it’s a crave that won’t leave. even though you embarrassed yourself that other day, you don’t believe that it’s impossible. michael’s fingers are long and slightly thick and he’s been able to get at least three inside of you once so his length should fit inside of you.

maybe you just weren’t prepped properly.

to be honest you just happened to think you were wet enough to take his girth but maybe just maybe you just weren’t worked open enough for him to fit.

you bite your lip, squeezing your thighs together in desperation.

you want him so damn bad. you need to feel the unbelievable pleasure of him inside of you.

you need it. you need it. you need it.

you can’t stop squirming in anticipation, not realising that every time you clench your thighs together, you accidentally push your ass back against michael’s groin.

michael stirs slightly, tightening his hold on your waist. “hm, stop moving.” he mumbles out, still half asleep.

“i can’t.” you whine, still fidgeting. you can already feel your cotton pyjama shorts start to get a bit uncomfortable, rubbing against your aching clit.

“baby.” it’s an almost growl, his wide palm moving from your waist to your hips, attempting to hold you still.

“mhmm i need you.” you whine. you want his dick inside you so bad that tears start to swell.

“it’s late, baby go to sleep.” michael grunts, settling his head in the dip of your shoulder.

“please.” you beg, turning your head and kissing the side of his mouth. you were hoping to latch onto his lips but because it’s so dark in the bedroom, you can’t see a single thing. “i won’t be able to sleep otherwise, i can take you this time… i promise.”

a deep rumble crawls out of michael’s throat at your filthy words. “mama… you gotta stop speakin’ like that.”

“i can take it.” you whisper. “i will take it, all of it.” you move your hand behind your back, slithering your hand down between your squished bodies and finding the waistband of michael’s shorts.

“baby hold— nghhh” his words trail off into a guttural groan when you slip your hand into his shorts and wrap your fingers around the base of his thick member.

you bite your lip giving it a small squeeze. michael digs his head in the crook of your neck, letting out tiny whimpers when you tighten your grip around him and move your hand down until your thumb reaches the tip.

“what— fuck… what if it still doesn’t fit.” michael babbles in your ear, as you continue to pump his length.

you giggle, knowing that you’ve already cracked his shy act. “then we just gotta make sure that you stretch me out good with those thick and long fingers of yours.”

and that’s how you ended up on your back with michael’s head between your thighs.

the only thing you can hear in the dark room is the loud slurps of michael eating you out like a man starved and your attempt at trying to muffle your moans.

your eyes roll to the back of your head, as another orgasm slams into you making you let out a drawled out moan. michael raises his head, his mouth slick with your juices.

“you always taste so good mama.” he coos, crawling up your body and locking his lips with yours in a messy kiss.

you hum into the kiss, licking and sucking on his plump lips. you continue kissing him until you feel his hand trail down until his thumb starts drawing short, quick circles on your swollen nub.

“ahh—” you gasp at the sudden sensation. your pussy is so sensitive after having orgasm after orgasm on just michael’s mouth.

“shh…” michael whispers, his pointer finger trailing down to your soaked hole. you clutch his shoulder when you feel the fullness of his finger sinking into you.

“you’re so goddamn tight.” michael hisses, pushing a second finger inside of you. “you wanna be so greedy and try and take my dick but you can’t even take my fingers.” he tuts.

“i can take it.” you whine, your mouth falling open in a silent moan when he starts scissoring his fingers inside of you. his fingers are so long and slightly thick that it makes you feel unbelievably full. the utter pleasure is so blissful that you can’t wait to take his whole length inside of you, because you will!

michael starts to pump his fingers faster, the wet squelch of your greedy cunt trying to suck his fingers back in with every move.

“is my baby able to take a third?” michael asks, not waiting for your answer and pushing a third finger inside of you.

“oh fuck!” you shout out, when he lowers his body so his mouth is face to face with your pussy. he continues the fast pace of his fingers plunging inside of you, but now he has his mouth closed around your clit. licking and swirling his tongue around your nub.

you grab his curls on top of his head, grinding your pelvis against his tongue. “i need it now. please i’m ready!” you plead, feeling the knot start to tighten deep in your stomach. you can feel another orgasm approaching.

michael growls, his dick so hard that it’s borderline painful.

michael sits up, taking off his shorts and boxers with quickness. you salivate at the sight of his large member, the tip glistening with pre cum. “please, please fuck me. fuck me, fuck me,” you whine, when he grabs onto your ankles and pushes them down so your knees are touching your breasts.

you let out an accidental squeal at the sudden movement. you’re even shocked at yourself at the awkward flexibility. you never even knew your legs could go that far up.

michael uses one hand to hold your ankles together and the other hand to use the tip of his dick to rub up against your cunt and gather some of your juices.

you feel his thick, mauve tip nudge at your hole, your cunt clenching around nothing. his hips push against yours, ever so softly like he’s afraid to hurt you.

“put it in!” you whine, tears of frustration starting to fall down your cheeks. you want him inside you so damn bad.

his eyes snap up to yours, narrowing. “you want it?”

you nod desperately.

“you gon’ take it?”

you huff, feeling the pressure of his wide, mushroom head tip just there. so close to breaching you walls and here he is asking you silly questions.

“yes, oh my fucking god just— nghhh fuckkkk!” you scream, when michael snaps his hips against yours, plunging his whole length inside of you with just one singular thrust.

the stretch is overwhelming. it’s something that you’ve never felt before. not when he has fucked you with his fingers, not when you were able to take just the tip a couple nights ago, no this is something different.

it feels… it feels like he’s in your throat.

“oh jesus.” michael groans, nearly crushing you with his body weight at just the feeling of your warm, gummy walls suffocating his length.

he swore that he’s never felt something so good in his life.

you only get a few seconds to breathe until michael starts moving. you’re helpless, your voice hoarse from your moans. feeling the thick ridge of his length plunging into you and stealing your breath with every single thrust.

“so,” thrust “fuckin’,” thrust “tight.”

you’re a babbling mess, drool dripping down your chin, at the quickness of michael’s movements. his pace is so fast that you have no chance to catch your breath until he’s plunging back inside you again.

michael is fucking you, the way you need to be fucked.

you’ve been begging for this, and he’s giving it to you.

another orgasm slams into you without warning, making you clench even harder around him.

“oh shit—fuck… i’m gonna… i can’t—” michael slams into you one final time, sheathing his length so far into you that when you look down, you can see the faint bulge of his length deep in your stomach. michael lets out a guttural groan, spilling his seed so far that you won’t be surprised if it meets your cervix.

he stays inside of you, letting go of your aching legs. your legs fall down limply, you arms coming around his neck so you can hold him close to you. “thank you,” you pant. thankful that after all the begging and whining he’s finally given in and gave you exactly what you wanted.

a loud knock sounds on his door, followed by a shout. “michael jackson, are you doing what i think you’re doing?” jackie yells through the door.

“he definitely is!” marlon laughs.

“i didn’t know you had that in you mike, you’re so lucky mother ain’t home tonight.” jermaine yells.

michael groans, burying his face in your neck. he’s going shy after fucking the literal life out of you.

“go away!” michael shouts, his voice muffled by your neck but somehow his brothers still heard him.

“then don’t wake us up in the night with your shenanigans then!” jackie yells, you both hear the retreating footsteps of his brothers going back to their rooms.

you giggle, cupping his cheeks and giving him a kiss on his lips. “you’re so adorable.”

“i can’t believe you woke me up to do that.” michael looks at you wide eyed, even though you can feel his length still hard inside of you.

you wrap your legs around his waist, clenching your cunt around him and making him groan.

“oh shush.” you kiss him again, this time more forcefully. “why don’t we be more quiet this time hm?”

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the bell above the bakery door chimed a cheerful greeting when you pushed it open, your son’s small glove-covered hand clasped firmly in yours. the scent hit you, heavenlike– warm vanilla, butter, and something cinnamon-sweet that made your mouth water. you shifted your feet as you fell into line, five bodies from the counter, feeling the dull ache in the curve of your feet from the double shift you worked the other day. it was worth it; of course it was worth it. every extra hour was worth it when it went to your baby. if it was possible, you would wrap the whole world in a big bow and hand it to him– in disney printed wrapping paper. 

“mommy, how long?” khalil bounced on his toes, his head swiveling around the bakery in absolute wonder. you were sure this looked like something out of his storybooks– golden lights spilling from vintage fixtures overhead and casting everything in a honey-glow. display cases lined the entire front, packed with rows of perfect pastries. bakers in white aprons moved with practiced efficiency behind, boxing orders and calling out names. 

“we just got here, honey. patience is a virtue,” you shift forward, khalil following close by your side, as the first person in line gathers their order and heads for the door. four people now. “they’re making your cake extra, extra special, remember?”

you watch as his eyes grow wide, reflecting the oval shapes from the light fixtures overhead. “with mickey mouse?”

“with mickey mouse.” you confirmed, squeezing his hand gently. “the biggest mickey mouse they could fit on a cake.”

khalil practically jumped with joy, letting out a small cheer and beaming up at you. in return, you chuckle nervously– shushing him as quietly as you could. “hush now, khalil. mind your manners.”

but no one seems to pay the two of you any attention. the tables and booths are practically empty, and those who do occupy the space are deep in conversation. your eyes flicker to the line of people in front of you– they’re mostly all bundled up to some degree; wearing long sleeved shirts and sweaters, hats, long pants. your eyes linger on one in particular sporting a clearly oversized winter jacket, paired with a plaid wool scarf wrapped around their neck and over their head. your gaze is only disrupted when your own lightweight jacket is tugged. 

“please, can i go look?”

you follow the direction khalil is pointing, eyes landing on the display case to the right of the cashier’s counter. removing your hand from his, you bring it up to caress his cheek, your chest tight with love so fierce it almost hurts. “of course, baby. i’ll be over here.” you smile, blinking back the sudden ambush of motherly emotions. 

six years old this weekend. 

six years of goodnight kisses, scraped knees, bedtime stories. six years of doing it mostly alone, save for your tiny village of friends and family, making every dollar stretch. making every moment count. his father’s absence was a dull ache you’d learned to live with, but moments like this– watching your baby’s face light up over the wonders of life– made everything worth it. 

the bell above the door chimes, bringing in a gust of early morning december chill and the faint scent of smog from the streets. you turn slightly, watching as a father and daughter amble to a separate counter for a closer look at the menu before returning your focus to your son. he’s shifted down, now in front of cookies nearly the size of your hand. khalil presses closer– breath fogging and clearing on the glass casing.

you jump when he suddenly turns, waving two tiny arms to get the attention that was already his. he’s not satisfied when you only raise an eyebrow in question, now using his hand to wave you closer; practically vibrating with energy. you glance at the empty streets behind you through the clear windows, wondering if you would be pushed back far in line if you left your spot and joined your son at the display cases. 

fuck it.

“can we get cookies too?” the question is out of his mouth before you even come to a stop next to him.

like a reflex, the mental calculator is opened. the cake had already stretched the budget, with all of it’s layers and the addition of donald duck’s character alongside mickey mouse to surprise khalil. the decorations were your main splurge– though you’d had help with this the most. you’d had a visitor to your home nearly once a day for a week straight; your brother bringing streamers and confetti, your sister bringing a van full of balloons, your closest friends with the tablecloths, plating, signage. your mother came along with you to pick out half a cart-full of presents.

khalil continues his rambling, “lucas would like the chocolate one ‘cause he’s always drinkin’ chocolate milk during lunch time. and denise would want the pink one ‘cause pink is her favorite, i think. she has a pink lunchbox, pink bookbag, pink things in her hair… what are those called…?”

you just didn’t know if it was possible. your next check was still two and a half weeks away, and you’d yet to devote some to your gas bill. though, this month had been warmer than usual, so much so that you barely had to turn on your heating system. maybe it would wind up being less than you thought it would be…

but glancing down at the price tag, your stomach sank. they were paid by the dozen and more expensive than you could pull– low gas bill or not.

you crouch down beside him, gently pulling his hands away from the glass and pressing them between yours. “baby, not today, okay?”

“but i could share with lucas and denise at my party! please? not even one for me and you?”

you repeat your previous statement, voice gentle but firm, watching as his little shoulders slump. another name is called and the line shifts forward. three people in front of you, as long as another customer didn’t walk in and take your spot. you stand and take khalil’s hand once again, but pause briefly when you get the distant feeling of being watched.

a quick glance over your shoulder confirms your suspicions when you see the person in the oversized jacket turn their–his?–head away from you, rocking his weight to the heels of his feet and back. you pay him no mind, returning your attention to khalil. “but you’ve got that big treat waitin’ on you just past these counters. and tell you what, i’ll help you cut a piece just for your friends and you can give it to them personally. that sound good?”

his posture straightens almost immediately, toothy grin returning to his face as he nods up at you. “okay, mommy.”

but when you turn, you only make it a few steps before khalil stops short. you feel it in the way his hand goes rigid in yours, in the sudden stillness of his entire body. following his gaze, you see what had captured his attention so completely. 

it was the man who’d just been watching you. he was closer to the two of you now, with an older looking man standing inches to his left. from the front you could see there, pinned to the polyester of his winter jacket, was a silver mickey mouse pin. it was beautiful– vintage, possibly, with mickey’s arms thrown out to the sides and a wide-mouthed smile. 

khalil’s voice was filled awe as he whispers, “look…”

before you could stop him, before you could even process what was happening, khalil dropped your hand. “baby–” you started, but he was already moving; prancing toward the stranger with the single-minded determination only a child could possess. 

“excuse me, mister!” 

you were mortified instantly, heart dropping to your stomach as you jogged slightly to catch up to him. this kid was going to be the death of you. you had no idea where he’d gotten his extrovert tendencies from, but it surely wasn’t you.

the older man stepped slightly forward, body angling in front of the younger in a way that had your eyebrows furrowing. even more so when, in return, the younger lays a hand on the older man’s arm– making him step back to his previous position. 

reaching for your son’s shoulder, you pull him back until his body meets the front of your legs. “m’so sorry, sir–” you cut yourself off when the man crouches down to khalil’s eye level, soft crinkles in the corners of his eyes.

he was absolutely beautiful, from what you could see. golden-brown skin that seemed to glow in the light of the bakery, high cheekbones, and the most expressive eyes you’ve ever seen. there was something familiar about him, something that nagged at the edge of your consciousness, though you couldn’t place it. 

the rest of his face hides beneath the wool of his scarf, only being revealed when he pulls it down to speak, “hi there. what’s your name?”

you feel your breath catch as your mind fills in the blanks– that genuine, gentle smile that transforms his entire face, the soft-spoken manner of his voice, the few dark curls falling across his forehead, the older man acting as a bodyguard of sorts. you were in a bakery with michael jackson. your son had managed to pick michael jackson out of a room full of people to bother. you felt like throwing up at the thought of taking time away from his day.

khalil, on the other hand, beamed– always happiest in the line of such direct attention. “khalil– with a ‘kh’, not a ‘c’.” he reached out to run a finger over the pin on michael’s jacket, not caring for a single second about your many ‘boundaries’ lectures. “that’s mickey mouse.”

“it is,” michael looks down and back up at your son, “d’you like mickey mouse?”

“uh-huh!” khalil nods so enthusiastically that his whole body moves with it. his hands fly around him as he speaks, “he’s my absolute favorite! donald duck, too.”

“is that right?” his smile grows warmer, more genuine, if that was even possible. it’s almost like you've been hypnotized, in a trance as you look at the curve of his lips. “mickey is my favorite too.”

“really?” khalil’s voice pitches up with his excitement. “i’m gonna be six on saturday, and my mommy’s getting me a cake with him on it! that’s why we're here.”

“six? that’s a very important birthday.”

you finally find your voice, reaching your arm down to pat your son's chest. “well, honey, i’m sure this nice man has things to do. we should head–”

“it’s okay,” michael speaks gently, his eyes shifting upward to meet yours for the first time. there's nothing calculated about it– just a natural glance, the kind you’d give a stranger to be polite. but then his gaze settles, and something in his expression softens, smile faltering. it’s brief, barely a second, but you feel it like a small current of electricity. he blinks at you and exhales slowly, seemingly without realizing it. “really, i don't mind at all.”

“but… are you sure?” your voice is quieter, hesitant. for a second you wish you had your son's courage– because as a woman in your twenties with a very obvious attraction to the man in front of you, you felt like you were dying under the weight of his attention. 

even more so when his eyes lower purposefully down your body, to your feet, and all the way back to your eyes. one side of his mouth curves up as he replies, “positive.”

khalil tugs on michael's arm, very undeterred by the adult conversation happening above his head. “mister, do you want to come? to my birthday party? it’s at the park, and there’ll be games, and my mickey mouse cake! mommy says we can play on the new swingsets–”

a second wave of mortification hits you as you bring a hand to cover your son's mouth. you can still hear him, muffled, listing out everything about his party. 

“khalil, baby, no–” you look down at michael with an embarrassed smile, “i am so sorry. he gets excited and doesn't think– swear we don't just invite strangers to– i mean, clearly, you’re busy and–”

but you get cut off by michael laughing. not mockingly– it was a soft, delicate sound that transformed every inch of his face. he looked so much younger when he laughed…boyish, almost. your eyes linger, once again, on the way his bottom lip pulls down and slightly to the side when he smiles. 

“you know what?” he starts, attention returning to khalil. “i just might be available on saturday.”

your heart nearly stops. “huh?” 

“really?!” khalil bounces on his toes, his little fingers clenching and unclenching at his sides. “you’ll really come? do you like the chocolate cake with red inside? i forget what it's called…”

as khalil is talking, you watch michael look up at his bodyguard(?). they engage in some silent back and forth, ending with his bodyguard nodding subtly and michael grinning before turning back to khalil. “red velvet is the best.”

“mister, you–”

“michael,” he cuts you off with that same lazy smile, dimple deep in his right cheek. “just michael.”

“m-michael, you really don’t have to– i mean, it’s going to be a bunch of six year olds runnin’ around screaming. nothin’ fancy.”

he stands at his full height before asking, “i'm sorry, what was your name?” michael leans toward you and you stutter over your own name, distracted by the dark floral, musky cologne he wears. your heart stutters in your chest when he reaches his hand out to you– shaking yours delicately, all the while repeating your name under his breath. “nothin’ fancy sounds perfect.”

you paused, looking between michael’s patient smile and your son’s hopeful face. khalil, falling into another bragging ramble, begins to mention his birthday piñata, exclaiming that michael had to be there to see it. 

this was insane. this was absolutely insane. but, “okay. yes. if you really want to come, we’d… we’d love to have you.”

and if the power went out in that moment, you didn’t think you’d notice, because michael’s smile could have lit up the whole bakery. 

“then i’ll be there. here–”  he breaks his hold on your hand and reaches into his jacket pocket, pulling out a marker. he glances around, eyes landing on his bodyguard–at least, that was officially his title in your mind– and sighing when his bodyguard shakes his head ‘no’. 

catching onto what he needs, you fumble around in your purse before producing a receipt, hand shaking slightly as you take the marker from him. though, you're soon the one glancing around for a solid spot to write. you glance over when you hear a zip and watch in pure shock as michael opens his oversized jacket, grabs the receipt, and holds it up to his chest. waiting.

he lets out a low chuckle at the state of you, mouth agape and blinking repetitively. wrapping a hand around your wrist, he pulls your hand with the marker up– telling you what to do without words. you can feel his breath across the top of your head as you step closer.

when you’re finished writing your phone number and the park’s address, you hand the paper and marker back to him. “saturday at two o’clock,” you speak, watching as michael looks over your handwriting. “should i write that, as well?”

“no. i won’t forget.”

he tucks the receipt into the pocket of his pants, khalil cheering in the background. the line shifts and the woman behind the counter calls for the next person. michael glances toward the counter, then back to you and khalil– eyes lingering on you as he says, “that’s me. it was really nice meeting you both.” he ruffles khalil’s hair gently, “see ya saturday, birthday boy.”

“bye, mr. michael!” khalil waves enthusiastically as you lead him back to your spot in line; just one behind michael. you watch as he approaches the counter– scarf back in place and jacket zipped,, speaking to the woman in tones too low to hear. he gestures to the display cases, pointing at something. the woman nods as she simultaneously pulls items from the case– a box, some bags. the transaction seemed to take longer than it should have, but you were distracted by khalil’s excited chatter.

“mommy, did you see? he has a mickey pin just like the one i want! and now he gets to come to my party! this is the best day ever! well, until my party– then that’ll be the best day ever!”

“mhm, i saw, baby. i'm happy you’re happy.” you squeezed his hand, your mind still reeling. was all of this really happening? how would you warn your family?

michael finished at the counter, accepting several bags and boxes from the woman– though most ended up in the arms of his bodyguard. he gives you and your son a gentle smile and a small wave on his way out. you think about it as you wait the final stretch in line, only coming back to reality when the woman calls, “next!”

you approach the counter, khalil still bouncing beside you. “hi, i'm here to pick up a pre-order. under–”

“oh, sweetie, you're all set.” the woman interrupted, her smile knowing. “your friend already took care of everything.”

“...i'm sorry, what?”

she gestured to a pale blue box and two large bags sitting on the counter. “he paid for your order. the mickey mouse cake and…” she pushed the bags toward you. “some extras.”

your hands trembled as you opened the first bag. inside were the cookies khalil had been admiring– chocolate chip, sugar, oatmeal, fudge, ones with different frosted designs. even a few of the ones khalil had pointed out for his friend denise; all in the perfect shade of pink. 

“mommy?” khalil stepped onto the tip of his toes, peering into the bag. his eyes went wide as he gasped, “are those–”

the second bag had much of the same, but with some extra miscellaneous pastries scattered throughout. treats you never would have bought, could never have afforded.

“he said this is an extra ‘happy birthday’ to your son,” the woman lets out a conspiring giggle before speaking again, “he also said he left some things for the boys ‘beautiful mom’… but he told me not to repeat that part.”

— 1984

It was simple, Michael didn’t like you.

Maybe it even went as far as to say that the man couldn’t stand you.

Always wearing that carved frown on your face as you swiftly and efficiently solved any arising issues before a soul could notice.

Any missing equipment? You had a backup and had already arranged for it to be replaced with the snap of your fingers.

A scheduling conflict with a press interview or rehearsal? You started jotting on your clipboard and rerouted the entire day’s schedule within a few minutes.

In short, you were exceptional at your job since being temporarily appointed his manager for the Victory Tour—

Your work ethic nearly challenged Michael’s, a die-hard perfectionist with no room for nonsense.

Perhaps the two of you could’ve gotten along due to this similarity you shared, but your personality had gotten in the way.

The first instance dated back to rehearsal before the show at Arrowhead Stadium, Kansas City.

The crew crowded around the stage, music playing from the speakers as Michael and his brothers ran through their dancing routine to smoothly transition from one song to another.

Although it was only a demo run, Michael, the man he was, took it very seriously. He had long discarded his jacket and moved rigorously, calling for one take after another despite practice having been meant to end hours ago.

As the music came to an end, so did the routine, his brothers collapsing onto the floor like a pack of dominoes from exhaustion.

Michael wiped his face with the edge of his shirt, his breath shallow as he smiled and looked back toward the crew.

“One more run,” he announced.

His words settled throughout everyone nearly instantly, as if commanded by a godly being, his brothers already on their feet and the crew playing back the music.

The song had only run for a few seconds before being abruptly cut off with the click of your finger, the stage entering silence as all eyes directed toward you.

You stood with that same expression: narrowed eyes, slightly knotted brows, and a subtle frown.

Also with that damn clipboard in your hand.

After a few moments, your voice finally cut through the air.

“We’re done here.” You raised your arm, glancing toward your silver watch.

Confusion flickered over Michael’s features as he gestured toward his brothers.

“We weren’t finished.”

“We’re already two hours and thirty minutes over time, and you have an interview at seven,” you pointed out.

You didn’t wait for his response, already in the process of ordering the crew to begin packing away the equipment.

Michael frowned, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“The show is in two days. We need to do ano—”

“Then you’ll start two hours and thirty minutes earlier tomorrow.” you cut in, turning toward him.

As his deep-set browm eyes locked onto yours, Michael could certainly acknowledge one fact—

Whatever this was had never happened before.

You had the world’s most successful and arguably most talented pop star of the century standing in front of you, telling you what he wanted—

And you had the audacity to cut him off and snap at him like a child?

Perhaps he was getting ahead of himself. Maybe what you were saying was right, considering it made sense once he’d thought about it again.

But your tone had stuck with him.

After all, people only remember how you make them feel, not what you say.

And Michael could strongly remember that you made him feel like a fool—not just that time either.

A few days later, he proposed an idea amongst you and a few key stage workers to add a new ending to “Billie Jean” by changing the lighting to a full blackout.

The lighting director and stage manager seemed to understand quickly despite it being on a whim, and the choreographer had already begun adjusting to his changes—

“No.”

Michael paused, his eyes relocating to your form.

He must’ve heard you wrong.

“Excuse me?” he murmured.

You glanced at your clipboard.

“This is all last minute, Mr. Jackson,” you began. “Doing these changes now is only going to mean overtime before opening night.”

The man swallowed slowly, and you could practically feel the irritation behind his eyes, his jaw muscle flexing slightly.

Once he was in the car after rehearsal, Michael tossed his hands up angrily as he confided his thoughts to the man in the front seat.

“Who does this woman think she is?” he said sharply. “It’s my song!”

Bill looked at him through the rearview mirror.

Michael continued.

“She’s… impossible sometimes. Always saying no, always shutting everything down like nothing matters except her schedule.”

He exhaled sharply.

“I haven’t even seen her smile once… does she always just look at everyone like that?”

“…Maybe she has to get to know you better.”

“Yeah, right,” Michael muttered, sinking back into the seat. “No.. she’s not like that. She just… doesn’t seem to like anyone.”

Michael leaned into the velvet backseat.

“That’s probably just who she is in a professional setting. She might be really nice privately.”

Michael fell silent as Bill’s words sank in, his gaze settling on the passing scenery outside the window.

“…You might be right.”

With a sigh, he turned back toward his friend.

“I spoke too quickly.”

So what did Michael do after his reflection?

He acted on it.

After rehearsal the next day, when everything was wrapping up, he found himself standing beside you as you wrote away on your clipboard.

Bill’s words from yesterday motivated him to start a conversation.

Turning toward you, Michael smiled softly.

“You know… you did a really good job today.”

At the compliment, you didn’t even look up.

“I know.”

He surely wasn’t expecting that response, his smile fading before his lips pressed into a line.

He took a breath before trying again.

“Right… I just mean—it was a lot.” He acknowledged lightly. “You handled it well.”

You flipped a page, again not bothering to look up or show gratitude for his second compliment.

“That’s what I’m here for.”

Michael looked at you for a moment, his teeth unconsciously beginning to grind at your deadpan.

“Yeah. Well… I’m saying thank you.”

You finally looked up from your clipboard, though you didn’t turn toward the man beside you.

“You’re welcome.”

You walked off to yell some information to a crew member.

Michael remained standing there, his hands finding his pockets as his eyes refused to leave your retreating form.

Silently cursing you as you disappeared.

He thought he knew for sure now—

That you were a witch, work or not.

That you weren’t capable of smiling or laughing.

And that you absolutely had no sense of humor.

Michael had spent the passing days memorizing these things about you.

Enough to believe he understood you.

Unfortunately for Michael, he was far from it.

Away from the eye of the stage lights, in a crowded corridor filled with equipment, you stood, and for once, that damn clipboard was nowhere to be seen.

But you weren’t alone.

You were with the man named Matt, a name he came to learn because he worked at the coffee shop down the street and constantly delivered the crew’s excessive orders, leading to a few small conversations here and there.

But something foreign had dawned over your face.

Something that felt entirely unrecognizable to where Michael didn’t have a clue what it was when he first saw it.

You smiled.

And Michael felt his jaw lock.

It wasn’t only because of the smile itself, but the fact that such a thing truly existed on you, of all people.

Then came flooding the memories of the past days.

Your rude, clipped answers.

Your knitted brows.

Your narrowed eyes.

Your frown.

And that damned clipboard always pressed against your chest like a shield.

But yet here you stood, smiling.

So sweetly, as if whatever Matt was saying must’ve been the funniest thing in the world.

Like it cost you nothing.

Michael bit his lip slightly.

Matt said something else, and you looked up at him through your lashes, laughter still caught somewhere behind your teeth, your mouth curving with a softness Michael thought you didn’t possess.

The severity melted from your face entirely.

The constant tension between your brows was nowhere to be seen.

Even your eyes seemed brighter somehow, catching the low hallway lights like scattered glass.

It looked wrong.

And it wasn’t because it didn’t suit you.

God, it suited you.

That look you had never given him.

Not once.

Yet you were giving this version of yourself so easily to Matt, who surely hadn’t tried half as hard as Michael had to get to know you.

To understand you.

His teeth ground together, bordering on pain.

Matt said something else, causing your head to tip back slightly as you let out another laugh, the sound carrying down the hallway.

What’s so funny?

The thought came bitterly.

What could he possibly be saying to make your lashes flutter like that?

To make your smile spread across your face?

To create the softness around your eyes?

To make your mouth lose that thin, disapproving line Michael had come to hate?

God.

That mouth of yours.

The days of watching it tell him no.

The days of watching it cut him off.

The days of watching it flatten any joke, any suggestion, any attempt at conversation.

And now watching it curve so sweetly as something ugly and hot twisted uncontrollably inside his chest.

Finally, he managed to force his eyes away, making his way hastily down the opposite side of the hall.

The anger had bubbled throughout him so prominently that it beat in his ears, making him unable to hear his own footsteps.

But his thoughts came simply.

Michael hated you.

© nnyeinu

You were always there for Michael, and he was always there for you. Through thick and thin, that never changed.

When The Jackson 5 started to become more famous, people often insinuated that Michael would eventually forget about you. They said success would change him and that as he got older, with fans and girls throwing themselves at him, there wouldn't be room in his life for an old childhood friend. But you knew better than to listen to them.

Your friendship with Michael was more than just a friendship—it was a real, deep, and honest connection, the kind of bond many people never manage to find in friendships or relationships. And besides, those people didn’t know Michael the way you did.

All that "you're going to be forgotten" speech stopped when you started traveling with them to shows.

At first, because you were still young, your mom would travel with you or drive you herself. But as you got older, you began traveling with them instead.

Michael was your best friend, but you were close with all of his brothers. You cared about them as much as they cared about you, including Jermaine who could definitely be a pain in the ass sometimes.

What neither of you ever said out loud was that, somewhere between the lines, the friendship had shifted into something deeper. Michael cared for you in a way he couldn’t quite explain, a way he had never cared for anyone else.

He always noticed the small things. He always wanted you close, and when you were with others, like his brothers, it bothered him—without him really understanding why. You felt the same way, but neither of you was brave enough to take that leap of faith.

So you both stayed silent, convincing yourselves it was only friendship, while missing the obvious truth sitting right in front of you.

That is how, once again, you found yourself getting ready for yet another adventure with the Jacksons.

You had been staying at the Hayvenhurst house for a couple of days so the whole packing process wouldn't be such a turmoil. That, and because, as always, Michael needed help packing. Well, he didn't really need help, he just "liked the way you pack things more," his own words.

You made your way out of the house and sat beside Michael, who, like you, was waiting for Jermaine to give the word that it was time to leave.

"Why does he always take so long? He's worse than me, and I'm a girl. I am allowed to be late." You rolled your eyes as you adjusted your tucked-in T-shirt.

"You take long because you want to. He takes long because he needs to." He placed a soft kiss on your cheek.

"I heard that." Jermaine's voice came from inside the house before he finally walked out.

Tito and Jackie finished loading the luggage into the trunk, giving Jermaine a thumbs up. Marlon and Randy, who had done absolutely nothing, gave him a thumbs up too.

"Time to go." You stood up, and Michael followed.

Tito sat in the front with Jermaine. Then Jackie, Marlon, and Randy exchanged a look. Michael frowned, confused about what that was supposed to mean.

"Uh... so..." Randy started. "We won't all fit." Marlon continued. "You are going to have to sit in someone's lap." Jackie finished as he looked at you. Tito and Jermaine tried not to laugh.

"Why?" Michael was the first to ask. "Blame Jackie, he keeps getting bigger." Randy pointed at Jackie. "Guys, it's fine. Really." You said. "So, on whose lap are you sitting?" Jermaine looked back from the driver's seat.

The four brothers looked at Michael.

For some reason, Michael went silent. He wanted to tell you to sit on his lap, but the words wouldn’t come out.

"She can sit on mine, it's no biggie." Marlon broke the silence. "It's only a three-hour drive. We'll be fine." You nodded and waited for everyone to get into the van.

You got in and sat on Marlon’s lap, and he wrapped one arm around your waist. Michael, sitting next to both of you, shot him a glare. Jackie and Randy found the scene extremely amusing.

Thirty minutes in, you started feeling sleepy. Both Marlon and Michael noticed. The problem was that you were sitting on Marlon’s lap—not Michael’s.

"You can lie on me. I don’t bite." Marlon said, looking at you. "Besides, you look like you could use a nap."

Michael, who was reading a book, looked up quickly.

"Thanks." You gave him a soft smile as you started leaning into him.

Michael felt his heart sink. It was now or never, he thought. Nervously closing his book, his gaze found yours.

"No!" He blurted out, making everyone’s heads snap toward him. "I mean, come here. Marlon doesn’t know how to hold your neck so it doesn’t hurt."

Your heart fluttered as warmth rushed to your cheeks.

"I’ll let you rest." You patted Marlon’s chest and carefully moved over to Michael’s lap, making Marlon roll his eyes.

"Hey," Michael finally whispered, a big smile spreading across his face. "Hey." You snuggled into his chest, resting your head on his shoulder while his hand found the back of your neck, supporting it gently.

"I’m glad you switched. Marlon doesn’t know anything about your sleeping habits and needs." He pressed a kiss to your forehead, his free hand resting on your knee.

"Mhm. You’re cute when you’re jealous." You closed your eyes. "I have the right to be. You're my girl." You opened one eye. "But I'm not..." You started before he interrupted. "Yet."

"Let me take you out on a date." He said, playing with your hair. "Let me take a nap." Jackie scoffed. "Y'all aren't even whispering."

You let out a soft chuckle as you snuggled closer into Michael. He hugged you closer and looked down at you.

"The answer is yes." You gave his lips a soft peck, making Michael smile.

"How come I didn't get one?"

"Marlon, shut up."

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Michael couldn’t stop thinking about eating you out.

It plagued his mind constantly. While he showered in the morning, he had to stop his hands from jerking himself while you slept peacefully in bed, his mind fully suffocated with the thought of your cum on his lips. Whenever you would do your morning stretches, he’d have to force his gaze from your crotch, the leggings you wore outlining it too visibly. Of course you weren’t wearing underwear. During meetings with music executives, he’d find himself zoning out with the thought of your thighs crushing his head between them as he devoured your wet core like it was the tastiest thing in existence— and to him, it was.

He had to stop wearing tight pants because of it. His dick was almost permanently erect at the thought of his lanky frame cowering beneath you as he took you to your peak.

Eventually, his longing thoughts turned into actions.

At first, it was almost unnoticeable. He’d purposely been discreet. The way he subtly bit his lip from his place on his knees after helping you put on your shiny burgundy mary janes. The little tortured sound he’d make while you massaged his head on your lap; not from the intimate ministrations of your fingers working through his thick curls, but at the sheer proximity of his lips and your…other lips.

It wasn’t even like you two rarely had sex. You had it more than most. Something you didn’t realize, though, was that he wouldn’t be satisfied unless he gave you head, and lately all you’ve had time for were quickies. It was great, but he was selfish and needy, always wanting more. So, he just started begging for it.

Before you went to work.

“Mama, please. For just a bit? I’ll be quick, I promise. You can make me pay for it if I don’t make you cum quick,” he begged on his knees while you stood above him in your work attire.

“Michael, no. You see that I’m on my way out the door. You’re good, but you ain’t that good. I’m not goin’ to work all pent up and angry. Gimme a kiss.”

When your friends invited you to ladies night at a new bar in town.

“Can’t let you out lookin’ that good without remindin’ you who’s waitin’ for you at home, mama. Come on, please? Just need to make sure y’know you’re mine. Please baby, I need it.”

“Boy, get the hell up off your knees and walk me to the door. The girls are outside.”

At every end, he was met with rejection, and it was gnawing at him relentlessly.

So came the wake-up tension. He began to realize he couldn’t function more than a day without his head nuzzled between your soft thighs, so he made it part of his morning routine to eat you out right before he showered, careful enough to not wake you from your slumber. He knew he should’ve asked, but he just couldn’t wait. You just looked so pretty while you slept, sporting a soft pout on your lips and his t-shirt ridden up your torso, exposing your underboob. How could he not?

The thing is, his neediness was in turn making you needy as well. On days where he was in a rush in the mornings and he had absolutely no time to fit oral sex into his schedule, you’d feel almost hollow. You had no idea why. Why were you waking up so horny? Why did you have so many vivid wet dreams?

After waking up yet again with what felt like the entirety of the Pacific Ocean dripping from your pussy for the fourth time this week, you decided to do something about it. You were never one to beg, usually being on the receiving end of it, so it was taking you a while to build up courage. In the end, you decided to just…hint at what wanted. You were just too pent up.

After a cold shower that did nothing to ease the ache between your legs, you made your way to the kitchen in nothing but a silk robe and lacy underwear to call your boyfriend, hoping you would catch him at a good time.

Michael had only been at the record label’s annual sales meeting for two hours and was already ready to go home. It was supposed to be short and sweet, but it droned on and on; music execs and songwriters taking their sweet time cracking jokes and talking about weekend plans. What made it worse was that he found his thoughts drifting right back to your pretty clit, and he got called out at one point for it.

“Aye, Mike! What gotchu smilin’ like that, man?” one of his brothers asked at one point. The smile on his face dropped immediately and he dismissed it as him ‘looking forward to the weekend,’ heat crawling up his neck at nearly being caught. He was losing it.

“Excuse me? Mr. Jackson? Oh- I mean Michael. Your lady’s on the line,” a stubby secretary announced as she barged into the meeting room. “She said it’s urgent,” she added as she saw the board director’s annoyance.

“It’s alright, Michael. We’ve pretty much wrapped up for today. Tell her I say hi,” the director replied.

When he made it to the phone, his heart was pounding in worry.

“Baby? What’s wrong? I’m already havin’ Bill bring the car around. Do I needa call an amb–”

“Mikey, hi!” you responded, sounding way too chipper for something important. You never called him while he was at work.

“Lovey? Can you tell me what’s wrong?” he replied, voice leaking with concern.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you…I just. Well, I miss you, baby,” you responded, guilty at your selfishness. You didn’t think about the implications of telling the secretary to say it was ‘urgent,’ and now you felt bad. Michael could practically hear the pout in your voice.

“Oh, baby, I miss you too! My meetin’ just ended, I’m on my way, okay? We can watch Snow White. How’s that sound, mama?” he cooed at you between soft chuckles, his tone sickly sweet. It made you wetter.

“Y-yes, please. Hurry home, ‘kay? I’ll make brunch. I love you,” you responded, trying your best to compose yourself.

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll tell Bill to drive fast as he can without gettin’ us pulled over. See you soon. I love you.”

Click.

Cooking somehow provided a good enough distraction from the growing frustration you had. You hummed to yourself as you cleaned up the mess you made trying to blend up smoothies, giggling to yourself as you imagined your perfect boyfriend making fun of you if he saw it.

You heard the front door creak open and thud shut as soon as you finished setting the quaint dining table and began adjusting the countertop television with the movie.

“Baaaaby!” you exclaimed as your boyfriend entered the room, running into his arms without giving him a moment to set down his stuff. He immediately dropped his things and reciprocated the embrace.

“Oh– Hi, baby. I love this robe on you, n’ you smell so nice,” he replied with his nose in your soft hair.

“You too, pretty boy. Go change n’ come eat. Hurry up, too. I missed you so bad,” you nearly whined at him.

His hand trailed down your back, to the curve of your hips, and then sneakily to the swell of your ass as he peeled himself from your body.

You returned to the kitchen and leaned over the counter to rewind the tape, preoccupied with learning how to master the technology. Long, slender fingers creeped around your waist just as you started getting frustrated, startling you.

“I can help you, baby. Here, let me show you,” Michael whispered against your neck.

You subtly squeezed your thighs together at his breath against your skin.

“M’kay. Just don’t take too long. Don’t want everything gettin’ cold.”

He turned you around and lifted you by your hips, placing you gently against the cold countertop. Kneeling down by your knee, he fumbled with the buttons on the television, demonstrating and explaining different things that were falling on deaf ears. The way his large eyes looked up at you for validation was doing so much more for you than if you were to start playing with yourself right then and there.

“Baby? Did you get that last part? When the remote starts to blin– Oh.” He made eye contact with you then and took a comically audible gulp. The way you were looking at him stopped him in his tracks completely. He looked away bashfully and focused on your knee that was dangling off the counter closest to him. Then his eyes trailed up your pretty thighs. He leaned in and kissed your knee tenderly, sucking in a sharp breath at the intimate contact.

You reached down and slotted your fingers through his thick hair, massaging his head the way you knew he liked it. The poor boy whimpered like he’d never been touched before.

“C’mon, let’s eat,” you drawled, removing your hand from his hair and biting your lip to hold back a smile.

Michael crawled closer to you, positioning himself between your legs and wrapped his hands around your waist, looking up at you like a thirsty animal in search of water.

“Mama…” he started.

“Michael, I took my time with this meal. Get up,” you ordered.

“Please? I had a hard day n’ I need it. Don’t you want me?” he whined.

“Nuh-uh. None of that. Don’t make me say it again,” you warned.

“‘M sorry, I can’t wait…” he whispered as he forcefully pulled your body closer to his face and pressed his nose to your clothed cunt.

“What the hell did I just say?” you questioned him incredulously, trying to steady yourself.

“Smells so good…” he whispered, completely ignoring your protests. He slid his hands to your hips and hooked his fingers into the waistline of your panties, dragging them down without a care in the world.

You thump him on his forehead harshly, appalled at his defiance. To your disdain, he let out the most pathetic moan you’d ever heard from a man.

“Mmnh– and you’re already wet? Oh, god,” he whined, ignoring the pulsing emanating from his temple.

He struggled getting your underwear down, due to you not wanting to lose the power struggle. You pressed your thighs deeper into the marble and attempted closing your legs, but he harshly sucked the most sensitive part of your inner thigh, causing you to loosen up and give him easy access.

“Mike…” you whined.

“I wanna make you feel good. Please, I’ll do everythin’ the way you like it. I’ll go ‘til I can’t breathe. Just wanna taste you,” he begged, looking up at you with his sparkly eyes. He didn’t wait for an answer, and slid his hands right back up your legs, taking two fingers and dragging them lightly against your clit.

“M-Michael, the food,” you tried again, still not ready to give in so easily. He was winning.

“Don’t you want it, mama? I feel how wet you are. Tell me you want it. Please?” he pressed down just a tad harsher, coaxing the response he wanted out of you with just a movement of his fingers. You were embarrassed by just how much he was turning you on like this.

“It’s g-gonna get cold– ah!” you exclaimed as he pinched your clit.

“Tell me you want it? Unless you don’t…Am I not good enough?” he pouted. You knew the game he was playing. You swore you did. But the face he was making…you were losing all sense of right and wrong. And his fingers were doing something to you, but not enough.

He removed his fingers from your sticky pussy and licked them clean, all while maintaining eye contact and moaning graphically. He was playing every card in his deck. He pulled you even closer and rested your legs against his broad shoulders. You said not a word, for fear of your voice betraying you. Instead, you opted for weak nudges to his cheeks and a tug of his hair, but that only fueled him more.

“I like that,” he teased, looking up at you with a smug smile. You pushed his forehead back with your palm as he neared your bare body, and turned your head defiantly. He giggled and darted his tongue out, dragging it along the insides of your thighs, collecting your arousal.

“I can make you feel good, baby. Please let me. C’mon, look at me n’ say it,” he begged again, breath fanning over your naked crotch. You met his eyes again with a defeated look on your face.

“Please…” you whispered.

“Please what? I’ll do anythin’. Tell me what to do,” Michael responded eagerly.

“At least put away the food?” you said, your unsteady tone posing it like a question.

He got up immediately, not leaving one second wasted. He needed you in his mouth much more than he realized. The food was put in tupperware and the smoothies in a freezer-safe pitcher in mere minutes. He washed his hands and returned to his place between your shaky thighs in record time.

“Gonna make you feel so good,” he promised. You rolled your eyes.

“Yeah you bet– F-fuck!” you exclaimed as he swirled his tongue around your clit expertly. You rolled your hips forward, not caring enough about your precarious position on the countertop. You were nearly straddling his shoulders.

The sounds coming from between your legs were filthy. An orchestra of moans and slurps and spitting. Michael was moaning more than you were.

“Mike- ngh. More,” you begged, much to your own embarrassment.

“Mmm, want my fingers?” he asked, looking up at you with your arousal coating the entire bottom half of his face. God, he looked like living sin.

“Yes,” you whispered.

He removed your legs from his shoulders and lifted you from the counter, making you straddle his waist as he stumbled into the living room. You fell back against the couch with a soft thump, and he sunk back onto his knees.

“Michael, your knees? Don’t they hurt?” you asked, suddenly all too worried about his comfort level. As if he cared.

“No, but I wouldn’t care if they did. I’ll do anythin’ to make you feel good,” he all but confessed. You bit your lip and pressed your thighs together very conspicuously.

“You like that?” he asked in disbelief.

“Mikey, stop! I’m embarrassed,” you exclaimed. “Whatever, you win. Fine, I want it. I want you. Just go down on me again, baby. It’s hurtin’” you whined.

“Yes, ma’am. Gonna make you feel better. ‘M so sorry.”

He dragged you to the edge of the couch by your ankles and put you back in the same position the two of you were in earlier, except you were much comfier on these cushions. He sucked your clit softly, moaning around it like he was the one being devoured. Taking his middle finger, he probed at your sopping hole, collecting its wetness and spreading it on his index like a natural lube. You pushed into his face harder, practically begging for it.

Catching the silent demand, he pushed his middle finger in, testing how much you could take at the moment. Your hole swallowed him like a pill. The ridges inside your sex were like art to him. Greedily, he shoved his index finger in almost immediately after. He started with a curious pace, slow and searching. His fingers expertly hit your g-spot each time, and the way his fingers curled made you feel like desire personified.

“M-Mikey, oh god! It’s– I can’t think..” you babbled honestly. The double stimulation paired with your sexual frustration was making your brain feel limp.

He moaned against you in response, the vibration sending shivers through your abdomen.

“Yes yes yes yes yeeeees, fuck!” you chanted.

You hated that he made you this easy. Usually your resolve was always up, but you’d never felt this needy in your life. You wanted him to have some sort of punishment for taking without permission. The best way to do that was to tease him.

“F-feels so good daddy, your mouth’s fuckin’ me so good.” ‘Daddy’, the name you used to drive him absolutely insane.

Just as you expected, his free hand came up and gripped one of your thighs for support as he furrowed his brows in concentration; surely on not cumming his pants. He drew in ragged breaths in between whimpers.

“Go faster, daddy. ‘M s-so close,” you whined, rocking your pussy against his tongue as he made it flat for you. Michael was sat so rigid beneath you, you were sure he was gonna cut off the circulation to his dick. He drilled his fingers into you at an unforgiving pace, and you swore you were being called to heaven right there.

He closed his mouth back around your cunt and slid his tongue up and down your folds, collecting more arousal, and pooling it around your clit. He sucked with just enough pressure to make you see stars, and you gripped onto his hair brutally.

“M-Mikey! ‘M gonna– Fuck! Cummi–” you crushed his face between your thighs and screamed bloody mary, holding onto his thick locks for grounding. Your orgasm ripped through you like an earthquake, and your body convulsed violently, all that pent up pressure released on your boyfriend’s face and fingers. He curled them inside you as much as he could while your walls clenched and sucked them in.

He kept licking you, too.

After you came down, you let your legs fall limp against him and detangled your fingers from his hair, trying to use your hands to push yourself back. But he wouldn’t stop going.

“Baby, I came. C-come on, ’m sensitive,” you rasped out, your voice hoarse from basically screaming.

Michael ignored you and kept going, seemingly driven by pure lust.

You grabbed ahold of his hair again and attempted to yank him back, but he stiffened his neck defiantly and gripped your thigh harder, keeping you in place. You whimpered loudly. He looked up at you, removed his fingers from inside you, and shoved them into your open mouth.

The angle was awkward, but god was this side of him sexy.

You moaned around his fingers and sucked at them greedily, trying your hardest not to bite down on them because of how sensitive you felt. Tears streamed down your eyes and you were sniffling loudly. The scene was disgusting.

Your hips stuttered against his tongue as he stuffed his thick tongue into your still leaking hole and back to flick at your clit, over and over.

You were crying his name out around his fingers, trying to warn him that you were going to cum again.

He grazed his teeth against your clit just once, very lightly, and you felt the air get knocked completely from your lungs, as your second orgasm tore through your sweaty body. You were almost choking on his fingers, your robe was drooping lazily off your shoulders, and your ears were ringing; your was body completely spent.

Michael removed his fingers from between your lips, but he kept going at your pussy.

“Michael please. C-can’t take it no more. You did good, daddy. You did really good. You made me feel better, baby. Ngh– f-fuck!” you cried out.

He met your eyes, looking at the way thick tears pooled inside of them, and then his gaze fell to your lips, concentrating on how the bottom one trembled as you cried. You looked like a masterpiece. Just one more. He just wanted one more out of you. Giving you a half-apologetic look, he tore his eyes from your dejected gaze, putting his focus on getting you to cum just one more time.

His jaw began to cramp up, and his tongue was nearly going stuck, but he had a point to prove to nobody but himself. Your lower body vibrated erratically, and the friction against his lips made him whine. This is exactly what he dreamed of. Him below you, offering his mouth to you, and you above him, crying out his name like a prayer.

“Mmmnh,” he moaned against your lips. His dick strained painfully in his briefs. He was oozing so much precum that it seemed like he finished in his pants.

“Close. G’na cum,” you mumbled through sobs of overstimulation. Your vision was too blurry to focus on the look of adoration he gave you.

Steeling himself for your release, he pulled you flush against his face, burying his nose into your pelvis, and he circled his sore tongue against your clit fast and hard.

“Michael! I’m–”

Your vision completely blacked out as your core weeped and your eyes silently cried. It felt like every hole in your body was leaking– your eyes with tears, your mouth with drool, your pussy with sticky cum.

Michael, on the other hand, rode you through the whole thing, rubbing his hands down the length of your sweaty thighs and humming softly against your core. He cleaned up every last drop of cum that poured from you. When you slumped back against the cushions, he finally removed his mouth from your sensitive sex with a whine.

His jaw hurt. He tried to apologize for going overboard, but he couldn’t even move his mouth from the pain. Every tiny movement made his jaw lock up even more.

“C’mere,” you mumbled out to him, craving his embrace.

Michael obliged immediately, ignoring the way his dick throbbed between his legs. He laid his head on your half-exposed breasts, listening to your heartbeat steady itself underneath your chest. He strained his neck to give you a tender kiss on your lips, wincing as he tried opening his mouth to deepen it.

“You okay?” you asked him as you jerked away.

“Mhm,” he replied quickly, attempting to connect your mouths again. You sat up on one of your forearms and used your free hand to guide his face up to you.

“Use your words, baby. Need to know you’re feeling okay. I was a lil’ rough with your hair.” You run your fingers through his coily tresses, massaging the his scalp where you tugged the hardest.

“Think I have lockjaw,” he mumbled without disconnecting his lips, making it come out more like ‘thnkhavlockjw’.

“What?” you questioned him, confused as to why he seemed so reluctant to speak. He rubbed his jawline.

“I– mm. Went too hard. My jaw’s tight.” He bit his lip, seeming…proud of himself for that fact.

“You gave yourself lockjaw just to give me three orgasms? You fuckin’ idiot. You’re a singer!” You pushed his face away playfully and then grabbed onto his jaw again, massaging the sides. He opened his mouth wider, stretching it as the muscles loosened up.

“Mhm, n’ it was worth it! I’d go again if you told me to,” he declared proudly, giving you a suggestive look.

“Hell nah, we still have the whole meal I made for us. I’m hungry. You don’t needa be movin’ that mouth for anything except that food,” you quipped at him.

“I’m sorry, mama. You taste real good, though…” he trailed off, leaning in to catch you in another kiss.

“Nope. We are not doin’ this again. Get the fuck up before I buy myself a chastity belt,” you responded with a chuckle, pushing him away from you and stretching your achy limbs. You stood up, tightened your robe, and extended your hand to drag him with you to the kitchen. “Get up.”

“Okay. I love you so much,” he replied like a lovesick puppy as he let you guide him like one. You giggled at his neediness, eyeing his erection.

“Mhm, I’m sure you do. I’m not lettin’ you touch me again until we eat, by the way. And you’re platin’ everything,” you instructed as you reheated the food, handing him porcelain dishes. You grabbed the smoothies out of the freezer and poured them into glasses, handing him one to try. He took a sip and you caught him in a soft kiss when he pulled his cup away.

“And I love you too, angelface.”

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