violently against your ribs, the thrill of the illicit encounter making your blood feel like liquid fire.

The manager’s office was small, cluttered, and dimly lit by a single desk lamp casting a warm amber glow over wood-paneled walls, green filing cabinets, and old concert posters from the early ‘70s. A large, worn leather sofa sat against the far wall, looking ancient but deep and comfortable.

The moment the door clicked shut behind you, Michael threw the deadbolt lock. He turned around, and before you could even draw a full breath, he pinned your body against the heavy wooden door.

His mouth crashed onto yours again, harder this time, his hands flying directly to your waist. He gripped your fleshy hips, his fingers digging deep into your skin, molding your curves to his body. He lifted you slightly, and because you were still wearing your roller skates, the heavy pink wheels scraped against the wood of the door, providing a strange, rough friction that forced your pelvis directly against his rigid length.

“Mm, god,” Michael groaned against your lips, his hips rolling forward in a slow grind that made you whimper. He was rock-hard now, the thick, unyielding length of his dick burning through his denim right into your sensitive core. “You feel so good. You don’t even know what you do to me, girl. You drive me crazy. I’m… man, I’m shakin’ inside.”

“Me too, Mike,” you confessed against his mouth, your breath hot. “It’s okay. It’s just us.”

“I want to see you,” he whispered hoarsely, his breath hot against your skin. His long, nimble fingers moved to the back of your neck. With a quick, deft pull, he untied the strings of your halter top. The fabric fell away instantly, exposing your full, heavy breasts to the warm amber light of the office.

Michael let out a low, shaky breath, his eyes wide as he looked at you. “Look at you… you’re so beautiful. s’full. Look at all this woman. You’re perfect. I’ve never… I’ve never seen anyone like you before.”

He reached out, his warm, large palms cupping the undersides of your breasts, lifting them. His thumbs brushed repeatedly over your nipples, which hardened instantly under his touch. You let out a loud cry, your hands flying to his hair, weaving through the tight, soft curls of his afro as he leaned down and took one dark nipple into his mouth.

He sucked heavily, his tongue swirling around the sensitive bud before drawing the entire aureole past his lips. The sensation was so intense, so raw, that your knees buckled. If he hadn’t been holding you tightly against the door, you would have slid right down to the floorboards.

“Mike, oh my god, Mike—”

He switched to the other breast, his teeth grazing the tip, his hand sliding down to the button of your denim shorts. He popped it open with one hand, the zipper rasping loudly in the quiet room. He shoved his hand down into your panties, his palm cupping your warm mound.

You were already soaking wet, the heat and slickness of your pussy coating his fingers the moment he slid them past the cotton barrier. Michael let out a triumphant, ragged gasp into your skin, his fingers twitching slightly with a burst of sweet, nervous energy as he encountered your wetness for the first time.

“Oh, you’re so wet for me, girl.” he purred, his voice cracking slightly with emotion.

His fingers moved tentatively, parting your lips to find your clit hidden underneath. He stroked it once, twice, his long finger applying just the right amount of pressure as he paid close attention to the way your body reacted.

You screamed into the empty room, your body convulsing against him. The heavy wheels of your skates rolled back and forth against the bottom of the door, a frantic, rhythmic clicking sound that filled the small space.

“Come here,” he panted, breaking away from your chest. He took your hand and guided you over the leather sofa.

You collapsed onto the cracked leather, your legs sprawling over the edge, your skates dangling off the side. Michael immediately dropped to his knees on the floor between your thighs. He didn’t care about the dust, he didn’t care about his clothes; his entire focus was fixed on the space between your legs, his expression a mix of absolute devotion and quiet anxiety.

He gripped your thighs, pushing them wide apart. The amber lamp light caught the wet, glistening sheen of your pussy.

“Michael…” you murmured, a sudden wave of self-consciousness hitting you as you looked down at your soft, curvy stomach and the fullness of your thighs. “The light… and I… I haven’t ever done this before, Mike. With anyone.”

He looked up, his expression melting into something incredibly tender and fiercely protective. “Don’t you dare hide from me. You’re perfect. You hear me? Every single inch of you is perfect. And… I haven’t either. You’re my first, too. That’s why I want to see everything. I want to just be you and me, learning each other.”

He didn’t wait for a response. He leaned forward, burying his face in your pussy.

The first touch of his tongue was a broad, wet, slightly hesitant stroke from the bottom of your opening all the way up to your clit. You shrieked, your hands gripping the leather cushions so hard your nails dug into the seams.

Michael was a performer; he understood rhythm, tempo, and control and even in his inexperience, his natural instinct took over. His tongue became a weapon of pure pleasure, darting in and out of your pussy, tasting your sweetness, before focusing entirely on your swollen clit. He sucked it into his mouth, using a firm suction that had you writhing beneath him.

“Oh god, Michael! Yes, right there, please!”

He moaned against your wet skin, the vibration of his voice sending ripples of pleasure straight to your pussy. While his mouth continued its relentless assault, he slid two long, slender fingers inside you.

You were incredibly tight, a pure testament to your shared innocence, but so slick that his fingers slid in all of the way to the knuckles with ease. He hooked his fingers upward, finding the magical, ribbed spot inside you, and began to pump them in a fast, wicked pace that perfectly matched the frantic pace of your breathing.

The combination was too much. The heavy leather couch, the warm amber light, the distant, muffled sound of Chaka Khan singing about love, and Michael Jackson worshipping your body between your legs.

Your hips began to thrust wildly against his face, your skates kicking out into the empty air of the office.

“I’m gonna cum, Mike! I’m gonna—”

“Do it,” he growled against your flesh, his fingers accelerating, his tongue swirling frantically. “Cum for me, girl. Give it all to me. I got you.”

With a loud, broken cry, your body shattered. Your walls clamped down violently around his fingers, and your core spasmed in a powerful, prolonged orgasm that had you shaking from head to toe. Michael didn’t pull away; he held you tight, drinking in your slick, his tongue catching every drop until your whimpers finally subsided into soft, panting gasps.

Michael stood up slowly, his face flushed; his lips wet and shining in the dim light. His eyes were heavy-lidded, dark with an unresolved hunger. He stood over you, his hands flying to the buttons of his shirt, ripping them open with an urgency that sent a tiny plastic button flying across the room, clicking against the filing cabinet.

He shrugged the shirt off his shoulders, revealing his lean, beautifully sculpted torso. His skin was smooth, his chest glistening with a fine sheen of sweat. He quickly unbuckled his belt and pushed his jeans and briefs down, kicking them away.

When he stood before you fully naked, your breath caught. He was magnificent–lean, muscular, and beautifully, heavily endowed. His dick standing proud and rigid, your eyes taking the time to trace over every vein as it trembled slightly with anticipation and the sheer gravity of what was about to happen.

He climbed onto the sofa, hovering over you. He grabbed your waist, pulling your hips to the very edge of the cushions. He lifted your legs, draping your heavy, skated feet over his shoulders. The cold metal of the skate trucks rested against his bare collarbones, but he didn’t care. The added lift gave him the perfect angle into your soft, welcoming body.

“Look at me,” Michael whispered, his voice trembling as he guided the tip of his dick against your still-throbbing entrance. He rested his forearms on either side of your head, his face inches from yours. A sudden wave of nervousness washed over his features, his chest heaving. “Are you sure? Does it feel okay? I don’t want to hurt you.”

You looked up at him, your vision slightly blurry with tears of pleasure, your own heart racing with the beautiful finality of the moment. “I’m sure, Michael. Please. I want it to be you.”

He pushed forward.

He went slow at first, stretching your tight walls, his eyes closing tightly as a low groan tore from his chest. The barrier of your shared virginity resisted for a brief second before giving way, a sharp intake of breath leaving your lips as he slipped deeper. “Oh, man… you’re s’tight… s’warm… hold on, just hold onto me, girl…”

He paused, burying his face in your neck, letting both of your bodies adjust to the sudden, overwhelming fullness. You wrapped your arms tightly around his back, feeling the tense, solid muscles of his shoulders. After a few long, quiet breaths, the initial sting faded, replaced by a deep, pulsing warmth.

“You okay?” he whispered against your skin, his voice incredibly gentle.

“Yes, Mike. I’m okay. Move… please, move.”

He pushed deeper, his hips sinking down until he was buried completely to the hilt inside of you, his hips crashing against yours. The fullness of the sensation was overwhelming. You let out a long, breathless wail, your hands wrapping around his biceps, feeling the hard, flexed muscle beneath your fingers.

Then, he began to move.

He started with long, slow, agonizingly deep strokes, careful and protective at first. Every time he pulled out almost completely, he would pause before plunging back in, driving himself deep into your pussy. As the rhythm settled, his confidence grew, the soft, fleshy curve of your thighs gripping his hips, creating a tight, suctioned seal that made every stroke sound wet and loud in the quiet office.

“Ah… yes, Mike… just like that,” you chanted, your head tossing from side to side on the leather cushions.

His rhythm began to speed up, shifting from a slow groove to a fast, frantic funk beat as the initial nervousness dissolved into pure passion. He was losing control, his usual precision giving way to pure, unbridled animal instinct. He gripped your hips harder, his fingers leaving marks on your skin as he slammed into you, his breathing turning into a series of sharp, guttural pants.

“You’re mine tonight,” he whispered, his eyes opening, burning into yours with a possessive intensity that made you tremble. “Nobody else… just us. You feel so good… damn, you feel so good.”

The heavy wheels of your skates, still draped over his shoulders, rattled with every heavy thrust of his hips. The strange, industrial sound of the skates mixed with the wet slapping of your bodies and the desperate, breathless noises you were both making created a symphony of pure passion.

You could feel the tension building inside him, the way his muscles locked up, the skin of his back turning hot and damp. Your own orgasm was rushing back, triggered by the relentless, hard pounding against your g-spot.

“Michael, I’m close! I’m–oh my god!”

“Me too,” he gasped, his thrusts becoming short, fast, and incredibly deep. He buried his face in your neck, his teeth biting down on your shoulder as he gave three final, devastating thrusts. “I’m gonna… oh god, I’m gonna—!”

He drove himself in as deep as he could go and held himself there. He finally came to his senses as a loud, ragged scream tore from your throat, your muscles clamping down on him that drew another desperate groan from his lips. You were so caught up in your orgasm, you could barely feel him pulling out of you until you felt ropes of his cum against the plush flesh of your thighs and the curve of your stomach, desperate groans leaving his lips.

For a long time, neither of you moved. He remained over you, his entire weight resting heavily on your soft body, his heart hammering like a trapped bird against your ribs. The office was completely silent now, save for the sound of your combined breathing.

Slowly, Michael eased himself off of you and as he slid down onto the floor beside the couch and pulled his legs up to his chest, utterly spent but wearing a massive smile. You sat up slowly, your body aching in the most delicious way possible. You reached down and began the awkward task of unlacing your skates, tossing the heavy leather boots onto the floor with a loud clunk. Your feet felt light, your toes curling against the cool air.

You slid off the couch and sat on the floor right next to Michael, leaning your head against his bare shoulder.

He immediately wrapped his long arm around you, pulling you against his chest. He reached over and with his free hand, grabbing his discarded shirt, and gently wiped away the stray droplets of sweat and his cum from your thighs and stomach, his movements tender.

He looked down at you, his eyes soft, gentle and filled with profound, peaceful quiet that you had never seen in him before. The frantic energy of the pop star was completely gone, replaced by a young man who felt safe, loved, and entirely whole after crossing the threshold into adulthood with the person he trusted most.

“Are you okay?” he whispered, kissing the top of your afro, his voice full of concern. “Did I… was it okay for your first time?”

“I’m better than okay, Mike,” you smiled, looking up at him and wrapping your arms around his waist. “It was perfect. That was… far out.”

Michael let out a soft, beautiful laugh, his nose crinkles showing a massive wave of relief washed over him. “Yeah. It really was. Out of this world. Man, I was so scared I’d do something wrong, but you just… you made it so easy.”

He looked around the room, at the scattered clothes, the heavy skates on the floor and the dim light. He tightened his grip on you, pulling you so close you could feel the steady, calming sound of his breathing.

“Thank you,” he said softly, his voice dropping into that sweet, sincere tone. “For the date. For everything. I don’t think I’ve ever been happy like this before. Just…being me. Being a man with you.”

“You can always be just you with me, Michael,” you said, turning to kiss his chest right over his heart. “Anytime you need to escape, I’ll have the keys ready.”

“I’m gonna hold you to that, girl,” he murmured, his eyes fluttering shut as he drifted into a peaceful, contented state of rest, completely wrapped up in the warmth of your embrace while the faint, distant sounds of the ‘70s night hummed outside the office door.

© 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐥𝐲𝐩𝐲𝐭𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐛𝐱

requested　﹒　anon ♡

The late afternoon sun filters through the grand, arched windows of the entry hall at Neverland, casting long, dancing shadows across the gleaming marble floors. Michael is sitting on a long, ornate bench, its dark, carved wood a stark contrast to the bright, airy space. He's wearing a simple, white button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a pair of black, tailored trousers. His feet are bare, a small, uncharacteristic act of casual comfort that speaks to the quiet solitude of the moment.

He's fidgeting. His long, elegant fingers tap a restless, syncopated rhythm on the polished wood of the bench. He checks his watch, a sleek, gold Cartier, then immediately regrets it, a small, frustrated sigh escaping his lips. He runs a hand through his hair, a nervous, agitated gesture that is so unlike his usual, polished poise. He's waiting.

And then, he hears it. The crunch of gravel on the long, winding driveway. The low, familiar rumble of an engine. A slow, bright smile spreads across his face, a genuine, unguarded expression of pure, unadulterated joy. He's on his feet in a single, fluid movement, a graceful, almost dancer-like burst of energy that is full of a boyish, impatient anticipation.

The heavy, oak door swings open, and you step inside, blinking against the sudden shift from the bright California sun to the cool, dim light of the hall. The door swings shut behind you with a soft, solid thud, and before you can even take a proper breath, he's there.

He wraps you in a hug that is so tight, so fiercely possessive, it almost knocks the breath out of you. He buries his face in your hair, inhaling deeply, a contented, sighing sound of pure, unadulterated bliss.

"You're back," he murmurs, his voice a muffled, happy rumble against your neck. "You're back."

"M'back," you echo, your words a soft, breathy laugh as you wrap your arms around him, your hands splayed across the warm, solid expanse of his back. "Miss me?"

He pulls back, but only just enough to look at you. His face is a beautiful, brilliant smile, his dark eyes sparkling with a light so bright it could rival the California sun. And then, he starts kissing you.

It's not a passionate, demanding kiss. It's a barrage of soft, sweet, impossibly warm kisses, a joyful, chaotic celebration of your return. He kisses your forehead, your cheeks, the tip of your nose, your chin. He's a flurry of affection, a human hummingbird, a whirlwind of happy, welcoming kisses. You're laughing, a loud, unrestrained sound that is full of a deep, abiding happiness, trying to duck and dodge his playful assault.

"Michael!" you gasp, between fits of laughter. "Stop! I can't breathe!"

He finally relents, pulling back with a final, soft kiss on your forehead. He's still holding you, his hands gentle, firm on your waist, a happy, contented hum vibrating in his chest.

"Sorry," he says, but he's not sorry at all. His smile is a full, brilliant, megawatt thing that makes your heart do a funny little flip. "I jus' missed you."

"I missed you too," you say, your voice a soft, affectionate murmur. You reach up, gently brushing a stray strand of hair from his forehead. Your fingers linger on his skin, a soft, familiar caress.

"I have a surprise f'you," you say, a playful, mysterious glint in your eye.

His own eyes light up, a childlike, eager curiosity that is utterly endearing. "A surprise?" he repeats, his voice a low, intrigued whisper. "What is it?"

"You have to wait," you say, pulling away from him and taking a step back toward the door. "I have t'go back to the car t'get it. Don't peek."

You turn and disappear back through the heavy oak door, leaving him standing in the middle of the grand hall, a look of happy, confused anticipation on his face. He paces, a slow, restless circuit around the marble-topped table in the center of the room, his hands stuffed into his pockets. He's like a kid on Christmas morning, a bundle of excited, nervous energy.

The door opens again, and you reappear, your arms laden with goodies. You're holding a large, familiar red and white bucket, the glorious, greasy aroma of fried chicken filling the air, a stark, delicious contrast to the usually pristine, scent-free environment of the house. Tucked under your arm is a black plastic DVD case, the colorful, cartoonish image of a giant, floating baby on the cover.

His eyes widen, a look of pure, unadulterated delight on his face. "Is that…?" he asks, his voice a hushed, reverent whisper.

"Is it what?" you ask, a playful, innocent smile on your face. "This old thing?"

He closes the distance between you in three long, eager strides, his eyes fixed on the bucket. "KFC," he breathes, the word a happy, worshipful sigh. "I was just thinking about how good KFC would be."

"And that's not all," you say, presenting the DVD case to him with a flourish. "I present t'you, the cinematic masterpiece of our time: 'Honey, I Blew Up the Kid'."

He lets out a loud, delighted laugh, a beautiful, uninhibited sound that echoes in the vast, empty hall. He takes the bucket from you, his fingers brushing against yours, a warm, electric spark. He peeks inside the bucket, inhaling deeply.

"Oh, you're a saint," he says, his voice full of a grateful, almost tearful sincerity. "A true, honest-t'God saint."

"I try," you say, a self-satisfied smirk on your face. "Now, I'm going t'go change into something a little less… public. I'll meet you in th' theatre."

You give him a quick, mischievous wink, then turn and head for the grand staircase, your footsteps a light, happy sound on the marble.

You find him in the private theatre, a space that is less a room and more an experience. There's no stadium seating here, no sticky floors or overpriced popcorn. Instead, a single, plush, red velvet armchair sits in the center of the room, an oversized, decadent throne that is big enough for two. It's facing a massive, wall-sized screen, the soft glow of the menu screen for the DVD casting a warm, cinematic light across the space.

He's already in the chair, looking small and almost swallowed by its plush, velvet expanse. He's kicked off his shoes and has the bucket of chicken balanced precariously on the wide armrest. He's already wearing a pair of soft, grey sweatpants and a faded black Motown t-shirt, a comfortable, casual look that you rarely see him in outside the privacy of your shared spaces. He looks up as you enter, a soft, welcoming smile on his face.

You've changed too, swapping your jeans and t-shirt for a pair of your own soft, worn-in pajamas. You climb into the chair beside him, the velvet cushioning sighing under your weight. You snuggle up against him, your head resting on his shoulder, your legs tangled with his. He wraps an arm around you, pulling you close, a gesture that is as natural and as essential as breathing.

"Ready?" he asks, his voice a low, soft murmur against your hair.

"Ready," you say, your voice a happy, contented sigh.

He presses a button on a small, remote control, and the theatre lights dim, the room plunging into a soft, velvety darkness. The screen flickers to life, the familiar, boisterous theme music of a 90s family comedy filling the silence.

He reaches for the bucket, pulling out a piece of chicken. The crispy, golden skin glistens in the light from the screen. He breaks off a piece, holding it to your lips.

"Open up," he says, a playful, commanding tone in his voice.

You obey, your lips closing around the piece of chicken. It's glorious. Greasy, salty, a little bit spicy, a forbidden, delicious treat in this temple of health-consciousness. You moan, a low, guttural sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure.

"Good, right?" he asks, a proud, triumphant smirk on his face as he takes a bite for himself.

"Amazing," you say, your mouth still full.

You settle in, a comfortable, happy silence falling between you, broken only by the sounds of the movie and the occasional, happy sigh as you both devour the chicken. You pass the bucket back and forth, your fingers slick with grease, your hearts full of a simple, profound contentment. It's these moments you cherish the most. Not the grand, public spectacles, not the dazzling, sold-out concerts, but these quiet, private moments of pure, unadulterated normalcy.

The movie is exactly what you expected it to be: ridiculous, heartwarming, and utterly delightful. You find yourselves laughing at the same silly jokes, your bodies shaking with shared amusement. He's completely engrossed, his dark eyes fixed on the screen, a look of childlike wonder on his face. He's humming along to the soundtrack, a soft, tuneless murmur that is more endearing than any symphony.

About halfway through the movie, he shifts, reaching for the thick, fleece blanket that is draped over the back of the chair. He shakes it out, a billowing cloud of soft, warm fabric, then drapes it over the both of you. It's a cozy, intimate gesture, a small, simple act that makes your heart swell with a love so fierce it almost takes your breath away.

You snuggle deeper under the blanket, your body pressed against his. The warmth of him, the softness of the fleece, the delicious, greasy remnants of the chicken, the silly, comforting drone of the movie—it's a perfect, self-contained bubble of happiness.

You can feel yourself starting to drift, the events of the day, the contentment of the moment, a warm, heavy blanket pulling you down into a soft, welcoming sleep. Your head is still on his shoulder, your breathing starting to slow, to sync with the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest.

You're vaguely aware of the giant baby on the screen causing some kind of chaos in a shopping mall, the familiar, boisterous sounds of a cinematic climax. But it all seems very far away, muffled and distant, like you're hearing it from underwater.

You feel him shift again, a slow, deliberate movement. His arm tightens around you, pulling you even closer. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to the top of your head, a gesture that is so full of love, so full of a deep, abiding tenderness, that it makes your heart ache.

"Love you," he murmurs, his voice a low, sleepy mumble against your hair.

You try to respond, to tell him that you love him too, but the words won't come. You're too far gone, already floating in that warm, hazy space between wakefulness and sleep. You manage a soft, contented sigh, a nonverbal response that you know he will understand.

He shifts again, his own body starting to relax, to soften. His head droops, resting against yours. You can feel the soft, tickling brush of his hair against your cheek, the warm, steady rhythm of his breath, a slow, calming cadence that lulls you deeper into sleep.

The movie plays on, its bright, flashing lights a silent, colorful spectacle in the darkened room. The bucket of chicken sits forgotten on the armrest, the last piece of chicken getting cold. Outside, the sun has set, the last of the day's light fading from the sky, plunging Neverland into a deep, peaceful darkness.

But in here, in this oversized, velvet throne, there is a different kind of light. There is the warmth of the blanket, the warmth of his body, the warmth of a love that is as simple and as profound as this. There is the quiet, rhythmic sound of two hearts beating in perfect sync, a steady, unwavering rhythm that is the only soundtrack that matters.

You fall asleep, a deep, dreamless, peaceful sleep, your body curled into his, your head on his shoulder. He follows you moments later, his own breathing deepening, his body going slack with sleep.

And there you stay, a tangled, sleeping heap in the middle of the private theatre, a silent, still portrait of a perfect, ordinary, extraordinary moment. A king in his castle, and you, his queen, asleep on a throne, wrapped in a blanket, with the faint, lingering scent of fried chicken in the air. A strange, beautiful, perfect fairy tale.

— 𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐄

𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐄'𝐒 𝐈𝐍𝐕𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐃 ♡ tagged: @hawtstreet @mjssolocup @king-mila @pheebsglow @camillemonroe @neverstreett @imeatingheehee @cottonkhandyy @loveposiie @khxna

"Pissed" wasn't even the word. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Michael—” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“On the floor, on your knees." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Only one man has me though."

©angelfacediary

Taglist :

You came down breathless, tangling in the messy sheets. For a few fleeting minutes, you just lay there together, desperately catching your breath in his heavy, safe embrace. But then, you glanced at the clock on the nightstand, and sheer panic set in.

You pushed gently against his chest, breaking the embrace, and immediately scrambled out of the bed. You grabbed your clothes from the floor, frantically rushing to pull your outfit together. "I'm going to be late," you muttered, aggressively fixing your hair. "I have to rush and meet a potential client to show that new property downtown."

Michael sat up slowly, the sweet, post-intimacy haze evaporating into a cold, thick tension. The longer this friends-with-benefits arrangement had progressed, the more intensely jealous both of you had become, and he absolutely hated seeing you with anyone else.

"A client?" he questioned, his jaw clenching tightly as his dark eyes critically tracked your every movement across the room. "Are you sure it's just a client, or is this a date? You're rushing out of my bed awfully fast just to go play realtor."

You stopped dead in your tracks, staring at him in utter disbelief. "Are you seriously doing this right now?" you shot back, frustration boiling over. "It is my job, Michael! Unlike you, I'm not actually out going on dates with other people!" You grabbed your purse and stormed out, leaving a heavy, unresolved tension suffocating the bedroom.

A few days passed without a single word between you two.

Then, you saw the tabloid photos online—Michael had been spotted out at a restaurant on a date with someone else. The jealousy completely burned a hole through your chest. Furious, you grabbed your phone and immediately dialed his number.

He picked up on the second ring, answering with that same sweet, soft tone he always used for you. "Hello, beautiful."

"Mm mm, miss me with that 'hello beautiful' bullshit!" you cussed into the receiver, completely enraged. "You did all that questioning when I had to meet a client yet, here you are out parading around on a date?! You are out here making me look fucking stupid, Michael!"

Instead of getting defensive, Michael let out a low, cheeky chuckle on the other end of the line. "Why don't you come over here so I can fix that attitude of yours?"

His cocky response instantly set you off. "Don’t play with me right now!" you practically screamed. "Lately I gotta watch what I say 'cause you take things personal nowadays, but you think you can just—"

"I'm joking, baby, I'm joking! Relax," he quickly backpedaled, his tone softening as he realized he had pushed too far. "I promise you, the date wasn't anything serious. We both thought it was cool to cross the line, and I was convinced it would be alright, but you're making this so hard."

"Because nothing's the same anymore!" you yelled, hot tears blurring your vision. "We used to laugh and joke, we used to tell each other all our secrets! Honestly, I just want my friend back!" You hung up the phone before he could respond, sinking onto your couch.

Another few agonizing days of radio silence passed.

Then, late at night, there was a soft knock on your door. You opened it to find Michael standing in the shadows of your porch.

"I was in the area," he murmured, his dark eyes looking down at you.

You actually let out a dry, breathy laugh, leaning against the doorframe. "Michael, you live almost an hour away," you scoffed. "You were definitely not 'in the area.'"

Despite the obvious lie, you stepped aside and let him in, locking the door behind him. You didn't want to argue anymore. You just wanted to feel him. You immediately wrapped your arms around his neck, pressing your lips hungrily against his and trying to pull him straight into what you usually did when he came over late at night.

At first, Michael completely fed into your advances. He had come here with a speech prepared, but the second your soft lips crashed against his, his resolve instantly shattered. You were entirely irresistible to him; he had never been able to tell you no. You backed him aggressively against the heavy front door, jumping up so your legs could wrap tightly around his waist as he instinctively caught your thighs.

But the moment you ground your hips down against his, the agonizing reality of his pain crashed through the intoxicating haze.

He came violently back to his senses. This wasn't enough anymore. He suddenly broke the kiss, gasping for air. His large hands moved from your thighs to firmly grip your wrists, gently but firmly pulling your arms away.

"Stop," he commanded softly, setting you down on your feet and taking a definitive step back. He looked completely exhausted, stripping away all his pride. "I can't handle this arrangement anymore. My mind's gone crazy, I can't leave you alone."

He stepped directly into your space, his tall frame towering over you. "I want you to be with me officially. This friends with benefits thing is done. I'm giving you an ultimatum: we are either together for real, or we stop this completely. I want you, or I want nothing."

"Michael, no—"

"I mean it," he interrupted, his voice a raw, gravelly vibration. "I went out the other night. The other girls... they are okay. But they're not you. I keep searching for you in every single one of them, and I can't find it. Because they aren't you."

Your heart hammered violently against your ribs, terrified of the risk. "How can you be sure things won't end up bad?" you pleaded, pushing back against his ultimatum. "If we do this for real and we fail, I'd hate to walk away from you as if this never existed! I’m not ready to lose my best friend!"

"I don't want to hear that!" he demanded, refusing to entertain your doubts. But right now, with his chest heaving inches from yours and his masculine scent wrapping around you, you couldn't process the heavy ultimatum. Your body was aching for him.

"Michael, please," you begged, your hands sliding out of his firm grip to desperately grab the waistband of his trousers, pulling his hips closer. "I promise we’ll talk about this. I promise we’ll figure it out as soon as we're done. But please... just not right now. I need you right now."

He stared down at your beautiful, sun-kissed skin, his jaw clenching tightly. He had come here entirely prepared to put his foot down, but the absolute truth was, he could never tell you no.

"Damn it," he cursed in a low, defeated, gravelly vibration, completely surrendering as his lips crashed fiercely back onto yours.

Because he had given in, the encounter wasn't the slow, sweet lovemaking you were used to. It was much rougher, fueled entirely by his built-up frustration, the jealousy of your phone call, and the agonizing days of silence. His large hands gripped your waist tight enough to bruise as he backed you forcefully against the heavy wood of the front door again. He didn't even bother making it to the bedroom. One of his hands tangled fiercely into your messy curls, tilting your head back, while the other gripped your hip as he drove into you with a frantic, punishing rhythm.

He was pouring every ounce of his pent-up anger and deep, unyielding passion into the way he touched you. He was usually so controlled, but because it had been quite a while since you had been together like this, he was entirely at your mercy. The intense emotional friction pushed him over the edge incredibly fast.

"I can't get enough of you," he groaned roughly into your neck, his voice breaking as he hit his limit much faster than usual. His hips drove into yours with a final, desperate urgency, a heavy shudder ripping through his tall frame as the explosive wave of pleasure crashed over him, pulling you right over the breathless edge with him.

You both came down panting, his broad chest heaving erratically against yours as he kept you pinned flush against the door. The heat between you slowly began to settle into a heavy, suffocating reality.

As his breathing steadied, he didn't put an inch of space between you. Instead, he rested his forehead heavily against yours, his thumbs sweeping firmly across your collarbones. He hadn't forgotten your promise.

𝜗ৎ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ you were a handful to say the least. michael doesn’t even know how he manages to handle you. you never fail to make his life very interesting. everyday is something new, and something eventful. you always say what’s on the mind and michael loves it, he loved your attitude. most importantly he loved the way your ass looked in those juicy couture tracksuits and how your curls bounced when you were throwing a fit about something random. with each pout or snarly remark you made resulted in michael getting turned on and michael was always turned on because you were always bitching about something.

“stupid fucking press.” your tone was sharp, louis vuitton bag swinging as you paced through the living room as michael watched you through his sunglasses—from his spot on the couch. his eyes would occasionally trail down your body, particularly your ass with the word 'juicy’ written in rhinestones.

“please don’t curse, honey.” michael breath out, calm and quiet—letting a soft grin appear on his face. you huffed, ignoring him and rolling your eyes at his response.

“don’t tell me what to do.”

“don’t be like that, babylove. i don’t like that kind of talk from you.”

your eyes narrowed. “ n' i don’t like that gucci bag you bought me, so i guess we’re even.” and just like that you stomped your way to the bedroom you and michael shared and slammed the door. michael being michael, he just smiled and shook his head. he was immune to your attitude by now, too obsessed with you to care.

𝜗ৎ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ as far back as michael could remember you were always like that. you were at the local park when he saw you, dressed up in a short sundress with heels—walking your tiny pomeranian. he remembered they was way your glossy lips moved while you were on the phone with one of your home girls. you were a playboy bunny at the time, living with the rest of the bunnies at the mansion. michael spotted you from across the grass and froze—you were hands-down the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. that deep brown skin, those curves, the confident switch in your step. he approached you, you can’t remember everything he said but the one thing that stuck with you was:

“i’ll call hugh right now and tell him that you’re mine”

you laughed, kissed your teeth, and rolled your eyes but gave him your number anyway. he’s been wrapped around your finger ever since.

𝜗ৎ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ Fast forward to now, you two have a an beautiful home and along down the road you let michael knock you up with a beautiful daughter, who’s 16 and just like you—to michael’s dismay. when you had her you gave her the name star because you always tell her:

“you’re gonna be a star, just like mommy”

𝜗ৎ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ you never fail to uplift your daughter and michael loves it. you also never fail to spoil her, so much that michael’s pockets gets flimsy in result of her constant need to take star to get some ‘new bling bling’ as you and star would say but michael never understood.

𝜗ৎ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ star was sometimes the main reason you and michael had arguments—if you consider you yelling and michael’s calm and collected demeanor a argument (more like a one sided fight). it was always about clothes but most of all, low rise jeans. low rise jeans is a huge trend that star wanted to be apart of. there was one particular style that all the girls were rocking—the zodiac jeans. they were dangerously low with a zodiac sign on the butt of the jeans with rhinestones and they had a cute little flare at the ends. star made the mistake of asking michael first.

star had spent hours imagining herself in these jeans. she even would act as if she had them on, practicing her strut for the school hallway. soon she would build up the courage to ask her father for the jeans—not that she needed courage to ask for money because has no problem asking for money but it was the simply fact she might hear the worst word in history: no

star strolled along down the hallway, en route to michael’s private studio, within the house. star pushes open the studio door quietly. the room smells like warm wood and faint cologne, monitors humming low while michael works at the boards in a simple button-up and sweatpants. michael hears the sound of feet along the floor and instantly lifts his head. his eye met his daughter’s, giving her a warm smile.

“oh hey, sweetheart.” he waves her over, opening his arms wide. she waltzed right into her father’s arms, feeling his lips on her forehead.

michael sensed that she was going to ask something, mentally preparing his wallet. “what’s up?”

star chewed the inside of her mouth, fidgeting with her bright, glittery pink nokia. then she just spewed out, “daddy… can I please get some money for these new low-rise jeans? they’re so cute and everybody at school has them.” she shoved her phone in his face, showing michael a picture.

his eyes squinted at the picture but eyes suddenly widened. michael looks up, that gentle smile softening his face before the dad mode kicks in. “oh honeybee, those are entirely too much for your age. I don’t think so, princess.” star pouted, getting ready to rebuttal. “but daddd, please? mama lets me wear stuff like that all the time.” he shakes his head firmly but lovingly: “but nothing, twinkle. my answer is no.” she huffs dramatically, braids flipping as she turns on her heel to leave. as she reaches the door he calls after her softly, “love you, baby girl.” she pauses, still upset but not cold-hearted, mumbling “love you too” before heading out.

star comes straight to you in the kitchen, pout still on her face. you’re leaned against the marble island looking like the reason why michael can still get it up— baby blue tracksuit zipped low to show cleavage, curls up in a bun, glossy lips shining, french tips tapping away on your phone while the pomeranian naps nearby. “mama, dad said no to the jeans… he said they too much for my age.” you set your matcha down, popping your gum loud. “well let me go talk to him. you should’ve just asked for the money straight up, star. haven’t I taught you enough about handling your daddy?” you wink—switching out the kitchen, bare feel against the tile with purpose.

you stroll into the studio like you own the whole estate (because you basically do). michael looks up from the boards, already sensing the storm. “baby, before you start—” you cut him off, hand on your hip, “michael, about those jeans for star. she’s sixteen, not six. let her feel cute.” he stands, trying to stay firm: “they show way too much waist, darling. I’m trying to set boundaries.” you kiss your teeth loud, glossy lips pursed in that signature pout. “boundaries? ya know what? fine.” really? did michael finally win?

you turned you heel and strutted out the room with a sway of your hips. michael smiled to him with triumph, thinking he actually won a argument. usually the arguments end in you getting your way but it was finally time that michael got his way, or so he thought.

later that afternoon you slip star some cash (plus extra for shoes to match). “go handle that, baby. mama got you.” star squeals and hugs you tight, “you’re the best mama ever!” when she comes back strutting through the foyer in the low-rise jeans—waistband sitting dangerously low on her hips, her zodiac written on the back—she looks every bit the stylish princess you raised. michael walks in from the studio, with a smile on his face—still thinking he won the argument from moments ago but once he approaches the living room he stops cold. “…star, those are the exact ones I said no to.” you’re lounging on the nearby chaise in your tracksuit, legs crossed, smirking. “and? if you think i was gonna let my baby be the only one without something, you were surely mistaken.”

at least you were coming from a good place in your heart.

𝜗ৎ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ it didn’t matter how many times you gave michael a headache, you always made up for it in bed. light dim, clothing set long discarded, your deep brown skin warm and glowing against the silk sheets while michael’s big hands explore every curve—long fingers gripping your thick thighs, sliding deep between your folds until you’re crying out, trembling. “you’re impossible… my impossible wife,” he groans, thrusting into you with that perfect rhythm, one hand gently around your throat. you moan loud, nails raking down his back, curls messy across the pillow. “but you love when I get my way, daddy.” he does. from the park day he claimed you till now.

Michael sat on the edge of the hotel bed for a long time after the woman left. She had gathered her things quietly, giving him one last look before closing the door after he’d asked her to leave. His elbows were braced against his knees and he had both of his hands pressed over his face. Like maybe he could hide from what he had just done if he stayed that way long enough.

The room was eerily quiet now. Nothing but the distant hum of traffic and horns from impatient cars down below. 

Just an hour before, music was playing from the stereo on the dresser and the curtains were pulled back wide revealing the glittering city below. Somebody was laughing at something Michael had long forgotten now. 

Now, the glasses on the dining room table were half empty. The sheets behind him were rumpled and smelled of an unfamiliar perfume. And the gold wedding band around Michael’s finger felt like it had doubled in weight.

He twisted it back and forth on his finger. Then he raised his hands back to his face.

“Oh God… what did I do?” he whispered into his hands. The words sounded so small in the expensive suite.

Then, his stomach rolled in an awful way and he rushed to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before losing the contents of his stomach.

He had spent most of his life surround by chaos and noise. People screaming his name, cameras clicking and flashing, executives talking over one another because they all wanted to be right. He had learned out to tune out the noise over the years to find a quiet place inside his own mind when the world became too much.

But now, there was no quiet place deep enough to protect him from himself.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw your face. It wasn’t angry either. That would’ve been easier. Instead, you were smiling. 

The same way that you had when he’d left for this business trip a month ago. You were standing barefoot in the foyer, arms wrapped tightly around his waist with your cheek resting against his chest. You had asked him to let you know when he landed. Reached your hand up to straighten the collar of his jacket that was turned up, because somehow Michael always managed to leave something out of place when he was tired. Then you had kissed him slowly and told him you loved him.

He had said it back without hesitation. He kept replaying it in his head. That was the part he couldn’t understand. He loved you. Truly. With every inch of his being. 

He knew that with the same certainty he knew the first note of every song he’d ever written, the exact number of steps between the wings and center stage. The way your body fit against his like a puzzle piece when you slept. 

He loved the sweet warm scent that clung to your skin after a shower. The tiny line between your eyebrows when you were reading something very carefully. He loved how you talked to yourself when you were cooking and trying to figure out a recipe— and denied it when he caught you, and the way you reached for him in your sleep without stirring.

He loved you, all of you, and he had betrayed you anyway.

The thought made him bend forward until his forehead nearly touched his knees, stomach still churning.

It wasn’t planned. Never. That was the excuse waiting closest to the surface. The one his frightened out of its wits mind kept offering him as if it would soften what happened. Truthfully, he was exhausted and lonely. Frustrated after a long night of industry obligations he didn’t want to attend. Those events were always full of people who treated boundaries like something temporary.

He drank more than usual, but not nearly enough to erase the choices he made that led him here. The woman made him feel admired without asking for anything complicated from him. And for one shameful, shameful hour, he had stepped outside of the life that belonged to him and pretended there would be no cost.

Then that moment came to an end, and there was still you. His mind kept drifting to you. Your clothes in his closet, the books stacked beside his bed that you had started but never finished. The handwritten notes you’d snuck in his luggage when he wasn’t looking. Your voice on his answering machine, asking him if he remembered to eat. 

By morning he had already decided he had to tell you. But then you called. Your voice was warm and sleepy because it was still early back at home where you were. You teased him about sounding completely miserable, told him he should’ve brought you for company. Said you missed him.

Michael sat on the hotel sofa gripping the phone so tightly his tendons ached. 

“I miss you too, baby.” He whispered. He almost confessed his sin to you right then and there. But when he opened his mouth, nothing came out.

He couldn’t bear the idea of telling you like that. Not like that. You deserved more from him. From your husband. 

Michael was disgusted with himself, and it showed in the way he’d been sick twice the night before. Now, sitting in the ruined hotel room, His eyes fell to the wedding band on his hand and he began to cry until the sobs crescendoed violently through his body.

The tears slipped between his fingers and fell silently onto his slacks while the world carried on outside. Completely indifferent and undisturbed by the fact that somewhere in it, a man had just shattered the most precious thing he’d ever been trusted to hold.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

It was sunrise when you woke up on the morning Michael returned home. The estate was still dark and its long hallways were silent  except for the occasional creak of the home settling around you. Outside, the sky was turning from black to a deep blue and mist drifted over the lawn.

You stayed in bed a little longer, curled in the sheets on Michael’s side of the bed. It was a habit you’d developed over the years whenever he was away from home. Pressing your face into the pillow, you inhaled deeply and sighed contently. It still carried a faint trace of your husband’s cologne. Warm, sandalwood, clean linen, and something sweet you couldn’t quite pinpoint.

A month had never felt so long

Michael and you had been married long enough to survive separations much longer than that. World tours had taken him across oceans. Film shoots and recording obligations swallowed whole weeks sometimes. There were too many birthdays and anniversaries celebrated through telephone wires than you cared to remember.

But lately, even when Michael was home, you’d missed him. And that bothered you. A lot. He was physically there. Eating dinner with you, sleeping beside you, every now and then resting his large palm on your thigh as he did his reading. But something felt off. His smiled came slower and his kisses were softer, but shorter too. And every now and then, you would look up and see him watching you closely with an expression you couldn’t read. Sadness flickered across his features before he tucked it away, but you didn’t know.

It must be the album you thought. Dangerous was due to release soon, so there was always a deadline or a room full of people waiting for Michael to decide whether the bassline needed to be heavier or if the strings needed another layer.

Michael carried his work inside his body until it reflected in his posture and the hollowed skin beneath his eyes. Over the years, you learned how to recognize the signs before complete burn out.

That was why this morning, you decided to take care of him. You yawned and stretched as you finally climbed out of bed, the cold air of the room hitting you quickly. You pulled one of Michael’s sweatshirts over your head and twisted your hair into a bun to keep it out your face before padding downstairs.

You only turned on the light above the stove, preferring more darkness as the sun slowly rose. Then you mixed pancake batter and started brewing your coffee. By the time the sun had fully risen, the kitchen smelled like butter, bacon, cinnamon, coffee, and maple syrup. You hummed to yourself quietly as you arranged fruit and powdered sugar over the pancakes. Then, you set two mugs on the table.

His car was in the driveway just after seven. You recognized the distinct engine humming in the distance and the faint voices from his security team. Excitement coursed through you so quickly that you nearly forgot to shut off the stove. You rushed into the foyer just as the front door opened.

Michael stepped inside wearing dark slacks, a black sweater, sunglasses—and the exhaustion of a man who had slept little to none. His curls were tucked beneath a hat and his leather overnight bag hung from his opposite hand. Still, he looked beautiful to you.

His head lifted when he saw you, and for a second his whole face changed. Relief, love, and something more dark passed through his expression in a frenzy. You quickly closed the distance between the two of you, and he dropped his bag to catch you.

“Hey handsome. There you are.” You murmured against his neck, leaving soft kisses. Michael melted into your touch and held you tightly. A little too tight.

He pressed his face into you, breathing you in. You laughed softly as you ran your hands over his back in that way that always grounded him.

“You act like you’ve been gone a year.” He didn’t answer, but his arms tightened. The force of the embrace surprised you enough to make your smile fade a little.

“Mikey?”

“Just missed you. That’s all.” He whispered His voice was strained though. You turned your face and kissed his temple. 

“I missed you too, baby”

When he finally pulled away, his eyes were wet behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses. He removed them quickly like he forgot he was wearing them before looking over your face with a tender gaze.

“You okay? What’s up?” You asked.

He nodded too fast. “Yeah mama, just tired.”

“More like exhausted”

“I’m alright.”

Still not convinced, you reached up and pushed a curl out of his eyes. He leaned into your hand instinctively. Then his gaze dropped to your mouth, and you kissed him. He kissed you back, but something about it felt hesitant. It lasted just a second, almost so quickly you didn’t notice. 

When you pulled away, he gazed at you like you gave him something he didn’t deserve. The expression made you uncomfortable in a way you couldn’t put words to. So you changed the topic.

“I made you breakfast. Your favorite” A shy smile tugged at his lips despite the way he felt inside. 

“Of course you did” That was the thing. You were always taking care of him. Making sure he had what he needed, sometimes at a cost to yourself. He followed you to the kitchen, wondering how many more acts of love he could survive before the truth broke him.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Unfortunately, the distance didn’t disappear when Michael came home. It got worse. 

He was attentive in weird, uneven bursts. One afternoon, he just appeared out of nowhere in the doorway of the library carrying your favorite flowers for no reason. Then he stood watching while you arranged them in a vase, eyes following every movement of your hands. And then that night, he held you so close that you woke up feeling suffocated and sweating against his chest.

The next day though, he barely spoke at all during breakfast. 

He started bringing you gifts after long rehearsals and recording sessions. A new book he thought you might like, a silk scarf in your favorite color, and a small bottle of perfume he had smelled somewhere and immediately associated with you. 

The gifts were appreciated. But they frightened you. Now Michael had always been extremely generous with his time and money. He loved to give, much more than receiving. But you couldn’t help but feel like these offerings weren’t just spontaneous affection, but more so an apology for something you had never accused him of doing.

If you asked if something was wrong, he would just say it was work stuff. 

“This mix isn’t right yet”

“Just not sleeping well, that’s all”

“Management's been on me”

And every time, you believed him. Because you loved him and trusted him. The alternative never entered your mind.

In the past, there had been rumors about your marriage.

Women constantly claimed things and headlines manufactured affairs from various photographs Michael had taken with fans. Every friendly conversation and smile he gave became evidence for the press to declare he had a new secret lover.

Michael was always more hurt by these stories than you were. “How can they say that about us?” He would ask, genuinely distressed. “They don’t know me…Us.” You always reassured him.

The trust was so deeply ingrained in your marriage that you didn’t even consider the possibility of unfaithfulness even while standing in its shadow.

Instead, you turned inward and blamed yourself. Maybe you had gotten too comfortable. Or maybe the marriage was less exciting to him now that the honeymoon phase was long gone.

You wondered whether your complaints about his long nights at the studio had added more pressure on top of the weight he was already carrying. And as embarrassed as you were afraid to admit, you had even begun studying your own reflection more closely when getting dressed.

On date night, you changed your hair twice. Bought a new nightgown— that never got worn because Michael came home at 2am and fell asleep before you could show him.

You tried hard. So much harder.

And that’s what haunted you later.

You cooked more of his favorite meals and waited for him to come home to enjoy them, even though you never knew when he’d arrive. Kept leaving handwritten notes for him to encourage him. Sometimes if you had time, you’d stop by the studio with lunch for him and massage his shoulders while he listened to the same run over and over again, trying to pinpoint how to improve it.

Every act of love you offered made him quieter and pushed him farther away. 

Then one night, you found him standing by himself in the bathroom with the water running endlessly. He was facing the mirror, both hands gripping the sink as his head hung low.

“Runnin' up my water bill, boy” You had said jokingly. But he startled so violently that your stomach clenched. Immediately your face changed when he met your eyes in the reflection of the mirror. You stepped inside immediately.

“What is it? Is something wrong?”

“Nothing” 

“You’ve been in here forever, Mike. What're you thinkin' about?”

He stared at you through the reflection instead of turning around. For a moment, it looked like he might tell you. His mouth opened and his eyes filled, but then he dropped his gaze.

“Just that record. That’s all.”

You exhaled softly and moved behind him, shutting off the water and wrapping your arms around his waist. His body went rigid under your touch. You felt it immediately.

“Baby,” You whispered, resting your cheek between his shoulder blades. “You’re carrying too much again.”

Grace he didn’t deserve.

Michael closed his eyes as guilt washed over him, nauseating him.

“You don’t have to be perfect all the time. You can just be you with me, you know that right?” A tear slipped down his cheek and disappeared before you could see it.

“I know” He said quietly.

“You can talk to me. Whatever it is.”

His hands came down to where yours were resting against his stomach, holding you too now.

“I know, baby.”

He turned in your arms and held you with his face buried against your neck. His body was trembling, and you mistook it for exhaustion. So you stroked his curls like you always did and told him it would be okay.

You always made him feel so safe. He nearly confessed right there. He inhaled sharply. “I have to tell you something” he whispered.

You pulled back to look at him. “What is it?” His eyes moved over yours. Fear entered them so suddenly that you went totally still. But then, he shook his head and said it was nothing.

He didn’t have the courage yet. He wanted to tell you. So badly. But he couldn’t bear to put you in that type of agony. He’d rather die. And that’s why he hated himself in this moment. In every moment you’d overextended yourself or did something just because you loved him.

He didn’t deserve it, and he knew it. He was devastated.

Later, you would replay this memory until it felt like punishment that you couldn’t see things for what they were.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

You learned the truth at a charity luncheon six weeks after Michael came home.

The day was unremarkable. You picked out a cream suit and wore a silk blouse underneath. Gold hoops adorned your ears with your hair swept back away from your face. Michael was supposed to be attending with you, but a scheduling conflict came up that morning. He kissed your cheek while you got dressed and apologized, promising he would make it up to you.

It was no big deal it happened a lot. So, you went alone. 

The luncheon was in a private ballroom that had been decorated elegantly with white flowers and soft, gold fabric. Wives of people in the industry, performers, executives, humanitarians, and philanthropists moved about the space while photographers hovered near the entrance. Being Michael’s wife, you had attended enough events like it to smile through small talk without thinking.

Halfway through the event, a woman from Michael’s label approached you at the refreshment table. You knew her vaguely, she’d always been friendly and talkative. And today, you noticed she was on her second glass of champagne, which meant she was sure to be extra chatty.

“It’s sooo good to see you. You look beautiful!” She said, kissing the air beside your cheek.

“Thank you, so do you.”

“We missed you sooo much in New York.” At first you just blinked. The sentence didn’t register initally. 

“Excuse me?” You smiled politely, trying to get clarification.

“The Mercer dinner. Michael was basically hiding in a corner all evening, you know how he gets at those things.”

A cold chill washed over your body. Michael wasn’t in New York. He was in Chicago.

At least that’s what he had told you. 

Still, you maintained your smile, even as your right eye began involuntarily twitching and your heart rate picked up. 

“And when was this?”

The woman gave you the date. It was the exact night Michael had called you from what he claimed was his hotel in Chicago.

He claimed rehearsals ran late. He sounded really distracted and then he ended the call early because he said he was tired and needed some sleep.

Your fingers tightened so hard around your wine glass you thought it might break. “Oh” was all you said, like the wind had been knocked out of you.

Instantly, the woman knew she spoke too much. You saw it in her face. “Well maybe I just have the dates wrong…”

You continued to smile politely, at this point it was frozen on your face despite the rage you felt internally. You felt like you were in the Twilight Zone. 

“You don’t.” you said simply. The activity in the ballroom continued around you. Silverware scraping, laughter and music. But at this point it all seemed far away, and you had tunnel vision.

“Who was he with?” you asked. The woman looked toward the crowd, desperate for an escape.

“That isn’t my business.” At this, your heart rate picked up even more.

“Who was he with?” You asked again calmly, this time your voice took on a covert threatening tone.

She lowered her voice as her eyes darted nervously around the room hoping no one was watching.

“Look, I didn’t see anything happen, okay? I’m sorry. I thought you knew. Please don’t say you heard anything from me! I really need this job, I can’t afford to lose it.” You stared at her unblinking now. That was not an answer. But it was confirmation.

She reached for your arm, but you stepped away before she could touch you. The room tilted and you placed your wine glass on the table before it slipped from your hand and shattered, exactly like you felt you were right in this moment. The truth entered your body slowly, then all at once. 

New York. 

The lie. 

How distant Michael had been. 

The endless gifts. 

Him crying in the bathroom. 

The way he kissed you like he was apologizing. 

You felt sick.

You left the luncheon without saying goodbye to anyone. Outside the afternoon sun was still hot and bright. Papparazzi called your name as you walked toward your car, but you barely heard them over the chaos inside your head. Your mind was racing. 

On the way home, you didn’t cry. Not yet. You sat completely still as if you were having an out of body experience as the city moved past. Your mind began recalling memories with cruel precision. Michael coming home and showering immediately before he’d let you touch him. He claimed it was grime from the plane and he wanted to be clean for you. 

Him pulling away when you touched him. Bringing you flowers with tears in his eyes. 

And then, him whispering, “I have to tell you something”.

Realization settled over you, slowly, coldly. The first tear fell before you reached home.

For weeks, you believed him when he said it was just work. You thought the distance meant you were failing him. You stared at yourself in mirrors wondering if he still thought you were pretty. Dressed more carefully. Tried to cook better, even asking his mother for tips. Swallowed your complaints and loneliness.

And all this time. He knew exactly what he had done. He watched you—allowed you— to chase him while he held the truth in silence. The humiliation of it all made your face so hot it burned to the touch.

When you entered your shared home with Michael, you walked straight upstairs without saying a word to any of the staff. In the bedroom everything was indifferent. His book rested on the nightstand, turned upside down on the last page he read before his eyes got too tired to continue. His sweater was strewn across a chair from him leaving in a rush that morning.

Then, your eyes landed on a picture of you both, taken during the first year of your marriage. Michael was smiling at you instead of the camera.

You picked it up and threw it across the room, feeling satisfaction as the frame struck the wall and shattered into pieces. You sat on the edge of your bed and cried until your chest ached.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Michael felt the change before you said anything. He came home that night expecting the familiar sounds of you moving through the house, playing your favorite music from the stereo. Maybe your voice on the phone talking to one of your girlfriends. 

Instead, everything was silent. He found you sitting at the dining room table with an untouched plate of food in front of you.

You had cried until there was nothing left before you cleaned up the glass from your outburst. Your eyes were swollen, and the sight made his heart lurch.

“Baby?” You looked up. You’d been so deep in your thoughts, wondering where you went wrong, that you hadn’t noticed his presence. “What happened?” He asked.

“Nothing” The word was eerily familiar in your home. Michael swallowed and moved closer, reaching for your shoulder. Sensing his touch impending you rose to your feet suddenly. “I’m tired, I’m going upstairs. Goodnight.”

He watched you leave, and panic began as a faint pressure under his ribs. After a long moment, he followed you and willed himself not to overreact. Maybe the luncheon was exhausting, or paparazzi had said something cruel. Maybe you just didn’t feel good.

When he found you, you were in the bathroom washing your face and completing your bedtime routine. 

“What happened today? Did somebody upset you?” Michael stared at you through the reflection, watching every single movement carefully like doom was soon to come.

Casually, you continued smoothing cleanser over your skin, watching it foam in the reflection. “I said I’m tired.”

Still Michael didn’t depart from the doorway.

“Are you feeling alright?”

“Yes.”

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

Michael shifted awkwardly on the balls of his feet like a child pestering their mother with a million and one questions. He knew he should probably leave you alone, and usually he would have given you your space. But the guilt of knowing what he had done, paired with your reaction, forced this awkward response. Your answers were too calm.

So Michael stepped closer. “Look at me”. You rinsed your face and reached for a hand towel. He caught your wrist gently. You froze under his touch, eyes lingering where his hand was.

For one hopeful second he thought you might turn into him. Let him hold you, or even ask the question he’d be dreading for six weeks.

But instead, you looked down at his hand and said simply, “Let go”. His fingers opened immediately. The words were not loud at all and that’s what struck him much harder than if you had yelled at him.

You walked past him. He remained next to the sink, gazing at the empty space where you’d stood.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

That night you slept on the far edge of the mattress with your back to Michael. He laid awake behind you, watching you since he’d gotten in bed. The distance between your bodies was short but it felt impenetrable.

He reached towards your waist once during the night. He stopped himself before he could reach you. 

“Baby?” You didn’t answer, but your breathing pattern told him you were awake. “Can I hold you?” More silence. Michael lowered his hand, and the simmering panic he felt tightened.

Over the next three days you became polite and that terrified Michael more than anger would have.

You had stopped waiting for his presence after long workdays. You didn’t accompany him when he watched television. And most painfully for him, when he kissed your cheek before leaving in the morning you stood still and allowed it— but you did not turn your face toward him.

You started calling him Michael.

Not Mike.

Not Mikey.

Not love.

Just Michael. Every withdrawal felt like punishment to him. And he tried everything. Everything except the truth. 

He brought you more flowers. You thanked him and left them wrapped on the table. He ordered you take out from your favorite restaurant, and you said you weren’t hungry. When he asked if you’d take a walk with him you declined, stating you had more work to finish. 

At night he craved your touch. He laid beside you aching to confess, but fear kept closing around his throat.

If you didn’t know, telling you might destroy the marriage. But… if you did know— then the marriage might already be over.

Michael existed in limbo between these two options and it petrified him. He wasn’t able to choose either option. He was too scared.

The fourth evening, he came home early. The house was unusually quiet again. He called your name from the foyer and received no answer. His heart started beating faster before he had even reached the stairs.

He told himself not to panic. You could’ve been in the bath or reading with the bedroom door closed. Maybe you fell asleep early after another long day of barely speaking to him. There were dozens of harmless explanations, but none of them quieted the dread that had been building inside him since you stopped reaching for him.

When he found you, you were in the master bedroom. You were standing with your back to him and your suitcase was open on the floor. For several seconds, Michael’s brain couldn’t register what he was seeing.

He saw the suitcase and the neat stacks of folded clothes—and the empty spaces and hangers starting to form on your side of the closet. But he refused to connect them. He stood there, frozen and helpless in the doorway with one hand wrapped around the strap of his bag. He watched you place items inside the luggage, like maybe the room might reorganize into something less scary if he blinked enough.

Then he forced a nervous smile. It was born out of habit, not natural emotion. 

“Baby?”

You placed another sweater in the suitcase, not answering him or looking at him. The small movement pulled his attention to what was already inside the suitcase. Your jewelry. A soft blue blanket your late grandmother gifted to you. The same one you carried from room to room whenever you were sick or sad.

Quickly, Michael realized these were not items someone packed for just a weekend. They were pieces of your life. A life you shared with him. His smile disappeared.

His hand loosened around the bag strap until it slipped from his fingers and landed softly against the carpet. The soft thud made you pause for just a moment even though you didn’t turn to him.

“What’re you doing?” He asked. His voice was quieter than he intended it to come out. There was already fear laced through it, although he pretended he didn’t understand. 

When you reached for another blouse, he took one step into the room, then another. His eyes moved frantically between your face and the suitcase.

"Where are you going?” You kept folding. The lack of an answer made the pressure in his chest deepen. He could feel his pulse beating hard and uneven under his skin. His mind raced through possibilities. Maybe you were just gonna stay with your mom for a few nights for some reason. Or you needed space? 

He thought if he stayed calm and chose the right words, he could keep the situation from becoming what it already was coming to.

“Baby, look at me.” 

You smoothed your hands over the blouse you had just folded. Michael moved around the bed until he was closer to you. When you still didn’t look at him, he reached out and took the next piece of clothing from your hands. Not roughly, but because he couldn’t bear to watch you continue.

You stared at the empty space between your fingers where the jacket had just been. 

“I found out.” You said.

The room started to close in around Michael, and suddenly he felt like his worst nightmare was coming to life. His hand went slack around the fabric, and the jacket slid from his fingers and fell to the floor. He didn’t ask you what you meant, and that was most damning.

The silence lasted for only a few seconds, but in that time his breathing had stopped. His lips parted and the terror he had spent weeks trying to escape had finally caught up with him.

“Who told you?” He whispered. A sad laugh escaped you.

“What do you mean who told me?”

Michael closed his eyes the minute he heard disbelief wound tightly through your question. He knew instantly he’d said the wrong thing. But panic had pushed him before he could stop it.

“That’s what you wanna know?” You asked. “You don’t wanna know how I feel? Or what I heard? You wanna know who said what so you know how much I know? Are you fucking kidding me, Michael?”

“No” he shook his head quickly and reached toward you before he could think otherwise. “No, that’s not what I meant.”

“So what did you mean?” You turned fully to face him now, arms crossed and lips pursed. His mouth opened, but fear crowded every answer he could think of out of him. He looked at you helplessly, eyes starting to fill with tears. The absence of an explanation only made your expression harden.

You nodded slowly as tears stung your eyes. 

“Exactly.”

Michael’s stomach dropped when your first tears fell. Tears that had always pulled him closer to you without thought. He stepped closer, his hands rising toward your arms because his body believed he still had the right to soothe whatever was hurting you.

“Please let me explain” he said softly, voice trembling. You moved away before he could touch you and the rejection stopped him in place. His hands remained suspended in the air between the two of you for a long moment before they fell awkwardly to his sides.

Something heavy settled in his chest, heavier than the guilt he had carried for weeks. This was the first time you were in pain and wouldn’t allow him to get near it.

He had spent years learning the shape of your hurt. When you needed words—when you just needed him to hold you and say nothing. Now, he had become the thing you needed protection from.

“Explain what?” You seethed, angrily wiping away tears that had slipped despite your best efforts to contain them. “Explain to me why you told me you were in Chicago and you were in New York? Or why some random bitch from your label knew where my husband was, and I didn’t?”

Michael flinched at your words and his throat tightened.

“It was only one night.” The words escaped him before he had a chance to think about how they sounded. Your entire face changed and instantly he felt dread.

“One night? Michael, I’m your wife.” You said in disbelief, voice choked with grief.

“Baby, I didn’t mean it like that” He said quickly, voice cracking through tears. “I swear, that’s not what I was trying to say.”

“How many nights would make it matter to you?”

“It matters to me. It matters so much, this has been killing me.” He pleaded.

“Why, because I found out?”

“No, god no” He shook his head frantically, words failing him completely.

“Then why didn’t you tell me Michael? Why did I have to find out from someone else?” Your eyes were locked on him now, unblinking with blatant disbelief.

“I was scared. I’m so sorry.” Michael didn’t know what to do except be honest now that the weight of his decisions had come crashing down on him. You scoffed in disbelief. 

“You were scared?”

“I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t want you to hate me.” Tears were spilling freely now as Michael’s hands dangled at his sides. He didn’t know what to do with them, and he was fighting the urge to reach for you after your previous reaction.

“But you knew how to lie to me, right?” 

He physically drew back, one hand moving toward his chest like your words hit something tender under his ribs. The truth of them hurt because there was nothing he could say to defend himself. 

He had arranged his flight, and divulged a false schedule, called you from one city and said it was another. Every lie required effort and thought.

The truth he claimed he couldn’t manage only required courage. 

You stepped toward him, angry now. 

“You knew how to call me from New York fucking City and tell me you were somewhere else. How to come home and kiss me like you hadn’t touched anyone else.” Now your voice choked, “How to climb in our bed like you didn’t break our vows, and let me touch you like nothing had happened.”

Michael’s face fell more with every sentence. He wanted to interrupt you so badly, tell you that none of those moments were false. Loving you had never been the lie, but unfortunately he understood how paradoxical and cruel that sounded now. You would find no comfort in knowing he had loved you while betraying you. If anything, it would just make what he did seem more senseless.

“Every single time I asked you what was on your mind you looked me in my face and told me you were tired. What the fuck, Michael?”

He flinched again as you swore at him, something you never did. “I know” He said, barely above a whisper.

“And I really thought it was me.”

Michael shook his head immediately, eyes widening. “No baby, it was never you. You’re perfect. Always been so perfect for me.” Your heart sank to your stomach.

“If I’m so perfect for you, why would you do this to me? To us?”

The words silenced him. Your face twisted with disgust as the anger finally gave away beneath the full weight of the humiliation you had felt for the last three days. “I kept trying to figure out what I needed to change. I stopped complaining when you weren’t here when I needed you. I made your favorite foods and waited until they got cold, hoping you’d come home early. I even bought new clothes because I thought maybe you didn’t want me anymore. Oh god, Michael” your hands came to your face as the grief overtook you, no longer able to retain it.

“Baby, I’m so sorry. Please don’t ever think—” His voice cracked heavily as he spoke through tears, stepping toward you before he could stop himself.

“It’s too late. I already did.” A sob tore through you involuntarily before the last word had fully left your mouth. Michael moved on instinct. The sight of you breaking apart in front of him erased every thought except the need to catch you. 

His hands closed gently around your arms as he tried to pull you toward his chest, desperate to offer you the same comfort he’d given you throughout every pain you had endured together— throughout his time loving you.

The same comfort he’d given you when you when your childhood dog passed away. The kind he’d given when you decided to walk away from a career you loved with your soul because it wasn’t right for you anymore. The same comfort he’d provided when you cried quietly at night, wishing he was there more.

You shoved him away, and he stumbled backward. He was completely stunned into silence. His hands remained raised for a moment, fingers still curved around the shape of you even though you weren’t there anymore.

The rejection drove the weight in his chest deeper, your tears had always been something he was allowed to soothe. He’d never needed permission to hold you before. Now the distress on your face only sharpened when he came near you. He lowered his hands slowly, afraid of agitating you further.

“Don’t touch me.” You cried. Michael’s lips parted, but no words followed. His gaze moved helplessly over your face as another tear slipped down his own. That was when the truth settled inside him with unbearable clarity. He was not the person who could make this hurt better. Because he was the reason it existed.

Silence swallowed the room and stretched until it became unbearable for Michael. You turned away first, not angry or dramatically. Just… quietly. You reached for the zipper on the suitcase, and he watched your fingers wrap around the metal tab.

Something inside him screamed. 

The zipper closed with one smooth, unforgiving sound, and to Michael it sounded like the end of every future he had ever imagined with you. Like someone closing one chapter of their life before they began another. The realization made the room spin for Michael.

No.

This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be.

Then, you reached down and grabbed the handle of your suitcase. His body moved before he had ever made the decision to. Two hurried steps carried him around the bed until he stood directly between you and the bedroom door.

His chest was rising and falling unevenly, his expression somewhere between terror and disbelief. The movement surprised even him. He was blinking rapidly like he was disoriented, like he didn’t consciously decide to block your path.

He just couldn’t bear the idea of watching you walk away. Not while there was still breath in his lungs.

When you looked up at him, your face was streaked with tears. His stomach twisted so violently he thought he might lose the contents of his stomach.

He had done that. Every single tear, every ounce of hurt written across your features. He put it there.

He hated himself with a depth he didn’t know was possible.

“Move” Your voice wasn’t angry anymore. Just exhausted. And that hurt Michael more than if you'd slapped him. His lips trembled and he shook his head.

“I…I can’t” the words came out barely above a whisper. “I can’t let you leave”

“You don’t get to stop me.”

“I know,” He whimpered helplessly. “I know I don’t.” His eyes fell to the floor in shame before lifting back to yours. There was no defensiveness in them. 

“I know I don’t deserve a conversation… or another a chance” He rubbed his hands over his face, dragging them down until they rested over his mouth for a moment. His shoulders shook under the effort of trying to compose himself. When he lowered them again, more tears fell. “I know I’m embarrassing myself. I know” A humorless laugh escaped him and his chin quivered. “I understand that you can’t even stand to look at me right now, and I wouldn’t either…” his voice trailed off sadly, unsure where he was going with this. “But… I don’t know what else to do.”

The admission seemed to cost him something. Michael had spent his whole life trying to solve problems. If a certain dance move didn’t look right, he’d rehearse till his feet were numb. Song wasn’t right? He’d rewrite it 50 times before it saw the light of day. There was always something to do, some way to fix things.

This was the first problem he had ever faced where his effort felt meaningless. There was no way for him to rehearse his way back into your trust, and he couldn’t outwork the betrayal.

“I can fix it.” The words spilled out before he could stop them. His mind was racing miles ahead of him, desperately searching for anything—anything that might convince you to stay.

“I… I won’t travel alone anymore.” He took another careful step toward you before stopping himself, worried of you recoiling from his touch again. 

“I’ll cancel trips if I have to, you come everywhere with me” His breathing remained uneven. “I’ll give you every itinerary before I leave. Every hotel, every phone number.” His words started tumbling over each other now. 

“I’ll tell you where I am before you even have to ask. I’ll…” he frowned in that same way he did when he was a little boy and an interviewer’s question perplexed him. He was frustrated that his own thoughts couldn’t keep up.

“I’ll fire people, I’ll stop going out. I’ll…” His voice broke under a sob. “I’ll do anything. I mean it. There isn’t anything I won’t change.” He searched your face desperately, looking for any tiny shift that would show him you were hearing him. His chest heaved as tears continued to fall. “I swear to God, I’ll spend the rest of my life making this up to you.” His lips were swollen now from how hard he was biting on them in between sentences, trying to stop himself from completely falling apart.

“I’ll do anything to earn your trust back. I don’t care how long it takes.” He shook his head frantically, voice dropping to a whisper so fragile it carried across the room.

“Just…” he couldn’t finish the sentence. This was killing him. His throat closed around the word so he tried again. “Please don’t leave me. I can fix it.”

Now your eyes filled with tears. 

“There isn’t anything to left to fix, Michael. I can’t do this anymore.” You said sadly. 

Your statement settled over him with a chilling finality. He simply stared at you, blinking. For a minute, it seemed like he didn’t understand what you had said.

“I have to go.” Your voice wasn’t angry anymore, just tired. Like somebody who had spent the last three days crying until there was nothing left.

Michael felt his chest seize painfully. His hand instinctively pressed against it, trying to soothe the ache. He had never understood why people described heartbreak as physical until now. 

And when he saw you reach for your suitcase handle again, his stomach dropped when he realized you were done listening. When you stepped toward the door, he moved instinctively, pressing his back further against it. His movements were frantic and clumsy now. His body had totally disconnected from the calm composure he usually carried. His curls fell into his face as tears spilled down his cheeks.

He looked at you the way a drowning person would a shoreline. “Please… please don’t do this to me. I love you.”

“I can’t, Michael. I don’t want this anymore. Not like this.” You said, shutting your eyes tightly.

The words hollowed him out, and he stared at you. Waiting for you to take them back. Or to say you were gonna stay at your mom’s for a few days. But the words never came.

Michael’s breathing quickened and his eyes darted around the room, his mind was betraying him. He could already see it. You carrying your things downstairs, opening the front door… the sound it would make when it closed behind you. You driving away. Never coming home.

His chest tightened so violently he had to press his palm harder against it to ground himself. He dropped to his knees when they buckled. He pressed his forehead against your stomach as his breathing refused to settle.

Every inhale came in sharp and frantic, not fully reaching his lungs. Each breath chased the last as if his body had forgotten how breathing was supposed to work.

His shoulders were trembling now, not from crying, but from panic. Pure, overwhelming panic. Your hand fell away from your suitcase as you dropped to your knees too.

“Michael” you said firmly. He didn’t answer, lost completely in fear and his own thoughts. His fingers curled weakly into the fabric of your shirt, holding on to you like you might disappear if he let go. “Michael” you repeated, more sternly this time. You cupped the side of his face, and his whole body leaned into your palm. For a second, it felt like every other time you’d ever comforted him. After bad dreams, migraines. Whenever the world became too much to bear. 

He was fully hyperventilating now. “Look at me” you said. Slowly, his eyes opened and they were shiny and terrified. 

“I can’t… I..” 

“Breathe Michael, you gotta breathe baby. You’re gonna pass out.”

“I don’t care” he said in between hiccups and breaths. “I can’t… you’re leaving” he gasped. 

“In through your nose, and out. Try for me, please” You deliberately kept your own breathing slow. His breath started to even, he tried but it kept catching in his throat. Then he looked toward the suitcase, and the panic doubled. His chest spasmed again and his hands slipped from your waist to the carpet beneath him.

“…You’re really leaving” he said, voice trembling as he tried to talk between breaths. It wasn’t a question. It was a devastated man finally acknowledging the reality he had tried so desperately to outrun.

When you closed your eyes in response, Michael knew. And it hurt more than if you had just said yes. Because now, you weren’t even trying to lie to him. 

“No” The word dissolved into a sob. “No” His breathing had become so erratic that his entire upper body jerked with each failed inhale. Michael had panic attacks in the past, but never this severe.

Instinctively, you moved closer and your hands found either side of his face. He leaned into you again, desperately. The way a freezing person reaches toward warmth.

“I need you to breathe.”

He swallowed another sob, “I don’t know how” The confession broke your heart. This was a man who commanded stadiums and rehearsed until sunrise. And here he was, sat on the floor looking up at you like a frightened little boy. Totally lost. “I don’t know what to do… how to make you stay.”

The room fell silent. There was still plenty to say, but there just simply weren’t any words left. He searched your face anyway, looking for mercy. Or hope. Instead there was nothing. Just tears that flowed from a place that felt empty now. 

“Oh god, baby. I’m so sorry” he covered his face, the shame, burning through him full force now. What had he done? “I’ll never forgive myself. I don’t expect you to either.”

His eyes drifted to the wedding ring on your left hand. It was still there—for now.

His lifted his gaze back to yours. “Are you gonna take it off?” You were silent. He watched your face carefully for any sort of an answer. But all he got was fresh tears, and trembling lips. He understood without you needing to answer. 

His own wedding band felt heavy now. He looked down at it, turning it slowly. The little gold band that symbolized forever with you. He had broken that promise. “I ruined everything” he said softly. Not dramatically or looking for reassurance. Just a fact.

For a long time neither of you moved. The room felt suspended in time. Michael remained on his knees at your feet, shoulders rising unevenly beneath shaky breaths. His hands had slipped from your hips sometime during the silence. Now they just rested against his thighs, palms open and empty. He didn’t reach for you again. He wanted to. But he finally understood that wanting wasn’t good enough anymore.

You looked down at him one last time. He had exhausted himself. Not physically, spiritually.

He watched quietly as you gathered your purse from a nearby chair. His eyes followed the movement automatically. His lips parted, but he was out of pleas, promises, and apologies.

He couldn’t ask anymore. He had already offered you every version of himself he knew how to give. And there was nothing left. You had rejected all of them.

You walked across the bedroom floor, and the sound of your footsteps seemed unnaturally loud in the moment. This time, he didn’t try to stop you.

His body wanted to. Every instinct he had was screaming at him to stand up. Run after you. Throw himself in front of any door he had to.

But he stayed where he was. He knew you deserved the freedom he’d stolen from you weeks ago. 

When your hand settled around the door knob, you hesitated. “I loved you with everything I had to give, Mike. I really did.”

Michael shut his eyes, the sentence felt like a knife. Not love. Loved. As in past tense. His breathing faltered again. When he opened his eyes, you were already stepping into the hallway. He listened as your footsteps grew fainter. As the front door opened and shut. And then nothing.

It was the kind of silence that settles over a home after someone who once filled it with love is no longer there. Michael stayed where he was. His eyes never left the bedroom doorway, as if maybe you’d come back if he stared long enough. His hand drifted to the center of his chest slowly, right over his heart. The ache that had settled there was dull and heavy. He pressed harder, but it didn’t help.

Hours passed. Afternoon melted into evening. Evening into night. The house darkened around Michael. Someone called the home phone, and it rang until the answering machine picked up. A car pulled into the driveway, then left. The world continued on outside with no reverence for how Michael’s heart had been broken.

Every room suddenly held the shape of someone who wasn't there anymore. The mug you'd used that morning still sat in the kitchen sink. Your favorite throw still rested over the arm of the living room sofa. One of your hair ties lay on his nightstand. Little pieces of you remained everywhere.

Everything except, you. Michael blinked slowly, the reality still refused to settle completely. It felt impossible that a marriage could end in a single afternoon. That a person could wake up having a wife, and go to bed alone.

His thumb rubbed absently over his wedding band. "I did this." He spoke the words into the empty room. He lowered his head, shoulders sagging beneath a grief too large to carry.

And for the first time in his life, there wasn't a stage big enough, a rehearsal long enough, or a song beautiful enough to fix what he had broken.

He simply sat there in the dark room, one hand pressed over his heart, staring at the doorway long after the sun had disappeared, trapped inside the quiet realization that some mistakes don't end when the confession is over.

And this one would follow him into every tomorrow he had left.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

please respect my work 💌

Everything posted here is written

The producer chuckled. "Oh, right. Michael, this is—" You introduced yourself before he could. Michael repeated your name quietly to himself, almost like he was making sure he'd remember it. "It's nice t'meet you," he smiled. He reached out to shake your hand.

You took it, his hand completely swallowed yours. Instead of giving one quick shake like a normal person, he held onto it for another second... then another... his thumb absentmindedly brushing across your knuckles before his hand slowly slid away.

"...Nice to meet you too, I uhm know who you are." you answered, trying not to overthink it. Michael grinned. "Oh," the producer added casually. "She's my girlfriend. I invited her to see the set." Michael blinked. "...Your girlfriend?"

"Yeah." There was the smallest pause. "...Oh." His smile never disappeared. "Well," he nodded politely. "Hope you're enjoyin' everything." Then he walked away, the producer didn't think twice about it.

He quietly repeated your name under his breath again. Girlfriend. Producer's girlfriend. That was... unfortunate, for the producer not him. About an hour later everyone broke for a short rest.

The producer had wandered off to discuss something with another crew member, leaving you standing by yourself near one of the massive lights. "...Hey." You turned around.

Michael, again. "So..." he smiled, rocking back on his heels. "Whaddya think so far? Like the music video?" "I do," you nodded. "It's really cool seeing how much work goes into all this."

He beamed. "I know, most people don't realize. It’s really a lot." That somehow turned into a twenty-minute conversation. One question became five. "What kinda movies do you like?"

"Oh, horror mostly." His eyes lit up. "No way." "What?" "I love horror movies." "You do?" He nodded excitedly. "'Specially the old ones, I uhm — that’s how Thriller got made." You hummed.  The conversation kept going. It was surprisingly easy talking to him.

He was funny, awkward too. A little dorky, honestly. Then he made his move. "I actually..." He rubbed down his thigh, trying to sound casual. "I got a movie theater at my house." "Oh?" "Yeah."

He looked around before turning towards you more. "...You should come watch one sometime." You smiled politely. "That sounds fun." Before either of you could say anything else. 

"Michael?" Your boyfriend walked back over. Perfect timing. Michael looked between the two of you. Then, without even the slightest bit of shame...

"Hey," he smiled at the producer. "I was wonderin' if I could borrow your girlfriend for a movie date." Silence. You stared your lips pressing into a flat line. Your boyfriend stared at you then at him a bit confused.

Michael stared right back like he'd said the most normal sentence in the world. "...A movie date?" your boyfriend repeated slowly. Michael let out the tiniest giggle. "Oh!" He waved his hands in the air. "No, no. I meant... like... invite her over t'watch movies."

Another pause. "...Not a date." He absolutely meant date. He hadn't stumbled over his words the first time. He'd said exactly what he wanted to say. Your boyfriend narrowed his eyes for a second before sighing.

"...I mean..." He looked at you. "You wanna go?" You shrugged, it’d be rude to say no. "Yeah." Michael smiled far wider than he probably should've. "Great." The rest of the afternoon somehow got even worse or better. Depending on who you asked.

Every chance Michael got, he wandered over to wherever you were standing. "Hows my makeup?" he'd ask after makeup artists had spent fifteen minutes fixing it. "It looks nice." "Really?"

"Yeah, it really does." Five minutes later:

"Did that dance move look okay?" "Well it looked difficult."

"It is! But I really wanna do somethin’ different" He laughed at almost everything you said and you knew damn well you weren’t that funny.  If he needed to guide you through a crowded part of the set, his hand somehow always found the small of your back.

If your hands brushed while someone passed equipment between you, he'd linger for just a second too long before pulling away. Whenever your boyfriend got called off to deal with something… Michael magically appeared.

Almost like he'd been waiting. The thing you noticed most, though...was the way he looked at you.

Those ridiculously big doe eyes never seemed to leave your face whenever you were talking. Most of the time they were soft and curious, but every now and then, usually after saying something that was just a little too flirty, they'd darken ever so slightly before he'd smile to himself.

By the end of filming, the crew had started noticing. Your boyfriend… was trying very hard not to notice. By the end of the recording, Michael had completely stopped pretending he was just being friendly.

The poor crew had watched him drift toward you every chance he got, whether it was between takes, while makeup artists fixed his hair, or when everyone broke for lunch. If he disappeared, someone usually joked, "Check wherever she is," because without fail that's exactly where he'd be.

Your boyfriend had started noticing too. He tried not to think much of it. Michael was naturally affectionate, everyone knew that. He hugged people, complimented people, asked a million questions. That was just... Michael.

At least that's what he kept telling himself. As everyone began wrapping up for the day, Michael wandered over once again, hands tucked into the pockets of his military jacket.

"So..." he smiled, looking directly at you. "Can I have your phone number?" You stared at him for a second. "My phone number?" "Mhm." He nodded. "I wanna call you." Your boyfriend looked up so fast he nearly dropped the clipboard he'd been holding.

"...Excuse me?" Michael glanced over at him with that same innocent smile. "I said I wanna call her." "I heard what you said." "Oh." Michael looked back at you. "We didn't get t'finish talking today." You laughed awkwardly, unsure whether he was joking anymore.

"I don't know..." "C'mon," he said, pouting just enough to be dramatic. "I still wanna hear about those horror movies you like." "Michael." "I'm bein’ serious." 

Your boyfriend finally stepped closer, folding his arms. "...You're asking my girlfriend for her phone number while I'm standing right here."

"Mhm." He nodded once.  There wasn't an ounce of embarrassment on Michael's face. In fact, he looked genuinely confused as to why that mattered. 

"I'll probably be on the phone awhile too," he continued, reaching out for a pen, his staff handed it to him and he held it out to you. "So I'll pay your phone bill."

You blinked. "...You'll what?" "I don't want you gettin' charged because I'm usin' the phone." He said it so sincerely that for a second nobody spoke. Your boyfriend slowly turned to look at you, a brow raised.

" He just offer to pay your phone bill?" Michael nodded matter-of-factly. "It's only fair, I have a habit of talkin’ a lot." Against all common sense, you reached for the pen because you weren’t going to say no! He was so kind today.

Your boyfriend watched in complete disbelief as you scribbled your home landline onto a scrap of paper before handing it back to Michael.

He looked down at it with the biggest smile you'd seen all day, carefully folding it before slipping it into his pocket like it was something priceless.

"I'll call soon." "Not too late," you teased. "I'll try." He looked at your boyfriend then, smiling just as politely as he had when he'd first introduced himself that morning. "Dont think I eva’ told you thanks." "...For what?" "For lettin' me borrow your girlfriend all day." Your boyfriend's eye twitched. "You weren't borrowing her."

Michael let out a quiet little giggle looking your boyfriend up and down before turning on his heels. With one last wave, he walked off toward his trailer, humming lyrics to himself like he'd just won something.

michael x mean!younger!black!reader

tw|| age gap, babies, michael’s disguise skills, toddler babble, reader majors in psychology, mike lowkey plotting, he already has the vows and baby names in his head, we get to see a sillier side of reader, reader is mostly nice in this one actually, ….mostly, she checks her upstairs neighbor

hehehe to you i’d get this out before i left! now! everyone say thank you again to @multifandomposts-blog for the mood board!!!! it’s so cute!! also I think mean!reader is taking over my mind cuz i can only think of ideas for her rn lol so ig im focusing on this for awhile🤷🏾‍♀️and ive never really mentioned ages before but she’s 25 and this is like right after lisa so mike’s 37

comes after this but before this and this

The TV was muted while RnB softly played from the cd player that sat on the table next to your couch. You were sprawled out on the floor with text books, note books, and even a thick stack of note cards surrounding you. A Pack n Play taking up a corner of your living room where your neighbors’ twins, a sweet but chaotic boy and girl, were napping after tiring themselves out from playing earlier. Who were you to skip a chance to study? You had a huge test coming up and you weren’t taking any chances!

You mumbled what you read to the tune of the song as you wrote on cards. Switching to a different colored pen depending on the section or text book you read from.

Knock!

Knock-Knock!

Knock…Knock!

Knock!

Knock!

Rapping on your door knocked you out of your focus. Maybe if your brain wasn’t so frazzled from jumping between quantitative models and philosophical foundations you would’ve paid more attention to the familiar rhythmic pattern of the knocking.

You got up with a small groan as your joints popped in such a satisfying way. But you let out a tiny curse as movement from the corner of your eye and the sound of tiny yawns and whines let you know your favorite nosey duo was up and curious about the knocking the door. Padding over in mismatched fuzzy socks you quietly peeked through the peep hole and saw an interesting looking pizza man….you didn’t order a pizza.

You opened the door with a small knowing smile, “Michael?”

Your favorite pair of doe eyes lit up, “How’d you know it was me?” Genuine awe in the fact that his disguise failed.

You laughed as you pulled him inside, “I didn’t order a pizza for one and I know your eyes. Nobody else in the world has them.” You shrugged walking towards the living room with him hot on your heels, “I will admit the fake eyebrows and mustache threw me off a bit.” You glanced at him giving him props.

He smiled but held the box up before sitting it on the coffee table, “It’s half cheese, half pepperoni.” His eyes finding your pile of books and notecards. Before he spoke on that something else caught his attention.

“Chee!”

He turned to see two little Afros with eyes peering at him from a play pen. One wearing pink overalls while the other wore blue. They had bright smiles and giddy shines in their eyes. Little feet stomping excitedly as they saw him looking them. “Chee!” The one in blue repeated. He felt his heart squeeze from the adorable little duo.

You sighed but smiled, “You said the magic word. Chance loves cheese.” You walked over pulling him out and setting him down. Doing the same to his sister before their excitement turned into frustration that turned into a tantrum. “Chasity, Chance, say hello!”

Michael looked at them with a bright smile. Even crouching to be on their level as they toddled over. Chasity waving with one hand and tugging the strap of her overalls smiled back, “Hi! Hi baby!” Her tone full of excitement as her brother busied himself with hugging Michael and practically climbing him. His small murmurs of “hi baby” coming out.

Michael looked at you, “They’re so adorable and sweet!” You nodded with a soft smile. “Are they yours?”

You choked on a combination of air and spit. Your three guest looking at you confused and concerned. You turned away as you coughed, holding up one finger as you fought for your life.

When you caught your breath you turned back shaking your head, “N-no! They’re my neighbors! They work at the same place and their boss sucks so they’re on the same shift.” You quickly clear up, “Don’t get me wrong, I love kids but I don’t think I could handle pregnancy. I’m already moody, I don’t wanna be even more moody with a belly so big I can’t see my feet. I’d make everyone miserable.” You giggled as you settled back onto the floor in your study space. Not noticing Michael’s eyes run over you as you arranged things so the two curious babies wouldn’t notice your colorful pens and highlighters hopefully. A smile slowly forming as his mind drifted off into a little fantasy.

“Hmm…”

A thick book as now in your lap and he was being used as a jungle gym. You glanced over at him, “‘Hmm’ what?”

He snapped out of his daydream as if he were caught, “I just wouldn’t describe you as moody per se.” He made an excuse holding Chance steady as he moved from his crouched position to sit on the floor as well. Little Chasity instantly climbing into his lap while her brother clung to his shoulder and stood on his thigh babbling away.

You gave him a face, “I basically have an attitude all the time.” You easily admit.

“I find your assertiveness cute!” He defends you with the most optimistic take he could think of. Before you could open your mouth to argue he reached over and grabbed your textbook, “What are you studying?” His brows furrowed slightly as he looked down at the book.

You whined dramatically throwing your head back, “Everything at once!” You complained about your studying method as if someone forced you to do it this way. “I shouldn’t have taken three gap years. I’d be over this stuff by now.” You pouted and crossed your arms, resembling the children you were put in charge of watching.

His head was titled as he read, “Why don’t I help you study?” He asked earnestly. Eyes still trailing along the page like he was actually interested.

You beamed and your eyes shined. You would’ve thought the heavens split and angels hand delivered you a gift with the way you look at him, “Really?! You would? Please don’t be joking cuz I think I was one paragraph away from knocking everything over.”

He shook his head at your dramatics, “I’m not I’ll help!” He laughed which made Chasity laugh then Chance. He laughed again at them but passed the book back to you, “First let’s get rid of this studying more than one thing at a time method.”

“Why? It’s faster this way and I’ve got a lot to cover….”

“Mama, sweet girl, prettiest baby, I mean this in the nicest way possible….this method is stupid.”

“Oh damn.”

The twins laughed making you side eye them, “What’s so funny?”

ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶

You wouldn’t admit it but after listening and focusing on one thing instead of trying to cram everything in at once, you didn’t feel as scramble brained as before.

But as you moved to grab your other text book Michael spoke, “Break time!”

You blinked, “We still have another book and like five chapters for me to take notes on and study.”

Chance babbled loudly, taking a break from nibbling on the piece of cheese pizza Michael held. Michael nodded along as if he agreed, “You heard him, you were already studying before I got here. You earned a break.”

You sucked your teeth, “He did not say that.”

Michael’s eye got wide, “Trust me. I’m fluent in toddler and he said you need a break.”

You looked to Chasity baffled, “Can you believe this?” You asked her as she kneaded on a pepperoni.

She paused and looked up at you with big brown eyes. You were then promptly chewed out and had a soggy pepperoni pointed at you.

“What happened to sisterhood?!” You exclaimed throwing your hands up. With a sigh you admitted defeat and set your books, cards, and pens to the side before grabbing your own slice of pizza. “Betrayal taste so good.” You cried.

ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶

After finishing your slice and talking awhile you notice the time and began gathering the twins things so they would be ready for their parents.

Used to the routine the twins bottoms lips began to wobble as they saw you putting things away in their bag. You sighed knowing where this was going and made your way over. Taking Chance while Michael held Chasity. A look or worry on his face.

“They saw me getting their bag ready so they know it’s time to go home soon.” You explained as Chasity started off the crying fest. Her head on Michael’s shoulder as she wailed, her brother following after her covering your neck in tears and drool. But there wasn’t anytime to cringe as you rubbed his back and cooed to him, “Oh I know…you don’t want to leave. But mommy and daddy are coming.” You spoke softly.

Michael followed suit with Chasity who clung to him like a koala. He jumped as a loud thudding was heard from above. Neither you nor the twins seemed all that phased beside the look of irritation on your face.

The thudding and thumping continued as the two of you managed to calm the toddlers into soft hiccups and sniffles. A particularly loud one actually caught you off guard, “This bitch…” you mumbled softly under your breath glaring at your ceiling. “Cover her ears.” You said to Michael while still staring at the ceiling. You did the same to Chance and once both twins ears were protected you went off.

“Shut up! You live in a family friendly apartment bitch! There’s literally a fucking playground out front and it’s light outside! You don’t wanna hear kids?! Get your fucking money up, move to a neighborhood with a damn HOA full of old people, and be miserable there dumbass!”

You shouted to your heart’s content. The twins none the wiser as they were busy trying to figure out why their ears were covered.

The thudding stopped.

You turned to Michael, “You find that assertiveness cute?” one brow raised.

“I found it something that can’t be discussed in front of children.”

𑣲₍ ᐢ. .ᐢ₎

Studio 54 breathed and pulsed like a living thing. The line wrapped around the block under flickering streetlights. It was made up of a sea of silk, sequins, and watchful eyes. 

Inside, the energy was absolutely electric. Perfume and cologne layered on top of cigarette smoke— and something darker and earthier clung to the curtains.

The bass from the speakers thumped so hard to the beat of Donna Summer’s “I Feel Love” that it moved through the floor right into your chest. Everywhere you turned, colored lights spun and fractured across the dance floor in waves of gold, pink, and violet. People were flush to each other, grinding and dancing to the beat.

Michael had never been here before. He’d never stepped foot into a club before tonight. Stories about these environments always made him nervous. Too wild. Too exposed. Too easy for one little mistake to become a headline in tomorrow’s paper. But ever since the release of his Off the Wall album, it grew harder and harder to decline invites to go out without seeming rude. Tonight, you had agreed to accompany him, so he finally said yes.

You led Michael through the crowd, your hand pressed to the small of your back and laced with his as you guided him. His shirt was unbuttoned to right above his belly button and the chain around his neck glimmered under the flashing lights. His afro was perfectly picked, not a hair out of place.

In the middle of the chaos, Michael looked out of place. Like he belonged to a quieter, more private world. You giggled to yourself when you looked back at him and his eyes were wide behind his tinted sunglasses. He was taking everything in— go-go dancers on raised platforms, famous faces tucked into every corner, and the way the music seemed to be hypnotizing the crowd.

Jackie was already there with a small group near the DJ booth. He waved you both over with a big grin. He pulled Michael in for a hug, dapping him up and patting him on the back. Then, he turned to you, his hand found the small of your back as he placed a greeting kiss on your cheek.

“Atta girl, finally got my boy to come out!” Tito massaged Michael’s shoulders gruffly, hyping him up. Michael smiled shyly and chuckled at his brothers’ antics. No matter how old he got, he was still their baby brother.

It didn’t take long for party favors to come out. A tall woman in a silver dress appeared at your side with a slim, elegantly rolled joint. She smiled at you like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“First time?” she inquired, blowing the smoke in the opposite direction of you. When you nodded, she held it out. “Just a little puff. It’ll make everything feel groovy. One spliff a day keeps the evil away.” Michael glanced at you and you raised your eyebrows, shrugging at him. He nudged you with his elbow and tilted his head, his eyebrows raised too now. A whole silent conversation was had.

“First time for everything, right?” Who were you to be a party pooper? You accepted the joint from the woman and raised it to your lips. Michael raised his eyebrows in surprise, but he didn’t tell you no. He was too distracted by how your lip gloss slicked lips shone under the disco lights as you took a slow pull from the joint, your long lashes falling against your cheekbones as you watched the end of the joint ignite a deep orange. Two puffs. Then you handed it to Michael. The woman grinned, waiting patiently as she watched the tender moment between the young couple.

Michael glanced over his shoulder toward his brothers. They were still talking, laughing loudly over the music. Not paying attention to him at all. “Well… alright I guess. Just this once.” He bit down on his bottom lip and accepted the joint from you. Slowly, he imitated what he’d just seen you do. Except he coughed. Hard. He spluttered through coughs a quiet “thank you”, attempting to give a polite smile as he returned the joint to its owner. 

At first nothing. But within minutes, the change was obvious. His shoulders relaxed. The careful tension he held in his jaw melted. And his eyelids were heavy and doe eyed behind his glasses. A slow dreamy smile curved his lips. He turned to you, and suddenly everything was amplified and in slow motion. 

“Baby…” His voice was lower and raspier now, almost dazed. “Everything feels different. The music is inside me. I can feel it on my skin.” He reached out and ran his fingertips down your bare arms, the touch sending visible chills over your body. “Your skin is so warm. And soft.”

A smirk pulled at your lips as you scanned him, trying to assess the damage. “Mikey baby, how are you feeling right now?”

“Sooo good. He answered immediately, voice dreamy. “I feel sexy. My body feels like warm honey and everything is glowing. The lights are crazy” He looked around at the club with fresh eyes. At this, you laughed out loud, arms wrapping around his waist.

“You are sexy, Mike. Took a lil’ weed for you to see it?” he smiled and shook his head, swaying you back and forth with the music that was now pulsing through his body. 

“The music sounds heavier. I feel the bass in my chest. And you…” He pulled you flush to him. “You look like finest thing my two eyes ever seen.” His gaze kept dropping to your pouty lips as you spoke to him.

Jackie appeared at your side a moment later, eyes flicking between you and Michael with a knowing look. He smirked as he took in his brother’s lovestruck expression. Then Jackie leaned in so only you could hear. “You need to take him back to the hotel. He is on another planet right now. And he’s lookin’ at you like he’s gonna devour you if you keep touchin’ on him.”

Michael was swaying to the beat of the music, fingers snapping as he found his groove. One hand rested at your waist, and his eyes were heavy-lidded and blissed out. Every few seconds his lips would brush your ear as he’d murmur something soft and affectionate to you. “Your hair smells like coconut” or “Your dress feels like clouds against my hands”. The man was on cloud 9.

“Michael baby,” you turned to face him pulling him closer so he could hear you over the music. “We should go, it’s getting late and—”

“Noooo” he whined immediately, drawing the word out in a soft bratty complaint that was so unlike his usual careful politeness. He pouted his full lips, the bottom one jutting out. He wrapped his arms around your waist from behind and rested his chin on your shoulder. “Don’t wanna leave yet. It feels sooo good here. Like the music’s huggin’ me. Don’t make me go”

His arms tightened around you and his cheek pressed against yours. “Everything feels so soft,” His voice was dreamy and a little slurred. “My body feels like its vibrating and the lights are painting over me. And you smell so good. Please? Just a little longer, mamas?”

Jackie gave you a look that said good luck. He leaned in again, “Girl, you better get him out of here before he starts huggin’ strangers. I’ll cover for you.” You bit back a laugh and nodded in agreeance.

Gently, you turned in Michael’s arms. His doe eyes were glassy, but they locked on you with helpless affection that you felt take away your wind a little.

You placed your hands on his chest, grounding him. “Michael, we’re gonna go back to the hotel. You’re very high, papa.” 

He made a small whiny sound and leaned into your palms like he couldn’t help it. “But I like it. Feeling like this. Feeling you.” His hand drifted to your ass, squeezing gently. “Everything is so much… but in a good way. The music feels like it’s in my bones. Don’t take me away”

A smile broke through. You loved when he was so clingy, openly needy for your affection in a way he rarely allowed himself to do freely. His arms stayed wrapped around you as you guided him toward the exit, threading through the large crowd. He was still leaning in and whispering something new and sweet against your ear every few seconds. 

Outside, the cool night air hit your heated skin. Michael immediately tucked himself against your side as the car pulled up. “The air feels like silk, baby”. One arm slid around your waist like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

“Boy get your ass in the car” You shook your head, playfully rolling your eyes at his inebriated state. You yelped in surprise when his palm cracked down on your ass with a sharp smack as you got into the car. “Michael Joe Jackson!” You exclaimed. A cocky smirk made its way across his lips before he licked them, climbing in the car behind you.

In the backseat he pulled you close. His head rested on your shoulder and he traced slow, absentminded patterns on your exposed thigh.

He whispered to you, almost to himself. “My body is singing. I didn’t know it would feel like this. I’m so happy you’re here with me,” His eyes found yours. “I wouldn’t want to feel this with anyone else” He leaned in, lips pressing a lingering, soft kiss to yours.

The entire ride back to the hotel he stayed velcroed to you. Kissing the side of your neck, your bare shoulder, the corner of your lips in soft lingering presses. His hands kept roaming in gentle touches, like he needed to make sure you were real. 

“You’re sooo pretty” He murmured against your skin between kisses. “even more pretty when I feel like this. Your lips look so soft.” At this, he pressed his lips against yours again. “Just wanna keep kissin’ you. You smell like vanilla, somethin’ sweet. I love how you feel against me...I love you.” The man basically had huge cartoon hearts in his eyes.

By the time you reached the suite, your high had shifted to something heavier and dreamier. But he was still floating. You changed into pjs, one of Mike's shirts and just your panties. You laughed to yourself when you came back in the room and Michael was still dancing, humming to himself. You steered him toward the bedroom. 

“C’mon baby. Let’s get you out these clothes and into bed. You needa sleep this off”

He stopped in the middle of the living room, turning to look at you with big eyes. Lower lips pushed out in a soft pout.

“I’m not ready for bed. I wanna spend more time with you, come talk to me.” He unbuttoned what remained of his shirt, removed his pants, and sat on the side of the bed. Immediately he reached for you to stand between his knees so he could rest his forehead against your stomach. Loosely, his arms wrapped around your hips.

For a while, you just stood there stroking his curls and letting him breathe you in. His high had shifted into something more talkative and affectionate. How soft his t-shirt that you were wearing felt against his skin. How the music from the club was still echoing in his chest. How you smelled like home.

Then his voice went soft. More thoughtful.

“I’ve been thinkin’ about somethin’” He said after a long comfortable silence. His fingers were tracing lazy patterns on your back now as the two of you laid in bed. “About… bein' close to someone.” 

You looked up at him with confusion tracing your features. “Close? We’re about as close as two people can be without being conjoined at the hip.” you joked. He laughed and shook his head.

“No baby. Like really close I mean.” His eyes were still heavy lidded. “I’ve never really done a lot. Like that.” Instantly you knew what he was trying to say. He paused and his thumb brushed over your hip. “But with you, it feels different. Safe. I wanna learn how to make you feel good… what you like.”

You ran your fingers over his chest, touched by how open he was being with you. “That’s sweet, Mike” Then he went quiet. The way he always did when something was on his mind but he wasn’t sure how to say it. 

When he finally spoke, his tone was shy but determined. “Have you ever… had someone make you feel good with their mouth?” he asked carefully. “Like… really good? The kind that makes your whole body shake?”

The question caught you off guard. But the way he asked it, so gentle and genuine, made it easy for you to answer.

“No,” You admitted quietly, “I’ve never had an orgasm like that before. It's just… never happened for me. I just always thought maybe it wasn’t my cup of tea.”

Michael went still. Totally still. His eyes searched yours for a long moment. “Never? Not once?” You shook your head, slightly embarrassed. He was quiet again. Processing. Then he brought your hand up to his lips for a soft kiss.

“Let me try” He said simply. His voice was still low and raspy, hazy from the high. But there was something steady underneath it. “Please? I want to. Wanna learn what makes you feel good. Let me give that to you? I wanna make you feel what I’m feeling.”

Your heart skipped a beat, picking up in pace. “Mike you’re still high. You don’t have to prove anything to me tonight.”

“Girl, I know I’m high.” He said with a small, dreamy smile, fingers still tracing shapes on your hip. “But I still want to. I want you. More than anything. Let me taste you, please?” His eyes were big and pleading. The gentle pressure of his hand in yours felt heavier now. He didn’t look away. You nodded.

The smile that touched Michael’s lips was slow and sweet. He leaned down and kissed you, slow and deep. Your high made every touch feel amplified. His mouth moved over yours like he had all the time in the world. His tongue stroked yours gently, tasting you with soft little sounds of pleasure. When he pulled away, his eyes were darker and more focused. Like you’d ignited something in him.

He gently pushed your t shirt up till it bunched under your arms. He cooed at the sight of your nipples hardening against the cool air in the room. “You’re so beautiful” he whispered. “Even more now that I feel like this. Your skin is glowing.” He kissed his way down your body with an aching slowness. Soft kisses to your collarbone. The swell of your breasts. Your breath hitched when his tongue flicked gently against your nipple, slowly sucking it between his lips. He let it go with a wet pop before giving the same treatment to your other nipple. Soft moans fell from your lips as his lips explored you. When he pulled away, he blew a trail of cold air against each bud, eyes darkening with lust when they swelled, becoming hard again.

Then he kissed his way between your breasts and paused. He pressed a gentle, lingering kiss right over your heart. The sweetness of it made your tummy flip. His lips trailed down the soft center of your stomach, and he settled between your thighs.

He started slow. Agonizingly slow and exploratory.

He palms slid under your thighs, lifting them slightly so he could hold them in his hands. His thumbs stroked slow, soothing circles over your sensitive skin. He kissed the inside of one thigh, then the other with unhurried motions. He breathed you in like he was savoring the scent of you. To Michael, every touch felt magnified. The warmth of your skin, the way your muscles twitched under his lips. The soft sound of your breathing changing.

He started with slow, hot and wet, open mouthed kisses along your folds. He tasted you carefully, learning the shape of you with his tongue. He was gentle at first, tentative. Until— he felt your whole body jolt at the first careful lick over your clit.

A low pleased sound rumbled in his chest. So he did it again, slower this time. He flattened his tongue and dragged it over the sensitive bundle of nerves with deliberate pleasure. Your hips jerked and a soft whimper escaped you. Michael’s eyes flicked up to your face and stayed there— dark, heavy lidded with lust, and completely focused on you even through his daze.

Your first orgasm built gradually in slow, rolling waves until you arched your back with a high pitched, cracked moan that spilled from your lips. Michael stayed with you through it, licking you gently through every pulse with gentle strokes until your thighs trembled around his head.

Only after you came down a little did he pull back slightly. He looked up at you and mumbled, “So pretty like this, mama”. Then you nearly short-circuited as he held your eye contact and let a slow, glistening string of spit drip from his lips directly onto your entrance. The wet heat made you gasp, Michael watched your reaction carefully as the saliva dripped between your folds and mixed with your arousal. Then, he slowly dragged his tongue upward in one stroke from your entrance to your clit. He moaned into you like he was tasting something he’d been starving for.

Then, he got lost in it. 

He sealed his mouth over you completely, and his tongue pushed inside your entrance, slow, deep and fucking into you gently with wet strokes before he dragged it to the underside of your clit, circling the sensitive bundle of nerves. He sucked gently, then harder. He flattened his tongue again and licked broad, messy stripes from your entrance to your clit like he was making out with your pussy. His saliva mixed with your arousal and dripped down to the sheets as he worked you with his mouth.

His eyes stayed on your face the entire time. Greedily taking in every ounce of pleasure, every time your lips parted or your eyes rolled back. You whined in overwhelmed pleasure, reaching down to push at his broad shoulders. Michael didn’t budge. He reached up and laced his fingers through yours, gently, but firmly pressing your hands into the mattress on either side of your thighs. His thumbs stroked slow, soothing patterns over the backs of your hands while his fingers curled through yours. 

He moaned into you again, deeper this time. He kept going, tongue relentless and tongue moving against you like he was trying to devour every sound and every drop you gave him.

“You taste so sweet,” He murmured against your pussy between long wet licks. “So warm and soft on my tongue. I love how you shake when I wrap my lips around your clit. You’re so beautiful, baby...I love you.”

The second orgasm hit harder at the feeling of his tongue against you and the tenderness in his words. Your back arched sharply and a broken cry tore from you as your thighs shook around his head. Michael still didn’t pull away. He kept licking you through it, slower now but still present. He drew out your orgasm in long rhythmic waves while he held your hands down, thumbs still stroking your hands.

By the time you felt your third orgasm washing over you, you were completely overstimulated. Tears burned your eyes as your body twitched with every pass of his tongue. Soft whimpers fell from your lips as you squirmed, but he didn’t let you go. 

“Michael—t-too much. Please”

He laced your fingers tighter with his and moaned into you again. The vibration sent a shock of pleasure through your already sensitive body. Still, he didn’t stop. He kept going slower, deeper, completely lost in the taste and feel and sound of you falling apart for him over and over. His eyes stayed on your face as much as possible, dark and glassy and full of adoration. 

Only when your body finally went limp beneath him, completely spent and trembling, did he finally pull away. He pressed one last, soft kiss to your oversensitive clit, then he rested his cheek against your inner thigh, breathing hard. He looked up at you after a moment, and was lovestruck.

Your chest was still heaving and your hands trembled slightly at your sides, head lolled to the side. Michael teasingly gently blew a trail of cool air against your oversensitive sex and your body involuntarily jolted.

He giggled to himself as he crawled up your body slowly. He settled between your legs, laying his full weight on top of you. Immediately you felt grounded, it was like a weighted blanket being placed on you. He rested his head on your chest, right over your heart. He listened contently to it drumming against your ribs.

Then, with a chuckle he said to you, “Had to make sure your heart was still there. I tried to suck it straight through your coochie” At this you hard-belly laughed, slapping his arm.

“Really, baby. I love you. So much. I love making you feel like that, watchin’ you fall apart for me. I could stay between your legs forever and be happy.”

You giggled at him and rolled your eyes. “You’re just high baby. And horny”

“Maybe a little” He nuzzled into your chest, pressing a soft kiss right over your heart before resting his head there again, arms wrapping around your waist as he held you close.

You stayed like that for a while, the high still humming softly between you. Michael’s breathing had evened out, but he was still a little floaty, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin. After a few minutes, he mumbled against your chest, voice low and a little whiny.

“I’m hungry baby… is that supposed to happen?”

You smiled, brushing his hair out of his face. “Yeah, Mikey. You’ve got munchies.”

He lifted his head slowly, blinking at you with wide, slightly confused eyes. Then he sat up a little straighter and started looking around the room like he was searching for something important.

“Oh noooo,” he said, voice soft and dramatic with disapproval in an adorable way. “I got to do something about this. My tummy is rumbling.” You couldn’t help but laugh as he carefully climbed off the bed and padded over to the desk, still only in his boxers, afro smushed on one side. He picked up a take out menu and stared at it like it held the answers to the universe.

“We need food,” he declared, turning back to you with a serious expression that quickly melted into a shy smile. “Pizza? A really big one?”

You nodded, already reaching for the phone. “Yeah, baby. Let’s get pizza.” A few minutes later, the order was placed — one large New York-style cheese pizza with extra pepperoni. While you waited, Michael crawled back onto the bed and pulled you into his lap, wrapping his arms around you from behind.

When the pizza finally arrived, you both sat cross-legged on the big hotel bed, the box open between you. The high was still lingering in the soft edges of everything — the way the lights seemed a little warmer, the way the pizza tasted impossibly good, the way Michael kept giggling at nothing in particular.

He took a big bite and made a happy little sound, cheeks full. “This pizza is sooo good, somebody put they foot in this” he said around a mouthful, eyes sparkling. “...Or maybe it’s just the weed talkin’.”

You laughed, taking your own slice. “Boy, it’s definitely the weed. You over here actin' like you never had pizza.”

Michael gasped dramatically, clutching his chest with one hand while still holding his slice with the other. “Don’t do me like that! This pizza is good! It’s… it’s spiritual.” He took another dramatic bite, then pointed at you with the crust. “You laughin’ at me like you ain’t over there moaning every time you take a bite. I heard you. Don’t act brand new.”

You almost choked on your pizza laughing. “Michael, please. You are too high right now.” He grinned, shaking his head. “I know. But for real though… my stomach was talking to me. I had to do somethin’.” he insisted, leaning forward with wide eyes. “It was sayin’, ‘Mike, you better get us some food before I start embarrassin’ you in front of your girl.’”

You were laughing so hard now your stomach hurt. “Your reputation is already in the dirt after that little performance at Studio 54. You were over there telling me the music was hugging you.”

Michael’s eyes went wide with embarrassment, remembering the comment. Then he broke out in that high, warm, infectious laugh that always made everything better. He reached over and gently wiped a bit of sauce from the corner of your mouth with his thumb, then licked it off his own finger without thinking.

“Alright, alright, you got me,” he admitted, still chuckling. “But you gotta admit… this was a good night, mama. Even if I did get a little dramatic about leaving the club.”

You smiled and leaned over to kiss his cheek, pizza grease lingering on it after. “It was a great night. And I’m glad you got your pizza.”

You both sat there for a while longer — cross-legged on the bed, sharing the last few slices, giggling when the cheese stretched too far or when one of you got sauce on your fingers. The high made the whole moment feel soft and warm and a little silly in the best way.

Eventually Michael reached over and laced his fingers with yours, bringing your joined hands up to rest between you on the pillow.

“Next time we go somewhere like that,” he said quietly, voice still a little dreamy, “I’m only taking one puff. Maybe half a puff. My body can’t handle all that.”

You laughed again and squeezed his hand. “We’ll see about a next time, Mike.”

He leaned in to kiss you. It was soft and sweet, tasting like pizza and the lingering high and something that felt a lot like love.

Outside, New York kept moving. But inside this quiet hotel room, with the empty pizza box on the nightstand and Michael’s steady breathing against your skin, everything felt exactly right.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

please respect my work 💌