seren

Then… You. Oh, Merlin, how he loved you. Your kind smile, soft hands, soothing voice murmuring tales of faraway kingdoms whenever he started spiraling. Whenever the anxiety turned so cruel he had to crawl back into that familiar shell Theo hated with all his being—his own head. It was a cluttered place: crushed-but-not-forgotten memories piling up, his father’s torn instructions littering the floor, his mother’s lullabies spinning on an old, Muggle record player. Being lost had become his daily routine. Wake up, curse existence, smoke, sleep. And the cycle repeated. Until you crossed his mind.

His light. His stars. His soul. His second heart, given that the first one had been broken many, many times it was a miracle he was still walking.

If there were no you, there would be no him. Literally. Figuratively.

Some might’ve called Theodore a fool for becoming this attached to a person who could leave at any moment. He knew you never would. Not after the hell you’d been through together. Yet, it stung, as if a snake had coiled around his ribs and sank its fangs deep into his skin.

The silvery laughter he had long monopolised rang across the common room, a few housemates lifted their heads up. Yeah, it was you, messing around with Mattheo. Two of his closest friends sharing a good laugh! Without him. Was it illegal? Of course not! You had every right to have fun with any person you pleased; he would just be there… watching. There was nothing wrong with that.

Nothing fucking wrong.

“Hey, man, let me put it away.” A flash of black robes and pearly-white teeth appeared to his right to pry the glass from his hand. Only then did Theo realise how tight his grip had become. Another second, and the glass would’ve shattered, leaving him bloody and miserable. “Are you okay? You seem all riled up. Did those Gryffindor pussies say something to you again?”

Theodore took a slow drag from his cigarette (nobody really cared about smoking in the common rooms anymore). As the nicotine flooded his lungs, he felt the pressure from his chest lift.

However, Mattheo’s grin when you smacked his arm made Theo’s stomach clench with sudden nausea.

“I’m good, Zabini. No need for your mother-hen fussing.” A thick plume of smoke curled from his nose and lips, dissolving into nothing after the lazy flick of his fingers. You hated the smell, he remembered.

Blaise huffed, sank into the armchair, poured himself some firewhiskey and let out a tired sigh. Those long-ass train rides tended to wear him out. They sat in silence, the only noise disturbing their fragile peace was your and Mattheo’s chatter.

The dancing fire from the hearth cast a halo around your head, and… fuck, you were a goddess in Theo’s eyes. He couldn’t bear the thought of letting another unfortunate worshipper steal his divine blessing. You were his faith. You belonged to him! He knew exactly what offerings you required, what praises you adored, what sacrifices had to be made to lay upon your altar. Everything. For you.

“Are you sure you’re alright? Mate’s gonna have a hole in his head.” Blaise chuckled and nudged Theo’s leg with his boot.

“Won’t hurt him,” Theodore muttered, the leather groaning under his weight as he tried to find a better position to avoid that irritating ache at his side. “Cazzo...”

Draco waltzed into the room with a stack of books and dropped them onto the table right beside two half-empty glasses and a pitcher that was supposed to hold water (well, with Zabini nearby, all water magically turned into alcohol). He kicked Blaise’s feet off the nearest chair and took a seat. “What’s going on with you two? Sulking again?”

Theodore and Blaise didn’t spare a glance at him, far too busy absorbing the sight before. Theo was mesmerized by the way your lips moved around whatever stupid things you must’ve talked about with Riddle; Zabini—by how Pansy was flicking through her book with a bored tilt of her head, the red lipstick a stark contrast against her pale skin. They both lifted their glasses at the same time.

“Yeah, I get it. Fuck off, Malfoy,” Draco muttered to himself.

Another burst of laughter rippled through the common room, and Mattheo’s hand shifted, coming to rest on the back of the sofa just inches from your shoulder. For all the world, Theodore Nott couldn’t condemn his friend for trying to find a new spark in life. Everyone deserved something good after that gruesome battle for survival! He, as well, was nothing but a moth drawn to a flame—and you were the sole reason he kept desperately fluttering his tiny wings.

Possessive, childish it was to want you all to himself. Mattheo could go find someone else, drown himself in alcohol, smoke away whatever shit he could roll into a paper, become an Auror to stay permanently high on adrenaline. Why should Theodore care? No, he should care. Just care! It’s his responsibility, wasn’t it? Ugh…

Get away—no! Stop it. He was a friend, too. Yours, his, everyone’s. It was fine to talk, to laugh, to be close. Mattheo needed you. Theodore needed you. So why did it feel like twisting a knife into his own chest? Pushing deep, past the once-broken ribs, the bottled-up rage that flared and gnawed at his flesh, down to the root of his existence. Blood spilled, bones crushed. Screams. Your screams in a flurry of spells and black smoke. His own howl when he thought he’d lost you in the battle. A promise to never let you go. A hopeless kiss beneath a collapsed roof. ‘Please, please come back to me.’

 Fuck.

“I need some air.” Theo stood up, knocking the glass over in the process.

The dark corridor greedily swallowed his hunched form.

Draco cleared his throat and stared at the liquid spreading across the rug as if it had personally offended him. “Uhm, maybe we should go after him?”

“Let the man sort his shit out,” Zabini countered. “It’s not like he’s going to jump from the Astronomy Tower anyway.”

You approached them with a soft smile and ruffled Malfoy’s immaculate hair, receiving an annoyed scoff.

“Who’s jumping today? They better do a flip,” you giggled, but your gaze was already wandering around the room in search for someone. One specific person.

Mattheo slid into Theo’s armchair, his long legs stretching out, hand already reaching for the pitcher. A glint of amusement lingered in his brown-chocolate eyes.

“No one.”

“Nott.”

Blaise kicked Draco’s shin; he flipped him off in return.

“What? Theodore?” The sudden worry scraped against your throat, and a rush of cold sweat broke out down your spine.

It had become a basic instinct at this point—to scan the sea of faces for Theo to be sure he was safe. That was what you’d been telling yourself all this time. Not because of the butterflies his voice alone could arouse in your stomach. Of course not. Having been close friends for almost a decade couldn’t have passed unnoticed: glued to each other’s sides like Siamese twins, joined hands whenever the crowd grew too dense, seeking each other out in corridors, sharing notes, traumas, secrets. Sharing, sharing, sharing. Until you became indistinguishable.

If there were no him, there would be no you.

“How was your summer, love?” Draco asked, turning to you. Although, he never received an answer as you strode out of the common room with a stuttering heart. “Yeah… mine too.”

Blaize patted his shoulder in sympathy. There they were again. Together, at least.

***

Hundreds of steps led you up to the very top of the Astronomy Tower, where the velvet, midnight-blue sky harboured the stars and cradled the glowing moon. A canvas of endless possibilities, yet it chose to be a home for the universe. How poetic.

“Theo?” You stepped onto the worn wooden floor, unsure of what to say or do—it was never simple with Theodore.

First, you were hit by a gust of cold air, thick with the scent of fading summer, and then by the bitter sting of cigarette smoke. It twirled in a murky cloud between Theodore’s delicate fingers, as a loyal pet at its master’s mercy. Somehow you felt like violating his comfort, but who goes to the Tower if not for therapy?

“No, stay.” His raspy voice caught you in the middle of a step back. “Come here.”

The view from the highest tower in Hogwarts was to die for. However, the memories were what kept your feet firmly planted on the ground, even when the war had battered most of them. One of them of a second-year detention in the Forbidden Forest now mingled with the exhausting weeks spent in the woods, hiding from Death Eaters. Hogwarts’ grounds, partially restored, lay ahead; the sparkling water of a fountain, where you used to spend hours gossiping with your girls, winked up at you. The place where you had admitted your feelings for your best friend, Theodore Nott. Never to him, of course, just to a stray cat. Funny how that fountain was the first thing they chose to reconstruct.

You turned to look at Theo. Sharp profile, tousled hair which had grown a little longer over the last four months, full lips wrapped around a cigarette. At the back of your mind, a memory surfaced like an unwelcome guest—the taste of his mouth on yours, a salty tang colliding with copper. The kiss had lasted mere seconds, but its aftermath had left a mark to this day.

“Are you okay?” you asked him softly.

When his piercing blue eyes locked on you, your breath hitched.

“No.”

The raw honesty of his response made the needles along your spine drive even deeper into your skin.

“W-want to talk about it?”

Oh, he wanted to talk about a thousand things. Why did you choose to talk with Riddle when he was standing right there? Why did you smile at him more than you did at Theo on the way to Hogwarts? Since when had your presence was necessary for him to function? Why did you have to do this to him? Was he alive? Or was it all just a bloody dream of his dying consciousness? If yes, he wished it would let him die already.

Had he said it out loud? The look on your face stirred the tangled mess of his insides.

“Listen, I can ask Mattheo to bring you a—” you fumbled over your words, hands gripping the iron railing tight enough for your knuckles to whiten.

“Mattheo?” His choked laughter made you flinch. “So, it’s all about Mattheo now, is it? What, he spent his summer at your house and you two became best friends forever? I can’t believe it!”

“He doesn’t have anyo—”

But the dam had broken—the black, poisoned waters were rushing to escape the riverbanks.

“And he has you, right? You?! Of all people. Has he told you how much he cares about you yet? How he sees you, understands you? He did, he fucking did. He always does this exact same shit with the girls he wants to fuck!” Theodore hissed, the icy notes nibbled at your heart with pointed teeth. It hurt.

“Theo.”

“I watched him break other girls’ hearts. I watched him destroy them because he doesn’t know any better !” He grabbed your shoulders, his blunt nails digging into your skin, where the scars were healing. But you didn’t pull away, couldn’t pull away. “I was here—I am here! For you. Forever. I would die for you. I would kill for you!”

“Theodore.”

“Why him? When you have me! Am I not enough? Am I not the right person for you?! I don’t want you laughing with him, looking at him, talking to him! Fuck it if I’m being selfish. I am selfish! I didn’t survive hell to end up with nothing.” His vision blurred, throat hurt from the weight of the emotions tumbling out.

The moon, a silent witness to his confession, missed the exact moment when the stars seemed to slip away to drown in the cold waves of Theo’s eyes. You reached up to cup his face, a few stray tears licked at your thumbs.

“I came back for you. Not for Draco, not for Blaise, not for a fucking Mattheo. Merlin… I sound so pathetic,” Nott let out a ragged sigh, his frustration melting under the warmth of your touch. It was terrifying, really, how much power you held over him. “He’s my friend. You’re my friend. But I will do anything to be more than that to you. Tell me—tell me what to do! Now, please. Tell me. What do I do? Because I don’t know what to do anymore. I-I can buy you a new ring since you lost yours, or I can… I’ll write you a poem. It won’t be good as Mattheo’s, but—”

You pulled him down by his collar and crashed your lips into his. Every unsaid word, every doubt he had dissolved into this blissful feeling of your sweet mouth. The iron railing bit into his lower back; the world had tilted on its axes, swapping the ground with the sky. He was walking through constellations, his feet sinking into the velvet fabric of infinity, his hands gripping you, caressing, pulling you closer, as if you were to slip through his fingers and vanish forever.

His hair was soft between your fingers, his shallow gasps for air made your knees buckle. Theodore only held you tighter, kissed deeper, all tongue and the smoky aftertaste of his cigarette. Seconds stretched into minutes, minutes into hours, hours bled into eternity. Nothing in his life could compare to this. Even winning the war.

Damn the oxygen your lungs craved! You parted, your lips tingled from the fierce, ‘accidental’ bites he’d left in the heat of the moment.

“Are you done talking nonsense?” you grunted, holding his face.

“You kissed me because you were tired of me talking?” He rolled his eyes.

Here was your Theodore Nott again. To your utter dismay, it was impossible to stay mad at someone with flushed cheeks and scrunched up nose. This boy, whom you loved to the moon and back.

“I kissed you because you are stupid, and I knew you’d whine all week if I slapped your face instead.” He muttered something incoherent, but the playful smack to his shoulder finally brought a genuine, tentative smile to his lips. “You shouldn’t be jealous, Theo. Mattheo is a friend. And you… you are everything. I…”

The rest of the words got stuck in your chest. Maybe it wasn’t the time for them yet. Not when the wounds were still closing, when blood still seeped, and Death lingered around the corners. Where words failed, your eyes were more eloquent. A touch, a tiny smile, a comfortable silence.

Theodore swallowed hard, he leaned forward to rest his forehead against yours. “Ti amo, mia luce.” Only a whisper. “Ti amo così tanto. Tu sei tutto per me.”

“What does that even mean?” you grumbled, though you might’ve caught the meaning.

He pressed a tender kiss to the tip of your nose, a fresh furry of butterflies rushed to your belly. “Find out.”  

You were sprawled forward across the bedsheets, fingers gripping the linen as Michael plowed into you from behind, his own fingers gripping your hips with as much intensity, keeping you in place. Your back was arched, ass up high, face smushed against the pillows beneath you, and you rocked forward with each harsh thrust of his heavy dick. You gleefully celebrated the sensation, along with the gorgeous sound of him cooing at you through the pleasure, and the frequent smack of his huge hand over your asscheeks.

You'd ended up in this very position more times than usual as of late, and it was all due to a new obsession your husband had garnered. Everybody knew that Michael Jackson had his eccentricities, his particularities, but few knew of his tendency to fixate on specific sexual aspects too. In the past there had been his breeding obsession—which never really went away, but was forced to subside in your best interest—then there had been his pool sex obsession (before his vitiligo had ruined his enjoyment of the outdoors), then his sunrise cockwarming obsession (he’d taken a vehement dislike to starting his day without it, whenever you were near), followed by a fixation on semi-public intercourse, sex while standing up, his several month long obsession with making you squirt (and that still of course existed, though less insistent as it had been)... The list was endless, because Michael was a man of many phases, slipping in and out of the cycles, where they often gladly returned.

For the last two weeks his current fixation had turned to backshots, for the reason that he had developed a particular sexual interest in a sight that aroused him with just a glance. Such a sight was your beautiful figure clad in nothing but one of his varsity jackets—no panties, nothing at all underneath, just the baggy red material shrouding you while you strutted around the house barefoot; that while its shape did the opposite of showcasing the curves of your naked body, it did something almost as significant instead.

A month ago, before you'd seen Michael after an unfortunate while apart, he had received a new jacket to add to his collection, one that had been given to him by a fan, and this fan had specifically embroidered the name Jackson into the back's centre. Michael was incredibly grateful, but what he hadn't foreseen initially was the added bonus that came with being given that custom-made item of clothing. Somehow he hadn't considered that bonus, until the day he revealed the jacket to you, and suddenly it came to him.

He was fawning over how equal parts sexy and adorable you looked in it, and had ended up taking you hot and fast on the tour bus couch, slamming into you with rough abandon. You'd turned your head as much as you could in order to giggle up at him, batting your lashes to please him further, and as he'd taken in both your pretty face and the back of the jacket at once, that was the moment his new fixation was unlocked on the spot.

With every rough, deep drag of his cock along your velvety walls, with every high noise you produced at his stimulation of your sweet spot, Michael was actually feeling even more insane than you were—all because of the name on the back of you, staring at him above where he'd dragged the fabric up to your hips in exchange for a view of your ass as it rippled.

Jackson was spread along the plane of your back in capital, embellished letters, and Michael's eyes rolled into his head at the sight. You'd been married for years now, but your stage name was a mononym, a single-word pseudonym you'd adopted and therefore your full title as including his family name was never really said aloud. So, whenever the very distinction was displayed before Michael, his ownership as clear as day… he felt sexually insane.

Michael didn't believe he owned you in a territorial, misogynistic way, but he had always been unashamedly possessive—once as a young man in disbelief at the woman on his arm, protective of her wherever she went; then growing as the years passed into somebody who understandably took that protection more seriously than anything (no matter how rude or dismissive he might appear to others in certain circumstances). His deep-rooted care was undeniable, thus existing within him at times a jealousy immeasurable...

He’d taken both of your hands, dragging them to meet behind your back, then wrapped his own hands around your wrists as he pounded even harder. He caught sight of your wedding ring on your left, and leaned downward to kiss the diamonds, before kissing your knuckles.

“Oh yes, mama, grind that ass back on me… So pretty…”

"Mikey, y' givin' it to me so good, baby—"

"I know, I know, baby girl—keep takin' it... No one's gon' be back in here for hours..."

That had been two weeks ago, and now—countless rounds of sex later in the time that followed—Michael was indulging in his favourite pastime again, inside the confines of your shared hotel room.

Cock drilling into your welcoming sex, he continuously leaned forward, blanketing your back with his torso and almost shifting you into prone bone, to murmur filthy praise in your ear. But he never actually would transition to prone bone when you wore that jacket—no matter how much he loved the position—because he simply couldn't get enough of seeing the result of how that innocent fan had unintentionally given his wife the perfect gift, to be branded in a format second best to a permanent inking of the name itself onto your skin.

You both already had matching tattoos, though the permanence was merely your first initials, and until now, Michael hadn't realised how much it turned him on further to see your married surname stretched across you while he worked to paint your gummy walls with his sticky seed.

"My baby... I gotchu, m'perfect wife..." he murmured through groans behind you, never slowing the pace.

"Mm—honey, you feel so good, oh—" you moaned dazedly into the pillow your face had been shoved into.

"Mrs Jackson—shit—y'know how goddamn sexy you look in that jacket?"

Registering what he'd said, you lifted your head up a little to giggle, trying to look at him, but you could hardly turn in that position.

"Mikey," you beamed, body still rocking forward with every stroke. "Is this why you've had me—mmph—bent over every surface for the last two weeks? This jacket doin' somethin' to ya, huh?"

"Y' do somethin' to me by just sittin' there, baby," he grunted, smacking your ass hard.

You yelped, head falling forward again, more sweet laughter elicited from your throat amid whines.

"Love bein' Mrs Jackson, baby," you gasped. "Shame I don't have it tattooed..."

"Don't need a tattoo, mama," Michael groaned, smacking your ass again and triggering your face to crash itself further into the cream fabric. "No other man's gon' have their cum in y' womb like I do... Ten years now, baby..."

You almost screamed as he sped up, hitting somehow even deeper with a stronger force. "Fuck, I love you..."

"Watch y' language, pretty. I love y’ too," he muttered, leaning forward to kiss the back of your neck, before resting upright again, and thrusting his slick-enshrouded member without mercy.

Unsurprisingly, in his preoccupied state of mind Michael's messy seed ended up shot all over the embroidery, an impulsive move that at the time felt even sexier to him than filling up your womb. You'd rolled your eyes, irritated because you planned to wear the jacket in public later that day, but Michael only shrugged, handwashing it himself to rid the cum, although with no intention to stop himself from acting on that same impulsion the next time he had you bent over a surface with his name gleaming across your body.

angelcrescent © 2026 ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡₊˚⊹ i finally managed to write smut without feeling the need to develop it into a full blown fic lol ! i adore mikey in his varsity jackets so i thought i’d write a lil somethingggg !! also this is for the anon who requested a backshots fic weeks ago ; srry for the delay oops

──── tag list: @slickdickwitchbitchh @xyahx @nuhveah @savagenctzen @2sugari @imeatingheehee @definitelynotdomanique @nightmaredressedlikeadaydream57 @alientee @yamyam-tuna @michaelswife-jackson @osugahunnyicedtea @loveposiie @deletedkisses @xoxogossipgirl02 @neverstreett @brxght-world @0-n-1-x @wildpandorasky @thrilleronvinyl @chaoticyouthphilosopher @michaelsbabymother @ermwhatthesigma156 @xogianna @pretty4u @j3nnyluvscupc4k3s @thrilleronvinyl @milqyravena @coldeforprez @livingblythedoli @fawnnoverme @onthewallz @cunty000 @ghostbabi @infinitethrills @freakinme @iwasntreddieforthis @bluegangstaaaa @michaeljacksonspyt @ang9lic @giosorr @pervertedreams @pompurinlover1234 @bunnykay @eternal-life94 @oidloid @thedoggonegirl @botdfaholic @cinnamoncunt @dolleciita ; if u aren’t tagged but u requested to be on the tag list, pls check ur settings and request again!

“Morning, baby,” he drawls, wrapping his large arms around your torso. “Ready to go?”

You whip around, facing him with wide panicked eyes, more than half of your makeup still incomplete.

He laughs at your expression. “It’s fine, baby, take your time."

"It's only 7:20,” he reassures you, kissing the side of your head before reaching down for his toothbrush.

You sigh in relief, shifting slightly to the side so that you and Mattheo can share the sink.

"What's your first class, baby?" he asks, though it's muffled by the toothpaste in his mouth so it sounds more like: was’ yo firz clas, bavi?

You laugh, glancing at his reflection through the mirror.

"DADA," you answer as he rinses out his mouth. "Without you, unfortunately."

He sighs. "Shame."

He attempts to tame his hair slightly and you stop what you're doing to watch him adoringly, he catches you staring and grins at you.

He turns to face you properly when you reach up expectantly. He bends down slightly while you tiptoe so you can reach his hair, you gently detangle some of his curls.

"Cute!" you compliment when you’re done, he laughs and stands to his full height again. 

"Thanks, baby,” he says, before kissing your nose as to not smudge the lipgloss you just applied. “I’ll go get us a seat first, join me when you're done?”

You nod, pressing a chaste kiss to his cheek.

“Careful not to get caught sneaking out!” you call out when he’s about to leave your room.

“Please, who do you think you’re talking to?" he calls back smugly.

The door shuts and you shake your head, smiling to yourself.

♡ 8:00 - breakfast

Breakfast opens at 7:30, so the great hall is already crowded and lively when you enter at 8.

Luckily, there’s a seat and a plate saved for you at the Slytherin table.

Your friends greet you when you approach the table. Although they all seem half asleep (and half dead), they try their best to smile and greet you very nicely. You greet them with a bright smile and a cheerful "hello!"

Your energy this early in the morning will never not astonish them.

You take your seat next to Mattheo and he wraps an arm around your waist, tugging you closer.

“Sweetheart, settle this debate for us will you?” Enzo calls.

Besides you, Mattheo rolls his eyes at the nickname — he coined it for you first — but turns to look at you in anticipation nonetheless. You turn to Enzo. “What is it?”

Pansy rolls her eyes. “Nothing, just their stupid dick measuring contests.”

Your eyes widen.

“Not actually!" Enzo says quickly. "Holy shit, it’s a figure of speech.”

You relax, sighing in relief.

“Alright, then,” you say. “What’s the debate?”

“We want to know who you think would win in a fight between all of us.” Theo says.

“Like, a five-way fight between all of you?" you let out a soft laugh, furrowing your brows. “I don’t know if I’m the best person to ask, I’m really biased—”

Mattheo smirks.

“Hang on, it’s Blaise, Enzo, Mattheo and I.” Theo says, confused. “Who’s the fifth person?”

“Pansy.”

Mattheo laughs at your statement, understanding immediately where your loyalties and bias lie.

“She’s not a part of this.” Theo says. Pansy rolls her eyes.

“Why not?” you say innocently, picking at your fruit cup. “My money’s on her.”

♡ 9:00 - first classes

Defence Against the Dark Arts (a double lesson!), charms & potions. It would be absolute hell if you didn’t have Mattheo next to you for the latter two classes.

You spend the classes drawing hearts on his hand, playing tic tac toe on the corner of your class assignment worksheet & occasionally listening to the professor, definitely!

You doze off somewhere in the middle of Snape's lecture, head resting on Mattheo's arm. He knows that his arm will be numb after the class but he really can't find it in himself to care.

You blink, waking up slowly. You stare, with bleary eyes, at Mattheo’s wrist watch.

"20 more minutes, angel," he murmurs, low enough so you can hear it, an amused smile on his face.

You pout, sitting up straight. You try your best to make sense of the blackboard, narrowing your eyes at the unfamiliar words.

Mattheo nudges his notebook in your direction.

"You wrote notes?" you ask incredulously.

He smirks. "Figured you'd need them, Sleepy.”

You roll your eyes at the teasing nickname, but catch up on the lesson through the familiar handwriting. You notice a small “hi sweetheart i love you ♡” written on the top corner of the page. 

His hand inches closer to your free hand on your lap, interlacing your fingers as his eyes stay trained on the board.

♡ 12:00 - lunch

Per your idea, Mattheo's entire friend group (and now yours, too, really) eats their lunches outside in the grass area — like a makeshift picnic.

"The weather's so lovely, I'm surprised more people don't eat outside," you hum as the group spreads your blanket underneath a shaded area.

"Yeah, who wouldn't want to eat with bugs?" Enzo says sarcastically before wincing when Theo smacks the back of his head over his comment. Your mood is undisrupted, though, as you cheerfully wave to a bird a few inches away from you before it flies away. 

Mattheo puts a bowl of freshly washed (by him, of course) strawberries in front of you. Enzo grins and reaches a hand out, it's slapped away by Mattheo.

"What the fuck, Mattheo?" he whines.

"They're for her," he says with a flat look, gesturing to you.

"I don't mind sharing," you say placatingly, ever the peacekeeper. Pansy snorts.

"Bad idea sharing food with Enzo, you turn around for half a second and it's all gone," she says.

Mattheo nods his head. "Exactly."

"Everyone's protecting her and no one's protecting me," he grumbles under his breath, but he decidedly keeps his hands to his own food for the rest of the picnic.

You laugh, grabbing a strawberry and lifting it to Mattheo's mouth.

He raises his eyebrow at the gesture, you laugh and push the strawberry closer to his mouth. He rolls his eyes but parts his lips for you anyway. 

You smile, pleased, before squealing when his tongue makes contact with your finger.

"Gross, Mattheo!" you laugh, wiping your finger on his shirt.

He smirks and tugs you closer to him. You pretend to fight him out of his grasp before relaxing on his lap.

♡ 1:30 - back to class

The next few classes are harder to get through as they very much lack Mattheo. At least you have Pansy right next to you as you dutifully finish the classwork assigned to you, despite her insistence on distracting you.

“This girl is just so delusional,” Pansy says, twirling her pen.

“That’s mean,” you say, unfocused, eyes still darting back and forth across the page as you try your best to complete the equation.

She raises her eyebrows.

“She spread a rumour about me and called me a ‘slut’ who wanted her ugly ass boyfriend,” she says.

“Oh,” you say, pursing your lips. “Carry on then.”

She smiles, self-satisfied. You turn to her.

“What’d you get for question 5?” 

She looks down at her paper before looking back up at you.

“America?” she says, you frown.

“Pans, this is math.” She shrugs in response.

You huff and put down your pen, deciding you’ve done the best you can do and it’s time for a break. 

Your phone vibrates in your pocket and you bite back a smile. There’s only a few people you haven't silenced notifications from.

matty <3 — sleep over tonight? (15:05) — i’ve got a surprise for you after quidditch (15:06)

You bite your cheek, texting back under the table as discreetly as you can. 

sweetheart ♡ — yes please!!!! <3 <3 (15:08)

Pansy gives you a knowing smirk, spotting the giddiness of your body language.

“I know exactly who you’re texting,” she teases.

“Shut up!” you laugh, shoving at her. 

♡ 4:00 - afterschool

Your energy is almost completely depleted by the time you make it back to your dorm room, so you slip into more comfortable clothes and nestle yourself under the covers to take a quick nap.

When you wake up half an hour later, your groggy vision is half covered by ginger fur. You smile, reaching to curl your arm around your (and Mattheo’s) newly rescued and adopted kitten. You figure Mattheo must have dropped her off at your dorm before he went to Quidditch.

“Hi Honey,” you coo her name, petting her fur. She purrs responsively, nuzzling her face against your palm.

Originally, you had named her Sweetheart. But after you turned your head every time Mattheo called her name, you had to change it to something you were not called. Well, frequently called.

“I’m glad you’re here,” you say before teasing. “You like my dorm more than Mattheo’s, don’t you?”

Honey says (or meows) nothing in response. You sigh dramatically.

“I get it, you don’t want to hurt Mattheo’s feelings.”

She meows which you take as a response, you laugh, petting her. “It’s okay, Honey, I think Mattheo likes my dorm more, too.”

You spend the rest of your late afternoon reading your new book, placing post-it notes on the top of one of the pages as a reminder to yourself to tell Mattheo how the love interest reminds you of him. 

♡ 6:00 - dinner

You balance two stacked plates on one hand while scooping excessive amounts of food on top with the other. A girl across the dining table from you gives you an odd look, you smile unabashedly at her.

You sit back down in your seat and begin to separate the portions of food onto the two plates.

“Babe, that’s so sad,” Pansy snorts from across from you. “It’s like no one’s feeding you and you have to ration your food.”

You roll your eyes. “It’s for Mattheo.”

“Well, of course I know that,” Pansy says.

Finally, the Slytherin boys trudge through the door — freshly showered after training and still loud and rowdy with boisterous energy. They make their way over to your table.

“Hi baby, miss me?” Mattheo says, placing a haste kiss on the side of your head before sitting next to you.

“Sure,” you say teasingly to him, before turning to the whole group. “How was quidditch?”

“Killer,” Theo says, “Flint was pissed today, so, apparently, we all have to suffer.”

You cautiously eye the brunette a few tables away.

“Yikes,” you say, sliding the plate over to Mattheo. He digs in immediately before pausing to look up at you. He swallows his food.

“Thank you,” he says politely, you laugh and bump his shoulder with yours.

You frown when you realise your bite of food contains something you hate, you look over at Mattheo, scrunching up your face.

He laughs and signals for you to give it to him, so you happily pile it onto his plate.

♡ 7:00 - movie night with mattheo

After dinner, the two of you sneak your way into his dorm. You change out of your robes and into a pair of shorts you left in his room and one of his muggle band t-shirts. It hits just above your knee and it smells like him. 

Not for the first time, his scent clinging onto the t-shirt brings you back to the first time you met. Who knew that the scent wafting from that cauldron of amorentia potion would be the same one that would cling to everything you own all this time later. 

You lie back in his bed while he gets changed himself, you let your eyes close.

"I'm glad you've made yourself comfortable," his teasing voice rings out. You open your eyes to smile at him, not bothering to get up. He walks over to you and the mattress dips.

"Hi," he says.

"Hi," you say back smiling, you sit up and lean against his headboard. Suddenly remembering the text message he sent you what feels like ages ago. "What's the surprise?"

He grins at the reminder.

"Remember that old muggle movie you wanted to watch last week... what was it called?” he asks as you try your best to recall. “It starred that actress you love." 

You frown in thought before your eyes light up in realisation.

"Oh! Audrey Hepburn," you say.

A week ago, during one of your Muggle Movie Nights (as you call it), Mattheo had admitted that he’d never seen an Audrey Hepburn film and you proclaimed that he absolutely had to start with Roman Holiday. Determined to culture your boyfriend and desperate to rewatch it yourself, the two of you scoured every streaming site to find it — to no avail.

"Did you finally find a way to pirate it?" you ask gleefully, he shakes his head softly before moving to his desk.

"Not exactly."

He opens his desk drawer, pulling out a DVD with the familiar title on the cover. You gasp, reaching to grab it. You trace the red letters on the cover. 

"How did you find this? Where did you find this?” you ask in disbelief, looking up at him. “When did you even have time to look for this?"

His grin is soft with affection for you.

"I found it in a store in Hogsmeade,” he shrugs. “No big deal."

Total lie. In reality, he had dragged Theo and Enzo through the entire village, stopping at every CD/DVD store just to browse the titles. Eventually, after the sky had turned dark and his friends were ready to abandon him on his impossible search, he found a copy.

Not that you had to know any of that. Besides, the huge smile on your face made it all worth it to him.

"Shall we watch it?" he asks, already slipping it into the DVD player connected to his laptop.

You nod, curling into his side. “I can’t believe you have a DVD player, you’re such an old man.”

“Hey, this old man is your knight in shining armour, princess,” he argues, wrapping his arms around you. 

“You’re right, you are,” you murmur, while the black and white title card of Roman Holiday displays on his laptop.

♡ 9:00 - getting unready for bed

After the movie (and after he consoles you, while trying hard to suppress his laughter, when you cry over the ending), he sits on your bed while you swipe makeup wipes across your face. 

As much as Mattheo adores watching you get ready, there’s something he loves so much about watching you get unready. 

There’s something so intimate in getting to see you completely bare and completely yourself.

You gently rub moisturiser onto your face and catch him staring at you through the mirror, you breathe out a laugh.

“What?” you ask.

A year ago, you’d be slightly mortified if he saw you like this. You’re confident enough without makeup but you still like that extra boost a good eyelash day or lipgloss can give you.

Now, you finish your routine and walk closer to him. Stepping in between his thighs. 

His hands come up to rest on your hips, smiling up at you.

“Nothing,” he says. “You’re just the prettiest thing on earth.”

You laugh and roll your eyes at his hyperbole, but it's not enough for him. He’s certain you’re the most beautiful being in the universe. 

♡ 10:00 - late night talking with mattheo

You’re lying on your stomach, half of your upper body lying on his chest. Your pointer finger traces his arm slowly, like his veins are braille and his scars are stars.

“Would you ever get a tattoo?” you murmur.

“I’ve thought about it,” he smiles lazily, eyes half closed.

“Yeah? Tattoos would suit you,” you hum. "What would you get?"

“What do you think I should get?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” you say, deep in thought. “I could see you with one of those barbed wire designs or your initials or—"

“Your name?” he interrupts with a smirk.

You huff out a laugh and roll your eyes. “Yeah, right.”

“I’m not kidding. I'd do it right now,” he says, only half joking. 

“Mattheo!” you scold, though the effect is ruined by your giggle. “You’re way too young and that is also a horrible idea.”

“First of all, I’m older than you.”

“By, like, a few months.”

“And I would totally do it, in a heartbeat,” he promises. “No matter what happens, I’m yours forever. You already know.” 

You smile. “That’s a little romantic.”

"I'm very romantic, thank you very much," he huffs.

"Yeah, you are."

He glances down at you before looking up at the ceiling again.

“Besides, before you know it, we’ll be eighteen,” he says.

There’s a short lull of silence as you process his words.

“That’s crazy to think about,” you say, leaning your head into his chest again.

“Yeah.”

“I still feel like I'm sixteen years old and six and eight and thirteen,” you admit, hoping he understands what you mean. “I don’t know if I ever won’t.”

“I get that,” he says with a small nod. "I can't imagine you're much different now than when you were six, though."

You gasp half-heartedly. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It's not an insult," he chuckles. "I just can't imagine you ever being anything but yourself."

You look at him properly now, tilting your head up.

“I know what you mean,” you say. “That’s kind of sweet.”

You scrunch your nose when you imagine your younger self.

“When I was younger, I wanted to be a princess—”

“Very on brand,” he quips.

“I also wanted to be a teacher at some point,” you say. “An English teacher, I think?”

“You’d make a good teacher,” he says.

“Really?” he nods.

“Thanks,” you yawn. “Did you have a dream job when you were younger?”

He answers after a small beat of silence.

“I wanted to be a great sorcerer.” It’s only partly a lie.

He doesn’t have the heart to tell you that when he was younger, the concept of “dreams” and aspirations were foreign to him. Instead, there were expectations. Heavy expectations placed on him by his parents or Death Eaters.

Though, meeting you when he was sixteen has taught him to dream. Maybe one day he’ll tell you that and thank you for it. 

Instead, he adds. “Or a professor — a charms professor, probably.” 

“You’d be so good at that,” you say genuinely. 

His arm curls around your shoulders, pulling you in closer.

You play with the watch on his wrist, counting the watch hands and realising that it’s almost eleven.

“You never take anything off when you sleep,” you murmur. 

He looks down at his hand — at the watch around his wrist, the bracelet you made him, a silver band ring he wears on his middle finger and his signet ring carved with his initials. You fiddle with that last ring. 

Mattheo wordlessly slips off his signet before bringing your hand up. He slips the ring onto your thumb.

He kisses the ring on your hand and you let out a breathy laugh. He locks eyes with you for a moment before shifting so that you’re underneath him.

He places the mass of his body weight on his elbows, but you can still feel him pressing close as he plants kisses down your neck.

Your eyes become half lidded as you melt under him. You fight to suppress a yawn, hoping he doesn’t notice. You want him to touch you like this forever.

He chuckles. “Sweetheart.” 

"Yeah?" you murmur, fighting to keep your heavy eyelids open. He lifts his head to look at you. 

“You’re not falling asleep on me, are you?” he says.

You shake your head quickly, looking at him with wide eyes. “No, no.”

He laughs. “M’just teasing, baby. We should sleep, it’s getting late.”

“But I want to talk to you longer,” you frown, your lips forming a pout. 

"We have all of tomorrow," he says warmly. "We've got time."

♡ 11:00 - goodnight, sweetheart

By 11, you’re tucked into his side fast asleep. Your hair rollers poke into his chest ever so slightly but he's used to it by now, it's familiar.

He keeps his phone brightness on the lowest setting as he reads to pass the time. His insomnia keeps him from sleeping most nights and, though sleeping next to you helps him significantly, it’s still always there hindering him. 

He doesn’t tell you, though. Because he knows you’d pry your eyes open to keep yourself from falling asleep, just to keep him company. Instead, you get to fall asleep quickly beside him. 

He feels his heart swell when he looks down at you. Your lips part as you snore and he laughs, shaking his head fondly. 

“Sweet dreams, sweetheart.”

Mattheo puts down his phone before carefully flicking off your bedside lamp. He prays sleep will come soon as he lets his body relax close to yours. 

♡ 1:00 - goodnight, mattheo

In his younger years, Mattheo often misunderstood violence for love.

Growing up in that castle, within those cold walls, he learnt that love was pain. Naturally, he wanted to flee from it.

Throughout his teen years, he feared the day he'd fall in love because he believed it would only give a person the opportunity to hurt him. 

Now, he understands he had it all wrong. Love is not loud and frightening like heavy shoes storming through rooms and rough hands slamming doors, love is not the piercing silence between two people.

Love is his rough hand in your soft one, it’s his ring on your finger like a promise he hasn’t made yet, it’s the music the two of you love, it’s the movies you watch, it’s strawberries on a picnic, it's the sound of your heartbeat syncing to his, it’s sleeping beside you — it’s a comfortable thing.

As it turns out, love is a quiet thing that hums louder than real noise. He can feel — more than hear — it everywhere, thrumming through his veins or in his head when he looks at you.

No matter how fleeting, he knows now that loving someone, even at the cost of pain, is always worth it just for this feeling.

But he knows you’ll stay. Maybe forever, if he gets his way. If not? He doesn’t feel that sickening urge to leave claw marks on you to keep you in his grasp, he just wants to be close to you now while he can. 

There’s no place close enough to you, though. So, for now, he sleeps with his arms tight around you and hopes it’s enough to mould your souls together for eternity.

thank you to all my readers — whether you've been here since the first fic, the last one or any in between <3. i hope you caught some of the references and callbacks in this fic & i hope you liked it !! know that you can always send in requests for sweetheart!reader & mattheo because i'll probably continue writing for them as long as this blog is alive ♡

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“been thinking about you for months, y/n. you smile at me like that again, i swear—” you cut him off with another messy kiss. his hand slid along your thigh, just under the hem of your dress, and your breath hitched. just then—

“y/n?” someone called out. loud and already too close. jj froze and you stiffened. “that’s fucking topper.” jj tilted his head, listening. the sound of crunching sand and footsteps growing closer. “shit,” you hissed, already pulling back.

then tooper called out again, like some annoying security guard. “saw you duck over here, rafe’s not around, you know?” jj’s expression went from cautious to confused. “he’s still trying to babysit you?”

“he’s a loyal bitch to rafe. but i’m not his problem anymore,” you muttered, grabbing the blonde’s hand. “come on.” you dragged him out from the trees, staying low and laughing quietly as you both bolted past a stack of coolers, and towards the parking lot.

the door of your car slammed shut behind you. your back hit the backseat, chest rising and falling like you couldn’t catch your breath. jj’s hand was still in yours, both of you wide-eyed, high off the rush of nearly getting caught.

“that was fucking close,” you whispered, grinning, your cheeks burning up from the run. jj was leaning over you then, chest against yours, breath fanning across your plump lips. “topper’s really got the worst timing,” he muttered, voice low and wrecked.

“he desperately needs to get laid,” you said, rolling your eyes, but your voice dropped soft at the end, eyes flicking to his mouth. “i don’t belong to anyone anymore.”

“no,” jj said, jaw clenched, staring at you like you were the only thing that mattered. “you don’t.” and then he kissed you again. hard. it was weeks of tension exploding between you, mouths colliding, hands fumbling.

his fingers slid into your hair, tugging gently, making you sigh into his mouth. you hooked your legs around his waist without thinking, dragging him into the space between your thighs. his hips rolled down almost naturally, grinding against your center, and you both groaned.

“fuck,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours, grinding against you again, slower now. “you’re driving me insane.” you could feel how hard he was through his cargos, pressing right against your soaked panties, dress bunched up around your hips.

“good,” you whispered, moaning softly when he did it again. his hand slid under your dress, fingers exploring every inch of bare thigh, teasing you just enough to make you squirm. you rutted up against him, both of you dry humping like you couldn’t help yourselves, gasping every time you lined up just right.

jj’s mouth was on your neck, sucking a bruise just below your ear, one hand gripping the back of the seat, the other sliding under your panties, cupping you over the thin fabric.

“you’re soaked, mama” he said, voice wrecked. you whimpered, biting your bottom lip, grinding harder against his cock, trapped tight in his shorts. he groaned, deep and breathy, and dropped his head to your shoulder, shuddering as your hips rolled up to meet him again.

“y/n,” he panted, “i’m gonna fuckin’ lose it if you keep doing that.” you pulled back just enough to look up at him then, eyes dark and pupils fully blown, lips already swollen. “then let me take care of you.”

jj blinked, stunned, as you slid your hands down to the waistband of his cargos, fingers undoing the button slow and teasing. “wait—what are you—” he started, but his voice caught as you slipped out of his grip and pushed him into the seat. one of his hands braced on the window, the other hanging limp at his side like he’d forgotten how to move.

sliding onto your knees you looked up at him with this wicked little smirk, eyes locked on his while you pulled his cargos down just enough. his cock sprang free, thick and already leaking. and you didn’t waste any time, just wrapped your hand around him, fingers barely able to circle him completely.

you then gave him one slow and teasing stroke, your tongue poking out to lick a long stripe up the underside of his hard cock, tracing the prominent vein, which made his whole body twitch.

“jesus christ,” he hissed, head falling back against the headrest. he twitched in your grip, already so sensitive, jerking every time your tongue hit just the spot. then you wrapped your lips around the tip and sucked. soft at first, all gentle.

the next second you took him into your mouth like you meant it, stretching your lips around him inch by inch. sliding down until your throat was full of him, the tip of your nose touching his skin.

he looked down at you with blown pupils and parted lips, as he couldn’t believe this was really happening. “you’re fucking insane,” he breathed, chest heaving. “you feel—shit—so fucking good.”

you bobbed your head slowly at first, tongue teasing the tip every time you pulled back, your other hand sliding up under his shirt to scratch your nails across his toned stomach.

with that combination jj was a mess in seconds. breathing hard, hands gripping the seat, and his hips twitching toward your mouth. “fuck, that’s—fuck, baby—don’t stop.” and you didn’t.

you picked up the pace, moaning around him just to feel the way it made him curse. drool slipped down your chin, messy and perfect, while your eyes never left his face, watching him fall apart.

his hand was tangled in your hair but not pushing, just holding on like he never wanted to let go. you pulled back to suck on just the tip, circling it with your tongue like it was candy, then took him deep again, over and over, as he lost control above you.

“i’m gonna—” he gasped, trying to hold it back, legs shaking. you didn’t slow down though. you wanted it, wanted him to fall apart for you, here, in the dark safety of your car. then his whole body tensed, abs flexing as he came hard into your mouth, choking out your name with a broken moan.

you didn’t flinch though, you just kept sucking. he watched you swallow every last drop. you moaned like it tasted sweet, while your hands were still working him through it until he was completely ruined.

when you finally pulled off, lips red and swollen, wiping the corner of your mouth with your fingers teasingly, jj was wrecked. his shirt was sticking to his chest, blond locks wild and eyes glassy.

“holy fuck,” he breathed, voice raw. “that was the best fucking head i’ve had in my life.” you smirked, climbing back into his lap, kissing him soft and lazy. “that was just the beginning.”

The ride home was a cocoon of tense silence. The streetlights shimmered in the night a silent parade past the tinted windows.

Michael sat in the far corner of the plush limousine seat, a beautiful statue carved from desire and anxiety. 

He’d been radiant at the 1980 American Music Award presentation, his neat afro, a soft light-brown cloud, his smile shy but genuine as he spoke to peers about Off the Wall.

And for the entire three-hour affair—from the first sip of prosecco to the final standing ovation, he’d been visibly, achingly hard.

You had whooped and cheered for him as he won in three separate categories. He made sure to point and thank ‘his girl’ for being the perfect muse. You couldn’t even comprehend the wins, as you were pointedly looking at his crotch, how he was trying to hide himself. 

You’d borne witness to it all. 

The subtle, tortured shifts in his wide-legged trousers. The way his elegant hands would flutter to his lap, pressing down, trying to angle the thick, insistent line of his erection against the lean plane of his stomach, or try to keep it in the waistband of his pants.

It was a futile, beautiful struggle. A faint sheen of perspiration had highlighted his forehead, and every time he leaned in to whisper a thank you, his breath was hot and unsteady. When he spoke with you, his eyes were alert, fervent, and his breath carried the scent of mint and sweet juice. He was coming apart at the seams.

Last night had been his first time. The loss of his innocence. A decision arrived at with trembling anticipation. Three whole years of held hands, of kisses that never deepened, of him whispering, "Let's do it when it’s perfect, baby. When it’s right.”

He’d finally decided it was right. “I love you,” he’d breathed into the darkness, his body taut above you. “I know I’m going to marry you—so why should I wait any longer?”

It had been a burst of frantic, bewildered sensation, over almost before it began, leaving him curled around you afterwards, whispering “thank you” over and over like a sacred vow into your skin.

You’d thought it a one-time gift, at least for a while, while he grappled with the guilt of stepping outside the bounds of his religious past.

The limo purred to a stop on the familiar Hayvenhurst driveway. He was out before the engine died, opening your door with a hand that trembled violently.

“Night, Mike. I’ll pick you up again tomorrow morning at nine sharp—you’ve got that radio show interview–” Bill called after him.

Michael wasn’t listening. He didn’t even take your hand up the path like he usually did.

He walked ahead, as if on a warpath, his posture rigid, his stride a careful, stiff thing meant to disguise the persistent, telling bulge in his trousers.

The house was a sleeping giant. You both climbed the grand staircase at speed. You struggled slightly in your heels, your long silk dress pooling at your feet. He led you away from the guest room you used to frequent, down a quieter hall lined with framed gold records and awkward school portraits. He stopped at a familiar door and pushed it open.

His childhood bedroom.

It was a sanctuary of preserved innocence. A smaller double bed with a faded blue comforter. 

Shelves bowed under the weight of countless Disney figurines: Cinderella’s castle, a parade of Seven Dwarfs, a lonely-looking Dumbo. A mobile of the solar system, coated in a fine layer of dust, hung motionless from the ceiling. The air was a blend of old paper, the faint sweet smell of vinyl, and the crisp, clean scent that was uniquely, essentially him.

You smiled as you took it in; it looked exactly as you remembered from when you first started dating. He had insisted you both use the guest room because he didn’t want to face moving any of his memorabilia. It just so happened his childhood bedroom was furthest from his family, his parents in the opposite wing, Randy down the stairs and Janet three doors down.

He went to the bed and sat down, his back to you. With a concentration that was borderline funny, he bent and began untying the laces of his polished dress shoes.

The act was so simple, so boyish; a child in his refuge, shedding the costume of the outside world, that it made your heart ache. 

In public, he was poised, adult, a persona he wore like a tailored suit. But here, he was the boy who believed in magic, who trusted too easily, whose curiosity was your favorite thing, the way he’d absorb everything about a subject, a time period, a movie, just as he did with music.

You stood by his old wooden desk, your fingers brushing the cool plastic of a model rocket. A ceramic figurine of Bambi watched with wide, glassy eyes.

“I saw it all night,” you said, your voice a soft intrusion in the quiet.

His hands froze on the second lace. He didn’t turn. “Saw what?”

“How hard you were. During the speeches. While you were eating. You kept trying to hide it, but you couldn’t. It was all I could think about.”

A visible tremor ran through him. He straightened slowly, but kept his back to you, head bowed as if in prayer. “It wouldn’t go away,” he confessed, his voice thick. “My body… it wouldn’t listen to me. The more I remembered last night, the harder it got. It was getting… painful.”

“I noticed your frustration,” you whispered, taking a step closer. The floorboard sighed beneath your weight. “And it made me wet. Drenched. Every time you adjusted yourself, every time you got that look in your eye… I could feel myself getting slick for you.”

He turned then.

His face was flushed, his beautiful lips parted. The need in his eyes had taken over; the shyness was a thin veneer over a bedrock of hunger.

“Wet?” he breathed, as if deciphering a complex lyric. His gaze dropped to the front of your gown. “Tell me what that’s like.”

You closed the final distance.

You took his right hand and lifted it. You placed his palm firmly against the damp silk covering your mound.

He gasped—a sharp, startled sound.

“Feel,” you instructed, your voice low.

His fingers trembled against you. You guided his hand down, under the heavy fabric of your gown, past the delicate lace of your stockings, until his cool fingertips met the soaked, feverish silk of your panties.

A choked, ragged sound escaped him.

“I can make you feel this way?” he stammered, his voice full of awe. “So warm… so… wet…”

“That’s for you,” you said, holding his wrist, making him feel the undeniable truth. “All night. That’s what the thought of you did to me.”

He was shaking now.

You hooked your fingers into the lace at your hip, drawing the fabric aside. Then you guided two of his long, elegant fingers inside of you. He was good with his hands; he had a rhythm like no other, skilled and precise. It was ironic that he knew how to play instruments so well, and now you wanted him to learn to play your body like one.

He went perfectly still. His eyes widened, the dark pools swallowing the light from the nightlight.

He was still feeling the intimate, velvet clutch of your body.

“Ohh…,” he whimpered, the sound pulled from his soul.

“Curve them,” you breathed, your own composure fraying. “Like you’re reaching for something.”

He obeyed; a slow, deliberate flexion. The pad of his middle finger found a spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids. A low, throaty moan tore from you.

“Mmmhh—!”

The sound shattered his last restraint. A deep, guttural groan echoed in his chest. He began to move his fingers, it wasn’t really with skill, just a frantic curiosity. In and out, curling, exploring. The tops of his fingers were softly pressing against your G-spot. 

He watched your face, utterly captivated, as his hand worked beneath your gown, his expression one of rapt, hungry devotion.

“This… this tight, soft, warm feeling… is what I was thinking about at dinner,” he panted, his breath coming fast. “This is what I wanted… right there and then, but couldn’t have.”

He withdrew his fingers, staring at the glistening evidence. Driven by an instinct deeper than reason, he brought them to his lips and… tasted.

His eyes fluttered closed.

“Y’taste so good,” he mumbled, his voice thick and sweet. “You taste like heaven.” 

He pulled his fingers from his mouth with a soft, slick pop. The look he gave you then was one of pure, pussy-drunk awe. The shy boy was submerged, replaced by a devoted lover.

“I need to feel you,” he said, the words rushing out. “I need to be surrounded by you. I need to have all of you.”

He fumbled with the buttons of his sparkly silver shirt and yanked off his bow tie, his usual grace abandoned. He shed it, let it fall onto a stack of comic books. The black trousers were shoved down, kicked away. He stood before you, naked in a room crowded with childhood dreams, fully, magnificently erect. You inwardly rolled your eyes at the fact he hadn’t worn briefs to the ceremony.

The juxtaposition in front of you, though, was devastatingly intimate. Him stood in this room, bearing himself, when a month prior he still struggled to get dressed in front of you.

He didn’t ask before diving in at you.

He gathered you in his strong, lean arms and laid you back on the blue comforter, pushing the skirts of your gown up to your waist, not even bothering to undress you fully because his need was too crazed, too immediate.

He settled between your thighs, his cock; thick, proud, flushed with wanting—pressing against your dripping heat. He looked down, his expression one of solemn, hungry wonder.

“I love you,” he whispered, but it sounded like a truth that made all this not only permissible, but necessary. 

“I need to feel this. Every part of it. I didn’t feel you fall apart last night. It was too fast. This time… I want to feel you come apart around me. I want to be inside you when you lose yourself.”

He pushed in.

It was a slow, inexorable claiming that made the breath hitch in his throat. He sank to his base, a long sigh escaping him. He was so deep it felt like he was pressing on your heart.

“Perfect,” he breathed, his eyes closing. “You are… so good, laying there all pretty for me.”

He began to move, a deep, rolling rhythm that was less about thrusting and more about communion.

“You take me so completely… like you were made for me…”

But then his movements changed. His hands, which had been braced gently beside your head, slid down to your thighs. His touch, usually so tentative, became firm, purposeful. 

He pushed your legs apart wider, then hooked them, bending them sharply to the side, opening you to him utterly. The new angle was deeper, more exposing. A soft cry left your lips.

“Yes,” he murmured, his voice taking on a darker, more resonant timbre. “Like this. I need to feel all of you like this.”

He began to move again, and this time, there was a new roughness to his rhythm. It wasn’t violent, but it was relentless, deeply possessive. Each stroke was a full, powerful drive, his hips meeting yours with a solid, wet slap-slap-slap that filled the quiet room. The bedframe began a steady, rhythmic protest against the wall.

He was lost in it. His eyes were open, watching your face, but they were glazed, seeing only the sensation.

“You’re so beautiful like this, how have i gone so long without this sight?,” he groaned, his words coming between panting breaths. 

“Surrendered to me. Letting me feel you. You’re my good girl, right?”

His dirty talk wasn’t crude; it was sensual, almost poetic, ripped from the core of his overwhelmed being. 

He drove into you, harder, his control slipping into something more primal. It became messy, clumsy—the way he gripped your thighs, the way he shoved into you—the want of his release overtaking his rationale. 

You knew there’d be bruises where he held you tomorrow.

He pulled out briefly, flipped both your legs to his right, then entered you with your legs together—the sensation for him even more distinct, squeezing his cock even tighter. 

His hands were on your sides now as he drilled into you. He leaned over as he pounded, his face so close to yours. 

You couldn’t look away, totally entranced by the primal look in his eyes. He’d been taken over by the sensation, totally overthrown.

“I want to drown in you… I want this feeling…” He thrust fast and deep now, as if he was fucking the sensual words into you. “Forever, let me have it forever—God—”

You could feel your climax coming in, a slow, tectonic pressure from the deep, relentless pounding. You moaned loudly, your fingers tangling in the blanket.

“Ah—ah—!”

“I feel it,” he gasped, his rhythm becoming more urgent, though no less deep. “I want to make you feel good… I want to see the pleasure blown out in your eyes.” He was muttering now between gasps of pleasure. 

“I’m going to write about how filthy and utterly ethereal you look in this moment,” he moaned, cupping your breasts with his hands.

His words; the romantic filth of them, spoken in that breathy, wrecked tenor were your undoing.

Your orgasm erupted, a deep, feeling within you; your whole body convulsed mercillisly.

You clenched around him in rhythmicly, uncontrollably. 

A broken cry was torn from your throat—“Michael—!”

you could feel how wet you had become from your orgasm, and by the slick, slapping sound of his slow, deep thrusting, it was driving him wild.

He cried out with you, a sound of pure, triumphant awe.

“Yes! that’s my girl. I have waited so long to see you so dirty like this, to see your face in agonizing heat…”

But he didn’t stop after your come down. 

He couldn’t. 

The feeling of your climax around him seemed to fuel a deeper, more desperate hunger. 

His thrusts became harder, faster, losing their measured pace, becoming a frantic, driving rhythm. The bed shook. A figurine of Mickey Mouse toppled from the shelf with a soft clatter.

“I can’t… I can’t stop,” he sobbed, his voice breaking. He was fucking you now with a pure, unadulterated need, the romantic poet consumed by the primal animal. “It’s too good… you’re too good… I need more… I need to be deeper…”

He was overstimulated, lost, chasing a feeling that kept escalating. He hooked your legs higher, over his shoulders, bending you nearly in half, and plunged into you with a force that stole the air from your lungs. His words dissolved into a litany of your name, interspersed with gasped, sensual fragments. 

His eyes roamed frantically, but then settled on the sight of his own motion, biting his lip as he watched the remnants of your undoing pool at the base of his cock.

“My heart… is in your skin… your taste is in my mouth…” he moaned, breathlessly inbetween pumps.

He flipped you over with ease, onto your stomach. You had a brief moment to prepare yourself before he settled over you, pressing you into the mattress, and drove back into your from behind.

“You’re mine, all mine, this is just for me, always—”

His own end took him by storm.

His body locked, every muscle straining. A raw, ragged shout was torn from him—“Fuuuu--GOD-- Y/N–” a sound that held no artifice, only pure, shattering release.

You felt his hot seed, pulsing into you, flooding deep within, a claiming that felt endless.

He trembled violently through it, his hips jerking with involuntary aftershocks, still buried to the hilt.

When the last tremor passed, he collapsed forward, but caught himself on his elbows, still sheathed inside you. He was panting, sweat dripping from his nose and afro onto your back. He looked down at you as you glanced back, his eyes wide, dazed, full of a wonder that bordered on fear. You both just started grinning at each other crazily.

“I think I got carried away,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and ruined. “In you. I completely… got lost.”

"mhmm," you noted back, "ya think?"

He slowly, carefully, withdrew, and rolled to the side, pulling you instantly against him. His arms wrapped around you, tight, possessive. His heart hammered against your back.

He was silent for a long time, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your stomach.

“I don’t know how I held off for so long,” he murmured finally, his lips against your shoulder blade. 

The scent of sex; musky, sweet, and profoundly intimate hung thick in the air of Michael’s old bedroom, a new perfume overlaying the old smell of books and toys. 

Minutes bled by, measured only in the gradual slowing of breath. You felt spent, hollowed out and filled up, drifting away on the aftershocks. 

Then, a shift in the energy beside you.

He lowered his arm.

In the soft gloom of the late evening, you saw his profile. His eyes were open, staring at the dusty mobile of the solar system behind your head. His lips, swollen and damp, parted. He looked so young like this, but he was grown now. The change you felt in him, even in the last few days was ludicrous. You fondly remembered how Michael would struggle to even hold your hand longer than 30 seconds, or he’d start madly blushing.

"Can I…" he started, his voice a ruined, raspy thing. 

He stopped, swallowed and then started again, the words tumbling out in a hushed, guilty rush. 

"Can I put my mouth on you? Right now?"

The question hung in the air, inappropriate, vulnerable, filthy in its innocent hunger.

You turned your head on the pillow. "Michael… you just… you finished in me. It's… it's mixed."

He turned his head too. 

His eyes found yours, and there was no shyness there, only a dark clarity. 

"I don't care," he whispered, the declaration simple and absolute. "I want to taste you for real. I want to taste where I was. Please."

He didn't wait for a final answer. The "please" was a formality. 

The decision was made.

He moved with a sudden, fluid grace that belied his exhaustion, sliding down your body like a man descending to an altar. He pushed your thighs apart with a firm insistence, his gaze locked on the glistening, spent evidence of your joining.

He hovered, his gaze fixed so intensely.

“So beautiful,” he breathed, the words barely a whisper, soaked in awe. “Like a rose that’s just… bloomed for me.”

His hands, which had been resting on your hips, slid inward. His touch was a little demanding, but still just as tender. His fingers came to rest on your outer lips, applying the gentlest pressure.

He began to part you.

It was a slow unveiling. The soft, swollen flesh, glistening with the combined evidence of your passion, yielded to his patient hands. He opened you like the pages of a cherished, secret book he was terrified to damage.

A soft, shuddering sigh escaped him. “Oh… wow.”

He was looking at the heart of you, fully exposed to him in the dim light. The intimate, intricate folds, flushed a deep, needy pink, the glimmering wetness that coated everything, the tight, hidden entrance that still pulsed gently from his recent possession.

"Look at you,” he murmured, his voice sounding almost deliriously drunk with pleasure.

“All pretty and pink and wet for me. Just for me.” He leaned closer, his nose almost touching you, inhaling deeply. The sound he made was one of a man tasting water in a desert; a low, guttural groan of pure, starving need.

"Oh, God…" he mumbled, his voice muffled against your flesh. "S'sweet… and salty…"

He was lost instantly. Any hesitation, any remnant of fastidiousness, was incinerated by the addictive, complex flavor. He ate at you with starving intensity. His tongue was blunt and demanding, lapping up every trace, diving deep to clean his own release from inside you with thick, curling strokes. 

The sounds were obscenely wet, sloppy, loud in the quiet room. He moaned continuously, a low, pleasured hum that you felt in your bones.

You writhed, oversensitive, a confusing mix of shock and overwhelming arousal knotting in your belly. "Michael… ah! Too… im so sensitive…"

He lifted his head, his chin dripping. His eyes were black pools of delerium. "No," he breathed, the word a gentle command. "I haven’t had enough. Sit on my face."

It was a desperate, worshipful plea.

He lay back flat, his hands coming to your hips, guiding you, pulling you up and over him. You braced your hands on the headboard, above his scattered pillows and plush toys, and lowered yourself, trembling, onto the waiting heat of his mouth.

Your world and everything in it, narrowed to sensation.

His mouth was a godsend; it was devoted hunger. As you settled your weight onto him, he let out a choked, blissful sound underneath you and his arms wrapped around your thighs, locking you in place. 

There was no escape, and in seconds, you didn't want any.

He feasted. His tongue speared into you, fucking into the tender, well-used channel with a rhythm that was all his own. He alternated between deep, penetrating licks and frantic, fluttering sucks on your clit, his nose buried against you, breathing you in like oxygen. His hips began to move in tiny, abortive thrusts against the empty air, the blanket beneath him.

You were in disbelief at what had gotten into him – the boy you once knew had well and truly been replaced by a man. A handsome, steadfast partner, who clearly didn’t have any thoughts of leaving you for anyone else; even in his fame.

You looked down at him from where you were perched over his face. And the sight… unwound you completely.

His eyes were squeezed shut in ecstasy, his beautiful face a mask of utter surrender. 

Your eyes roamed away, and then you saw against his stomach, his cock was already fully, achingly hard again, thick and flushed and leaking a fresh pearl of pre-come onto the skin just below his belly button. 

The sheer, wanton need of it and the fact that tasting you, servicing you, had him rock-hard and throbbing in seconds sent a violent, possessive thrill through you.

The power dynamic shifted on a dizzying axis.

You rose off his mouth, ignoring his grunt of protest. You moved backwards, straddling his hips instead of his face. His eyes flew open, confused, desperate.

"Wha—?"

You didn't let him finish. You wanted to show him that other positions were just as good. You remembered something you’d read, a way to take control…

You reached between your legs, took his hard, slick cock in your hand, and guided it to your entrance, still wet and open from his mouth and his seed. 

You sank down onto him slowly, sheathing him completely inside your sore, sensitive heat.

A dual cry tore through the room—his a sharp, shattered gasp of "God Damn–!", yours a long, low moan of exquisite, overwhelming fullness.

For a second, you both froze, impaled, connected. 

You saw the shock in his eyes, then the dawning, wild comprehension. You were in control. You were taking what you needed from him.

Then you began to move.

You rode him slowly at first, a deep, rolling grind, using the muscles inside you to clench his length. 

His head fell back, a string of broken, sensual praises falling from his lips. 

"Yess… ride me… use me… you feel so good taking your pleasure from me… only me baby"

But Michael was not a passive lover. He was jealous, stubborn and petty at times and this had to manifest in your sex life too.

The submission was a feint, a precursor to a different kind of power.

His hands, which had been gripping the sheets, flew to your hips. His grip was iron, his long fingers digging into your flesh. The gentle, curious boy was gone. In his place was a man consumed, only you on his mind and in his sightline.

"Harder," he growled, his voice darker than usual. 

He thrust his hips up to meet your downward stroke, a sharp, punishing impact that stole your breath. 

" harder. Take what you want. Use me."

He began to dictate the rhythm from below. He bucked his hips, meeting each of your descents with a powerful, upward drive, controlling the depth, the angle, the force. He was fucking himself into you from the bottom, his strength surprising, his need an inferno.

"Yes! Like that!" he chanted, his eyes blazing up at you, watching your breasts bounce, your face contort in pleasure. 

"Good. keep going. I wanna feel you tighten around me again whilst you come for me"

His physical domination from beneath you was the spark that lit the fuse. 

You cried out, your rhythm breaking into frantic, shallow bounces as the orgasm ripped through you, violently, your nerve endings completely shattered from what was going on.

He felt it. He saw it. And it unleashed the final, raw animal in him.

With a roar that was half-sob, half-triumph, he gripped your hips and lifted you off of him. In one violent, graceful motion, he flipped you onto your back and was surging over you before the cry could leave your throat. He slammed back into you to the hilt, hooking your legs over the crooks of his arms, folding you nearly in half.

"Mine," he said, the word a primal, guttural claim against your lips. 

His rhythm was brutal, perfectly aimed despite his inexperience, a relentless, piston-drive fucking that had the bed slamming into the wall with a frantic, wooden THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD.

He was everywhere, his sweat dripping onto your chest, his groans hot in your ear, his hands gripping your legs like vices. 

He was a beautiful, desperate machine, chasing his own end with fury, using your body to get there, giving you everything he had in the process.

"I think…m-gonna fill you up… again…" he panted, his rhythm fracturing into erratic, deep jabs. 

"Mark you… inside and out… so you never forget… whose girl you are… Ah—! Ah, God—!"

His release was silent. His body locked, every muscle corded and straining. His mouth opened but nothing came out, his eyes wide and unseeing as he emptied himself into you in hot, pulsing jets, deeper than seemed possible. 

He collapsed forward, but caught himself on trembling arms, still buried inside you, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath sobbing into your mouth.

Slowly, he softened and slipped out. He didn't roll away. He collapsed onto you, a dead weight of satiated obsession, his face buried in the crook of your neck. His arms slid under you, binding you to him completely.

His lips moved against your damp skin, the words slurred, thick with exhaustion and a profound, drunken awe.

“They are gonna have to lock me up in a padded room to stay away from you now”

fin.. ;)

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You had crawled into bed with Michael one night, skin glistening from the expensive floral scented lotion you’d just delicately rubbed into your skin, settling comfortably in the sheets next to him. He was quieter that night — he mumbled at dinner, barely conversing with you, playing with his food. Michael didn’t have a large appetite, so his lack of eating hadn’t phased you as much as it did now. You didn’t expect him to be too chatty that night either, you had already had a heated disagreement a few hours earlier that remained unresolved — something that was becoming more frequent in recent times due to his demanding career.

So, when you nestled against him, his hands rigid at his sides, was when you noticed something was undeniably wrong.

“Is everything okay, baby?” You asked, peering up from his chest to glance at his pokerface.

“I think we should split up.”

The words hit you full-force, panic and shock instantly flooding your emotion — sitting up so frantically it made Michael flinch.

“What? What the hell are you talking about?” Your voice was frantic and distressed, face forced into a scrunch of anxiety.

Michael stayed silent for a few moments, not daring to meet your eyes, just staring blankly at the wall next to him.

“Michael, don’t fucking joke with me. Fucking say something.”

“Stop cursing, please.” He forced out, voice hoarse and low, attempting to keep his dignity.

You scoffed in disbelief, “So, you blurt out that you wanna break-up, but all you care about is a curse? Are you fucking serious?” Anger was the emotion at the forefront of your brain now, utterly disgusted with his coldness towards you mixed with the cruelty of his words.

“Things are complicated right now.” He started, still facing away from you, “I’ve got the album and the tour, and we’re fighting too much already because of it. It’s not good for us especially if I’m away for long periods of time. You deserve someone who can be around for you. Someone better.” He sighed, shaking his head, “I don’t want to let this progress and then end up hurting one another more.”

“‘Let this progress?’ Michael we’ve been together for three years, nearly four. You didn’t think to end things three and half years ago if you didn’t wanna get hurt? Are you serious?”

“I still love you, I just want to protect us both from pain.” He spoke quietly.

“Love? This isn’t love, Michael, this is cruel. This is worse pain. Someone who loved me wouldn’t treat me like this. Why are you doing this to me? To us?”

His heart clenched as your voice cracked, not brave enough to look you in your eyes, now brimming with tears.

“I’m sorry.”

The words felt faux as they left his lips — silencing encasing the room. You scoffed, standing up swiftly from the bed, rushing into the bathroom, slamming the door harshly behind you. You missed the way Michael flinched once more as the loud sound echoed throughout the quiet room, a single tear falling down his cold cheek — attempting to ignore your wails of despair from behind the door.

He saw you for the last time as you rushed out of the bathroom — bag full of your toiletries in hand as you raced towards the bedroom door, sobbing.

He called your name, but you cut him off, swearing brutally at him, along the lines of ‘Go fuck yourself, Michael’. Your memory of that night wavered thin now — your brain compartmentalising the pain to the back of your mind, pushing it the furthest away from to prevent you from punishing yourself with the hurtful memory.

You were packed and moved out the same night — moving back in with your parents, who comforted you for weeks on end as you experienced the worst heartbreak you’d ever felt in your life. The one person you loved and trusted the most in your life had been the one to hurt you the most, too. It was a strange phenomenon — to still love and yearn for the person causing you agonising misery.

At month one, you spent most days in bed — wallowing in your despair, reading old love-letters, staring at photos taken on your first tropical vacation, your anniversary, his birthday. You were torturing yourself — a bittersweet pain that you struggled to rid yourself of. Ending most nights by sobbing into your hand as you read the newspapers — headlines of your split plastered everywhere. Utterly devastated at how disgusting tabloids portrayed you as a deadweight on Michael’s blossoming career, that you were only dragging him down, that he made a good decision to free himself of you.

By month two, you got back to work. You had managed to find your new routine — working hard on your own music, pouring your damaged heart into each song, passion flowing from your lips with each lyric. You didn’t cry as much — only now and again when Michael would pop up on the television, his new album ‘Bad’ going world platinum again, just as his others did, his success booming. What irked you most was he looked perfectly fine — smiling happily for the cameras, performing on stage on tour with pure, irrevocable talent, adoration and excitement oozing off of him, like he didn’t destroy someone’s life two months ago.

By month three, you acted unaffected. You’d moved out into your own place — gaining some unwanted independence. You began going about your life like you’d never met him — going on a few dates, dancing at clubs with your friends with guys you were a stranger to, late night calls with men you knew deep down would never compare, but indulging in the fun of it nonetheless— heart fuelled by anger and frustration, desperate to get back at him. When you finally moved on sexually, you were irritatingly disappointed — no man on the planet could please you like Michael had. That’s what filled you with pure rage. Faking orgasms and pretending as though their cock’s even made half the stretch that Michael’s did had you furious — often pushing them away mid sex, ordering them to get out of your apartment.

You were now almost at month six and the ice in your heart towards Michael hadn’t let up.

You pretended, to your family and friends, that you were over it — that it didn’t affect you anymore. That you had totally moved on with your life. Wrong. You were still livid deep down — not a single day going by where you didn’t curl your fists up in fury at the thought of him. Fury that you still had an annoyingly large place for him in your heart — that no matter how bitter you tried to convince yourself you were about him, it did nothing to dilute the sickly sweetness that overpowered your heart.

And that lovesick heart of yours was pounding violently in your chest right now.

Sat in the back of a limousine, dolled up to the Gods — hair, makeup and outfit perfected to a T, you looked divine. So divine you were determined to make a statement — one just as bad his.

Ironic.

The man in question who you were dying to shock, self-proclaimed as ‘bad’, connotations to his new album, was someone you believed to be sweet, tender and loving. An album title you always thought was truly ironic as he was quite the opposite.

Not as of recent.

Diana Ross had been a thorn in your side since the day you and Michael met. Her relentless flirtatious energy towards the man you craved was angering — even before you called it official was she persistent with her teasing.

“So, you’re the girl Michael keeps talkin’ so much about.” She drawled, the day you met her, your handshake harsher than usual as you gripped her bony hand in your own, “Not his girl, yet though, right?” She laughed, “Better snatch that handsome thing up before I do.”

You confessed your love to Michael that night.

You did truly have intense feelings for him — but that old cow had given you the push you needed. No way in hell was she going to take him away from you — not on your watch.

So, rightfully so, you were anxious at the thought of her finding out about your split — wondering what her next move would be. You’d spend everyday reading the newspapers in a panic, skimming through a thousand words a second in an attempt to find any news of them being spotted together.

And the day came — a week before The 1988 Soul Train Music Awards. The very award ceremony you were heading to, looking so beautiful.

Michael and Diana were front page — pressed tightly against one another at a famous club. His smile was bright, wide and genuine — something you’d missed seeing in person, now adorning his captivating face because of that witch. She had looped her arm through his, the picture capturing her pressing a sloppy kiss to his cheek. The title read ‘MICHAEL MOVING ON ALREADY? — OLD FLAME REIGNITED’

Oh, he had really done it this time.

He knew how much you hated her — loathed her, actually. The older woman often getting in the way of your relationship throughout the years you were together — despite having a husband herself, she was betrothed with your man.

So, even if technically he didn’t owe you a thing as you weren’t his anymore, you silently felt fury at him for letting her kiss him for the cameras.

Therefore, your only response was to fight fire with fire — childish? Maybe. But, clever? Absolutely.

“You ready, sweetheart?”

The sound of Prince’s voice next to you in the limo tugged a devilish smirk onto your face as you nodded.

If Michael wanted to play dirty — you would play real dirty.

The car had rolled to a stop — flashes of the paparazzi’s intrusive cameras burnt into your vision as the driver pulled the door open. You stepped out, smoothing your dress, a wide smile on your face, waving sweetly as you waited for your date to exit the vehicle.

If you thought the flash was bright before, you were mistaken. Spots blurred into your vision as Prince stood next to you, instantly taking your hand in his own, confidence oozing from him as always, before smiling down at you. You turned to him — pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, lipstick now smeared across his skin, earning a knowing laugh from his throat.

Cha-ching!

Those pictures, dripping with revenge, were a real moneymaker — something that would put that sloppy, old hag’s attempt to make you jealous to shame.

Everyone knew of the musical feud between Michael and Prince — the two men battling for the title of ‘the biggest star in the world’. You knew that Michael took the cake — but, you also knew that seeing his biggest rival with his ex-girl would shut down any attempt of riling you up.

“Nicely done.” Prince whispered, lips close to your ear as you were ushered inside the building. He was aware of your vengeful plan — and more than willing to help aggravate his arch nemesis.

“You too.” You sent a wink his way, engaging in a childish, unison giggle, knowing exactly what you were doing was going to end messy, “I’ll see you later.”

You parted ways with your exes nemesis, not before letting him press a calculated kiss to your knuckles, peripheral vision burning as more cameras captured your (fake) romantic moment, before being ushered to your assigned seat.

You were fairly near the stage, around three rows in front, next to your favourite female pop-star and close friend, Whitney Houston. A real, genuine smile burst across your face when she seated herself next to you.

“Girl.” She breathed out a laugh, placing her clutch bag gently in her lap.

“What?” You laughed, smiling across at her in confusion.

“Honey, I think you know what.” She shook her head with a grin, “You made quite the entrance back there.”

Perfect.

The corners of your lips tugged up into a deeper smile, “Then my plan is working.”

Whitney chuckled, “I just know that poor man is beyond ticked off right now.”

“‘Poor man’?” You scoffed, “He is far from poor. You saw the papers, right?”

“Everybody did, sweetie.”

“Number one, not helpful,” You pointed a finger at her, ignoring the way she cackled, “And two, he had it comin’” You paused, “Everyone, including him, knows how much I hate her.”

“Hate who?”

You froze — the infamously familiar voice that once had you smiling like a damn idiot before, now had your face falling as your head lurched behind you.

And there he was.

Michael.

In all his annoying glory — sporting a dashing red button-up, a sleek tie around his neck, paired with a black suit jacket, that hugged the curve of the lean muscles in his arms in a way that your breath hitching in your throat.

It aggravated you that he looked so good.

But, you knew that he knew that you looked better.

Your irritation only blossomed as you glanced at the seat to your right — eyes rolling in annoyance as his name, scribbled onto a flimsy piece of paper on the chair right next to you, hit your vision.

Fuck award show assigned seats.

“Well, shit, girl.” Whitney mumbled, laughing under her breath as she turned away from the tension that was rising as Michael took his seat.

“Hello.” He spoke, voice soft and gentle, just like you remembered.

“That’s all you have to say to me?” Your voice came out harsher than expected, an angered frown visible on your face as a grin bloomed on his.

His mouth went to open, but you cut him off, hand shooing him away, “Actually, don’t even speak to me, please.”

“You look beautiful.”

“What did I just say Michael?”

You hated the way he smirked at your snappy tone, lip coming between his teeth as he obeyed your request, getting comfortable in his chair. You also hated the way your heart did an extremely noticeable flip in your chest at the compliment.

This night was going to be the death of you.

And it only got worse as Michael retreated to the stage, not once, but twice — each time looking more gracious and handsome as the next. He won Best Single and Album of the Year for Bad — the trophies enclosed around his beautiful, slender hands, ones that once gave you blissful satisfaction.

You despised your weak mind for the way you let it run away with itself — eyes trailing over his tall, elegant frame each time he’d take the stage. That infamous smile that had you weak at the knees did nothing to cool the desire that was overpowering your anger, the yearn for him only increasing.

Michael thumped into his seat next to you with a sigh, now two awards richer, running a hand through his long curls that cascaded down his shoulders.

You could sense he was looking at you — his smiling face visible in your side eye-line, but you refused to turn, your eyes fixated on the stage as the next category was revealed.

“Saw your little stunt earlier.” He whispered, “Real classy.”

You scoffed quietly, “That’s rich.”

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

You knew that tone — that cocky, teasing tone that had you gritting your teeth.

You finally turned to face him, “Oh, right. I’m sure letting that old crow kiss you is a regular thing now, huh?”

“Saw that, did you?” He was testing you, it was evident in the way the knowing smirk on his face never faltered.

You were halfheartedly listening as your name was read for the nomination, not even bothering to care as you held your gaze with the man seated next to you — a brutal lock of eyes that said a thousand words. You were furious, failing to hide it miserably, and he, well, he was enjoying it.

“I did.” You started, “Nice to see a downgrade was my replacement.”

Michael’s smile flickered at your harsh dig at his life-long friend, “I think I could say the same about your date.”

“At least I have one.”

That sure wiped the smirk off his face.

“And definitely not a downgrade in the bedroom.”

You basked in his shock — the smirk he once sported now adorning your face, nearly missing the way your name was called from the stage, the room erupting in applause.

“Excuse me?” Michael’s voice was bitter, cold, mortified at your admission. A false one at that, but he didn’t need to know. Yet.

“Sorry, can’t hear you.” You shrugged him off, rising to your feet with a proud smile — at your award mostly, but also at your triumphant win in the petty disagreement, as loud cheers exploded in your ears.

You took the stage — a new found confidence oozing off of you, a gorgeous smile on your face as you took the award from the announcer’s hands, pulling them into a small hug. You thanked your producer, musical team, family and friends — humbleness evident in every word you spoke.

You looked perfect — utterly radiant under the bright lighting blaring down onto the stage, award glistening in your hands as your pearly white smile twinkled in the spotlight.

Michael, albeit still in an angered daze over your admission, couldn’t help himself but rake his eyes over your frame — breasts pushed perfectly up your corseted dress, the curve of the plush mounds visible to everyone’s eyes from the audience, eyes never leaving those perfect tits he’d once nestle his face into as he flung your legs over his shoulders and filled you to the hilt with his cock.

The thought had him readjusting his slacks — hard-on now painful against the restrictive clothing at the delicious reminiscing of your love-making.

It was your next words that had the sexual memories leaving his head.

“And I wanna thank my wonderful date for tonight— matter of fact, come up here! Prince, where y’at, honey?”

The room erupted into cheers once more — everyone but Michael, who attempted to drown out Whitney’s disbelieving laughter from two seats down from him, watching as you shielded your eyes from the light, searching for the man in the crowd.

Michael stared lethal daggers into Prince’s back as he sauntered up the stairs to the stage — his chest heaving in undeniable envy as he watched Prince pull you into a tight hug. Those gorgeous breasts now pressed up against Prince’s chest.

He was livid. Hands tightening around the material of his trousers, knuckles white as his grip turned taut.

“Not only is he a Pop King,” The room exchanged hushed gasps at the title, one that everyone knew belonged to your furious ex, “But, he’s also a fantastic plus one.” Laughs fizzled out the shock at your insinuation that Prince was only there with you, not for his own musical nominations.

Michael, however, had never felt fury quite like it.

That title was his.

One he worked so hard for — something him and that idiot, in his mind, up on stage with you had fought over for so many years. And you knew that.

He knew you were aggravating him deliberately.

Prince smirked, eyes finding Michael’s in the crowd, expression darkening, “Sorry, Michael.”

And with a smooth arm wrapped around your back, and a swift dip in the air — he kissed you.

Well, not actually.

His lips attached to the corner of your mouth, barely touching, but to the audience, and more importantly, the cameras, it looked as though your ex-boyfriend’s fiercest enemy was kissing the life out of you on stage.

And, boy, did everyone in the room eat it up.

Standing ovations and screams of joy sounded in the room as they clapped — basking in the pure drama of it all.

Prince pulled away from you with a smile, winking at you as you laughed, shaking your head. He took his hand in yours, guiding you backstage, the noise of the crowd dying down as you were ushered away.

“You’re evil.” You chuckled, chest heaving from the adrenaline.

“Well, maybe it’ll give him the push he needs to try get y’back.” Prince admitted, “Either that or to write ‘nother okay album.”

You shoved his arm playfully, “Oh, stop. Y’know it was a good album.”

“Sure, sweetheart, sure.” He teased, sending another smug wink your way, earning another giggle from your lips.

You’d barely made it ten steps backstage before an all familiar frame blocked your way.

You swallowed thickly as Michael’s cold, blank expression met your eyes, his hands curled at his side as he held your gaze — watching as the smile fell from your face.

He didn’t fail to notice how quickly you dropped Prince’s hand, either.

“Come with me. Now.” His voice was darker than his usual soft, gentle tone — not holding a deeper undertone of something that had a chill running down your spine.

“Oh, he mad now.” Prince spoke up, a soft, breathy laugh leaving his lips, “Don’t be jealous, brother, y’got ‘Ross don’t’cha?”

Michael’s jaw clenched, his gaze turning to Prince, eyes darkening into something icier, “I’d walk away if you know what’s good for you.”

Prince laughed once again, eyes flickering back towards you, “Good luck, girl.” He turned back to Michael, placing a hand on his shoulder, “Be sure to bring her back t’me when you’re done, yeah?”

Michael lunged, flinging his hand off his shoulder in a brutal shove, turning towards him with clear intent. You rushed in between a seething Michael and a laughing Prince, hands steadying the angered man on his chest.

“Enough. Both of you.” You hissed, “Just go.” You signalled to the amused man behind you.

Prince didn’t fight it — just turned to walk away with his hands in the air in surrender, chuckling as he went.

“Michael, what the hell was that for?” You snapped.

Michael didn’t speak — only grabbed your wrist in a firm, not aggressive, more so possessive, grasp, tugging you away, his longer legs moving swiftly with each stride, your own practically in a run as you fought to keep up.

He found a nearby bathroom, pushing the door open with all his strength, ignoring the way you winced at the sound of the handle harshly slammed into the wall. The door was shut and locked quicker than it had opened — before you were pushed against it.

“Me?” He started, answering your prior question, his chest heaving as he stared down at you, pupils blown in distress, “I think I should be asking you that question, sweetheart.”

The pet-name spat from his mouth with a curl of his lips — face contorted into a scowl.

You gained your pride, taking two hands to his shoulders and shoving him, your strength against his own doing as little as moving him a few steps backwards.

“Don’t get it twisted, Michael.” You retorted, “You started this with that bitch.”

Michael scoffed, “Go’head, baby, try and convince yourself I’m in the wrong here.” His tongue poked out from his inner cheek, “You’re insatiable.”

“Don’t you dare call me that.” Your voice seeping with distaste at the familiar pet-name, “You lost that privilege the second you gave up on us like we were nothin’.” You shook your head, “Would’ve let you have it back if you didn’t let that old slut rub up on you like you’re a fuckin’ groupie.” You laughed darkly, looking him up and down, “Not now. Lost every fuckin’ chance with me.”

Michael looked taken aback by your disrespectful words — teeth grinding together as he never took his eyes away from your own.

“I never gave up on us willingly.” He revealed, ignoring the way you scoffed with a laugh, as he took a step closer to you, “And as for her,” He paused, attempting to find the right words.

“See? You can’t even convince yourself there’s nothin’ going on there.” You cut him off, hands flailing in the air as you spoke theatrically.

“Let me finish, woman.” He shot back, “As I was sayin’ — she means nothing to me. Absolutely nothing. She’s an old friend. Someone who mentored me as a kid. We have history — but nothin’ more than platonic. Barely even platonic, just professional.”

“Don’t kid yourself, Michael. No ‘professional mentor’ kisses their ‘colleague’ like that.” You air-quoted the words that felt faux with your manicured fingers, shaking your head, “Do you take me for some kind of idiot?”

“Not in that sense, no.” He started, “For actin’ like that with him? Maybe.”

You laughed in disbelief, “You just love it, don’t you? Pretending to yourself that I’m the bad guy, that I went up there and acted like that just to hurt you with no real reason?” You looked him up and down with disgust, “You’re so blind.”

“How many times, girl? There’s nothin’ going on with me and Di.”

He regretted the use of the nickname the second it left his mouth.

“Di? That sounds real professional to me, asshole.” You turned on your heel, clicking the lock back open and twisting the handle, pulling the door open in an attempt to storm out.

Before you could even move, the door was slammed shut once again. The loudness blooming a new found silence in the room, one that failed to occur from the second you walked in there.

Michael’s hand, despite his burning anger, remained gentle as moved your body back to face him, pressing you back into the door.

“Don’t even think about it.” He whispered, “You are not walkin’ away from me.”

“That’s ironic.” You bit back, “If you hadn’t have done that in the first place, we wouldn’t be havin’ this argument.”

“Y’think I wanted to do that? Think I wanted to sit there and watch you panic? Listen to you cry? Hear you cuss me out because of pain and anger I caused? No. That’s where y’dead wrong, girl.” He let out a shaken breath, “I have always, from the moment I met you, till this very day, loved you. Loved you so much I had to give you the life you deserved. I had to let you go. Had to get you away from the pain I was bringin’. No one wants to be with someone who’s never there, and when they are, they’re always fightin’.” Then, he went silent, his eyes now softened as they met your glassy ones, tears threatening to fall as you let him talk.

You both stayed in deathly loud silence, louder than any door slamming or screaming argument — silence that spoke more words than any you’d ever said.

You swallowed thickly, your resolve cracking as his admission settled in your brain, “That wasn’t your decision to make, Michael.” Your voice was quieter now, still with the same stubborn sharpness, but less accusatory, now filled with evident upset.

Michael breathed, his head hanging low, his forehead a mere few inches from your own, “I regret that night every fucking day.” He whispered, a vulnerable string of words that hung heavy in your heart, “Letting you walk out that door was the worst mistake of my life.”

“Why her?” Your voice cracked as you spoke, a stray tear falling down your cheek as you met his gaze.

“It wasn’t a personal attack. She was just at the same club and approached me.” He revealed, “The picture was taken before I even had a chance to say no.”

You shook your head, breaking the eye-contact as you looked at your feet, hiding your rapidly falling tears. Michael’s trembling hand reached for your face, a tentative hand cupping your warm cheek, lifting your face to meet his eyes once more.

“Mama..”

“Stop.” You turned your head, pushing his hand away with your own, “I can’t even look at you.”

“Don’t act so innocent.” Michael’s tone, that had once softened, grew the all too familiar iciness that had been evident the whole evening, “I’m trying to fix things here despite your little ordeal earlier. D’y’know what it’s like to see you kissing him up there? That used to be me if you even remember.”

You let out a low laugh, “He didn’t even kiss me, fool, ‘was all an act. Unlike you and Di.” You barked, “Y’know you actually blow my mind, you’re so—Mmmph!”

Michael connected your lips in a frantic kiss, cutting off your incessant bickering, lips moving against yours quickly.

You shoved him back, gasping for air at the sudden loss of breath, “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Puttin’ that bratty fuckin’ mouth to better use.”

He kissed you again — mouth sliding against your own in a feverish lip-locking, a hand now gripping the nape of your neck, the other on the curve of your waist.

And this time — you let him.

You melted into him, hands flying to his face, eyes fluttering shut as you caved, droplets of tears falling onto the tops of your cheeks — falling deeper into his mercy. His tongue slid across the surface of your bottom lip, still awaiting permission despite his frustration. You allowed it, letting his tongue slide into your warm mouth, humming in delight at the taste of his minty breath on the hot muscle, revelling in the way he pushed his body into yours. His hands wondered — now travelling down your body to grab a handful of your ass through your dress, continuing his oral assault on your swollen lips.

“Jump.”

You obeyed, leaving his lips to leap into his arms — his hands cradling your behind as he connected your lips once more, settling you on the sink, slotting himself between your ajar legs.

Michael detached his mouth from own, moving his lips down the curve of your jaw, and down your exposed neck — letting his hips rock into yours involuntarily, while he sucked possessive marks into your skin, at the sound of your breathy moans, head tilted back to allow him better access.

“Michael, please.” You whined, voice a needy plea, hands sliding up into his hair, threading through his tight curls.

“Please, what, angel?” He mumbled against your neck, breath hot against your skin, fresh lovebites forming as he spoke.

“Please—mmhm—Need you, fuck.”

Michael pulled away, hands flying to your dress, pulling down the zipper harshly — before pulling you to your heeled feet, pushing it off your body swiftly, leaving you in just a skimpy bare of lace panties.

Ones you knew were his favourite.

“Oh, sweetheart,” He breathed, eyes raking over your bare frame, glossy doe-eyes peering up at him as he towered above you, “Wore my favourite just for me?”

You nodded, “Just f’you, Mike.”

Michael turned you, with precise smoothness, pressing your stomach against the cold of the sink, your bare back now pressed against his chest.

He slid a tentative hand up your side, toying with the tiny string the thong that clad your bottom half, as he locked eyes with your own in the mirror before you, “How am I supposed to know you didn’t wear them for him, mama?”

You pushed back against him, rolling your hips into the statement of his arousal, “Shut up about him and fuck me.”

A harsh hand connected with your left ass cheek — a half-gasp half-moan ripping from your throat at the sudden contact, “Thought I told you to keep that bratty mouth shut?”

You, testing your luck, ground against him once more, smirking at the way his hand tightened against your hand-printed behind, “Give me what I want then.”

Michael shook his head behind you — one hand working on his belt, pushing his slacks down along with his boxers, his palm wrapping around his achingly hard cock, pumping himself slowly, while the other pulled down your panties, now morphed into the shape of your plush folds from your leaking arousal, to the side, “Be careful what you wish for, doll.”

With one swift, sudden thrust, Michael pushed inside you — bottoming out instantly. A scream erupted from your throat at the instant fullness, your tight cunt struggling to adjust to the sheer size of him as his leaking tip kissed your cervix. Your pussy betrayed you as it clenched around him, drooling around him, coating his cock in your slick.

His hand flew to your mouth, his large palm enclosing around your swollen lips, muffling the whimpers that left you as you struggled around him — eyes fluttering shut at the feeling of him throbbing inside you.

“Keep those eyes open, mama,” He ordered, sliding out of you slowly until the only thing that remained inside your quivering hole was his plump mauve cockend, “Want you to see how pathetically you fall apart on my cock. My cock. No-one else’s.”

He pushed in again with the familiar harshness from before as your eyes shot open — now starting a brutal, animalistic pace that had you clawing at the tense of his hand that enveloped your mouth, hiding the high-pitched squeals and whines of pure, irrevocable lust that took over your mind, body and soul.

Michael groaned into your ear, eyes locked on your own as he fucked into you with such a pace and lack of gentleness that you’d never seen before. During your companionship, Michael took his time with you — worked you open with his mouth and fingers, took his time to get you ready for the thickness and length of him. But, not this time — all the pent up rage brought upon him from the start of the night now being fucked into you with every harsh rock of his hips.

Keeping you flush against his chest, his free hand slid down to where you connected — rubbing tight figure eights against your clit that throbbed for attention. Your head fell back against his shoulder, eyes rolling to the back of your head, ignoring any order he gave you to hold his gaze.

“Mmphmh—M-Mich—Michael, please!”

Words failed you as you cried against his hand, drunk on the way his cock dragged in and out of your gummy walls that sucked him in with each thrust — the sound of your feverish moans and your squelching cunt mixing with his breathy groans filling the air of the bathroom that now stunk of Michael’s intoxicating cologne and passionate sex.

“Take it, baby, take this fuckin’ dick.” He grunted into your ear, his words unlike his usual loving coaxes, “Make up for what’cha did.”

Michael hissed as you bit down on the skin of his palm, his hand pulling away from the source of pain as he meet your gaze in the mirror — your own expression now deepening into a scowl, “Fuck you.”

The words spat from your mouth, dripping with venom, at his words of blame, watching as his face scrunched up in frustration.

“Oh, you’ve done it now, ma.”

His pace never let up — if anything, since your oral stunt, it quickened. He forced you down, now completely bent over the sink as he created a new angle — his cock now driving deeper into your sopping cunt, abusing the sweet spot inside you relentlessly.

Now released from his grasp, your loud, incessant cries sounded throughout the small room — so voluminous that any passerby would hear every scream of his name.

His hand collided with your ass cheek again — cursing under his breath as the familiar feeling of a much needed orgasm crept up his abdomen. The lustful spark in your stomach blossoming much the same as he slid a hand into your hair, tugging your head upwards to look directly into the mirror once more. You were a state, completely, and literally, fucked — eyes streaming with tears that coated your hot cheeks, lips swollen and stricken with spit from his frantic kisses, and a small yet equally evident imprint of his fingers around your mouth where he held you harshly.

“‘M gonna cum so fuckin’ deep in this pussy that you can’t fuckin’ walk without flooding your little panties with my seed.” He grunted, never letting his thrusts faltering as you squirmed beneath him, “Who’s needy little cunt is this?”

Words failed you as you continued to cry — only desperate, eager whimpers falling from your lips.

Another spank connected with your ass cheek, coaxing a loud whine out of you, “Answer me when I ask you a fuckin’ question, woman.”

“Yours!—fuck, Michael, it’s all yours.” You panted, tears falling from your eyes faster than you could stop them.

“Say this pussy’s mine.” Michael spat, tugging hard on your locks of hair.

“My pussy’s all yours, baby, fuck—mmph!—Gonna cum!”

Michael hummed, clearly pleased with your response, his hips stuttering as he neared his own release, “Cum with me, beautiful, cum on my cock like a good girl.”

You cried out, loud and despairingly, as you finally broke — red-hot ecstasy taking over your body as you came, the flood gates of your pleasure breaking open to consume you. Michael followed, the tight clenching of your quivering pussy sending him over the edge, spurting his hot seed into your fertile cunt as he groaned lowly — the sensation of his cum filling your fluttering sex only furthering your own orgasm.

You slumped against the countertop — chest heaving as you attempted to catch your breath. Michael stilled behind you, swallowing thickly as he softened inside you. He leant down, pushing his chest against your back, coated with a sheen of sweat, before pressing a soft, loving kiss to your shoulder.

His kisses trailed up to your neck, beneath your earlobe, your cheek, before using a trembling hand to tilt your head to the side, and pressing his lips against your own. You sobbed into the kiss, more tears, now from overwhelming emotion, falling from your eyes. Michael’s hand cupped your cheek — deepening the kiss, that once held so much irritation, resentment and anger, now filled with undeniable attachment, deep love and compassion.

“I love you.” Michael breathed, disconnecting your lips, resting his forehead against yours — singular curl that stuck to his slick forehead tickling your own, “Please be mine again.” He whispered.

You nodded, pressing a soft kiss to his nose, head reeling from the overstimulating rush of emotions.

“But don’t pull that shit again.” He added with a playful smile.

“Yeah,” You sniffled with a breathy laugh, “You too.”

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･