botticelli’s painting

There was a stillness in the house tonight that wasn't the usual Tuesday vibe. Streetcar Named Desire always pulled a quieter audience than the musicals next door; people came to listen, and to fall deeply in love with Blanche and her unwinding madness.

It was your 108th show. Eighteen months on and off as Blanche Dubois in the infamous St James Theatre, performing rigidly through illness, mental anguish, family drama, and public scrutiny. Being a popular theatre actress had been a dream since childhood and you had gone on to achieve what you wanted. It was divine timing.

But as you finished Scene 8 in Act 3, something niggled in your stomach. You had a sickly feeling someone of enormous fame was watching, somewhere out there in the stalls.

You pushed it away. You owed Blanche every drop of yourself, eight times a week, regardless of who was sitting in the dark.

When the lights went down for the final time and you came off into the wings, Sandra was already there with the wet cloth for the back of your neck.

"Oh you little darling," you said. "I'm so peaky tonight."

"I wasn't going to say a thing. But I had briefly assumed it had something to do with our star-studded audience member sitting out there."

You froze.

"Who?"

She bit the inside of her cheek, holding back a smile. "Michael Jackson. Third row, centre. And it's his third night."

You stared at her. Heart thundering.

"Third night?"

"Third night, baby."

You let her walk you back to the dressing room without saying anything else, because you didn't want her to know how hard your hands had started shaking. You sat down in front of the mirror — the old, dirty NYC theatre mirror with the bulbs around it and lipstick stains from starlets long gone and pictures of your family tucked into the edges — and you tried to look unbothered.

You were a fan of his. He had just released Dangerous. He was at the crux of his fame, and you'd read his book in your twenties and looked up to him for years.

There was a knock at the door. James, the front-of-house manager, burst in.

"Y/N. A dashing performance, as per usual." He held out an envelope. Heavy cream paper, your full name on the front in beautiful handwriting. "Secret admirer. He said if you agree to the arrangement, you're to call his assistant."

You took it with shaking hands.

Sandra ushered James out. Then she ushered herself out too, with a knowing look over her shoulder.

You broke the wax seal.

Y/N,

Forgive me for writing to you like this. I am a very shy person off stage — quite the departure from the onstage persona, but I'm sure you can understand, being a performer yourself.

I have seen your show three nights in a row. The first night I came because I'd read about you in the NY Times. The second night I came because I didn't believe what I'd seen and needed to know if you could do it again. Tonight I came because I've realised you do it every night, and I haven't been able to stop thinking about you in between.

I would like to take you to dinner. Anywhere you want to go, whatever night you have free. If your answer is no, I won't write again and I won't come back to the theatre. The work is yours and I would never want to be the reason you were uncomfortable.

If your answer is yes, please call the number below.

With great care, Michael Jackson

You called the next morning, still in your pyjamas, coffee going cold beside the phone.

You'd rehearsed three opening lines and abandoned all of them by the time the line picked up. You just gave your name and said you were returning a call about a dinner. The assistant was warm and easy. He didn't make it weird. He asked what night you had free and whether you'd eaten at La Grenouille. You said Thursday. You said no. He said a car would come for you at the stage door at half past eleven. He said the driver's name was Frank.

You hung up and sat at the table for a long time, looking at the letter still folded on the kitchen counter where you'd read it again over breakfast. Twice.

₊˚°⊹˚

Thursday came around faster than you could prepare for.

You did the show in a strange, light-headed state. Blanche came out of you anyway, because muscle memory wouldn't be shaken by one dinner regardless of who was on the other side of it, but you walked off the stage feeling like you'd performed through gauze.

Sandra had your dark green silk dress laid out before you got there. She zipped you up and smoothed the back of your hair.

"You look beautiful, sweetheart."

"Sandra, I am really nervous."

"He'll love you. And if he doesn't, you have a really cool story for those fancy cocktail nights you go to."

She squeezed your shoulders once and pushed you toward the door.

₊˚°⊹˚

La Grenouille was on East 52nd. Frank had you there in twelve minutes.

You stepped out onto the pavement, into the kind of restaurant where Jackie Onassis used to lunch — low light, white tablecloths, an absurd quantity of fresh flowers. You knew the place by reputation. Only the rich rich dined here.

You stepped inside.

It was empty.

He had bought it out for the night.

Your stomach turned over once, slowly. What kind of mad person buys out a whole restaurant?

The maître d' walked you the length of the room to a table at the back, beneath an arrangement of roses you could have hidden behind. And sitting at the table, already standing as you approached —

Michael.

Dark trousers. White shirt, open at the collar. A black jacket cut close to his shoulders, a sparkly brooch on the lapel. His hair was tied back loosely, dark curly strands framing his face. He looked expensive but matter of fact. He looked nervous.

He looked at you like you'd walked into a room he had been waiting in for a long time.

"Hi," he said softly, with a cheeky grin.

"Hi."

He pulled your chair out himself. You sat. He sat opposite. He folded his hands on the white tablecloth and looked at you and didn't say anything for a beat too long.

Then —

"I wasn't sure you'd come."

"I wasn't sure I would either."

He laughed; small, sudden, more relieved than amused. It was a wonderful sound — soft and slightly cracked, like he hadn't laughed in a few days and his throat had to remember how.

You stayed at the restaurant until almost two in the morning.

He asked you about Blanche — he actually wanted to know. He told you the one moment in the second act, after the line "I don't want realism. I want magic," when your smile faded before the sentence was over. He said it genuinely moved him, the nuance in the performance. He said he'd been thinking about you for three days.

You stared at him.

"You're not like other men," you said.

He didn't do anything performative with the line. He didn't deflect. He just looked at you across the table with that quiet attention, like he already knew it.

"Good."

When Frank appeared at the door at quarter to two, Michael stood first, came around the table to pull your chair out, walked you to the car. He helped you into your coat. His hands lingered very briefly on your shoulders.

Outside, on the dark pavement, you turned to face him.

"Will you let me write to you again?" he asked quietly.

"Yes."

"Will you let me call you?"

"Yes, Michael." You laughed.

He nodded. He looked down at his shoes. Looked back up. He was nervous again, properly nervous, the calm of the dinner falling away now that the night was nearly over.

"Can I —" he started.

You didn't let him finish.

You stepped forward, reached up, and put your hand on the side of his jaw.

He stilled completely under your touch. His eyes went huge.

Then you kissed him.

It was meant to be a soft thing. A thank you for the evening thing. A see you soon thing.

It became something else within about two seconds.

His mouth was warm and he made a small sound against you — somewhere between a sigh and something raw — and then his hand was at the small of your back, gentle but very present, and he was kissing you back like he had been thinking about kissing you for the last three hours and could not quite believe he was being allowed to.

He broke the kiss first. Slowly. Like he didn't actually want to.

His forehead came to rest against yours. His breathing was uneven. So was yours.

"Get in the car," he said. "Before I ask you to come home with me."

So you got in the car.

You touched your lips with the back of your fingers as Frank pulled away from the kerb. You looked back through the rear window and saw him standing on the pavement outside La Grenouille with his hands in his jacket pockets, watching the car go.

You barely slept that night.

₊˚°⊹˚

That was three months ago.

Three months of him in your life now, properly. Three months of his handwriting on the envelopes that arrived at the stage door every 2 show day, without fail, never anything elaborate, just a card, a few lines, sometimes a pressed flower from wherever he was that week.

Three months of long phone calls at strange hours, because he was on the road and the time zones rarely lined up, and you would pick up the phone at one in the morning to hear his voice on the other end saying he was sorry, he was sorry, he should have called yesterday and the day got away from him.

You always told him to stop apologising. He always apologised anyway.

He came to New York whenever he could. He sent a car. The car always took you to somewhere thoughtful; a private dining room at a restaurant he'd remembered you mentioning, a quiet table at a hotel bar after your show, once to a small jazz club in Harlem where the owner had cleared the back room for the two of you and the band had played until three in the morning and Michael had held your hand under the table for the whole set.

He kissed you a great deal. He said he loved to kiss.

He kissed you in the back of cars and in the corridor outside your dressing room and once, memorably, on a fire escape in the Village at four in the morning when neither of you had wanted the night to end. His hands had been at the small of your back and in your hair and skimming the edge of your waist over your coat, and you had been pressed against the brick wall behind you with his mouth at the side of your throat, and you had genuinely thought — yes, tonight, here, in this freezing alley if it has to be —

And then he had pulled back. Pressed his forehead to yours. Breathed out slowly.

He had said not like this.

You hadn't known what to do with that, so you'd nodded, and he had walked you to your front door and kissed the back of your hand like a man from another century and gone home alone.

He had never once brought you back to his place. Wherever his place was in the city; a hotel suite, a friend's townhouse, you weren't entirely sure — he kept it separate. He took you out. He held you close in perfectly picked out places. He left you at your door.

You had asked him about it once, gently, you didn't want him to think it was a complaint. He had looked at you for a long time and then said — I've done this wrong before. I don't want to do it wrong with you.

You had not pushed the subject after that.

He was smarter than you had expected, and that was the thing that had made you fall for him more than anything else.

You'd known he was talented. Everyone knew that. You'd known he was an adorer of all things theatrical, — three nights at Streetcar had told you that before you'd ever spoken to him.

What you hadn't been ready for was how widely he read, how carefully he thought, how much he knew about your world specifically.

He knew theatre. Properly. Not the surface of it, not the famous productions and the names everyone could recognise; he knew Stanislavski and the Group Theatre and what Lee Strasberg had been doing in the basement of Carnegie Hall in 1948. He could tell you which production of Long Day's Journey Into Night he thought was the best one ever staged and why. He had opinions on Stoppard. He had read Mamet.

You had asked him, once, where he had learned all of this.

He had shrugged, a small private shrug, and said — I had a lot of time on tour buses when I was young. I read everything I could find.

You had been smitten before then. After that you had been quietly, comprehensively gone.

In April he flew you out to LA for a long weekend.

He was working on a short film for his new album. A piece for the History record — something elaborate, something cinematic, with a proper script and proper scenes that needed acting rather than performing. He told you over the phone that he was nervous about it. He told you he didn't quite trust his own ear for the dialogue. He asked you, very tentatively, if you would mind sitting with him for a few hours and helping him run the lines.

You had said yes before he had even finished asking.

He sent a car for you at JFK and you flew first class and Frank; Frank was apparently a permanent fixture in your life now, kind, quiet and secretly very funny. He picked you up at LAX and drove you to a house in the hills you had never been to before, and you understood, by the way he stopped the car a respectful distance from the front door, that this was where Michael lived.

He came out of the front door before you had got out of the car.

You had not seen him in three weeks. He was in a soft white t-shirt and dark trousers and his hair was loose and he looked, in the late afternoon California light, like a slightly different version of the man you had been spending time with in the cold city. More relaxed. More at home in his own skin.

He held you on the gravel drive for a long minute without saying anything, cradling your head in his hands.

You spent two days running his lines for him.

You sat on the floor of a sun-filled living room, grand piano and all with the script between you. You ran scenes. You pushed back on line readings. You asked him what his director had said about a particular beat and then told him gently that you disagreed. He listened. He took notes.

He made you cups of tea and brought them over without spilling a drop. He asked you, at one point, what your second year movement teacher at Juilliard would have said about the way he was holding his shoulders in a particular scene, and you laughed so hard you had to put the script down. He was filming some sort of horror short and he was taking it entirely too seriously.

He kissed you on the sofa in the late afternoon of the first day and you spent an hour there together, just kissing, his hand under the back of your shirt, hovering on your bra clasp, the script forgotten on the coffee table. He stopped before it could go anywhere. He always stopped. You were starting to understand it as a kind of devotion; a careful patience — even though you privately wished, more and more, that he would stop being so careful with you.

He drove you back to the airport on Monday morning himself. No Frank. Just him in a car he kept in the garage, with the windows down and the radio low and massive sunglasses on his face, so he wouldn't be recognised.

At the curb of the airport drop off, he kissed you politely on the side of your face and told you he would call you that night.

He did. And the night after. And the night after that.

You came back to New York and back to Blanche and back to the eight shows a week.

You felt — for the first time in a long time; like a person whose life had a bit of excitement outside work in it. A private part. A warm element.

Your relationship with michael was like a room with the door closed that nobody else got to see inside.

You had no idea you were about to walk into the worst of it.

₊˚°⊹˚

You had been nominated.

You had received the call on a Tuesday morning from your agent and you had sat down on the floor of your kitchen and cried, properly, the way you had not cried in a long time. Best Actress in a Play. A Streetcar Named Desire. Your second Broadway nomination and your first in a lead role.

Michael had been the third person you'd called. He had gotten very emotional on the phone. You couldn't really tell if he was crying or not. He had said I knew it, I knew it, I knew it about six times in a row.

The luncheon was at the Rainbow Room. Three weeks after the nomination. The whole industry would be there. He was flying in from LA the night before to come with you. He had asked you, very seriously, if you were sure you wanted him there. He had said he didn't want to be the story and would be very happy to wait at the hotel and meet you afterward if you would prefer.

You had told him you wanted him with you. You wanted to become public and let the world know that you were fully, incomprehensibly in love with him. But you had to tell him this first, and you had no clue how to say it out loud.

You had also told him, more carefully, that Daniel was going to be there and would be a large fixture within the day.

Daniel.

Your co-star. Your Stanley. The man who had been pawing at you and breaking you down and dragging you across a stage for fourteen weeks of the run, eight shows a week. A wonderful actor and a carefree socialite with a great career ahead of him, who had never, in all the time you had worked together, ever made you feel uncomfortable for a single second.

He had been nominated too. Best Actor. The two of you had done press together for the nominations. You had hugged him on stage at the press call and the photograph had gone everywhere — Streetcar leads embrace after Tony nods.

You never really brought up Daniel to Michael, because you assumed he knew: it was all business.

He had been excited about the event and he had been excited for you. The morning of the luncheon you had got ready in your apartment and he had arrived to collect you in a dark suit with a flower in his pocket and he had told you, quietly, that you looked extraordinary.

₊˚°⊹˚

The Rainbow Room was at the top of 30 Rock and it was a beautiful, slightly absurd venue for a lunch.

You had been there once before, briefly, for some industry thing. You had not been there as a nominee. You had not been there with a date, never mind an international heart throb.

Everything had been fine on the lead up, until your agency in collaboration with the production team of Streetcar, threw a hefty stick of dynamite your way that changed the tone of what would play out.

The call was quick, snappy, almost 2 days before the event.

It had been Greg, your producer. Greg who you trusted. Greg who said the words darling, listen, this is a wonderful opportunity in a tone of voice that made your stomach drop.

"The studio had a thought"

You rolled your eyes, you already knew. Daniel was single. You were nominated together.

"The press already loved the photograph of the two of you embracing. The buzz around the production was good but it could be great — and the Tonys were only 3 weeks away, and a little bit of fanfare around the two leads going into the awards could move the needle on a Best Revival nod for the production itself.

Would you consider going to the luncheon together?

Just as professional dates. Just for the photographs."

You had stared at your kitchen wall for a long moment.

You had said "Greg, I'm seeing someone."

He had said "I know, darling, and I would never ask you to do anything you weren't comfortable with. But it's one event. It's a few hours. The story writes itself for the morning papers and then it's done."

You had said you would think about it.

You had thought about it.

You had said yes, eventually, because Greg had been good to you and because the production deserved the boost and because Daniel had been a generous co-star for fourteen weeks and you wanted him to win Best Actor.

And because — and this was the part you hadn't quite admitted to yourself — you and Michael had not yet had the conversation about what you were to each other. Not properly. He had not asked you to be anything specific. He had kissed you on fire escapes and held you on his sofa in LA and told you he didn't want to do it wrong with you, and that had been wonderful and patient and lovely, but it had also left a great deal in the room undefined.

You did not have a boyfriend.

You had Michael, and Michael had you, and neither of you had said the word yet.

So you said yes to Greg.

And you called Michael that night.

You told him on the phone.

You told him exactly what Greg had said, exactly, and what it was and exactly what it wasn't. You told him it was for the production. You told him it was photographs and a luncheon and two hours and then it was done. You thought he'd know these things, coming from the industry himself.

You said "Michael, I would still very much like you to come. I want you there. I want you there with me. We can arrive separately and you can sit at the table with my agent and I think Sandra is going, and it will all be fine. People can finally see us in public together"

There was a very long silence on the other end of the line.

Then he said very quietly, evenly — "of course. Whatever you need."

"are you sure?"

"I'm sure. I want to be there for you."

"Michael."

"Honestly. I am fine with it. Get some sleep."

He hung up before you could say anything else.

You sat on your bedroom floor for a long time with the phone in your lap.

You had known him for three months. You had been on enough phone calls with him to know what every register of his voice meant. The voice he had used to say I'm fine had not been fine.

You wanted to call him back. You knew that calling him back would make it worse.

So you didn't.

He arrived at your apartment in a dark suit with a flower in his pocket and he kissed your temple and told you you looked extraordinary, and you held onto him for a beat longer than you meant to in the hallway, and he stroked the back of your hair and didn't say anything further about it. One of his spare drivers would take you, separately and you'd meet up.

You hoped deep down that you'd be able to juggle responsibility and still introduce Michael to your industry friends and just… have a good time.

₊˚°⊹˚

Daniel was waiting at the entrance to the Rainbow Room.

He looked good. He always looked good. He was thirty six years old and had perfect bone structure, and that was basically what had got him cast as Stanley in the first place. Broad through the shoulders, slightly rough at the edges, the kind of handsome that worked better in person on stage, rather than in the movies.

He was wearing a navy suit and his hair was pushed back from his forehead and he was grinning at you, wiggling his eyebrows at the presence of a man; of Michael, as you came across the marble floor toward him.

You felt Michael's hand drop from the small of your back about three feet before you reached the door.

He had peeled off to find his seat. You had not seen him do it. You realised it in the second after it had happened and your stomach churned with anxiety.

Daniel reached for you.

You let him. He kissed your cheek and held both of your hands and looked at you the way Daniel always looked at you when there was a camera nearby — a little too warm, a little too proud, a little too here she is — and the photographers on the press line started flashing immediately.

"There she is," Daniel said, loud enough for them to hear. "There's my Blanche."

You inwardly grimaced at the use of that statement.

"There's my Stanley," you said, because the script of these things wrote itself.

He kept hold of one of your hands. He drew you in toward the press line. The flashes started in earnest now — the proper, blinding, sustained kind that you only got at events like this, when you were the photograph the photographers had been told to get.

Daniel was wonderful at it. He had grown up on a soap opera, multi camera, before he had moved to the theatre. He knew exactly how to angle his body, exactly when to laugh, exactly when to lean in toward you and say something private into your ear that the cameras would read as intimacy. His hand was at the small of your back now, creeping toward your backside, where Michael's had been not ten minutes ago. It was lower than it needed to be, and you knew; you just knew, professionally, that this was the kind of touch that sold a photograph. The only kind, really.

You forced a smiled at the photographers.

You let him put his arm around your shoulders for a posed shot. You let him kiss the side of your head for another. When one of the photographers called out give her a proper one, Danny, come on, Daniel laughed and ducked his head and kissed you on the cheek, very close to the corner of your mouth, and held it for a beat too long, and the flashes went off so brightly you saw spots for thirty seconds afterward.

When you finally got past the press line, when Daniel finally released you to go and stand with his own publicist, you turned around to look for Michael.

He was at the table. He was already sitting down. His back was to you.

You crossed the room.

You made your way to the table with your stage smile on, greeting the people who stopped you, accepting congratulations on the nomination, kissing cheeks. You had done this a hundred times. You could do it on autopilot.

Michael stood up to pull your chair out for you. He did it without even thinking, a true gentleman. Courteous attention; that had been one of the first things you had ever loved about him. He smiled at you; small, warm, a little bit out of control — and helped you into your chair.

He didn't say anything.

You knew, by the angle of his jaw and the jittery mess of his hands, and the way he had not yet looked at you since you had sat down, that something was really wrong.

"Michael," you said quietly.

"Mm."

"Are you alright?"

He turned to look at you. He smiled. It did not reach his eyes.

"I'm fine, these things make me really anxious."

He turned back to the table, and politely asked Bill to hand him the salt.

You felt your stomach drop as you saw Daniel approach the table.

He was being a good sport about the whole scenario, was the thing. However, he had no idea what was happening, he had no idea Michael was anything other than a friend who had come with you for moral support, because the production had not told him anything different and you certainly hadn't. He was laying on the charm; and thick.

He shook Michael's hand.

He said it was an honour.

He said

"thank you for coming to support my girl " — and he meant it warmly, he meant it in the goofy way, the way an older brother might tease; but you watched Michael's hand tighten very briefly on his napkin under the table.

Michael smiled at him.

"My pleasure," Michael said. "She's spoken highly of you. I've been looking forward to meet the man behind the Stanley."

Daniel laughed. Clapped Michael on the shoulder.

You saw Michael flinch very faintly under the contact.

Daniel went back to his own table.

You turned to Michael.

"Michael —"

"I said I don't really want to talk about it. Let's just eat lunch and get through this."

His voice was perfectly even. He still wasn't looking at you.

You started to overthink; maybe it was a mistake to bring him here? Maybe he wasn't ready to commit to someone? Show the world that you were his?

You chewed the inside of your lip, totally catastrophising the situation. When your eyes flickered up, Sandra gave you a woeful look.

Everyone could sense the tense energy.

It got worse during the speeches.

The production's publicist had clearly briefed Daniel. He truly was a sweet man with no malice in him at all, but he was also an actor, and when he was given a brief he ran with it.

During the cocktail portion of the afternoon, while you were trying to talk to Greg, Daniel kept appearing at your elbow. He kept putting his hand on the small of your back. He kept laughing at things you said and tipping his head back the way the photographs liked.

The photographers loved it. They were getting their story. You could see the headlines already Streetcar leads electric at Tonys luncheon, sources say more than chemistry between the stars than even the characters themselves.

You simply could not get back to the table. Back to him.

Every time you tried, somebody stopped you. A nominator. A producer. An old friend. They wanted to congratulate you. They wanted a photograph. They wanted to introduce you to someone.

You looked over at the table.

He had not moved. He was talking politely to Sandra, who had been seated next to him as a buffer and a familiar face, and Sandra was watching you across the room with a look on her face you knew very well. The Sandra look that said I see what is happening and I am keeping him calm but you need to get over here.

His security detail was intimidating enough that no other guests approached the table. He must have been jealous, and feeling rather left out. Regret started rushing through your body.

You tried.

You really did.

You were two feet from the table when Daniel caught your elbow.

"Photographer wants one more by the window," he said cheerfully. "Light's perfect. Five minutes, darling."

He looped his arm through yours.

You looked toward the table. Michael was watching now. He had turned his head slightly. He was looking at Daniel's arm through yours.

His face was completely blank.

You felt sick.

"Daniel," you said quietly. "I really need to —"

"Five minutes, darling. Greg's orders."

He was already steering you away.

You looked back over your shoulder. Michael was standing up. He was buttoning his jacket with those gorgeous hands. He was saying something to Sandra. Sandra was reaching for his arm. He was shaking his head, gently, and stepping past her. His security entourage followed.

He walked toward the door at the back of the room.

He did not look at you on his way out.

You stood frozen by the window with Daniel's arm through yours and a photographer asking you to look this way please, miss, just one more, and you felt every part of your heart slowly shatter. How could you have let this get so screwed up?

You don't remember making the decision to run, your brain was in complete overdrive.

And then you were moving.

You pulled your arm out of Daniel's so abruptly that he stumbled half a step.

"Darling, wait —"

"I'll be back."

"Greg said —"

"Tell Greg I'll be back."

You were already walking. Half walking. Mostly running, by the time you got to the door — and you did not care, in that moment, that you were a Tony nominee in a designer dress and heels who had just abandoned her co-star in front of half the New York theatre press. You did not care about a single one of them.

You shoved the door open.

You were in a service corridor. White walls, fluorescent strip lights, a janitor's trolley parked against one wall. The sound of the luncheon dimmed behind you the second the door swung shut.

You ran.

You did not know where he had gone. You followed the corridor on instinct — the instinct that came from years of touring theatres and knowing how back of house corridors worked. Service routes always led to service exits. Famous people who didn't want to be seen always went out the back.

You took a left.

Then a right.

You came down a flight of metal stairs in your heels too fast and almost went over, caught yourself on the railing, kept going.

You burst out of a fire door onto a loading dock and the rain hit you like someone had thrown a bucket.

It was coming down hard. It had not been raining when you'd arrived — the sky had been overcast but holding — and apparently in the last hour the weather had broken properly and now it was the kind of New York summer downpour that turned the city's gutters into rivers.

You saw him immediately.

He was at the bottom of the loading dock ramp, in the alley. Bill was beside him. There was a black car pulling up at the kerb. Michael was already moving toward it.

"Michael!"

He stopped.

He didn't turn around. Not at first. He stopped in the middle of the alley with the rain coming down on him, and his shoulders went up slightly, and then very slowly he turned to face you.

He looked at you across the alley.

You came down the loading dock ramp. Your shoes had no grip. The rain was already in your eyes. You could feel your hair flattening against your scalp and your makeup running and you did not care. Heart hammering in your chest.

You crossed the alley.

Bill stepped back slightly, gave the two of you a space, and then slid into the back of the black car.

You stopped in front of Michael.

He was soaked through already. His suit was ruined. His hair had come loose where he had been pulling at it and was sticking to the side of his face. He was looking at you with an expression you had never seen on him — not anger exactly, but something much rougher than anything he had shown you in three months.

"Michael —"

"Go back inside Y/N."

"What?"

"Go back inside. They're going to be looking for you."

"I don't care."

"Yes you do."

"Michael, I don't —"

"You should." His voice cracked very slightly.

He looked away from you, down the alley. "You should care. That's the whole point of today. That's the whole point of life, to care. You've worked your butt off for this and you should be in there right now with your co star, smiling for the cameras, and not out here in the rain ruining your dress."

"I'd rather be out here with you."

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't say things like that." He was still not looking at you. His jaw was working. "Don't make this harder than it has to be."

You felt something shift very coldly in your chest.

"Make what harder?"

He looked at you.

The rain was running down his face. His eyes were wet and you could not tell, in that downpour, whether any of it was tears or whether it was all just water, and you understood, in a slow terrible way, that it didn't matter.

"I shouldn't be here," he said.

"What?"

"Today. This. I shouldn't be here. I knew it when you called me on Tuesday and I came anyway because I'm — " he stopped, gathered himself. "Because I'm selfish. Because I wanted to be near you. But I should not be here."

"Michael, what are you talking about?"

"You're at the start of something." He gestured vaguely toward the building behind you. The rain was coming off his sleeve in a sheet. "You're at the beginning. You've built this on your own. You've done everything right. You've got reviews and a nomination and a co star who looks like that; touches you hungrily, and a publicist who knows exactly how to position you. And I am — "

His voice cracked properly this time.

"I am not a good thing to attach yourself to right now."

You stared at him.

"What are you saying?"

"You know what they say about me."

"Michael. You can't seriously be doing this to me right now."

"You know what they print. You know what the papers do. You know what they were doing last summer. They are not done with me. They are not going to be done with me for a long time, and you do not deserve to be standing next to that. You do not deserve the questions. You do not deserve some journalist asking you in the middle of an interview what you think about — " he stopped dead, pressing the heel of his hand to his eye.

"You don't deserve any of it. You deserve someone better. You deserve someone proud to be with you in public, and I don't know if that can be me right now."

The last few words were like a butcher knife carefully plunged straight through your heart.

"I knew this was too good to be true. That you'd be like every other celebrity - underneath all the exquisite fame and fortune - cold and unbothered." You seethed.

"I don't even know why I trusted you. I fell for you Michael, invite you out here to show you off because I was proud and you pull this?"

You pushed the wet hair from your face, the rain still pouring down heavy. "How very cliche of you."

He didn't flinch.

He looked at you for a long moment with the rain coming off his face, and you watched something in him settle into a shape you had not seen before. Not anger. Not defensiveness. Something more depressing. Something that had been sitting in him for a long time, maybe his whole life, and had just been waiting for the right night to come out.

"Y/N."

He said your name like it was the last time he was going to.

"Look at me."

You were looking at him. You did not understand what he meant.

"No," he said softly. "Look at me. Look at me."

You looked.

You looked at his ruined suit and his soaked hair and the rain running off his jaw, and you looked at his eyes, and you looked at the way he was holding himself — slightly hunched, slightly small, like a man who was trying to take up less space than his body actually took up.

"You see me. Right?"

"Michael —"

"You see what I am. The papers tear me apart. The hair. My face. The —" he gestured at himself, vaguely, the whole of him — "everything. You see it."

"I see you. the real you."

"Yeah." A small, sad smile. "But you see all that too. You have to. Everybody does."

"Michael, what are you doing."

"I'm trying to be honest with you. For once. I've been — I have been pretending for three months that this could work, and I came here today and I sat at that table and I watched you walk around with him and I watched the way the room moved for the two of you, and I understood something I should have understood a long time ago."

"Don't."

"You're going to leave me eventually."

"Michael —"

"You are. You're going to. Maybe not this year. Maybe not the year after that. But you are going to wake up one morning next to me and you are going to look at me and you are going to realise that you could have had — " he stopped. Swallowed. "I want you to have the easy version. You could have had the man who walks into a room with you and the room doesn't make up a crazy tabloid rumour about you. You could have had the man who can take you to your own award show without ducking out the back."

"Michael — stop —"

"I'd rather you leave now."

You felt the bottom drop out of your stomach.

"What?"

"I can't do this again. I can't be the thing that gets left."

"Michael, please look at me — "

"Go back inside."

"Michael — "

"Go back inside. Please."

You reached for him.

He stepped back.

It was the worst thing he had done to you yet. He stepped back from you, further out of the alley, and you watched his hands come up between you like a barrier. You understood that he had decided this and that you were not going to be able to talk him out of it.

"I am asking you," he said quietly. "I am asking you please to let me go"

You could not speak.

"Please."

You could not speak.

you stood in front of him with your mouth open and nothing coming out — he nodded once, very slowly, like you had answered him.

"Take care of yourself."

He turned around.

He walked to the car. Bill was holding the door. Michael got in without looking back at you. The door slammed shut, the rain still plummeting down, bouncing off the black sidewalk.

The car pulled away and turned left at the end of the alley and disappeared into the wet smear of traffic on the avenue.

₊˚°⊹˚

You don't remember the cab ride home.

You don't remember Sandra getting you into your building or up the stairs or through your front door. You don't remember her running you a bath or peeling the ruined dress off you or wrapping you in your dressing gown. You remember pieces of it. You remember her hands at the zip and her voice somewhere above you saying baby, baby, baby in the soft repetitive way she said it when she didn't know what else to say.

You'd asked her to leave eventually.

She had not wanted to. She had stood in your doorway in her own coat with her own hair still damp and looked at you for a long time, and you had told her, quietly, that you needed to be by yourself. You had told her you would call her in the morning.

That had been an hour ago. Or two. Or six. You weren't sure.

You were sitting on the floor of your bedroom.

You did not know why you were on the floor. You had walked in here to find a hairbrush and you had sat down with your back against the foot of the bed and you had not got up again. Your body could not manage any task, for the thought of him completely disabled you.

Your dressing gown was loose at the front and your hair was still wet and there was a small dark patch on the rug where your hair was dripping, and you watched the patch grow without doing anything about it.

You kept replaying it.

The alley. The rain. The way he had stepped back from you when you reached for him. The red brake lights at the end of the alley.

You kept replaying the wrong parts of it.

You should have grabbed him. You should have grabbed him by the lapels of his ruined jacket and pulled him into you and told him every single thing you had been too composed to say for three months. You should have told him, in the alley, in the rain, in front of Bill — you should have told him that you were in love with him. You should have told him you had known it since the night on the fire escape in the Village. You should have told him that you didn't care about the papers. You should have told him you would walk into any room in the world with him as long as he was the one walking in with you.

You had stood there with your mouth open like an idiot and you had let him decide for both of you, and now he was somewhere in the city — a hotel, a friend's apartment, a car going to the airport, you had no idea — and you had no way of reaching him because you had never been to his place and you didn't even have a number for him that wasn't Wayne's, and Wayne was not going to put you through tonight, you knew that, Wayne was going to be polite and protective and very firm, just as an assistant should be.

You had let him go.

You had let him go and you had not even fought for him properly, and now he was alone and he thought he was right and he thought he had done you a favour.

The worst part was that he had been wrong about everything.

You did not want the easy version. You had never wanted the easy version. You had spent fourteen weeks playing a woman who had been destroyed by the easy version, by the man who looked right on paper, by the brother in law who fit into the family photograph — and you had walked off that stage every night and gone home to phone calls with a man who blissfully did not fit anywhere, who was complicated and strange and famous and shy and clever and gentle and could not eat lunch in a restaurant without buying it out first, and that was the man you had wanted. That was the man you had been falling in love with. The complication had never been the problem. The complication had been the point.

He didn't know because you had never told him. You had spent three months letting him think he was a luxury you were graciously accommodating in your otherwise clean and uncomplicated career, and now he had decided to remove himself from your life as a kindness, and you were sitting on the floor of your bedroom realising you had loved him for at least eight weeks of those three months and had not said a single word.

You had been so careful. You had been so good and so professional and so grown up about the whole thing. You had not wanted to scare him. You had not wanted to push. You had wanted to be the woman who held back, who let him set the pace, who was patient and understanding about his patience.

You wished, now, that you had been someone completely different.

You wished you had been the kind of woman who, on the fire escape in the Village at four in the morning, had said yes, like this, exactly like this, please don't stop. Take me right here and now.

You wished you had told him, on the sofa in his house in the hills that you would burn your career to the ground for him if he asked you to. You wished you had said it like that, exactly, in those words. You wished you had been melodramatic and naked and unreasonable and thirty three years old, the way you had every right to be. You wished you had been less of a professional.

You wished you had told him you were in love with him.

You wished —

There was a knock at the door.

You froze.

You looked toward the bedroom doorway. The apartment was dark beyond it — you had not bothered to turn any lamps on after Sandra had left — and the only light was the spill from your bedside lamp pooling at your feet on the rug.

It was past midnight.

It might be Sandra. She might have come back. She might have decided not to leave you alone tonight after all.

The knock came again.

Not Sandra's knock. Hers — three quick taps, businesslike, the same knock she used at your dressing room door. This was different. This was harder. This was the knock of a person who had been standing on the other side of a door for a long time trying to work up to it.

You got off the floor.

You did not breathe properly. You walked through your dark apartment in your bare feet with your damp hair sticking to your neck and your dressing gown loose around you, and you reached the door, and you put your hand on the latch.

You did not look through the peephole.

You opened the door.

Michael was standing in the corridor.

He didn't speak. For a long moment, he just stood there in the dim light of the corridor, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths, rainwater still gleaming on his skin. The silence between you was a live wire, humming with everything that had been said and everything that hadn't.

Then he moved.

It wasn't a slow movement. It wasn't gentle or hesitant. It was a sudden, decisive lunge, as if he'd been holding himself back by a thread and the thread had snapped. His hands came up, not to push you away this time, but to seize you.

One hand clamped around your upper arm, the other went to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your damp hair. He pulled you into him with a force that knocked the air from your lungs.

His mouth came down on yours.

He kissed you like a man trying to undo his own decision. There was no softness, no exploration. It was hard and desperate and wet with rain and something saltier—tears, maybe his, maybe yours, you couldn't tell.

He kissed you like he was drowning and your mouth was air. He kissed you like he was trying to erase the alley, the last hour, the last three months of careful distance. His tongue pushed past your lips, rough and demanding, and you gasped into him, your hands flying up to clutch at his soaked shirt.

He broke the kiss only to breathe, his forehead pressed to yours, his eyes screwed shut.

"We drove eight blocks," he rasped, the words torn from somewhere deep in his chest. "and then I told Frank to turn around. I told him to bring me back here. I sat in the car downstairs for hours mulling over what I said to you. How unfair and jealous I was..."

You tried to speak, but he shook his head, a sharp, frantic motion.

"Don't," he said. "Don't say anything. If you say anything reasonable, if you tell me to go, I will. I'll go. So don't."

He kissed you again, swallowing any response you might have made. This time, his hands began to move. The hand on your arm slid down, over the slippery silk of your dressing gown, finding the tie at your waist.

He fumbled with it, his fingers clumsy with urgency, and when the knot gave way, he shoved the fabric apart. The gown fell open. The cool air of the corridor hit your bare skin underneath—you had nothing on but your panties.

A low, guttural sound vibrated from his throat into your mouth.

He pushed you backward, into your apartment, kicking the door shut behind him with a heavy thud that echoed in the dark space. He didn't turn on a light. He just walked you back, his mouth still devouring yours, until your shoulders hit the wall beside the entryway table. The impact made a frame rattle.

He tore his mouth from yours, his breath scorching hot against your cheek. "I tried," he whispered, almost to himself. "I tried to be the good one. I tried to let you go. I can't. I can't do it. Even if this life is complicated"

His hands were everywhere. One palm slid up your ribcage, rough and warm, and closed over your breast, his thumb sweeping over your nipple in a circle that made you arch off the wall with a sharp cry.

He bent his head, his mouth leaving a trail of wet, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw, your throat, the hollow of your collarbone. When he took your nipple into his mouth, biting it slightly, you cried out again, your fingers digging into his shoulders.

"Michael—"

"You said my name in the alley like that," he muttered against your skin, his teeth grazing the peak. "I like the way it sounds coming out of your mouth."

He straightened, his eyes blazing in the near-darkness. With a sudden, shocking strength, he turned you around, pressing your front against the wall. His body covered yours from behind, lean and hard and trembling. You felt the rigid line of his erection through his trousers, pressed against the curve of your ass. He groaned, a raw, pained sound, and ground himself against you once, twice, a slow, deliberate friction that had you pushing back against him, seeking more.

One of his hands splayed across your stomach, holding you to him. The other went to your hip, his fingers hooking into the lace of your panties. He didn't peel them down. He ripped them.

The sound of tearing lace was obscenely loud, and then the scrap of fabric was gone, falling to the floor at your feet. The cool air hit your exposed skin, followed immediately by the scorching heat of his palm cupping you from behind, his fingers sliding through your wetness with a rough, exploring stroke.

"Fuck," he breathed into your ear, his voice shattered. "You're so wet. You're so wet for me. Even after— even after what I said."

You were beyond words. You could only press your forehead against the cool plaster of the wall and whimper as his fingers found your clit, circling it with a pressure that was just shy of painful, perfect, maddening. He worked you like that for a minute, his breath coming in harsh gusts against your neck, his body a tense, vibrating line against your back. Then his fingers slid lower, pushing inside you, two of them, curling upward. You cried out, your knees buckling. He held you up easily, his arm like an iron band around your waist.

"I thought about this," he whispered, his lips moving against the shell of your ear. "In the car. I thought about having you like this. Against a wall. On the floor. In my bed. I thought about how you'd feel. How you'd sound."

He added a third finger, stretching you, and you moaned, long and low, the sound torn from somewhere deep in your belly. He fucked you with his hand, his pace relentless. You were climbing fast, too fast, the sensation in your abdomen tightening to a breaking point.

"Not yet," he commanded, his voice rough. He withdrew his fingers suddenly, leaving you empty and gasping. He turned you around again to face him. In the faint light from the streetlamp filtering through the blinds, you could see his face clearly for the first time.

His eyes were wild, dark pools of hunger and anguish.

His lips were swollen from kissing. Rain and sweat had plastered his dark hair to his forehead. He looked at you, his gaze dropping to your bare body, to where his own hand had just been. His expression was one of ravenous, almost frightening need.

"I need to taste you," he said, the words simple and devastating.

He sank to his knees on your hallway floor. You swayed, your hands coming to rest on his shoulders for balance. He didn't give you time to process it. His hands gripped the backs of your thighs, pulling you toward him, and then his mouth was on you.

The first flat stroke of his tongue made you seethe. How could he have kept this side of himself from you?

It was hot and wet and impossibly intimate. He didn't start slow. He dove in as if he'd been starving for it, his tongue laving broad, firm stripes through your folds before zeroing in on your clit. He sucked it into his mouth, applying a steady, rhythmic pressure that had your legs shaking.

His nose bumped against you, his breath hot. One of his hands left your thigh to slide back inside you, his fingers pumping in time with the suck of his mouth.

The dual sensation was overwhelming. Pleasure, sharp and bright, ripped through you, building with terrifying speed.

You looked down. In the dim light, you could see the pale, beautiful patterns on his neck and chest, the patches of vitiligo stark against his skin where his shirt had come open — a constellation of light on dark that made him seem otherworldly, a creature of myth on his knees for you.

The sight of it, the sheer vulnerability of him in this position combined with the aggressive, consuming way he was devouring you, sent a fresh, violent wave of heat through your core.

"Michael, I'm— I'm going to—" you choked out.

He hummed against you, the vibration tipping you over the edge. Your orgasm crashed into you, a silent, seizing wave that tore a ragged scream from your throat. You bucked against his mouth, but he held you firm, his tongue working you through the convulsions until you were limp and shuddering, your fingers clenched in his hair.

He didn't stop. As the last pulses faded, he gentled his mouth, licking you softly, cleaning you with a tenderness that was at odds with the frenzy of moments before. Then he rose, his movements fluid. His face was glistening with you. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes never leaving yours.

"Why the hell did you not do this to me that night in the village?" You asked, completely out of breath.

He was breathing hard. His hands went to his own clothes.

"Honestly, I didn't know if I had it in me or that you were the one for me. Clearly I do and you are" He said darkly. "So I am doing this now, because I know I need you. Be mine. Properly. No more hiding."

He ripped his tie off and tossed it aside. Your breath caught at his words, at the weight of them, at the way he said them like a man who had spent the entire car ride back here deciding.

His fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, and in his impatience, a few popped off, pinging against the floor.

He shoved the shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall. Then his belt buckle clanged, his zipper hissed, and he pushed his trousers and boxers down in one rough shove.

You saw his body fully for the first time.

He was wiry, all lean muscle and long lines, just as you'd imagined. His shoulders were narrow but defined, his chest smooth, his stomach flat. A dark trail of hair leading down the way. The vitiligo you had glimpsed earlier extended further than you had realised, sprawling across his ribs and down one hip, the contrast making him look pieced together from moonlight and shadow.

He was painfully erect, his cock standing thick and hard, the tip flushed and wet.

He was the most breathtaking thing you had ever seen.

He closed the distance between you in one stride. "I need to be inside you," he said, the words a raw scrape of sound. "Now. I can't wait. I can't be gentle."

"I don't want gentle," you breathed.

A shudder ran through him. He lifted you as if you weighed nothing, his hands under your thighs, and you wrapped your legs around his narrow waist.

He carried you like that, through the dark living room, into your bedroom. He didn't lay you on the bed. He laid you on the rug, the same rug you'd been sitting on earlier, the one with the damp patch from your hair. He came down over you, bracing himself on his arms, his body caged between your legs.

He positioned himself at your entrance, the broad head of his cock nudging against you, and he paused, his eyes searching yours in the lamplight. For a second, the shy, hesitant man was there, flickering in the depths of his gaze.

"Tell me to stop," he whispered, agony in his voice. "If you want me to stop, tell me now." You reached up, cupping his jaw, your thumb stroking over the patch of pale skin on his cheekbone.

"Don't you dare stop."

He drove into you in one deep, relentless thrust.

The stretch was immense, a burning fullness that stole your breath. He was big, and he didn't give you time to adjust. He buried himself to the hilt, his hips flush against yours, and let out a broken groan that sounded like it was ripped from his soul. He held there for a moment, trembling, his forehead dropping to your shoulder.

"Oh, God," he choked. "Oh, God, you feel— I can't—"

He began to move.

There was no rhythm at first, just a frantic, driving pace, as if he was trying to fuse himself to you. Each thrust was deep, punishing, hitting a spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids. The rough material of the rug scraped against your back, his body was a heavy, delicious weight on top of you, and the smell of rain and sex and his skin filled the air.

"Look at me," he demanded, his voice rough.

You forced your eyes open. His face was above you, strained with pleasure, his lips parted.

"You're not settling," he gritted out, punctuating each word with a thrust. "Do you understand me? You are not. Settling."

"I know," you gasped.

“I love you.”

He said it like it hurt.

“I love you so much.”

"Fuck, Michael. I love you too--"

"I can’t do another almost.”

His hand tightened around yours. The thrusts ragged.

“If this is happening, then it has to really happen.”

"I'm yours. I'm yours, Michael —"

He kissed you again, swallowing your cries.

His pace became more controlled, deeper, each stroke a deliberate claiming.

He shifted, hooking one of your legs over his arm, opening you wider, changing the angle. The new position made him go even deeper, the head of his cock rubbing directly over that sweet, sensitive spot with every plunge.

You were coming undone again, a second orgasm building greatly. Your nails scored down his back, feeling the ridges of his spine, the smooth expanse of his warm skin. He hissed at the sensation, his movements growing more ragged.

"I'm close," he warned, his voice thick. "I'm not going to last. Come with me. Please. Come with me."

It was the "please" that did it. That same shattered, vulnerable "please" from the alley, but now drenched in desire instead of despair.

Your orgasm detonated, a silent, shattering explosion that clenched around him, milking his length. He shouted, a raw, unfiltered sound, and drove into you one final, brutal time, his body locking as he emptied himself deep inside you in hot, pulsing waves.

He collapsed on top of you, his full weight pressing you into the rug, his face buried in your neck. His breaths were great, heaving gasps against your skin. You could feel his heart hammering against your own, a frantic, syncopated rhythm slowly calming.

For a long time, neither of you moved. The only sounds were your slowing breaths and the distant hum of the city at night.

Slowly, carefully, he rolled off you, taking his weight but keeping an arm around your waist, pulling you with him so you lay on your sides facing each other on the rug. His skin was slick with sweat, his hair a mess. He looked wrecked. Beautifully, completely wrecked.

He reached out a trembling hand and brushed a strand of damp hair from your forehead. His eyes, now soft and exhausted, traced your face.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

"For which part?"

A faint, shattered smile touched his lips. "The part where I ripped your underwear. And possibly the part where I was… rough."

You shook your head, your own hand coming up to trace the pale pattern on his shoulder. "Don't be sorry for any of it."

He caught your hand, brought it to his mouth, and pressed a kiss to your palm. It was a gesture from another century, infinitely gentle, a stark contrast to the animal hunger of minutes before.

"I meant what I said today," he said quietly, his eyes serious. "I am… a lot. It's not going to be easy."

"I don't care."

"I know you don't. I believe you now." He sighed, a deep, weary sound. "I think I just needed… proof. Not from you. From me. That I could want something this much and not run from it. And seeing you with another man just wrecked me. I didn't know what to do"

You shifted closer, until your foreheads were touching. "So I'm yours now?" You said.

He was silent for a moment. You felt his breath against your lips. "Mine. Properly. No more hiding."

He caught your mouth in a deep, hard kiss.

Outside, the rain began to fall again, a soft patter against your window. You lay there together on the floor, in the pool of lamplight, skin to skin, his wiry, marked body curled around yours, and for the first time all night, you felt the terrible, hollow ache in your chest begin to mend.

It was getting ridiculous. 10 and a half months of tension and torture. You were getting so desperate, you started feeling like a hormone-driven, college-aged man.

Seriously, you were objectifying Michael’s every action like some pervert. The way his tongue swirled around his lips after they’d gotten a little dry. Putting on lipgloss just to ‘share some’ with him. Purposely asking him to play his grand piano so that you could watch his fingers work over every tooth. Even objectifying the soft sighs of content he’d make in his sleep.

Your body was aching for his touch.

It all came to a head after you watched your tape of Michael’s Dirty Diana performance in Wembley. Michael had his team take personal videos for you since you couldn’t make it due to work obligations. He was going over the videos with you in your house’s upstairs loft, excitedly gauging your every reaction to the show he put on.

I imagined you standing right on stage with me in this one, he’d told you, handing you the copy so you could put it into the VCR.

As you watched it, you couldn’t help but focus on every detail. He looked so desperate and sang so sensually. Naturally, it turned you on, especially since you’ve been so hungry for him for so long. You were squirming with every thrust, leaking through every hungry whine that seeped past his lips. After the video stopped, your panties were embarrassingly soaked.

He stared at you expectantly and finally cleared his throat after you sat there eyes wide and silent for 4 whole minutes.

“Michael,” you said evenly, voice coming out smoother than you felt.

“Did you like it?” he asked, aching for your approval.

“Like? Mike my panties are soaked,” you admitted with a longing sigh. You were edging over the precipice of insanity.

“O-oh…?” he responded bashfully, not sure how to insert his commentary into this topic.

Admittedly, Michael was insane about you. He kept up a good front when needed, but there were so many times he almost fully let himself go for you. The time you made brownies together and he purposely swiped his index finger around the remnants inside the mixing bowl, presenting his finger so that he could feel your tongue and cheeks suck around his skin. Or, the time you’d left your shared bathroom door slightly ajar, him eagerly peeking in while he watched you clean your sex precisely, his mouth going dry at the sight of your delicate fingers touching your glistening pussy.

He even got turned on by you crying after the two of you watched a particularly devastating romantic movie. The sight of your eyebrows scrunching together was reminiscent of the few times you’d let your makeout sessions turn into heavy petting and your face would mold into the same look when his hardened length desperately ground against your pajama-clad clit.

Still, your admission left him flustered. You broke the silence.

“Why won’t you fuck me?” you asked him, eyes pleading pathetically for his answer.

“Pardon?” he asked, taken aback by the direct question.

“I said,” you inched closer to him on the couch, hand creeping onto his, “Why don’t you fuck me?”

“I-i want…I will…I think about it?” his confession turning into a question as he started losing himself at the feeling of your fingers atop of his. He composed himself and started over.

“It’s just…I want to learn you. I sing all these songs about sexual pleasure and desire, but I feel like a poser. I wanna learn your body. I want to know what exactly makes you squirm, what touches bring you over the edge. Most importantly, I wanna please you. Before anything, I want your pleasure to be put before mine. I want to give you everything before I let you take all of me. Before I make love to you.”

His words stunned you. Obviously, Michael was the most romantic and compassionate person ever, but an insecure part of your brain had convinced you he just didn’t want it. He didn’t want you in that way.

“Oh. Yeah, that makes sense.” You were embarrassed now. Your eyes started brimming with tears, embarrassment flooding over you for ruining the moment.

“Hey, what’s the matter, baby? C’mere. Why’d you ask me that?” he asked you, his slender form slinking closer to yours, engulfing you into a tender hug. He ignored the arousal threatening to bubble through his actions at the sight of your tear clad face.

You hurriedly wiped the tears that were desperately inching to slip from your eyes.

“I dunno. I just thought you didn’t want me in that way. You always stop anything before we can let it get too far. You even cover your eyes when I get naked in front of you.” You let out an airy laugh at the thought. He slightly leaned his body away from yours, capturing your face in his gigantic hands.

“Of course I want you in that way. Didn’t you see my performance? I basically begged for your body up there. I guess I just suck at asking for it.” He scratched the back of his neck, the realization of his lack of his direct communication weighing on him.

“Then do it,” you demanded, the need in your voice almost turning it into pleading. “Ask for it. Beg. Show me you want me.”

He expression turned serious, eager to please you.

“I will.” It was a promise, leaving no room for questions or confusion. Immediately, the weight in the air turned from confusion and insecurity to unbridled lust and determination. He was gonna learn you the way he described.

Faster than you could protest- not that you would- he adjusted your positions. He gently leaned your back onto the expensive black couch and positioned both of his legs on either side of your torso.

“I’m gonna kiss you first. But please, tell me everything you like. Tell me what you want. I’m going to give everything to you,” he stated, and he leaned in for the kiss.

It was explorative and wandering, his tongue prodding here and there with unspoken questions of your desires. He’d bite your lip, pocketing away your reaction as if he were studying it for a test. When he started sucking your tongue, a loud grumble settled deeply in your chest, and he responded with a groan, pleased with his findings. You were nasty, like him. He liked that.

His kisses escaped your encapsulating lips and immediately found their way to your ear. This was something he was curious about. He parted his mouth and gave your lobe a curious graze, looking up at you from under his long lashes. Your back arched infinitesimally as you let out the quietest whine known to humanity. He dove back in and bit harsher, and you whimpered desperately.

“Hmm,” he noted to himself.

His lips and tongue explored your neck next, eager to have an excuse to mark you through in his study of your body. He was fully committed to his research, obsessively sucking and biting the supple skin of your neck as he cradled the side of it in a vampire-esque way. The way you gasped and groaned whenever he sucked harsher bruises into your skin was magnetic. His mind was driven to please.

He continued his journey to your tits, the sight of them short circuiting his brain momentarily. He removed his mouth from the swell of them and groped them greedily, his palms pressing deliciously against your braless nipples through the fabric. He wet his lips at the erotic sight of you. You looked up at him, a silent plea in your eyes for more, and he curled his fingers around the neckline of your tank top.

“Do you want-” Michael began.

“Take it off. Want your mouth on my nipples,” you instructed. You sat up as he followed your command instantly, his hands removing your shirt with precision.

You didn’t know how much you needed this. The moment his lips met your erect nipples, your brain seized with an electric jolt of pleasure.

“Mmm,” you sighed, basking in the pleasure and heat. He was sucking at your breast like he was thirsty, every twitch from your body giving him encouragement. He tried your other breast and you reacted even more so.

“This one’s more sensitive.” It wasn’t a question, it was a statement. He was still researching your body.

“Y-yeah- shit,” you let out an expletive at the feeling of his tongue flicking up and down on the sensitive nub, and you could sense a teasing demeanor slip through his ministrations. You grabbed onto his head and aggressively mashed it against the plush area, eliciting a whimper from him. Your dominance turned him on.

He popped off after your grip on his head loosened. His body slithered down your own like a serpent, sliding down in a way so fluid you would’ve applauded if not for the situation you were currently in.

Then, he just stared at you. Your hair was in a disarray and your nipples were wet and hard. You had the evidence of his possessiveness littered all over your neck and collarbones. To top it off, you were whimpering and panting underneath him. He absolutely adored you like this.

He grew a little more confident, testing your limits here. He had a sneaking suspicion you were into something else. Experimenting with this theory, he ran his hands up and down your torso, preparing for his surprise. Then, you felt a hypnotic jolt of pleasured pain shoot up your spine and let out a cry.

He’d pinched both of your nipples. Hard. After seeing your reaction, he did it again, testing how much harder he could go.

You were an absolute mess. You couldn’t even speak, just letting out whines of approval.

Michael just kept watching.

He dragged his nails up and down your body, starting from the dips in your collarbones to the tops of your knees. It was exhilarating. Particularly, his hand being so close to your neck. You grabbed for it a bit when he was dragging his hands down, but he misread that as you wanting him to go lower. You decided you’d bring it up later.

“Can I take your jeans off and you turn around, please?” he questioned you, an idea evident behind his dark eyes.

You obliged suspiciously, throwing your bottoms on the stack of tapes you’d watched earlier.

As soon as you settled comfortably onto your stomach, Michael lowered his body onto your thighs and slapped your ass so hard that you felt stars. You immediately arched up into his touch, the movement causing his crotch to rub against the back of your thighs. You both moaned out- you lewdly, him embarrassed- at the contact. He rubbed the sensitive area pervertedly, gripping onto your cheek in an unintentionally obvious way.

“S-so you like pain.” Again, not a question, but a note he was taking on this crash course of your desires.

“Mm- yeah i love it,“ you revealed in a tone Michael had never heard you use before. He’d already started making you feel so far gone and he hadn’t even traveled to where you wanted him most.

“Oh god,” he whispered to himself. You heard it, though.

“What?” you asked through ragged breathing, craning your neck the best you could to see his face.

“Keep talking like that, please. I’m into it.” He closed his eyes slightly and rocked his hips onto your thighs subconsciously as the tone of your voice echoed in his brain.

“Hit me again, Mikey. I want it.” You sounded like a pornstar. The tone in your voice was stuck between being full on moans and needy whines.

He obeyed without second thought, his eager eyes watching as the skin under his large hand recoiled and got darker.

“F-uck!” you hiccuped out. You felt tears stinging your eyes at the sensation. The pain was so fucking good. You could feel your pussy glue to your panties from all of the arousal drooling from it.

You arched your ass up higher now, your body craving for more of him. You wanted him everywhere.

He let out a little yelp at the sensation, but then his eyes got distracted.

You were wet. Really, really wet.

Without thought, his hand fluttered straight to the spot on your panties, running over it once so he could feel the stickiness on his fingers.

“Can I please take your underwear off? I wanna look at you,” he asked with patheticism in his voice.

You lifted your ass up higher and let out an ‘mhm’ giving him the okay to slide them off for you.

As he dragged them off your feet, he got off of your body and gently pushed you forward a little more.

“Can I have you stay exactly the way you are, but just on your knees?”

You obliged, leaving your head and torso against the couch while your ass went higher into the air, like you were gonna take him from behind. The image made you clench longingly. He caught that movement immediately.

Then, he sat on his knees right behind you, positioning his face right in front of your core. He leaned in and fanned his hot breath over it, watching you flinch and clench again. He took his middle finger and ran it up and down your folds annoyingly slow. His finger went inside of you just barely, testing how tight it was and teasing you by rolling it around slowly. He pulled out and sucked loudly on his finger for you to hear. Your hole leaked a clear, slick liquid.

He moaned at the flavor, tattooing it to his memory, before he took that same finger and rubbed it into your clit with a feather-like touch.

He knew you wanted more, and he wanted to give it to you, but God, the way your pussy reacted to everything was so captivating. He could watch it clench and leak forever. He dragged his finger back toward your entrance and spread you open with it, inspecting every ridge and fold that his eyes could register. His mouth watered.

You let out a soft whimper when his finger probed your hole again, your resolve weakening.

“Michael stop fuckin’ teasin’ me,” you whined.

“I’m sorry baby, you just look so pretty down there,” he responded, slipping his digit inside immediately. The way you clenched around it was like ecstasy.

“Yeah! Mmm, Mike. Go in ‘n out fast ‘n c-curl your finger up when it’s inside. I- ahh- like it rough.”

You liked it rough. Those were a the words that influenced the rest of his actions for the night.

He added his index finger and pistoned them into you harshly, letting your moans fill up his ears and be his driving force.

“Like that, baby! Fuck! F-feels so fucking good,” you mewled.

He leaned down and slightly nipped your ass cheek, eager to see you squirm and feel your hungry pussy suck his fingers deeper inside.

You shrieked and pushed your ass back father, your walls closing in against his digits. It was getting harder and harder to move inside you.

“You have to relax, love,” he coaxed you gently.

“Ngh- j-just feels too good,” you babbled out. Your brain was making it feel like every nerve of your body was receiving a sensual kiss. You could barely think. Then his tongue was on you.

He latched onto your clit with perfect accuracy and started sucking cautiously, knowing the area was particularly sensitive. Your legs spasmed and you got up onto your hands, needing some grounding. You moaned out his name and the sound hit him like a symphony, encouraging him further.

“Mmm, Michael. You’re so good. Perfect, feels perfect.” you praised him, unable to say proper sentences.

He hummed against you, still keeping up that aggressively brutal pace with his fingers, and you started to see white.

“Ohhh my- I’m s-so close!” you called out, feeling the all too familiar whisper of release heightening your senses and settling into your abdomen.

He sat back, his chin covered with your essence, and set his pace with his fingers faster. Then, he stopped and pulled them out hurriedly.

“I wanna see you. Can you look at me while you cum?” he asked as he slid directly under shaking body, your dripping pussy directly above his face. He pulled you strongly by your thighs, settled you onto his mouth, and continued feasting. His eyes trailed from your beautiful breasts right up to your contorted face, and he moaned loudly at the sight.

You sat up, feeling your orgasm approach again, and rode his mouth and nose for dear life, grabbing one of Michael’s hands to play with your nipple. You watched his face as you ground back and forth.

You looked too good to be true. He got lost in the meal and lightly grazed your clit with his teeth, wanting to learn just how rough he was allowed to get.

Your legs suddenly locked up and you buried his nose deep into your pelvis, blocking all of his air. Then, he felt it.

Your eyes rolled up and your hand gripped from his and slotted into his hair and you let out the most broken moan imaginable. Your warm, sticky release soaked the entire bottom half of his face.

“F- OH!” was all you could say as it dawned on you.

Michael couldn’t breathe, but he didn’t want to. He lapped at you through the whole thing, his vision blacking out as he lost air. You leaned forward and collapsed your body right above his head, having enough sense to remember to let him breathe. Again, Michael didn’t want to.

He got a fierce hold on your spent body and sat you right back on top of him, wanting more of your juices. He would happily pass out over and over from you suffocating him with your pussy if it were up to him.

“Not done yet,” he stated as he dove back in, this time groping your ass and pulling you onto him by it. He shoved his nose forward, fiercely taking his air away, while looking up at you like you were treasure.

“Mike! S’ too m-much.” You started sobbing above him, the pleasure overwhelming you. A tear spilled over your cheek and landed on his forehead. Yet, you secretly didn’t want him to stop. The fire in his eyes to please you was intense and infectious.

Michael ignored your words, eyes glazing over at the sight of your pleasure evident tears, as he started losing oxygen again. He moved his nose away and inhaled the air desperately, ready to lose it all again.

Unbeknownst to him, your second orgasm was running toward you at full speed, not giving you enough time to prepare for it. You choked out a glorious sob of his name and jerked your hips up, the tip of his nose sitting proudly under your clit.

Underneath you, he was smiling like a lunatic

You slid down and laid atop of his body, catching your breath for the second time, after not even really catching it the first.

He looked down at you on his chest, worried he’d pushed you too far.

You could feel his loaded gaze on you.

“Not done. Just need to catch my breath,” you said as you looked up and gave him a lazy smile.

It took his breath away. You looked ruined. Your eyes were red and wet with tears, your hair was a mess, the hickeys and scratches on your skin were darker. And you were drooling.

“You’re breathtaking,” he told you with a genuine gasp.

“So are you,” you complimented. He looked just as fucked out as you did, and he wasn’t even getting touched.

“I need you. I want you inside of me, and I want you to fuck me senseless. Give it to me,” you remarked, not caring to catch your breath anymore.

Your hand traveled to his belt and worked it open without waiting for a response. You unzipped his pants, and then looked back up at him.

“Take these off. And your shirt,” you ordered him bluntly. His cock throbbed ravenously at your dominance.

“Yes. O-okay,” he said as he gently slid from beneath you and followed your orders, throwing his clothes right on top of yours.

You licked your lips at the art in front of you, his beauty something you swore was inhuman.

You lips meet his hungrily as you carefully laid back on the couch, mimicking your earlier position. You pulled him between your parted legs and flush against your chest, gently rocking back and forth with his heavy length going between your clit and stomach. You felt his precum dribble right above your pelvis as he let out a broken whine. You broke away from the kiss.

“I need you inside Michael,” you said, dangerously close to begging him.

He sat up and grabbed your face between his large palms, his eyes giving you a serious look.

“I love you so much, my pretty girl. You tell me if it hurts or if you get uncomfortable or wanna stop, okay? And tell me when it feels good, please,” he asked you passionately.

“I will,” you declared, your heart softening at the depth behind his words.

He positioned his leaking length between your folds and grazed his tip against your clit, teasing himself in the process. You bucked your hips up with a huff. Michael grabbed you by them, leaned forward to kiss you, and pushed himself in at the same time.

You both moaned against each other’s mouths, and Michael stopped halfway, resting his forehead against yours. The tightness of your pussy was dangerous. The length and girth of his dick was too.

He was fucking huge. His dick was splitting you open hungrily and you were clenching around him like you craved it all.

“Holy shit, you’re huge. Oh my, fuck. Put it all in,” you demanded and you pulled him forward needily.

You’d never felt so filled in your life. You could see him in your cervix, feel him in your veins, and even taste him on your tongue.

Michael was also absolutely losing it. He never knew sex could feel this good. You guys hadn’t even started properly making love yet, but he felt incredible. Your walls were basically choking his dick. Each clench you gave him was like a vice. His instincts took over and he started thrusting into you hungrily.

The sounds that left your mouth were downright sinful. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think you were faking your moans. They sounded like cascades of love, and very pornographic.

“Michael, oh my god. Yes!” He found your g-spot. “Right there! Fuck me harder!” you exclaimed. Then, you remembered something. “Ch-choke me. Baby- shit. Choke me Michael.”

“Yes ma- ahh- hmm. Yes, baby.” He was fucking you senseless. He watched as your eyes rolled back and your tongue lolled out of your bruised, plump lips and he went deeper and gripped your neck. You were losing yourself in the pleasure he was giving you, and that’s exactly what he wanted.

“B-baby. Look at me please. Wanna see you,” he said desperately, craving the approval from your eyes. He moved your head by your neck to look at him, and your eyes traveled back his face. Your gummy walls clenched around his engulfing dick at the sight of him. He was fully crying, the tip of his nose turning red.

“Oh, Michael. You’re heavenly,” you praised him causing him to shyly duck his head. You thrusted your hand up and forced his face up by his cheeks, squeezing them ferociously.

“I wanna see your expressions too, angel face. L-look how good you’re fucking me.” You pulled his face down to look at where the two of you became one, and directed his face back to yours, pulling him in for a sloppy kiss.

You were losing yourself in the feeling of it all, already being so overstimulated from earlier, and you felt your third orgasm of the night approach you. You tried pushing away for a second to warn him, but Michael’s lips chased yours instantly. He was completely gone.

You opted for using your free hand to reach down and circle your abused clit to take you over the edge. The doubled friction was so good, it only took a few harsh rubs, and you were gone.

As you came, your body went completely limp under his, your legs flattened on the coach cushions and your hand dropped from his now sore cheeks.

He kept going, even as you came down. This man was completely lost inside of you, and he was moving in a way that suggested he didn’t wanna be found.

“Mikeyyy,” you moaned out at him, the sensitivity numbing your brain too much to finish your thought.

He didn’t listen to your protest, or couldn’t. He just wanted you to keep feeling good, and the way you continuously sucked him in showed him you were still enjoying it. He felt so good, but he didn’t want to let go. He displayed his strongest act of willpower, edging himself over and over with each one of your orgasms. He almost came when he fingered you, when ate you out, hell, even when you told him to take his clothes off.

He slowed down a bit, learning every ridge inside of you and committing it to memory. He savored the slower pace as well, burying himself to the hilt and holding his dick deep in you after each stroke.

You could practically taste heaven on your tongue.

His curly hair was stuck to his forehead and he was giving you the biggest puppy-dog eyes you’d ever seen on a human.

You could feel yet another orgasm coming, this one coming in like a thunderclap before lightning; you could sense it with enough time before it happened to warn him.

“Mik-ey. G’na cum again.” You turned your head and kissed the inside of his wrist next to you.

“Please. Please cum again, pretty. I wanna feel it again,” he pleaded. He leaned down closer to you, his whimpers falling into your ears while he thrust harder and harder, drinking up the bliss painted on your face.

You came around him with a heartbreaking whine, your bottom lip jutting into a full on pout and your chest heaving with sobs. You’ve never felt so good in your life.

He slowed down a bit more, albeit not coming to a full stop, and wiped your tears with one hand.

“P-please one more, doll. Please. I’ll cum with you this time. Jus’ need one more. Need you to cum on- ngh- on me again.

At the realization that yes, he hadn’t cum at all, your pussy throbbed at his act of service. He was physically holding himself back just to ruin you like you told him to. He was such a good listener.

“Oh, my sweet boy,” you cooed at him reaching up to grip your fingers into his hair. “Take another one from m-me. I can handle it,” you stated, determination creeping into your voice.

He let out a beautifully tragic whimper at your demand, and picked up his pace. He lifted himself up and propped one of your legs onto his shoulder, determined to get you there as soon as possible.

It was like a new hunger bubbled up inside of you. Your body was still aching with sensitivity, but it was as if you still hadn’t been touched. The aggression in his moves had you seeing God.

“I wanna get on top,” you let out before you could even think. Your lips were moving faster than your brain had time to filter your thoughts.

“God damn,” he responded at your declaration. He flipped your bodies over expertly and held your waist in anticipation. You looked him in the eyes and placed your hand into his neck to steady yourself.

He let out a choked moan at the contact looking up at you in shock.

“Can you squeeze my neck, please? Please choke me,” he begged, his mouth parted desperately.

You gave it a rough squeeze and you took his ginormous dick inside of you. The dual pleasure was pushing him to the edge. He rolled his eyes back and smiled like he was on psychedelics, the lack of air making everything feel like ecstasy.

You released his neck slightly, giving him room to breathe, as you started bouncing up and down, your tits bobbing seductively above his face as you did so. You dragged your free hand up to your tits, holding them under your arm to stop the harsh drag of them. That only made it worse for him. The roundness of them became more prominent with the strain of your arm.

You looked back down at him with your eyebrows knitted and your eyes lowered with lust. You reached back down and kissed him intimately, squeezing his neck tightly and opening your eyes to take in his expression. He looked like lust personified. Then, you felt it coming and you broke the kiss. You removed your hand from his neck and lightly smacked his cheek, signaling him to look at you.

“G’na cream that big dick of yours M-Mikey. You gotta cum with me. ‘M so…I’m g…I- FUCK!”

This orgasm tore through you like a tsunami, crashing over and over in brutal waves.

Michael came as soon as the first clench came from your pussy. He cried out the prettiest moan you’d ever heard, the sound rivaling his singing vocals.

“Please, please, please, thank you. Y-yes! GOD, oh, thank you, I love you,” was all he could say between sobs.

You collapsed on top of him and caught your breath, letting his dick soften up inside you. After a moment, you pulled him out of you and felt both of your releases spill onto the couch. Michael could feel some of it slide down his own dick and he whined at the feeling. He was that sensitive.

“My god Michael, you’re insane,” you said, breaking the silence.

He let out a breathy laugh.

“Only for you,” he responded, looking at you with lazy eyes.

“Yeah, you better,” you said only half joking, your hand coming up to his face to squeeze his cheeks together again.

The two of you got up and stretched, joints aching with the activities of the night.

“Let me run us a bath, pretty girl. I’ll be right back,” Michael stated, still so eager to service you. He gave you a kiss, took your scattered clothes, and disappeared into your room’s shared bathroom, turning on the faucet of the huge bathtub and pouring in bubble soap and bath salts. He dimmed the lights and turned on the mini radio that sat atop the spacious counter, humming along to the jazzy instrumental crackling from its speakers. He left the bathroom, leaving the bath to run, and walked into your shared walk-in closet.

He picked out simple pajamas for the two of you. He got a plain white tee and tartan pajama pants for himself, and a pair of boyshorts and one of his comically oversized graphic tees for you, knowing you liked wearing it as a nightgown sometimes. He smiled to himself as he folded the clothing and placed them on top of the bed, awaiting your arrival.

You’d walked into the room shortly after, having tidied up the living room and cleaning up the cum from the couch. Your legs were aching from the sex and walking up the steps. You opened the door with a creak, legs almost giving out.

He turned around to face you, having just completed his task of putting both of your soiled clothes in your shared laundry basket. He grabbed your hand as he went to turn off the faucet in the bathtub, followed by sounds of you complaining. He didn’t want to walk away from you while you just came in, but your legs felt like you were moving in quicksand. He dipped his hand inside, testing the water and motioned for you to check for yourself. You gave him a thumbs up.

“You actually ruined me, Mike,” you complained dramatically as you wrapped your arms around his neck.

“That’s exactly what you asked me to do. Multiple times, at that! Can’t go back on your word now, silly girl.” He chuckled softly and booped your nose before stepping into tub, grabbing onto your hand to help you in like a gentleman.

“I’m not, I just wasn’t expecting…all that. It was like you were a different person. Very sexy of you, by the way.” You settled in front of him and he grabbed your loofah, doused it with soap, and started washing your back for you like it was something he was used to. He scrubbed you like you were the most delicate thing in the universe.

“I dunno what came over me either, honestly. I really was jus’ cravin’ you that much. I didn’t even know needin’ you more than I usually do was possible.” He paused, his usual shyness creeping back in. “And, uh, you were very sexy as well. Better than I ever imagined you’d be,” he tacked on, flustered.

“Thank you, angel.” You leaned your head back and gave him an upside-down kiss on the lips, feeling a shy smile creep into his lips. You picked your head back up and twisted your upper body around to face him.

“Aww, my baby,” you cooed at him.

“Y’know that nickname makes me shy,” he says, referring to ‘angel’ and all variations of it. He lifted your arms and scrubbed your sides and your stomach, traveling his way to your breasts as you responded.

“How can I not when you have such an angel face? You’re so precious, c’mon,” you fake pouted at him. Sweet vanilla and warm cinnamon filled your nostrils. Your favorite body wash. “See? You even act like an angel. You replaced my favorite body soap for me ‘cause it ran out.”

“That’s nothin’. I’d buy you a castle-” he paused, seeing the incredulous look on your face, realizing he was somehow helping your point. “Okay, okay whatever. You’re the one sent from heaven, though. Here, gimmie your leg ‘n hold onto my shoulder.”

Your face warmed up at the sincerity in his tone and the gentleness he used with you. As he continued his work, you watched him, filled with gratitude. He was so happy taking care of you like this, and you wondered how such a sweet person could truly exist.

As he finished you up he started washing himself up as you watched in adoration. You took his loofah and scooted to switch sides with him, washing his back as he did yours. He hummed along to the instrumental from the little radio, sounding identical to the saxophone singing from it. So beautiful.

The two of you dried your feet on the plush carpet beside the tub and stepped into the shower directly next to it to wash your hair and rinse off.

He washed his own hair as you rinsed off and cleaned your legs once more, both of you clingily standing under the huge showerhead that was big enough for more space between the two of you. You were just craving each other more than usual after crossing that final line.

You stood behind him as he wrung his hair, in no rush to free your eyes from the sight of his sleek, yet toned back in front of you. You leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the back of his shoulder and ran your hands up and down his waist once. Lurching forward, you grabbed your shampoo, and Michael took it from you unexpectedly.

“Wet your hair for me?” he asked, squeezing a glob into his hand and lathering it up.

You did just that and he turned you away from him, massaging the shampoo into your scalp as he combed your hair simultaneously. The domestic action made you want to drop to your knee and propose to him right there.

You reached your hand back and rubbed it up and down his arm in a silent ‘thank you’, too content to break the silence.

He grabbed it and gave it a romantic peck, rinsing the shampoo off and gently placing it back to your side. After he finishing working in and rinsing the conditioner, he stepped out of the steamy shower, leaving the water running for you. He grabbed your towel and beckoned you out, wanting to make sure you stayed warm the whole time.

He stepped back in and turned off the faucet and you wrapped yourself up, and then unraveled your towel and dried you off. He patted your hair dry and wrapped it up, as you made your way to the sink counter to get your blow dryer. You turned it on its second coolest setting and blew the water out of your hair, not focus on getting it to look a certain way.

He drained the tub, rinsed it out, and then dried off as you finished with your hair. He handed you your bathrobe.

“Here sit down,” he motioned to the plush ottoman sitting in there for whenever you moisturized your body. He grabbed your lotion and kneeled down, lathering it into your neck and shoulders, then down the front and back of your torso, lifted you up so he could get your ass, rubbed into your thighs and legs, and finally massaged your feet.

“Baby, you don’t have to do all this,” you protested, feeling bad that he was spending more time on your showing process than his own.

“I want to. I told you, I wanted our first time together to be perfect. That includes aftercare, baby. Besides, this is bare minimum.” He scoffed at your protest, offended. He placed your foot down and looked up at you, eyebrow raised.

You leaned down and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

He lotioned himself with his own scent with super speed, and out in his own bathrobe, then reached for the blow dryer. While he dried his own hair, you washed your face and moisturized it, letting the cool products seep into your skin. You picked up both of your towels and put them into your bathroom hamper as he quickly washed his own face. You slinked out of your bathrobe, hanging it up on the rack, and he followed behind you, turning off the light and closing the door behind him.

You saw the clothes folded up on the foot of the bed and smiled at him lovingly.

“You are so cute, did y’know that?” you asked him as you took in the setup before you.

“Enough of that,” Michael said, feigning annoyance. He was really just flustered. “Here, step in.” You pulled your boyshorts up your legs and over your naked sex and bottom. He ignored the way they fit on you and then stood up and pulled his t-shirt over your head. He hurried into his clothes and lifted the blanket on your side of the bed, leaned you into it.

“Gonna turn off the light,” he said as he ran to the wall and back to the bed, not really giving you time to notice he was leaving.

As the mattress slightly does on his side, you reached out for him and laid your head onto his chest, smelling the scent of your body wash and his own lotion on him. You softly sighed.

“Thank you for being so good to me,” you said tiredly.

“No, thank you. I’m so happy I made you my girl, ‘n I’m so grateful I got to express my love for you physically today.” He gave you a kiss on your forehead and pressed your body closer to his. “Can I have a kiss?” he asked you shyly.

“You don’t have to ask, y’know,” you said with a chuckle as your lips met his. You deepened it slightly, suddenly getting another flood of arousal at the feel of his body through his thin clothing. He did too, and you could feel it.

“I’m for sure too tired for a round three of a sixth orgasm, but we can try something,” you mused.

“Yeah, ‘n what’s that?” he asked with a smirk.

You pulled down his pants just enough to free his hardened sex, and pulled your own undies to the side. You gave him one more kiss and turned around, pushing it into you with a soft whine leaving both of your lips.

The stretch did just enough, as did your tightness around him. He slightly throb inside of you, the feeling of your cunt around him acting as a sensual hug. He adjusted just slightly, subconsciously aching for the friction he felt earlier. You both lazily met the other’s slow grinds, too tired to chase release, but still desperate for just a little bit more. It felt magical and poetic. You eventually stopped moving, too tired to take anything more from each other.

“Goodnight, my darling girl. Thank you for accepting the raw, unfiltered version of me. I’ve never been this vulnerable with anyone, n’ I’m so grateful that it was with you. I can’t wait to learn you more. I love you so very much,” he declared.

“I love you too, baby,” you said, exhaustion lacing your voice. “You’re perfect, all of you. Thank you for being comfortable for sharing it all with me. ‘N thank you for wanting to meant me. You make me feel so appreciated and adored. Sleep well, my love.”

You both felt eternally close to each other now, physically and emotionally. The activities of today blanketed your figures in a heavy gratefulness.

He pulled you back, wanting to be even closer to you somehow, and pressed kisses up and down your neck and the side of your face. He hummed a soft tune and stroked your hair softly as the two of you drifted off to sleep.

This was just the beginning of your forever.

You and Michael had been seeing each other religiously for the last six months. Secret meetings at Hayvenhurst, late night drives in your old Mustang, sneaking into the movie theatre really late at night to see films he recommended. It was some of the best times you'd had in your adult life. 

You were totally entranced by his childlike energy, his ability to find the best elements in the precarious situation fame had handed him, and the fact that underneath all of it he was still just a very good person. 

He shared with you in private moments the work he did with children's hospitals, the fans he'd stay up late chatting to on his landline. This was no normal celebrity. 

Michael wasn't even like any other young man in his early twenties. He was totally fascinated by learning, the human psyche, studying the greats so he could be better himself. He truly was one of a kind, who just so happened to have an absolutely angelic voice and an ability within music that you couldn't fully articulate even after spending weeks inside his world.

Even when he wasn't around, you felt your thoughts drifting to him. What he was doing, what he was wearing, what he was thinking about. His way of life was so engaging you could listen to him talk about it for hours.

Michael was a creature of insane habit. He liked to do things in routine, so usually you'd meet him at his family home. This became cumbersome because Michael was intensely shy and wasn't ready to let his family see the true nature of what was between you. This hadn't bothered you at first, when you realised the chemistry you shared was fundamental and whole. He had not labelled your relationship despite being a hopeless romantic — he'd written you songs, used your giggle in a demo he was working on in the studio with Quincy. He told you he had blushed furiously when he played it for the entirety of the executive suite at Epic Records. Including your dad.

.✦ ݁˖

It was a Saturday mid morning in October, the sun streaming in through the windows, illuminating the dust particles in the air. It looked like glitter. A dream world you were living in. A perfect domestic reality you didn't even know could exist.

Michael was over in your apartment for the first time. You were pleased Dana wasn't home so that he didn't get spooked. He seemed oddly comfortable in your space for someone who liked being home so much, with his gadgets and his animals.

You heard him go quiet behind you where you were sitting in the living room. It meant Michael had found something that had totally entranced him, and when you glanced back from the couch he was crouched in front of your shelves with a stillness he normally didn't have. Michael was someone who could not simply sit still. He'd be drumming his fingers on surfaces, playing with the hem of his shirt sleeves, fixing his hat or his hair. He also had a constant stream of vocal stims that would play on a loop out of his mouth. It was the most endearing feature about him.

His fingers moved carefully along the spines of your extensive vinyl collection with the same devout attention he gave to everything in his life.

"You have the first Queen LP," he said, without looking up.

"Mmm, I do? I'm not sure what I have anymore, there are so many."

"And Earth, Wind and Fire's new album." He pulled it out, turned it over, put it back. "How did you get this?"

"Dana and I queued at four in the morning at the local record store. There's a leaflet in there that they signed."

He made a delighted sound, despite knowing those guys personally, he still found it cool. He kept moving along the shelf.

You padded through to the kitchen to make some late breakfast. You had been up late studying for your final nursing examination.

The kitchen was small enough that you could have the whole apartment in your peripheral vision, which meant you could track him without watching him — the way he moved from the records to your bookshelf, his head tilting at the nursing textbooks stacked sideways on top of the other books because you'd run out of vertical space, the way he picked one up and looked at it with the expression of someone confronting a language they couldn't read.

"How are the exams going so far?" he asked, his voice airy and contented.

"Horrifying, if I'm honest." You laughed, pouring pancake mix onto the pan.

"You'll be fine."

"You don't know that."

"I know you." He put the textbook back carefully, in the exact position he'd found it. "You'll be fine, smartie pants."

Outside the weather was perfect. Still sort of warm for LA in the fall, the October light doing that thing it does in the late morning, golden and unhurried. You'd had the window cracked and the radio on low when he arrived, Prince's Around The World In A Day playing itself out to the empty room. 

Michael had once told you that a day was never a day of purpose when music wasn't played freely in every room he walked into. It quieted his mind, he said, and you had minded this for his arrival.

"Do you like the new Prince song?" you asked.

He considered this with a seriousness that made his brow furrow slightly. "I think he's doing the most interesting thing on the radio right now." A pause. "Don't tell anyone I said that."

"Who am I going to tell?"

"My brothers. Jermaine already thinks I have an inferiority complex."

"Do you?"

"No." He came and leaned in the kitchen doorway, arms folded, watching you work the pan. "I just have a very accurate understanding of what everyone else is doing and how I am going to compete."

You turned the pancake. It came out perfectly, which felt like a minor miracle given that you'd been making them with one eye on him for the last while.

"Stevie Wonder's new stuff," you said. "What do you think?"

He came off the doorframe immediately, animated in the way he only got about music and a handful of other things. "In Square Circle is — yes. Everything about it. The production, the way he's layering the synths underneath—" He stopped himself, looked at you, and started again with slightly less velocity. "It's generous music. It sounds like someone who wants the listener to feel something specific and has thought very carefully about how to get them there."

"That's a really nice way to put it."

"It's a true way to put it. Stevie is a great musician. One of a kind, and actually a very close personal friend." He came and stood beside you at the stove, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him. He looked at the pancakes with focused optimism. "Are those nearly done?"

"Not yet. I have three more left to make. Stop pressuring me, you doofus."

"It's fine. You look sweet enough to eat as a starter anyway." He giggled, then stood behind you, pulled your hair to the side away from your neck and peppered light kisses there.

You kept your eyes on the pan, trying to concentrate. His touch was always so delicate with you in this way.

The radio had moved on to Sade now, The Sweetest Taboo unspooling through the apartment, making this tiny moment between you both in your small WeHo apartment feel like it should be in a film. 

You thought about how strange it was to be here with Michael standing at your elbow waiting for pancakes, and how completely normal it had started to feel. Like every day was a certainty. Like he'd always be there. It had started to feel domestic, which was its own kind of strangeness, considering he still had not put a label on what you were. 

This upset you, if you were being honest with yourself. But you were taking anything you could get, as you knew this was not bound to last. You didn’t want to get married young, and Michael seemed the type to want this before anything intimate could be pursued. You truly didn’t think this was the path you wanted to follow down.

You shook the thought from your head, willing to let it go for now; as this moment was too perfect and because you were kind of, sort of, unofficially, absolutely smitten with this graceful boy, despite all of the challenges.

.✦ ݁˖

You ate at the kitchen table, which was really a desk you'd pushed against the wall and given a second purpose, Michael with his knees at an angle because the chairs were slightly too low for him. He looked like an adult sitting at a kids school desk. It made you feel warm inside, at how sweet he was.

He ate like he'd never eaten food in his life. He really loved sweet things. You had struggled to make him eat anything savoury you’d made before. He'd always say he didn't really like food much.

You'd made them with blueberries because you'd quite literally only had blueberries, milk and a few eggs in the fridge. Dana was bound to bring groceries back on her way home.

He'd looked at the plate when you set it down with genuine gratitude that you were almost certain was partly because it was a safe food for him. No questions asked, and you had known to make it for him.

"Marvin Gaye," you said, picking up the earlier conversation.

"What about him?"

"It's a shame he died. What did you think of his music? I know you were around him during the Motown days."

Michael was quiet for a moment, taking the question seriously rather than reaching for an easy and shallow answer.

"He understood that the body and the spirit are not opposites," he said finally. "Most people treat them like opposing arguments. He treated them like the same conversation."

You looked at him across the table, not fully following his fleshed out thought.

"That's a very specific thing to understand about the way someone makes music," you said.

"I've thought about it a lot." He cut a piece of pancake. "I think about it in the context of my own work." He looked faintly embarrassed calling it work, as he always went on about how much fun it was and how it truly wasn't something you could call a job in the traditional sense.

"How to make something that operates on both levels at once. Lovely and melodic and good for your being, but also something that hot wires your brain into making you want to feel the rhythm and start to move. A song is powerful if it can do both to you all by itself."

"Mmm."

He looked up. "I think Thriller does that as a record. It comes closer to that concept than anything I've done before." He paused. "You were there when I found the first physicality piece."

"Thriller's syncopated beats definitely made me want to dance when I heard it, but also scream, run away and completely lose myself in the instrumental at the same time."

"It's different," he said, "having someone in the room to bounce ideas off. You hear things differently from me and that's what I seek out, to see if you are feeling and doing the things I thought might happen in the songs conception."

The radio had moved on to Under Pressure by Queen and David Bowie. The apartment was very quiet apart from that.

Your pancakes had gone slightly cold. You didn't particularly care.

"Michael," you said.

"Mmhm."

"What's happening in December? With the tour?" It had gone unspoken before and you really didn’t want to end this lovely moment; but you couldn’t go on wondering where you stood.

He put his fork down. Picked it back up. Put it down again. "It starts in Kansas City. December thirtieth."

"How long for?" You tried to keep the sadness from bleeding into your tone.

"Through September. Maybe longer depending on—" He stopped. "A long time, basically."

You nodded. You'd known this. Your father had mentioned it in passing three weeks ago the way he mentioned most things about Michael, with the causality of someone who worked famous people and creatives to the bone.

The Victory Tour's going to be enormous, he'd said over Sunday dinner, and you'd said good and passed the bread and thought about how this could make or break the undefined thing you had with his client.

That had been before the last time you had been intimate with Michael. He was very held back and reserved when it came to talking about it afterward. Entranced by physical acts but simultaneously repulsed by what they meant in the context of his faith. It was a conundrum. You knew men around his age who were engaging in these acts and still attending church without placing as much emotional strain on their relationship to religion. His music was so sensual in its translation, both in melody and in lyric. Michael was a walking equation you couldn't fully solve.

"I want to talk to you about something," Michael said, abruptly.

You looked up at him. His hands were flat on the table, on either side of his plate, and he was looking at them with the expression he wore when he was about to say something he'd been composing in his head for a while.

"Okay," you said.

.✦ ݁˖

He said it all carefully. With grace. That was the thing you'd remember forever, the care of it, the way each word arrived with gentleness, like he'd rehearsed not the lines themselves but the intention behind them.

He said he wanted to be with you.

Not like how it usually was. The sultry flirty phone calls and the sneaking around being silly and occasionally dirty. He was finally putting a label on the careful unnamed thing that had transpired between you. He wanted you to be his and he wanted to be wholly yours in every way he could show up for, and he understood, he said, what he was asking of you, what it meant, what it would require of him in terms of fame, in terms of what people would say, in terms of what he could and couldn't offer physically because of his faith.

He stressed it all, almost pleading, he wanted the midnight phone calls. He wanted the domestic pleasure. He wanted to introduce you properly, the way he hadn't been able to at home because of his shyness and the public eye. He wanted the real version of a relationship, not some thwarted version fame had handed him.

He looked up.

"I want to stop being scared of what it costs," he said. "Of what people will say. I want to try with you, if you'd allow yourself to be in the spotlight with me."

The apartment was very quiet. Out of Touch by Daryl Hall and John Oates simmered in the background.

You looked at him across the table, at his hands flat on the surface, at his face doing that completely unguarded innocent contortion where his eyebrows were raised high and his lip pulled between his perfect white teeth. you felt the full weight of what he was offering and what he was asking and how genuinely, entirely he meant both. The song playing in the background was building the tension higher.

"Michael," you said, and your voice came out harsher than you intended.

"I know it's not — I know it isn't what most people—" he stuttered.

"Can I just have a moment to explain something?" You replied, trying to soften your tone.

He stopped. Nodded politely.

You chose your words the same way he had, carefully, because he deserved that.

"I think you are one of the most emotionally intelligent people I have ever known," you said. "I mean that without reservation. The way you understand people, the way you listen." You paused. "And I think your faith is beautiful, and it is… yours. It's not something I would ever want you to compromise or feel ashamed of. I want you to be exactly who you are."

He was watching you very closely.

"But," you said.

He'd known there was a but. You could see it in the stillness that came over him, the bracing that wasn't quite a flinch.

"Sexuality isn't separate from who I am," you said. "It's not a feature I can turn off while everything else runs. It's part of how I connect with people. It's part of how I understand whether two people make sense together." You looked at your hands, then back at him. "I can't go blindly into something without knowing if we're compatible in that way. Not because I'm not willing to be patient, or because I don't care about you deeply, but because it matters to me. It's really important to understand. About who two people are to each other."

Michael was quiet for a long time. His brown eyes shone in the low afternoon light, the sunbeams brightening the warm chocolate brown of his irises.

"I don't understand that," he said finally. It wasn’t entirely defensively., but you could tell he was slightly agitated. Trying to find the right thing to say to you but just couldn’t .

Michael had the lost look of someone confronting a framework they'd never been given the tools to think about.

"For me it's the other parts that are the real parts. The way two people talk to each other. The way they—" He stopped. "I thought those were the things that told you if you were meant for each other."

"They are things that tell you," you said. "They're not the only things."

He looked at the table. At his plate, the pancakes mostly eaten, the blueberries gone. His jaw moved slightly, he was processing something he hadn't expected to have to process in an otherwise perfect day.

"I don't know how to—" He stopped. "I don't know how to want something the way you're describing."

"I know." You reached across the table and put your hand over his, briefly. "That's not a criticism. It's just true."

He turned his hand under yours and held it for a moment, then let go, and sat back, and looked out the window at the Hollywood afternoon going gold outside.

"I've really—" He stopped. Started again. "Over the last month and a half. I've really fallen—" He pressed his lips together. "You're the most peculiar and beautiful person I've ever known. I want you to know I mean that. Whatever happens. I will think about you every day when I leave."

"I know you mean it."

"And I—" His voice was very quiet now, quieter than the radio, quieter than the street outside. "I love God. I love my faith. I don't know how to be someone who puts that aside yet and I don't think that right now, I should have to push it or force it. But I also don't—" He exhaled. "I don't want to ask you to be someone who puts aside the things that matter to you. That wouldn't be right. Maybe this just won’t work as much as I want it too. I need time. A lot of it."

You looked at him. At the deep blue of his plaid shirt, the same one he'd worn to a secret movie date. You hated that it was coming to this, but it was unfortunately something you'd known was going to happen since the night you picked up your phone and dialled him. You knew how he was, his image, and now his personal inner workings. Your heartbreak in this one was all your own fault.

"You should go on tour, Michael," you said. "And be faithful to what you believe. And be extraordinary, because you will be, because you can't help it." You paused. "And I know you'll fall in love with someone amazing and have a fulfilled life. You are a deeply thoughtful person and I just know that is in your future."

He looked at you for a long time, with a slight panic but a strange calmness underneath it.

Then he stood up, picked up his jacket from the back of the chair, came around the table and stood in front of you and bent down and pressed a kiss to the top of your head, very gently, the way you might kiss something you were afraid of breaking.

It killed you that he never said goodbye out loud so you could too and try get some form of physical closure.

You sat at the kitchen table for a while after the door closed, your hand where his had been, Every Breath You Take by The Police on the radio, the afternoon going quietly dark outside the window.

.✦ ݁˖

The tour started in Kansas City on the thirtieth of December and by the second week of January it had become clear that the world had decided the Victory Tour was going to be the an event that stopped traffic in every city it touched. It was remarkably successful and despite your happiness for Michael and his brothers, it did become tiresome seeing it advertised; a reminder of Michael leaving your life.

Your father called you from his office the morning after the first show, not to talk about Michael specifically but about the production, the staging, the scale of it, how he was a force of nature. You sat on your bed in your nursing scrubs, the phone off the wall and wires all through the house, and listened to him describe it and thought about how that unbelievable force of nature had sat with you eating blueberry pancakes at your kitchen table. He may as well have been a figment of your imagination at this point, you were starting to forget what it felt like to be in his light everyday. be in his gravitational pull .

You'd had to let him go completely. Left with the bones of him, his music playing in shops you walked into, a gigantic billboard of him on Sunset Boulevard, his eyes on you every time you drove past it.

You tried not to think about him constantly. That felt important to establish, if only to yourself, that you were trying. You had your exams. You had your hospital shifts, your exhausted brain after twelve hours on a ward that left no room in your head for anything that wasn't immediately in front of you. You had Dana, who had the gift of making any room she was in feel like the most exciting place to be, and who had sadly watched you eat cereal for dinner for a week running in January and said nothing about it.

She eventually picked you up out of your slump and your normalcy resumed. Parties in West Hollywood, dancing till four in the morning, working hard and taking in your youth.

You were fine. Genuinely, completely fine. You kept telling yourself you made the right decision to let him go. To not just suck it up and wait for him like he’d basically asked you to.

It was just that sometimes Every Breath You Take came on the radio and you had to turn it off, for fear that the memory of his longing eyes would burn into your psyche.

.✦ ݁˖

The first call came on a Tuesday in February.

Dana picked up. You were in the bathroom with your hair wrapped in a towel, halfway through the post-night-shift routine that required approximately forty minutes, lots of curl cream and a level of concentration that left no room for phone calls.

You and Dana had such a close relationship that you trusted her to chat briefly with your other friends or family on the phone and let them know you were busy.

You heard her voice in the hallway go through its usual casual greeting and then go very silent.

She appeared in the bathroom doorway after a moment. Her expression was doing several things at once, excitement held back, and a forlorn stare.

"It's Michael Jackson," she said, in a tone that was working very hard to be normal. "On the phone. For you."

You looked at yourself in the mirror. Towel on your head. Dark circles from the night shift. Toothbrush in your hand.

"Tell him I'm not home," you said with finality.

Dana looked at you for a moment but didn't argue, knowing the aftermath of having to let him go. Then she went back to the phone.

You stood at the bathroom mirror and listened to the muffled sound of her relaying this information and then the click of the receiver and then Dana reappearing in the doorway.

"He sounded—" She stopped dead, seeing your sullen face. "Are you okay?"

"Completely fine," you said, and went back to brushing your teeth.

The thing was, you knew you had to have made the right decision. You were only twenty-two. You didn't know if you could be a wife, if you'd ever want to commit to something without understanding whether there was real potential there. He had to just be the one that got away. You'd have more experiences that would be electric, involved and formative. Someone else could give you the excitement and level of connection that Michael did.

Right?

.✦ ݁˖

He called again on a Thursday in early March. You were studying, genuinely too engrossed to even hear the phone over The Human League blasting through your bedroom speakers.

Dana took the message. She wrote on a sticky note and stuck it on the wall:

he says he'll try again. he says he hopes the exams are going well.

You looked at it for just a moment before your brain could start processing and then went back to your textbook and read the same paragraph four times without retaining any of it.

On Friday. You were working, actually on shift.

Saturday. You were sleeping, genuinely, after a double shift. Dana told him this and you didn't feel as guilty this time. She wasn't lying to him.

The calls kept coming with a patient regularity. Michael clearly wasn't giving up on being a constant in your life. You didn't know whether to cry or laugh.

Dana started keeping a tally on the notepad on the kitchen table without comment, adding a mark each time, and by the end of April there were nine marks in a column and the notepad had been moved to the table underneath where the phone hung, where you had to look at it every time you wanted to make a call.

.✦ ݁˖

It was a Wednesday evening in early May when Dana came and sat across from you at the kitchen table while you were going through anatomy notes and said, without preamble: "He's in Las Vegas this week."

You looked up.

"The tour," she said. "I looked it up. He's at the Thomas and Mack Center. Four nights." She folded her hands on the table. "He called again today while you were at the hospital."

"Shocker."

"Y/N, this can't keep going on. You need to put this man out of his misery. He sounds so deflated when I give him an excuse."

"I know, Dana. But I can't entertain a friendship with someone like that. He might wantme but not all of me, and I am not getting wrapped up in all of that fame either without knowing everything I need to know."

She was quiet for a moment. Outside the spring in LA had produced a weird, smirry drizzle, not quite committing to rain.

"I heard something on the radio today," she said. "Coming back from the grocery store. Some late night show. They had a guest on, some comedian, one of those Vegas residency guys, talking about the tour." She paused. "He said he went to the show on Saturday. He said—" She looked at you. "He said before the show started he saw Michael Jackson standing in the wings watching the crowd come in. And as part of the interview that was being conducted, he overheard someone ask him what he was looking at and he said he was looking for someone."

The rain outside made its decision and started pouring properly.

"Dana, enough, he knows I’m not gonna show up. It’s miles away" you said.

"I'm just saying, if it was me, I would give it a shot and just hope that he isn't terrible in bed." She held her hands up a bemused smile playing on her lips.

“There's a show tomorrow night. Thursday. And he's going to call again at some point and I'm going to have to give him another excuse." She looked at you directly. "Maybe instead I tell him you can come watch the show and you can rethink things together?"

You looked at your anatomy notes to distract yourself from her valid point. Your eyes burned into the diagrams, the labeled structures, the clean logic of a body explained to itself.

It was no use though, like a movie montage you thought about the sheer delight you felt when you were around him. The cackle he'd let out when you told him a lame joke. The way he'd be so enamoured by cartoons on the television late at night, his hand stuck in a bowl of popcorn. The way he could braid your hair and sing to you before you fell asleep on him in his bedroom at Hayvenhurst. The gentle voice he had with you on the phone. The gossip he'd tattle on about into the receiver. The way he moaned in the studio when you pleasured him. The lingering touches on your waist.

"He's on tour for like six more months," you said. "I am not waiting on someone like that. It's not my kind of life. I have my job." You tried to make yourself sound sure of what you were saying. It just came out flat.

"I s'pose. But what if he is your actual person? You are astrologically compatible."

"Nothing has changed. And fuck astrology, Dana. Seriously." You started to get more and more irate, the thoughts becoming too much. You had let him slip your mind and now he was waltzing straight back in.

"You know what? You've been such a bitch for months. Tell him yourself to stop calling. This is ridiculous." Dana stood up and pushed her chair in. "Make the call. Put him out of his misery and stop being such a fucking mope." She said it with pure conviction. "He actually deserves better than you."

She went to her room. The rain came down hard outside your window and you sat at the kitchen table in stunned silence.

.✦ ݁˖

You didn't take the next call. Or the one after. But you had a feeling he wasn't going to stop. He always said that seeing is believing, and maybe he believed in the two of you in a way you hadn't allowed yourself to. You didn't understand why he even wanted you. He could have someone famous and beautiful and entirely at peace with the no sex before marriage thing.

Your exams arrived in a concentrated block in the second week of June and consumed everything in your life. three days of white-noise terror, sitting in a room full of people who all know the same information you know and hoping yours is the right arrangement of it.

Dana brought you coffee at six in the morning without being asked, as you'd silently made up. She said she understood your predicament.

You slept for eleven hours after the last exam and woke up not knowing what day it was, which felt appropriate and actually nice considering who’s memory was swirling around your head when you were awake.

.✦ ݁˖

You passed with flying colours. Your father called before you'd even seen the results yourself, which meant they'd been sent to your childhood home in the mail.

Dana took you out. A bar in Silver Lake she liked, dark and warm with good music, the kind of place where the DJ could read the minds of the people on the dancefloor.

She bought you a drink and you talked about everything except Michael, and for the first time in months you felt free, happy, and excited about the next chapter.

Your eyes landed on a man at the bar. Dark-haired, light eyes. Dana ended up making out with some ugly old guy, so you decided to distract yourself with the mysteriously good looking man looking back at you.

You talked to him for an hour. His name was Paul. When he asked you to go home with him and show him what you could do with your mouth, you apologised and said you weren't interested. The entire evening had been fine until that moment. It totally disgusted you. You didn't have it in you to entertain something like that. There honestly was only one thing you truly wanted.

That was the first time you let yourself admit in months that maybe you'd made a mistake with Michael. That really, he was one of a kind and understood you and made you happy and was just good. It was a strange gift, realising it through the filter of someone who was so entirely the opposite.

You thought about him the whole cab ride home. Wondering where he was, whether he had met prettier women, with better bandwith and patience. Whether he had stopped thinking about you.

He hadn't called for a few weeks now. He'd clearly grown tired of being lied to. A single tear rolled down your glittery face as you rode home with Dana, the bright lights of Hollywood making you feel lovesick.

Don't You Forget About Me by Simple Minds played softly in the cab.

.✦ ݁˖

The next few months were agony. You picked up extra shifts. You reorganised your vinyl collection not because it needed reorganising but because you needed something to do with your hands on a Sunday afternoon, when all your mind could go to was the feeling of Michael's hands on your waist as you danced around the studio listening to Baby Be Mine before Thriller came out.

August came in warm and certain. Los Angeles was in full summer mode, parties in the hills, the Walk of Fame crowded and alive. You felt for the first time as an adult in the exciting world you had created for yourself that you were no longer having fun.

You had a week off between rotations and didn't know what to do with the unstructured time. Dana dragged you to a farmer's market in Silverlake. You bought oranges and a plant you weren't sure you could keep alive.

You were watering the plant on the third Saturday of August when Dana knocked on your bedroom doorframe.

"He's here," she said.

You turned around.

Her expression was the one she'd had the morning she'd told you about the Vegas show, trying very hard not to push anything in a particular direction. "At the door. Downstairs. He buzzed. I saw him out of the living room window when I peeped down. I just couldn't believe it."

You put the watering can down on the windowsill.

"He looks—" Dana stopped, flustered. "He's been on tour for months," she said. "He looks like he just got off a plane and drove straight here."

You stood there with your jaw on the floor, in your Mickey Mouse pyjamas, your room a complete mess. The bag of oranges you'd bought days ago had spilled out across the floor. Your diary was open on your desk, your most inner thoughts on full display, a whole passage about how it felt to have his hand on the top of your head in the studio, the hot feel of his mouth on yours, and the abrupt coldness you felt when he left in the winter. In your own cursive, describing how you'd really fallen. And totally ruined it.

"Shit," you said.

There was a knock at the door.

Dana started jumping up and down and you just stayed there, totally transfixed by the situation.

What was he doing here? Was he here to tell you he was angry you never spoke to him? To have you sign an NDA because he'd become even more famous on this tour? Or was he here to confess his undying love again? Was this the second chance you were hoping for?

You hoped for it. You started quickly clearing the space, throwing your diary closed on the bed.

Dana ran to open the door for him. You sat on the bed, your heart doing something dramatic in your chest.

.✦ ݁˖

You heard his voice in the hallway, that airy cadence, quieter than you remembered, saying something to Dana you couldn't make out. Then footsteps. Then he was in your doorway.

He had a fedora tipped low. A crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled to the elbows. Leather jacket open over it. He looked older than the boy who had eaten blueberry pancakes at your kitchen table ten months ago. A bit tired. But his eyes when they found yours across the room were the same warm chocolate brown, holding months of something unresolved.

You didn't say anything. Neither did he, for a moment.

He stepped into the room. Kicked the door shut behind him. Crossed to where you were sitting on the edge of the bed and stopped in front of you, close enough that you could smell the cologne and the travel on him, and looked down at you with an expression that had stopped holding things back a long time ago.

Vulnerable, honest and almost imposing in the way he was standing in front of you, bearing himself to you.

"You ignored every single one of my calls," he said. His voice was low, not accusing. Just stating a fact he'd been living with for months.

"I needed some time, Michael."

He nodded, his jaw tightening slightly.

“It was lonely, I just wanted to… talk to you. I thought we would still be friends; that our connection was deeper than just— what it was I guess.” He said, his eyes never leaving yours. A new found confidence in his delivery. He really had grown up.

“I wanted to, I just — I was so hurt that I let myself do that to you I—“ you felt tears stinging at your eyes, and he noticed.

Instead of replying, he looked at your hand resting on the bed beside you, and when you noticed this, you just wordlessly reached out and let your fingers brush against his,

a question.

He answered it immediately, his fingers folding through yours, his grip tight in the way of someone who had been rehearsing letting go and decided against it.

"I can't believe you came here," you said.

He took a deep breath. Let it out slowly.

"I've been thinking," he said. "About us. About everything. For months." He paused. His thumb moved once across your knuckles. "The most powerful thing in life is the human mind. Your belief in yourself and prayer." He reached up with his free hand and took his fedora off, setting it on the desk behind him, and looked at you with those eyes that had been the derailment of you since the first afternoon at Hayvenhurst.

"I prayed on this for months, Y/N, and I need to be with you. I need to have you. It's what is right. It's what my heart wants."

The apartment was completely silent.

You could hear your own pulse.

You couldn't believe that after everything, after the way you'd turned him away, after months of your radio silence, he had still come back like this. Vulnerable, honest.

He’s come back to you, standing in your Mickey Mouse pyjamas and your disaster of a bedroom, bearing himself to you completely.

“Tell me," you said quietly. "tell me what you want."

A slow, grateful smile spread across his face. He stepped closer, his free hand coming up to cup your cheek, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw.

"I just want you, all of you.” he said, with intent behind the use of “all”. This was a massive turnaround.

“I want to touch you, taste you, caress you. I want to make you mine. I know now that it's what needs to happen."

You leaned into his hand. Your eyes closed for just a moment.

“I have to understand that the fiction I write about in my songs, the unfiltered attraction, the love; the sex — if it is really that addictive and can move you the way a song can”

When you opened your eyes again he was watching your face with the same attention he'd given you always: unyielding and intense.

"Then do it," you said. “Do all of the things you want to do to me”

He didn't need anything more than that. His hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, his fingers gentle in your hair, and he kissed you — it was so far from the precious tentative, careful exploratory kisses of before, but now it was something decided, something that had been waiting a long time to happen and he knew it.

You kissed him back, your hands finding the front of his shirt, pulling him closer, and he followed you down onto the bed with the urgency of someone who had thought about this for a very long time and wanted to get it right.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his breath unsteady.

"Tell me what you want," he said. "Tell me how to make you feel good."

You looked up at him. At the sincerity in it, the genuine desire to learn you. "Take your time," you said. "Be patient. Do whatever feels right to you."

He nodded, his eyes never leaving yours, his hands already moving, his fingers tracing the neckline of your pyjama top, the swell of your breasts, the curve of your hips. 

You took his hand, guiding it to your breast, showing him how to cup the weight of it, how to brush your nipple with his thumb, how to make you gasp with pleasure. 

He was a quick learner, his touch tentative at first, then more confident, more sure, his eyes watching your face, gauging your reactions, his body tense with anticipation.

You guided his hand lower, to the hem of your bottoms, showing him to push them down, how to reveal the smooth skin of your thighs, the damp heat between your legs. 

He groaned, his fingers brushing against the lace of your panties, feeling the dampness there, the evidence of your desire. He looked up at you, his eyes questioning, and you nodded, giving him the permission he needed.

He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties, pulling them down slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. You lifted your hips, helping him, your breath coming in short gasps, your body already pulsating with need. 

He tossed the panties aside, his hands moving back to your thighs, pushing them apart, making room for himself.

He looked up at you, his eyes dark with desire and sheer longing. 

"Guide me” He simply said.

You reached down, guiding his hand to the heat of you, showing him how to stroke you, how to circle your clit, how to slide your fingers inside you, making you gasp with pleasure. 

He was a quick study, his touch tentative at first, then he understood, as his eyes watched your face, gauging your reactions, his body tense with anticipation.

You could feel the pleasure building inside you, your body arching up to meet his touch, your breath a staccato melody in the otherwise quiet apartment.

You could feel the tension in your muscles, the need in your belly, the heat of your skin. 

He was making you feel so good.

He groaned at your reactions, his fingers moving faster, harder, his thumb circling your clit, his body tense with anticipation. 

You could feel the pleasure building inside you, you were close, so close, and you could see the determination in his eyes, the raw, primal need to make you come, to give you pleasure. But you didn’t want to come yet. 

You pushed him back gently, and gave him a shy smile.

He understood completely in that moment, what you wanted from him, and it seemed after all of that deliberation over the last few months he was ready to oblige. He shrugged off the leather jacket, and quickly pulled his shirt over his head, revealing his lean, thin frame. His skin was smooth, his ab muscles poking through now - he’d filled out more since you last seen him. Your eyes lowered to the dark trail of coily hair that led into his dark jeans. 

He stood up and kicked his shoes off, and then pulled his jeans off quickly, to jump back into bed with you.

You just lay there in awe, at the sight of him, his hard cock now on full show; precum leaking from the tip. You wanted so desperately to take him in your mouth; but this moment was so important. It needed to be exactly right.

He sat back on his heels, his eyes roaming over your body, taking in every detail, committing it to memory. You could see the struggle in his eyes, the battle between his desire to rush, to finally take what he wanted, and his need to savor this moment, to make it last, to make it special. 

He reached out, his fingers tracing the curve of your hip, the swell of your breast, the line of your jaw. 

His touch was gentle, reverent, like he was worshipping you, like he’d replaced his God.

"You're beautiful," he whispered, his voice hoarse, his eyes locked with yours. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

He leaned down, his lips brushing against yours, a soft, sweet kiss that promised a lifetime of love, of learning, of pleasure. You could taste the salt of his skin, the faint tang of sweat, the underlying sweetness that was purely him. You kissed him back, your hands tangling in his hair, your body pressing against his, feeling the hard lines of his muscles, the heat of his skin, the evidence of his desire.

He pulled back, his eyes meeting yours, his expression serious, intense. "I want you," he said, his voice low, determined. "I want to be inside you, to feel you come around me, to make you mine.”

“Are you sure you want this, Michael? Is it truly right for you in this moment?” You asked shyly, feeling really exposed literally and figuratively in this moment. 

"I'm sure," He whispered, his voice firm.  "I'm ready now. I want this, I want you. I want to be yours, completely, utterly, irrevocably."

He let out a shuddering breath, his eyes closing for a moment, his body relaxing, bracing himself for this moment. The tension eased from his shoulders. 

When he opened his eyes again, you could see the the desire, the love he had for you. The same look he gave you in the kitchen after that sordid conversation.

 He reached for you, his hands cupping your hips, lifting you, positioning you. 

You could feel the head of him pressing against you, could feel the heat of him, the hardness, the promise of pleasure. 

You looked up at him, your eyes locked with his, your heart pounding in your chest.

He used his hand to guide the tip of his cock up and down your folds, and he let out a small choked sound of pleasure. The heat of him and the pressure was driving you insane. 

He looked at you, so intensely and then he pushed forward gently. 

He groaned, his hips moving forward, sliding inside you, filling you, stretching you. You gasped, your body arching up to meet his because you couldn’t help it, your fingers digged into his shoulders, your eyes locked with his. You always needed this, from the moment you laid eyes on him.

You could see the wonder in his eyes, the gratitude was radiating from him. 

You could feel the tension in his body, the struggle to hold back, to go slow, to make this last.

"You feel... incredible," he whispered, his voice hoarse, his eyes never leaving yours. "You're so tight, so hot, so perfect. I never... I never knew it could feel like this."

You let him feel out his rhythm, every time he pushed into you, he would hit your soft centre, sending the craziest signals of pleasure straight to your brain. It was like a drug - you wanted to feel him deeper, and wanted him closer. He was concentrating on your face, occasionally whining with how good you felt.

You pushed gently at his chest, encouraging him to roll onto his back. 

He complied, his eyes curious and eager, his body still trembling with nerves and what seemed like excitement.

"You okay?" he asked, his voice soft and concerned, even as his body betrayed his eagerness for more.

You smiled, your fingers tracing the lines of his chest, his abs, his hips. "I'm more than okay," you replied. 

"I want to show you a different position, if you're up for it."

He grinned, his eyes lighting up with excitement and anticipation. "Show me," he said, his voice low and hungry.

You climbed on top of him, straddling his hips, your eyes never leaving his. You could feel the hard length of him slide up against your ass. He was so big. You’d thought it before, that it was definitely in proportion to his dominant, and large hands. You had always admired them when he spoke with them. Your mind always found its way to imagining what was in his pants. Now you didn’t have to think of what it felt like. You were getting to know how it made you feel.

He was already eager for more. You reached down, guiding him inside you, your body adjusting to his size, your muscles clenching around him. He groaned, his hips bucking up to meet yours, his fingers digging into your thighs.

"God," he gasped, his eyes wide with surprise and pleasure. "That feels... that feels incredible."

You smiled, your hands moving to his chest, your fingers tracing circles on his skin. "It's about to feel even better," you promised, your voice low and sultry. "Just relax and let me do the work."

He nodded, his eyes never leaving yours, his body tense with anticipation. His curly hair was fanned out on the pillow, and even though this was the most compromised you’d seen him; he was still startling beautiful and quite innocent looking.

You started to move, your hips rolling in a slow, steady rhythm, your body sliding up and down his length, your muscles clenching around him tightly. 

You could feel the pleasure building inside you as he filled you up, each time you bounced up and down on him. 

Your body was selfishly aching for release, but you were determined to make this about him, to show him what he could feel, what you could do to him.

You leaned forward, your hands braced on his chest, your body changing the angle of penetration. You could feel him deeper inside you now, his head rubbing against that sweet spot with each movement. 

He groaned, now starting to push himself up into you; erratic and desperate to be deeper inside of you. To be closer.

"That's it, baby," you whispered, your voice low and encouraging. "Feels good, doesn't it?"

"Y-yes — fu—ck," he gasped, his eyes wide with pleasure and surprise. "Don’t stop. Don’t sto– oh my god I think I am going to come."

You smiled, your body moving faster now, your hips rolling in a steady rhythm, your muscles clenching around him, drawing him deeper, milking him, showing him what he could feel, what you could do to him.

You could see the pleasure building in his eyes, the tension in his body increasing, the raw, primal need to come, to release, to find his pleasure.

"Come for me, Michael," you whispered, your voice low, your eyes locked with his. 

"Come for me, and show me what I do to you."

His body responded to your command, his hips slamming up to meet yours, his body tensed completely, and then started to convulse. You could feel the heat of him inside you, the hard length of him, his body finally finding its release.

his eyes had never left yours, his body shuddering with the force of his orgasm. He didn’t even make noise, his orgasm was so powerful. So all encompassing.

Seeing this made you follow him over the edge, as you ground against him, his cock still deep inside of you

"God, baby," he gasped, finally, clearly getting the air back in his lungs again. “The way you… move…Have mercy on me.” He laughed, breathlessly.

His body collapsed back onto the bed, less tensed. His chest heaved as he came down from the high he was feeling in the moment, his eyes still filled with amazement. This was a moment you’d quite literally never forget, ever.

Your body collapsed onto his, your chest heaving too, your body still trembling with the remnants of your own orgasm. 

After a while of just laying there in each other's arms, finally after months of god awful separation; you thought of what you went through to get here. Denial, guilt and anger, when you should have been more graceful with him. You vowed to be that way going forward.

It was almost silent in the apartment, bar your breathing. but you could hear the radio that was always on in the kitchen; Dana must have forgot to switch it off earlier in the evening. 

Hungry Eyes by Eric Carmen was playing, filling the apartment with a driving synth.

You felt Michael shift below you, distracting you from listening intently to the song. It felt oddly fitting. 

“Sooo…. Again?” Was all he said.

You cackled into his shoulder and he hugged you tighter.

fin.

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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spencer pulls up a chair to sit at the foot of the bed, watching intently as she opens her legs for him and props them up.

he’s still dressed in his work clothes while she’s completely naked.

studying her like a textbook, his eyes dart all over her exposed body.

she's entirely bare in his bed, on his sheets, and the actual sight of her like this is better than any fantasy he's ever conjured.

he watches as she squeezes her own breasts, gently pinching her own nipples, his gaze sporadically flickers up to her face to observe her expressions.

he watches as she slowly moves a hand down her torso, fingertips lightly grazing against her ribs, stomach, pelvis, and hips.

“do you want me to explain what i’m doing, spence?”

“you’re preparing your mind and body for arousal. doing so increases your natural lubrication, resulting in increased pleasure. this triggers the release of dopamine and oxytocin… i’ve read about the importance of foreplay and the various types.”

“good boy. you’ve studied everything, haven’t you?” she tells him as she dips her fingers into her wetness.

he’s too enthralled by the vision of her to tell her yes, of course i have. i want to be ready for you. i want to properly pleasure you.

she’s caressing her slit, circling the edge of her clit, and just barely pressing her fingertip inside her hole.

he’s biting his lip and has leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, with his fingers delicately placed over his mouth.

his mouth opens as she pushes her middle finger inside her hole, eyes flicking back and forth between her cunt and her face. he notes the way she rolls her nipple between her fingers as she touches herself.

once she’s gathered her slick, she moves her finger back up to her clit, rubbing softly on the nub.

she lets out a sigh of relief and lets her legs fall completely open.

“you know what this is, right?” she teases him, slightly breathless.

“yes, you’re touching your clitoris. women consistently report that their male sexual partners struggle to locate it.”

“mhm, that’s true, but you already knew exactly where it is, didn’t you?”

“yes, of course. i’ve referenced many diagrams to ensure i could locate it on each one. i don’t understand why men can’t find it, it’s very easy to identify.” spencer knows the exact number of vaginal anatomical diagrams that he’s referenced, but he doesn’t think he should tell her how many he’s seen. besides, she’s moving her fingers back down to her hole now, and he’s completely awestruck by the sight of her.

his eyes are glistening and are slightly glazed over. he's mesmerized by how ethereal she looks.

he glances back up at her face and sees that her eyes are closed, her head is tilted back, and her lips are slightly parted. her other hand gently squeezes at her breast every now and then.

“you’re so beautiful.” he tells her and she lightly smiles.

“thank you, spence. you’re so sweet.”

she inserts her middle and ring fingers inside of herself. he sees her curling her fingers upwards as she gingerly pumps them.

he wants to impress her, so he says, “i think you’re stimulating the gräfenburg-spot, or g-spot, now.” spencer thinks it’s absolutely ridiculous and abhorrent that part of the female body is named after a man.

“yes, spencer, good job.” her praises send a jolt through his body. it reminds him of how he felt receiving perfect grades on his school assignments. he hopes he gets to study his favorite subject, her, for the rest of his life.

her eyebrows are slightly furrowed now and she’s rutting her hips up against her hand. he realizes that she can stimulate her clit against the heel of her palm this way.

she does this for a while and he thinks that she might be close to reaching her orgasm, but she removes her fingers from inside herself and shifts them back to her clit.

he can see that her fingers are thoroughly lubricated with her slick. a low whine escapes his parted lips.

“this is something else i like to do.” she tells him with a rough and strained voice, and he realizes that she’s still focused on teaching him even when she’s this deep in pleasure.

she’s rubbing her clit slightly rougher now than she was before, and she moves her hand that’s just been resting on her breast down to her lower stomach.

“i’m not sure why this works, but if you press down right here, it feels even better.” while looking at him, she presses down on her lower stomach with a flat palm.

“if i kind of, like, pull upwards when i do it then i can expose my clit a little more too.”

“you’re likely stimulating the g-spot externally.” he barely has any air in his lungs, he doesn’t know how he manages to tell her that.

she just moans in response to him. her head moves back and forth across the pillow, and her back is slightly arched. her breasts jiggle as her ministrations grow more and more desperate.

“it also feels good if i squeeze my hole, probably does more g-spot stim-…stimulation.” her faltering speech makes him realize that’s exactly what she’s doing as she’s speaking to him.

she’s not even talking dirty to him. she’s just explaining what she’s doing, almost in a clinical way. however the way she’s describing everything to him has him palming himself through his pants. he doesn’t dare to touch himself properly; he wants to keep his full attention on her. he presses on himself just enough to relieve some of the pressure.

it relieves him slightly to hear that she doesn’t even know the technical reasons that her actions bring her pleasure; she’s likely just learned what she likes and what works over time.

he's eager to do the same with her. watching her do this has made him realize that he's more prepared to please her than he thought.

her hips jerk upwards slightly, and her breathing has increased, “i’m getting close, spence.”

“are you gonna cum for me?” he tries to say seductively, but it somehow comes out as both a whisper and a squeak.

"mhm" she whimpers.

her thighs and stomach are trembling and she’s letting out the softest whines. he hopes that he can make her sound like that, and more, whenever he touches her.

he realizes that she's biting on her lower lip, suppressing her sounds, "let me hear you, baby."

she retracts her teeth, and he watches as her head tilts even further back. her back is arching and her hips are traversing across the sheets. she maintains eye contact with him for as long as she can, but eventually she can't help but close her eyes. it seems like she has no control over her body, other than the ministrations of her fingers. his mouth falls open as he watches her climax.

she continues touching herself as the waves of her orgasm roll through her until her legs seem to be closing on their own accord.

she’s still breathing heavily as she removes her fingers from herself. her wrist falls limply onto the sheets next to her.

the shine of her slick on her fingers is being illuminated by the moonlight tapering in through the curtains.

“can i taste you?” he barely has the confidence to ask.

“really? yeah, um, just give me a minute. still a bit sensitive, you know?”

he’s blushing as he says, “i mean on your fingers.”

"oh," she giggles, she's still in a haze from her orgasm. "absolutely, baby."

she sits up on the bed and holds her hand out toward him. he tenderly wraps his fingers around her wrist as he takes in the sight of her glistening fingers up-close.

and then, spencer ‘it’s actually safer to kiss than shake hands’ reid sensually sucks her fingers into his mouth to taste her juices on them.

she simultaneously tastes so sweet and so tangy, he can't help but close his eyes as he runs his tongue over and around both digits.

“well? what did you think? learn anything new?” she smiles as she raises her eyebrows in question.

“i learned that i really really can’t wait to touch you.” his lips purse and his cheeks get impossibly redder.

“can i watch you before you do?” she asks him, eyes flitting down at the bulge in his pants.

he thinks she’s kidding, so he chuckles until she starts fumbling with the buttons on his dress shirt with her lower lip between her teeth.

"please?"

it’s only fair that they swap positions: she takes his place in the chair as he gradually lies on his back on the bed.

he's completely naked in front of her, and he's flushed from his hairline to his chest.

she's slipped on his button-down, but left the buttons open. her hair is tousled from rolling her head on the pillow. the sight of her wearing it alongside his new memories of seeing her please herself has him cumming embarrassingly quickly.

On top of that, you’re sharing a room with Spencer. Of course, the universe is cruel enough to work like this. To his credit, he’s the picture of professionalism. He had assured you secrecy and it’s a promise he’s been upholding consistently. No teasing, nothing to give away the activities you’ve engaged with each other, no references to how he’d given you pleasure. For this, you are grateful. Small miracles and whatnot. 

Tonight is no different; stranded together on a work trip, he’s politely ignoring you by poring over the case files, as if his single minded focus would be enough to solve it. 

It would be easy to coax him out of this, but you don’t want to make anything awkward. Besides, you’d both set strict rules—those activities, your roles, all must be contained within his bedroom. The moment you’re out of it, you’re simply two coworkers again, barely friends, and yet…

You drag your eyes away from him, away from those fingers tracing over words on a page as the very sight triggers some treacherous part of your brain and goosebumps break across your inner thighs where he’d drawn invisible patterns with the very same fingertips and littered deep purple blossoms from his mouth.

Okay, stop.

“Ughhhh,” you roll over until you’re first into the pillows, muffling the last bits of your very articulate sound of complaint.

His snort catches you by surprise though it doesn’t quite ring as annoyance. More like amusement.

“What?” you lift yourself on your elbow, pouting.

“I thought being difficult was just something you play up… you know, when we’re having our sessions.” He murmurs from his seat, a slight hesitance tugging at his voice; this is the first time either of you acknowledged that outside of their designated weekends. Outside his room. He continues, musing, “But it seems like you’re simply a brat in real life too.” 

His form remains focused on the case files at the desk. Still reading, as if you aren’t important enough to warrant his full attention. 

You aren’t sure if he’s doing it deliberately, but, well, it’s making you want to act up and get his attention. 

You don’t fall for it, though. Mostly. “Well, sorry if I’m bored.” 

“You have a case file sitting in your bag, and it’s not going to read and solve itself.”

“We’re off the clock. Everything’s suspended until tomorrow because of the storm, Spencer. Besides,” you roll over onto your back with a groan, “I’ve no interest reading it again—I’d read it cover to cover multiple times already. It won’t get solved if we’re stuck in here with incomplete puzzle pieces. Like Hotch said, we need to search the woods and cross examine some witnesses, but that’s not happening in this weather.”

“I, for one, would appreciate some silence,” he replies quietly. He turns the page. You pout at his back, unsure of what you want and infinitely restless.

Finally, you sit up and rifle through your bag, huffing with annoyance. If he hears, he doesn’t bother acknowledging it. You almost want to scream. The rummaging noises you’re making are so obviously calculated. It’s just a passive aggressive attempt to get his attention; you don’t even know what you’re looking for, this is simply done for the sake of doing something. 

Spencer still doesn’t dignify you with a response. However, your fingers curl over something smooth and unfamiliar. A smile splits across your face when you pull it out, relief and elation replacing the initial curiosity.

A bar of chocolate. This had been from Penelope, something she slipped to you with a beaming face the morning before you left. You had stuffed it into your go bag when Hotch said you’re leaving, and thank heavens for that. At least now you have a sweet treat.

You push off the wrapper, eager for some sugar. The wrinkling sounds make Spencer turn in his seat, brows raised in question. “Have you finally decided to review the—what is that?”

“Oh, Pen gave me some chocolates.” you reply, peeling off the carefully packaged wrapping paper—Penelope loves elaborately wrapped gifts, even gifts as simple as these. A glance back at Spencer shows that he’s looking at the bar with some form of longing, “Want some?”

He shrugs, “If you don’t mind.”

“You’re lucky I’m feeling generous, Dr. Reid.” With a grin, you hold the chocolate from both ends and bend. It’s gotten softer from being in your bag, and you’re able to halve the bar easily. 

“How fortunate, indeed. You know, some studies have linked chocolates to heightened focus.” he says as he accepts his share. His fingers brush against yours briefly, just the tips, but it’s once again enough to trigger memories of how those fingers feel running across hidden crevices in your body. Slow, teasing. You clear your throat and retreat immediately once the chocolate is in his possession. 

No room for lewd thoughts tonight. Absolutely none. Not when you’re on a work trip. And sharing a room on top of that.

Nope. You cram chocolate into your mouth quickly. Too much. So much that your cheeks bulge at the sides and it’s difficult to chew through.  It’s good old milk chocolate, sweet but decadent, and thankfully, it melts easily in your mouth. 

You take another bite, not trusting yourself to speak to him. There’s a slight aftertaste to the chocolate, but you figure it’s probably just an unfamiliar flavor. Penelope enjoys experimenting with her desserts, after all. It’s good, regardless, and you’re not going to complain about free chocolates. 

Unsurprisingly, the chocolate is consumed quickly. 

“Is that enough chocolate to help your brain focus better, Dr. Reid?” you ask him teasingly. 

“I didn’t have an issue focusing in the first place, in fact, I think you would benefit from it more.” the words would cut if it came from someone else, but it’s Spencer and he’s grinning back at you like you’re worth something, and finally, you feel satisfaction bloom in your chest. 

And then with a quick thanks, his attention dissipates and he ducks back to the case file and the satisfaction wilts like a neglected houseplant.

With a groan, you give up trying to pull him away from his reading and pick up your own case file. Maybe he’s right and the chocolate would help you focus.

It creeps up on you, the uncomfortable heat. Nearly imperceptible at first, and quickly eased by turning on the small fan provided by the motel. It’s weird, though, because the storm pelting outside has made the place considerably cooler. Still, the heat creeps with such subtlety that you don’t dwell upon it. Maybe your body heat’s fluctuating. Maybe you need a shower.

After a little while, Spencer speaks up too, brows knit in annoyance.

“Do you mind sharing the fan, it’s too hot.” he says, glancing at your figure. Prone on your bed, legs up in the air like you’re reading some issue of Cosmopolitan rather than your work folder, and hair rustling from the fan pointed directly at you. 

You glance up fast enough to catch his eyes on your ass.

“Oh, yeah, sorry,” With an exaggerated groan, you heave yourself up and move to press the button on the fan. It oscillates, and you huff annoyed sentiments about the lack of air conditioning. It’s unique to the room you two are sharing; Gideon and the others had managed to claim first dibs on the rooms with functional air conditioning systems. You suspect it’s more that you two are the youngest, and there’s still some playful hierarchy going on within the team. After all, everyone else got their own solo rooms as well—you and Spencer had been the only ones sharing a space.

But the heat only seems to thicken as time passes by, and you shift on the bed, trying to find a comfortable position. Something in you curls, heavy and slow and burning like molten honey. 

“Oh my god,” you hiss, sitting up.

From the desk, Spencer whirls to face you, “Do you mind? It’s already difficult to focus with this heat.”

Your eyes land on his forehead, noting how the strands of his hair have tumbled down and are now plastered to his skin, moist. A bead of sweat runs down from his temple, and your eyes trace its movements. Somehow your gaze lands on his mouth, the tops of his lips also gathering moisture.

What would he taste, all hot and worked up like this?

You blink. Glance away. But he seems to catch something in your expression, because suddenly he’s on his feet and walking to your bed.

“What was in the chocolate?”

“What?”

“There’s something wrong with both of us—we’re exhibiting similar symptoms of discomfort, increased body heat, and—” his voice drifts lower, frustrated, “What was in the chocolate? We shared one bar and approximately six minutes and forty seven seconds later, I began feeling hot.”

You blink up at him, watching as his hand swipes over his forehead. His eyes are trained at your neck, where a couple of droplets are racing down your throat. His eyes considerably darken. Your thighs clench.

“What was in the chocolate?” 

“I don’t know,” your voice sounds higher, squeakier, as you begin to panic very slightly. Tearing your gaze away from his accusatory expression, you rummage through your bag for the wrinkled wrapper, “Penelope gave it to me, I doubt she’d try to poison us.”

“This doesn’t feel like poison, this—”

“Oh my god, no!”

“What?”

If possible, you feel even hotter as you read through the little pink post-it note from Penelope. It had been stuck on the wrapper and in your boredom and haste to eat, you had simply missed its existence.

This is the aphrodisiac I told you about, my beautiful cupcake. Consume moderately and enjoy!

Aphrodisiacs. Yes. A vague memory pops into your head, giggles and secrets shared in Penelope’s technology cave—one you treasured since not a lot of agents are allowed access into her sacred office. Chocolates loaded with aphrodisiacs. Her promise to get you some. 

And she pulled through—of course she did, she’s Penelope fucking Garcia—and gave it to you the morning you left. 

Oh, you could pass out. This is mortifying.

“What? What is it?” When you don’t answer, Spencer grabs the wrapper with an impatience he doesn’t usually exhibit. He first scans Penelope’s note, then pieces the slightly torn and creased wrapper together to go through the list of ingredients, before speaking in a tone at least two octaves higher than normal. “An aphrodisiac chocolate!?”

“Is it bad?” you mumble, running your hands through your hair.

“Chocolate by itself already contains phenethylamine, which controls our so-called ‘love chemicals’  but the addition of these ingredients means that these will work at a faster pace. Mixed together, they’re optimal—”

Normally, you listen to his tangents with more patience than the other members of the team, but right now, you’re grappling with so many feelings it’s difficult to process his high falutin explanations. He’s rattling off words that mean nothing to you. In fact, they make everything sound so clinical. So much worse. 

Your anxiety manifests by way of frustration. “Okay, genius, now translate that to English.” you interrupt, which makes him pause. Immediately, your tone softens, “Sorry, this is already freaking me out, and all that science wasn’t helping.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, more moisture congregating at the hollow of his throat now. Distracting—sinfully so. You want to tongue that spot until the taste of his sweat is somehow absorbed into your bloodstream. 

“We’ve essentially just consumed an entire bar of sex drugs.”

“Oh,” your eyes squeeze shut when he confirms your suspicions. That conclusion didn’t require his level of genius, although you had been hoping it hadn’t been the case. That his explanation would somehow point to the opposite—hey we’re actually just really hot because there’s some type of pepper in the chocolate that enhances body heat or something to that effect. Not a confirmation. You groan, “Well yeah, I figured that much. That explains the, um… heat.”

The bed dips beside you as he eases onto it, “Yes, all the symptoms aren’t from poison or disease, it’s—”

“We’re horned up.”

“There’s less crude ways to put it,” he laughs and tosses the crumpled wrapper back into your bag, “But yes. We are, as you very eloquently said, horned up.”

You peek up at him from beneath your lashes, trying to make yourself smaller in the midst of this mortification. “What’s the statistical probability of us being able to wait it out like adults with incredible self control?”

“Factoring in our—”

“Reid, that was rhetorical,” you attempt to conjure enough energy for a glare, but it simply comes across petulant. His smile twists, and something flashes in his expression. Something you recognize. You’re sure you’re looking at him the exact same way—desire reflected back at you from clear amber eyes.

“Is it?” his voice drops and you feel the weight of his gaze prickling your overheated skin, “Forgive me, I quite enjoyed figuring out the math of the age old question: how long will it take for you to initiate something between us.”

This time, you glower. And the bastard laughs, which only serves to heighten your annoyance. “I’m not initiating anything with you.”

“No? But you’re so skilled at it.”

Memories of your previous trysts flood your mind. His room, the list of rules and your punishment, the way you came apart on his lap.  A meeting that you had, indeed, initiated. 

You huff like a brat, and look away.

“It’s only 22.45%,” he says when the silence stretches long enough to grow uncomfortable and swells until it threatens to suffocate, “If my math is correct.”

Admittedly, the low chances make you curious. You shift slightly to glance at him, “22.45% chances of me initiating? Why is it so low?” In your mind, you’d give it 90% and that’s being modest. You’re barely controlling yourself right now. No way it would be so slim; the number is actually a little insulting to you and how much you want him to jump your bones.

“Well,” he leans in, breath ghosting over your face, close enough you smell the hints of chocolate and coffee and cologne. And yet, still not close enough, “Factoring in the probability of where we are, there’s a 4.94% chance we get called by the team, and 3.88% to us actually being good—that is, not succumbing to these hormonal cocktails in our brains.”

“That doesn’t make sense, those are even lower numbers.”

“Mhm. Because based on my calculations, there’s a 68.73% chance that I  initiate something.”

Your breath catches. Math and numbers have never sounded so fucking hot until this moment.

“What are you waiting for?” your voice catches in your throat and comes out a fluttery sigh.

“Your consent.”

A smile splits across your face, and you decide that tonight, your 22% chances trump his 68%.

Your soft lips press upon him, eager, open, and tasting faintly of chocolate. Spencer has never been more happy to be proven wrong.

He has always kissed with intention—slow, deep, as though he's trying to meld himself with the velvety warmth of your mouth. But this kiss is different. This kiss has edge. Teeth. The same unhurried pace but marked by a molten need that makes your toes curl and your thighs clench. He leans forward and you follow like you're wired for submission. Like laying down beneath him is simply part of the natural order, the same way planets orbit around the sun.

Sweaty palms find their way beneath your shirt, pressing into equally slick skin, the surface of which immediately breaks out in goosebumps.

"Spencer," You groan into the kiss, hands wandering up his shoulders, "Should we be doing this?"

"That sounds like another one of your rhetoricals."

You laugh, breathless, muffled, "I suppose it is."

"Then there’s no point in answering," He dips his head, lips latching on your neck and, because he’s Spencer Reid, he offers some form of answer anyway, “For the record, I don’t think it’s a question of should.”

"We're debating semantics now?"

"No." A bite. Hands squeezing around your waist before they traverse the softness of your breasts. "The point is we're not debating anything. We both know this is happening regardless of whether or not we should."

He punctuates the statement with a decisive snap that unhooks your bra. "Arms up." Spencer whispers.

You do as he says without another second thought. He tosses your sweaty clothes to the ground. It’s careful. Your bottoms ease off next, and then it’s his turn, stripping down to his boxers with shaky hands. As more clothes join the floor, the room spins and the heat swells. 

You’ve both figured there’s no running from it, so instead, you hurtle headfirst and off balance, hands squeezing and tongues dragging across sweat-sodden skin. Spencer settles between your legs with ease, his body slotting with a familiarity that should unsettle you. He moves like he belongs there, and you’re afraid that you want this to be true.

“Fuck—so hot.” he groans against your chest, lips closing around a nipple.

Your back arches, urging him deeper, “Thanks.” You giggle, taking credit for an adjective you’re not even sure is intended for you.

“I—you know what, yeah,” he rasps, lifting himself up on his elbows. The loss of his lips on your chest is alleviated by the look in his eyes. Intense, pupils blown wide as they survey the sight of you beneath him. Glistening and heaving, eyes already out of focus as if a few simple kisses from him is enough to throw you completely off your equilibrium. It’s a sight he’ll keep for as long as he’s alive, no eidetic memory needed. “Yeah, you are. Hot. So hot, so beautiful.” his mouth captures yours again, and you swear you’re melting straight into the sheets.

Your hands fumble uselessly at the waistband of his boxers, pushing the fabric as he attempts to shimmy out of them on top of you. Unfortunately, that simply drives his obvious bulge against your already needy core. With a whine, a prayer, and enough determination to possibly put you through law school, his boxers finally drag down his thighs, just enough for him to kick them off.

Spencer pauses then, looking down at you with gooey brown eyes, every bit of his attention now on you and the sensation burns deep in your gut, a soft kind of heat, one you wish to kindle.

His voice is soft when he asks, “You remember your safe word?”

“Yes—Jupiter,” the next teasing word - nerd - is immediately swallowed by a kiss. You moan, the burning in your belly spreading white hot just beneath your skin, tinging at every point of contact.

“And you remember what instances to use it?”

Leave it to him to still be concerned about his rules while you're both nearly consumed by such a ruinous chemical reaction. Still, this attentiveness makes something curl in your chest, and you find yourself breathless for an entirely different reason.

“Yes, I do.”

“Yeah? Tell me.” His teeth sink into the softness of your shoulder, hips grinding down onto your core, both of which effectively eliminates any and all ability to form coherent thought, let alone his goddamned rules.

“Uh - it's - I -”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he pulls back to look down at you, voice raspy but tinged with amusement. Smugness glimmers beneath the desire  in his amber irises, “Have you already lost your ability to speak? Do I need to remind you?”

“Y-yes.” you gasp, not really sure what you're replying to.

“Yes what?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good girl. God, you’re so wet for me.” He takes your lower lip between his teeth, sucks until it's tender and numb, before letting go. You feel his tongue push past your teeth, and once again, pure jelly replaces your gray matter. Nothing is real except for him and all the sensations he's giving you. Your  hips cant up for any relief. “Be patient,” he cooes, “You need to remember the rules. Safe word if it gets too much, yes? Even if you just want me to slow down. Do you remember now?”

“Yes sir.” you're nodding desperately, and the moment the words leave your lips, you feel the stretch at your core, “Oh god!” You tense around his girth, the broad tip spreading you open. There’s a slight sting, as there always is when he first breaches your entrance with his large cock. It’s familiar. It’s welcome—it means he’s here, he’s with you.

“Angel, you gotta relax,” he says through gritted teeth, his breaths shallow as he pauses, “You're—ugh—too tight like this.”

The most pathetic whine trembles from your lips. He chuckles, pressing his forehead to yours, “Relax, or we'll be stuck like this all night.” He says it like that's somehow a threat, as if you wouldn't be content having him buried inside you. “I don't want to hurt you.”

Against all odds, you manage to relax, walls fluttering delicately as he slides his hard length deeper. Excruciatingly slow. Part of you wonders if it's still because he doesn't want to hurt you, or if he's deliberately torturing you by inching his way in like this. You'd think that after the broadest part of his head pushes past your entrance, it would be an easier fit, but you still find yourself gasping as the rest of his cock slides in and you're still being stretched taut.

“Fuck!”

“I know, I know, god, you're so tight. Should’ve stretched you out with my fingers first, baby, I’m sorry.”

You laugh, “Don’t apologize, I’ll live.”

“You’re in pain.”

“Just a little bit,” you whisper, “Trust me, it’s fine. Please move or I’ll combust.”

Spencer laughs, his forehead pressed to yours. “Okay. You’re lucky I can’t help myself right now, otherwise that would count as an infraction.”

“Not fair, I said please.” you’re pouting as you say it, but the expression immediately dissolves into a slack jawed, glazed over scream of silence as he drags his length nearly all the way out and thrusts back in. Holy fuck.

“Too much?” he pauses, fingers pushing back the strands of your hair that cling at your forehead.

“No, god no, that was perfect.”

“Yeah?” he grins. Does it again. Slow, deep thrusts that make your spine arch in a way you weren’t even aware you could do. Every time he sheathes himself in your warmth, he deliberately grinds his pelvis into yours, the wiry hairs giving your sensitive folds just the right amount of friction. Drag out. Thrust in. Grind, repeat.

Whatever aphrodisiacs were in those chocolate must be working overtime, because everything feels sensitive. You could feel every ridge of his cock as he drags it in and out of your sodden cunt. By some miracle, you’re wetter than normal, slickness dripping around your thighs, into your ass, soaking into the sheets.

Your hands curl into his biceps, fingers clawing his flesh, as gasps are torn from your throat. He’s building up a rhythm now. Black dots dapple your vision, “Oh, god, yes! Just like that!” 

“Mhm, you feel so good,” he groans, one hand finding your chest, “So soft and hot for me.” His thumb circles your nipple, then pinches it right as he buries himself balls-deep. 

You’re undone within moments. Teeth clamping around the soft part of his shoulder until the skin blooms berry red and are marred by indentations of your teeth.

“Already?” he tuts, letting go of your nipple to grip your waist with both hands, “I didn’t even give you permission yet.”

You sob, “Too good. Please, again.”

“Think you can handle more?” he asks, as if he’s not continuously rutting into you with scientific precision. 

“Mhm, please, sir.”

That word seems to make him lose any modicum of restraint and he slams into you so roughly your body rocks forward. Again and again, only his hold on your waist grows more firm, keeping you in place to take this rougher pace. Your skin is prickling with goosebumps and tacky with sweat, and, when he takes one of your legs and hooks it up over his shoulder, you scream.

“Angel!” he halts in an instant, brown eyes wide with concern.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop, please, I’ve been so good, I can take it.”

His skin flushes as the realization dawns upon him. It wasn’t from pain; no, the complete opposite. Spencer slams his hips into you again, eliciting a more subdued response—a low, keening whimper. The new angle allows him to burrow deeper, the tip of his cock nudging against your cervix, but every time he does, your walls clench tighter, an indication that tells him you’re enjoying it. 

Now certain that you can, indeed, take it, he resumes his steady pace, all while nibbling at the leg slung over his shoulder. 

“You’re so pretty like this, but you gotta be quiet.” he murmurs, sinking his teeth into your flesh and sucking.

“Or what?” you groan, somehow still managing to find a sliver of insolence even while he’s balls deep in your cunt. “You’ll stop?” 

He can’t. You both know that. Not while those aphrodisiacs are still coursing through your systems. 

A dangerous glimmer passes through his eyes. “No,” his free hand finds your clit and soothes quick halos over the slick bud, “I’ll be even louder. Let everyone know exactly what we’re doing.”

From those words, your eyes snap to focus. 

He’s grinning and something in his expression reminds you of a triumphant and mocking devil. “Is that what you want? For everyone to know how good you are for me? Quite frankly, I’d prefer to keep it between ourselves, angel, but if that’s what you want, then—”

“No, no, no,” you’re mortified at the very idea, something resembling shame curling in your chest. You push it away; this shouldn’t be shameful, you do not want your memories with Spencer to be tinged with something so negative. “Please, I’ll be quiet, I swear.”

Your clit throbs between his index finger and thumb as he pinches it lightly, “You promise?” 

“Yes sir.” you whine.

He nods, though there’s no relief for your poor clit. He keeps it pressed between his fingers, occasionally rubbing his thumb over the exposed top, and you begin to seriously consider if there’s a limit to how much pleasure a body can feel before it spontaneously combusts. If there is, you’re dangerously close to that point.

You’d gladly face it, if that’s the case. What did the French call it—la petite mort? You’re not sure. Right now all you can feel is an all consuming, syrupy sort of bliss. Besides, whatever you can muster of your brain power goes directly to making sure you don’t make a sound. His threat might seem extreme, but Spencer rarely bluffs with his punishments. Either way, you have no intention of finding out.

When it all gets too overwhelming—the fullness that settles in your fluttering channel, the consistent pressure on your clit—you decide this isn’t such a bad way to go.

Only, the pleasure simply splits the world, and suddenly you’re gushing around his cock, and the meeting of your flesh is chased by soft, squelchy sounds.

“My god,” Spencer groans, slowing his pace to marvel at the massive wet spot beneath your bodies, “Did you just?” 

“Mhm,” your head tilts in a barely perceptible nod, too exhausted and cock-drunk to reply with words. Never mind that the word in question contains only a syllable—yes. Yes, you just squirted around him.

The world whirls into smudges and colors as he continues fucking into you, his soft grunts echoing in your mind like a favorite song you refuse to unlearn. He finds your hand, cradles it to his chest and, despite everything, you manage to smile up at him. He returns it, a gentleness to the feral creatures that seem to have taken over the two of you.

“God, you’re so lovely. My good girl. Do you need a break?” he cooes, slowly bringing your leg down so that it rests on the bed. You’re limp as a ragdoll beneath him, eyes fluttering and barely kept open, but your walls are squeezing around him so tightly.

“No,” you shake your head.

“Are you sure? You look out of it.” he says, attempting to pull out.

You whine and squeeze your walls to keep him inside. 

Spencer laughs, “Let’s turn you over, huh? So your back isn’t all bent all night.” he says, gently pulling out of your heat.

You’re dead weight as he rolls you over, unable to do anything but follow his gentle manhandling. A pillow slides under your hips, elevating the area for easier access. And he’s right, the position does take pressure off your back, but you’re sure that’s temporary, since his entire body weight is going to be above you at any moment.

Palms squeeze and spread your ass playfully, “So pretty. Are you sure you’re all right?” he asks, pressing a soft kiss at the small of your back.

Your answer comes in the form of a low, needy moan. Spencer chuckles, his tip nudging at your entrance once again.

“You know your safe word, right?”

“Jupiter.” the answer slips from your mouth on instinct.

“Good girl. Remember it, because otherwise, I don’t think I'll stop any time soon.” 

He shouldn’t. He should stay buried in you forever, or until the aphrodisiacs wear off, or until you die. Whichever of the three comes first.

“I don’t think we’ll be needing the safe word.” you mumble, voice muffled by the pillow. 

Spencer laughs and slides in, deep and gentle, and doesn’t stop until the clock reads 3am, and neither of you have any energy to do anything but sleep in each other’s arms.

★

You wake first, still nestled against him, his breathing slow and even as you take stock of your situation. 

Spencer made some choices yesterday. 

Choices that make you want to throttle him.

Calling you sweetheart. 

Kissing you.

Whispering so sweetly to you.

Using his stupid tongue on you and ruining cunilingus from anyone else for you forever. 

The list goes on, how are you supposed to go back to work like this? Although, that’s only a problem if you’re found. 

The whole team is going to see the video. That’s going to be a problem either way.

You can already imagine them huddled around the conference room table with Hotch’s laptop between them. 

You know what, you can worry about that later, that’s only a problem if they find you. 

Of course they’ll find you. 

Hopefully. 

When Spencer wakes it’s with a groan as he cradles the back of his head, still sore from the wound. Rather than cower in shame you decide to just break the silence and speak to him. He’s still your friend, even after yesterday. 

“You didn’t tell me what happened when you were taken, just that you were knocked out.” You recall the unsub being so certain he would be able to get Spencer in the same day as you, it makes no sense when you ponder it. After having an agent taken captive you would assume they would be taking extra measures to ensure no one else was taken. 

When he doesn’t respond you tilt your head to look up at him, only to be met by a sheepish smile. 

“I was… a little careless.” He mumbles, his voice is scratchy and heavy with sleep. 

“When I was alone with him the unsub said I wouldn’t have to wait long for you.” You cock an eyebrow at him.

“We were given multiple tips on the call line JJ setup, there were too many, we all agreed to go down the list until we found a lead. It’s possible that I got a little bit ahead of myself and split off from the group. Before I knew it I was knocked to the ground, and then I was here.”

“Sounds like something I would do.” You grin at him as you sit up, urging him to roll onto his side so you can take another look. It looks better than yesterday, he likely just needs to rinse the dried blood out. “It looks okay, Do you think you have a concussion?” The thought makes your stomach churn. 

”Definietly not, I’m exhibiting no symptoms.” He seems so sure, you can’t help but wonder if that’s just something someone with a concussion would say. 

“I’m just worried you may not be making decisions you would normally make.” Jesus Christ, did you take advantage of him? Is he even in the right state of mind?

Kissing you, calling you sweetheart, tongue fucking you. 

He immediately knows where your train of thought’s headed. 

“I’m fine.”

”Are you absolutely sure?” 

”I have no headache or ringing in my ears, I haven’t vomited. I’m not nauseous, no confusion, no memory loss. I’m not sure if you’re aware but I am a doctor, I would know if I had a concussion.” As he rambles on you lean closer, examining his pupils closely. They appear normal, his greenish brownish eyes study you as you study them. 

“Promise you feel fine?”

”If you’re worried about consent there’s nothing to worry about.” He looks at you incredulously, as if this isn’t a very serious matter.

“Promise?” You tilt your head to the side. 

“I promise I am of sound body and mind.” He holds his hand up like he’s taking an oath. 

After another look at his pupils you believe him, even if he isn’t technically a medical doctor you trust his judgement. 

“How much progress do you think the teams made on the case?” You can’t help but change the subject as your thoughts drift back to your current predicament. 

”I’m sure they’re doing their best but we barely had a profile together by the time you were taken. And with him no longer taking new victims…” You know exactly what he’s implying. 

Typically if you’re on a job and the unsub suddenly stops killing victims you’re taken off the case. Without any evidence you can’t make a functional profile. 

“Not to mention they’re down two profilers.” He mumbles.

“We can expect escalation in his behavior as well.” Even if your compliance keeps him from completely losing it, the behavior will continue to escalate regardless. 

“How are you feeling?” He turns to stare at you, clearly gauging your reaction. 

”About this situation? Not great.” No reason to lie, he knows neither one of you is really okay right now.

”I mean physically.”

”Sore.” Just a little. 

”I’m sorry.” 

He shouldn’t be, he didn’t do anything you wouldn’t have let him do in any other scenario. 

”It’s not your fault, I could say the same thing to you.”

”You really don’t need to.” He shrugs, his concern is still apparent. 

“Spencer.” When you say his name in as firm of a tone as you can muster his face softens a bit. The creases between his eyebrows melt away when he stares at you, you swear the corners of his mouth twitch up. “I’m serious.” You manage to whisper, even though the look in his eyes is knocking the wind out of you. 

“After what I did to you? You really want to know if I’m okay?” He leans in, resting his head on his palm.

When did he get so close to you?

“What you had to do.” You correct him. 

He opens his mouth, a look of confliction flashes across his face. You have no time to further question him because the crackling intercom has you both sitting up straight. 

“Good morning my stars. You would not believe the response to your debut film.” 

Gross. 

“I simply cannot stop thinking about your performance yesterday, even yours Dr. Reid. What a hidden talent.” 

Neither one of you speaks now, what would you even say? After seeing that video the team will assume you’ve been released, just like every other set of victims, how long before they realize what’s going on? 

“I have a surprise for the two of you for such a dazzling performance, I am not a total monster. I want to show you that good behavior is rewarded.” You both flinch when the red door clicks, swinging open. You aren’t sure what you expect but it definitely isn’t what you find. 

There’s nothing. 

No one comes barging in so you both approach cautiously, pulling the door open fully you find not an exit, but a hallway. There is a door at the end of the hallway that you assume is the exit and an open room without a door halfway down the corridor. 

“Since the two of you will be my guests for an extended period of time I thought I might provide some amenities. Although I will expect continued compliance if you wish to have access to the facilities.”

You continue to move with your defenses up but when you lean into the doorway you find a sterile looking well lit bathroom. There’s a toilet, a sink with a mirror above it, and a small standing shower. When you step back out into the hall Spencer is pushing on the other door, you know it’s locked but it doesn’t hurt to check. 

“I have big plans for the day, I would like you both to make yourselves presentable, under the sink you will find a box with water and prepackaged unopened food, for your peace of mind.” You make your way to the sink, crouching down, opening the box you find exactly what he said, along with a stack of folded black fabric. “I have also provided you with fresh clothes. I expect no objections, you wear them or there will be consequences. You are to leave your dirty clothes in the box, except for your tie Dr. Reid, you may keep that in your room.” 

You ignore the clothes, not wanting to see what’s in store for you just yet, instead you take a sandwich and a water, passing them to Spencer. 

“I can see that you are not in a talking mood today, that is okay, I will be back in an hour to start filming our next project, play nice until then.” The click of the intercom makes you relax as you open one of the water bottles, tilting your head back and taking a long swig. 

You’re both on edge knowing what’s coming, the inevitable. Any snippet of a playful rapport you had going this morning has fizzled into nothing. 

“You shower first, I’m gonna go sit for a few minutes.” Spencer breaks the silence before leaving the room without another word. You don’t object, you just turn on the water. Tossing your clothes across the room, trying not to think about the cameras that are likely in this room as well. 

You clear your mind as the hot water rushes over you. Your instinct is to worry, to come up with a plan but the logical part of you knows you should just enjoy this moment of respite as best you can. There is no escape, at least not until your team figures something out. 

You try not to take too long, knowing that Spencer needs a shower too. You turn the water off, reaching for one of the hanging towels before patting yourself dry. 

Time to dare a look at the outfit you’ll be wearing. 

The first thing you pull out is a simple black cotton shirt, followed by dark grey boxers. Likely not yours. 

Below them is a surprisingly tame black camisole. When you pull it over your head it’s skin tight but it definitely could be worse. You aren’t granted as much coverage as boxers but the little black panties aren’t the end of the world, you were expecting hardcore lingerie, leather and spandex, but they’re simple cotton panties. 

When you step out of the bathroom you yelp as you almost trip over Spencer, sitting criss cross on the ground. 

“Sorry!” He stands, holding his hands up.

“You scared the shit out of me.”

“Sorry, I went back to the other room initially but then I was thinking that this might be a set up and if I went in there he could lock and close the door and separate us. And then you’d be alone with him, so I figured it was best to stay here, I was going to tell you but it seemed inappropriate to go in there while you were showering.” He rambles as you nod along, he’s noticeably staring at the ceiling, occasionally his eyes dart down to you before flying back upwards. 

“That’s… actually really sweet. Thanks.” You give him a soft smile as he steps around you into the bathroom, you hear the water running after just a moment so you take a seat right where he was, listening to water hitting the tile as you take another sip from your water bottle. 

You aren’t left alone for long, only a few minutes have passed before the water turns back off as you listen to the sounds of him shuffling around. You stand, not wanting to trip him as well.

When he steps out you find yourself in the same position as him, staring at the ceiling to avoid gawking. Just like you his top is tight. This is not the time or place to be drooling over the way the fabric stretches across his chest, or accentuates his slender waist. Without a word you both shuffle back into the other room, watching curiously as the red door clicks back into place with a loud thunk. 

“I hope the two of you are ready to get over your sudden silent treatment. I am quite fond of the way you speak to one another.” 

“What do you want?” Spencer pulls it together a lot better than you do, his voice comes out steady and controlled, even if his fingernails dig into his palm when he speaks. 

“There is that voice, what a wonderful question Dr. Reid, I have such an eventful scene planned.” You can’t help it as your hand drifts to his, intertwining your fingers with his as you try to appear calm. “I would love to give you both a detailed script but after yesterday I have to resist, you do such marvelous improv. I have a few things I would like to see, I do not care how you do them as long as they are done.”

You swallow loudly, you know it’s audible because he gives your hand a squeeze right after. 

“My angel, you did some impressive work yesterday but today I would like to reward Dr. Reid for his valiant efforts in making you shine. I will not ask for something as cruel as five orgasms of him, but I would like to see at least two. Because he did such a good job taking control of the situation yesterday I want to see more of that. I want her hands restrained, use your tie, I want you to do whatever you would like with her. I expect to see you in her mouth and in her pretty pussy.” You cringe, the way he talks about you makes you want to retch. “I found myself quite taken with the way you express yourself, Doctor. I would like more of that, I want to see what else your mouth is capable of. I want to hear dirty, nasty things, all for her. Take complete control Dr. Reid, take what you want from here, show me, show everyone, just how much you care about your dear friend and fellow agent. I expect all of my demands to be met, or you will be redoing the scene until you get it right. And I will not be so kind as to reward you with water and a bathroom if your performance is not up to my standards.” With a click he’s gone and you’re left with the aftermath of his demand.

“Hey, are you okay?” You find yourself seeking to comfort him now that it’s his turn in the hot seat. Untangling your fingers from his. 

“I’m fine.” He sure doesn’t sound fine. His posture has gone completely taut.

“If you don’t want to do this we’ll figure something out.” You lower your voice to a whisper, you know it likely isn’t making much of a difference but you can’t help but try and have an ounce of privacy. 

“There’s nothing to figure out, I spent half the night running through scenarios in my mind, there’s nothing. There’s no way out of this that doesn’t risk leaving you alone with him. And we’re absolutely not doing that.” He clears his throat. “I can do this.” He turns, his hair is damp, tucked neatly behind his ears. “I’m gonna have to… you know, do what he asked, will you be okay?” 

He’s going to fuck your mouth and your ‘pretty pussy.’ Are you okay with that? Is your heart pounding at the thought?

“I’m good, I promise, we’ve got this, this could be like, way worse. We could be getting tortured, instead we’re just doing… this.” You babble nervously. You know members of your team who have survived far worse at the hands of an unsub than this, you can do this. “We’re seeing some minor escalation but thankfully nothing too crazy, right? You made the right call yesterday, if we hadn’t done a good job we would have seen a much more aggressive escalation.”   

 “Yeah, the right call.” He’s mumbling, clearly lost in thought. 

“Hey.” You do your best to sound serious as he stares at you. You raise your hand like you’re taking an oath. “I promise that I’m okay with everything that is about to happen.” You smile like this is all just a funny inside joke, trying to ease whatever is gnawing at him. “I think I can handle a little dirty talk.”

“I just wish…” He starts a train of thought as he stares down at you, trying to muster a smile in return but he stops himself. 

“You wish?” 

“I wish we weren’t being put in this situation.” His shoulders remain tense, there’s no release of the pressure he’s holding in.

That’s not what he wants to say.

”Me too.” You put a hand on his arm, there’s no reason to push him right now, not with what’s about to happen. “Why don’t we go lay down?” You drag your hand down his arm to his hand, pulling him towards the makeshift bed. “I have an idea. Why don’t we agree to keep everything that happens during these ‘movies’ in a bubble, a bubble that we don’t touch when we’re outside of it.” 

“What you’re describing doesn’t sound healthy.”

”When we get out of here we can pop that bubble and deal with all of this then, but if we’re going to get through this now, we need to be a team. When we’re filming, we step into the bubble, and inside the bubble we do whatever it takes to survive. And when we’re done filming we don’t have to feel bad about it because we’re outside of the bubble and we can just be two agents working on the case.”

”Definietly not healthy.”

”Do you have a better idea?”

”No, but if you want to talk about what happens in the… bubble, I don’t want you to feel like you can’t just because we agreed to bottle it up.” He makes it sound a lot worse than it did in your head. 

“Okay, okay, it’s like diplomatic immunity, we don’t hold things that happen in the bubble against each other outside of the bubble.” You sit on the blanket, he mirrors you so you’re sitting face to face. 

”That’s an even worse idea, what if I hurt you?”

You laugh, maybe for the first time since you were put in this little concrete box, a real honest laugh.

”You aren’t going to hurt me, Reid. You’re like fifty pounds soaking wet.” Sure he’s tall but he’s still Dr. Reid, you’ve never seen him hurt a fly, actually he very specifically catches bugs and releases them outside when he comes across them. And he looks like a strong wind could blow him over. You’ve heard multiple people call him a pipe cleaner with eyes. 

“It’s not funny.” 

“Obviously, none of this is funny.” You gesture around the room when you speak. “But it’s happening, so if you don’t like my bubble idea then let's just scrap it and do this thing.” 

He’s nodding to himself, you can see him playing with his tie, picking at the fabric. 

”If you say stop I’ll stop.” He mumbles, you watch as he ties a knot, his fingers moving with practiced agility, as they untie it in the same motion. 

”I know Reid.”

”Spencer.”

”What?”

”I don’t like when you call me Reid, it feels… impersonal.” The knot he’s working on tightens. “We’ve been through enough together at this point, you can use my first name.” 

“Okay, Spencer, let’s stop stalling before one of us ends up with a bullet in our head. We put on another good show, he has limited escalation, so let’s do this.” You hold your wrists out like you would if you were about to be handcuffed. He’s just glaring at you expectantly. “Jesus, you’re so particular, and if I say stop you’ll stop.” You mimic his strict tone. It does seem to placate him as he takes your wrist in his hand. You watch with morbid fascination as his fingers trace the veins under your skin.

“I absolutely could hurt you if I wanted to.” He grumbles under his breath as you give him a harsh look.

”Enough joking around.” You scoff and his hand wraps around your wrist, his slender, long fingers easily encircling them as he twists your arm. His free hand darts to your shoulder and with a force you’ve never seen him use before he flips you over onto your stomach, catching your other wrist and pinning both behind your back. 

“I know you think you know everything, but I’d like to remind you that I have several years of experience in the field, as well as extensive training in how to use what strength I do have to the fullest extent.” As he speaks you squirm under him, uselessly, as he wraps the length of his tie around your wrist, one hand holding it in place as the other finds the nape of your neck, firmly holding you down. 

“Not funny, Reid.” You groan as he pushes you down until your face is buried in the pillow. 

“I agree, there is nothing funny about a little girl like you thinking that you can talk to me like that. You might have the knowledge and skillset to back up your arrogance but you don’t have the experience. In or out of the field.” You can’t see what he’s doing but you can feel the fabric tightening as his fingers wrap around them and pull, he’s somehow managed to restrain you with just the one hand. ”This is the first time you’ve ever had to be in a situation where an unsub has control over you and you’re not even acting like a federal agent, you’re acting like a spoiled brat.”

His words are clearly having an effect on you as you bite your lip to stifle a moan.

God you’re sick. 

“Can’t even hold your own against someone who’s ‘fifty pounds soaking wet’.” Pulling on your wrists he yanks you up so you’re kneeling, you pull on the bindings, testing them. No matter how you twist they hold tight. 

“You know you can be a real ass sometimes.” You groan, rolling your eyes as you turn your head back to shoot him a glare. 

“You know you drive me fucking crazy.” He leans against you, his breath is hot on your neck as he hisses, you can’t help but sit in stunned silence for a moment, you don’t think you’ve ever heard him curse before. “Do you know how exhausting this last year has been for me? Seeing how you handle yourself on every case? Watching you throw yourself into danger over and over again?”

”Well that’s not fair-”

”Since the day you started, they brought you in and told everyone you were a prodigy in your department, that you were going to be an invaluable asset to the team. And  sure, you were, until we put you in the field and you rushed into every situation. It didn’t matter if your life was at risk, you always had to be a hero. Do you know how hard it is for me to get any work done when I’m constantly worried about you throwing yourself into the line of fire to save someone else?” 

“You can’t seriously be using this as an opportunity to bring up work grievances with me.” You hiss back at him. “What is your problem, Reid?” His hand moves to the front of you, wrapping around your throat, he doesn’t squeeze but he holds it there, a silent reminder of the position you’re in.

”If you call me Reid one more time I’m going to fuck that stubborn little mouth of yours until you get it right. Until the only thing you can say is ‘Spencer.’ Until the only thing you can think about is my name.” He breathes the words out, so soft that for the first time you doubt the cameras even pick it up. If he’s playing it up for the unsub he’s doing an incredible job. 

And all you want to do right now is call him Reid. 

Both of his arms are wrapped around you now, his chest is flush with your back, one hand around your neck, the other drawing mindless shapes across your stomach, up and down towards your chest. 

At this point you don’t even care if he’s just putting on a show for the unsub, you stop yourself from whimpering, clenching your thighs together. You whine as he leans forward. With your hands locked behind your back you can feel him pressing against you, the crotch of his boxers up against your palms. Without thinking you lean back, cupping him, earning yourself a low groan.

”Jesus-“ He gasps out as you start to stroke him through his boxers. The hand around your throat tightens, just enough to remind you of its presence, his other hand floats downward, forcing your thighs apart, he doesn’t dip into your panties yet, instead he simply grazes his fingers across the length of your clothed cunt, when you whine he scoffs. Pulling his fingers back and holding them in front of your face. “Would you look at that?” You can practically hear the smug smirk on his face as you stare at the glistening tips of his fingers. “I have a theory.”

”Oh great.” You let your head fall back against his shoulder so you can see him, sure enough he’s got a shit eating grin plastered on his face. 

“I think that you want to be taught a lesson, I think that you’re acting like this because you want to be reprimanded.”

God, yes. 

“No.”      

“Maybe that’s what you’ve wanted all along, is that why you go against protocol all the time, barging into buildings before we have proper backup? Why you’re constantly disobeying direct orders? You want someone to put you in your place. It’s why you’re in this mess in the first place isn’t it? You were told to go with Emily but you insisted you would get more work done if you split up.” 

He’s like, too good at this, the words flow off of his tongue just like a practiced actor reciting a script. 

“You’re being a dick.” You snap your head back, trying to properly scowl at him but his hand grips your jaw, holding you firmly in place.

”See, even now, look at the situation you’re in. There is no reason for you to be mouthing off right now. We have a consensual agreement to fulfil the unsubs demands and an understanding that I’m going to be rough and talk to you like this. You’re restrained, and in a much worse position than I am, yet you still can’t help yourself.” 

He doesn’t raise his voice at all as he goes on and on, his tone and volume stay almost frighteningly even. As if to prove his point he lightly pushes you forward, without your hands to catch yourself you fall face first into a pillow with a soft thud and a groan. He flips you before you can pull yourself up, staring down at you with a mix of quiet simmering annoyance and something else. 

“The only time I’ve ever seen you not acting like this was when I had my fingers in you and my mouth on you, which confirms my theory.” You want to slap the tight lipped smirk off of his pretty face. You’ve always had such a friendly relationship with him, hearing him talk to you like this sends jolts of electricity through you. 

At this point you’re so caught off guard by his vulgar ranting you just stare at him dumbly, watching as his expression becomes more and more smug. 

Suddenly, you don’t care if this is all some twisted wish fulfillment for a bunch of perverts online from the mind of some sick voyeur. 

You are not going to let him have all the fun, you can play this game too. 

You twist your wrists behind your back, letting your chest arch up, your breasts straining against the fabric of the camisole. 

“Spence…” You let out a breathy moan and watch as he immediately loses his resolve, eyes wide, eyebrows arched, just for a moment before his stern expression returns.

”I would be very careful with whatever you decide to say next, sweetheart.” His hands settle on your thighs, gently pushing them apart. You feel like you’re playing chess with him, and you hate chess with Spencer. He always tells you how he’s going to win two minutes into every game. 

You’ve never beat him.

But this isn’t chess, and you can play dirty. 

You chew on your lip, frowning in the process. 

“Is that really how you feel?” You whisper, your voice cracking and you can tell by the way his face drops that you’ve got him right where you want him. “I thought we were friends, I- I didn’t know I was making your job harder. Does the whole team feel that way? I’m so sorry.” You manage a convincing lip tremble as you stutter your way through your apology, he doesn’t stop you as you pull yourself up and into a sitting position, facing him. 

“I-“ He starts, conflicting emotions crossing his face as you lean forward, batting your eyelashes at him.

“I wouldn’t be so bad if someone held a tighter leash.” You pull on your binds with an overemphasized whiney edge to your voice. “Please don’t be mad at me, you’re right, I need to be reprimanded.” The second he realizes you’re teasing him his brows furrow. “Will you help me, Reid?” 

The anger that flashes across his face almost makes you regret saying it.

Almost.

“You just can’t help yourself.” He clicks his tongue, and the look he gives you is one of fury but he couldn’t sound more pleased. He stands up, you don’t bother trying to as well, without your hands you know it would be useless. “Just remember that you asked for this.” His hands tangle in your hair as he gives you a warning tug, pulling you up from sitting to your knees. 

Asked for it, wanted it, needed it. 

He keeps one hand firmly in your hair, the other grabs your jaw, rougher than he’s been so far. The pad of his thumb brushes over your bottom lip.

“Open.” Your initial instinct is to snark back at him but his tone is so deathly calm a part of you automatically responds to the authority. You dart your tongue out, wetting your lips before you open your mouth. The corners of his own lips twitch.

He slides his thumb past your teeth, resting on your tongue, he doesn’t push deep enough to gag you but it certainly isn’t comfortable. 

And then you wait. 

His eyes never leave yours and he doesn’t move, he just stares at you, expectantly. 

Son of a bitch. 

He’s not gonna do anything until you give him what he wants so with a roll of your eyes you close your lips around the digit. Gingerly, you run your tongue along the length, you dare a glance up at him and he gives you a nod, grinning like a cat that finally caught the mouse. 

“Isn’t it so much easier to just follow directions?”

Oh, you could kill him.

Or fuck him, you’d take either option gladly. 

You open your mouth, ready to spit an obscenity at him but his thumb presses down on your tongue and all you can do is groan. 

“Still not enough to keep you quiet?” He raises an eyebrow and removes his thumb, his hand moves to the front of his boxers and you watch with bated breath as those long, delicate fingers trace the outline of the sizeable bulge that you’re now hyper aware of. “Is this what you need? Is this what it’ll take to make you behave?” 

Before you can think of a snarky response, before you can headbutt him in the crotch, and before you can give him the meanest glare you can muster, you lose control of yourself and your stupid body reacts faster than your brain, and you nod.

And his eyes just light up.

You’re never gonna live this down.

With your hands bound the way there are there’s no way for you to touch him, or even steady yourself. Your only anchor is his hand in your hair. It crosses your mind that he really could hurt you right now, there’s nothing you could do to stop it and you doubt the unsub would even want him to stop. He can do whatever he wants to you. 

Why does that make this even hotter? What is wrong with you? 

He never takes his eyes off of you, you can’t remember the last time he looked away, it’s an almost frightening look of concentration on his face as he tilts his head, examining you. You should be afraid. But you aren’t, because even now, in this situation, you know he wouldn’t ever really hurt you. 

And when he’s done with your mouth he’s going to take one look at your cunt and see just how much you love this. 

Behind the bravado, dominance, and faux anger in his expression, behind the show you’re putting on, you can still see that a tiny part of him is searching your face for a sign that you’re really okay with this. 

So you give him one. 

Leaning forward, you press your mouth against the outline of his cock. Peppering a trail of kisses along his length, trying to ignore the fact that the more you feel out this size of him, the less confident you are in your ability to fit him in your mouth. 

His eyes are definitely still on you when you look up at him through your eyelashes, except now you’re rewarded with the dumb look on his face as his mouth falls open. 

You’re caught off guard when he suddenly pulls you away, crouching down, you squeak as he pulls you into a kiss, nipping at you from your mouth to your chin, to your cheek, until you feel a light bite at your earlobe. He nuzzles his face into your hair and you swear you can hear him inhaling sharply  through his nose but your focus shifts when his lips return to your ear. 

“I don’t care what the reason is, if you want me to stop at any point you shake your head no and we will deal with the consequences. Nod if you understand.” He returns to standing leaving you breathless as you nod, probably a little too eagerly.

And without missing a beat he hooks a finger into the waist line of his boxers, tugging them down, effectively freeing himself. 

Oh he’s got a perfect dick.

You’re gonna need so much therapy after this. 

You feel like the last half an hour has just been you and Spencer gawking slackjawed at each other and it’s once again your turn. 

He’s got the kind of dick you see in a porn and think, ‘only pornstars have dicks like that, not regular guys.’ 

Although, Spencer Reid is the furthest thing from a regular guy but that’s besides the point. You’re face to face with the biggest dick you’ve ever seen in person. Pretty and pale with a prominent vein on the underside, you’re shamelessly ogling him at this point, staring at the pink tip as he takes himself in his hand. His free hand cups your cheek, his thumb brushes against your lips once more and this time you don’t need to be told what to do.

You open your mouth and eagerly lean forward as he slides into your mouth. 

You do your best to accommodate his size, flattening your tongue as you watch his head fall back with an obscene groan. 

All you want to hear is make him make that sound. 

You try to move your head forward but it’s awkward without being able to use your hands to balance yourself. You end up taking too much of him at once and you gag, his moan is pornagraphic but he’s quick to pull away as you cough.

“Are you okay?” He whispers, you know he’s trying to speak softly enough to not be heard but you doubt it works. You nod, catching your breath for a moment.

”I think I’m gonna need a little help.” You accentuate your point by pulling on the tie, wiggling your arms. There’s a moment of silence before he nods, once again he takes his cock in his hand, but this time once he’s past your lips you feel both of his hands tangle into your hair. He guides you slowly down his length and you take the opportunity to run your tongue across the vein you’d been eying. With a hiss he pulls you back, until all you’ve got is his tip. 

He’s overly cautious, and surprisingly gently as he pushes your head further down, he makes sure to never push you more than halfway down his length, never gagging you. It’s almost a little boring as he moves your head up and down. He lets out a few small sounds as he gingerly moves your head. You both freeze in place when you hear a click and a crackle from above.

”I thought I made myself clear, you perform or there are dire consequences. Neither one of you looks like you are enjoying yourselves. I told you to take control, I told you to take what you want. Not what makes her comfortable. It is obvious to me that you are exercising a severe amount of restraint Dr. Reid and we both know that is not what I want to see. Now do it right, show me you can make her shine, or I will find someone else who will.” He’s practically snarling into the microphone by the end of his rant, you both cringe in unison at the sound of the click followed by silence. 

When you turn to look at him his eyebrows are practically squeezed together he looks so concerned. 

“Look, Spencer, I’m fine with you doing whatever you have to do. If survival is our goal here-“ As you speak he shoves two fingers into your mouth, effectively silencing you.

”You’re done talking. The next time you speak it’ll be because I asked you to.” You hardly have a second to process what’s happening before he’s squeezing your jaw, forcing your mouth open as he slides his cock back in. His hands find your hair again but instead of moving your head he thrusts himself forward. Your throat tightens, and you gag immediately but this time he pulls back only to rock himself forward again. You let out a garbled whine as he finds a steady pace, he thankfully doesn’t gag you again, careful to go as deep as he can without choking you. 

You can do nothing but watch him as he fucks your mouth, his grip in your hair tightening as he holds you in place. His own hair falling in messy tangles across his face. 

“Look at you, finally quiet.” He groans, snapping his neck back to throw some of his hair out of his eyes as he grins down at you, groaning. 

The effect he has on you is just embarrassing at this point. You’re so turned on you’re about to straddle his foot and grind down against his socks. As you’re considering it he pulls himself out completely, a line of spit hangs from your lips to his cock. He wipes it off your lip with his thumb and taps against your cheek with his tip. 

“I bet you’ll look even better taking the whole thing.” When he pushes himself back against your lips you try to pull back, opening your mouth to protest but he just takes it as an opportunity to shove himself into your mouth as you gasp. “I didn’t give you permission to talk yet sweetheart.” You whine around him as he slides his hips forward another inch. “I know you can do it, just breathe.” He lowers his voice as he pulls your hair, hard. You let out a whimper, and he uses his free hand to brush any hair in your face behind your ears. 

You do your best to relax your throat as you feel him pushing further, you gag when he hits your throat but he doesn’t give so much as an inch of relief as he shushes you in between his groans. 

“Almost, just a little bit more, you need to relax.” 

Easy for him to say he doesn’t have a fucking baseball bat in his throat.

One hand grips your hair so tightly you feel tears prickling the corners of your eyes while the other cradles your face, his thumb rubbing soothing circles into your cheek. You swallow around him, taking shallow breaths in through your nose as he eases himself in the last inch and your nose hits that little patch of curls at the base of his cock. You gag around him but you’re expecting it so you manage to breathe through it enough that you don’t puke. 

The look on his face makes it worth it. 

Intoxicated.

Sharp little breathes as he fights back a moan, eyes dark and watching with so much intensity you feel like you’re under a microscope. His hair is in disarray and he doesn’t bother fixing it this time. 

“So good, s-such a good job.” He mumbles as his hips twitch involuntarily forward before pulling back a tiny bit. His thrusts are shallow but he stays in your throat. The tears that were forming flow freely now, he wipes a few of them away but they just keep coming. You take a shuddering breath in through your nose, drool dribbling down your chin as you squeeze your eyes shut.

As much as you want to watch his reactions it takes all of your focus to not retch as he fucks your throat. You know you won’t have to last too long because his thrusts become erratic after just a few more seconds and his soft moans turn to out of breath whines. You nose hits his pelvis once more and with a twitch of his hips you feel his cum hit the back of your throat.

You can’t help but steal a few glances, opening your eyes just in time to watch his head fall back, his face and neck flush red. With his cock still stuffed in your mouth you have no choice but to swallow as he comes down from his orgasm. 

Not that you mind all that much. 

When your throat constricts around him he seems to snap back to reality as he quickly withdraws. In one smooth motion he sinks to his knees to come face to face with you. Both hands cup your face and you know you must be a sight. Tears and drool slick on your face, the look of admiration on his face tells you he must not mind that much though. 

“Let me see.” He murmurs, tapping your chin with two fingers. You’re still catching your breath but you open your mouth and stick your tongue out, showing him the wet mess of semen and spit. “Such a good job, look how well you’re behaving now.” You’re caught off guard when he leans forward, his tongue sliding across yours, tasting the mix of the two of you. His hands find your shoulders and he lays you back against a few pillows. “You looked so pretty choking on my cock.” 

Even after everything you’re still surprised to hear him talk like that, it makes your head spin. When you don’t respond he slides his hands down your body until he reaches your panties, he wastes no time pulling them down your legs and tossing them behind him. You start to squeeze your thighs together but you aren’t fast enough, or quick enough to stop him from spreading your legs. 

His eyes practically sparkle. 

Ravaging you with just his stare, eyes consuming, memorizing, every detail between your legs. 

“Look at that.” God, he sounds so pleased with himself. 

He should be, you’re dripping and he hasn’t even touched you there.

”Isn’t that answer enough?” You sneer at him, bucking your hips. The smile he gives you is so genuine you can’t stand it. 

“There you go with that mouth again, can you only behave when you’re stuffed with cock? Do I need to keep you like that permanently? Want me to leave you like that until we’re found? Do you want the rest of the team to barge in here on a rescue mission only to find you drooling on my cock?” His fingers swipe through the wetness between your legs, the squelching sound makes your cheeks burn more than they already are. Your back arches as he sinks two into you, your cunt pulses around him immediately as you start to let out a pornagraphic groan. 

”Shut up.” You try to sit up but a small push from him sends you back into the pillows. He gives you a disapproving shake of his head. 

“I really thought we were making some progress, I guess you still haven’t learned your lesson.” He removes his fingers, rather abruptly, leaving you to whine at the absence. “I was going to be so nice to you too,” You’re getting used to being manhandled at this point, although this time you find yourself in a state of confusion as he sits beside you, lifting you by your hips and placing you in his lap. “I was going to work you open with my fingers to make this easier for you but I guess you don’t want that.” While he speaks you can feel him already hardening again against the swell of your ass. 

“Spencer…” Your tone is that of warning, like you might scold him. 

“Maybe you need another reminder of who’s in charge.” He bucks his hips, forcing you up and onto your knees as you straddle him, he’s quick and precise as he lines himself up at your entrance. Your eyes go wide as you realize what’s about to happen. The tip of his cock slides through your slick, when he bumps against your clit you nearly fall over. With a smirk he lines himself up with your hole, staring at you expectantly. When he tilts his hips and pushes himself into you, you both melt into a chorus of moans. The stretch burns so sweetly, your brain can’t seem to figure out if you want more or less. 

“Spencer, wait- please.” You start to object but he’s already shaking his head. 

“No, sweetheart. I think this is a lesson you need to learn the hard way.” He says it so gently but the glint in his eye tells you he likes this a little too much. 

Almost as much as you do.

”You’ve done so good so far, I know you can do this.” He coos, his hands wander up and down your body from your thighs to just below your chest, you sit up on your knees, impaled on his cock with your thighs already trembling. “I want you to show me how good you can be.” His voice turns to a murmur as he slides a hand under your top. You’re too focused on his monster cock trying to squeeze its way into you to pay attention to the way his hand starts exploring your chest. Slender fingers, cupping your breasts and drawing gentle circles around your nipples. You shift your body down, your thighs tense as you try to slowly lower yourself but you only make it about halfway down his shaft before you can’t take anymore, when you start to lift yourself off of him in an attempt to relieve the stretching feeling he catches your hips, locking you in place. 

“Please-” You start to whine as he holds steady, you squirm to no avail as he shakes his head. 

“You’re not getting up until you show me you can take the whole thing.” You know he means it, there’s no persuading him when you’ve come this far. And he must know a part of you enjoys this, if you didn’t you would outright tell him to stop, you’d shake your head no and he would stop. 

Probably. 

”Spencer…” You whisper his name like you’re begging but you don’t even know what you want, it’s too hard to focus on anything when the burn between your legs fizzles into a warm pleasure with every passing second. 

“What do you want, sweetheart?” His hair sticks to his forehead, a sheen of sweat coating his body, you likely match. His fingers alternate from tapping your waist frantically and squeezing the flesh of your hips. 

What do you want? 

What you want is to be at home in your own bed, in the exact same situation, with no cameras and no nightmare director watching your every move, and making demands. You want this to be real. 

You want him to buck his hips up and make you take it.

You want to know what he thinks about all of this.

You want him to force you down to the hilt, to make you take all of him.

You want to know if he feels the same guilt that you do for wanting more, and more, and more of this.

You want a copy of this recording before Garcia scrubs it from the internet so you can relive it if Spencer refuses to even look at you after this. 

”I want you.” That’s all you’ve wanted, for so long.

There’s too much sensation. Everything hurts and feels so fucking good and staring down at him doesn’t help. You’re a profiler, and a goddamn good one at that, but staring at his face you don’t get anything. You can’t decipher his body language in any meaningful way, not when your focus is all over the place.                                     

“Show me.” He sounds as fucked as you feel. “Show me how badly you want this.” He pulls his hands back so he isn’t touching you at all, holding them up almost as if he were showing you he isn’t a threat. You could easily sit up and pull yourself off of him but you’re too engrossed with the way his eyelashes flutter as he stares down to the point where the two of you meet. 

You start slow, inching yourself further down him but it hurts too much and you worry you’ll lose your resolve. Instead you look him in the eyes. Watching his tongue poke out of his mouth before he chews his bottom lip. An action you’ve seen hundreds of times at the office, now everytime you see it you’ll think of this. 

“Can you help me stay upright?” You whisper, his hands are hesitant and practically trembling when he returns to your hips. Not the same confidant movements he was displaying before. Once you’re sure he’s got you, you take a deep breath and let your knees give out. Slamming yourself down fully onto his cock. 

You’re pretty sure you scream, it’s hard to concentrate on anything other than the pressure against your cervix. When you manage to open your eyes you’re rewarded with such a treat. He’s as gone as you are, his hands flexing, digging into your skin as he bites his own lip so hard you’re worried he’ll bleed. His moans are muffled as he tries desperately to keep his mouth shut but what does slip through is delicious. 

You feel a sense of pride. 

You’re still catching your breath when he shifts himself up and on to his elbows. 

“You want me?” He sounds as needy as you feel right now. 

And all you can do is nod. 

When he lifts your hips and pulls out you whimper, the sensation of relief doesn’t make up for the lack of him. 

He’s gentle as he guides you rather than forces you this time down into a pillow. You’ve got your ass in the air and your face turned to the side so you can still see him in your peripheral vision. 

You’re expecting him to slam into you, to immediately find a punishing pace. You’re surprised when his body wraps around yours and he kisses the back of your neck, moving down your spine until he hits your lower back and sits up. 

He wordlessly lines himself back up at your entrance, and you keen when he pushes himself in, inch by inch until he’s fully sheathed within you once more. Your groan is long and drawn out as you readjust to his size. In this position he somehow feels even bigger, like he’s in your fucking stomach. 

“Jesus-” Your breath catches in your throat when he grabs you by your shoulders, pulling you back against him, somehow managing to push himself deeper. Making you feel every single inch.

“That’s not the name I want to hear.” With a snap of his hips he pulls out about halfway before thrusting fully back into you. 

“Spencer!” You’re so full, too full. 

“There it is.” He mumbles under his breath before he starts rocking his hips back and forth, experimentally shifting from quick shallow thrusts to slow long ones. Both make you bury your head in the pillow to stifle your moans. His hands stay locked on your shoulders, yanking you back against him with each thrust, pulling you closer to him. He eventually settles himself into shallow thrusts, pulling out halfway before snapping forwards, grinding himself against you, making you feel every inch. 

Slow and steady, he folds himself over you. Resting his forehead on your back as you lay there and take everything he gives you. With every thrust he brushes along that sweet spot that makes you see stars before slamming against your cervix. 

And then he fucking whimpers your name. 

Out of breath and desperate.

“Say it again, say my name.” He kisses you between your shoulder blades before latching onto your pulled back shoulder, sucking and nipping at the skin. “Please.”

And who are you to deny him when he’s asking so nicely?

With every snap of his hips you groan out the only thing you can think, over and over and over again.

“Spencer, Spence- Spencer, please.” You’re not sure when it started but you’re suddenly extremely aware of the knot forming in your core as your thighs tremble. With each jolt of his hips you’re pushed closer and closer to that edge, until all you can think about is him. His hands on your shoulders, on your hips, wrapping around you to paw at your chest, like he can’t decide on one so he has to alternate through them. His breath, hot on your back where he leaves kisses in between his moans. His cock, pulling out just enough to push your buttons so perfectly he must be doing it on purpose. 

Closer, and closer, and closer. 

Until you feel yourself nearing the point of no return, and in an instant all the sensation is gone. You don’t bother with your dignity because at this point it’s nonexistent, instead you whine and push your hips back. 

His hands are back on you, forcing you onto your back, your hands trapped under you as he flips you. His forehead is slick with sweat and you can see the sweet shade of pink flushing his neck and face, devastatingly pretty. 

“Spen-” You start to plead with him but he’s already on it, cock in hand as he eases himself back into the wet mess between your legs, in this position you can see the slick coating your thighs, you don’t get much time to watch his cock disappear into you because he’s on you like a predator on prey. His lips are all consuming on yours. He’s absolutely devouring you, biting at your bottom lip, darting his tongue into your mouth, you can’t resist the opportunity to suck his tongue. 

 God, you’re a goner. 

He finds the same pace, shallow thrusts, your body jerking with each one. Fucking into you with a brutal consistency, every thrust leaves you wanting more. It almost feels like he can read your mind when one of his hands drifts between your legs, his pointer and middle finger find your clit so fast you’d think he had a map to get there, rubbing circles in time with each snap of his hips. 

“Spencer…” At this point you’re running out of other words to say, he clearly meant it when he said all you’d be able to think about was his name, that’s certainly the case now as he coaxes your body towards an orgasm with surgical precision.  

“Do you understand why I have to do this, sweetheart?” He separates his lips from yours, nose to nose as he mumbles, when you get a good look at his face you know he’s just as fucked as you are. But his fingers have stopped their movements and all you can concentrate on is how badly you need them to start again.

You nod furiously, you’d say anything if it would make him start touching you again.

“T-to teach me a lesson, to make me behave.” It takes you a second but you manage to get through your sentence before he laughs, burying his face in your neck

“You’re a profiler, you can do better than that.” 

Does he want you to state the obvious?

“Because you don’t want him to be mad?” You know you sound unsure but you don’t care, all you can think about is his fingers dipping back between your legs. You try to rock yourself against him for any stimulation at all but his fingers squeeze your hips so tight you know you’ll have bruises there. 

“You’re so sweet.” His teeth graze your jaw, dragging down the side of your neck before he bites down, pulling a whine out of you. “So, so, so sweet. You think I care what he thinks?” He kisses the spot before he sits up, one hand on your hip and the other rubbing the mark he left. “Yours is the only opinion that matters to me.” 

He grinds himself against you, as if you’re not already full of him. 

“He said he’ll find someone else.” He’s all mumbles now. “But there’s no one else, just me, right sweetheart?” Sweet, breathy mumbles. 

“You’re not- oh my god, making any sense.” Nothing makes sense right now, not when he’s starting to thrust into you again, thrusts so shallow he’s practically just grinding his hips against yours. Like he’s trying to force himself as deep as he can, bruising you even where no one can see.

”I hate that he’s right about you.” He catches your lips in his as you start to open your mouth again, his fingers brush up against your thigh as you groan into him. He pulls away just long enough to mumble, like he’s overflowing with the words and has to get them out. “I’ve seen everything he describes, I thought it all before he ever put it into words.” His nose bumps against yours as he rambles, thrusts becoming erratic as he finally puts his focus back on your clit. “The way you shine, and sparkle, and light up a room.” 

“Spencer, I don’t-” You don’t know when you started crying again but you sure are now. Overstimulation, confusion, pleasure, you aren’t sure what brought it on. 

“I’m gonna make you light up, you- you don’t need anyone else.” His eyes are shut tight, his eyebrow twitching as he focuses. His ramblings don’t make any sense as he babbles on and on, lost in his concentration. 

“Spencer…” You softly hiss out his name as your stomach twists, he pushes hard on your clit as he continues his merciless patterns. 

It feels like you’re being electrocuted in the most addicting way possible, you twitch around him, you push your head back into the pillow supporting you as your back arches off the ground. The wave finally crashes over you as you come, hard. You clamp around him like a vice and he’s quick to follow. You aren’t fully aware of the immediate aftermath but you know he’s groaning something akin to your name as he collapses on top of you. 

You lay in a sweaty, panting heap for what feels like hours before he sits up. Both of you groan softly when he slips out of you. His touch on you is so light and cautious you’d think you were made of glass. His nimble fingers easily release the tie from around your wrists, you wince in pain as the blood rushes back to your hands. When you bring them in front of you, rubbing them gingerly you can see the raw red marks as well as the dark purple splotches starting to bloom around your wrists like sadistic bracelets. 

“I’m so sorry.” He murmurs, taking your wrist in his hand, rubbing his thumb over the mark. “I got carried away, I- I shouldn’t have.” You put your fingers over his mouth. 

“No apologies.” You lower your hand. “Neither one of us should be apologizing for anything that happens here, we’re alive and together because of you.” You’re about to continue but the buzz of the intercom snaps you both to attention. 

There’s only a moment of static before you hear a sniffling sound, it makes you stare at Spencer, both of you with eyebrows cocked in confusion. 

“Are you crying?” You can’t help yourself as you blurt it out, the absurdity of the situation still finds ways to shock you. 

“It was just such a beautiful performance.” He coughs, clearing his throat. “Thank you Dr. Reid, that was just what I was looking for.” You’re both surprised when the speaker clicks again and you’re left alone. The room dims back down to a single bulb, plunging you both into darkness. When the lock on the red door clicks again he stands, you avert your eyes as he straightens his boxers out to cover himself back up. You only look up when he tosses your panties to you. Neither one of you seems inclined to speak but he does help you to your feet, supporting you as you limp to the bathroom. Once he props you up in the shower he steps out, you know he’s right outside, waiting. 

You run the water, taking your second shower of the day. You rinse the sweat from your skin, carefully running your hand between your legs, hissing when you touch yourself there. 

You’re definitely going to be sore for a while. 

You finish up, toweling off and putting your top and panties back on but not before stealing a glance at yourself in the mirror. 

Yikes. 

No wonder Spencer’s so quiet. Your wrists are a sight but that’s nothing compared to the rest of you. When your cami hikes up you can see a myriad of bruises, up and down your waist and hips. Purple blooming all over your form, further down your thighs are a similar sight. He really did a number on you. You do your best to adjust your top so they cover everything on your torso as well as some of your upper thighs. He’s standing right beside the doorway when you step out. 

“Your turn.” You give him the best smile you can muster as he slips past you but you know it doesn’t convince him you’re okay. 

Are you okay?

Sort of. 

You’re sore, a little bruised, and tender between your legs, sure. You’re confused, by everything Spencer says to you, in and out of the scenes you’re performing. But overall, surprisingly fine. And you can thank Spencer for that. 

If you’d been stuck here with Hotch, or Morgan, or heaven forbid a stranger, you’d likely find yourself in much worse condition. Hotch and his overly seriousness. Everything is so serious and life or death with him, and then of course there’s the guilt he would feel, never ending guilt. And Morgan’s been like a big brother to you since the day you met him, even imagining intimacy with him makes your skin crawl. A part of you can’t help but be glad it’s Spencer, even if this has complicated your already complex relationship. 

You’re okay, mostly. 

You’ll be better when you aren’t being forced to follow the whims of some obsessed sexual psychopath, but you’re okay. 

You just have to hope he’s okay too. 

When he finally steps out of the bathroom he’s mopey. 

That’s the only word you can think of to describe him.

He isn’t exhibiting signs of anger, or depression. He isn’t twitching like he does when he’s anxious, he doesn’t even seem to be guilt ridden, he just seems… bothered. You give him space, after what the two of you just did it’s entirely justifiable, natural even, to need space. You bury yourself in the blankets, staring at the ceiling for forever. 

Until he joins you, bringing you a water bottle that you happily accept. 

It’s hard to remember you’re thirsty when you’re dealing with a million other far more pressing matters. He lays down beside you, rolling over to stare at you, eventually you mirror him. So you’re both on your sides, face to face.

You don’t need to be a profiler to know something is eating him up inside. You’re about to ask, you’ll force it out of him if you have to. He beats you to it. Wetting his lips with his tongue and chewing the inside of his cheek before he speaks. 

“You’re… a really great actress.” He whispers into the darkness. You can see the crest fallen look on his face the second the words leave his mouth.

That’s it?

That’s what he took away from all of this? That’s why he’s sulking? That’s why he got all quiet and sullen and pouty before you had sex? Your eye twitches, you should just roll over and go to sleep instead your mouth opens before you can stop it. 

“You’re so stupid.” You can’t help yourself as you roll your eyes. 

“Excuse me?” He sounds genuinely offended but you just scoff.

“You heard me. For someone who’s so smart you really are an idiot.” You scowl at him. Is that the best he can do? Some self loathing about how you might have been acting? You’ve been carrying the guilt of having feelings for him, and enjoying parts of this and that’s the best he can do? “Genius Doctor Reid, you’re supposed to be the brightest mind in the whole bureau and you can’t even figure this out.” Staring at the dumbfounded look on his face all you can think about is how despite this all he’s still your Spencer, no matter how much he’s put through. 

He is still the guy who makes you coffee for every plane ride, the guy who has an extra shirt if you forgot to put your pajamas in your go bag, the guy who looks confused and asks Morgan what’s so funny when they tease you about your crush. 

Tell him.

Who cares, after everything you’ve been through in the last forty eight hours? The damage to your relationship is done, you lose nothing if this goes wrong. 

“You’re being unnecessarily cruel.” He looks so genuinely upset. You inch yourself closer to him. Until your noses are almost touching, your hand wanders across his face, tucking a stray curl behind his ear. 

“Everything that’s happened to us is unnecessarily cruel.” You mumble before closing the distance between the two of you, crashing your lips into his.

Michael Jackson was very, very stupid.

When you showed him your outfit for tonight, he nearly had a panic attack. You looked edible, and you were all his. He got so giddy at the thought of it.

You wore a long, mesh-like, black dress with gold accents and a plunging back, accompanied by red lace detail settled on your tailbone. It matched his extravagant jacket perfectly. Your smooth skin peeked out from the material in all the right places, and your legs looked magnificent. You wore a pair of gold red bottoms to accentuate the look, knowing Michael loved it when you wore high heels.

He had absolutely no complaints, other than one; he wanted to take the dress off of you as soon as you got it on.

“C’mon, we’re only 15 minutes from the venue. It won’t take us that long,” he complained.

“Michael, you cannot seriously be asking me for a quickie right now. You know how long it took me to get my hair and makeup done earlier. I don’t know what those ladies did to it, and I sure as hell don’t know how to recreate it either,” you said, giving your boyfriend an incredulous look.

“I know, I know. I’m sorry. You do look perfect though,” he complimented you, lifting your hand and giving it a tender kiss. “So glad you’re all mine.”

“All yours, baby,” you responded, loving the way his eyelashes fluttered at the nickname.

So yes, he was stupid. For some idiotic reason, he thought that because you were all his, that meant that you could only be seen by him.

Boy, was he dead wrong. The whole night, everyone’s eyes were on you. Because he’s stupid, he thought it was because of him, and it partially was- nobody knew who you were or why you were walking with him hand in hand, yet- but no. They were all looking at you hungrily. Looking at you the way he did. It made him sick. And the worst part? You didn’t even notice.

You looked that good and you didn’t even notice that basically everyone in attendance, man and woman, your age and older, was lusting over you.

You weren’t allowed to sit next to Michael the whole night, to your disappointment. He was getting honored with the biggest award, so he had a special table setup with all the works. The seating arrangement did, however, bless you in a way you didn’t expect. Your favorite hip hop duo, The Nebulas, had assigned seats next to yours, and it took everything in you to not fangirl over them.

During the second commercial break, one of the members reached over for your hand and shook it firmly.

“Hey there, pretty girl. I’m Marz, and this,” he gestured to his music mate, “is Mercury.”

“I know!” you answered, a little too fast, embarrassing yourself in the process.

“I mean, I’m a huge fan of y’all’s music,” you corrected, hoping your excitement didn’t ruin the moment.

“Oh, really?” Mercury questioned you.

“Yeah! You guys had one of my favorite albums this year. I love the experimental sound you have,” you said earnestly.

“Why, thank you. What brings you here all by yourself tonight?” asked Marz, a polite way of asking ‘Who are you?’

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” you say, dramatically sighing. The boys giggled.

“Nah for real, tell us.” Mercury leaned in in anticipation.

“Well, you know Michael Jackson is getting awarded ton-”

“Yo, Mike’s a legend! He deserves that award more than anyone!” Mercury interrupted, causing you to giggle.

“Yes, he is,” you said smiling to yourself.

“Our latest single actually samples Human Nature. He cleared the sample personally. Can you believe it?!” Marz asked, starting to sound like a fanboy. It was adorable.

“I know! I think it might actually be one of my favorites so far. It’s very beautiful,” you said, flashing a sincere smile at the both of them. An announcement over the speakers signaled that it was time for the venue to quiet down and hurry back to their seats.

“It was nice speaking to you,” you whispered to the duo.

“Likewise,” they said at the same time, Mercury blowing you a kiss, and Marz giving you a tap on the shoulder as the lights dimmed.

Michael was able to watch you from his seat. He felt terrible that for your first public event together, he couldn’t even hold you through the whole thing. Although he was grateful for the award, he would’ve given it up to Prince if it meant he could be with his baby the whole night. Especially after what he just saw.

Your favorite hip hop duo, The Nebulas, were flirting with you. He was so far that he couldn’t even hear what you were laughing at, let alone say anything to interrupt, and it made him seethe. Michael never got angry, never jealous, but tonight turned him into a whole different animal.

Every commercial break, they’d talk to you again, exchange knowing glances with each other when you weren’t looking, and it irritated him to no end. They even started getting comfortable touching you. Mercury pathetically reached over his friend’s lap to brush nothing off of your hair, just a desperate attempt to touch you. He was so frustrated, he could barely pay attention whenever someone would come up and congratulate him on the award he was winning tonight. An uncharacteristically green part of him wanted to march down from his table and pick you up from your seat, showing off just exactly who you belonged to.

He was getting more and more tempted to when one of the guys- Pluto, was it?- openly ogled your tits as you leaned down to fix one of the straps on your heels. He nudged his little friend and raised his eyebrows suggestively. When you fully sat up, the Pluto guy whispered something into your ear, and sneakily grabbed onto your waist when you started laughing hysterically. What the hell could be so funny that you didn’t even feel his heavy hand on your body?

It was time for Michael to be presented with Artist of the Decade, and you prepared your throat for the loudest scream you could muster. You tried searching for his face in the crowd, realizing he must’ve been dragged backstage during the last commercial break. Marz whispered, “Oh my God, it’s Michael Jackson time!” into your ears, to which you responded with an excited “I know!”

As soon as they announced his name, you stood up and hollered at the top of your lungs, the rest of the crowd following suit. He looked so unreal. The way the stage lights shone on his perfect features was enough to make your mouth water.

He began thanking his record company for having faith in his visions, his family for supporting him and he gave a beautiful speech dedicated to all the children in the world that inspired him. His humbleness made your heart melt. He ended off the monologue with a special shootout- to you. He called your name and pointed you out in the crowd, blowing you a bashful kiss.

“And to the beautiful lady in my life, to whom I owe everything. Thank you for being my muse and my girl. I can’t wait to celebrate with you tonight,” he added with an attempt at a wink. “I love you so much!”

You screamed out a muffled “I love you, baby!” and the crowd erupted in cheers.

The rest of the ceremony was spent in silence, to your surprise. You’d wondered if you did something to annoy your favorite artists, and got embarrassed by the idea.

Michael made his way to you before the lights even fully dimmed, looking restless. He gripped onto your waist needily.

“Come on, baby. Bill’s outside,” he said, before you could even properly greet or congratulate him.

“Oh, Michael! Congratulations!” you exclaim to him, planting a kiss on his cheek. Your mauve-colored lipstick leaving a stain.

“E-excuse me, sir?” Pluto Marz interrupted. “I’m Marz, and this is Mercury. We met over the phone once with our manager. You gave us permission to sample Human Nature in our most recent single! We just wanted to say thank you so much for that. The song is receiving insane reviews, and it’s all thanks to you!”

“Yeah, it’s a huge honor! You’re our biggest inspiration!” Neptune Mercury added, clumsily.

“I appreciate the compliments! If you don’t mind, me and my lady have an event to attend. Congratulations on the success with your new project!” Michael responded politely and smoothly. Too smoothly. Something was up. He gripped onto your waist even tighter when the boys came up to hug you goodbye. He loudly cleared his throat when one of them hugged you a bit too long for his liking, flashed him a glare, and then quickly composed himself with a sweet smile when he realized what he was doing.

You were driving him crazy. When you walked out of the venue, he stopped in front of your limo and kissed you hungrily, knowing the cameras would capture it all on film. You pulled back, flustered.

“Mikey, there’s so many people and cameras here,” you whispered into his ear with an exasperated giggle.

“Let ‘em watch,” he said lunging back for your lips.

“Come on, Mike! We gon’ be late if you keep that up!” Bill called from the driver’s seat.

The two of you flashed the paps brilliant smiles and ducked into the vehicle, your stomach twisting with the excitement of the evening. You couldn’t believe the beautiful words Michael dedicated to you in his speech, or the fact that you met your favorite artists.

You wouldn’t stop talking about them.

“Oh, and Michael! Marz said that he wanted me in their next video! Can you believe it? He said I reminded him of an old hollywood film actress and said I just had to get in contact with them! He gave me his number and everything!” you squeeled excitedly, flashing him the napkin he’d scribbled his contact info on.

“And you took it?” Michael asked flatly.

“Of course, silly,” you responded lightheartedly, not catching on to his attitude. “How else would I have been able to call them? It’s not like I’d just be able to find them in the phone book,” you say with a giggle at the idea.

“Coulda asked me,” he said with a shrug.

“Hmm, yeah. I guess I hadn’t thought of that,” you said with a nod. “Still, they were hilarious the whole night. Saved me from being bored all by myself.” You shuffled closer to his side, trying to build some tension. He looked scrumptious tonight, and you needed a taste.

“Yeah, seems like they entertained you more than I could’ve,” he added with a concealed roll of his eyes.

“Not even. I missed you so mu-”

“We’re pulling up to the party,” Michael interrupted, shrugging you off of his shoulder. You felt rejected, and you didn’t even know why. Did you smell? Did you embarrass him with all your screaming? You decided to shrug it off and pocket it for later, when you got home.

The entire party overstimulated you. You wanted to go home before you even stepped in, Michael’s dryness with you wavered your confidence. What the hell did you do wrong? It made you uneasy. You decided it was a good idea to down three flutes of champagne, ignoring the celebrities watching you. Seriously, did you have a ‘Kick Me!’ sign on your back?

As you and Michael made your way through the party- you awkwardly clinging onto him while he possessively hugged your hips- you were met with loads of familiar faces. All of them were A-listers you’ve seen on TV or plastered on the covers of magazines. You felt totally out of place.

The alcohol was making you hot, and you excused yourself to the restroom from Michael and the two pretty models he was talking to. He offered to go with you, but you made him stay, feeling like a burden already.

“I’ll be back in a sec, yeah? Just need to freshen up a bit,” you assured him with a wavering smile.

“Okay, we’ll be right here,” Michael responded evenly.

What the hell is on his mind? You wondered to yourself.

You were almost back to Michael, when you bumped into two familiar faces.

“Hey, you!” Mercury said excitedly, giving you a very friendly hug.

“How’s your night goin’?” Marz asked, giving you a chaste kiss on the cheek.

“Pretty crazy! I’ve never been to anything this…exciting before!” you respond with slightly forced enthusiasm. As much as you were excited to see some friendly faces, all you wanted to do was get home with your pretty boyfriend and give him a proper congratulations on his award.

“Yeah, these things can get pretty hectic, but I bet it helps to see some familiar faces,” Mercury quipped with a cheesy smile.

“Yeah! Plus, I bet it must be so hard having to fight everyone offa you. You look incredible, by the way,” Marz slurred into your ear over the music.

“Oh, stop it!” you responded bashfully, still shy. You gave him a playful push to his shoulder.

“I actually do all the fighting for her, but thanks for the compliment.”

You turned to your left and saw your boyfriend hovering next to you, not realizing he’d made his way over there through all the chaos.

“Let’s go,” Michael said into your ear, not caring if he came off as rude. He gave a quick wave to the boys and led you out of the party, rushing his way through goodbyes and congratulations.

“Mike, slow down,” you yelled at him, nearly tumbling over your own feet.

“We’re almost to the car,” he responded dryly. He was fuming. How could you just let those two idiots flirt so openly with you? Did they not think you were serious about your own boyfriend? Were you giving them hints?

He opened the limo door for you, and slid in quickly behind.

“Bill, take us home, please. ‘N turn on the radio and slide up partition, will you?” Michael asked.

“No problem. ETA is 11 minutes,” Bill responded.

“Perfect, thank you.” Michael sunk to his knees in the spacious limousine as soon as the partition started rolling up, not caring if Bill saw or heard anymore.

Without a word, he started kissing up your thigh, immediately following them with slight nips of his teeth.

“M-michael, we don’t have time…” you started, already losing yourself in the pleasure. You realized you missed him all night. You didn’t have any alone time together.

“You had time for them all night,” he snapped suddenly. The stern tone in his voice was so surprising, you almost thought he was joking.

“Excuse me?” you questioned him.

“You heard me. I mean, I barely even had ya to myself tonight. You even somehow found your way to them after your little trip to the bathroom. Am I that boring?” he said sharply. You could smell the alcohol on his breath.

“Michael, you’re being ridicul-”

“Am I? I saw the way they were lookin’ at you. The way they grabbed at you.” He palmed at your tits. “The way they drooled at these.” He looked up at your face. “You’re mine. You could’ve expressed that a lil’ more tonight,” he said accusatorily.

Who the hell did he think he was talking to?

“Michael, are you jealous?” you asked him, his behavior finally dawning on you. Was he seriously that worried about those two guys? They’re younger than you, totally not your type, and most of all, they’re not Michael. You started giggling.

“This is funny to you?” Michael asked, offended. He leaned back onto the balls of his feet, almost falling backward when Bill made a sharp turn.

“Hilarious, actually.” You started full on laughing. “Mike! Why would you think I’d seriously be entertaining any advances when you’re my boyfriend? I might always find it unbelievable that I’m with you, but that doesn’t mean I’m stupid enough to take you for granted, ever. I love you and only you. Plus, they were just being nice!” you say, exhausted.

“Nice? Ha! They were practically ready to ask you for a threesome at the award venue before I came up,” he almost screeched. “But it’s okay. I’ll just show you who you belong to.”

He resumed his oral travel up your thighs, pausing right next to your core. He took his middle finger and started rubbing a harsh, slow circle on your clit through your lacy panties, staring up at you to gauge your reaction. You immediately let out a needy whine, to his satisfaction.

“Exactly,” he said, almost to himself.

His possessiveness was turning you on…a lot. You’d never seen him like this, and an evil part of yourself wanted to make him beg for you. You pushed his hand away and closed your thighs together.

“We’re almost home,” you said flatly. Now it was Michael’s turn to be uneasy. He pouted up at you just like you wanted him to.

As the car eased into the driveway, you felt Michael repeatedly try to touch you, to no avail. You weren’t letting him win tonight. The car drove to a stop, and Bill helped you out first. You gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, making sure Michael saw the whole thing.

“Have nice night, Bill,” you said, privately handing him the napkin Marz gave you earlier, and discreetly asking him to get rid of it for you. You had a hurried tone laced into your voice. You could see Michael squirm.

“Y-yeah, you too. Y’all have a good night now.” He gave Michael a quick hug and dove into the driver’s seat, ready to get away from whatever the hell was going on in front of him. You grabbed Michael by the belt loop and rushed inside of the expansive front door.

“What was that?” Michael asked you, jealousy creeping back into his demeanor.

You ignored him and rushed the up the stairs, ignoring the ache in your feet. You grabbed onto his hand and dragged him with you.

Once you made it inside your shared room, you removed your heels with ease, grabbed the clothes you left on the bed this morning, and hurried into the restroom, ignoring Michael’s calls from behind you. You wasted no time in the shower, scrubbing every surface of your body like it was covered in acid. You were buzzing with excitement because no matter how pissed you were at him for being such a brat all night, you were excited to see this new side of Michael.

“Michael, come join me!” you called from inside, hoping he heard you.

He rushed in immediately, and you realized he must’ve been standing right outside the door. You smiled to yourself at the image.

He was already naked. Perfect.

He opened the glass door and stepped in behind you, and you moved towards the door, letting the warm water hit his lanky body.

“Don’t be too long,” you said to your boyfriend, giving him a sloppy kiss on his lips, and walked out.

He watched you dry up and put on his favorite lingerie set as he struggled to pay attention to his task at hand.

You walked out of the restroom hastily, and shut the door behind you.

After a few more minutes, he rinsed off, dried up, and stepped into the bedroom in nothing but his towel around his waist.

He could’ve cum at the sight of you. You were laid on your stomach on the bed, clad in your red, lacy lingerie that hugged every curve of your body just right. Your back was arched slightly, giving him a beautiful view of your heart-shaped ass, and you were sipping water out of a glass, letting it dribble down your neck and onto the swell of your tits. A total vision.

“Hi,” you said seductively, getting up on your knees and setting the glass down on your bedside table.

“H-hi,” Michael said awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. He didn’t know what to do with himself. He could feel his dick throb more and more each second he looked at you.

“You gonna keep starin’ at me, or you gonna come touch me?” you ask him in that smooth tone he loves oh so much.

He walked over to you quickly, leaning over the edge of the bed to kiss you. You took his lips into your mouth and sucked harshly, sighing at the contact. He took that millisecond of your lips parting to stick his tongue inside them, the wet muscle glided against yours with ease. You lunged closer to his body, craving the contact more than your lungs were currently craving air. He slipped his large hands onto your waist, groping aggressively.

“Can I take this off?” he asks against your lips, referring to your bra that left nothing to the imagination.

“Go ‘head, baby. It’s all for you anyway,” you nearly moan into his mouth.

“T-thank you.” He reached behind your back and expertly undid the clasp with one hand. God, you need him.

He walked backwards, keeping his hands on your hips and your lips on his, guiding you to the edge of the bed. He spread your legs and stood between them, lowering his hand to give your ass a needy squeeze, before going to his knees. He looked into your eyes.

“M gonna do you so good that you forget any other artist exists but me.” He takes one of your tits into his mouth, maintaining eye contact, and slurps onto your nipple greedily.

“M-michael!” you exclaimed. He popped off of your breast.

“That’s right. Only me.” He reattached immediately.

Your back arched and your eyes rolled back at his words. This is the sexiest thing he’s ever done, you thought to yourself. He began scratching up your thighs, looking at the faint marks he left behind. You squeezed his body between them, your body overly sensitive to everything he was giving you. He moved to your other nipple, giving it the same amount of attention as your other. Your brain felt fuzzy, and your core dripped for him hungrily.

He detached from your tit again, and kissed down your torso, leaving drool all over. He stopped right at your hip bone and gave it a dark lovebite, leaving you a moaning mess at the painful pleasure.

“N I’m the only one who can mark you like this, right ma?” he asked, looking you deep in the eyes.

“Mhm, yes! Only you, Mikey,” you moaned out.

He gripped onto the hem of your panties, ready to pull them down, and then noticed how they stuck to your pussy.

“And you’re wet like this ‘cause of me?” he asked sincerely.

“All because of you, baby,” you moaned. The neediness in his actions was seeping out and you felt like you could orgasm right then and there.

He kissed you right on your sweet spot and looked back up at you.

“Can I please take these off as well?” he asked hungrily.

“Mhm, and hand ‘em to me when they’re off,” you instructed, looking down at the confused expression on his face. You had a sneaky little plan on the back of your mind.

He handed them to you and you balled them up and sat them next to you for later.

“Continue,” you ordered, growing impatient at the tension.

“M sorry. Yes, ma’am.” He immediately dove into your seeping core and his mouth watered at the taste of you.

“F-fuck, you’re doing so good M-Mike. Never been done like this before,” you praised him, a part of you feeling bad at the insecurity that took over him today. He groaned into your mouth, and teased your entrance with his long middle finger. You pushed your core around it impatiently and moaned heartily at the intrusion, your walls fluttering against it.

Michael removed his mouth from your clit.

“I’m the only one who listens to you like this, right?” he asked with anticipation, your juices dripping down his chin.

“Fuckkkkk yes, Mike. You’re such an angel f’me.”

“Your only angel?” he clarified.

“My o-only angel,” you reassured.

“Okay,” he said with a smile, and resumed devouring your pussy like eating you out was his lifeline.

“F-fuck Michael, faster! I’m gonna c-cum,” you warned.

He sped up immediately, selfishly wanting to get you to your climax so he could drink up every drop of your nectar.

With one particularly lewd curl of his fingers and thirsty slurp of his tongue on your clit, you fell back onto the bed and your body went rigid. You let out a scream you were sure the whole city could hear.

“Michael, F-FUCK! I’M CU-MMING!” you hollered, grinding out your orgasm onto his nose, and gripping onto his hair for support.

He didn’t let up one bit, drinking up every drop of your cum whilst whimpering into your mouth at the grip your fingers had in his hair.

“T-too much, get up,” you instructed him, feeling your clit burn with over sensitivity.

He sat up on his knees and licked his lips greedily, already missing your taste.

You sat up as well, still hungry for his touch.

“C’mere. Wanna kiss you.” You beckoned him toward your naked body. He followed your command like second nature, and your lips connected like magnets. You moaned at the hunger evident in his ministrations, your pussy clenching around nothing.

“Was I good?” he asked between lip bites.

“You were perfect. You are perfect,” you amended.

“Thank you,” he replied gratefully.

“I still have yet to congratulate you properly on your award tonight, baby. It was a big deal,” you said, your plan at the forefront of your mind.

“S’ nothin’,” he responded humbly, entirely too focused on your plump lips in between his teeth.

“Michael, you won the biggest award of the decade! I’d say that deserves a proper celebration.” You backed away from his mouth, leaving him dumbfounded.

“Stand up,” you directed him. He did so immediately.

You undid the now loose towel around his waist, freeing his hungry dick from its cage.

He gulped loudly, his adam’s apple bobbing cartoonishly.

You stood up as well.

“Go lay on the pillows at the head of the bed.”

“Y-you don’t have t-”

“Do as I say,” you interrupted his protest.

He bowed his head quickly and did just as you said.

You sneakily grabbed your balled up panties and crawled up his frame on the bed, leaving a trail of your heat in your wake.

“Open your mouth,” you told him, thumb jutting his bottom lip down. He obeyed, intrigued.

You stuffed your panties in and he moaned immediately, his taste buds registering the flavor of your cum immediately.

“Taste that? Nod if you understand,” you demanded.

He nodded.

“I only get wet like that for you. Nobody else.”

You grab one of his big hands, using his fingertips to touch your erect nipples.

“And you feel those?” you asked.

He nodded eagerly.

“They only get that perky for you, Mikey.”

He started to drool, and his erection twitched right against your stomach.

You slid down his body once again, and propped yourself up on your knees. Then, you grabbed his throbbing dick with both your hands, and took the whole thing into your mouth, relaxing your throat so his tip could hit the back. You maintained eye contact with him, and you were glad you did. He groaned thickly against the fabric stuffed into his mouth, his eyes watered with pleasure, and his back launched off the bed.

You took one of your hands and messaged what couldn’t fit into your small mouth, moaning graphically against his length. He was fully sobbing above you. You bobbed your head up and down slowly a few more times, and came off of his dick with a theatrical pop. You wiped his precum off the side of your mouth with your thumb and sucked it clean greedily.

“And nobody,” you began, “absolutely no one else will ever get me on my knees like that. Understand?

He lifted his torso up and rested on his elbows weakly, nodding eagerly and moaning out through the lace in his mouth.

You straddled his waist again, prepared for your big finish.

You grabbed his dick and slid it up and down your slit, covering it up in your already returned arousal. You teased it against your entrance and reached up to Michael’s face, caressing his cheek and wiping away his tears with your thumb.

“I’m yours and you’re mine. All mine. Got it?”

He mumbled out a string of acknowledgments, and then you took him deep inside you, your body shaking at the strain.

His mouth went limp and the panties fell from his lips, slightly, unmuzzling his sounds.

“A-AHHH!” he hollered as you began bouncing, your tits dangling above his face.

His hand flew to your waist and he spat the rest of your underwear out of his mouth.

“C-can I, GOD. Can I please grope you?” he begged.

“Mmmfuck, Mikey. Of course you can,” you obliged. You leaned closer to him, your breasts grazing his chest with every bounce.

He lifted you up and down by your waist, helping the blissful rhythm of your bodies continue their dance of pleasure.

“C-can’t believe you’re mine. T-thank you,” he sniffled, the pleasure in his stomach building up fast.

“Thank you,” you replied. “M already so close Michael. You’re fucking me so good.” You reached down to your clit and rubbed desperately, wanting to come undone around his dick.

His dick jumped at the visual.

“Me too,” he said, embarrassed. His brain was going hazy and the sight before him was adding so much to the pressure held within his abdomen.

You removed your fingers from your clit and stuffed them into his mouth.

He sucked obediently and whimpered at the taste, coming to realize he’d rather taste this over any other flavor on planet earth.

You retracted your hand and leaned down to his ear.

“I’m gonna make a mess all over your lap baby. Y-you ready?”

“Yesss, please! Please c-cum on me!”

He gathered all the strength he had and slammed you onto his dick even harder, overly excited for your release.

Then, your eyes rolled back, and your walls constricted around him aggressively, triggering his own orgasm in time with yours. You both let out the most pornagraphic moans known to mankind, holding onto each other’s bodies for grounding.

“F-It’s…S-So….!” he screamed out incoherently, brain not capable of forming a proper thought.

All you could do was whine out his name over and over until your body went limp on top of him.

You laid connected for a bit, still clawing at each other and catching your breath, trying to let your brains readjust to reality.

You lifted your face off of the crook of his neck, wiping the drool leaking from the corner of your mouth.

“And nobody could ever fuck me like that,” you said to Michael with a tired smile, wiping his hair off of his sweaty forehead.

“N-not even those-” he began.

“ESPECIALLY not them,” you interrupted. “I’m completely and truly devoted to you and only you. You own me Michael. Mind, body, and soul. Congratulations, baby. My superstar.”

It wasn’t even noticeable at first. Well, not really, until you connected every small instance like one huge puzzle. A particularly suggestive flutter of his eyelashes, a nearly crimson blush on his cheeks whenever you praised him for anything. Then, there was that one time when you called yourself ‘mommy’ as a joke.

You’d just arrived home from your 4-month anniversary dinner date. Your feet were aching; clad in a pair of deep red 8-inch pumps that Michael practically begged you to wear. “I think it’s sexy that you’re taller than me in those heels. Your legs look extra long and beautiful. Please m-, baby? Please, wear them.” That just about undid you.

You’d started regretting letting him sway you like that, though, because you swore that with every step, you could feel a new callous forming on your pinky toe.

“Come help mommy take these things off, baby.” It was said so casually, because it was. Yet, his reaction had you thinking you’d said something offensive. He’d just finished taking off his own loafers, one knee on the floor. He nearly toppled all the way over, and he looked up at you with this almost pained expression. You could’ve sworn you saw tears welling up in his eyes.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound so direct. It’s probably the wine…I’ll take them off mys–” He’d waved off your thought with his left hand, cleared his throat, and mumbled something along the lines of “…seriously driving me insane” under his breath, but it sounded lighthearted enough for you not to question him further. The two of you had your best sex yet that night.

Last week, though? It got to a point where Michael damn near made you lose your mind. You put on a pair of jeans that were slightly too long, and you didn’t have time to get them hemmed, so you asked your boyfriend to cuff the bottoms for you, playfully pretending to press your stiletto onto his chest while he knelt down.

“Yes ma’am,” he responded earnestly. He looked up at you while he said it, eyes glazed over with sparkles and something else you couldn’t quite place. There was a faint, crooked smile playing on his lips. One that read: I’m right where I want to be. He clasped his hands behind his back and bowed his head like he was in the presence of royalty, then continued on with the task.

Really, it was a very quick exchange. Almost even casual; you just so happened to remember every aspect of it because it ruined you and your panties for the next two days.

That’s what’d been on your mind all afternoon. The two of you decided to spend your 6-month anniversary at a beachfront resort. Michael rented the whole thing out nearly two months in advance, your display of subtle dominance on your 4-month anniversary influencing the idea. He had a plan, and all he needed to do was gather up the confidence to act upon it.

You two took a series of photos on the digital camera he gifted you, involving various activities; a photo of you eating the breakfast he cooked the two of you in your suite’s kitchen, one of him almost missing his step on the jetski he was gonna race you on…One of you towering above him as he adjusted the delicate golden anklet he gave you the day prior, the cursive M glinting in the sunlight. He coughed hysterically to cover up the sound of its shudder, internally chastising himself for forgetting to turn off the sound in its settings.

When you two got home, he seemed overly eager about the evening, his attitude rubbing off on you. The both of you were a giggling mess, and you were completely sober. Just high off of the presence of the other.

The two of you had dinner reservations at 6:30pm, so you decided to shower together to ‘save water’ and time. Michael basically did the showering for the both of you though, making sure to do every step like you would. You’ve showered together enough for him to know your whole routine, and it made your heart swell with warmth, and your thighs unnoticeably squeeze together with want. He even rinsed and dried the both of you, making sure you didn’t lift your pretty fingers to do anything but grip onto his shoulders for balance.

It made you insatiable.

While you put on the finishing touches of your makeup, Michael approached you with a pleading look settled onto his face.

“Does this shirt look weird untucked? Should I button it up some more?”

You turned around, your unset makeup almost plastering onto his black button up. He looked delicious. Your mouth actually got watery at the sight right in front of you. You gulped down your lust, and met his eyes.

“Michael, you look beautiful. Leave it untucked and unbuttoned just like that. Wow.”

He ducked his head slightly, a faint blush crawling up his neck, as he let out a nervous chuckle. For a man so gorgeous, you’d think he’d be used to compliments from his own girlfriend by now.

“Y-you sure? Tonight’s important. I wanna look like we belong together. Like I belong with you.”

It took everything in you not to ruin your dinner plans and prove it to him right there, your hands fighting the urge to push him onto the bed and show him just how pretty you thought he was.

You cleared your throat and answered with a joking, “Michael, I’d swear you have a praise kink or something, because there’s no way you don’t see just how tasty you look right now.”

You turned back to the mirror, powdering up your face and putting on the remainder of your lip combo.

You didn’t notice just how badly Michael was holding it together from that point forward.

The two of you played the rest of the night cool, though. Nothing out of the ordinary, save for Michael fighting off his neediness when you ordered for him because you noticed him get shy, and when you wiped enchilada sauce off of his face, calling him your ‘clumsy baby.’ Or, the instance where you almost dragged him to the bathroom when you asked if he wanted dessert, and looked at you all lovesick with a, “Yes, please.”

He aggressively adjusted his black jeans, not so subtly, after you told him to pick up the napkin he (purposely) dropped. He felt like he was drunk. His nerves and his body were on fire. He started to down the bottle of wine he purchased for the two of you, for liquid courage. You quickly followed suit. It did nothing to help either of your states.

On the walk back to your suite, Michael’s demeanor nearly killed your buzz. He looked terrified.

“Mikey, baby. What’s wrong?” you asked, stepping in front of him and tilting his head up by his chin so he’d look you in your eyes. The heels you wore had you standing taller than him, and, unbeknownst to you, that only made it worse.

“It’s nothin, baby.” he responded, but his voice wasn’t matching his actions.

“Michael, come on, it’s me. What’s going o-”

“I said it’s nothin’,” he cut you off sharply. His voice was loud- too loud- and he wouldn’t look you in the eyes. He grabbed ahold of the hand that you had underneath his chin, and rushed the two of you the rest of the way to the hotel.

You were furious. Concerned by his terror-stricken face, mostly. But, his sharpness with you stirred something inside that you thought you’d buried, only fueled by the ache in your feet from nearly running in stilettos.

As you made it to your room, you pushed past his usually taller frame, and sat down onto the nearest plush chair, bending over to undo the straps of your pumps. You heard the door close with a click and looked up to see Michael rushing his way towards you, trying to stop you from removing them yourself. The two of you had your hands tangled in a mess; his fingers trying to gently push yours off, and yours almost aggressively shoving his.

“Enough, Michael.”

He gulped loudly, seeming almost embarrassed to look at you.

That was almost enough to ease the fire on your lips. Almost.

“Look at me while I’m speaking to you. What happened, and why are you acting so weird towards me?” Your voice quivered on the latter half of your question, insecurity starting to creep its way through your tone. Your cleared your throat and waited for him to speak.

He sighed visibly at the beginning of your monologue. The words affecting him in a way you couldn’t understand.

He continued removing your shoes as he answered, needing something to keep his eyes away from yours, due to the vulnerable truth behind his actions.

“I…” he cleared his throat. “I want you to control me.”

That was not what you were expecting. You waited, scared that you’d misinterpreted the intentions behind his words, hoping he’d expand on it further. By this point, both of your shoes were off, and he was still kneeling in front of your legs, both of his hands opting to massage on one of your aching feet. He still wasn’t looking at you.

“Mike…?” you asked. Your voice slightly deepened with a lust you were fighting so hard to control. You ran your fingers through his hair softly, eliciting a soft whine from his throat. You used the hand in his hair to gently guide his face up to yours. He obeyed your silent command as soon as you slightly tugged, actions already proving that he meant what you thought he did. Your stomach did a flip. The alcohol in your system was making you extremely sensitive to your emotions, everything heightened. Apparently, Michael was going through the same.

“I-I mean. Well look at you…Your legs are so long, ‘n you take care of me so good. You’re so good at telling people what to do and I always wish it was me on the other end of that. I- I think about you doing things to me. Things that I can’t control. I sometimes try ‘n push your buttons just so you can finally snap at me, but you’re so patient, even though your energy is kinda scary, and that somehow drives me even crazier.” The alcohol had him saying quite literally every word that came into his brain. He’d managed to fully massage all the tension from your feet during the rambling. He gave them each a quick peck and set them down gently onto the plush carpet beneath you. Then he sat up on his knees, properly. Both of his hands were placed on his lap like he was preparing for prayer.

“Please, baby. I can’t take it anymore. I want you to use me and control me and take everything I have. I want you to be mean to me and I want you to punish me for being rude earlier. Put me in my place, please. Please, pleasepleaseplease. It’s embarrassing, but I really do want this.” He added the last part after he noticed you weren’t responding, embarrassment and alcohol settling into his bones. He started sniffling, his eyes rimming with tears.

You didn’t say a word. Silently, you stood up, gripping Michael by the collar, dragging his frame up with yours, and then crashed your lips into his. He whimpered loudly. The sound shred the last bit of sanity you had left. The two of you tumbled through the doors that led to your room, his socks being kicked off and your shawl strewn onto the floor on the way there.

You turned him around and shoved him onto the bed forcefully. Michael looked up at you like you held the universe up just for him. Your hands made their way to his shirt first. The opened buttons were driving you crazy all day. You started unbuttoning, but grew impatient, opting to just aggressively pull them apart instead, buttons popping off and flying onto the floor in the act.

Michael was a whimpering mess beneath you, and you hadn’t even touched him properly. His hands were at his sides and his body was rigid. He hadn’t even tried touching you.

“Mikey, baby. You know you can touch me, right?”

“I just wanted your permission first ma- ahem. Baby.”

“What was that?” you questioned, catching his slip-up.

“Nothin’,” Mike said, clearly embarrassed. He tried kissing you after to cover it up, but the alcohol in your system made you not care. You pushed his torso back down onto the bed.

“Don’t lie to me, Michael. I can stop all this right now,” you said sternly.

“I..Uhm. It’s just.. sometimes I kinda wanna call you..mommy…?” He phrased it like a question.

That’s how you ended up the position the two of you were in right now. Him with his head propped up on the spare pillows he requested earlier, and your body propped up on his face, straddling it. Michael was going dumb beneath you, fully letting your core and the alcohol in his veins consume him.

“Mmm, Mikey. I didn’t know you had this in you,” you say with surprise laced into your voice. And it’s true. The two of you had sex a few times, but he usually seemed okay with taking over for you. Only now did you realize that it was more of him servicing you than taking control.

“I’ve always had it in me, m- ah baby,” he says, slightly pushing his head further into the pillow so he can speak.

You grab one of his nipples and pinch it harshly.

“Did I say you could stop? Don’t think I forgot about your little attitude earlier.”

That only turns him on further though, his hips jutting into the air immediately at the rough contact.

“N-no. I’m sor- ah- sorry baby. You’re right. I’ve been s-so bad,” his voice melting into a needy whine on the last word.

“Yeah, so bad. I- mmm- s-should teach you a lesson, shouldn’t I?”

“P-please. Please do whatever you want to me. I’ll make it up to y…ou, mmm.”

In one swift movement, you climb off of his face, and settle your soaking core onto his bare chest. You take your right hand and place it onto his neck with no pressure- yet.

“How sorry are you?” you question, his fucked out face only fueling your actions.

“Really sorry. Sorrier than I can even put into words,” he jumbled out. Not good enough. You give him a slight slap on the face, and then grip onto his neck with more fervor. He moans like it’s his first time being touched sexually.

“That’s it? You’re sooo sorry you can’t even say it?” you scoff at him, playing up your anger just to see him fold beneath your grasp. You begin grinding down hard onto his chest, reveling in this.

“N-no! I mean, yes, b-but, fuck keep using me like that please. I just, I have to show you. Let me show you?” he says, still trying to work your pussy between each word.

“Hmm, go ahead then,” you respond almost immediately, intrigued by his request.

He tenderly grabs onto your thighs and lifts your body up off of his chest, and places you next to him, sliding from the bed in the same movement. Then, he eagerly walks to the foot of the bed and sinks onto his knees, beckoning you toward him with two of his fingers, his twinkling eyes never leaving yours.

“Join me, please?” he asks, voice laced with desire.

You seductively crawl toward him, his body looking meek in this position. You can feel your core drip more at the sight of him. He uncrosses your legs for you, making sure to do all of the work. He’s gonna prove to you just how sorry he is for not being a good boy.

He takes one of your legs and starts to press hot, open-mouthed kisses to every inch of it; from the tips of your toes, to the backs of your knees. His eyes never leave yours. He’s waiting for some sign of approval, a praise, anything that tells him he’s making up for it, but you sit there in shock, staring at the submissive man beneath you. You’re almost too scared to move, afraid that any action or sound will break the spell.

Then he starts to speak. “You’re so beautiful. Your body’s like a painting that only Michelangelo himself could’ve imagined. How could I have been so stupid? You deserve everything. I’m gonna give you everything,” he says between kisses.

“This?” he says, kissing your inner thigh, “I don’t even deserve it. I’m lucky to be able to touch you like this. Lucky ta even see you like this.”

He grabs onto your hips, and looks up at you, pleading.

“M gonna make you feel so good. I promise.”

Michael kisses up the soft skin of your stomach, making sure to save what’s beneath it for last. Then, he makes it to your breasts, and drool dribbles out of his mouth as he speaks.

“I don’t even deserve these,” he says, almost to himself with a sigh. He peppers kisses to the undersides of them, teasing his way up to your erect nipples. Then, he takes one into his mouth, suckling like a man starved. You nearly scream from pleasure at the contact, causing Michael to look up with worry, only for him to see your blissed expression. He grabs your other nipple and rolls it between his fingers, still holding eye contact with you.

“F-fuck Michael, that’s it baby. Just like that.”

He switches his ministrations to your next nipple, replacing his mouth with his hand, and his hand with his mouth. He starts whimpering louder and louder with each gasp you take, your arousal fueling his tenfold. You feel high. You try clamping your legs together, but his lanky body is blocking you from doing so, eliciting a whine from your lips. He notices this. He notices everything. He removes the hand from your nipple and immediately starts rubbing languid, deep circles on your clit. You let out a loud moan straight from your diaphragm, internally thanking Michael for renting the whole resort out for the two of you.

Michael’s lips detach from your tit with a pop. “You like this?” he questions genuinely, wanting to be good for you.

“Mike- fuck- yes! L-love it! So good!” You can barely even think properly, your mind only focused on how his long fingers work your clit with ease.

“Mmm,” he responds, not fully satisfied with himself. He doesn’t want you to love it. He wants you to crave it.

He gets up and straddles your waist, fingers still slowly rubbing your clit, searching your neck for its sweet spot with his lips. When you buck your core into his hand at a particular area, he starts licking and biting on it, hungrily inhaling the perfume on your neck in the process.

“You-ngh. You smell so sweet. Did you wear my favorite perfume for me?” he asks, a wave of gratitude crashing onto him.

“Y-yes Mike. Come on- more. I need more. Give me more.” You’re desperate now. You have half a mind not to start fucking yourself on his fingers right there, but he’s one step ahead.

His fingers slide straight into your pussy, and your walls clenched around them immediately, not expecting the intrusion so suddenly. Your back arches up off the bed, lifting both of you in the process.

“M sorry. I’m gonna get you there baby. I promise.” Without another word, he carefully slides back down your frame, and starts suckling at your clit like he’s tasting ice cream for the first time ever, his fingers still curling and pumping in and out of you. Your eyes start to water.

“Ohhhh my- fuuuuuck. Mikeyyy, baby mmm. S-shit. I feel sososo good. So good. You’re so good to me baby. My perfect- ah. My perfect angel. S-so pretty on your knees for me.” You smile at him weakly and squeeze his head in between your thighs forcefully, grinding yourself onto his mouth and nose. The dichotomy is giving him whiplash.

The praise that you give Michael is driving him halfway insane. He moans erotically into your squelching pussy, pumping his fingers into you faster and harsher, squeezing his thighs together for his own relief. The sight of you using him like this is making his brain go numb, the only thing on his mind is making up for his behavior earlier. Making sure you’re feeling good.

Your legs start to shake uncontrollably now, a telltale sign of your orgasm approaching.

This fuels Michael further.

“Please cum on my face. I wanna taste it, ma.”

You almost do it on the spot, but you have other plans. You lightly kick his face from between your legs and his mouth detaches from your pussy loudly. He looks at you confused, his face glistening with your arousal.

“I’m sorry. Did I do something wro-” You interrupt him by slamming your lips onto his, the force of it pushing his torso onto the floor. You moan at the taste of yourself on his mouth, your tongue searching for his in the process. You break the kiss and lean into his ear with a seductive whisper. “I want to fuck you, Michael.”

His entire body goes rigid and he gasps loudly. You palm him through his jeans, feeling his dick straining against the black fabric. He sucks in a sharp breath, wanting so desperately for more friction, while simultaneously wanting to show you he can be good.

“Ohhh, were you this hard all this time, baby?” you coo at him, loving how the condescending tone in your words feels.

“A-ah yes. I just wanted you to feel good,” he replies between choked breaths, seemingly trying not to pass out. He loves how dumb you’re making him feel.

“Aww my good boy, you did so well for me. I think it’s time for us to both feel good together, hmm?” you ask him, eager for his response. He looks so pretty like this, and his whimpers sound even prettier.

“O-only if that’s what you want. Ngh- everything’s your choice. Everything, everything,” he slurs out, already losing his grasp on reality due to the way you’re speaking to him and the way you rub hungrily against his clothed erection.

You unzip his jeans faster than he can even process and pulled them down off his legs along with his boxers, his leaking erection slapping against his abdomen harshly.

“Look at me,” you command him. He obeys without a second thought.

You take your pretty manicured hands and begin to jerk him off slowly, enjoying the way he tries not to grind up into your hands because he’s your good boy.

You speed up your actions faster, faster, faster, until you see Michael nearing his climax. He’s warning you over and over that he’s gonna cum, not wanting to before you do. Not after his behavior today. He didn’t deserve it, and you agree.

“Baby, pleeeeease, ‘m so close. Can’t do it. You have ta first. Iss too good ‘n i can’t hold it,” he whines, tears threatening to fall from his eyes. You kiss them away and go faster, ignoring his cries. The tears only turned you on further.

“F-FUCK! BABY I’M GONN-” You stop moving your hand entirely, and squeeze down on his dick hard.

“Wh-wha..” Michael trails off, not knowing how to speak anymore.

“Thank you,” he says, looking up at you with tear-filled eyes, chest heaving. He knew better than to complain- you touching him at all was enough.

You lean up to give him a quick kiss, before lining his dick up with your entrance and sinking down onto it. The stretch was enough to make your legs shake and almost make you fall over. You can’t take it all at once, opting to go slowly, grinding yourself against it in the meantime.

“Oh my GOD,” Michael cries out, propping himself up on his elbows so he can look at you. You look like an answered prayer.

“Mikey, you’re too big,” you whine out, drawling the last word out on purpose.

“I’m sor-ry,” he sincerely apologizes. It would’ve made you laugh if you weren’t so turned on by his facial expression. You sink the rest of the way down, too impatient to care about the burn. You grip onto his neck for support and start riding him slowly, your thighs burning with pain and pleasure. Michael moans at the feeling of your delicate fingers around his neck again and he loses his filter completely.

“Please choke me again. Hard. Control when I can breathe,” he begs you. You do just that and start bouncing against his length, the begging and whimpering from your boyfriend turning you on more than you’ve ever been.

His eyes start to roll back, and you loosen your grip so that he can gasp for air, his lungs greedily swallowing the oxygen creeping in. He starts rolling his hips up into yours to help, knowing riding isn’t easy for women. Always the gentleman, even when you’re fucking his brains out. He looks into your eyes, grabs your free hand and starts sucking on your fingers, muffling his moans with them from embarrassment. You don’t know whether to be angry that he won’t let you hear them, or turned on from the sight, so you grind and choke him harder.

His eyes fog over and he drools onto his chest, arching his back up to meet all of your grinds. You loosen your grip once again.

“Let me hear your pretty voice, baby,” you drawl at him, removing your fingers from his mouth and using them to play with your nipple. That basically does it for him.

“Baaaaaaby. Oh my god I-I can’t even think. You’re s-so good to me and- YEAH keep touching yourself like that please. You’re so beauti-f-ful. I’m never letting you go. You’re t-too perfect iss driving me crazy. Plea-” you choke him again- “Mmmfuck. Please cum on me. Please use my body to cum.”

“Then fuck me like you want it, Mike,” you order, dragging your fingers down from his neck, using your nails to scratch all the way down to his chest.

“Yes, ma’am.”

He flips you over and pins you beneath him, and begins thrusting into you the exact way he knows you like it, totally focusing on your pleasure.

“Michael! Baby fuckkkkkk, you…feel sooo good. Don’t stop!”

“I won’t, baby.” He presses a hand onto your stomach for comfort, but what he felt flipped a switch in him. He looked down and saw himself moving inside of your belly.

“Oh my god…” he gasped out, making you look at him with concern. “B-baby. I can see myself inside of you,” he says, genuinely surprised.

“It’s ‘cause you’re so big,” you say, pouting at him. “G-go ahead, baby. Fuck me until m’ cervix is shaped like your dick.” He groans at the filth in your words, doing just as you say. His body begins to shake with pleasure. He feels so good, too good. Like something only his imagination could come up with. He starts drooling again.

The sight above you is getting you so close to your release. You reach your hand down to your clit and started playing with it, making sure to tilt Michael’s face down to watch before you do so. You want to put on a show for him. It is your anniversary, after all.

“M gonna cum for you Mikey. ‘M gonna make a mess of that pretty dick of yours,” you say nastily. You can feel the knot in your stomach start to tighten more and more.

“Y-Yes! Please cum all over me. Please turn me into a mess,” he begs, and that did it. Your entire body locks up and your vision turns blurry.

“Michael FUCK!” you scream- genuinely scream- out in pleasure. You grip onto his shoulders with all the force you can muster, mumbling out praises of “You’re so pretty” and “Did so good” until your lips fall numb. He rides you through the whole thing, legs shaking and forehead dripping with sweat.

“C-can I please cum? It hurts…” You look at him with surprise, not realizing he was still going for you, and it almost does enough for you to want a round two.

“Oh, Michael. You’re so obedient. I didn’t realize you were still going, love. Cum inside me, baby. Fill me up.”

He whimpers and cums on command, his body stilling and his toes curling up in pleasure. His eyes roll so far back into his head that you can’t even see his irises anymore.

“Thank you, thank you, thank y- ahh, thank you. ‘M so so-ahhhgghh, so sorry. I’ll be good forever ‘m sorry my pretty girl.”

His sweaty body collapses onto yours, and you two lay there for a while, his dick still inside of you, fully softened up.

After at least ten minutes of this, Michael speaks.

“So…Can we do this again?” he asks hesitantly.

“Michael,” you start, “I don’t think I can ever go back. Do you know how sexy you are when you’re submissive?” Your thighs start to clench again at the thought of what you two got up to tonight.

“O-oh. Really? It wasn’t too much?” he asks shyly as he rolls off of your body.

“Really. You should’ve said something sooner, angel face. I prefer being dominant,” you reveal, although you’re sure it was obvious.

“I was just shy, is all. But you? I don’t think- no, I know I’ve never seen anything or anyone as sexy as you were tonight. I feel like I died from bliss and met God. Truly, you were heavenly. I didn’t want any of it to end.”

“It doesn’t have to…We still have a whole weekend to spend here,” you offer, wiggling your eyebrows playfully. He blushes a deep red.

“I’m gonna go get our stuff ready for a bath,” you say. “Tidy up the room for when we’re back, yeah?”

“I’ll do anything for you,” Michael says, clearly still pussy drunk. He grabs your hand before you head to the bathroom.

“I love you. I’m not just saying that because of what we did tonight, you know that. But I love you. Thank you for being the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I’ll cherish you for all of my days, and even afterwards, if I can.“ He gives you a brief, yet passionate kiss on the lips. “I’ll be as quick as possible. Happy anniversary, pretty girl.”

Michael Jackson was very, very stupid.

When you showed him your outfit for tonight, he nearly had a panic attack. You looked edible, and you were all his. He got so giddy at the thought of it.

You wore a long, mesh-like, black dress with gold accents and a plunging back, accompanied by red lace detail settled on your tailbone. It matched his extravagant jacket perfectly. Your smooth skin peeked out from the material in all the right places, and your legs looked magnificent. You wore a pair of gold red bottoms to accentuate the look, knowing Michael loved it when you wore high heels.

He had absolutely no complaints, other than one; he wanted to take the dress off of you as soon as you got it on.

“C’mon, we’re only 15 minutes from the venue. It won’t take us that long,” he complained.

“Michael, you cannot seriously be asking me for a quickie right now. You know how long it took me to get my hair and makeup done earlier. I don’t know what those ladies did to it, and I sure as hell don’t know how to recreate it either,” you said, giving your boyfriend an incredulous look.

“I know, I know. I’m sorry. You do look perfect though,” he complimented you, lifting your hand and giving it a tender kiss. “So glad you’re all mine.”

“All yours, baby,” you responded, loving the way his eyelashes fluttered at the nickname.

So yes, he was stupid. For some idiotic reason, he thought that because you were all his, that meant that you could only be seen by him.

Boy, was he dead wrong. The whole night, everyone’s eyes were on you. Because he’s stupid, he thought it was because of him, and it partially was- nobody knew who you were or why you were walking with him hand in hand, yet- but no. They were all looking at you hungrily. Looking at you the way he did. It made him sick. And the worst part? You didn’t even notice.

You looked that good and you didn’t even notice that basically everyone in attendance, man and woman, your age and older, was lusting over you.

You weren’t allowed to sit next to Michael the whole night, to your disappointment. He was getting honored with the biggest award, so he had a special table setup with all the works. The seating arrangement did, however, bless you in a way you didn’t expect. Your favorite hip hop duo, The Nebulas, had assigned seats next to yours, and it took everything in you to not fangirl over them.

During the second commercial break, one of the members reached over for your hand and shook it firmly.

“Hey there, pretty girl. I’m Marz, and this,” he gestured to his music mate, “is Mercury.”

“I know!” you answered, a little too fast, embarrassing yourself in the process.

“I mean, I’m a huge fan of y’all’s music,” you corrected, hoping your excitement didn’t ruin the moment.

“Oh, really?” Mercury questioned you.

“Yeah! You guys had one of my favorite albums this year. I love the experimental sound you have,” you said earnestly.

“Why, thank you. What brings you here all by yourself tonight?” asked Marz, a polite way of asking ‘Who are you?’

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” you say, dramatically sighing. The boys giggled.

“Nah for real, tell us.” Mercury leaned in in anticipation.

“Well, you know Michael Jackson is getting awarded ton-”

“Yo, Mike’s a legend! He deserves that award more than anyone!” Mercury interrupted, causing you to giggle.

“Yes, he is,” you said smiling to yourself.

“Our latest single actually samples Human Nature. He cleared the sample personally. Can you believe it?!” Marz asked, starting to sound like a fanboy. It was adorable.

“I know! I think it might actually be one of my favorites so far. It’s very beautiful,” you said, flashing a sincere smile at the both of them. An announcement over the speakers signaled that it was time for the venue to quiet down and hurry back to their seats.

“It was nice speaking to you,” you whispered to the duo.

“Likewise,” they said at the same time, Mercury blowing you a kiss, and Marz giving you a tap on the shoulder as the lights dimmed.

Michael was able to watch you from his seat. He felt terrible that for your first public event together, he couldn’t even hold you through the whole thing. Although he was grateful for the award, he would’ve given it up to Prince if it meant he could be with his baby the whole night. Especially after what he just saw.

Your favorite hip hop duo, The Nebulas, were flirting with you. He was so far that he couldn’t even hear what you were laughing at, let alone say anything to interrupt, and it made him seethe. Michael never got angry, never jealous, but tonight turned him into a whole different animal.

Every commercial break, they’d talk to you again, exchange knowing glances with each other when you weren’t looking, and it irritated him to no end. They even started getting comfortable touching you. Mercury pathetically reached over his friend’s lap to brush nothing off of your hair, just a desperate attempt to touch you. He was so frustrated, he could barely pay attention whenever someone would come up and congratulate him on the award he was winning tonight. An uncharacteristically green part of him wanted to march down from his table and pick you up from your seat, showing off just exactly who you belonged to.

He was getting more and more tempted to when one of the guys- Pluto, was it?- openly ogled your tits as you leaned down to fix one of the straps on your heels. He nudged his little friend and raised his eyebrows suggestively. When you fully sat up, the Pluto guy whispered something into your ear, and sneakily grabbed onto your waist when you started laughing hysterically. What the hell could be so funny that you didn’t even feel his heavy hand on your body?

It was time for Michael to be presented with Artist of the Decade, and you prepared your throat for the loudest scream you could muster. You tried searching for his face in the crowd, realizing he must’ve been dragged backstage during the last commercial break. Marz whispered, “Oh my God, it’s Michael Jackson time!” into your ears, to which you responded with an excited “I know!”

As soon as they announced his name, you stood up and hollered at the top of your lungs, the rest of the crowd following suit. He looked so unreal. The way the stage lights shone on his perfect features was enough to make your mouth water.

He began thanking his record company for having faith in his visions, his family for supporting him and he gave a beautiful speech dedicated to all the children in the world that inspired him. His humbleness made your heart melt. He ended off the monologue with a special shootout- to you. He called your name and pointed you out in the crowd, blowing you a bashful kiss.

“And to the beautiful lady in my life, to whom I owe everything. Thank you for being my muse and my girl. I can’t wait to celebrate with you tonight,” he added with an attempt at a wink. “I love you so much!”

You screamed out a muffled “I love you, baby!” and the crowd erupted in cheers.

The rest of the ceremony was spent in silence, to your surprise. You’d wondered if you did something to annoy your favorite artists, and got embarrassed by the idea.

Michael made his way to you before the lights even fully dimmed, looking restless. He gripped onto your waist needily.

“Come on, baby. Bill’s outside,” he said, before you could even properly greet or congratulate him.

“Oh, Michael! Congratulations!” you exclaim to him, planting a kiss on his cheek. Your mauve-colored lipstick leaving a stain.

“E-excuse me, sir?” Pluto Marz interrupted. “I’m Marz, and this is Mercury. We met over the phone once with our manager. You gave us permission to sample Human Nature in our most recent single! We just wanted to say thank you so much for that. The song is receiving insane reviews, and it’s all thanks to you!”

“Yeah, it’s a huge honor! You’re our biggest inspiration!” Neptune Mercury added, clumsily.

“I appreciate the compliments! If you don’t mind, me and my lady have an event to attend. Congratulations on the success with your new project!” Michael responded politely and smoothly. Too smoothly. Something was up. He gripped onto your waist even tighter when the boys came up to hug you goodbye. He loudly cleared his throat when one of them hugged you a bit too long for his liking, flashed him a glare, and then quickly composed himself with a sweet smile when he realized what he was doing.

You were driving him crazy. When you walked out of the venue, he stopped in front of your limo and kissed you hungrily, knowing the cameras would capture it all on film. You pulled back, flustered.

“Mikey, there’s so many people and cameras here,” you whispered into his ear with an exasperated giggle.

“Let ‘em watch,” he said lunging back for your lips.

“Come on, Mike! We gon’ be late if you keep that up!” Bill called from the driver’s seat.

The two of you flashed the paps brilliant smiles and ducked into the vehicle, your stomach twisting with the excitement of the evening. You couldn’t believe the beautiful words Michael dedicated to you in his speech, or the fact that you met your favorite artists.

You wouldn’t stop talking about them.

“Oh, and Michael! Marz said that he wanted me in their next video! Can you believe it? He said I reminded him of an old hollywood film actress and said I just had to get in contact with them! He gave me his number and everything!” you squeeled excitedly, flashing him the napkin he’d scribbled his contact info on.

“And you took it?” Michael asked flatly.

“Of course, silly,” you responded lightheartedly, not catching on to his attitude. “How else would I have been able to call them? It’s not like I’d just be able to find them in the phone book,” you say with a giggle at the idea.

“Coulda asked me,” he said with a shrug.

“Hmm, yeah. I guess I hadn’t thought of that,” you said with a nod. “Still, they were hilarious the whole night. Saved me from being bored all by myself.” You shuffled closer to his side, trying to build some tension. He looked scrumptious tonight, and you needed a taste.

“Yeah, seems like they entertained you more than I could’ve,” he added with a concealed roll of his eyes.

“Not even. I missed you so mu-”

“We’re pulling up to the party,” Michael interrupted, shrugging you off of his shoulder. You felt rejected, and you didn’t even know why. Did you smell? Did you embarrass him with all your screaming? You decided to shrug it off and pocket it for later, when you got home.

The entire party overstimulated you. You wanted to go home before you even stepped in, Michael’s dryness with you wavered your confidence. What the hell did you do wrong? It made you uneasy. You decided it was a good idea to down three flutes of champagne, ignoring the celebrities watching you. Seriously, did you have a ‘Kick Me!’ sign on your back?

As you and Michael made your way through the party- you awkwardly clinging onto him while he possessively hugged your hips- you were met with loads of familiar faces. All of them were A-listers you’ve seen on TV or plastered on the covers of magazines. You felt totally out of place.

The alcohol was making you hot, and you excused yourself to the restroom from Michael and the two pretty models he was talking to. He offered to go with you, but you made him stay, feeling like a burden already.

“I’ll be back in a sec, yeah? Just need to freshen up a bit,” you assured him with a wavering smile.

“Okay, we’ll be right here,” Michael responded evenly.

What the hell is on his mind? You wondered to yourself.

You were almost back to Michael, when you bumped into two familiar faces.

“Hey, you!” Mercury said excitedly, giving you a very friendly hug.

“How’s your night goin’?” Marz asked, giving you a chaste kiss on the cheek.

“Pretty crazy! I’ve never been to anything this…exciting before!” you respond with slightly forced enthusiasm. As much as you were excited to see some friendly faces, all you wanted to do was get home with your pretty boyfriend and give him a proper congratulations on his award.

“Yeah, these things can get pretty hectic, but I bet it helps to see some familiar faces,” Mercury quipped with a cheesy smile.

“Yeah! Plus, I bet it must be so hard having to fight everyone offa you. You look incredible, by the way,” Marz slurred into your ear over the music.

“Oh, stop it!” you responded bashfully, still shy. You gave him a playful push to his shoulder.

“I actually do all the fighting for her, but thanks for the compliment.”

You turned to your left and saw your boyfriend hovering next to you, not realizing he’d made his way over there through all the chaos.

“Let’s go,” Michael said into your ear, not caring if he came off as rude. He gave a quick wave to the boys and led you out of the party, rushing his way through goodbyes and congratulations.

“Mike, slow down,” you yelled at him, nearly tumbling over your own feet.

“We’re almost to the car,” he responded dryly. He was fuming. How could you just let those two idiots flirt so openly with you? Did they not think you were serious about your own boyfriend? Were you giving them hints?

He opened the limo door for you, and slid in quickly behind.

“Bill, take us home, please. ‘N turn on the radio and slide up partition, will you?” Michael asked.

“No problem. ETA is 11 minutes,” Bill responded.

“Perfect, thank you.” Michael sunk to his knees in the spacious limousine as soon as the partition started rolling up, not caring if Bill saw or heard anymore.

Without a word, he started kissing up your thigh, immediately following them with slight nips of his teeth.

“M-michael, we don’t have time…” you started, already losing yourself in the pleasure. You realized you missed him all night. You didn’t have any alone time together.

“You had time for them all night,” he snapped suddenly. The stern tone in his voice was so surprising, you almost thought he was joking.

“Excuse me?” you questioned him.

“You heard me. I mean, I barely even had ya to myself tonight. You even somehow found your way to them after your little trip to the bathroom. Am I that boring?” he said sharply. You could smell the alcohol on his breath.

“Michael, you’re being ridicul-”

“Am I? I saw the way they were lookin’ at you. The way they grabbed at you.” He palmed at your tits. “The way they drooled at these.” He looked up at your face. “You’re mine. You could’ve expressed that a lil’ more tonight,” he said accusatorily.

Who the hell did he think he was talking to?

“Michael, are you jealous?” you asked him, his behavior finally dawning on you. Was he seriously that worried about those two guys? They’re younger than you, totally not your type, and most of all, they’re not Michael. You started giggling.

“This is funny to you?” Michael asked, offended. He leaned back onto the balls of his feet, almost falling backward when Bill made a sharp turn.

“Hilarious, actually.” You started full on laughing. “Mike! Why would you think I’d seriously be entertaining any advances when you’re my boyfriend? I might always find it unbelievable that I’m with you, but that doesn’t mean I’m stupid enough to take you for granted, ever. I love you and only you. Plus, they were just being nice!” you say, exhausted.

“Nice? Ha! They were practically ready to ask you for a threesome at the award venue before I came up,” he almost screeched. “But it’s okay. I’ll just show you who you belong to.”

He resumed his oral travel up your thighs, pausing right next to your core. He took his middle finger and started rubbing a harsh, slow circle on your clit through your lacy panties, staring up at you to gauge your reaction. You immediately let out a needy whine, to his satisfaction.

“Exactly,” he said, almost to himself.

His possessiveness was turning you on…a lot. You’d never seen him like this, and an evil part of yourself wanted to make him beg for you. You pushed his hand away and closed your thighs together.

“We’re almost home,” you said flatly. Now it was Michael’s turn to be uneasy. He pouted up at you just like you wanted him to.

As the car eased into the driveway, you felt Michael repeatedly try to touch you, to no avail. You weren’t letting him win tonight. The car drove to a stop, and Bill helped you out first. You gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, making sure Michael saw the whole thing.

“Have nice night, Bill,” you said, privately handing him the napkin Marz gave you earlier, and discreetly asking him to get rid of it for you. You had a hurried tone laced into your voice. You could see Michael squirm.

“Y-yeah, you too. Y’all have a good night now.” He gave Michael a quick hug and dove into the driver’s seat, ready to get away from whatever the hell was going on in front of him. You grabbed Michael by the belt loop and rushed inside of the expansive front door.

“What was that?” Michael asked you, jealousy creeping back into his demeanor.

You ignored him and rushed the up the stairs, ignoring the ache in your feet. You grabbed onto his hand and dragged him with you.

Once you made it inside your shared room, you removed your heels with ease, grabbed the clothes you left on the bed this morning, and hurried into the restroom, ignoring Michael’s calls from behind you. You wasted no time in the shower, scrubbing every surface of your body like it was covered in acid. You were buzzing with excitement because no matter how pissed you were at him for being such a brat all night, you were excited to see this new side of Michael.

“Michael, come join me!” you called from inside, hoping he heard you.

He rushed in immediately, and you realized he must’ve been standing right outside the door. You smiled to yourself at the image.

He was already naked. Perfect.

He opened the glass door and stepped in behind you, and you moved towards the door, letting the warm water hit his lanky body.

“Don’t be too long,” you said to your boyfriend, giving him a sloppy kiss on his lips, and walked out.

He watched you dry up and put on his favorite lingerie set as he struggled to pay attention to his task at hand.

You walked out of the restroom hastily, and shut the door behind you.

After a few more minutes, he rinsed off, dried up, and stepped into the bedroom in nothing but his towel around his waist.

He could’ve cum at the sight of you. You were laid on your stomach on the bed, clad in your red, lacy lingerie that hugged every curve of your body just right. Your back was arched slightly, giving him a beautiful view of your heart-shaped ass, and you were sipping water out of a glass, letting it dribble down your neck and onto the swell of your tits. A total vision.

“Hi,” you said seductively, getting up on your knees and setting the glass down on your bedside table.

“H-hi,” Michael said awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. He didn’t know what to do with himself. He could feel his dick throb more and more each second he looked at you.

“You gonna keep starin’ at me, or you gonna come touch me?” you ask him in that smooth tone he loves oh so much.

He walked over to you quickly, leaning over the edge of the bed to kiss you. You took his lips into your mouth and sucked harshly, sighing at the contact. He took that millisecond of your lips parting to stick his tongue inside them, the wet muscle glided against yours with ease. You lunged closer to his body, craving the contact more than your lungs were currently craving air. He slipped his large hands onto your waist, groping aggressively.

“Can I take this off?” he asks against your lips, referring to your bra that left nothing to the imagination.

“Go ‘head, baby. It’s all for you anyway,” you nearly moan into his mouth.

“T-thank you.” He reached behind your back and expertly undid the clasp with one hand. God, you need him.

He walked backwards, keeping his hands on your hips and your lips on his, guiding you to the edge of the bed. He spread your legs and stood between them, lowering his hand to give your ass a needy squeeze, before going to his knees. He looked into your eyes.

“M gonna do you so good that you forget any other artist exists but me.” He takes one of your tits into his mouth, maintaining eye contact, and slurps onto your nipple greedily.

“M-michael!” you exclaimed. He popped off of your breast.

“That’s right. Only me.” He reattached immediately.

Your back arched and your eyes rolled back at his words. This is the sexiest thing he’s ever done, you thought to yourself. He began scratching up your thighs, looking at the faint marks he left behind. You squeezed his body between them, your body overly sensitive to everything he was giving you. He moved to your other nipple, giving it the same amount of attention as your other. Your brain felt fuzzy, and your core dripped for him hungrily.

He detached from your tit again, and kissed down your torso, leaving drool all over. He stopped right at your hip bone and gave it a dark lovebite, leaving you a moaning mess at the painful pleasure.

“N I’m the only one who can mark you like this, right ma?” he asked, looking you deep in the eyes.

“Mhm, yes! Only you, Mikey,” you moaned out.

He gripped onto the hem of your panties, ready to pull them down, and then noticed how they stuck to your pussy.

“And you’re wet like this ‘cause of me?” he asked sincerely.

“All because of you, baby,” you moaned. The neediness in his actions was seeping out and you felt like you could orgasm right then and there.

He kissed you right on your sweet spot and looked back up at you.

“Can I please take these off as well?” he asked hungrily.

“Mhm, and hand ‘em to me when they’re off,” you instructed, looking down at the confused expression on his face. You had a sneaky little plan on the back of your mind.

He handed them to you and you balled them up and sat them next to you for later.

“Continue,” you ordered, growing impatient at the tension.

“M sorry. Yes, ma’am.” He immediately dove into your seeping core and his mouth watered at the taste of you.

“F-fuck, you’re doing so good M-Mike. Never been done like this before,” you praised him, a part of you feeling bad at the insecurity that took over him today. He groaned into your mouth, and teased your entrance with his long middle finger. You pushed your core around it impatiently and moaned heartily at the intrusion, your walls fluttering against it.

Michael removed his mouth from your clit.

“I’m the only one who listens to you like this, right?” he asked with anticipation, your juices dripping down his chin.

“Fuckkkkk yes, Mike. You’re such an angel f’me.”

“Your only angel?” he clarified.

“My o-only angel,” you reassured.

“Okay,” he said with a smile, and resumed devouring your pussy like eating you out was his lifeline.

“F-fuck Michael, faster! I’m gonna c-cum,” you warned.

He sped up immediately, selfishly wanting to get you to your climax so he could drink up every drop of your nectar.

With one particularly lewd curl of his fingers and thirsty slurp of his tongue on your clit, you fell back onto the bed and your body went rigid. You let out a scream you were sure the whole city could hear.

“Michael, F-FUCK! I’M CU-MMING!” you hollered, grinding out your orgasm onto his nose, and gripping onto his hair for support.

He didn’t let up one bit, drinking up every drop of your cum whilst whimpering into your mouth at the grip your fingers had in his hair.

“T-too much, get up,” you instructed him, feeling your clit burn with over sensitivity.

He sat up on his knees and licked his lips greedily, already missing your taste.

You sat up as well, still hungry for his touch.

“C’mere. Wanna kiss you.” You beckoned him toward your naked body. He followed your command like second nature, and your lips connected like magnets. You moaned at the hunger evident in his ministrations, your pussy clenching around nothing.

“Was I good?” he asked between lip bites.

“You were perfect. You are perfect,” you amended.

“Thank you,” he replied gratefully.

“I still have yet to congratulate you properly on your award tonight, baby. It was a big deal,” you said, your plan at the forefront of your mind.

“S’ nothin’,” he responded humbly, entirely too focused on your plump lips in between his teeth.

“Michael, you won the biggest award of the decade! I’d say that deserves a proper celebration.” You backed away from his mouth, leaving him dumbfounded.

“Stand up,” you directed him. He did so immediately.

You undid the now loose towel around his waist, freeing his hungry dick from its cage.

He gulped loudly, his adam’s apple bobbing cartoonishly.

You stood up as well.

“Go lay on the pillows at the head of the bed.”

“Y-you don’t have t-”

“Do as I say,” you interrupted his protest.

He bowed his head quickly and did just as you said.

You sneakily grabbed your balled up panties and crawled up his frame on the bed, leaving a trail of your heat in your wake.

“Open your mouth,” you told him, thumb jutting his bottom lip down. He obeyed, intrigued.

You stuffed your panties in and he moaned immediately, his taste buds registering the flavor of your cum immediately.

“Taste that? Nod if you understand,” you demanded.

He nodded.

“I only get wet like that for you. Nobody else.”

You grab one of his big hands, using his fingertips to touch your erect nipples.

“And you feel those?” you asked.

He nodded eagerly.

“They only get that perky for you, Mikey.”

He started to drool, and his erection twitched right against your stomach.

You slid down his body once again, and propped yourself up on your knees. Then, you grabbed his throbbing dick with both your hands, and took the whole thing into your mouth, relaxing your throat so his tip could hit the back. You maintained eye contact with him, and you were glad you did. He groaned thickly against the fabric stuffed into his mouth, his eyes watered with pleasure, and his back launched off the bed.

You took one of your hands and messaged what couldn’t fit into your small mouth, moaning graphically against his length. He was fully sobbing above you. You bobbed your head up and down slowly a few more times, and came off of his dick with a theatrical pop. You wiped his precum off the side of your mouth with your thumb and sucked it clean greedily.

“And nobody,” you began, “absolutely no one else will ever get me on my knees like that. Understand?

He lifted his torso up and rested on his elbows weakly, nodding eagerly and moaning out through the lace in his mouth.

You straddled his waist again, prepared for your big finish.

You grabbed his dick and slid it up and down your slit, covering it up in your already returned arousal. You teased it against your entrance and reached up to Michael’s face, caressing his cheek and wiping away his tears with your thumb.

“I’m yours and you’re mine. All mine. Got it?”

He mumbled out a string of acknowledgments, and then you took him deep inside you, your body shaking at the strain.

His mouth went limp and the panties fell from his lips, slightly, unmuzzling his sounds.

“A-AHHH!” he hollered as you began bouncing, your tits dangling above his face.

His hand flew to your waist and he spat the rest of your underwear out of his mouth.

“C-can I, GOD. Can I please grope you?” he begged.

“Mmmfuck, Mikey. Of course you can,” you obliged. You leaned closer to him, your breasts grazing his chest with every bounce.

He lifted you up and down by your waist, helping the blissful rhythm of your bodies continue their dance of pleasure.

“C-can’t believe you’re mine. T-thank you,” he sniffled, the pleasure in his stomach building up fast.

“Thank you,” you replied. “M already so close Michael. You’re fucking me so good.” You reached down to your clit and rubbed desperately, wanting to come undone around his dick.

His dick jumped at the visual.

“Me too,” he said, embarrassed. His brain was going hazy and the sight before him was adding so much to the pressure held within his abdomen.

You removed your fingers from your clit and stuffed them into his mouth.

He sucked obediently and whimpered at the taste, coming to realize he’d rather taste this over any other flavor on planet earth.

You retracted your hand and leaned down to his ear.

“I’m gonna make a mess all over your lap baby. Y-you ready?”

“Yesss, please! Please c-cum on me!”

He gathered all the strength he had and slammed you onto his dick even harder, overly excited for your release.

Then, your eyes rolled back, and your walls constricted around him aggressively, triggering his own orgasm in time with yours. You both let out the most pornagraphic moans known to mankind, holding onto each other’s bodies for grounding.

“F-It’s…S-So….!” he screamed out incoherently, brain not capable of forming a proper thought.

All you could do was whine out his name over and over until your body went limp on top of him.

You laid connected for a bit, still clawing at each other and catching your breath, trying to let your brains readjust to reality.

You lifted your face off of the crook of his neck, wiping the drool leaking from the corner of your mouth.

“And nobody could ever fuck me like that,” you said to Michael with a tired smile, wiping his hair off of his sweaty forehead.

“N-not even those-” he began.

“ESPECIALLY not them,” you interrupted. “I’m completely and truly devoted to you and only you. You own me Michael. Mind, body, and soul. Congratulations, baby. My superstar.”

“Babyyyyy!” Michael whines, his big hands grabbing at your body. “I haven’t eaten in a week!!”

His cute pout that accompanies his protest is enough to make you swoon, but you like seeing him be so desperate.

“No, sweetheart,” you shake your head, laughing down at him and petting his soft hair as he clings to your thigh. “Why’re you so needy today, huh? I let you play with my boobs this morning, you needy thing.”

He hits his head on your leg, petulant and tortured.

“I know— I know you did, but… but, baby…” his huge eyes start watering as they stare up at you. “You promised me I could kiss you there if I didn’t whine all week! I did it, I did a good job! You said that I did!”

Fat tears roll down his flushed cheeks, his hips trying to rub his painful erection on your shin. You’ve left him aching for so long now, taking your time to really enjoy his anticipation becoming pathetic, deprived need.

His jaw is quivering under your touch as you cup it, swiping your thumb over his wet cheek bone. His whole body is tense or trembling or jerking with the silent sobs and delayed gratification that’s never seeming to come.

“Poor baby…” you frown sympathetically down at him.

He makes an almost animalistic sound, and you realize that he’s acting like a puppy right now. His eyes are so big and beggy, his lower body bucking at your leg, the whining…

“Oh god,” you whisper to yourself.

“W—what is it?” He asks, voice shaky and thin, obviously taking everything out of him.

“You’re a puppy.” You state, not explaining— not even when his wide eyes of shock turn into a quivering bottom lip and more tears.

His large hands come up to cover his face, embarrassment burning through his entire body.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he whimpers, thinking he’s disgusted you with how needy he’s been. “I just— I can’t help it. It hurts, mama…”

“Shhh, no, puppy,” you tug his hand-mask from his face, needing to see how much praise he’s going to need to dial all of this back. “It’s okay. I’m not mad.”

Warm lips press to the top of his head and then his temple, a gesture that always physically calms him.

He’s still shivering, but at least he’s nuzzling into your leg a bit now. The look in his eyes tells you he feels a bit more stable with the reassurance, that the love is starting to seep back in.

“…you really wanna eat, puppy?” You ask, holding his chin.

He nods excitedly, eyes getting bigger.

“Yes! Oh, please, I need to. So bad.”

You ruffle his hair, finally giving him a little nod of permission.

Denim hits the floor with a hollow, muted thump and he’s already licking at your panties.

“Calm down,” you chastise him gently. “Take them off, pretty boy.”

He nods obediently and removes them, sliding them into the pocket of his pants discreetly. Your slick is under his tongue almost immediately and he’s pushing you onto the bed.

Legs spread by needy hands, he sucks and licks and kisses at your sweet cunt, whimpering and moaning happily at finally being able to have his mouth where it really belongs.

“That’s a good boy…” you coo at him, patronizing him because the wait wasn’t enough.

The expected reaction was that he would pout, but he actually seems to enjoy it, nudging his nose against your clit.

“Doing so good for me, aren’t you, pup?” He shivers at your continued praise and new pet name.

Pet names from you drive him wild, and suddenly he’s not just using his mouth to play with your yummy cunny, but trying desperately to get you to your peak.

He’s deeply satisfied when you’re the one suddenly whimpering and pushing him away by his shoulders. He laughs. Not cruelly, but happily.

“You’re so pretty from down there,” he states, hands digging into your hips and massaging them absentmindedly.

“Happy to please my sweetheart. Always.” You smile, bringing a loving kiss to his forehead. “Do you want me to play with you now?

His face breaks into a grin, excitement flooding his features.

“Yes, please!” He scrambles with his belt to get this achy thing out of his pants. “It’s really starting to hurt; please, go fast.”

“I’ve made you wait long enough,” you say, taking his cock in your hand. “I’m gonna let you come as fast as you need to, okay?”

He pulls you into a grateful hug as his needy hips buck up into your dry fist. You know it hurts; he’s whimpering in both pain and long awaited pleasure.

The nightstand squeaks when you pull out the drawer, grabbing the lube. You squirt some into your free hand and bring it down to his cock with the other one, revelling in the sweet sound he makes when he realizes this doesn’t have to be painful anymore.

His arms are still wrapped around you, and it makes the position odd, but he’s been too much of a good boy to make him move.

“Atta’ boy…” you coo lovingly, twisting your hands around his cock to make him whine in overstimulation. “Thought you had to come really bad? Where is it, baby? c’mon, hurry up. You can do it.”

Your voice is making his head swim, his thoughts turning into alphabet soup as he feels his orgasm finally, finally approaching.

“M’trying…” he whimpers pathetically, his cock twitching in your hands. “M’there, oh, please—…”

A laugh bubbles low in your chest as his babbling, his body and mind both clearly struggling.

The come lands on your breasts and under his jaw, the position allowing for an uncomfortable placing for his semen. You make a slightly disgusted sound as you realize some even got in your hair, but that’s overshadowed by Michael’s panting, his body slightly slumped against yours.

“Michael? Puppy?” You ask in a soft-spoken voice. “Are you okay?”

He’s silent for a moment before he nods into your shoulder.

“M’okay…” he mumbles, meekly pushing your fidgeting hands away from his soft, over sensitive cock. “…thank you.”

The whisper of thanks makes you smile, the kind of smile that comes from deep, internal happiness.

“It’s no problem, baby,” you sigh, kissing his flushed and slightly damp head. “You deserved it.”

He nuzzles into you, furthering your proof of his puppy-esc mannerisms. You laugh.

“Why’re you laughing?” He looks up at you, voice still meek.

“You’re just really cute, that’s all.”

support writers!->interactions greatly appreciated!

A/N: this is probably kinkier than anything I’ve ever posted but I was thinking abt it and what the hell it’s pretty hot. lmk if this is too much or if you guys want more

Michael Jackson was very, very stupid.

When you showed him your outfit for tonight, he nearly had a panic attack. You looked edible, and you were all his. He got so giddy at the thought of it.

You wore a long, mesh-like, black dress with gold accents and a plunging back, accompanied by red lace detail settled on your tailbone. It matched his extravagant jacket perfectly. Your smooth skin peeked out from the material in all the right places, and your legs looked magnificent. You wore a pair of gold red bottoms to accentuate the look, knowing Michael loved it when you wore high heels.

He had absolutely no complaints, other than one; he wanted to take the dress off of you as soon as you got it on.

“C’mon, we’re only 15 minutes from the venue. It won’t take us that long,” he complained.

“Michael, you cannot seriously be asking me for a quickie right now. You know how long it took me to get my hair and makeup done earlier. I don’t know what those ladies did to it, and I sure as hell don’t know how to recreate it either,” you said, giving your boyfriend an incredulous look.

“I know, I know. I’m sorry. You do look perfect though,” he complimented you, lifting your hand and giving it a tender kiss. “So glad you’re all mine.”

“All yours, baby,” you responded, loving the way his eyelashes fluttered at the nickname.

So yes, he was stupid. For some idiotic reason, he thought that because you were all his, that meant that you could only be seen by him.

Boy, was he dead wrong. The whole night, everyone’s eyes were on you. Because he’s stupid, he thought it was because of him, and it partially was- nobody knew who you were or why you were walking with him hand in hand, yet- but no. They were all looking at you hungrily. Looking at you the way he did. It made him sick. And the worst part? You didn’t even notice.

You looked that good and you didn’t even notice that basically everyone in attendance, man and woman, your age and older, was lusting over you.

You weren’t allowed to sit next to Michael the whole night, to your disappointment. He was getting honored with the biggest award, so he had a special table setup with all the works. The seating arrangement did, however, bless you in a way you didn’t expect. Your favorite hip hop duo, The Nebulas, had assigned seats next to yours, and it took everything in you to not fangirl over them.

During the second commercial break, one of the members reached over for your hand and shook it firmly.

“Hey there, pretty girl. I’m Marz, and this,” he gestured to his music mate, “is Mercury.”

“I know!” you answered, a little too fast, embarrassing yourself in the process.

“I mean, I’m a huge fan of y’all’s music,” you corrected, hoping your excitement didn’t ruin the moment.

“Oh, really?” Mercury questioned you.

“Yeah! You guys had one of my favorite albums this year. I love the experimental sound you have,” you said earnestly.

“Why, thank you. What brings you here all by yourself tonight?” asked Marz, a polite way of asking ‘Who are you?’

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” you say, dramatically sighing. The boys giggled.

“Nah for real, tell us.” Mercury leaned in in anticipation.

“Well, you know Michael Jackson is getting awarded ton-”

“Yo, Mike’s a legend! He deserves that award more than anyone!” Mercury interrupted, causing you to giggle.

“Yes, he is,” you said smiling to yourself.

“Our latest single actually samples Human Nature. He cleared the sample personally. Can you believe it?!” Marz asked, starting to sound like a fanboy. It was adorable.

“I know! I think it might actually be one of my favorites so far. It’s very beautiful,” you said, flashing a sincere smile at the both of them. An announcement over the speakers signaled that it was time for the venue to quiet down and hurry back to their seats.

“It was nice speaking to you,” you whispered to the duo.

“Likewise,” they said at the same time, Mercury blowing you a kiss, and Marz giving you a tap on the shoulder as the lights dimmed.

Michael was able to watch you from his seat. He felt terrible that for your first public event together, he couldn’t even hold you through the whole thing. Although he was grateful for the award, he would’ve given it up to Prince if it meant he could be with his baby the whole night. Especially after what he just saw.

Your favorite hip hop duo, The Nebulas, were flirting with you. He was so far that he couldn’t even hear what you were laughing at, let alone say anything to interrupt, and it made him seethe. Michael never got angry, never jealous, but tonight turned him into a whole different animal.

Every commercial break, they’d talk to you again, exchange knowing glances with each other when you weren’t looking, and it irritated him to no end. They even started getting comfortable touching you. Mercury pathetically reached over his friend’s lap to brush nothing off of your hair, just a desperate attempt to touch you. He was so frustrated, he could barely pay attention whenever someone would come up and congratulate him on the award he was winning tonight. An uncharacteristically green part of him wanted to march down from his table and pick you up from your seat, showing off just exactly who you belonged to.

He was getting more and more tempted to when one of the guys- Pluto, was it?- openly ogled your tits as you leaned down to fix one of the straps on your heels. He nudged his little friend and raised his eyebrows suggestively. When you fully sat up, the Pluto guy whispered something into your ear, and sneakily grabbed onto your waist when you started laughing hysterically. What the hell could be so funny that you didn’t even feel his heavy hand on your body?

It was time for Michael to be presented with Artist of the Decade, and you prepared your throat for the loudest scream you could muster. You tried searching for his face in the crowd, realizing he must’ve been dragged backstage during the last commercial break. Marz whispered, “Oh my God, it’s Michael Jackson time!” into your ears, to which you responded with an excited “I know!”

As soon as they announced his name, you stood up and hollered at the top of your lungs, the rest of the crowd following suit. He looked so unreal. The way the stage lights shone on his perfect features was enough to make your mouth water.

He began thanking his record company for having faith in his visions, his family for supporting him and he gave a beautiful speech dedicated to all the children in the world that inspired him. His humbleness made your heart melt. He ended off the monologue with a special shootout- to you. He called your name and pointed you out in the crowd, blowing you a bashful kiss.

“And to the beautiful lady in my life, to whom I owe everything. Thank you for being my muse and my girl. I can’t wait to celebrate with you tonight,” he added with an attempt at a wink. “I love you so much!”

You screamed out a muffled “I love you, baby!” and the crowd erupted in cheers.

The rest of the ceremony was spent in silence, to your surprise. You’d wondered if you did something to annoy your favorite artists, and got embarrassed by the idea.

Michael made his way to you before the lights even fully dimmed, looking restless. He gripped onto your waist needily.

“Come on, baby. Bill’s outside,” he said, before you could even properly greet or congratulate him.

“Oh, Michael! Congratulations!” you exclaim to him, planting a kiss on his cheek. Your mauve-colored lipstick leaving a stain.

“E-excuse me, sir?” Pluto Marz interrupted. “I’m Marz, and this is Mercury. We met over the phone once with our manager. You gave us permission to sample Human Nature in our most recent single! We just wanted to say thank you so much for that. The song is receiving insane reviews, and it’s all thanks to you!”

“Yeah, it’s a huge honor! You’re our biggest inspiration!” Neptune Mercury added, clumsily.

“I appreciate the compliments! If you don’t mind, me and my lady have an event to attend. Congratulations on the success with your new project!” Michael responded politely and smoothly. Too smoothly. Something was up. He gripped onto your waist even tighter when the boys came up to hug you goodbye. He loudly cleared his throat when one of them hugged you a bit too long for his liking, flashed him a glare, and then quickly composed himself with a sweet smile when he realized what he was doing.

You were driving him crazy. When you walked out of the venue, he stopped in front of your limo and kissed you hungrily, knowing the cameras would capture it all on film. You pulled back, flustered.

“Mikey, there’s so many people and cameras here,” you whispered into his ear with an exasperated giggle.

“Let ‘em watch,” he said lunging back for your lips.

“Come on, Mike! We gon’ be late if you keep that up!” Bill called from the driver’s seat.

The two of you flashed the paps brilliant smiles and ducked into the vehicle, your stomach twisting with the excitement of the evening. You couldn’t believe the beautiful words Michael dedicated to you in his speech, or the fact that you met your favorite artists.

You wouldn’t stop talking about them.

“Oh, and Michael! Marz said that he wanted me in their next video! Can you believe it? He said I reminded him of an old hollywood film actress and said I just had to get in contact with them! He gave me his number and everything!” you squeeled excitedly, flashing him the napkin he’d scribbled his contact info on.

“And you took it?” Michael asked flatly.

“Of course, silly,” you responded lightheartedly, not catching on to his attitude. “How else would I have been able to call them? It’s not like I’d just be able to find them in the phone book,” you say with a giggle at the idea.

“Coulda asked me,” he said with a shrug.

“Hmm, yeah. I guess I hadn’t thought of that,” you said with a nod. “Still, they were hilarious the whole night. Saved me from being bored all by myself.” You shuffled closer to his side, trying to build some tension. He looked scrumptious tonight, and you needed a taste.

“Yeah, seems like they entertained you more than I could’ve,” he added with a concealed roll of his eyes.

“Not even. I missed you so mu-”

“We’re pulling up to the party,” Michael interrupted, shrugging you off of his shoulder. You felt rejected, and you didn’t even know why. Did you smell? Did you embarrass him with all your screaming? You decided to shrug it off and pocket it for later, when you got home.

The entire party overstimulated you. You wanted to go home before you even stepped in, Michael’s dryness with you wavered your confidence. What the hell did you do wrong? It made you uneasy. You decided it was a good idea to down three flutes of champagne, ignoring the celebrities watching you. Seriously, did you have a ‘Kick Me!’ sign on your back?

As you and Michael made your way through the party- you awkwardly clinging onto him while he possessively hugged your hips- you were met with loads of familiar faces. All of them were A-listers you’ve seen on TV or plastered on the covers of magazines. You felt totally out of place.

The alcohol was making you hot, and you excused yourself to the restroom from Michael and the two pretty models he was talking to. He offered to go with you, but you made him stay, feeling like a burden already.

“I’ll be back in a sec, yeah? Just need to freshen up a bit,” you assured him with a wavering smile.

“Okay, we’ll be right here,” Michael responded evenly.

What the hell is on his mind? You wondered to yourself.

You were almost back to Michael, when you bumped into two familiar faces.

“Hey, you!” Mercury said excitedly, giving you a very friendly hug.

“How’s your night goin’?” Marz asked, giving you a chaste kiss on the cheek.

“Pretty crazy! I’ve never been to anything this…exciting before!” you respond with slightly forced enthusiasm. As much as you were excited to see some friendly faces, all you wanted to do was get home with your pretty boyfriend and give him a proper congratulations on his award.

“Yeah, these things can get pretty hectic, but I bet it helps to see some familiar faces,” Mercury quipped with a cheesy smile.

“Yeah! Plus, I bet it must be so hard having to fight everyone offa you. You look incredible, by the way,” Marz slurred into your ear over the music.

“Oh, stop it!” you responded bashfully, still shy. You gave him a playful push to his shoulder.

“I actually do all the fighting for her, but thanks for the compliment.”

You turned to your left and saw your boyfriend hovering next to you, not realizing he’d made his way over there through all the chaos.

“Let’s go,” Michael said into your ear, not caring if he came off as rude. He gave a quick wave to the boys and led you out of the party, rushing his way through goodbyes and congratulations.

“Mike, slow down,” you yelled at him, nearly tumbling over your own feet.

“We’re almost to the car,” he responded dryly. He was fuming. How could you just let those two idiots flirt so openly with you? Did they not think you were serious about your own boyfriend? Were you giving them hints?

He opened the limo door for you, and slid in quickly behind.

“Bill, take us home, please. ‘N turn on the radio and slide up partition, will you?” Michael asked.

“No problem. ETA is 11 minutes,” Bill responded.

“Perfect, thank you.” Michael sunk to his knees in the spacious limousine as soon as the partition started rolling up, not caring if Bill saw or heard anymore.

Without a word, he started kissing up your thigh, immediately following them with slight nips of his teeth.

“M-michael, we don’t have time…” you started, already losing yourself in the pleasure. You realized you missed him all night. You didn’t have any alone time together.

“You had time for them all night,” he snapped suddenly. The stern tone in his voice was so surprising, you almost thought he was joking.

“Excuse me?” you questioned him.

“You heard me. I mean, I barely even had ya to myself tonight. You even somehow found your way to them after your little trip to the bathroom. Am I that boring?” he said sharply. You could smell the alcohol on his breath.

“Michael, you’re being ridicul-”

“Am I? I saw the way they were lookin’ at you. The way they grabbed at you.” He palmed at your tits. “The way they drooled at these.” He looked up at your face. “You’re mine. You could’ve expressed that a lil’ more tonight,” he said accusatorily.

Who the hell did he think he was talking to?

“Michael, are you jealous?” you asked him, his behavior finally dawning on you. Was he seriously that worried about those two guys? They’re younger than you, totally not your type, and most of all, they’re not Michael. You started giggling.

“This is funny to you?” Michael asked, offended. He leaned back onto the balls of his feet, almost falling backward when Bill made a sharp turn.

“Hilarious, actually.” You started full on laughing. “Mike! Why would you think I’d seriously be entertaining any advances when you’re my boyfriend? I might always find it unbelievable that I’m with you, but that doesn’t mean I’m stupid enough to take you for granted, ever. I love you and only you. Plus, they were just being nice!” you say, exhausted.

“Nice? Ha! They were practically ready to ask you for a threesome at the award venue before I came up,” he almost screeched. “But it’s okay. I’ll just show you who you belong to.”

He resumed his oral travel up your thighs, pausing right next to your core. He took his middle finger and started rubbing a harsh, slow circle on your clit through your lacy panties, staring up at you to gauge your reaction. You immediately let out a needy whine, to his satisfaction.

“Exactly,” he said, almost to himself.

His possessiveness was turning you on…a lot. You’d never seen him like this, and an evil part of yourself wanted to make him beg for you. You pushed his hand away and closed your thighs together.

“We’re almost home,” you said flatly. Now it was Michael’s turn to be uneasy. He pouted up at you just like you wanted him to.

As the car eased into the driveway, you felt Michael repeatedly try to touch you, to no avail. You weren’t letting him win tonight. The car drove to a stop, and Bill helped you out first. You gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, making sure Michael saw the whole thing.

“Have nice night, Bill,” you said, privately handing him the napkin Marz gave you earlier, and discreetly asking him to get rid of it for you. You had a hurried tone laced into your voice. You could see Michael squirm.

“Y-yeah, you too. Y’all have a good night now.” He gave Michael a quick hug and dove into the driver’s seat, ready to get away from whatever the hell was going on in front of him. You grabbed Michael by the belt loop and rushed inside of the expansive front door.

“What was that?” Michael asked you, jealousy creeping back into his demeanor.

You ignored him and rushed the up the stairs, ignoring the ache in your feet. You grabbed onto his hand and dragged him with you.

Once you made it inside your shared room, you removed your heels with ease, grabbed the clothes you left on the bed this morning, and hurried into the restroom, ignoring Michael’s calls from behind you. You wasted no time in the shower, scrubbing every surface of your body like it was covered in acid. You were buzzing with excitement because no matter how pissed you were at him for being such a brat all night, you were excited to see this new side of Michael.

“Michael, come join me!” you called from inside, hoping he heard you.

He rushed in immediately, and you realized he must’ve been standing right outside the door. You smiled to yourself at the image.

He was already naked. Perfect.

He opened the glass door and stepped in behind you, and you moved towards the door, letting the warm water hit his lanky body.

“Don’t be too long,” you said to your boyfriend, giving him a sloppy kiss on his lips, and walked out.

He watched you dry up and put on his favorite lingerie set as he struggled to pay attention to his task at hand.

You walked out of the restroom hastily, and shut the door behind you.

After a few more minutes, he rinsed off, dried up, and stepped into the bedroom in nothing but his towel around his waist.

He could’ve cum at the sight of you. You were laid on your stomach on the bed, clad in your red, lacy lingerie that hugged every curve of your body just right. Your back was arched slightly, giving him a beautiful view of your heart-shaped ass, and you were sipping water out of a glass, letting it dribble down your neck and onto the swell of your tits. A total vision.

“Hi,” you said seductively, getting up on your knees and setting the glass down on your bedside table.

“H-hi,” Michael said awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. He didn’t know what to do with himself. He could feel his dick throb more and more each second he looked at you.

“You gonna keep starin’ at me, or you gonna come touch me?” you ask him in that smooth tone he loves oh so much.

He walked over to you quickly, leaning over the edge of the bed to kiss you. You took his lips into your mouth and sucked harshly, sighing at the contact. He took that millisecond of your lips parting to stick his tongue inside them, the wet muscle glided against yours with ease. You lunged closer to his body, craving the contact more than your lungs were currently craving air. He slipped his large hands onto your waist, groping aggressively.

“Can I take this off?” he asks against your lips, referring to your bra that left nothing to the imagination.

“Go ‘head, baby. It’s all for you anyway,” you nearly moan into his mouth.

“T-thank you.” He reached behind your back and expertly undid the clasp with one hand. God, you need him.

He walked backwards, keeping his hands on your hips and your lips on his, guiding you to the edge of the bed. He spread your legs and stood between them, lowering his hand to give your ass a needy squeeze, before going to his knees. He looked into your eyes.

“M gonna do you so good that you forget any other artist exists but me.” He takes one of your tits into his mouth, maintaining eye contact, and slurps onto your nipple greedily.

“M-michael!” you exclaimed. He popped off of your breast.

“That’s right. Only me.” He reattached immediately.

Your back arched and your eyes rolled back at his words. This is the sexiest thing he’s ever done, you thought to yourself. He began scratching up your thighs, looking at the faint marks he left behind. You squeezed his body between them, your body overly sensitive to everything he was giving you. He moved to your other nipple, giving it the same amount of attention as your other. Your brain felt fuzzy, and your core dripped for him hungrily.

He detached from your tit again, and kissed down your torso, leaving drool all over. He stopped right at your hip bone and gave it a dark lovebite, leaving you a moaning mess at the painful pleasure.

“N I’m the only one who can mark you like this, right ma?” he asked, looking you deep in the eyes.

“Mhm, yes! Only you, Mikey,” you moaned out.

He gripped onto the hem of your panties, ready to pull them down, and then noticed how they stuck to your pussy.

“And you’re wet like this ‘cause of me?” he asked sincerely.

“All because of you, baby,” you moaned. The neediness in his actions was seeping out and you felt like you could orgasm right then and there.

He kissed you right on your sweet spot and looked back up at you.

“Can I please take these off as well?” he asked hungrily.

“Mhm, and hand ‘em to me when they’re off,” you instructed, looking down at the confused expression on his face. You had a sneaky little plan on the back of your mind.

He handed them to you and you balled them up and sat them next to you for later.

“Continue,” you ordered, growing impatient at the tension.

“M sorry. Yes, ma’am.” He immediately dove into your seeping core and his mouth watered at the taste of you.

“F-fuck, you’re doing so good M-Mike. Never been done like this before,” you praised him, a part of you feeling bad at the insecurity that took over him today. He groaned into your mouth, and teased your entrance with his long middle finger. You pushed your core around it impatiently and moaned heartily at the intrusion, your walls fluttering against it.

Michael removed his mouth from your clit.

“I’m the only one who listens to you like this, right?” he asked with anticipation, your juices dripping down his chin.

“Fuckkkkk yes, Mike. You’re such an angel f’me.”

“Your only angel?” he clarified.

“My o-only angel,” you reassured.

“Okay,” he said with a smile, and resumed devouring your pussy like eating you out was his lifeline.

“F-fuck Michael, faster! I’m gonna c-cum,” you warned.

He sped up immediately, selfishly wanting to get you to your climax so he could drink up every drop of your nectar.

With one particularly lewd curl of his fingers and thirsty slurp of his tongue on your clit, you fell back onto the bed and your body went rigid. You let out a scream you were sure the whole city could hear.

“Michael, F-FUCK! I’M CU-MMING!” you hollered, grinding out your orgasm onto his nose, and gripping onto his hair for support.

He didn’t let up one bit, drinking up every drop of your cum whilst whimpering into your mouth at the grip your fingers had in his hair.

“T-too much, get up,” you instructed him, feeling your clit burn with over sensitivity.

He sat up on his knees and licked his lips greedily, already missing your taste.

You sat up as well, still hungry for his touch.

“C’mere. Wanna kiss you.” You beckoned him toward your naked body. He followed your command like second nature, and your lips connected like magnets. You moaned at the hunger evident in his ministrations, your pussy clenching around nothing.

“Was I good?” he asked between lip bites.

“You were perfect. You are perfect,” you amended.

“Thank you,” he replied gratefully.

“I still have yet to congratulate you properly on your award tonight, baby. It was a big deal,” you said, your plan at the forefront of your mind.

“S’ nothin’,” he responded humbly, entirely too focused on your plump lips in between his teeth.

“Michael, you won the biggest award of the decade! I’d say that deserves a proper celebration.” You backed away from his mouth, leaving him dumbfounded.

“Stand up,” you directed him. He did so immediately.

You undid the now loose towel around his waist, freeing his hungry dick from its cage.

He gulped loudly, his adam’s apple bobbing cartoonishly.

You stood up as well.

“Go lay on the pillows at the head of the bed.”

“Y-you don’t have t-”

“Do as I say,” you interrupted his protest.

He bowed his head quickly and did just as you said.

You sneakily grabbed your balled up panties and crawled up his frame on the bed, leaving a trail of your heat in your wake.

“Open your mouth,” you told him, thumb jutting his bottom lip down. He obeyed, intrigued.

You stuffed your panties in and he moaned immediately, his taste buds registering the flavor of your cum immediately.

“Taste that? Nod if you understand,” you demanded.

He nodded.

“I only get wet like that for you. Nobody else.”

You grab one of his big hands, using his fingertips to touch your erect nipples.

“And you feel those?” you asked.

He nodded eagerly.

“They only get that perky for you, Mikey.”

He started to drool, and his erection twitched right against your stomach.

You slid down his body once again, and propped yourself up on your knees. Then, you grabbed his throbbing dick with both your hands, and took the whole thing into your mouth, relaxing your throat so his tip could hit the back. You maintained eye contact with him, and you were glad you did. He groaned thickly against the fabric stuffed into his mouth, his eyes watered with pleasure, and his back launched off the bed.

You took one of your hands and messaged what couldn’t fit into your small mouth, moaning graphically against his length. He was fully sobbing above you. You bobbed your head up and down slowly a few more times, and came off of his dick with a theatrical pop. You wiped his precum off the side of your mouth with your thumb and sucked it clean greedily.

“And nobody,” you began, “absolutely no one else will ever get me on my knees like that. Understand?

He lifted his torso up and rested on his elbows weakly, nodding eagerly and moaning out through the lace in his mouth.

You straddled his waist again, prepared for your big finish.

You grabbed his dick and slid it up and down your slit, covering it up in your already returned arousal. You teased it against your entrance and reached up to Michael’s face, caressing his cheek and wiping away his tears with your thumb.

“I’m yours and you’re mine. All mine. Got it?”

He mumbled out a string of acknowledgments, and then you took him deep inside you, your body shaking at the strain.

His mouth went limp and the panties fell from his lips, slightly, unmuzzling his sounds.

“A-AHHH!” he hollered as you began bouncing, your tits dangling above his face.

His hand flew to your waist and he spat the rest of your underwear out of his mouth.

“C-can I, GOD. Can I please grope you?” he begged.

“Mmmfuck, Mikey. Of course you can,” you obliged. You leaned closer to him, your breasts grazing his chest with every bounce.

He lifted you up and down by your waist, helping the blissful rhythm of your bodies continue their dance of pleasure.

“C-can’t believe you’re mine. T-thank you,” he sniffled, the pleasure in his stomach building up fast.

“Thank you,” you replied. “M already so close Michael. You’re fucking me so good.” You reached down to your clit and rubbed desperately, wanting to come undone around his dick.

His dick jumped at the visual.

“Me too,” he said, embarrassed. His brain was going hazy and the sight before him was adding so much to the pressure held within his abdomen.

You removed your fingers from your clit and stuffed them into his mouth.

He sucked obediently and whimpered at the taste, coming to realize he’d rather taste this over any other flavor on planet earth.

You retracted your hand and leaned down to his ear.

“I’m gonna make a mess all over your lap baby. Y-you ready?”

“Yesss, please! Please c-cum on me!”

He gathered all the strength he had and slammed you onto his dick even harder, overly excited for your release.

Then, your eyes rolled back, and your walls constricted around him aggressively, triggering his own orgasm in time with yours. You both let out the most pornagraphic moans known to mankind, holding onto each other’s bodies for grounding.

“F-It’s…S-So….!” he screamed out incoherently, brain not capable of forming a proper thought.

All you could do was whine out his name over and over until your body went limp on top of him.

You laid connected for a bit, still clawing at each other and catching your breath, trying to let your brains readjust to reality.

You lifted your face off of the crook of his neck, wiping the drool leaking from the corner of your mouth.

“And nobody could ever fuck me like that,” you said to Michael with a tired smile, wiping his hair off of his sweaty forehead.

“N-not even those-” he began.

“ESPECIALLY not them,” you interrupted. “I’m completely and truly devoted to you and only you. You own me Michael. Mind, body, and soul. Congratulations, baby. My superstar.”