do you even know i’m alive?

It was a shame he couldn't change your attitude, and your playing dumb was pushing him to the limit.

He knew you wouldn't change, so he would discipline you.

“B… Please… I said I won’t do it again…”

Right now, your hands were tied to the headboard with one of his ties, your legs spread and trembling, Bishop standing between them, fully clothed, watching the vibrator he’d bought you for your discipline fully inserted into your pussy. He was forcing you to wear your panties so the vibrator wouldn’t slip out, his hand pressing on your stomach, making you cry and try to close your legs, only to be stopped by Bishop’s hand gripping the inside of your knee, almost bending you, the vibrator at full power, stretching your inner walls. Your eyes were rolled back, your lips swollen and smeared with lipstick, being pushed to the limit until you couldn’t take any more, or perhaps, until your boyfriend got bored, which would be difficult.

“I don’t believe you.”

Bishop's fingers pressed against your lower belly, feeling that gentle pressure, the kind you feel when you hold back your pee, making you cry and writhe between sobs.

He loved how you cried between moans, loved overstimulating you and making you dizzy, leaving you drunk with pleasure, playing with your body as if it were a stress reliever, slapping your tits, your nipples so sensitive they felt like they were burning, with so much pain that it excited you, made you want to break free from the grip that held you captive, and suck your boyfriend's cock, wishing he would stop making you suffer with such pleasure and forget the way you looked at other men in his presence.

Your hips trembled and you squeezed so tightly around the vibrator, it was painful to a certain extent, wanting to break free from all that pleasure, but without Bishop's permission, it was useless. It was useless to deny your subtle infidelity. Even though you never slept with, kissed, or exchanged photos with other men, that desire was there. And if Bishop didn't bring it out this way, if you didn't remember the times Bishop made you cum around his cock while his hand encircled your neck and he whispered in your ear, he would force you to remember until you fainted and begged for mercy.

“I can’t… I can’t anymore, I’m sorry…”

You arched your back, cumming for the third time that night, the vibrator sliding out of you, but Bishop was faster, thrusting it back in, squeezing it until it was deep inside you again, making you scream and sob, scratching at his tie and spitting out insults and apologies, oblivious to your words, because all you could think about in that moment was how Bishop was taking advantage of the situation, how he was suppressing smiles and giving you light pats on the ass, squeezing your belly again and refusing to stop.

An endless cycle, which would lead you to never even look at another man again, having you right where Bishop wanted you, where Bishop knew you belonged to him, and him alone.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀｡ ˚ ︶︶ꔫ︶︶‌ ₊ ˚ ︶︶ꔫ︶︶‌ ｡˚

The flashing lights were blinding, seeming to hit you much harder now that you had been apart from the chaos for a week. The click of the cameras snapped into your eardrums, the scent of cigarette smoke filling your nostrils as you made your way through the swamped street. Michael was tugging you as close as he could, gripping your jewel-clad hand, before deciding to instead rest his arm around your waist securely.

Shouts of your name and your husband's were hurled at you from men you couldn't even see the faces of, but you were used to this. Sure, a week of pure tranquil bliss had meant that a return to such invasive chaos had shocked your system, but it was a system well-attuned to that chaos all the same.

The part you disliked was having to somehow angle yourself toward every camera in order for each one of the paparazzi to get what they wanted. Whenever you and Michael were anywhere other than a dedicated public appearance, you refused to glance at even one camera—because you'd die on the hill that they had not a single right to follow you around outside of events, given that there were more than enough public appearances for them to catch you at. But on nights like these, you understood it was best to be graceful, to give them a show-stopping smile, to display your sexy elegance with confidence, no matter how tired you felt inside.

Tonight you were consumed by exhaustion due to jet lag, but primarily, your body was engaged with a bone-deep enervation; an urgency to be away from the excessive, overwhelming buzz of media attention, and instead to be where you belonged—at home with your husband, in the master bedroom of your LA mansion.

Los Angeles could be real hell out amongst the ruthless men behind the cameras, but in your home with Michael, the outside world never mattered. Last week, staying in an exclusive 1,400-acre private island in Saint Vincent, you caught a glimpse of what life could be if that indoor bliss could meet an outdoor normality, a silence that would give the two of you complete serenity. Since you were teens, it seemed there was nowhere on earth that you wouldn't be recognised—although you knew that assumption was hyperbolic. You and Michael never had an inflated ego that assumed you were the greatest stars on earth; rather, it was just difficult to believe that there was a location in which you wouldn't be spotted, because everywhere you went you risked getting mobbed.

So, that was why you'd both chosen the island of Mustique as your destination to take a well-deserved break, while Michael’s mother Katherine took care of your three children at Hayvenhurst for the duration. You always scheduled your careers around each other’s so that you could take turns looking after the kids if you couldn’t both be with them at once, refusing to rely primarily on a nanny, but sometimes you’d leave them to Katherine or other family members when you really craved a vacation.

You'd stayed in a private oceanfront cottage, tucked away among lush tropical gardens draped in bougainvillea, right beside the edge of a small crescent beach. Unbelievably, your exact location was cut off from absolutely everybody. It had been just the two of you, and for once it felt like you were semi-reliving your honeymoon in '81. You spent your stay swimming, messing around, singing, skinny-dipping, making sweet love at all hours of the day... Never had you both felt such freedom before. Unfortunately Michael couldn’t be out too long in direct sunlight, due to his lupus and vitiligo, so the hottest hours of the day were spent with him ploughing you into the mattress—or sometimes in the shade of a tree—before you’d enjoy evening walks and night swims later on. It was all so serene.

But tonight you were back to reality, and the extent of it swarmed around you the moment you'd stepped off your private jet, before the gala had even started.

Now, while you dealt with the exhausted ache running through your limbs and your bloodstream—the ache that told you how desperately you needed to catch up on sleep—another kind of ache ran deeper, pressing at you more insistently. Earlier, sitting by each other's sides at the ceremony, Michael's hand had traced circles up and down your inner thigh beneath the table, and with a few whispered lines back and forth you'd clarified together that tonight you wished to make love until the break of dawn. The kids would still be at Hayvenhurst until tomorrow morning, so you had all the privileges of an empty house. And you’d probably doze off after the first two rounds, because even one earth-shattering orgasm from Michael could send you to sleep as quickly as a lullaby could to a newborn, but the arousal coursing through your veins proved that at least the intention to go at it all night was accurate.

That was all you could think about as you stepped through the crowd, pressed against your lover's side, stiletto heels hitting the sidewalk. You were wearing a metallic olive-gold mini dress, and Michael had intentionally coordinated, where he sported a black suit embroidered with a thin pattern the same shade as your olive. His classic aviators sat on the bridge of his nose, shielding his pretty eyes from the crowd, saving the seraphic sight for only one lady later that night.

Michael was smiling at everybody—a smile much more genuine than yours, although you knew he hated this as much as you did. His approach when it came to addressing paparazzi was that as long as they weren't pushing and shoving, hurling abuse, or getting too close, he had no particular issue. He understood that it was their job, and while he'd rather his public life not have to be this way, reality ensured that unfortunately, there was no other option. Since childhood, you had both lived this anarchic, tumultuous lifestyle together, but it never felt any less oppressive. Michael was just better at staying calm. Moreover, he believed that one had to go through distress and bother to truly experience gratitude for the good; and upon knowing exactly what he would be getting up to with his girl after arriving home, he identified tonight as a great example of that philosophy.

Except, all of that optimism dissipated very suddenly, when a moment occurred that woke up the primal instincts belonging to the man with the soft demeanour and the sweet smile. Because just as you had almost been sure to declare yourself done with the seemingly-never-ending street of paparazzi, you felt a sudden, aggressive squeeze on your behind, followed by a sharp smack.

Immediately, you felt dizzy, the assault shocking your sensory apparatus and inducing a feeling of nausea. It had been a long time since something like this had happened to you—whereby it used to happen a lot in the early days of your career, a young woman constantly the object of disgusting men loving to take advantage—and sustaining that safety streak since had been largely thanks to Michael, who never let go of you wherever you went. When you went out alone, he always made sure you had not only your bodyguard close by, but his too.

A man shouted from somewhere behind you, his tone playful, but in the deliberately dominant, hostile manner that demanded the subjected woman to turn and give him what he wanted. "Hey, honey, why aren't you lookin' at us? We all know you ain’t shy!"

You half-wanted to turn, but you truly thought you were about to throw up, and that the sight of his sneering face might actually trigger regurgitation. At the assault and at the sound of his voice, you grabbed Michael's hand tighter. He felt the squeeze just as he'd registered what the man behind you had said, and immediately he bit the inside of his cheek, jaw flaring. Men often did call out at you that way, and he hated that he had to let it slide for the sake of his positive image. His hold on your waist tightened, and he considered retorting, but the reason he didn't lash out instantly was that he had no idea what the man had done to you physically.

"Almost there now, baby," he leaned over to whisper in your ear, pressing a kiss to your cheek. The press were still shouting the same repetitive intrusive questions that they'd started with upon your exit from the event, therefore it was no wonder that amidst the noise Michael hadn't noticed the vile action that had taken place just moments prior.

Beneath the chaos, you heard a sweet lady's voice—unfamiliar, but it was a nice break from the masculine aggression surrounding you. "Hey, are you okay?! I saw that man touch your—"

And then you heard a teenage girl beside her ask the same thing—although you hadn't a clue how they'd managed to get past all those domineering men.

You faked a smile to respond to their concern, unable to do anything other than conceal your anxiety, because Michael always kept you so protected that in a moment like this you felt incredibly submissive and unable to fight back with anything—not even words. You couldn't fault your husband for being so protective, but it just meant that naturally your nervous system couldn't deal very well with the shock whenever something did happen.

And now, Michael heard exactly what the lady said, as well as what the young girl had reiterated beside her. His heart skipped a beat.

"What are they talkin' about, angel?"

His words were muffled beside you—not in reality, but through your perception, because all you could focus on was how you were still somehow not in sight of Bill's limo yet, and the man who'd groped you was coming closer again.

"Honey," Michael said, his tone raised louder, arm still settled as an anchor around your waist, slender fingers continuing to ground you as much as they could in such an awful moment as this.

You looked at him, and a tear threatened to spill. But even without the liquid's exit from your orbs, Michael knew something was seriously wrong. The emotion hidden behind his aviators was threatening to be veiled no more.

"Did he touch you?" he asked into your ear, anger already lacing through his words because he could already surmise that his assumption was correct.

You bit your lip and nodded, taking a deep breath before looking ahead again, and smiling for a few more photos. God, you hated these people.

Michael kissed your cheek, then cupped your jaw to bring your attention back to him, and again he murmured in your ear. "Which one, baby?"

"I don't know, Mikey, I didn't turn back."

More shouts filled the limited space around you; from ahead, from the sides, and behind. "Sweetheart, we need one more! Give us your best!"

You were no longer in the mood for even the slightest fake smile. You were an object for their own economic and authoritative benefit, where they lived on the assumption that you'd always give them whatever they asked. It bothered you extremely that you had to play into it, and there had been enough obligation on your part for one night. So, now you looked only at Michael, and in your peripheral you finally caught sight of the limo you'd soon take refuge in.

As you focused on your husband, you noticed he was looking around, his expression largely unclear with the obscurity of his eyes, but he looked like he meant business. You realised that he must have been looking for the man who'd assaulted you, while Bill was tapping him on the shoulder incessantly, trying to get his attention about something. In all the disarray, you'd forgotten Michael's bodyguard was even there. All you’d been thinking about was his vehicle you yearned to be whisked away in.

But Michael waved him off. Surely he wouldn’t be able to find the exact man given the fact that neither of you had seen who it was, but what he did encounter was a sleazy guy in a suit, sneering at the two of you as he snapped more pictures. Indeed, it had been him—so very amused by how he'd managed to irk Michael to the point that he'd turned to face his camera head-on, achieving the most valuable shot of them all.

Yet, the man couldn't have predicted what came next of the calm-mannered celebrity before him.

"Hey, what the fuck do you think you're doin'?" Michael shouted, jaw held even tighter than the hold he had on you. "It was you, huh?"

You took another deep, shaky breath. Michael hardly ever got like this, and when you were the focus point of such anger, it was hard to provoke him to snap out of it. For a man that dealt with so much suffering constantly, in all areas of life, it was a surprise that his only weakness was you. The world had never even seen Michael Jackson so much as curse.

"Aw, what was me, Jacko?"

That really got him. Immediately Michael lunged, taking the bait even though he always knew that was exactly what they wanted.

"Michael," Bill warned gravely, taking sharp hold of his wrist to bring him back to earth. Luckily, he'd intervened before the man had been on the receiving end of Michael's fist, or before the camera had been smashed into pieces.

"Don't touch my wife ever again, I swear." Michael's voice had dropped several tones, now partially removed from his soft-spoken nature as he snapped at the man before him, ditching the sweet cadence for one of more assertion and depth. "She's not a piece of meat."

"Sure looks like it, though, right?" The guy continued to snarl, trying to provoke him even more, but while Michael opened his mouth to give in yet again, Bill thrusted him forward with a necessary force.

"You really can't be doing that, you know, Mike," he murmured into his ear.

"Michael," you gasped, rubbing your thumb over his knuckles to try to ground yourself. "I was fine, baby, you didn't need to say anything."

He shook his head. "No, I did need to. Can't let 'em think they can walk all over us, angel. C'mon, we're here now."

Finally, you'd reached the shiny black stretch limousine. Bill opened the door for the two of you, and you both slid into the backseat, Michael ushering for you to go first. Bill then checked on you to make sure you were alright, and ensured to investigate the situation tomorrow.

"Baby, why aren't the windows dimmed?" you asked as you settled into your seat. The cameras were now closing in on the car, housing every inch of the reflective space, and you felt suffocated, still reeling from the effects of what had happened. Not only had you been sexually assaulted, but Michael would be getting even more abuse than usual now, due to his 'inappropriate' response. You tried not to think about it, to calm down instead.

"I don't know, honey," Michael replied softly, his gentle tone having returned so seamlessly. "But we'll pass 'em all soon. C'mere—on my lap, angel."

Without needing to be told twice, you scooted over to your husband, sitting sideways on him, and eagerly snuggling into his warm chest. The beautiful, intimately familiar scent of Bal à Versailles wreathed through your senses, the notes of patchouli, incense and sandalwood intwining with vanilla-musk acting as a literal sedative for your overwhelm and anxiety.

"Hey, mama," Michael whispered, wrapping his arms tight around your waist and rocking you gently in his hold as you clung to him. "You're okay now, beautiful. Safe w'me..."

"Thank you, my love." You kissed a sliver of skin where the suit jacket slightly revealed his chest. "I hate how they treat me like a fucking object."

"I know," he murmured, smothering little kisses all over your face. "There was no way I was gonna let 'm get away with that. You tell me if anything ever happens again, alright? If anyone touches you in any way, talk to me about it, baby."

"Mhm," you hummed into his chest, not wanting to think about the possibility of that sort of thing happening again, even though you knew you were the prime prey for those disgusting men adjacent to the industry, or within it.

"Pretty dove," Michael muttered against the crown of your head, now holding up your chin with two fingers. Then he returned to kissing your warm forehead, warm from the heat of the gala and the stress of the attack. He remembered that you'd both intended to have a night of lovemaking, but now he expected that you were no longer interested, given that you'd just been through sexual violation.

"Y'not in the mood no more, princess? When we get back, we can just go to sleep. Whatever y' want..." He smiled reassuringly, making certain that you understood he didn't at all expect sex from you tonight.

But you were still interested in the plans you'd made. The only way to take your mind off the revolting invasiveness was to replace the memory of that man's touch with the contemporary presence of your own man's sweet, adoring touch instead.

"No, I need a distraction, honey. Need you..." you whispered quietly, and enveloped your fingers in his. As if on instinct, Michael brought your hand up to his lips and warmed the knuckles with his kiss.

"Alright mama, y'just tell me how y'want it. Always want my girl comfortable."

"I'm never uncomfortable with you, Mikey," you smiled, curling up into him even closer. "I love you," you spoke against the fabric of his suit, "I don't know what I'd do without you."

"We couldn't ever live without each other," Michael said sincerely, with a small smile as he kissed your nose now. His lips couldn't seem to leave you alone, and you hadn't even made it into the house yet, let alone the bedroom.

The car suddenly dragged over a speed bump, and it triggered your body to knock against him a little. Michael's hand instantly moved to cradle your head, with his arm tightening its grip on you, smoothing his free hand over your bare thigh beneath your mini dress.

"I need to forget about that disgusting freak's hand," you sighed.

Michael rubbed with a little more pressure over your ass and your thigh, up and down to soothe. The environment in the limo was placid, gentle-natured, a sharp distinction from what had just passed.

"This okay?" Michael whispered, referring to the reassuring movement of his fingers on your leg as he rested his head against yours. "No one touches my wife and gets away with it. Such a goddess, baby... Those shitheads can't keep their hands to themselves..."

"Mm, can't wait to be home, Mikey..." You shuffled a little on his lap, heart fluttering at how protective he was over you. He'd been this way since you were both blossoming into adolescence and a guy at school had taken you out for your first date. Michael did not play when it came to you. That was evident even in the way he elicited curse words solely when in defence of you.

Bored of being unable to see his face in the position you were in, you now moved to straddle his hips. Without asking, you pushed his dark sunglasses up onto his head, because even though he did look so sexy in the aviators, you disliked how they covered his beautiful eyes. "Angel face, lemme see you..."

Michael chuckled, his cheeks flushing a little as you pecked his nose, leaning forward to give him a butterfly kiss between your lashes and his. He made a soft noise of appreciation, an adorable sound that made you giggle, and within seconds you'd entered a makeout session, rocking your hips against his in the backseat.

While your tongues wrestled, you felt his bulge harden beneath his slacks, which only provoked you to writhe over him further. The sweet sound of your moans harmonised together against the wet smack of your mouths, and Michael's minty breath was seriously addictive.

But in your arousal-induced desperation, you'd forgotten all about Bill in the driver's seat.

"Hey, you two be careful back there," he said, startling both of you into finally dragging your faces from each other. "And don't go any further than that, please. For my sake."

You laughed against each other's lips. It was safe to say that unfortunately for Bill, he had seen way too much intimacy from you and Michael. The problem was that you were so obsessed with each other that you often forgot there were other people nearby. That was what always happened every time you performed onstage together too, although sexual chemistry in that context was often encouraged.

You turned your head back to respond with a grin. "We'll be good."

Then you were cupping Michael's cheek and kissing him again, but softly and more PG-friendly this time, after Bill's humorous reminder. Michael's grip around your waist was so tight, ensuring you didn't fall off his lap at any other speed bumps.

You leaned forward to rest your chin on his shoulder, no longer facing him but loving the feel of how his head now rested in the crook of your neck.

"My pretty baby... honeypie..." He whispered syrupy words over your chest, into your cocoa-scented skin. Your hands tangled in his shoulder-length curls, scratching lightly at his scalp, careful with his scarring in mind.

"Sweet angel..." you sighed into the air. "Can't wait to be home..."

Michael only continued to kiss at your neck and collarbone, toying with the hem of your dress where your cleavage was appealingly displayed.

Bill rolled his eyes with a knowing sigh.

"Mikey, he can see us, y'know," you giggled.

"I know, and I'll wait," Michael groaned. "But I just wanna have y' all to myself, mama—right now... Y' curves are killin' me..."

You kissed the top of his head and beamed at his words, stomach fluttering at how he loved on you, but you refused to tease any further until you were home.

"Y'sure you're okay for sex, darlin'?" Michael asked quietly. "I don't wanna press y' or anythin'."

"No, Mikey, don't worry, I told you—I just need to forget about what happened."

"Yeah, well, I'm not gonna forget about it. Tomorrow mornin' 'm gettin' my entourage to go over those tapes and the pictures, and we're findin' out the name of the man who did that to you. It won't be hard, considerin' they took about a million photos out there.”

"Thank you, baby," you sighed into his curls, but shuffling on his lap accidentally, and therefore eliciting a groan from his throat.

"You alright there?" you laughed, subtly rocking again—even though you knew you shouldn't.

"I'm great, honey." Michael smirked against your chest, biting his lip, before starting to kiss and suck up and down your neck again. "Gonna take such good care of my lady... soon as we get into our bedroom…”

You hummed airily.

"How'd y'want it, mama? 's your night, tell me..."

In truth, it was always your night where Michael was concerned. Everything he did was with you in mind.

You laughed in his ear. "Can't decide if I want it hard 'n fast or slow 'n deep."

"Well, how about we mix the two together, huh?" He gripped your asscheek with one hand, the other still tight on your waist.

You gasped, reaching your arm down immediately to smack his hand away. "Michael!" Bill's comment really hadn't deterred him at all.

He gently pushed your head backward so that you were now facing him as he looked up at you. "Dollface!" he teased.

You rolled your eyes, unable to do anything but smile. And then swiftly, Michael repositioned you back to resting sideways across his lap, curled into him. You yelped happily, purring against his chest, wrapping your arms around his neck like a koala. "Mikey..."

His hands continued to caress all over you, doting on every inch of your body that he could reach. One hand tugged softly at where your dress kept riding up your thighs. You felt so safe in his arms, he your anchor.

Finally, Bill pulled up at your mansion. "Alright, we're here now, lovebirds."

"Yay," you giggled against Michael, trying to prevent a yawn from slipping out, because then he'd instruct you to sleep instead. You only half-managed to prevent it, but he didn't notice, too busy angling your figure, preparing to bring you inside in a bridal carry.

It always felt heavenly when he carried you, for it was so easy to get lost in his touch, that touch which inherently possessed the safety he provided just for you.

"Thanks, Bill! G’night!" Michael called back as he headed to the front door, swaying your pretty body in his arms while you smiled.

"Yeah, bye, Bill!" you sung too, trying to crane your neck to see him, but you were nestled perfectly into Michael's chest.

You had almost forgotten entirely about what happened earlier, but of course the weight of the assault still lingered in your mind, and you knew that tonight Michael would do his utmost to truly distract you. He also wouldn't stop at mere distraction—he had to ensure you felt entirely comfortable, that you wouldn't be going to sleep that night with any anxiety.

Entering the door and into the lounge, Michael set you down on the floor, watching as you bent over for him, pretending to look for a piece of jewellery. You laughed, syrupy sweet, arching your back as you hiked your dress up to your hips, revealing a lace black thong.

Michael stood there stunned, lip between his teeth, wondering if he should just take you then and there. He loved to have sex while standing, and you looked so fucking pretty in your tight mini that had you half-naked now.

"Come get me, baby," you grinned, slowly pulling down the straps from your shoulders so that they hung loosely. "Don't just stop and stare."

Michael didn't wait a moment more to step forward. He stood behind you, his aching cock pressed up against your ass through his slacks, hands squeezing the supple skin of your lower curves.

"Want me to come get ya, huh?"

"Mmhmm," you whined, even more in the mood now. You reached one hand back to stroke his clothed shaft, gripping sensually. "Mikey, you're so hard for me..."

"Yeah, can you blame me, sweetheart?"

"Nope," you laughed, knowing exactly how sexy you were—especially in that dress. The colour complimented you so much, and the tightness of the fabric accentuated every perfect feature of your body.

You spun around, and Michael hooked his arms beneath your thighs, picking you up again so that your arms and legs wrapped around his strong physique. You didn't even get a chance to look at each other properly before your lips collided, amalgamating into a messy smash of saliva, tongues dancing. You whined in his mouth as he groaned into yours, now rushing up the staircase with you held tightly against the warmth of him.

You kicked your heels off while in his arms, the sound a loud clatter against the marble, and it was a good thing none of his entourage were here tonight, like they were whenever you stayed in hotels. It was always a loud night between the two of you, and during your vacation you hadn't had anyone to disturb. Now life was back to normal, and when your husband would continue the Bad world tour next week, unfortunately working for Michael Jackson meant hearing every devoted noise of passion as he made love to his wife each night they had the privilege of being together. Your careers and lives as parents meant that sometimes weeks or months would go by where you couldn't achieve a perfect night, so when you did get an opportunity, you used the hell out of it.

The master bedroom sprawled across nearly half a floor, more private penthouse than sleeping quarters. Cream-coloured marble gleamed beneath pools of warm lamplight, combining with the gold accents scattered through the room. A massive platform bed dominated the centre, draped in ivory silk sheets and crowned by a towering padded headboard upholstered in champagne suede. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around one side of the suite, exposing a glittering ocean of stars beyond.

Michael dropped you onto the bed with desperate force, though still with a gentleness somehow. You turned on all fours and arched your back for him, displaying the divine curves of your ass, olive-gold material decorating your torso and ending at your hips. You moaned softly as you arched, intending to tease.

"Aw, honey... You wan' it like this, yeah?" Michael asked, assuming you were initiating backshots.

You shook your head. "No, I'm just teasing ya, Mikey... Want you on top of me."

So you crawled up to the top of the huge bed, tugging down your panties, the soaked fabric almost fully clinging to your puffy folds. With a smirk, you threw the panties in his direction, where he now kneeled in front of you, and immediately they went in the pocket of his slacks.

"Such a perv, baby," you teased, spreading your legs wide and reaching down to rub your aching clit. Your breasts were literally spilling out of your tiny dress, the material virtually useless now, but you knew Michael enjoyed it when you looked as slutty as possible. He had countless polaroids and tapes of you half-naked, cleavage accentuated, head thrown back in pleasure—in some ways it aroused him more than seeing you fully nude.

Michael shook his head with a chuckle, in disbelief at how lucky he was to have you. And then before you knew it, he was settled between your legs, arms hooked around your thighs as he gazed at his pretty prize.

"Aw, mama..." he moaned, prodding at your entrance with his thumb, before beginning to rub it up and down your dripping slit. "Perfect pussy, baby. All for me, no one else..."

"Need your mouth, handsome," you sighed, one hand moving to wreathe your fingers through his thick hair as you shut your eyes, ready to embrace the pleasure.

"Be patient, angel," Michael whispered against your skin, before pressing his tongue flat against your cunt, dragging it upward in one clean swipe.

"Oh—"

"Yeah, I know, baby love, I know…” He continued to lap at your centre, smothering your pussy in his licks and kisses as he moaned and grunted.

“Michael—fingers, please—fuck, oh—” you gasped and moaned as you writhed over the sheets, the wetness of his tongue providing you the most perfect sensation.

The wet squelching sounds that filled the large room were filthy, while he ate you like a man starved. And then he slipped in two fingers, slowly, and your eyes clamped shut, toes curling as he hit your spot with ease. Onstage you’d watch from the sidelines as he would make thrusting motions with his fingers, and you knew it was how he felt the music, but it never failed to make you insanely horny. And what made things even better was that you knew how much those sort of movements had girls all over the world going crazy, while really their idol only had eyes for you. It was only you who would experience the talent of those beautiful hands.

“Yeah, like this, mama?” Michael murmured against your clit as he sucked the sensitive nerves into his passionate mouth, doing so while continuing to hit your spot with every thrust of his two digits.

“Mhm, just like that, baby…” you sighed, gripping the strands of his curls but again being careful not to do so over where he’d been scarred. “Oh, I love you, honey…”

“I love y’ too, baby girl… my beautiful wife,” he said into your folds, licking side to side against the soft flesh, fingers plunging into your walls. Michael was so incredibly talented in the bedroom—no man could possibly compare. Every little action of his was perfection. Oh, how grateful you were to have the privilege of calling him your husband.

It wasn’t long before you reached your first orgasm, followed by Michael kissing all over your thighs, continuing to press suctioned licks to your cunt as you came down from your high. Michael adored foreplay—he’d happily live in it forever, but at the same time he yearned to be inside you, to feel your tight walls squeeze and overwhelm his thick cock that was pulsing with need. He had incredible stamina, so you could go all night whenever you wished.

After viewing the beautiful sight of your man shedding his clothes, he pushed into you so slowly, caging your body with his to make you feel his utmost protection. One hand cradled your face, the warmth adding to the stimulation of down below, and the other hand kneaded your breast that he pulled out of your dress as he began to thrust.

“Baby, you’re so big—” you whined, always finding it difficult to initially adjust to the stretch of his girth, and the fat head of his cock pressing insistently within you.

“I know, pretty angel, but you’re takin’ me so well, like y’always do,” Michael whispered, rubbing one thumb over your cheek and his other over your extremely sensitive nipple, making you cry out. “Yeah, that feels good, sweet girl?”

“So good, baby…”

Michael’s pretty curls were splayed everywhere now, sexy strands dipping into his eyes and adorning the side of his face. You cupped his cheek too, staring into his eyes as he delivered the most passionate, achingly slow thrusts.

“Wanna give it to y’ slow 'n deep tonight, mama, is that okay? Need t’ make love to my baby all night… Don’t wanna stop ‘til the sun comes up…”

“Mhm, yes Mikey, don’t stop—this is perfect, baby…” You locked your legs around his torso, attempting to provoke his cock to nudge deeper into your womb.

“Don’t stop ‘til you get enough,” he laughed, and you smacked his arm playfully, a giggle protruding from your throat with another moan.

“Oh, you’d never get enough.”

“No way,” he shook his head with a grin, before leaning his head onto yours, gazing deeply into your eyes. “Y’so beautiful, my angel girl… Love feelin’ y’ squeeze me.”

Each line was punctuated with a deep thrust, the perfect slow strokes sending your eyes rolling into the back of your head each time he delivered another.

“Mm, thank you for tonight, baby,” you murmured, kissing his nose. His hips continued to snap into you, pounding your sweet spot with every slow drag. “Y’take such good care of me.”

“Always, princess,” he hummed under his breath, before speaking with clear sincerity, never letting up the sensual thrust of his hips. “You’re my lady. My precious goddess—you’re the most special thing that exists in my life.”

“Oh, angel…” you cried out, feeling your second orgasm approaching already. “Faster, please, baby…”

So Michael sped up, hitting your core with slightly more aggression now, born of the overwhelming emotions of passion felt within. Accompanying these faster strokes, he continued to talk to you.

“You’re always safe w’me, babydoll. Always in my arms, in our bed at the end of the night…”

You gripped at his shoulders, switching between that and raking your nails along the plane of his upper back.

“Grabbing at me like an animal, honey… Feels that good, huh?”

You nodded, but he didn’t see because his head was pressed against yours.

“Hm? Tell me, pretty baby.”

“Can’t—Mikey, 'm gonna—nnghh—cum—” you whined loudly, literally unable to form a coherent sentence because the pleasure was just too much.

Michael chuckled in your ear, a deep, warm sound, and it almost sent you over the edge. “Love makin’ you cum, mama, wanna do it over and over again… Put all my babies in you…”

“Angelface,” you smiled amidst another throaty moan.

“Don’t call me that,” he giggled shyly, trying to stay in control as his hips thrusted even harder. “You’re the one who came from heaven, honey.”

“Shh, Mikey, maybe we came down together,” you whispered, caressing the soft skin of his cheek. “Whatever helps you to listen to me. Mm—thank you for always taking care of me… Oh, baby, I’m gonna—”

“That’s alright, princess,” Michael cooed in your ear, speeding up his pace to meet what you craved. “I’ll get ya there. Oh, mama, y’so tight, 'm not gonna last much longer…”

And then your climax hit you, overwhelmingly so.

“Michael, oh!”

It was too much all at once—his honeyed voice, each deep thrust of his cock, his hand cradling your face and your breasts… The coil in your abdomen came undone, pleasure coursing through your veins as you shuddered through your orgasm.

“Shhh, that’s it…” Michael talked you through it, pounding you as hard as ever now. He’d ended up giving it to you both slow and fast as he’d intended to earlier, and it was the most perfect feeling. No matter the pace, Michael gave you his all.

“Oh, sweetheart, fuck, 'm gonna cu—oh—”

Another thing about your man was that he was incredibly vocal, exactly as he was onstage. In fact, the performance of his hips mirrored his onstage skill too, so in all respects he was a true performer in the bedroom.

As he writhed through his orgasm, torso pressed to yours, your bloodstream seemed to be infused with ecstasy. Those pretty sounds that spilled from his lips, the sweat from his forehead dripping into your hair, the erratic thrusts as he came down, the feel of his hot seed shooting in messy spurts directly into your womb… Sex with your husband had to be the single most beautiful thing on earth.

You weren’t even on the pill currently, but that didn’t matter, because since the seventies Michael had wanted eighteen children, and while that number was certifiably insane, you would give him as many as your body could handle, once your careers mellowed. He was never forceful about breeding you—he just adored you so much and loved to watch you carry and bear his kids. And of course, he was also insanely enamoured by the feeling and the sight of filling you up with his fertility. He loved to see your pretty cunt dripping with his pearly-white cum.

That same desire was how you’d ended up with three, despite being in the busiest decade of your lives. And if the two of you hadn’t been world-famous popstars, you truly would’ve had an entire football team of kids by now. Three was a tiny number compared to what Michael dreamed of, but it was all you could manage given that you were both in the prime of your careers.

Despite how confident Michael was sexually, he always grew so shy afterward, burying his head into your neck and interlacing his fingers with yours if they weren’t already; all the while refusing to look at you. Although, he couldn’t have been that modest, because his softening cock still filled you to the brim.

You stroked his hair soothingly, breathing in his gorgeous scent as he pressed kisses all over your neck and the side of your face.

When he lifted his head to kiss your earlobe, you squeezed his cheeks in one hand and dragged his face to yours. “Look at me, handsome. Stop hiding away like you’re shy or somethin’. You always do this.”

Michael flushed, grinning bashfully. “Wha’s that perfume you got on, baby?”

“It’s Poison,” you giggled. “By Dior.”

He nodded, taking a deep breath and settling a little downward to lay into your neck and chest, inhaling the rich scent of plum, tuberose and spice clinging to the dress that you were still scarcely clad in, below where your breasts had been dragged out of the fabric by him earlier.

“Suits y’, honey. Just magical…” His voice trailed off as he hummed the words into your skin, his usual post-sex whimsicality breaking through the persona he reserved for the stage and the bedroom. “Y’wanna watch some cartoons?”

“Of course, baby,” you chuckled, kissing his pretty head. His stamina was amazing, but there were often times like tonight where he grew so sleepy and soft after lovemaking, especially when he was worn out to begin with. And you really needed to catch up on sleep—you both did—but if your sweetheart wanted to stay up watching cartoons after giving you two orgasms in a row, you would accompany him happily.

Now he smiled with glee, nipping at your neck and your breasts. “Not done yet though, my love… Still need t’ make love t’ you some more… 'til dawn breaks through these windows…”

Speaking of those floor-to-ceiling windows, if anyone had been looking, they’d have seen pretty much everything. It was lucky you lived in a secluded area in Beverly Hills, but that still didn’t stop you from risking becoming accidental exhibitionists.

“Mikey, I love you, pretty boy…”

You knew how much he cherished being spoken to in that way when he was at his softest, essentially asking to be babied in your arms. Earlier he had been the dominant one, but moments of beautiful vulnerability like these were a huge part of your relationship too. Not only did Michael crave the feeling of being cared for so gently, but you thoroughly believed it was what he deserved.

He suffered through so much, never experiencing any real peace when not with you—and even with you sometimes the outside world made it difficult—so in your quietest alone time you made sure that boy felt so loved. Of course you would stay up until dawn with him to watch cartoons and make love, because you knew that even while he wouldn’t burden you by admitting so, he struggled terribly with sleep and suffered with chronic stress—especially as tour was about to begin again.

“You want me to put on Mickey or somethin’?” you asked him, combing your manicured nails through his mass of curls.

“Yeah,” he hummed. “Uh, the Disney LaserDisc. Mickey and the Beanstalk.”

You laughed quietly, cradling his soft, defined jaw. “You’re asking me to go over there and turn on a Disney cartoon while I’m dressed like a slut? Honey, y’haven’t even pulled out of me yet.”

“You’re not a slut—don’t call yourself that,” Michael murmured against one of your breasts.

“I didn’t say I was one. I said I’m dressed like one,” you corrected playfully, scratching lightly up and down his bare back.

A few moments of silence passed, and you thought Michael might’ve dozed off, but no—he was still wide awake, enjoying the innate peace exuding from your body.

“Michael.”

“Yeah?”

“Are you gonna pull out, or…?”

“I thought y’liked me to stay like this,” he muttered drowsily, so adorable pressed into your chest.

“I do, baby. But you’re asking me to turn on a cartoon and I can’t exactly do that from here.”

“Okay, whatever. Forget Mickey, 'm stayin’ just like this…”

You chuckled, sighing in content. He was all over you, body caging yours; genitalia intwined, cum drilled deep and seeping out onto the sheets in slow drops. You’d love another round, but if your beautiful boy could fall asleep on you right here, completely merged with you, you’d feel more glad than ever. All you could do now was attempt to send him off to sleep, cuddling him so close and whispering sweet words the way he always did to you. That’s what made your marriage work so well, even in the face of the inevitable setbacks—because you each knew when the other needed to be loved on, and you also knew exactly what was necessary to fulfil such a need. The last two hours had been the most admirable example of that dynamic.

hiii! this is my first michael fic within my series. feedback is appreciated, mwah ♥︎

to portray his uncle, much more than facial resemblance is required. the dance is what is going to tell everything; that's the reason that every day he spends more than 18 hours dancing in front of mirrors.

it's his first time seeing you.

when you open the door, he's surprised. you're beautiful—and you're dressed like a ballerina. not with a leotard and a tutu; you're wearing yoga leggings and leg warmers even though it's not that cold.

you smile at him. you have a pretty smile. you introduce yourself to him. his body has an immediate reaction when he hears your voice: a shiver goes down his spine, and his heart skips a beat.

"nice to meet you too. i'm jaafar."

"i know who you are. i'm sorry for being late. i think we can start with a relevé, what do you think?"

"no problem, ma'am."

you see him every tuesday.

but the fourth tuesday you see him is, for some reason, different. he's waiting for you with an iced caramel latte. it's not your favorite drink, but you still gladly accept.

jaafar is gentle in many ways: when he opens the door and lets you pass first, or when he asks you about how you spent your weekend. you convince yourself that he acts like this with everyone.

"did you like your coffee?"

"i did, thank you. are you enjoying our classes? i mean, i hope i'm not being too harsh on you..."

"no, it's totally fine—being honest with you...i'm not a ballet guy, you know. but michael was, and now i'm just trying my best with everything: the jazz classes, the hip hop classes...all of them."

you admire how jaafar is so determined to make the movie happen—his eyes linger on you. but not in a creepy way; you feel as if he is trying to unveil your soul.

it's overwhelming having all his attention on you; it burns you inside. that glance is what compels you to say:

"you're special, jaafar...in many ways. shall we start? today i want you to spin and spin as much as you can."

since he brought you coffee, you have started to be more open with him—it's not that jaafar has a crush on you.

alright.

maybe he has a little crush on you. otherwise, he wouldn't feel like a teenager every time you touch him.

but it's inevitable, when you're so sweet.

or when you pay attention to whether he's doing the spins right; the way you tilt your head if he fails to find his center. it's not like you're doing it on purpose; you're just being yourself, so charming.

today is no different.

he's warming up in the dance room while he waits for you to arrive.

you look stunning when you open the door; he feels like every time he sees you walking through that door, the urge to have you to himself grows stronger.

you're talking on the phone. your voice is quiet, almost like a whisper, but he still can understand what you're saying.

something about meeting someone...

and you finish the call saying, "goodbye, baby."

he is almost freaking out—because the thought of having a crush on a girl who is in a relationship and is his ballet teacher is totally fucked up.

and so unfair. because that means that the tension he felt was unilateral; you literally said that he was special. well, maybe you just meant special. and nothing more.

he pretends he's okay.

he can't find his center, no matter how many times you say to him that the secret is in the balance, not the force. he keeps replaying the memory of you calling someone other than him baby.

he could be your baby.

the next spin he does ends with him on the floor. his whole body is in pain: his feet, his knees. he wants to throw it all away—but you go abruptly to his side.

you don't know what happened to him; it's the first time he has fallen down in such a way. you're worried. you moisten your lips as you reach for his hands—they are soft, warm, and big. he doesn't look at you for a moment.

you just stay there with your fingers interlocking with his, and for a while, everything slows down.

the earth stops orbiting.

you stop breathing.

it's just you and him. you have no idea how much time has passed before he finally says something. he holds your hand tighter than ever, and he starts to get too close to you.

too close, in a way that you can feel his fresh breath, and you smell his intoxicating fragrance. and now, all you can think about is jaafar.

your thoughts are all on him; he's all on you.

"i just need to know one thing. are you with someone?"

"jaafar? n—no."

before you can complete your answer, his warm hands are now on your chin, and then you feel his lips pressing against yours. it's too good to be true. his hands run all over your body, leaving you in ecstasy. he presses closely against you, his tongue travels in your mouth—he bites your lower lip—and you breathe sharply.

fuck, it's too good.

the way he touches you, the way your body reacts to his. you're drowning in his arms; when he finishes kissing you—you're still dizzy and your legs are like jelly. thank god he's still holding you so firmly.

his voice is deeper, as if he had run a marathon; he's staring at you intensely, and you're melting every time he gently rubs your back with his hands.

"i have wanted to do this since the first time i saw you entering through that door."

"really?"

"really, baby. and i think now you have more things to teach me than ballet." you roll your eyes, and while he gives a sweet laugh, you gently smack his lips with yours.

"yeah, maybe i can teach a few things that aren't about spinning, mr. jackson."

He thought it was funny to tease you, little touches here and there, whispering nasty things all harmless

now he’s laying on the bed straight on his back with you over him whining about how he needs to hurry and get hard again.

“baby you drained me, ain’t nothing left…” he closed his eyes and groaned when you started rubbing him, cum coated your fingers from the last 3 sessions

“can’t you just try one more time?”

You didn’t sound stern because it wasn’t a domination thing, it was the repercussion of waking up the neediness within you.

“you don’t know how much i missed you marlonn” you put your face in his neck.

“I have an idea how much mama” he cursed himself for getting hard again.

Michael's infatuation with you wasn't always perverse in nature. He knew what kinda man Jackie was, he remembered those late nights at motel rooms where he was told to look out for whatever girl he was screwing around with last week didn't catch him with his new flavor of the week. He was never the type to settle down, the thought of marriage in his mind equating to his life being over before he had a chance to have his fun. Hell, he spent most of his life raising his brothers, God forbid he wanted to indulge in the sin of flesh before it was all over; fatherhood and the mundane replacing the fast-paced life he wanted to enjoy for just a little while longer. Michael was both too young to understand and not the type to judge either way. He didn't care about any of them; they never lasted long enough for him to. That was until you.

It started with a nosy, but innocent, curiosity. He wondered how you managed to turn his floozy of a brother into this doting fiancé and eventual husband. He didn't doubt it laid beyond your physical features, residing somewhere in your loving and patient nature and social acumen. Life started to feel normal with you; like summer cookouts by the pool with Jackie manning the grill while wearing a 'kiss-the-cook apron' and you not far from him in a tasteful one piece and designer shades sloped low on the bridge of your nose and late movie nights with a bucket of popcorn between the two of you while you made-out like teenagers under the warm lamplight.

You fit into the rhythm of their lives, filling up a space he didn't know he needed. Then he starts to linger on things, stupid things. Like that one time you overheard Joseph make fun of his features for the umpteenth time and he bit his tongue trying not to cry when he thought he was alone in the hallway.

"Don't worry about him, sweetheart." He tried to forget his room was next to Jackie's, but he laid awake hoping for any small run ins he could get with you. A towel was wrapped around your head, and your face was still dewy from your shower. You were wearing some old t-shirt, one of Jackie's old shirts, that made him look like a giant with the way it hung loosely on your frame. "You'll grow into your nose, and that acne will go away sooner or later."

You had this look in your eye, like this was more than an empty pep-talk he had time and time again from people who didn't understand how deeply his appearance ate at him. You seemed to get it. Or maybe he wanted too badly to be seen by you in a way more profound than being the brother of your husband who you were obligated to be nice to. You gave him a small smile, "Your daddy's a lost cause though, time don't help ugly." And he couldn't help but chuckle with you.

Moments like that started to pile up. Innocuous things that he probably shouldn't think so hard about but still kept him up at night. Then the teasing started. It was no secret that Michael was incredibly expressive, especially to his own detriment when it came to you. He started looking for you in every room. He asks you to accompany him to his studio sessions and the award ceremonies he gets invited to and struggles to conceal his immense disappointment anytime you turn him down. If it wasn't for Marlon catching onto him and being the blab who told his brothers about his little crush, he'd continue to follow you like some puppy at your heels into every room you went into.

And he wishes it stopped at just that. He wishes his guilt was strong enough to stop him from trying to sneak glimpses of you in the shower, your figure blurred by the steam on the shower walls, but the outline of your curves was more than enough to sate him (at least for now). And while he feels positively disgusting being up so late at night, listening intently to the sound of his brother putting you through the mattress, calling out his real name because Jackie was too impersonal to you. He was Jackie to the world and his brothers, and Sigmund to practically only you. It made Michael's skin crawl. He really shouldn't be listening to this. Sex was supposed to be something sacred, an act only between husband and wife, and here he was with his hand down his pajama pants; a secret intruder in something that was meant to be shared only between the two of you.

He can't look at you anymore. To be fair, he struggled looking you in the eyes before, but now, the shyness is replaced with a burning shame. He tries to get a girlfriend after that. He thinks that maybe if he got a girl of his own, he'd stop wishing you could be his. He hoped that maybe this infatuation was just the by-product of his sexual awakening. Surely, he wasn't the first person in history to have a slight obsession with a brother's wife, and he certainly wouldn't be the last.

Maybe this was more normal than he was allowing it to be, instead simply just the consequence of years long sexual repression and the fear of breaking out of it. This didn't have to be a case of unadulterated and insatiable lust. If he was being generous, it was just proof of the parable of the caves; what he thirsted for was a knowledge of the world greater than the shadows presented to him, not just a chance to get at whatever heaven was between your legs. He just really needed to get his dick wet, and it didn't need to be you. He just wanted it to be. Really badly.

But if everyone was being honest, his little girlfriend was always bound to just be a version of you. That's when Jackie really catches on. He thought it was funny at first, he'd even go as far as to say he took it as a compliment. Imitation is the highest form of flattery or whatever they say. You thought nothing of it, however, and that was probably the hardest part for him. Here he was parading a carbon copy of you to the point where it was almost believable that she was made in a lab, Michael creating her in your image. That was devotion. What did Jackie know about that?

So what, he gave up having a different girl every day of the week once you waltzed in. Michael wouldn't even look at other women. He couldn't physically think of women. On the quest to find his own love, all he could find was a version of you and he wasn't even an option to you. It's like he doesn't even occupy the same reality as you. Like you were some thing that he can only see but never have. A mirage in his desert of reciprocation, promising that you would love him back but not in the way he needed. But that was the best and worst part. He was completely unassuming.

It was only a matter of time before the two of them broke up. He wasn't good at that part either. He left the poor girl then immediately hopped on a plane to New York. Onto bigger and better things, thinking the distance would finally knock some sense into him. But Latoya is long gone out with her friends and it's just him in the apartment, and he starts to feel that itch again after trying to stave it off. He tried counting sheep and watching old re-runs of black and white TV shows, but you're still in the back of his mind where you always are. Next thing he knows, it's nearly 3 a.m and there's only one thing he can think of doing.

"Hello?" Your voice was groggy with sleep. Jackie was at the studio and you had only called it a couple hours ago after trying to wait up for him.

"Oh-I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you." In fact, he wished you hadn't answered at all. It was a stupid idea, but by the time his hand snaked into his pants and wrapped around the base of his dick, his brain was too foggy to think clearly. He was just so tired. And needy. And above all else desperate for a release anyway he could get it. That girl just couldn't scratch the itch. She was never going to, but God did he want her to so he didn't have to admit he had it this bad.

"Mikey? You okay?" His heart ached. You were genuinely concerned. His voice was breathy and light, and you had assumed the worst. His grip was almost as tight on the phone as it was on his dick. He exhaled shakily, experimentally stroking himself to the thought of your pretty face.

"I'm f-fine, jus'... Latoya's out right now and I wanted someone to talk to, I guess." You were silent on the other end before you connected the wrong dots.

"Oh, Mikey. I'm sorry." His thumb rubbed at his leaky tip, already red with pent up frustration. His breath hitched in his throat as he coated his dick eagerly in what leaked out.

"It's ok. It wasn't meant t-to last." His eyes were squeezed shut. His mind drifted to what you would be wearing right now, one of those silk teddies that stopped right below the curve of your ass, or maybe one of those matching sets that you loved so much. Or even better, nothing but a t-shirt and a pair of panties, something big and comfortable, a piece of his merch with his face printed on it. Just him. Not his brothers. Especially not Jackie. He bit his tongue so hard that a metallic taste came over his taste buds, the moan he was trying to hold back rumbling in his throat.

"But still, first relationships are a big deal, honey. Doesn't matter how long they last." The way his breath rattled on the line, you assumed he was crying, and to be fair, at this point tears were rolling down his eyes. His mouth was half open, his head thrown back, his chest heaving as he tried to control his breath. He couldn't figure out if he liked the fervor with which he stroked himself or the pressure that came whenever he squeezed at his shaft. He ultimately decided he liked the thought of you doing it for him best.

"I know, I know. It still h-hurts." He really wasn't lying. He wasn't sure he'd ever been this hard before, and he'd certainly never gotten this close to cumming before. He hardly even knew that was the feeling building in his stomach. It felt overwhelming. All-consuming. It felt like ecstasy and he didn't quite understand the most efficient way to chase it. You had the perfect voice for this. Even over the crackling phone, your breaths even and slow, your voice like dripping honey, your presence, though not physical, so soothing that you could cure what was aching no matter how far you were.

"It's going to, but that's how heartbreaks work. You gotta go through it to get through it." With the twist of his hand, he almost blew his cover, that and the sound of his sheets rustling with how hard he bucked into his fist. It was tantalizing. He was so close. He just needed you to say his name again, then it would finally be over. He just wanted to hear it out of your mouth, just for him, in this moment so he could close his eyes and pretend that you knew exactly what he was doing. He didn't even need you to need it as bad as him, he would be content with knowing you did it because he needed it.

"You're so good t' me, you know. Don't know what I'd do without you." He could just hear you smile on the other end. You loved to be needed. He didn't know why you didn't see how perfect you were for each other. He needed you more than anything else.

"Good night, Mikey. I love you." Oh, that did it. He expected it to be loud, that's how it felt racking through his body, but when he opened his mouth, nothing came out. His vision went out for a second, and if you said anything on the phone it was met with deaf ears. He didn't realize it was over until he tasted salty tears on the tip of tongue and looked down to see the mess he made on his sheets. His hand was covered in his spent and he didn't even wanna see what he did to the phone handle.