#michael jackson

𝒜 few days ago, you decided it was finally time to get a part-time job.

Between college classes, studying, and trying to maintain some semblance of a social life, you didn't need anything too demanding. Still, having a little extra money in your pocket certainly wouldn't hurt.

You'd always been good with kids. Years of babysitting younger cousins had made looking after children feel almost second nature, so when you stumbled across an opening for a nanny position, it seemed like the perfect fit. Flexible hours, decent pay, and work you already knew you enjoyed. Simple.

Or so you thought.

The application itself had been straightforward enough, and you certainly hadn't expected a response so quickly. What you expected even less was the name attached to the acceptance email sitting in your inbox.

Michael Jackson.

You had stared at the screen for a solid minute before rereading it. Then another minute after that. Surely there had to be another Michael Jackson.

There wasn't.

Somehow, against all odds, you'd just been hired as the nanny for one of the most famous people on the planet.

You hadn't submitted some special application. You hadn't pulled strings or known somebody who knew somebody. You had simply applied for a nanny position because you needed a part-time job. And somehow, that had led here.

The days leading up to your first shift weren't much better. Every time you remembered where you'd be working, your stomach performed a small acrobatic routine. You spent an embarrassing amount of time debating what to wear, eventually settling on something professional but comfortable. The night before, you barely slept.

Every possible scenario ran through your mind. What if the children didn't like you? What if you accidentally broke something expensive? What if you got lost inside the house? What if Michael Jackson himself answered the door?

That last thought was ridiculous. Surely someone else would greet you.

Still, by the time the morning of your first day arrived, your nerves were stretched tighter than piano wire.

The drive to the estate was longer than you'd anticipated. The familiar suburban roads gradually gave way to winding streets lined with towering trees, the scenery growing quieter and more secluded with every mile.

By the time the massive iron gates appeared in front of you, your stomach had already begun twisting itself into knots. You were used to small apartments and campus coffee shops, not sprawling estates that looked like they belonged in a movie.

This was ridiculous.

When the car finally pulled up the long, gravel driveway, you found yourself staring up at the house in silence. It was beautiful, sure, but it was also intimidating. It was a place of quiet elegance and old money, a place where every blade of grass seemed perfectly in place.

Taking a deep breath to steady your racing heart, you grabbed your bag and stepped out of the car. It was just a job. That was all. You were here to look after three children, earn a paycheck, and hopefully not embarrass yourself in front of a global superstar.

Easy.

The lie sounded considerably less convincing the closer you got to the front door.

Before you could knock, the front door swung open. You instinctively straightened.

But instead of the superstar you'd seen plastered across magazine covers and television screens for years, you were greeted by a woman in a crisp professional uniform.

"You must be the new nanny," she said, stepping aside to usher you into the foyer. "Come in, please. Don't just stand there outside."

As you stepped inside, the first thing that hit you was the the scent of something expensive, like sandalwood and fresh lilies. The foyer was massive, with high ceilings and polished floors that made your footsteps echo. It was beautiful.

"I'm Martha," the woman said, leading you down a wide hallway. "I handle the household management here. The children are currently in the playroom, but Mr. Jackson is in the study. He'll want to greet you properly once you've had a moment to settle in and meet the little ones."

She led you toward a set of large, arched doors at the end of the hall. As you walked, you could hear the faint, muffled sound of laughter and high pitched voices coming from somewhere deeper in the house. It was a sharp, human contrast to the quiet elegance of the hallway.

"Prince, Paris, and Blanket," Martha continued, her voice softening just a fraction. "They can be a handful, especially Prince, but they're good children. Once you get to know them, you'll see."

She pushed open the playroom doors, and the sudden burst of energy nearly knocked you back. The room was bright, filled with sunlight and scattered toys, and there they were, three kids who were about to become your entire world in the months to come.

Martha smiled and stepped back, leaving you alone in the center of the playroom. "I'll go let Mr. Jackson know you've arrived. He'll be with you in a moment." With a polite nod, she disappeared back into the hallway, the heavy doors clicking shut behind her.

The sudden silence was short lived.

Three pairs of curious eyes locked onto you, their play momentarily forgotten. They were a lively, chaotic blur of motion and color, the room a minefield of toy blocks and stuffed animals.

Paris was the first to move. She approached you with a cautious but curious expression, her small hand gripping a drawing. "Are you really going to stay here with us?" she asked, holding the paper up for you to see. It was a colorful, abstract sketch of a cat, the lines bold and confident.

"I sure am," you said, kneeling down to her level. "And that's a really great drawing.”

"Thank you," she beamed, her face lighting up with pride.

Beside her, Prince stood with his arms crossed, looking you up and down with a skeptic expression. "Do you know how to play hide and seek?" he asked, his voice serious.

"I'm pretty good at it," you replied, offering them a small, genuine smile. "But I'm even better at finding people."

Blanket, the youngest, had already wandered over to you, tugging on the hem of your shirt and pointing toward a large pile of pillows in the corner. "Can we make a fort?" he asked, his eyes wide and hopeful.

Before you could answer, the sound of the door opening again drew your attention. You turned, and there he was.

Michael Jackson stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame. He wasn't wearing the flashy stage clothes you'd seen in photos; he wore simple black trousers and a loose white button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His expression was calm, but as he looked at you, there was a flicker of curiosity in his dark eyes. He didn't speak right away; he just watched you, taking in the sight of you sitting on the floor with his children. Then he smiled.

"Well, that was fast," Michael said from the doorway. Prince immediately pointed at you. "She's good at hide and seek."

"I haven't even played yet," you laughed, not yet really registering that Michael Jackson was standing right there. "Yeah, but she said she's good at it," Prince argued.

Michael covered a smile with his hand. "That's all the proof you need?"

"Yep."

Then it clicked. You froze for a split second, your heart performing a frantic, uneven rhythm against your ribs. Holy shit, your brain screamed. It’s actually him. It’s really him.

Internally, you were spiraling.

The Michael Jackson you'd seen in magazines and on television had always felt larger than life, someone distant and untouchable. But standing here, in the middle of a playroom with three children arguing over fort-building materials, he suddenly felt very real.

And he was looking right at you.

A thousand ridiculous thoughts rushed through your head all at once. Was your hair a mess from the drive? Did you have something on your shirt? Why were your palms suddenly sweating?

Don't trip. Don't stutter. Don't make a fool of yourself.

You forced yourself to take a steady breath and pushed the panic aside. You weren't here as a fan. You were here to do a job. The last thing you wanted was for him to think you were some starstruck girl who had wandered into his house by accident.

Rising to your feet, you smoothed your hands over your clothes and offered him a small smile. Hopefully it came across as polite and professional.

Hopefully it didn't reveal the fact that your heart was currently trying to beat its way out of your chest.

"Hello," you said, rising to your feet and offering him a small smile. "I'm [Name]. It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Jackson."

For a moment, his gaze lingered on you. Not in an uncomfortable way—just long enough to suggest he was taking you in properly.

"The pleasure is mine," he replied warmly.

Before either of you could say anything else, Blanket tugged on your sleeve.

"We're building a fort," he announced.

A smile immediately spread across Michael's face.

"Are you now?"

Blanket nodded enthusiastically. "A huge one."

"[Name] said she'd help."

Michael's eyes flickered back to yours, amusement dancing in them.

"Well, sounds like you've already been recruited."

You laughed softly. "I didn't realize I'd be getting assigned duties within the first five minutes."

"Oh, they're very efficient around here," he said with a straight face.

Paris giggled.

"They've been very welcoming," you added. "Blanket was just pitching the fort idea before you came in."

"A fort sounds like a wonderful idea, Blanket," Michael said, stepping further into the room.

His entire demeanor seemed to soften as he approached his children. He reached down and ruffled Blanket's hair, earning an immediate grin from the little boy.

"But don't wear yourselves out too much, alright?" he continued, glancing between Prince and Paris. "You have a very busy day of playing tomorrow."

"Dad," Prince groaned dramatically.

"What?"

"We play every day."

"Exactly," Michael replied. "Which means you gotta pace yourselves."

The children immediately dissolved into protests, their complaints overlapping one another as they insisted they weren't tired in the slightest. Michael only laughed at their dramatic reactions, shaking his head fondly. There was something almost infectious about the warmth he carried around them. The way he looked at his children made it painfully obvious how much he adored them.

After a few moments, his attention drifted back to you.

"Since you'll be spending a lot of time here, why don't we take a quick tour?" he suggested. His voice was easy and inviting, never demanding. "I just want to make sure you know where everything is. It's a big house, and it can be pretty easy to get lost."

You couldn't help but glance down the seemingly endless hallway stretching before you. Judging by the size of the place alone, he was probably right.

"That would be lovely, thank you."

A small smile tugged at his lips before he motioned for you to follow. As the two of you left the playroom behind, the sounds of the children arguing over fort-building supplies gradually faded into the background.

The house was even more impressive once you saw it properly. Every hallway seemed to lead to another wing, every room larger than the last. Michael guided you through it all with quiet patience, pointing out the library, the dining room, various sitting areas, and the sprawling gardens visible through the tall windows. He never rushed through his explanations, occasionally glancing your way to make sure you were keeping up.

Despite your nerves, you found yourself slowly relaxing in his company.

As you approached the grand staircase, Michael's pace slowed until he eventually came to a stop. His expression shifted slightly, as though he had just remembered something important.

"There is one thing I'd like to ask you."

You turned your attention toward him immediately.

"My schedule can be a little unpredictable sometimes," he explained. "There are periods where rehearsals run late or work keeps me away from home longer than expected. On those occasions, would you be comfortable staying here overnight?"

For a moment, you blinked.

It wasn't an unreasonable request. In fact, considering the circumstances, it made perfect sense. Still, the responsibility behind it wasn't lost on you.

"You'd have your own guest room, of course," he added. "I just like knowing someone is here with the children when I can't be."

The concern in his voice was genuine.

"Oh," you said, offering him a reassuring smile. "Yeah, that's completely fine. I don't mind at all."

The visible relief that crossed his features made it seem as though he'd been more worried about your answer than he'd let on.

"That's good to hear," he replied softly. "Thank you."

For a brief moment, the conversation seemed finished. Michael started to continue down the hallway before hesitating. When he looked back at you, there was something almost shy in his expression.

"And please," he said after a small pause, "you don't have to call me Mr. Jackson."

Your eyebrows lifted slightly.

"I don't?" A quiet laugh escaped him. "No. It makes me feel a lot older than I actually am."

That finally earned a laugh from you.

"Alright then, Michael." Something about hearing his name from your lips seemed to brighten his smile.

"Yeah," he said softly. "Michael is fine."

Settling in with the Jackson family was easier than you ever could have anticipated. The children were delightful little things, and you quickly found yourself becoming a fixture in their daily lives.

You spent your afternoons in a blur of activity. The siblings were funny as a trio.

"Can we build a fort?" Blanket would ask.

"A giant one?" you would ask back.

"A giant one."

"With blankets?"

"Obviously."

Prince groaned dramatically. "He always wants a fort."

"Because forts are cool."

"No," Paris corrected. "Because you're five."

Or sitting quietly on the floor to help Paris with her coloring books, running around the gardens, playing endless games of hide and seek with Prince. They were a handful, sure, but they were sweet, and they made the massive house feel warm and alive.

And then there was Michael.

Being around Michael quickly became one of the easiest parts of your day. Despite everything he was—the fame, the success, the larger-than-life reputation—he never made you feel intimidated. He was unfailingly kind and respectful, always mindful of your space and never overstepping, yet there was a warmth about him that drew people in without him even trying.

Before long, you found yourself looking forward to the quiet moments you happened to share.

Sometimes it was a brief conversation in the kitchen while you prepared snacks for the children. Other times, you'd run into him late in the evening after finally getting the kids settled for bed, only for a quick greeting to turn into a twenty-minute conversation.

The topics themselves were rarely anything extraordinary. You'd tell him about a book you'd been reading, a class you hoped to take in college, or some funny thing one of the children had said earlier that day. In return, he'd share stories from his travels, his work, or whatever happened to be on his mind.

What surprised you most was how attentively he listened.

Most people listened just enough to respond. Michael listened because he genuinely wanted to hear what you had to say. He remembered little details from previous conversations, asked thoughtful questions, and somehow always made you feel as though whatever you were talking about was the most interesting thing in the world.

It was a small thing, really.

But there was something comforting about the way his eyes softened whenever you spoke, as if he was completely present in the moment and nowhere else he'd rather be.

Then, as expected, first crack in your composure appeared.

It was a warm afternoon, and you were wearing a simple, light sundress, something easy and comfortable. As you were walking past the library, Michael stepped out, catching your eye. He paused, his gaze lingering for just a second.

"That color really suits you," he said softly, a small, appreciative smile playing on his lips. "It compliments you beautifully."

You smiled bashfully and looked down at your dress. "This old thing?"

At that he frowned, and countered, "No, don't do that."

Now you looked at him with a slightly confused expression, "Do what?"

"The thing where somebody compliments you and you immediately insult yourself." You blinked. "I'm serious," he continued. "You look nice. Just say thank you."

A reluctant smile tugged at your lips. "Thank you."

"There. See? Much easier."

Later that night, you finally made it home.

The apartment greeted you with the familiar smell of takeout containers and the faint glow of the television illuminating the living room. Your boyfriend was exactly where you expected him to be, stretched across the couch with his phone in hand.

"Hey," you greeted, kicking off your shoes near the door.

"Hey, babe."

You set your bag down and wandered into the kitchen for a glass of water.

"Today was actually pretty good," you said. "The kids were adorable. Prince tried helping me with the laundry." A small chuckle escaped you at the memory.

"He ended up folding everything into little squares. It was sweet, but I had to redo half of it."

"Mhm."

You glanced toward the living room. His eyes never left his phone. Still, you continued.

"Blanket spent most of the afternoon trying to convince everyone to build a blanket fort. Apparently it was a matter of national importance." That earned a brief laugh.

"Sounds about right." You smiled faintly and leaned against the kitchen counter.

The conversation stalled. For a moment, all you could hear was the soft clicking of his thumb against the screen and the distant noise of the television.

"It's strange," you found yourself saying. "That house." This finally seemed to get a little more of his attention. "What about it?"

"I don't know." You shrugged. "It's just... different."

"Different how?"

You searched for the right words. "Lively, I guess. There's always something going on. Even when everything's quiet, it never really feels empty." He nodded absentmindedly. "Michael was showing me around today, and somehow we ended up talking about my classes for like twenty minutes."

"That's nice." His response came automatically. The kind of response people give when they're listening just enough to be polite. You looked down at your glass.

"Yeah."

Silence settled between you again. You hated how disappointed that made you feel. Not because he'd said anything wrong. He hadn't. He wasn't being cruel or rude. He wasn't starting a fight. He wasn't even ignoring you entirely.

But while you were standing here trying to tell him about your day, it felt as though his attention was somewhere else entirely. A few months ago, he would've asked questions. Now, it felt like he was simply waiting for the conversation to end.

"Anyway," you said quietly, forcing a smile. "I think I'm gonna take a shower."

"Okay, babe." His eyes never left the screen. As you turned toward the hallway, an uncomfortable feeling settled in your chest.

For the first time, you found yourself comparing the way people listened to you. And that thought bothered you more than you wanted to admit.

A few days later, you were babysitting for Michael again. In the kitchen, you reached for a glass on a high shelf when you felt him step in behind you.

“Need a hand with that?” Michael’s voice was low, just beside your ear.

“Oh! No, I’ve almost got it,” you said, stretching your fingers toward the rim of the glass.

Before you could grab it, his arm lifted past yours, brushing lightly against you as he took it down with ease. When he handed it over, he didn’t immediately let go. His fingers lingered against yours, his thumb tracing a slow, absent motion across the back of your hand—far too deliberate to feel accidental.

The air in the kitchen seemed to shift, suddenly heavier. You froze, your breath catching as you looked up at him. He was already watching you. His gaze held yours, steady and searching, like he was waiting for something.

His hand stayed there a moment longer, warm against yours, before he finally let go.

“There you go,” he said with a small smile.

There was no explanation for it.

Or at least none that you were willing to give yourself.

After that afternoon in the kitchen, neither of you ever mentioned what had happened. Michael continued on as though everything was perfectly normal. He was still polite, still thoughtful, still the same gentle man you'd come to know over the past few weeks. If anything, he seemed even more careful around you.

And yet, despite the lack of words, something had shifted.

You began noticing it in the smallest moments. A hand brushing yours when he passed you a plate during dinner. Fingers lingering against your palm for a second longer than necessary when he handed you a book or a cup of coffee. Nothing inappropriate. Nothing you could point to and confidently call intentional.

Just enough to leave you wondering.

The looks were somehow worse.

More than once, you'd glance up from whatever you were doing only to find his eyes already on you. Sometimes from across the room while the children played. Other times from the doorway of the kitchen while you prepared snacks. He never stared for long. The moment your eyes met, a small smile would tug at his lips before he looked away again and continued whatever he had been doing.

It should have been harmless. Maybe it was harmless, but you found yourself thinking about it anyway.

The problem was that Michael noticed things.

He noticed when you were tired. He noticed when you seemed stressed after class. He remembered small details from conversations you'd had weeks ago and somehow always knew exactly what questions to ask.

It was such a simple thing, and yet it felt surprisingly rare. Your boyfriend used to be like that, at least, you thought he used to be.

Lately, your conversations had become shorter and shorter. Calls went unanswered. Messages sat unopened for hours. When he did respond, it often felt like he was only half paying attention, his mind somewhere else entirely.

At first you told yourself it was just a rough patch. Everyone got busy. Everyone got distracted.

But the excuses became harder to make when days started passing without a single meaningful conversation. The contrast was impossible to ignore.

You hated yourself a little for noticing it.

Every time Michael remembered something you'd mentioned in passing. Every time he asked how an exam had gone. Every time he stopped what he was doing just to genuinely listen to your answer.

You weren't looking for reasons to compare them, they just kept presenting themselves. And the more they did, the more unsettled you became, because somewhere along the way, those lingering touches had stopped surprising you. And that realization was far more dangerous than any accidental brush of hands could ever be.

Once again, you fell into the comfortable rhythm you came to appreciate over the last few months. After dinner came baths, pajamas, and the endless negotiations that accompanied bedtime.

"One story," you told Blanket firmly as you tucked him beneath the covers.

"Three."

"One."

"Two."

You narrowed your eyes. He narrowed his right back.

"One."

Blanket sighed dramatically, as though you'd personally ruined his entire week.

"Fine."

Across the room, Paris giggled into her pillow.

Prince looked up from the book in his lap. "You know he does this every night, right?"

"I've noticed."

"And it works every time."

"It does not."

"It kinda does," Paris corrected. You gasped in mock offense. The children dissolved into laughter, the sound warming something in your chest.

You'd only been with the family for a couple of months, but moments like this had already become familiar. Comfortable. Easy.

By the time the final story had been read and the last glass of water delivered, the children had begun drifting off one by one. Paris was the first. Prince fought sleep with admirable determination before eventually losing the battle.

Blanket lasted longest of all, "You'll be here tomorrow, right?" he mumbled sleepily. You smiled.

"Of course."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

Satisfied, he finally closed his eyes. The room fell quiet.

For a few moments, you simply sat there, listening to the soft hum of the air conditioning and the steady rhythm of three sleeping children. Then your eyes drifted toward the clock.

10:47 PM.

Michael had called earlier that afternoon to explain that rehearsals were running late. He'd likely be gone most of the night.

Which meant you'd be staying over.

You quietly slipped from the room, careful not to wake anyone, and made your way downstairs.

The house felt entirely different at night.

The laughter and noise that usually filled it had faded away, leaving only silence behind. Moonlight spilled through the tall windows, casting pale ribbons of silver across the polished floors. You wandered into the living room and sank onto one of the couches.

Almost immediately, your eyes flickered toward the telephone sitting on the side table. Nothing. No missed calls. No messages. No voicemail. Your stomach sank.

Again.

You'd spoken to your boyfriend for less than ten minutes over the past three days. At first you'd made excuses. He was busy. Work was stressful. Life happened.

But lately it felt as though every conversation had become an obligation. Something to get through. Not something either of you actually looked forward to anymore.

You stared at the phone for another moment before reaching for it. Maybe he'd just forgotten, or got distracted. Maybe—

The line rang. Once. Twice. Three times. Eventually he picked up.

"Hey." No enthusiasm. No warmth.

Just... hey.

"Hi." A pause. "What's up?" You swallowed.

"I was just calling."

"Okay."

The silence stretched. You found yourself gripping the receiver tighter. "I haven't heard from you all day." Another pause.

"Yeah. I've been busy." Something sharp twisted in your chest.

You've been busy for three days." A sigh crackled through the line.

"[Name]..."

"No, seriously." You leaned forward, frustration bubbling to the surface. "I'm not asking for a three-hour conversation. I'm asking for a phone call."

"I texted you."

"You sent me two words."

"It still counts." A humorless laugh escaped you. "Wow."

"What?"

"You really think that's the same thing?" His own patience seemed to snap. "Why are we even arguing about this?"

"Because I'm tired."

"Tired of what?"

"Tired of feeling like I'm bothering you every time I want to talk to my own boyfriend." Silence. Then another sigh. Louder this time, more irritated. "You're blowing this way out of proportion."

Your eyes squeezed shut. There it was.

Every single time.

Any time you tried talking about something that upset you, somehow you became the problem. "I'm not blowing it out of proportion."

"You are."

"No, I'm telling you how I feel."

"And I'm telling you that you're overthinking everything." The words hit harder than they should have. Because part of you already knew they weren't true.

You weren't overthinking, you were lonely. And somehow that felt worse. "You know what?" you said quietly.

"What?"

"Forget it."

"[Name]—"

"No." Your voice cracked slightly. "I don't want to do this right now." Before he could answer, you hung up, the click echoed through the empty room.

For a long moment, you simply sat there staring at the receiver in your hand. The silence that followed felt deafening. Slowly, you set the phone back onto its cradle.

You told yourself not to cry. You were too old to cry over a stupid phone call. Too old to cry over a relationship that had clearly been falling apart for months.

And yet the first tear slipped down your cheek anyway. Then another. You quickly wiped them away, but more followed.

Soon your vision blurred completely. You curled slightly into yourself on the couch, pressing the heel of your palm against your eyes as quiet sobs shook your shoulders.

The massive house around you remained silent. No television, no laughter, no conversation. Just you.

And the overwhelming realization that somewhere along the way, you'd stopped feeling loved. That was what hurt the most.

You didn't hear the front door open, and you also didn't hear the quiet footsteps crossing the foyer. You didn't hear anything at all.

The argument kept replaying in your head, each word feeling worse now that the anger had worn off. Your chest hurt. Your eyes burned. No matter how many times you wiped at your face, fresh tears kept slipping free.

You were so caught up in your misery that you nearly jumped when a familiar voice spoke.

"[Name]?" Your head snapped up.

Michael stood at the entrance of the living room. He looked tired from a long day, dark, smooth hair slightly disheveled and the sleeves of his shirt rolled to his forearms.

The moment his eyes landed on your tear-streaked face, his entire expression changed. Concern immediately replaced whatever exhaustion he'd been carrying.

"What happened?" You quickly looked away. "Nothing." The answer came too fast. Too automatic.

Michael's eyebrows drew together. "[Name]."

The simple way he said your name almost made you cry harder. You laughed weakly through your tears. "I'm okay."

"No, you're not."

His voice was gentle. Not accusing. Not demanding. Just concerned.

He crossed the room and sat down beside you, leaving enough space that you wouldn't feel crowded. For a few moments, neither of you spoke.

The silence wasn't uncomfortable, it was patient, like he was willing to wait as long as you needed. Eventually, you let out a shaky breath.

"We had a fight." His expression softened in understanding. "Your boyfriend?"

You nodded. Michael remained quiet, allowing you to continue at your own pace. And somehow that made everything spill out.

All the missed phone calls, all the unanswered texts, and the way every conversation felt forced lately.

The feeling that no matter how hard you tried, you couldn't seem to reach him anymore. You hated how emotional you sounded. Hated how pathetic it all felt once spoken aloud.

But Michael never interrupted, just quietly let you rant. He listened.

By the time you finished, tears were rolling freely down your cheeks again. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then his hand carefully settled over yours. The gesture was small, steady and comforting.

And somehow it undid you completely. His thumb brushed lightly across your knuckles.

"You've been carrying that by yourself?" You looked down.

"I guess." His jaw tightened.

Not in anger toward you. In anger for you. What imbecile treats his lady that way?

Slowly, he reached up and brushed a tear from your cheek. The touch was so gentle it almost hurt. "Hey," he said quietly. Your eyes lifted to his. The sadness in his expression caught you off guard.

As though seeing you like this genuinely upset him. "You don't deserve that." Fresh tears immediately filled your eyes. You looked away. But Michael simply shook his head. "No." His voice was soft but firm. "You don't."

Another tear slipped free. Without thinking, his hand rose to your cheek again. This time he didn't pull away immediately.

"Sweetheart..." The word slipped out naturally. As though he couldn't stand seeing you cry. As though every protective instinct in him had suddenly come alive.

Your breath caught. "You deserve someone who listens when you speak." His thumb gently brushed beneath your eye. "You deserve someone who makes time for you." Your lower lip trembled. "You deserve to feel loved."

That was what broke you.

Because somewhere deep down, you'd started wondering if maybe expecting those things was asking too much.

And hearing someone tell you otherwise felt like having a weight lifted from your chest. "Oh, [Name]..." Michael murmured when another sob escaped you. This time you didn't fight it.

You leaned toward him instinctively. Seeking comfort and warmth.

Seeking something solid to hold onto. The moment you did, Michael wrapped his arms around you in a soothing embrace without hesitation.

His hand settled between your shoulder blades as he pulled you gently against his side. "It's okay," he whispered.

The tears came harder. And Michael held you through every single one.

His hand moved slowly up and down your back, soothing and steady.

"It's okay," he whispered again, his voice a low, soothing rumble against your ear. He didn't pull away. If anything, his hold tightened slightly, one hand moving slowly up and down your back as though he could somehow soothe away all the hurt that had built up inside you. The steady rhythm of it was comforting, grounding. For the first time all evening, you didn't feel alone.

Eventually, Michael pulled back just enough to look at you properly. His hands rose to your face, carefully cradling your cheeks as though you were something precious. His thumbs swept beneath your eyes, brushing away the tears that continued to slip free despite your best efforts to stop them.

"Hey," he murmured softly. You kept your gaze lowered. "Sweetheart."

The endearment was so gentle that it made your chest ache.

"Look at me." Reluctantly, your eyes lifted to meet his. The sadness in his expression nearly broke your heart. No pity, just genuine concern.

Michael's gaze searched your face for a moment before he let out a quiet sigh. "A girl like you should never have to beg for someone's attention." A fresh tear slipped down your cheek.

His thumb caught it before it could fall.

"You know what I see almost every day?" he continued softly. "I see someone who gives so much of herself to everyone around her. I see how you sit with Paris when she wants to show you every drawing she's made that week. I see how patient you are when Prince asks a hundred questions at once. I see the way Blanket lights up the second you walk into a room."

Your lower lip trembled. Michael smiled sadly. "And somehow you convinced yourself that asking for a phone call is asking too much?"

You looked away. Because hearing it out loud made it sound ridiculous. His hand gently guided your face back toward him.

"No." His voice was quiet, but firm. "It isn't."

The room fell silent for a moment.

"You make people feel cared for," he continued, his gaze never leaving yours. "You make this house feel warmer. The kids adore you. Martha adores you. Lord knows Bill won't stop talking about how good you are for 'em."

A weak laugh escaped through your tears. Michael's smile softened. "See?"

His thumb brushed across your cheek again.

"You're so busy makin' sure everyone else feel loved that you forgot you're supposed to receive that same love in return."

The tears came harder then, because for the first time in weeks, someone was saying exactly what you needed to hear.

Michael watched you quietly for a moment before his expression softened even further.

"You're a wonderful, smart girl, angel." The nickname slipped out so naturally it didn't even seem intentional.

His words felt like honey, smoothing over the rough edges of your soul. You felt yourself melting, the frustration of the fight with your boyfriend slowly dissolving.

It was the kind of praise you hadn't realized you were starving for. Under his gaze, you didn't feel like a mess; you felt seen.

You looked up at him through your wet eyelashes, and he gazed right back at you. You noticed the way his gaze lingered on your lips before drifting back to your eyes, and your heart began to race for a completely different reason. The silence that followed was charged. The air between you felt sensual, electric, and sweet.

"It's okay," he whispered again, his voice a low, soothing rumble against your ear. He didn't pull away; instead, he tightened his hold just a fraction, as if he could physically shield you from the heartache of the last few hours.

He eventually pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands moving from your back to gently cup your face. His thumbs traced the line of your cheekbones, catching the last few stray tears with a tenderness that made your heart ache.

"Look at me," he murmured, his eyes searching yours. "A girl like you... someone so smart, so incredibly kind... you should never have to feel like you're a burden just for wantin' some love"

You let out a shaky, uneven breath, your eyes fluttering shut for a second as you leaned into his warmth. The heat from his palms felt so good against your skin, a stark contrast to the cold, lonely feeling that had been sitting in your chest all night.

"You have this way of making everything around you better," he continued, his voice dropping to a soft, melodic hush. He wasn't trying to win an argument or make a point; he was just talking to you, really seeing you. "The way you handle the kids, the way you just... exist in a room. You're so bright, angel. A girl as beautiful and special as you should be celebrated every single day. You should be someone's entire world, not an afterthought."

His words felt like honey, smoothing over the jagged edges of your soul. You felt yourself melting, the frustration of the fight with your boyfriend dissolving into a hazy, warm blur. It was the kind of praise you hadn't realized you were starving for. Under his gaze, you didn't feel like a mess; you felt precious. Like something rare that needed to be handled with care.

The air between you has changed into something that almost feels intimate.

You stared up at him, mesmerized by the way the moonlight caught the warmth in his eyes. You noticed the way his gaze lingered on your lips before drifting back to your eyes, and your heart began to race for a completely different reason.

The need to close the gap, to stop the thinking and just feel, became overwhelming.

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you leaned in. It wasn't a tentative movement; it was a desperate, hungry surge. Your hand flew up, your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck and cupping the side of his face as you pressed your lips to his.

The kiss was passionate, fueled by the raw emotion of the night and the intoxicating sweetness of his words.

You expected him to be surprised, to pull back in shock, but Michael didn't hesitate for a single second. Instead, he let out a low, muffled sound deep in his throat and melted into you. His large hand slid from your cheek to wrap firmly around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest so there was no space left between you. His other hand moved to your chin, his fingers gripping you firmly to tilt your head back and deepen the contact.

He kissed you back with a sudden, fierce hunger that made your head spin. He tasted like warmth and comfort, and for a moment, the world outside the living room simply ceased to exist.

Finally, you pulled back just an inch, your breath coming in ragged, frantic gasps. Your face was flushed, your heart hammering against your ribs. The reality of what you'd just done crashed down on you, making you feel breathless and exposed.

"Oh god, Michael, I'm so sorry," you stammered, your eyes wide and frantic as you tried to find your footing. "That was the emotions, I just I didn't mean to "

"Shh," he commanded softly, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Before you could finish your clumsy apology, he leaned in again, his mouth catching yours and silencing your words with a kiss.

This kiss wasn't like the first one. It was deep, heavy, and felt like it was pulling the very air out of your lungs.

Michael didn't just kiss you; he claimed you. His mouth was firm and demanding, his tongue sweeping against yours in a way that made your toes curl and a soft, involuntary moan catch in your throat. Every time you tried to catch your breath, he seemed to find a way to steal it again.

His hand on your waist tightened, his fingers digging slightly into your skin through your clothes, pulling you so close that you could feel the frantic thud of his heart against your own.

You felt a little lightheaded, your senses narrowed down to just the taste of him, the scent of his skin, and the incredible, solid weight of his body against yours.

The sadness from earlier the loneliness, the frustration, the feeling of being "too much" it all felt miles away. In this moment, with his hands on you and his lips on yours, you felt exactly like the girl he had just described: someone worth wanting. Someone worth holding.

He pulled back just a fraction, his forehead resting against yours. Both of you were breathing hard, your chests heaving in unison. In the dim moonlight, his eyes looked dark, almost predatory, but the warmth behind them was still there.

"Don't apologize," he whispered, his voice sounding rougher than before, a low rasp that sent a shiver straight down your spine. "Never apologize for wating this."

His thumb traced your bottom lip, which was now swollen from his kiss. The way he looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered made your stomach flip.

He didn't wait for you to respond. He moved his hand from your chin, his fingers sliding into your hair, gripping the strands just enough to tilt your head back again. He leaned down, but instead of going for your lips, he trailed a path of slow, searing kisses down the side of your neck.

A small gasp escaped you as his lips found that sensitive spot just below your ear. You instinctively arched your neck, giving him better access, your hands clutching at the fabric of his shirt as if you were afraid he might disappear if you let go.

"Michael..." you breathed, his name a soft plea you didn't even realize you were making.

"I got you," he murmured against your skin, his breath hot and teasing. "Just let go, angel. Just let go."

He moved back up, his lips grazing your jawline before finally finding your mouth again. This time, the kiss was slower, more languid, but no less intense.

It was a slow burn, a deep, intoxicating exploration that made you feel like you were melting into the couch, into him.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and heavy with a hunger that made your knees weak. He didn't look like the gentle, comforting man who had been holding you through your tears anymore. There was a new edge to him, a quiet strength that felt almost overwhelming.

"You spent so much time feeling like you're too much," he murmured, his voice dropping to a deep, gravelly rasp. He leaned in, his lips brushing against yours as he spoke. "Let me show you how a man properly loves on his girl."

The sheer confidence in his voice sent a jolt of electricity straight to your pussy. Before you could even process the words, his hands slid from your waist over your ass and down to your thighs. With one smooth, powerful motion, he hoisted you up.

You let out a tiny, startled squeak, your hands instinctively flying to his shoulders to steady yourself. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, pulling him even tighter against you. He was so solid, stronger than he looked, and the sudden change in height made your head spin in the best possible way.

He didn't say a word as he began to carry you, his stride steady and sure as he moved away from the living room and toward the grand staircase.

He wasn't rushing, though. He was taking his time. As he walked, he leaned down, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your forehead, his lips soft and sweet. Then, he trailed his mouth down to your cheek in a way that made you shiver.

"Michael," you whispered, your voice quiet and breathless, your fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck.

"I got you, sweetheart" he promised, his voice a low vibration you could feel against your chest.

He shifted his grip, his hand sliding up to the back of your thigh to hold you securely against him, while his other hand stayed firmly on your waist.

As he reached the landing, he leaned in again, his lips finding the sensitive skin of your neck. He pressed a series of soft, warm kisses there, his breath hot against your skin, making you arch your back and bury your face in the crook of his neck as he made his way to his bedroom.

The bedroom door shut with a soft thud, leaving the rest of the house feeling miles away. The room was quiet, lit mostly by the moonlight coming through the window, making everything feel calm and private.

Michael didn't just drop you on the bed; he lowered you onto the mattress slowly, staying right there with you. As you settled into the blankets, you felt a little flustered, a shy smile tugging at your lips. You were definitely blushing, but you didn't try to hide it you actually found yourself leaning closer to him, wanting to be in his space.

Michael was smiling too. It wasn't some intense, brooding look; it was just a warm, genuine smile that made him look incredibly handsome.

He leaned down, giving you a quick, sweet kiss before pulling back just an inch. His eyes were roaming over your face, taking you in.

"You have no idea," he said, his voice low and casual, "How hard it's been to actually act normal around you."

You let out a little embarrassed laugh, looking down at the duvet for a second, but he reached out and gently nudged your chin so you’d look at him again.

"Seriously," he continued, his gaze dropping to your shoulders before meeting your eyes again. "Every time you were here helping with the kids, watching you laugh or just seeing you move around the room... it was driving me crazy. I'd be trying to talk to someone else, but I'd just be thinking about you."

He shifted a bit closer, his hand sliding down to rest on your waist. His touch was warm and steady.

"And you're so damn beautiful," he added, his voice dropping a bit. He wasn't being dramatic; he was just telling you the truth. "I've been staring at you for weeks, just wondering when I'd finally get a chance to be this close to you."

A nervous, happy sort of flutter went through your stomach. You felt a little shy under all that attention, but it felt good. It felt right.

He leaned in, kissing your cheek and then your temple, his voice a constant, low murmur of praise. "I've wanted this since the first day you walked in here," he admitted, his lips brushing against your ear. "Just to have you all to myself like this."

He didn't stop there. His hand, which had been resting on your waist, started to wander, his palm sliding up under the hem of your shirt. The contact of his warm skin against your stomach made you catch your breath, a small, shaky sound that he answered with a low, appreciative hum.

"You're so soft," he murmured, his thumb tracing the curve of your hip as he pulled your shirt up just a little further.

The shyness was still there, making you feel a little breathless, but as he leaned down to kiss the hollow of your throat, you found yourself reaching for him. Your hands slid under his shirt, your palms pressing against his back.

"Is this okay?" he asked, his voice a low, rough rasp. It wasn't a timid question; he could tell you wanted him, but he was still being the man he promised to be the one who took care of you.

He moved his hands to the waistband of your pants, his fingers grazing the skin of your hips. He paused for a second, his eyes locking onto yours, checking in.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered, his voice sounding a little more strained than before. "I've been thinking about this... about you... for so long."

He slid your clothes down, his movements slow and deliberate, making sure you were comfortable every step of the way. As you lay there, feeling the cool air hit your skin, a sudden wave of nerves hit you. You felt exposed, and as he shifted, moving his body down the bed, your heart started to hammer against your ribs.

You'd seen it in movies, sure, but the idea of him actually being down there... it felt a lot more intense in person.

"Michael?" you breathed, your voice a little shaky. You reached out, your fingers curling into the sheets. "Is... is it okay if we just... slow down a little?"

He stopped immediately, propping himself up on his elbows so he could look at you. He didn't look frustrated or impatient; he just looked incredibly focused on you.

"Hey," he said softly, his voice a warm, grounding weight. "What's going on in that head of yours?"

"It's just..." You bit your lip, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks. "I've never really... had a guy do that. You know? Like...eat me out. It's just a little intimidating."

A slow, incredibly sweet smile spread across his face. He reached up, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering on your cheek.

"Intimidating?" he teased gently, though his eyes were dark with a hunger that was hard to miss. "Angel, there's nothing to be nervous about. It's just me. And trust me, there ain't nothin' in the world I want more right now than to taste you."

He leaned down, pressing a lingering, soft kiss to your stomach, just above the line of your panties. You let out a tiny, startled gasp, your hips giving a small, involuntary twitch. You were so wet, you were sure that a wet patch has formed on your panties already.

"Been dreamin' about how you taste since the first time you sat on my sofa," he murmured against your skin, his breath hot and teasing. "I wanna take my time with you. gonna make sure you feel every single thing. Does that sound good?"

You looked down at him, seeing the genuine yearning in his expression. He genuinely wanted to taste your pussy so bad. The hesitation was still there, but it was being drowned out by the sheer heat of his gaze.

"Yeah," you whispered, a small, shy smile returning to your lips. "That sounds really good."

He didn't move away once you gave him the green light. Instead, he moved with a quiet, predatory grace, sliding down the length of your body until he was positioned between your thighs. The heat radiating from him was a physical weight, making your skin prickle with anticipation.

As he hooked his fingers into the elastic of your panties, his eyes never left yours for a second. He peeled the fabric down your legs with a slow, agonizing deliberation, leaving you completely bare and trembling under his gaze. The cool air of the room hit your damp skin, but you felt like you were burning from the inside out.

Then, he leaned in.

The first touch of his tongue wasn't tentative. It wasn't a light, polite graze. It was a heavy, soaking swipe that started at the very base of your mound and dragged all the way up to your clit.

A loud, unbidden moan tore from your throat, your back arching off the mattress as the sheer, wet friction sent a jolt of electricity straight to your core. You expected him to be careful, to be "gentle" in the way he always was, but the Michael looking up at you now was different. His eyes were hooded, dark, and glazed with a raw, unadulterated lust that made your stomach flip.

He didn't just want to taste you; he wanted to devour you.

He leaned back in, his face disappearing between your thighs. The sound of his mouth against your wet, swollen folds was loud and unapologetic, a heavy, rhythmic slap of skin on skin that made your toes curl into the sheets.

"Oh god, Michael..." you gasped, your head thrashing against the pillow.

"I've got you, pretty baby," he murmured, his voice vibrating against your most sensitive skin. He pulled back just for a second, his lips glistening, his eyes dark and blown out with pure, unadulterated lust. "You're so wet for me. You're so slick, angel. Just look at you... you're a beautiful, soaking mess."

He didn't wait for a response before he dived back in, his tongue working with a frantic, desperate hunger. He was lapping up every drop of your nectar, his tongue swirling deep into your slit, catching the heavy, syrupy flow of your arousal. He was being so thorough, so goddamn greedy, that you could feel the warmth of his breath mingling with the wetness of your own juices.

"That's it, sweet baby," he groaned, the sound muffled by your pussy. His thumb began to grind in heavy, punishing circles against your clit.

The sensation was too much. It was too much, and yet, you were begging for more, your fingers knotting into the bedsheets until your knuckles turned white. Every time his tongue swiped upward, catching the sensitive peak of your clit, a fresh wave of heat crashed over you, making your vision blur. He wasn't being the gentle, careful Michael you knew in the daylight; he was a man possessed, a man driven by a hunger that seemed bottomless.

"Michael... oh, god, Michael..." you sobbed, your hips jerking upward, trying to meet the relentless pressure of his tongue and the heavy, rhythmic grind of his thumb.

"That's it, angel... just like that," he murmured, his voice a dark, vibrating hum against your swollen folds. He pulled back just enough to let the cool air hit your dripping heat, only to dive back in with a sudden, forceful suction that made your entire body seize. "You're so loud for me, baby... so beautiful when you're losing control."

He was being so greedy, so unapologetically thorough, that you felt like you were drowning in the sensation of him. The wet, slapping sounds of his mouth against you were the only thing you could hear, drowning out the quiet hum of the house around you. He was lapping at you, tasting every drop of your arousal as if it were the most precious thing he’d ever encountered, his breath hot and frantic against your inner thighs.

"Please... Michael, please, I'm gonna—" Your voice broke, a high, keening whine escaping your throat as the tension in your lower belly tightened into a hard, pulsing knot.

"Gonna what, sweetheart? Gonna come for me?" He teased, his voice thick with lust, before he increased the pace. His tongue became a frantic, swirling blur against your clit, while his thumb applied a heavy, punishing pressure that sent jolts of pure electricity straight to your brain. "Let it go, baby. Give it all to me. Show me how much you want it..."

You couldn't hold back anymore. The world fractured. Your back arched violently off the mattress, your toes curling as the first wave of your orgasm crashed through you. It was a violent, beautiful explosion of pleasure, your internal muscles clamping down hard and pulsing around the empty space where his mouth was, desperate to hold onto the sensation.

"Oh! Oh, god!" you screamed, your head thrashing from side to side as you came, the sheer intensity of it leaving you breathless and trembling.

Michael didn't pull away. He stayed right there, drinking you in, his tongue continuing to swirl in slow, soothing circles to catch the aftershocks, his hands gripping your thighs to hold you steady through the tremors. He let out a low, guttural groan of satisfaction, the sound vibrating deep in his chest as he watched you unravel beneath him.

"Mm, so sweet..." he whispered, his lips and chin glistening as he finally looked up at you, his eyes dark, blown out, and completely undone by the sight of your messy, beautiful climax. "You taste like heaven, baby. Just heaven."

The aftershocks were still rippling through you, leaving your skin hypersensitive and your breath coming in shallow, ragged hitches. Michael didn't move away immediately; instead, he lingered, his lips pressing soft, reverent kisses to the inside of your thighs, his hands roaming over the lush curves of your hips. He looked up at you, and the sheer worship in his eyes made your heart ache. He didn't just want you; he was in awe of you.

"Look at you," he breathed, his voice a low, reverent rasp. He reached out, his palms sliding up the soft, generous swell of your hips, his fingers sinking slightly into your skin. "So soft... so perfect. Every inch of you is a miracle, angel."

He moved up the bed, his body a heavy, warm weight as he hovered over you. He didn't rush. He took a moment to just look at you, his gaze tracing the curve of your waist, the fullness of your breasts, and the way your thighs spilled beautifully against the sheets. To him, you weren't just a woman; you were a masterpiece of soft lines and delicious weight.

"You're so beautiful, pretty baby," he murmured, leaning down to press a slow, lingering kiss to the swell of your hip, his mouth trailing upward. "Could spend a lifetime just exploring you. Just worshiping you."

He captured one of your breasts in his hand, his thumb grazing the peak as he leaned in to take the swollen bud into his mouth. He sucked deeply, a low groan vibrating in his throat, while his other hand slid down to find where you were still slick and pulsing from your climax.

The friction of his hand against your wetness, paired with the heavy, insistent pull of his mouth on your breast, sent a new wave of heat crashing through you. You reached for him, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, needing the friction, needing the weight of him to fill the emptiness.

"Michael... please," you whimpered, your hips tilting upward in a silent plea. "I need you. I need to feel you."

"I know, baby. I know," he whispered against your skin, his breath hot and frantic. He pulled back just enough to strip away the last of his own clothes, and when he pressed himself against you, the sheer, veiny heat of him made you gasp. He was massive, a heavy, pulsing weight that promised to stretch you to your absolute limit.

He guided himself to your entrance, the head of his cock smearing your own nectar across your opening. He paused there, his forehead resting against yours, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that felt like it was stripping your soul bare.

"Tell me you want it," he commanded softly, his voice thick with a desperate kind of hunger. "Tell me you want me to fill you up, sweetheart."

"Please," you choked out, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him flush against your soft curves. "Fuck, Michael, please... fill me up. All of you."

With a slow, deliberate thrust, he began to sink into you. He didn't slam in; he moved with a heavy, agonizing patience, letting your walls stretch and accommodate his girth. You felt every inch of him, the way he filled you so completely that it felt like he was touching your very core. You let out a long, broken moan, your head falling back as your body yielded to the delicious intrusion.

"Mm, so wet... so fucking perfect," he grunted, his muscles corded and tense as he bottomed out. He stayed there for a moment, buried deep, his chest heaving against yours, letting you adjust to the sheer fullness of him. He began to move, his thrusts slow and deep, pulling almost all the way out before driving back in with a heavy, rhythmic force that made the bed creak beneath you.

The sensation was overwhelming. It wasn't just the friction; it was the way his body interacted with yours the way his hard, lean frame contrasted against the soft, yielding curves of your hips and thighs. Every time he slammed home, his hips hitting yours with a wet, heavy thwack, you felt the impact in your entire soul.

"You feel so good, baby," he groaned, his pace picking up, his thrusts becoming harder, more urgent. He reached down, his large hand splaying across your stomach before sliding lower to cup the underside of your ass, lifting you slightly to meet his every lunge. "I love how you feel around me... so warm, so wet... like you were made just for this."

He was relentless. He drove into you with a primal, driving rhythm, his hips snapping forward to ensure he hit your sweet spot with every single stroke. You were lost in it the sound of your skin slapping together, the scent of your shared arousal, and the overwhelming, heavy sensation of him plowing through you.

"Oh, god, Michael—" you cried out, your hands roaming wildly over his back. You were being driven to the brink again, the friction of his cock against your internal walls sending sparks of white hot pleasure through your nervous system.

"That's it, baby... take it all," he urged, his voice a guttural growl near your ear. He was pushing you harder, his thrusts becoming frantic and shallow as he neared his own limit, his breath coming in harsh, jagged gasps. "Give it to me, angel... let me see you come again..."

The world finally stopped spinning, the frantic rhythm of his hips slowing into a heavy, pulsing ache that settled deep in your bones. As the peak of your climax began to recede, leaving you limp and trembling, Michael followed you over the edge. He let out a long, strangled groan, his body tensing violently as he buried himself as deep as he could possibly go, his entire frame shuddering with the force of his release.

He didn't pull out. Instead, he collapsed against you, his chest heaving in sync with yours, his sweat slicked skin clinging to yours in the most delicious, heavy way. He stayed buried deep inside you, the sensation of his hot, pulsing length filling you up as he slowly began to settle.

"Mm... oh, baby," he breathed, his voice little more than a broken whisper against the crook of your neck. He didn't move to separate; he just held you, his weight a comforting, grounding presence that made you feel safe and cherished in the wake of the storm.

He began to move, but it wasn't the frantic, hungry driving from before. It was slow, so agonizingly slow that every tiny, infinitesimal twitch of his cock inside you felt like a caress. He was just... existing within you, letting the sensation of being joined sink in. He nudged his hips in a tiny, rhythmic circle, a gentle friction that sent soft, warm ripples of pleasure through your sensitized walls.

"You're so warm," he murmured, his lips grazing your jawline as he spoke. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes soft and glazed with a profound, quiet adoration. "You feel so good, sweetheart. So perfect. I never want to leave you."

He reached down, his hand sliding under the small of your back to pull you even tighter against him, making sure there wasn't a single millimeter of space between your bodies. He began to pepper your face with tiny, soft kisses your forehead, your eyelids, the tip of your nose each one.

"Michael..." you sighed, your eyes fluttering shut as you drifted in the haze of afterglow. You felt so full, so cherished, as if his very essence was being poured into you.

"I got you, angel," he whispered, his hand moving from your back to cup your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin with a reverence that made your heart swell. "I got you. Just breathe. Just feel me."

He continued that slow, hypnotic movement, a gentle, pulsing slide that was more about connection than conquest. It was a worship of the quiet moments the way your breath hitched when he pressed a kiss to your collarbone, the way your hands instinctively curled into his hair, the way your bodies seemed to hum in a shared silence

In the quiet of the room, with nothing but the sound of your synchronized breathing, it felt like time had stopped.

The room was quiet, save for the soft, rhythmic sound of your breathing and the distant, muffled hum of the world outside that seemed a million miles away. Michael was still draped over you, his head resting in the hollow of your shoulder, his skin still warm and damp against yours. He was moving with a slow, almost hypnotic lazyness, his hips occasionally giving a tiny, affectionate nudge that kept you tethered to the sensation of him still being buried deep within you.

"You're so quiet, baby," he murmured, his voice a low, sleepy vibration against your skin. He lifted his head just enough to press a lingering kiss to your temple. "Thinking about something?"

"Just... how much this feels like a dream," you whispered, your fingers tracing the line of his shoulder, feeling the lean strength of him. "it feels like if I blink too hard, the world is gonna come rushing back in and take all of this away."

Michael went still. The playful, sleepy haze in his eyes shifted, replaced by something much more intense, much more grounded. He shifted his weight, propping himself up on one elbow so he could look down at you. The soft light of the room caught the dark, serious depth of his gaze.

"It ain't a dream, angel," he said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming that steady, commanding weight you had come to rely on. He reached out, his thumb tracing the curve of your lower lip with a tenderness that made your breath hitch. "I don't do anything halfway. You know that. When I want something... when I want someone... it's everything."

He paused, his eyes searching yours, reading the flicker of hesitation that always lived in the back of your mind. He knew about him. He knew about the man you were supposed to be with the one who was supposed to be your "stable" choice, but who left you feeling half empty and unappreciated.

"You're so good to everyone," Michael continued softly, his hand sliding down to cup your cheek, his touch heavy and warm. "You take care of other people, you take care of the kids... you're so selfless, angel. But who takes care of you?"

Your heart gave a painful little thud against your ribs. You knew where this was going.

"Michael..." you breathed, a warning and a plea all at once.

"He don't see you," Michael whispered, his gaze dropping to your lips before snapping back to your eyes, fierce and unwavering. "Not the way I see you. He doesn't know how to worship you. He don't know how to make you feel like the center of the whole universe."

He leaned down, pressing a slow, firm kiss to your forehead, his forehead resting against yours. "You don't gotta decide anything tonight. Not while we're right here. But just... just think about it, okay? Think about what it'd be like to be with someone who's actually hungry for you. Someone who's gonna give you everything you deserve."

He pulled back just a fraction, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips a hint of the man who could command thousands, but was choosing to use that power just to hold you.

"Because in a way, you're mine, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice a promise as he lowered his head to kiss you again, deep and slow. "In every way that matters... you're already mine."

As he pulled you closer, his body settling back into yours, the weight of his words lingered in the air, more intoxicating than the sex had been. You closed your eyes, drifting off to the feeling of him inside you, wondering if the dream was finally starting to become your reality.

PERHAPS YOU WERE tapping the brush a little too hard against the back of the powder, or perhaps you were not being nearly rough enough for your liking, since Michael was still staring at you without batting an eyelid, the corner of his lips slightly turned up. With a roll of your eyes, you dusted his face, the bristles pressing against his skin without much mercy. 

Today, he would not be getting a single bit of special treatment from you ━ that was decided! 

"Lift your head up a bit," you ordered firmly. 

Michael complied without grumbling, his teeth biting the inside of his cheek as if to stop himself from speaking… or laughing. His eyes remained fixed on you ━ on the crease appearing between your eyebrows, on the way your jaw was clenched, and on how your fingers were turning slightly paler as you held the brush oh so firmly in your hands.

He had been sitting perfectly still in the chair for a good fifteen minutes. Michael was already wearing his stage costume ━ a skin-tight metallic top that caught every beam of light, black straps that hugged his forearms, while a slanted zipper cut across his chest. Thick black curls framed his face, one single stubborn curl kept clinging to his forehead and you had had to pin it down back in place. This had earned you a reaction from him you had shut down with a look.

As you applied his make-up ━ foundation matched to his skin tone, applied delicately, especially to the depigmented areas of his face, concealer under his eyes to brighten them, and light contouring along the sides of his nose ━ all the tension that seemed to have built up in him melted away, to the point where he began to watch you with amusement, his fingers occasionally reaching for your thighs, hidden beneath the jeans you were wearing.

You fended off every advance, your annoyance with him growing with every brushstroke across his face. When you tapped his nose a little too hard, that was when your boyfriend decided something had to be said. 

"Ouch! Careful," he complained. "C’mon… how much longer you gonna keep lookin’ at me like that?"

Your only response was an exasperated sigh, as you carried on applying the powder to the rest of his face. Once that was done, you took a black eyeliner pencil from your make-up bag to tackle his eyes. 

"Look up."

Michael hesitated for a moment, looking away from you for the first time. What you were holding in your hands was a veritable weapon to him, and he had absolutely no intention of performing at tonight’s gig with one eye missing. In an almost instinctive movement, he raised his hand to try and rest it on yours ━ you dodged his touch as if it was the plague. 

"Baby…" he sighed.

"Don’t baby me and look up. I’ve got better things to do than put up with your fucking antics."

In a perfectly automatic reflex, Michael coughed as if to erase the swear word that had just slipped from your lips, and that was enough to set the fire that had been simmering inside you for several minutes absolutely ablaze. 

"Oh, fuck off! You say far worse than me sometimes!" you exclaimed. "Look the fuck up, I said."

"Ask nicely."

And he had the fucking audacity to grin at you! You let out another sigh ━ the day was going to be longer than expected. The liner was still clenched between your fingers, the heels of your three-inch shoes tapping impatiently against the floor. 

"Michael... I'm really not in the mood to play games with you right now."

"'t's a simple request, woman. It's called politeness ━ ever heard of that?"

You decided to ignore him completely, your free hand grabbing his face, fingernails digging just deep enough into his jaw ━ you were not about to ruin all your hard work, after all. The liner was now just a few millimetres from his eyes when he closed them.

Fucking stubborn.

"You're so mean to me," Michael pouted, trying to move his head.

"Fire me," you challenged, a small smirk showing itself on your very distracting lips.

"So you'll be free to go work for Prince? Never."

And as if nothing had happened, you let go of him in one swift movement, as though he had burnt you, taking a few steps back. He was always doing that. Michael made you believe he was not angry any more, that everything was forgotten and that he was ready to carry on as if nothing had happened, because he could not bear the thought of you harbouring any negative feelings toward him, even for just a few hours. Then he had to ruin everything, his jealousy catching up with him in a flash. 

Michael tried to catch you again, but to no avail. You dodge him, throwing the liner back into your make-up bag ━ you were done.

"C’mon, girl, you can’t possibly still be ma━"

"Cant fucking still be mad at you for being a fucking controlling, jealous asshole? Oh yes I am! Yes I am!"

You started to pack away your kit, your arms moving frantically. Even though you were really annoyed with him, it was all just an act. After all, you were a professional, and even though Michael was your boyfriend and was getting on your nerves, he was still your employer ━ the one who paid your wages ━ and you certainly were not going to let him leave half-ready. Although… 

"Baby… you can’t possibly leave me like that! I have to be on stage in━" he looked at the clock. "━fifteen minutes!" Michael whined. "I’ll shut up. Please, don’t leave."

You took advantage of the fact that you had your back to him to smile. Got him. Slowly, you turned your head slightly to the side, one eyebrow raised, your chin held high.

"Oh, really? Are you just going to shut up and let me get on with my work?" he nodded. "No more touching?" another nod. "No more comments about me doing Prince's makeup?" there was an hesitation on his part. "Michael!"

There was a long sigh.

"... ‘romise," he mumbled.

You turned your head toward your make-up bag, rolling your eyes. He really was stubborn.

It was at that moment that you felt two hands rest on your hips, a warm breath brushing against your neck. The very next second, something damp pressed against your skin, and it took you half a second more to realise it was his lips. The bastard.

"’m sorry," Michael pressed another kiss.

"Are you now?"

With his hands, he pulled you toward him so that you were sitting on top of him on the chair. Your hands automatically wrapped round his neck ━ for fear of falling, of course ━ his palm resting flat against your thigh. His mouth wasted no time in finding your throat.

"’m just a jealous idiot," Michael murmured against you. "I hate the thought of him lookin’ at you… you touchin’ his face━"

"It’s just work!" you cut him off, trying not to moan at his ministrations. "It’s literally my fucking job!"

Ahem.

"I swear to God if you ahem me once more━"

His laughter cut you off mid-sentence, reverberating against your upper chest. Michael planted a burning kiss just above your heart, which was pounding wildly.

"You’re cute when you’re mad."

You simply rolled your eyes at him, shoving his chest weakly which made him laugh a little more. His hand, which until then had remained quietly on your thigh, began a slow journey up your body, leaving a trail of shivers in its wake.

"You’re being inappropriate," you managed to say, acting like you were about to stop his fingers from touching your heated skin. "I’m your employee."

"Mmm, my favourite employee," Michael kissed your jaw.

You let yourself be swept away by his caresses and kisses for a moment, your eyes closing with desire. He had always been very good at making you forget why you were angry in the first place, but this time you were determined to make him understand that he had gone too far.

Ignoring the way your thighs instinctively clenched around nothing, you opened your eyes again and brought your hands to his face once more. His chocolate-brown eyes met yours and, for a moment, you were on the verge of begging him to devour you just before his concert.

Patience is a virtue, you reminded yourself.

His wayward strand was still perfectly pinned in place by the clip you had put in, his curls brushing against your fingers as you lifted his face toward yours.

"I need you to understand that your reaction was really hurtful, Mike," you said softly, trying to keep your anger at bay for it would not help the situation he was trying to resolve peacefully. "I know you have… Whatever your relationship with Prince is, but… this is a great opportunity for me."

Michael looked down, his lower lip clenched between his teeth ━ a clear sign that he regretted his behaviour. His hands had stopped moving, only his thumb kept tracing circles beneath your shirt. He exhaled before meeting your gaze.

"You’re right…" Michael admitted. "I know you’re right and I apologise for my reaction. Truly. You’re the most talented make-up artist, it should be expected that… that anyone would want you to make them look pretty."

"You don’t need me to make you look pretty, silly," you bit the inside of your cheek to stop you from smiling.

"Does that mean I’m prettier than Prince?" he grinned.

This time, it was you who let out a laugh, swatting his chest.

"Fishing for compliments is sooo unlike you."

"I’ll take that answer as a yes," Michael chuckled, kissing the corner of your mouth.

"Whatever," you looked up.

Stretching on his lap to reach for your make-up bag, you searched for your liner. There was only ten minutes left before the show and he still needed his eyes done. Once you had found it, you tilted his chin up, repositioning yourself better with your legs fully capturing his.

"Hold still," you said gently.

Michael did as he was told, letting you do your work peacefully. He was still wearing that proud grin on his face, knowing full well that you were finally going to forgive him. His hands slid over your bottom, under the pretence that it was to stop you from slipping. You raised an eyebrow at him, not fooled for a moment, whilst your fingers traced a symmetrical line around his eyes.

"You know, with all your bullshit, I believe that I deserve a raise," you spoke, finishing off the outline of his left eye.

"Done."

"I didn’t say how much," you chuckled.

"Doesn’t matter," Michael’s fingers were rolling over your jean. "Whatever you want, baby, you’ll get."

"You’re terrible at managing your money," you exhaled, amused, working on his right eye.

"Good thing I have people to help me with that," he squeezed your bottom. "Name a price, woman, it’s all yours."

"You’re being ridiculous," you chuckled under your breath.

"I’d buy you a house, an apartment ━ whatever you want or…" Michael hesitated in a whisper. "… or... A ring… if… if that’s somethin’ you’d want…"

The liner almost slipped from your fingers, and you left a black smudge on his eyelid as you tried to catch it.

"Shit."

You picked up a cotton bud that was lying on the table, your eyes fixed on absolutely everything except his. You could feel his gaze on you, his hands still resting on your bottom. You wiped away the mark you had just left on his skin before resuming your task, your fingers trembling slightly.

Unable to resist any longer, Michael took the hand holding the liner and brought it to his lips, planting a kiss on your knuckles.

"What do you say?" he asked, raising his eyes at yours. "Mm?"

You stilled for a second. He was so pretty like this, his doe brown eyes looking up at you with a warmth so inviting that you almost leaned in to kiss him.

"I say that… that you don’t need to say that type of things to make me forgive you," you could feel the heat rising in your cheeks.

"That’s good to know, sweetheart, but I’m actually being serious," Michael released your hand, bringing his own to your face. "What do you say?" he repeated shyly.

"I…" you were truly at loss for words, swallowing slowly. "I’d say that…" come on, girl, speak! "… that this better not be your official proposal."

A genuine smile broke his face as he brought you closer to him, his nose and mouth finding the side of your neck. Michael pressed small kisses there again, the scent of mandarine and strawberries enveloping him in a warm embrace.

"Don’t worry, the real one will be much better," you could feel his smile against your skin. "I really am sorry for what I said," he said again, really needing you to know he was sincere. "You know you don’t need my permission to do anything, right?"

Your hands gently caressed the nape of his neck. 

"I know."

"Good," Michael nodded before lifting his head, the corner of his mouth doing the same thing. "That said..."

"Oh, here we go again..." you sighed, rolling your eyes again.

"... Go do your job and do as good as you always do," he continued, catching your hands in his. "Make him jealous. He'll never have the best make-up artist for himself ━ the best girl."

Your breath caught at his words as his brought your hands to his mouth, kissing your fingertips softly.

"And to say I almost believed you when you said you wouldn't be jealous anymore..." you managed to breathe, but there was another kind of heat that tainted your tone.

"But this," Michael gestured to you sitting on his lap. "This special treatment is for me only."

You snorted at that, releasing yourself from his grip, your arms coming around his neck as you bit your lip.

"I don't think that's in my contract, Mr. Jackson."

His hands came to rest on your bottom, squeezing harder than before.

"You should read your contract more carefully, girl," he grinned. "It even specifies that before every show I should take extra care of you."

"Extra care?" you smirked. "Can you even do that in..." you turned just enough to look at the clock. "... five minutes?"

The challenge was there. You saw how his eyes widened slightly before going back to their usual size, a determined look now dressing them. In one swift movement, Michael stood up, bringing you with him as you let out a small, surprised scream.

"Watch me, woman!" he shot back, lying you down on the couch as you giggled.

at your question, he broke his gaze away from the tv, looking over at you with wide eyes.

he let out a small laugh – half-amused, half-shy. he looked down at the couch cushion, shaking his head slightly.

"no," he said, his voice dropping to a murmur. “i've never... i've never kissed anyone… at all." 

your jaw drops.

"shut up, no way," you said, a bewildered smile breaking out on your face. "not even a little bit? like, not on a date, or... i don't know, someone you met on tour?"

"no, really," he said, giving a little shrug as he looked down at his lap.

“i mean... ‘m always workin'. it's either rehearsin’ or bein’ in the studio all night... y’know how it is. i jus’ never really focused on stuff like that. i guess i've always been a little too shy, too. it jus’ hasn’t happened." he paused, looking towards you. "what about you? y’talk like you're some kind of expert." 

your face heated up. "i... well, no," you admitted, your voice dropping as you looked down at your hands. "actually, i haven't either.”

michael blinked with a look of surprise before a soft, relieved smile broke through.

"really?" he asked, his eyes searching yours.

when you noded, his tone turned a bit more vulnerable. he shifted his weight, pulling one leg up onto the couch so he was facing you a bit more.

"is it... i mean, do y’think it's bad?" michael asked, looking down at his lap for a second. "t’be our age and jus’... not know what it's like? like, i write all these songs ‘bout love, but i don't even know what it's like to be with someone. i'm completely clueless. like how do people know what t’do? like, does it jus’ happen naturally, do y’have to think about where your hands go…?"

he trailed off, looking down at his own hands, his long, slender fingers tracing his palm as if he were genuinely mystified by the mechanics of it.

"i don’t know. i think... everyone just fakes it until they figure it out," you murmured, sliding closer so your knees were touching.

michaels fingers stilled against his palm. at the warmth of your knee pressing against his, his gaze slowly lifted, drifting from your eyes to your lips for a beat. the ambient glow of the tv caught the intense focus in his gaze as he looked back up to meet your eyes.

the silence between you suddenly felt a lot heavier, a lot warmer than it had been a minute ago.

"maybe..." michael started, his voice barely a whisper, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. "maybe we should... y'know. practice? jus’ so we aren't so lost when it actually happens."

a stillness settled over the couch, your heart skipping a beat at his words. you looked at him carefully, the weight of the suggestion catching you off guard. had you heard him correctly? 

"practice?" you repeated gently.

michael nodded slowly, his cheeks dusting a pretty flush. "yeah," he breathed, his voice small but eager. "i mean... we both don't know what we're doin'. so it's fair, right? nobody has t’feel embarrassed. we can jus'... figure it out together."

you stared at him, your chest tight with a mix of nerves and excitement.

the idea of actually crossing that line and practicing with him made your pulse skyrocket.

a wave of nerves hit you so hard your throat went completely dry.

the room felt suffocatingly quiet. the ticking of the clock on the wall, the low hum of the air conditioner, the faint murmur of the movie still playing – every little sound seemed louder than it should've.

part of you felt like you should say no just to save yourself the embarrassment of it – you didn't know what you were doing, and the thought of being that exposed made your stomach flip. but at the same time, the curiosity was overwhelming.

you did want to know what it was like. you wanted to finally figure it out, and there was a strange comfort in knowing he was just as clueless as you were.

"yeah," you whispered. "yeah, okay. we're just... figuring it out."

you took a shallow breath, shifting your weight on the cushions until you were sitting directly in front of him, your legs brushing against his.

with one last shaky breath, you leaned in. michael’s eyes flickered with surprise for a split second before his eyelids fluttered shut and he mimicked your motion.

your noses bumped first – a clumsy, awkward angle that almost made you pull back and laugh it off. but then he tilted his head, and your lips finally met.

they were softer than you ever expected and warm. they tasted faintly of the popcorn you’d shared earlier.

you pressed against him tentatively, your head buzzing with an anxious rush of questions: am i doing this right? is he overthinking this too?

then, his lips moved against yours. it was firmer, steadier, as if he was trying to carry both of you through the nerves. he sighed softly against your mouth, the initial tension completely leaving his shoulders.

it wasn't a perfect kiss. it was messy and a little uncoordinated.

you bumped teeth for a second, and michael let out a muffled laugh against your mouth before correcting his posture, angling his head slightly.

it was an awkward kiss. the kind you could never replicate twice.

your firsts.

when you both finally pulled back at the same time, the air between you felt incredibly thick. you let out a shaky laugh, pressing the back of your hand to your burning cheek.

"well," you cleared your throat, trying to find your voice. "that wasn’t… bad."

michael let out a breathy laugh and bit his lip. “yeah," he murmured with a shy smile. "i think we did okay.”

for a second you both just sat there, knees brushing, trying to act like your pulse wasn't thundering in your ears. you reached down to fidget with the hem of your shirt, just to give your hands something to do.

michael watched you, his smile fading as something more contemplative settled over his features. he nervously bit his lower lip, his gaze dropping to your mouth before flipping back up to meet your eyes.

"y’know..." he started, his voice dropping to a gentle whisper. he hesitated, his fingers tracing a little circle on the couch cushion between you.

"...maybe we should try it again. but, like–" he cleared his throat. "with tongue. jus’ so we... y'know, really know what we're doin’."

you stared at him, a hot wave rushing to your fingertips. 

"with tongue?" you repeated, the words coming out as a tiny squeak.

you tried to swallow down the sudden dryness in your throat, your mind racing as you looked at the soft, inviting line of his mouth. this felt like a massive leap from the kiss you just shared..

but... if you stopped now, the whole "practice" thing would just be half-done, wouldn't it? you’d still be clueless when the time actually came.

that was the only reason your stomach was flipping like this – you just wanted to make sure you actually learned how to do it right.

there definitely was no other reason to say yes. it was just... a matter of being thorough.

a small, nervous smile tugged at your lips.

"i mean... i guess if we wanna be good at it, we have to, right?" you murmured, your heart hammering against your ribs as you shifted your weight, closing the small gap between your knees.

for a moment, neither of you moved.

he only looked back at you, his cheeks flushed as your eyes searched one another.

you reached out, your hand trembling just a little as you rested it on his shoulder.

the second your hand touched his shoulder, he leaned in, his eyelids fluttering shut.

the initial contact was still a little hesitant, but it didn't last long. michael tilted his head, his chin brushing yours as he found the right alignment, his mouth pressing firmer against yours this time.

the low murmur of the tv faded into the background, swallowed by the loud rush of your own blood to your ears.

his hands came up from the couch cushions his slender fingers tracing a line up your neck before burying themselves deep into the hair at the nape of your neck.

his grip tightened, his fingers threading through the strands and giving a small tug to angle your face exactly where he wanted it.

a gasp escaped your throat from the sensation. michael swallowed the sound, his lips sealing over yours just as he slid the tip of his tongue tentatively past your teeth.

the first contact was electric – a warm, wet swipe that sent a jolt down your spine. it was a completely different feeling than before, deeper and incredibly dizzying.

all you could feel was how good it felt having michael’s tongue prying your lips apart, coaxing its way into your mouth. his lips moved against yours again, with more certainty this time, and every brush – every slide sent sparks across your skin. 

the weight of his large palm at the back of your neck kept you in place. you were both letting out muffled needy sounds into each other's mouths.

a faint alarm was still ringing in your head, warning you that this was reckless – that this was michael, your best friend, and you were crossing a line you couldn't uncross. but your body completely ignored it.

you leaned into him, your chest flushing against his as if gravity were pulling you under, your mouth opening wider for every deep, daring swipe of his tongue. the taste of him was maddeningly familiar and new all at once.

a bloom of heat pooled low in your stomach. your pulse stuttered before racing into overdrive. the air in the room felt suffocatingly hot. every slick slide of his mouth against yours sent another jolt through you, blurring everything else into the background.

when he finally broke the kiss to catch his breath, his forehead remained pressed hard against yours. his chest was heaving, his lips wet and swollen as he let out a ragged exhale.

"does it feel good?" he murmured.

"uh-huh," you managed to breathe out as you blinked up at him, completely dazed.

he pulled back just an inch, his eyes heavy-lidded. michael let out a soft exhale – a breathy laugh, his tongue quickly darting out to lick his lower lip before he bit down on it, as if trying to steady himself.

"could taste your lip gloss," he murmured, his voice raspy.

you let out a small laugh of your own, your thumb subconsciously tracing the seam of his collar as your face burned. "yeah?" you breathed.

michael nodded. his gaze stayed fixated on your mouth, looking at your lips with an intensity, like he was under a spell. his thumb softly brushed the soft skin of your jawline.

michael’s eyes searched yours, his thumb softly brushing the heated skin of your jawline. a confidence flared in his expression, his chest rising and falling heavily against yours.

"do you... do y’want t’keep going?" he murmured.

your answer came in a surge forward, capturing his mouth in another kiss.

it turned messier, rougher.

your teeth grazed his lower lip, making him catch his breath, before his tongue pushed even deeper, his long fingers tightening their grip in your hair like he had absolutely no intention of letting you go.

you could feel the vibration of a laugh in his chest at your eagerness, but it quickly broke into a sound that wasn't a laugh at all. a short, high moan slipped past his throat, stifled against your mouth, sending a bolt of heat between your legs.

you shifted closer, and his free hand slid to your waist. the taste of him, the firm grip in your hair, the sharp scrape of his teeth – felt so overwhelming. it felt like too much and not enough all at once.

this was supposed to be just practice.

your entire body felt alive, every nerve ending firing at once. michael’s breath was hot against your skin, his curls brushing your face as he tilted his head deeper. you pressed firmer against him, the frantic thud of his heart rattling right into your own chest. his fingers tightened in your hair, angling your head back to kiss you harder, deeper, his tongue sliding greedily against yours.

the blanket, once wrapped over both of you, slipped onto the floor, completely forgotten.

a heat coiled low in your stomach, making you shift restlessly as your thigh brushed the solid warmth of his leg. his broad palm tightened on your waist, dragging up the thin fabric of your shirt.

you tried not to notice how instinctively your hips wanted to tilt into him, or the tight ache in your chest. but it was impossible to ignore.

you felt everything – the dizzying taste of him, the nip of his teeth on your lip, and the beautiful sounds escaping his lips.

when you broke for air, your forehead rested against his. both of you were breathing fast and unevenly, the air between you scorching. his lips were wet and swollen, his eyes lidded and locked on yours.

“how does it feel for you?” you question back.

“...feels too good.” he whispered, his voice soft and breathless. he leaned the tinitest bit closer, ghosting his swollen lips against yours as he spoke.

“feels like…” he hesitated, his thumb caressing the bare skin at your hip where your shirt had ridden up, his voice dropping to a raspy murmur. “...like i don’t ever wanna stop.”

you swallowed hard, pulse kicking in your throat.

a million thoughts raced through your head, but the loudest one was the simple realization that you didn't want to stop either. 

all that came out was a shaky breath as you leaned back in, desperate for his mouth to be on yours once again.

and when he kissed you, it stopped being about “practice.”

it was pure hunger.

your hands blindly scrambled up his chest, your fingers tight and unyielding as they grabbed at the fabric of his shirt collar, yanking him closer to you.

michael let out another moan against your lips at the sudden force. his hands slid down from your waist, his palms low on your hips, his fingers digging in as he hitched your weight up and pulled you flush against him – shifting you until you were practically draped right over his thigh.

the kiss was turned sloppy, a frenzied wreck of a kiss, your lips sliding over his, tongues tangling deep and slick without a care for coordination or gentleness.

he was swallowing your gasps, his teeth bumping against yours as he drank you in, both of you completely consumed by the messy, intoxicating heat of it–

the unmistakable sound of the front door swinging open and shut echoed through the foyer, followed by the muffled chatter of his brothers. 

instantly, the spell shattered.

you both scrambled back apart so fast it was a wonder your heads didn't collide. you lunged blindly toward the floor, snatching up the forgotten blanket in a flurry and pulling it all the way up to your chin.

beside you, michael threw himself back against the opposite side of the couch. both of your hearts were hammering violently against your ribs, the spike of adrenaline making your chests heave as you both stared fixedly ahead at the tv screen. the movie was still playing, completely unheeded, as you both desperately tried to quiet the sound of your ragged breathing.

the heavy footsteps and familiar voices of his family grew louder, moving down the hallway toward the living room.

you swallowed hard, your lips tingling from the heat of the kiss.

trying to break the suffocating tension before anyone walked through the door, you cleared your throat and leaned slightly toward him, your voice a shaky whisper.

"well... i think we're safe from embarrassing ourselves."

michael let out a quiet laugh, his hand coming up to nervously rub the back of his neck as a flush crawled all the way up to his ears. he kept his eyes locked straight ahead on the screen, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his kiss-swollen mouth.

"yeah," he murmured, his voice still raspy. he stole a quick glance at you out of the corner of his eye. "guess it was good practice."

you both leaned back into the cushions, trying to pretend the entire room wasn't still vibrating with the aftershocks of what just happened. 

your lips were still tingling and your head was buzzing. an ache continued to pulse in your stomach, refusing to settle down. it had felt so good – too good. dangerously good, even.

the exact kind of good that made you want to completely ignore his family in the hall, lean right back across the couch, and erase the space between you all over again.

but as his brothers' loud voices spilled into the room, you forced your eyes to stay glued to the tv. beside you, michael stiffened, stuffing his hands deep into his pockets as if he were trying to hide how much they were shaking.

you told yourself right then and there that it was over. a one-time fluke. just a heat-of-the-moment mistake that both of you would lock away and never let happen again.

but as you stole one final glance at his swollen lips in the dim light, you caught him doing the exact same thing to yours.

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───

i debated making this an inexperienced!michael x experienced!reader, but i could not get it right for the life of me

Your apartment greeted you with the faint, lingering smell of last night's microwave popcorn and the sterile chill of air conditioning.

Home.

You dropped your bag by the door, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet. The date had been a shit show. Daryl — or whatever the fuck his name was — with his overly firm handshake and his insistence that you 'just hadn't given indie men a real chance.'

What kind of bullshit. That sentence alone pissed you off.

You padded into the living area, your eyes automatically drifting to the one nice thing in the room: the large, framed poster of the BAD album cover your dad had given you. Michael's face, frozen in a moment of defiant cool, watched you slump onto the couch. His face a stark contrast to your tired features. God what a night this was. One of the fifty million pointless dates from lonely dating apps. It was exhausting.

After a few coincidental minutes, a soft knock at the door made you jump. You weren't expecting anyone, and you prayed it wasn’t your date following you home, again. You dreaded the thought of calling the police for the third time this month.

Peering through the peephole, your breath hitched. Standing in the dim hallway light was Michael himself, looking oddly casual in a dark button-down and slacks, his hands tucked into his pockets.

You unlocked the door, pulling it open. "Michael? What are you doing here?"

He offered a small, almost shy smile. "Your dad mentioned you had a date tonight." He gestured vaguely. "I was in the neighborhood. Thought I'd check in."

In the neighborhood. Your apartment was decidedly not in any neighborhood Michael would ever just 'be in'. But you stepped aside, letting him in anyway. His presence immediately changed the energy of the small space, making it feel both smaller and more significant.

He stepped inside, his gaze sweeping the room with a practiced eye before landing on you. His smile faded into a look of gentle concern. "You okay? You look tired."

Tired wasn’t even the word for it. Defeated, sure. Mortified, absolutely.

"I’m fine. The date was fine," you mumbled, retreating to the safety of the couch.

He didn't push, just closed the door softly behind him. "Can I get you something? Water?"

"Wine. But it’s okay, I can get it. Just… I dunno. Make yourself comfortable."

The words came out more brittle than you intended. You pushed yourself off the couch, heading for the kitchen to give your hands something to do. You didn’t know his true intention of being here, but you were too tired to ask.

He nodded, moving to the couch but not sitting. Instead, he picked up the discarded Thai food menu from the floor. "You eat?"

You pulled a wine glass from the cupboard, the clink of glass the only sound for a moment. "Not really. Lost my appetite."

He set the menu down, his voice was low, a bit humored. "That bad, huh? How many does that make?"

You sigh, grabbing another glass and pouring the wine in both of them, a common curtesy for him being in your company once again. The deep red sloshed into the glasses, your reflection wobbling in the dark surface. Part of you felt ashamed. How could you even tell him? How could you admit that yet another guy made you feel invisible? Inferior? So fucking stupid for allowing him to waste your time?

The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. You carried the two glasses back to the living area, the wine threatening to spill over the rims with your unsteady steps. You handed one to Michael, your fingers brushing against his. A tiny, electric shock of contact. He took the glass, his eyes never leaving your face. "Thank you."

You took a large gulp of your own wine, the bitterness a welcome distraction from the lump forming in your throat. You collapsed onto the couch, putting a cushion's worth of distance between you.

He finally sat down, the fabric sighing under his weight. He took a slow, deliberate sip. "You don't have to talk about it."

"It’s not that," you hesitate, your breath hitching as you try to find the right words to describe your emotions. "I just.. I’m just so tired." The words felt like a confession, heavy and true in the quiet room. Tired didn't even begin to cover it. It was a soul-deep weariness from trying to fit into a mold that never felt right.

You half scoff, half chuckle at your own disbelief, "They are just so fucking stupid." The words hung in the air, sharp and final. It felt good to say it, to give a name to the frustrating, hollow feeling in your chest. And the floodgates opened. All the pent-up frustration from the night, from months of bad dates, came pouring out. You gestured wildly with your glass, the wine sloshing precariously.

They're all the same.

They talk at you, not to you.

They're obsessed with being perceived as deep, but they have the emotional capacity of a teaspoon.

And he listened, his expression unreadable. He took another slow sip of wine, his eyes never leaving you as you vented about your love life struggles.

You ranted about Daryl’s conspiracy theories about the music industry, about how he'd tried to explain Michael's own album concepts to you as if you were a child. The irony was almost painful.

A part of Michael felt relieved that he was no longer your age, along with the challenges that came with dating. However, another part of him was astounded by the way men treated women these days. There was no chivalry, no love, no respect, and no desire to court a woman. It was almost pathetic to him.

He set his glass down on the coffee table with a quiet, definitive click. "They don't know how to respect women." His voice was low, but it carried a new weight, a sharp edge that hadn't been there before, laced with platitude and judgement.

He leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees. "They don't understand the aspect of making you feel... cherished. It’s a sense of entitlement." His words sounded nothing short of intimate and old-fashioned, and while you would’ve made fun of him for it in any other moment, your words died in your throat.

His gaze was intense as it searched your face, and you try to blame the wine for your breathlessness. "It's not you, you know. It's them. They're boys."

"You need a man."

You pause.

"What?"

He didn't look away, his dark eyes squinting for a moment. "You ain’t hear what I said? You need a real man. Someone who knows what he wants and," he stammers a bit. "and knows how to treat you right."

Oh, he was dead serious.

The air in your small apartment felt thin, charged with an electricity you’d never felt with him before. He leaned back slightly, breaking the tension for just a moment, but his eyes never lost their focus. "They don't see you. Not really."

"And you do?" You speculate, this felt all too real for you. The red wine felt heavy in your stomach, the room tilting on its axis.

"Well, yeah," he scoffs, like it was a silly question to ask. His gaze swept over you, taking in the way you were curled into the corner of the couch, the frustrated set of your shoulders. "You're smart. Y'got a good head on your shoulders. More than any of those lil boys could ever hope to have."

He shook his head slowly, a sad, almost pitying look on his face. "And you're... breathtakingly beautiful. You gotta know that."

"Michael — I don’t understand —"

He turns his head towards you, slightly closing the distance between you. "I think you do understand." His voice was low and soft. "You're too smart not to."

Your mind was racing, a frantic scramble to make sense of the shift in the air. Your dad’s best friend, the same famous man that still took the time to spend time with you when you were in college. Your father would kill you if he found out.

A cold dread mixed with a hot, sharp thrill coiled in your stomach. You thought of all the times he’d been there, a constant, quiet presence in your life. The hugs that lasted a second too long. The way his hand would sometimes linger around your waist.

The silence was deafening. His words hung in the air, a challenge and an invitation all at once. Your mind was a whirlwind of confusion and a terrifying, undeniable pull. He watched the internal conflict play out across your face, his expression softening from intense to something more patient, more understanding.

"You’re scared."

"I’m not.." You shake your head, your gaze flickering to the empty glass in your lap with a soft sigh. The denial was weak, even to your own ears. Your fingers tightened around the stem of the empty wine glass, a flimsy anchor in the sudden, swirling intensity of the moment.

He reached out, his movements slow and deliberate, and gently took the glass from your hands, setting it aside on the table. "S’okay to be scared. This is a…” he exhales. “a lot to process."

His hand returned to yours. The air felt thick, heavy with unspoken desire and the weight of crossing a line that could never be uncrossed. He didn't pull his hand back completely. Instead, he let his fingertips trail softly over the back of your hand. "I, uh, I watched you for a long time, y’know… become this incredible woman,"

His thumb stroked a slow, hypnotic pattern on your skin. "I wanted to wait a lil longer, 'cause I have waited. Out of respect f'your father." A faint, almost sad smile touched his lips. "But as much as you're tired of boys not seeing your worth, it's gettin' to me too."

The confession was staggering, and you know it wasn't a sudden impulse he felt from the confines of your cozy living room, because it didn't sound like it. It was a years-long, simmering yet quiet desire that he was finally letting boil over.

"Now, you've been awful quiet." He laughs softly, gazing down at where your hands connected. His glasses fell slightly on his nose. "I just wanna know what you're thinkin'. If this isn't what you want..."

"I do, Michael.. I'm just tryna... process it all."

You weren't necessarily lying. It was true. You would be absolutely stupid to say no to Michael, especially with your attraction to him in mind. The attraction you thought you'd have to bury away for the rest of your life because it never crossed your mind that this would be possible.

His soft laugh was a vibration you felt more than heard; it settled deep in your bones. He gently lifted your chin with his fingertips, forcing your gaze to meet his. "Then stop processing. Just feel." He leaned in slowly, giving you every opportunity to pull away. The first brush of his lips against yours was achingly soft. Nothing like the rushed, sloppy, nasty kisses you'd experienced before. His lips were reverent against yours.

But when you didn't pull away from him, he deepened the kiss, his hand moving from your chin to cup the side of your face. His other hand found your waist, pulling you gently closer until you were flush against him. The sheer size of him, compared to yours, was a dizzying revelation to you.

The kiss was a slow and deep exploration. His lips moved against yours with a practiced patience that stole the breath from your lungs. It wasn't like anything you imagined from him — it was so much better, the intensity and realness giving you goosebumps alone. The way his hand cradled the back of your head, his fingers tangling gently in your pressed hair, it was too much.

His lips trailed down from your mouth, a slow, deliberate path of soft kisses along your jawline. He took his time, as if memorizing the feel of your skin. His mouth found the sensitive hollow of your throat, his kiss there lingering, warm and damp against your cool skin. "You're so soft."

A shiver ran down your spine as he nuzzled into the curve of your neck, his nose brushing against your pulse point.

He pressed a soft and open-mouthed kiss to the spot just below your ear, his voice a low murmur against your skin. "That feel good?"

A breathy sigh was your only answer. Your hands, which had been clenched at your sides, slowly came up to rest tentatively on his shoulders, and he hummed in approval, the sound vibrating through you.

"Good, that's it. Just relax for me, sweetheart."

His lips continued, alternating between soft kisses and sucking nibbles that made your head spin. The contrast between the gentle exploration of his mouth and the solid strength of his body pinning you gently to the couch was intoxicating.

He pulled back just enough to look at you. His dark eyes searched your face, his glasses crooked on his.

"You're trembling a little, you okay?" His thumb stroked your cheek, and his question hung in the air. You could only manage a weak nod before mustering up the small yet revealing words from your throat.

"Y-Yeah, it's just — I... I haven't done this before. 'm so sorry.."

You watched his face, waiting for the shift, the judgment, the disappointment you were always fearful of.

His thumb stilled on your cheek, and for a long moment, he was perfectly still, his expression unreadable. "Haven't done... this?"

His voice was quiet and carefully neutral, which you hated. He wasn't pulling away, but the intensity in his eyes had shifted from desire to something more contemplative. He searched your eyes, which were angled down to the purity ring that still sat on your finger.

"I haven't really been with anyone, Mike. Not like that."

The directness of the answer sent a fresh wave of heat to your face; you couldn't help but feel ashamed. Not about the fact that you were raised in such a religious way, where you were practically forbidden to hold hands with a man until you were of age, let alone kiss one. Your father made that very clear from the moment he forced the purity ring onto your dainty little finger.

And from the guys you've been around, evidently, they proved that they weren't worth "corruption" — as your father would call it — so you didn't bother giving in. No matter how much your dates tried to push for it.

That didn't mean you didn't explore in your alone time. The box of toys underneath your queen-sized mattress was proof of that.

But it was about the idea of being judged. Since you were a freshman in college, you were ironically made fun of for still wearing the worn-down, busted-up purity ring your daddy got you on your 16th birthday. Shamed for being the only virgin in the group, insecure for being the only one who had no fun sex stories to share throughout undergrad.

They made you feel like a child, something fragile, like you couldn't understand the fundamentals of lovemaking.

But you don't see that with Michael.

Michael gently tilted your chin back up, forcing your eyes to meet his. There was no mockery in his expression, only the familiar softness you've grown fond of. "Hey, look at me."

His voice was a low, soothing murmur, a tear you didn't realize you were holding back escaped and traced a path down your cheek. And he caught the tear with his thumb, his touch impossibly gentle. "There's nothin' to be sorry for. I was the same way when I was your age. Don't let anyone tear down your faith."

The reassurance was so immediate, the endearment a caress as he pressed a small kiss on your forehead. "You sure you want to do this? With me?"

You let out a meek nod, his fingers tucking messy strands behind your ear.

"I need words, sweetheart."

"Yes, Michael. 'Want it to be you. No one else."

A genuine smile spread across his face, his features impossibly tender, his voice a soft promise as he leaned in again. But this time, the kiss was different, still gentle, but now with underlying possession.

He broke the kiss, and his hand slid from your back, fingertips tracing a slow, deliberate path up your side, just brushing the curve of your breast. "Is this too much?"

A jolt of pure electricity shot through you at the unfamiliar yet comforting touch. Your eyes were half-lidded and fixed on his. "N-no. Feels good..." You shake your head.

His eyes darkened, his other hand stroking your hip with his thumb. "Or this?" His hand slid lower, palm flat against your thigh, applying a small, firm pressure. You swallowed hard, shaking your head again. The sheer size of his hand, the confidence in his touch, was overwhelming yet not enough simultaneously.

Nothing had ever felt like this, especially by yourself. A soft sound escaped you, and your body slightly into his touch, a silent plea for more. His gaze on you was intense, watching every tiny reaction that flickered across your face as he studied you.

He had to; he couldn't allow anyone else to learn you the same way he did. He wanted to take the time to learn exactly what made you feel good and what didn't.

And one thing he did take note of was how expressive you were.

Every sigh, every twitch under his touch, he's never seen anything like it. You were so open when you responded to him — so honest. A pure, unfiltered reaction, and it was all for him. Only for him to see.

His fingertips continued slowly upwards, skating along the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. The touch was feather light, but he could feel the heat radiating off your skin. It was furnace-like, sending waves of anticipation through you.

"Wanna know what you're feeling. Could you tell me?"

You took a shaky breath as your mind went blank for a second, your focus only narrowing to the point where his hand rested too close to where you needed him most.

"Hot."

His lips curved into a soft smile, and his gaze was stuck on your beautiful face.

His hand shifted higher, his fingers applying a slightly firmer pressure against the seam of your jeans, moving in slow and deliberate circles against your clothed pussy. "And now?"

A sharp gasp caught in your throat. Your hips jerked involuntarily against his hand, a purely instinctive response. And before you had the room to feel embarrassed, his voice was low and approving, whispering sweet praises in your ear.

"...I want more."

"Say what?"

"I.. I want more, please."

You guided his hand from the seam of your jeans, towards the button, pleading for him to move further. You were practically aching for his touch, his sensation turning from unfamiliarity to unadulterated lust and sexual desire. His touch was a revelation. All the shame, the insecurity you'd carried for years, began to melt under the heat of his presence and the certainty of his touch.

His breath hitched at your plea, his eyes dark pools of the shared desire, searching your eyes for any kind of hesitation. When he found none, only desperation, his slender fingers deftly worked the button of your jeans. The pop of it opening sounded impossibly loud.

The zipper slid down with a soft, metallic whisper. His hand slid inside, his palm warm and firm against the thin fabric of your panties, feeling the wet spot against your lips.

"You're so wet... barely touched you."

The pressure of his middle finger was sure as he moved your underwear to the side, his cool skin tracing soft circles against your clit. Cooing softly as your head falls back. Every nerve in your body was alight and hyper-focused on the rhythm of his fingers. It was overwhelming, but in the best way possible. It was like you finally understood the language you had ever heard in hushed whispers from the women around you.

It was almost embarrassing how his soft praises washed over you —mingling with the increasing speed of his fingers — built your orgasm. And he could tell from another soft moan that escaped your lips as you relaxed against the couch. Your fingers tightened their grip on his shoulders, anchoring yourself as your orgasm threatened to overwhelm you.

He then pulls his hand back slowly, his touch retreating, the sudden absence becoming a physical ache. And your eyes fly open, a desperate sigh leaving your lips as you meet his unwavering gaze.

"Mike," you whine, "Why'd you stop?"

He leans in, his lips meeting yours in a soft kiss. "Relax, girl, 'want you to cum on my tongue first."

The words shoot directly into your ears, and they send a fresh wave of desire through you. He cups your cheek, thumb stroking your skin. "Is that something that you'd want?"

You nod eagerly, and he stands from the couch. His movements were fluid as he offered you his hand, and you took it. Your heart grew loud in your ears, anticipation sending shock waves through you.

The bedroom door is ajar, and he pushes it open, his gaze sweeping through the room before landing on your bed. The cozy, warm space suddenly feels sacred in his presence.

He stops just inside the doorway, turning to face you. He brings your hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles.

"Lie down for me."

His voice is a low command, softened by the reverence in his eyes. You moved to the bed on unsteady legs, settling against the duvet. He follows you, kneeling on the floor at the edge of your bed. The position was startingly intimate, submissive even, but he didn't have a care in the world how he looked. Especially when his focus was solely on your pleasure.

You lift your hips slightly as he pulls off your jeans, leaving you in your tank top and your thin panties, so soaked that they're practically transparent. The cool air hit your bare skin as he tossed the jeans aside. His hands slide up your calves, to your thighs, then hook his fingers in the waistband of your panties.

His gaze lifts to meet yours, a silent question, and you give a slight nod.

He pulls them down, his sharp exhale tickling your sensitive clit as he sees you. So pretty and so exposed. He was the first to see you. And he'd be the first to take you. The first to ruin you so sweetly.

He leans forward, his face inches from you as his warm breath ghosts over your most sensitive skin. "So beautiful, sweetheart."

He doesn't rush. His lips press soft, open-mouthed kisses to your inner thigh, his barely noticeable stubble a rough, thrilling contrast to the softness of his mouth. His hands spread your thighs wider as he gets closer, then his tongue darts out, a quick, experimental action that makes you jolt. Then his mouth is on you, his tongue flat on your clit, laving slow strokes that make your back arch.

He hums at the taste of you, so clean, so sweet, and it was all for him to devour. His hands slide under your hips, lifting you slightly to get a better angle, and his tongue finds a rhythm. Circling your clit then moving downwards to push his tongue against your entrance, grinding his nose against your sensitive bud in the meantime.

You can barely hear the words coming out of his mouth, and he doesn't put in any effort to pull away from your pussy. You could only manage choked sobs and high-pitched moans as the vibrations of his praises shot through you. Your fingers tangle in his hair as his tongue grows relentless. Worshipful. It became a sensation you were only just beginning to get used to, but he was anything but patient. His mouth worked you over in building intensity, his groans of approval sending your orgasm over like a freight train.

Your hips buck against his face, but his hands hold you steady. Strong and firm, allowing no escape from his mouth.

"Fuckfuckfuck — Mike, slow down, I-I'm gonna —"

He focuses his attention, his tongue flicking rapidly against your clit. "Come on, baby. I can feel you shaking. Give in to me."

The world dissolves into pure sensation. A broken cry is torn from your throat as your orgasm crashes over you, violent and overwhelming. Small whimpers flow from your lips at the sensitivity of him tonguing you through your orgasm.

He finally lifts his head, his lips glistening, his breathing ragged. His glasses were long discarded as he kissed your inner thighs softly. He rose from his knees, his movements fluid and deliberate, and joined you on the bed.

He loomed over you, his larger frame caging you gently against the mattress. The scent of your arousal and his cologne mingled in the air. His thumb brushed a stray tear from your cheek, and his gaze was soft as the hard line of his bulge pressed against your thigh. He leaned down, kissing you claimingly, possessively, his hand anchoring himself beside your head while his other worked at the fastening of his own pants.

He didn't have to be fully exposed to see the sheer size of him. The sound of his zipper was loud in the quiet room. He shifted, then you felt him, heavy against your thigh. He pressed his tip, achingly hot against your entrance.

"Look at me."

You obeyed, your gaze trapped in his. The first push inside you was an immense pressure that stretched you wide, making you gasp.

"Breathe, sweetheart. Just breathe for me. I'll go slow."

You took in a shaky breath, and he pushed forward again, slowly, inexorably filling you. The sensation was overwhelming — a fullness you'd never known, coupled with a sharp, fleeting sting. His body trembled with a low groan, evidently showing the effort of his restraint before sinking into you completely.

And for a moment, he stilled, the initial discomfort you felt began to fade, replaced by a throbbing ache of pleasure. Your shaky gasps transformed into breathy moans as you clawed at his shoulder. He began to move, a slow, rocking rhythm. The pace was patient, and his eyes never left yours, reading every flicker of emotion on your face.

He grabbed your face gently, lifting you up slightly into a deep kiss, muffling your shared moans, and the feeling built again. but different than before. His dick kissed your sweet spots so tenderly, and your hips began to move tentatively with his, meeting his slow thrusts.

The rhythm found its own pace, a building cadence that had the world narrowing to the feeling of him inside of you. His breath was ragged as he moaned against your ear, loud and unshameful. You could tell his control began to fray, his hand sliding between you to rub firm circles against your clit, matching the pace of his thrusts.

"F — Shit, sweetheart, I can't... you're so warm around me... Gonna make me cum —"

His confession sent a thrill through you. You arched into him, a silent plea for more as you felt your second orgasm shoot waves through you. With a final, deep thrust, he buried himself inside you, his body tensing as his release washed over him. His breath was harsh in your ear, his heart hammering against your chest.

He shifted slightly, propping himself up on his elbows to look down at you, his expression soft and searching. "Are you okay? I didn't hurt you, did I?" You immediately shake your head, pulling him back down as you wrap your arms around his neck in the comfortable silence.

And it was like that for a while. Before you feel him inhale softly in your ear.

"Nobody else gets to see you like this. Ever. You understand?"

The morning sun filtered through the sheer curtains, casting a warm, golden glow across the bedroom. You stirred slightly, stretching against the soft sheets, before the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee and warm vanilla drifted past your nose.

Opening your eyes, you found Michael already sitting on the edge of the bed, holding a beautifully arranged tray. His dark curls falling loosely around his face, and that familiar, soft smile that always made your heart skip a beat.

"Good morning, beautiful," he whispered, his voice low and raspy from sleep.

"Michael," you murmured, sitting up and rubbing your eyes. "What is all this?"

On the tray sat a plate of golden-brown French toast dusted with powdered sugar, a bowl of fresh berries, a glass of orange juice, and a single, perfect pink rose in a crystal vase.

"Just a little something to start the day right," he said, leaning forward to press a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. "We’ve both been so busy lately, and I wanted to make today special for you. Eat up, because you have a busy schedule ahead."

You laughed, taking a sip of the coffee. "A busy schedule? What are you planning, michael?"

"It's a surprise," he replied with a mischievous glint in his eye, tapping the tip of your nose. "Just promise me you'll enjoy it."

True to his word, Michael had the entire morning meticulously planned out. Shortly after breakfast, a driver arrived to take you to your favorite boutique salon in the city. When you walked in, the staff greeted you by name, immediately escorting you to a private room.

"Mr. Jackson called ahead," the manicurist told you with a smile. "He picked out a few colors he thought you'd like, but of course, the choice is entirely yours."

You spent the next two hours being completely pampered—a luxurious manicure and pedicure, followed by a professional styling session for your hair. Every detail felt deliberate, designed to make you feel like royalty.

When you returned home, you found a large, elegant box sitting on the bed. Tied with a satin ribbon, a small note rested on top in Michael's neat, looping handwriting

Wear this for me tonight. A car will pick you up at 4:00 PM. I can't wait to see you.

All my love, Michael.

With racing pulses, you untied the ribbon and lifted the lid. Inside lay a breathtaking, flowing dress in your favorite color, made of soft silk that felt like water against your skin. Paired with it were a set of delicate, understated jewelry pieces that perfectly complemented the gown.

You changed quickly, looking at yourself in the full-length mirror. The dress fit flawlessly, hugging you in all the right places before cascading down to the floor. Right on time, a soft knock on the front door signaled that your driver had arrived.

The drive took you away from the bustling city streets, winding down quiet, tree-lined roads until the car finally pulled up to a massive stone archway. The driver opened the door for you, gesturing toward a cobblestone path that led into a dense, beautifully manicured estate garden.

"He's waiting for you at the end of the path, miss," the driver said warmly.

Taking a deep breath, you stepped onto the stones. The air was thick with the scent of blooming jasmine, lavender, and roses. As you walked further down the winding path, you noticed small, delicate details hanging from the branches of the willow trees.

Strung on thin, invisible wires were Polaroid photographs.

You stopped, reaching out to touch the first one. It was a candid photo from three years ago—you and Michael sitting on a blanket in a park, laughing hysterically at an inside joke, his camera catching the exact moment of pure happiness.

A few steps further, another photograph caught your eye. This one was from a quiet rainy evening at home, where he had caught you fast asleep on his shoulder while a movie played in the background.

Every few yards, another memory hung in the air

A snapshot of your first vacation together by the ocean.

A goofy selfie of the two of you covered in flour after an attempt at baking.

A quiet, tender moment backstage at one of his shows, where he was holding your hand just before stepping into the spotlight.

Tears pricked the corners of your eyes as you walked through the living timeline of your relationship. Michael had kept all of these moments, preserving them like treasure. Each photograph was a testament to the years of love, growth, and unwavering support you had shared.

The path opened up into a breathtaking, secluded clearing.

The centerpiece of the clearing was a massive, ancient oak tree, its branches completely draped in thousands of tiny, twinkling fairy lights that cast a soft, ethereal glow over the entire space.

Elegant floral arrangements of white hydrangeas and pastel roses surrounded the perimeter, and soft, acoustic violin music drifted faintly from hidden speakers.

Standing right beneath the canopy of lights was Michael.

He had traded his casual white dress shirt for a sharp, tailored black suit that made him look incredibly handsome. His curls were neatly styled, but his expression was completely soft, his eyes locked onto you from the moment you stepped into the clearing.

As you walked toward him, he held out his hands, taking yours the moment you were close enough. His hands were warm, trembling just a fraction.

"You look absolutely breathtaking," he whispered, his eyes scanning your face, filled with an intensity that made your heart race. "The dress looks even more beautiful on you than I imagined."

"Michael, all of this... the photos, the garden... it's incredible," you breathed, looking around. "What is all this for?"

He took a deep, steadying breath, squeezing your hands gently.

"I wanted to bring you somewhere where we could step away from the rest of the world," Michael began, his voice rich with emotion. "Just you and me. Looking back at those photos on the way in... it reminded me of how much we've built together.

Through every high and every low, you've been my rock. You love me for exactly who I am, without any expectations, and you've given me a peace I never thought I'd find."

He stepped closer, closing the small distance between you.

"Every day with you feels like a gift. You bring so much light into my life, and I can't even begin to fathom a future where you aren't by my side. I want to protect you, cherish you, and make you happy for the rest of my days."

Before you could speak, Michael slowly dropped down to one knee on the velvet grass. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, black velvet box. Opening it, a stunning, brilliant-cut diamond ring caught the light of the fairy lamps, sparkling brilliantly.

Your breath hitched, a hand flying to your mouth as tears finally spilled over your eyelashes.

"You are my heart, my soul, my entire world," Michael said, looking up at you with pure, unfiltered devotion in his eyes. "Will you do me the greatest honor of my life? Will you marry me?"

For a second, the entire universe seemed to hold its breath.

"Yes!" you sobbed happily, nodding your head quickly. "Yes, Michael, absolutely yes!"

A brilliant, radiant smile broke across his face—the happiest, most genuine smile you had ever seen on him. He slid the ring onto your finger before standing up and wrapping his arms tightly around your waist, lifting you slightly off your feet. You clung to his neck, burying your face in his shoulder as he spun you around under the canopy of twinkling lights, both of you laughing through tears of pure joy.

୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧

reminder that this is part two

1987 to 1988

Michael flicked the cap on and off the lighter, eyes watching lazily as the flame ignited and disappeared. The clicking sound white noise to his ears as he sat in his dressing room. Even the roar of the crowd outside wasn’t enough to break him out of his melancholic trance.

His eyes trailed to the phone for what must’ve been the thousandth time. Wanting to call but he knew he shouldn’t. He had no right to. Letting the opportunity of something slip through his fingers before he was able to get a clear look at what could’ve been. He’d been so caught up with the rest of his life that he didn’t appreciate the moments he did have.

The quiet evenings that melted into early morning, hours spent on the phone with you talking about nothing yet everything at once— the world feeling empty, save you and him. He missed hearing your laugh. Missed making you laugh. Missed having you at an arms distance and he had ruined it. Ran it into the ground so violently he was pretty sure there was no way to salvage whatever it was between the two of you.

Nothing. Maybe it had always been nothing and he had just been too caught up in being an idiot with delusions of what if.

There was a knock on his door, the stage manager saying he was on in ten minutes and Michael wasn’t even sure if he replied. Eyes focused back on the lighter.

This was pathetic.

Even if he did decide to bite the bullet and call you, what on earth would he say?

Sorry for completely fucking up and running away from you because I was too scared to commit to something that felt too good to be true.

Michael laughed silently to himself, though it came out as a scoff.

It wouldn’t matter.

His eyes caught on the paper he said he’d throw away days ago. It sat on the counter, for the most part untouched. It wasn’t like he could read it anyway, given it was in the native tongue of the country he was currently in, but the large photo that took up the front page got the message across clearly.

Your smile wide and eyes crinkled at the edges, hand help up and a diamond catching the flash of a camera. Your fiancés arm draped around your waist with a lazy smile as he admired you.

Michael’s eyes flicked to the lighter he’d been playing with, briefly considering setting the newspaper on fire.

It was becoming a pastime at this point. Every show, digging himself into a deeper hole as he sat there wishing he would’ve done something different. Eyes trying not to look to the side of the stage, the flashing lights playing a trick on his mind and making him think you were there— then he’d blink, the shape of you fading into the form of his girlfriend and he’d grow slightly nauseous with guilt before turning away, his feet still moving to the beat and forcing a smile for the audience.

Michael felt like he never quite left. Never stopped performing. All the world’s a stage.

He’d ignore the way Bill would look at him in the rearview mirror, pushing his sunglasses further up his nose even though the hour was late.

Michael would tell himself that shrugging off his girlfriend’s advances was just him being tired from the show. That it had nothing to do with you. You two hadn’t spoken in well over a year. Hell, you probably weren’t even thinking of him. Why would you?

You were happy. Glowing. Engaged.

When he got a small break in the tour, finally getting a brief moment to breathe as he got to sleep in the familiar sheets of his own home— Christ, the date would be burned into his heart for forever.

He was eating breakfast, a glass of orange juice halfway to his lips when Bill walked into the kitchen. His expression unreadable with an envelope in his hands and Michael was irritated at the fact he noticed the paper was your favorite color.

“Morning,” he said warily, not loving the intensity Bill had brought into the space at such an early hour.

“Morning, Joker.” Bill’s eyes flicked to the envelope, to Michael, back down. His jaw rolling.

“What?”

The older man opened his mouth, closed it, handed the mail to Michael.

He took hold of it with two fingers, oblivious for only a moment before his eyes took in the elegant script with your name and your fiancés scribbled on the front.

He froze, feeling like every vein and nerve ending in his body had hardened into stone, rendering him immobile as he continued to just stare at it.

He knew what it was. He did. Michael knew exactly what he was holding with revolting clarity.

Swallowing thickly, he could feel Bill staring at him, the man’s pity palpable and he hated it. He hated every fucking second even as his fingers gently tore open the mail and his eyes fell to the photo of you and your fiancé with the date of your wedding printed just underneath. Michael watched with hollowness as some dried flowers— your favorite, fell from where they had been wedged between the invite and envelope, floating down uselessly into his lap. Mocking him, is what it more or less felt like.

He blamed the stinging in his eyes on something capricious and entirely unrelated to what felt like a talent in his hands.

“Are you okay—“

“I think I’m just gonna hang out in the studio today. Work on some stuff.” Michael ignored the tightness beneath his tone, carefully sliding the invite back in the envelope and setting it down next to the plate he now had no appetite to touch.

“Michael.”

His eyes flicked up, the back of his throat faintly tasting acidic.

Bill’s brows were deeply creased. “Are you okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Well, because…” he gestured vaguely to the dried flowers still littered in front of Michael.

He shrugged, trying his best to have a nonchalant air about himself even though he knew Bill would see through it in a heartbeat. But he had to, it would hurt too much to not pretend.

All the world’s a stage.

“I got an invite to my friend’s wedding, I’m happy for her.”

The silence that swept into the room was enough to make his ears ring.

Bill looked like he wanted to argue. To push for honesty, but his lips pursed instead. Deciding to fall back on the pity he likely felt as he took in the lovelorn expression hidden beneath the fault lines of Michael’s face.

୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧

1989

Eight months.

Every time his eyes drifted towards a calendar, he could hear the ticking as time swept away from him. The way his heart thudded, nearly violent, felt like he was watching Doomsday slowly rear its ugly head.

Eight months until your wedding.

“How come you’ve never introduced me to her? I’ve met all your other friends.” His girlfriend asked as she got ready for bed, eyeing him from the mirror perched on top of the vanity.

His eyes slid from her to the invite that was wedged into the corner of the looking-glass. He didn’t know why he put it there. Some form of self-flagellation, he supposed.

“Never the right time, I guess.”

“But, wasn’t she at that New Years—“

“You know how busy I was that night.”

“I know, I just,” she turned, gnawing at the side of her cheek. Clearly wanting to push. She had asked ages ago if anything had happened between the two of you. Michael had had to force a laugh, acting like the idea was a niche form of insanity.

She then sighed, seeing an unnecessary battle in front of her. “Never mind.”

Five months.

He’d somehow, completely unintentionally, ran into your fiancé at an award show he was helping coordinate.

Michael found his eyes searching the crowd, telling himself it wasn’t to find you somewhere hidden amongst the masses, only faintly paying attention to the man in front of him speaking.

“I can’t believe I’m gonna have Michael Jackson at my wedding,” he laughed.

The sound was immensely irritating.

“Why?” Was all Michael could think of to say.

“Well, I mean when I saw she was inviting you, I thought it was a bit of a joke.”

Again, the only word to leave Michael’s lips was “Why?”

“I mean, you’re you. And she’s… you know.”

Michael simply stared at him and something in his expression made your fiancés smile slowly fall away.

“I just meant—“

“I know what you meant.” He said flatly, eyes flicking over the man in disgust before turning away from him. He probably should’ve brought his sunglasses, because Michael knew from that point on he’d likely have a sour look on his face the rest of the night.

Why the fuck would you be marrying him?

He found his seat, his girlfriend looking at him warily. “You okay—“

“Fine.”

His night somehow got worse.

Because you walked out to present an award, your arm looped with Prince’s and he was pretty sure he physically felt a fuse pop somewhere in his brain.

★

Your eyes found him instantly in the crowd. You weren’t even trying, honestly, but like a moth drawn to flame, you found where he was sitting. Your eyes quickly darting away as Prince announced the nominees and you did your best to not take note of the woman Michael was sat next to.

A warm smile was plastered on your face, your skin feeling hot in the stage lights as the winner was announced and you did your role. Clapping and handing off the award. Being taken slightly off guard as Prince leaned over to place a chaste kiss on your cheek as you exited the stage.

Your eyes danced back to the audience, being beckoned to turn and look just once by an unseeable force, briefly catching a glimpse of Michael getting up and leaving.

When you exited the venue, simply for a brief moment of silence, you pulled out a cigarette and lit it. The warm light from the fire catching in your eyes and you blinked up at the Hollywood night sky. The stars being dulled a bit by the greediness of Los Angeles.

This city ate and ate. Ate up everything that had been too foolish enough to set foot in it and you stood there with a grim realization that it was eating away at everyone around you. That it was chewing on you yourself. Your bones started to ache and itch and you wished momentarily for something a little stronger than nicotine to keep your restless mind at bay.

“I wish you’d quit that.”

Your hand froze midway to your mouth and you turned, seeing Michael leaned against the wall and looking at you. His expression unreadable and half hidden in shadow that the dim street light cast through the alley. Looking like he’d stepped right out of a Caravaggio.

It felt jarring. Seeing him in person this close. It had been two years. Two years of no calls. Just another gift dropped off at your doorstep by Bill with the letter M scratched into a gift tag on a birthday you’d rather ignore. Two years since the balcony in New York and his quiet Please don’t.

“Why are you out here?” You forced the words out, not knowing what else to say. Your fingers trembling as you pulled the cigarette from your lips and turned away. It hurt to look at him. “Shouldn’t you be with your girlfriend?”

“Shouldn’t you be with your fiancé?”

Your bit your cheek. “He’s working.”

Michael hummed but didn’t add anything further. Not that he had to. There was a cadence to his silence that made you cave and slate your eyes over to him.

“What?”

He shrugged one shoulder, “I didn’t say anything.”

“You want to though, I can tell—“

“I don’t like him very much.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

Michael took a step closer, his expensive shoes crunching in the loose asphalt. “Is that really the guy you’re gonna spend the rest of your life with?”

“You don’t even know him.”

Michael scoffed slightly. “And you do?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’ve been together for what? Maybe two years? And you’re getting married?”

You simply stared at him. At his set expression. The conviction that danced beneath the cracks that made him up.

You felt cold all of the sudden and your mouth dry and bitter. “Why do you care?”

His mouth opened slightly, his dark eyes flicking between yours. “I… why wouldn’t I care?”

A laugh left you, though it was more so a brief exhale of air. “Michael, we haven’t spoken in—“

“Two years.” He nodded his head, gaze dancing down to his shoes. “I know.”

You gnawed at your lip. Knowing you should go inside. Leave him there just like you did back in New York.

You never knew when to quit. Never knew a decision was reckless till you were left to deal with the aftermath.

You took a step forward, your heels making a sharp sound and his eyes flicked up to watch you as you grew closer. The scent of his cologne now swirling around you due to the proximity and it hit you violently. How much you missed him. How much you hated him for just dropping you out of his life even though you had no right to demand to stay.

“You never called.” You said quietly, though not a whisper. Your words carrying off gently into the shadows.

His expression was warped into subtle pain as he looked at you openly. Like he was just as relieved to finally be this close after so long. A good kind of pain that tasted sweet on the tongue.

“I know.” His eyes moved down to your mouth, but you told yourself it was just the lighting.

“Why?” You asked, watching in a twisted sort of fascination as his teeth briefly sunk into his bottom lip.

“I thought it would hurt too much.”

“I believe I could’ve coped.”

“No,” he shook his head, hand reaching out and he took hold of your fingers gently, his thumb toying with your engagement ring. “I thought it would hurt me.” Michael sighed, his hand warm and much larger than yours as he gently raised it up to inspect the diamond in the light. “And I was right.”

Your heart felt like a rotting fruit. Wilting into a delicate mess as it burned a hole through your chest. Wishing he would just spit it out. Wishing you would. But both of you had waited too long. Let too much time pass. Slipped into other relationships and other priorities.

Part of you thought you’d be ready. Ready for whatever this was. But it was a grim and nauseating realization that Michael would never admit the truth to you. Even though he was known to be a man of words, he could never say it.

You hated the way your voice sounded as you spoke, feeling so small all of the sudden. “I want to get married, Michael.” His grip on your hand became a little tighter. “I want someone to come home to who isn’t scared to tell me that I’m theirs. I want a family. I want something safe. Steady.”

Your hand slipped from his.

You had only just taken off your heels, your head a little heavy from a few glasses of wine, when the phone rang.

“Can you grab that?” Your fiancé asked, already halfway into the shower.

You hummed, wishing the call would just go to voicemail. It was late. Nearing three in the morning and your entire night felt ruined after a an arbitrary argument over the dinner table on what was supposed to be a nice date.

You pressed the phone to your ear. “Hello—“

Michael said your name, static dancing on the outsides of it from the other end of the line.

“Michael, what—” you leaned forward to look down the hall, but your fiancé was now shut behind a closed bathroom door, the sound of water running the only thing to greet your ears. “Why are you calling so late?” Not to mention it had been nearly three months since that back alley conversation.

There was a beat of silence.

“I broke up with her.”

You felt your body touch the wall before you had even realized you tilted to the side. Your lips parted, eyes flickering uselessly around the room as his words tried to settle in your brain.

“Why are you telling me this?”

He sighed and you briefly wondered where he was right now. Lying in bed? Sitting in his studio? Leaned against the counter in his kitchen?

Michael’s words came out slowly. “I don’t know.”

You shut your eyes, pushing your head a little hard to the wall.

He still can’t fucking say it.

Did you even want him to? What would be the point?

“Michael—“

“Don’t marry him.”

It was like all the oxygen had been sucked from the room. Leaving your eyes to water and throat tighten.

“What?” You hated that your voice wavered.

“Don’t marry him.”

Your knuckles nearly cracked with how hard you were gripping the phone. “Why are you doing this now?”

Your head was spinning. Going so fast you hardly kept up, feeling like the room was caving in and the sound of the shower running felt violent against your ears.

He couldn’t be serious. You weren’t sure if it was your rationale or your insecurities, but it felt like he was merely grasping for a life line. Some sort of tether to simply keep you around. Only doing this now because it mean’t you weren’t an option. No longer obtainable. Not something he could fall back on. You’d been within his reach for years now, always there in someway shape or form.

Now you weren’t.

“I just—“

“Hey, babe? Could you grab me a towel?”

You took a shaking breath, lowering the phone to your shoulder and trying to steady your voice. “One second.”

You faintly heard Michael say your name and you bit hard down on your tongue, willing the tightness in your throat to go away.

“I gotta go.” And you hung up.

୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧

1990

The glass was cool against your skin as you leaned against it, sitting in the alcove as you watched the crystal white plains of a mountain side. Observing mutely as you saw a deer disappear into the neighboring woods of the massive lodge-like manor you had rented out for your wedding. The environment was reminiscent of a winter wonderland, but you felt numbly void of any of the whimsy. Something that should’ve concerned you, given you were getting married in the morning.

But you felt… you didn’t know. Not quite real. Like you were watching from an outer perspective. That this wasn’t really happening to you, not really.

You pressed your head a little harder into the glass. Briefly wondering what would happen if the window broke and you went plummeting three floors down to the ice slicked patio that lay below.

You felt someone gently start to pull you back and you turned, seeing your friend look down at you. Their expression that of barely masked concern. A little too knowing.

“You okay?” Their eyes searched yours and you knew what they were really asking. Anytime they had tried to talk to you about it— everything. Michael. The engagement— you shut down. Lapsing in on yourself in fear to face the truth. Wanting to continue to live in a delusion of comfort. Comfort you weren’t even feeling anymore.

“Just nervous,” you brushed off their hand as you stood, walking to the vanity and mindlessly shuffling through your make up for the dinner tonight. The guests were arriving in a few hours and you didn’t want to admit how terrified you were.

You hadn’t spoken to Michael since that phone call. You weren’t even sure if he was still coming. You weren’t even entirely sure why you invited him in the first place. Or maybe you did, just acting as though the thought was in a foreign language you couldn’t understand.

Your friend messed with the ends of your hair as they came to stand behind you, trying to meet your gaze in the mirror but your eyes flicked away.

“You know you don’t have to—“

“I’m gonna start getting ready.”

Your friend sighed, but smiled. “Okay.”

Your finger lazily traced the rim of your wine glass as the dinner went on. Music faintly playing from a stereo and the chatter around you was white noise as you tried to look everywhere but at him.

He was sat down the long table and you could just barely hear him talking to one of your mutual friends from Epic. The topic of the conversation unknown, but his voice carried easily. The cadence and tone greeting your ears like an old song you hadn’t heard in ages.

The whole night you felt like you could feel your heart in your throat. An uncomfortable constriction that made it a little hard to breathe. Your white dress feeling too tight even though the cut resembled a slip.

The sound of glass tinking from a knife suddenly rang around the room and your eyes danced up, watching with a hollowness as your fiancé stood up to make a toast to end the evening.

His voice stretched out across the room, but you couldn’t hear him. Your ears ringing and your skin feeling too hot because you knew Michael was watching you.

You didn’t hear a single fucking word. Feeling like you were about to pass out as your fiancé looked down at you with a smile and you returned it dutifully, eyes shutting briefly as he leaned down to press a chaste kiss to the top of your head.

It was two in the morning as you found yourself walking out to the hot tub on the back patio. The air biting with a frost that went straight to your bones. It felt refreshing, its own form of a cold plunge on your mind. Your eyes taking in the blue tint the snow got from the moonlight as more flecks slowly floated down to the earth.

You wrapped your sweater a little tighter around you, though it really didn’t do much considering how thin your pajama pants were and your slippers were already starting to get soaked through. Despite this and with a complete lack of concern for hypothermia, you sat at the edge of the hot tub and ran your fingers gently through the water, letting the heat of it sink into your skin. A stark dichotomy to snowflakes that continued to land in your hair.

The manor, despite its sheer size, felt suffocating. You had left your room in such haste you had forgotten to grab a pack of cigarettes and you tried to focus on the annoyance of that as a distraction.

Hearing footsteps somewhere behind you and expecting it to be your friend attempting another heart to heart, you turned. “I really don’t want to talk—“

Your eyes met Michael’s.

He froze, seeming to be as equally surprised to see you.

“I’m sorry, I’ll—“ He started to take a step back and the word left you before you could think better of it.

“Stay.”

You two watched each other for another halted moment, feeling as though whatever happened next would set in motion something that would alter history. One of those moments that would be looked backed on years down the road and inspected.

Michael slowly approached, as if nearing a skittish animal, his shoes crunching in the newly set snow before he sat down near you. Not quite next to.

It was silent for a while, you had no idea how much time had passed. Not looking at him but you could feel where his gaze kept landing. His eyes catching on the diamond like he couldn’t help it.

You watched in feigned curiosity as the water rippled round your fingers. “Just say it.”

You heard him take in a slow breath. “Say what?”

You laughed lightly, “I know you don’t approve of all this.”

Michael looked away from you for a moment, his jaw rolling as he took in the distant mountains. Something flickering beneath the surface of his face before he landed on what he was going to say. “Why him?”

You messed with the ring, the metal becoming biting and loose with the cold. “Why not him?” You weren’t sure what you wanted him to say.

“Do you love him?”

You shut your eyes, “Michael—“

“Do you?”

It wouldn’t matter. Why would it? Why was it your responsibility to confess first? Confess just to make him more comfortable in his own admittance? You were tired of it.

Slowly you stood up, your bones and muscles protesting. “I’m gonna get some sleep.”

Michael watched you leave without another word.

★

He sat there a while longer. Eyes staring blankly at the aquamarine in front of him, feeling the warmth from the space you had occupied start to evaporate.

Doomsday had approached, apparently. The timing coinciding with the earth dying. Everything turning to ice and rotting from frost.

It physically pained him to look at you, aside from the usual reasons.

You looked lost. Lost in yourself. In everything. He didn’t know how to help. Didn’t know how to not make things worse. Feeling selfish for having sought you out in the first place and searching for a reason to steal you away. Still not able to admit out loud to himself or you the true intention behind his protests. Even if he knew. Even if you did. The fact he was too much of a coward to just spit it out felt like reason enough he didn’t deserve anything to do with you.

The heat once he walked back inside felt like he’d walked into a furnace. Much too hot and making his skin itch against his clothes. He tugged at the collar of his sweater as he made his way through the large estate. The old wood paneling provided the allusion to an oak labyrinth and his shoes were a muffled thud along the rug.

He faintly heard laughter, though he didn’t pay it any mind as he walked by a cracked door to what must’ve lead to some sort of den or parlor. The scent of tabacco wafting out into the hall on the coattails of men chattering.

Then he heard your name drip from your fiancés lips and he froze mid-step, physically feeling his ears adjust to listen better as he slowly walked a few steps back closer to the door.

“And you’re sure she has no idea?” Someone said, though Michael hadn’t the faintest idea who. The whole room appeared to only be men from the grooms side.

He tried to look into the room as inconspicuously as possible, seeing your fiancé sat in a chair with a cigar between his teeth and his smile akin to a shark.

“Hell no. If she knew, you really think we’d be getting married?”

“But why even get married?”

“That’s a dumb question. You know how much money she makes?”

“Yeah, but—“

“Besides, it’ll help me get a leg up. You know how much people love industry couples.”

“And if people found out you’ve been having an affair? That shit is gonna go up in flames.”

It was taking an ungodly amount of willpower for Michael not to yank the door open an shove the cigar straight into your fiancés eye socket, manufacturing some twisted form of lobotomy just to get him to shut up but the bastard kept going.

“And why do you think I was so adamant that we won’t need a prenup?”

His friend laughed. “How on earth did you convince her not to sign one?”

“She’s a romantic, poor thing will listen to anything if I dust some sugar on top.”

Michael let out a low breath as he stepped back, one hand rubbing against his chin as he paced in front of the door for a moment. The image that of a lion determining if it wanted to lunge or not.

He didn’t even have the time to feel rectified in his initial dislike of the guy, because this? This was so much worse.

The moment he heard footsteps approaching the door, Michael acted on pure instinct as he quickly rounded the corner, pressing his back into the wall and listening as they all called it a night. Too drunk to take any note of him as they walked past and thankfully none of them turning the corner.

And then he saw him.

Michael prided himself in not being a violent man. He usually had an aversion to it, given how he was raised.

Yet his hand wound in the fabric of your fiancés shirt and he really didn’t have to think about it. Didn’t think about it at all as he yanked him closer, his fist drawing back before shooting forward and landing in the bone structure of the mans nose with a satisfying crack.

Your fiancé would’ve staggered back from the shock of pain, but Michael still had a vice-like grip on his shirt and he pulled him close again.

Another punch, his knuckles being cut against teeth but he didn’t care.

Michael watched as the man crumbled to his knees, coughing out blood and tears pouring out of his eyes as he looked up at him. It was nearly pitiful.

He watched in a strange sort of fascination as shock rippled over your fiancés features, because who would’ve thought? Michael had a relatively gentle reputation about him. Known more so to bite back with words when prompted, but always polite.

“What the hell, man?”

“You’re lucky I don’t knock your ass unconscious.”

“What’s your problem?” He tried to stand up, but Michael was still holding onto his shirt and he forced him to stay put as he leaned his face down to look him in the eye.

“You’re a pathetic piece of shit,” despite the rage that made his skin feel too hot, Michael’s tone was even. “And trust me when I say you’re never going to get the privilege to ever look at her again.”

“You can’t—“

Michael yanked him up easily before shoving him away, watching as the man stumbled like a deer on ice.

“Get out of here.”

“Please man, you can’t tell her.”

Michael raised both brows at him, a soundless laugh leaving his lips. “I’m about two seconds away from fucking killing you.”

With that, he practically ran down the hall, his tail tucked between his legs and blood leaving droplets in the expensive rug.

Michael flexed his hand and eyes flicked down to the split skin of his knuckles. The skin already red and beginning to swell as crimson was caked in the crevices.

Unfortunate.

He immediately started wandering the halls in a desperate attempt to find your room, the task momentarily felt impossible until thankfully his eyes caught sight of some decorations your bridesmaids must’ve put up.

His tongue clicked at the Bride to Be banner draped across the wood but he didn’t waste time as he knocked and whispered your name.

No answer.

“Please open the door.” He could hear the desperation in his voice, pressing his forehead against the wood as if to will it open. “Please.”

He was met with silence.

Not wanting to completely air out something that deserved to be private in the hallway, he said a silent prayer that he’d be able to catch you before you were due to walk the aisle in the morning.

Yet still, he needed to say something, even in a last ditch effort that would probably come up fruitless.

“Please don’t marry him.”

His knee was jumping up and down so violently that he was getting a few side eyes and his suit felt too tight.

Michael’s eyes flicked around the ballroom that was in the west wing of the property. The decorations were beautiful but it only made him more nauseous. Though, admittedly, he got a small amount of satisfaction as people kept sending curious glances towards the groom. Whose face was now swollen black and blue, muttering it was from a fall and refusing to look in Michael’s direction.

But as his own eyes slid to the door, his anxieties pulsed.

If he had to, he would happily jump up and protest the union during the ceremony. Hell, he’d run out in the middle of the aisle and fall to his knees in front of you if it came down to it.

His eyes immediately caught on your friend, who’d he’d met briefly throughout the years, rushing down the aisle and failing to look inconspicuous in their worry.

He watched raptly as they whispered something to one of the bridesmaids, their expression a little panicked and Michael didn’t waist time as he got up and bee lined it out of the ballroom.

The bride was missing.

Now was his chance.

He had peeked into most of the common spaces that littered the first floor, but they remained empty as winter light poured silently through the windows. Checked outside just to see if you’d wandered back to the hot tub. Looked out on the back terrace to see if you were smoking.

Hell, he even checked the kitchen but got shooed away by staff.

Feeling at a complete loss for what to do, his mind fell back on the man who always seemed to have the answers.

Michael quickly made his way back to his room, the first thing on his to-do list was to call Bill and see if he could get there within a reasonable time. He would know what to do. He always did.

Unlocking the door, he barely made it one foot inside when he paused.

Feeling like he was seeing some sort of apparition as he saw you sitting on the edge of his bed, staring off into the distance while in your wedding dress.

Barely a moment passed before he shook away the initial shock of seeing you, quickly shutting the door behind him and locking it before making his way over to you.

He knealt down on the ground, hands gently taking hold of your face to get you to look at him and his heart broke a little further at the redness in your eyes and smeared mascara.

“Hey, what—“

“I can’t do this.”

His thumb scraped away a tear that slipped from the corner of your eye and he shook his head. “That’s okay. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

You sniffed and looked away from him. “But all these people…”

“Hey, I’ll handle it. Okay?”

“Michael—“

“It’s okay,” he pulled you into a hug, your face burying into the crook of his neck and the lace of your veil tickled his cheek.

He’d found your friend searching the halls for you, quietly informing them where you were and not a moment later they were practically running by his side to get back to his room.

Michael watched quietly from the desk pushed beneath window as they comforted you, understanding etched into their features and their words comforting as they tried to get your breathing to calm down.

He hated seeing you like this.

Eventually there was a small knock on his door and he cracked it open slightly to see who it was, relief flooding into him when Bill nodded his head in greeting.

“Ready, Joker?”

“One sec,” he gestured for him to come in and he felt a strangely warm sensation swirl in his chest when he saw you look at Bill, your own relieved smile tugging at your lips.

“Hey kid,” Bill cautiously approached you but barely a moment passed before you pulled him into a hug.

Michael’s eyes flicked to the ground, not wanting to intrude on the intimate moment. He supposed he never considered that you two had gotten close. Which was naive of him.

Nearly every time he’d bought you a gift, Bill was the one to drop it off at your door. Nearly every time you and him were even in the same room, he was there too. He was there in Vegas helping you get back to your room sometimes when you had too much to drink. Picking you up from a random bar on the strip even though that wasn’t his job. A duty of care, he would say.

Michael’s heart was aching, though he was starting to realize it beat with a different cadence.

“I’ll wait for you guys to leave before I start telling people to go, I don’t want there to be a commotion until she’s away.” Your friend said quietly, coming to stand beside Michael as they watched you and Bill have a comforting moment.

He nodded, “thank you.”

They hummed, sparing Michael a glance before walking away. “Take care of her.”

They were only about twenty minutes into the drive to a hotel Bill had hastily booked when you fell asleep. Your head resting in his lap as slumber finally took you. He took note of the hollowness beneath your eyes, not just from crying, but you probably hadn’t been an able to get a wink of sleep.

Michael’s eyes danced along your features, the way they looked like they were finally getting a moment of rest in what must’ve been months. The way his sweater was wrapped around you as well as a pair of his pajama pants, given you’d ditched your wedding dress and left it on the bathroom floor in his room.

Hesitantly, he began to play with your hair, twirling the ends of it around his fingers.

His eyes then flicked up, catching Bill glancing at him in the rear view mirror.

★

You woke up slowly, your mind floating on the edges of a dreamless sleep as you blinked heavily. Your eyes not quite adjusting to the foreign space around you.

Your brows furrowed, confused as you—

You sat up as your memories hit you at once.

Of you putting on the veil and staring at yourself so long in the mirror you nearly punched the glass. Of you starting to panic, your lungs not getting any air despite the deep and desperate breaths you were taking. Of running to the one place you thought might be safe and ending up in Michael’s room.

You rubbed at your eyes, taking note of the faint sound of a tv coming from a different room.

Standing on shaking legs, you stared down at the clothes you were wearing. You knew whose they were, but it was made even more apparent because you were absolutely drowning in the smell of his cologne.

It comforted you more than it should’ve.

Taking hold of the front of the sweater, you brought it to your nose and let the scent waft over your mind, giving yourself a little solace.

A glint caught your eye and you paused. Staring at your ring for a moment.

One breath. Two.

You slid it off and rested it gently on the nightstand before walking out of the room.

Michael was sitting on the couch, his elbows rested on his knees as he mindlessly flicked through channels, his eyes clearly not focused on anything in particular but as if sensing you, his gaze slated to the side.

His smile was small, but warm. The sight of it making your mind feel a little fuzzy. “I’m surprised you’re up.”

Your fingers played with the hem of his sweater and he immediately noticed the lack of ring.

“What time is it?”

“Nearing eleven.”

“Christ,” you’d slept for hours.

He stood up slowly, as if not to startle you, and you nearly laughed. Feeling a little delirious.

You watched him as he approached, his steps halting just a foot away from you and his expression fell into something more earnest. “Are—“

“Listen,” you said quickly, not being able to look him in the eye. “I… thank you, Michael. Really.” You dared a glance at him and you felt the wind be taken from you.

He was so beautiful, even in the low light. The way the glint of the tv caught in his eyes and danced along the sharp planes of his face.

Your eyes then landed on his hands.

“Michael, what?—“ You went to reach for him but he pulled back a bit.

“It’s nothing.”

“Michael.” You took hold of his wrists, not that he was really putting up much of a fight and you sucked in a breath when the bruises and dried blood came into view. Your brows furrowed, looking up at him but he was looking at a spot over your shoulder.

“What happened?”

“It’s really not a big deal.”

“I still want to know.”

He bit his cheek, eyes finally finding yours again. “I might’ve punched your fiancé.”

Your jaw went a little slack.

“Twice,” he added.

You blinked at him.

Michael smiled, not seeming to be able to help himself.

You were speechless, stumbling over what to possibly say to that before you landed on the most reasonable option.

“Why?”

His amusement at his wounds slowly melted, his focus drifting down to where you were gently holding his hand. Your thumb grazing carefully over the bruises. “I’m not sure if now is the right time to tell you.”

You shut your eyes for a moment, willing your heart to calm down. “Please.” You tugged him a little a closer, maybe absentmindedly. Maybe not. “I’m tired of dancing around inconvenient truths. Please.”

Michael let out a slow breath, cautiously meeting your eyes as he slowly started to tell you everything he’d overheard.

You weren’t sure how you were supposed to react. Hurt, of course. And you did feel your heart break a little as the news landed. Although you knew you didn’t love him as you should, although you knew your heart was never in the right place, to be used a pawn like what was…

It was dehumanizing.

You blinked. Feeling something hot slip down your face but it was quickly replaced by Michael’s warm fingers gently wiping it away before pulling you into a hug. You were only half aware he had placed a kiss to the top of your head and he rocked you side to side, doing his best to help ground you in such a moment.

To make sure you felt held and weren’t abandoned in your moment of clarity.

“Thanks,” you muttered into his shoulder, letting yourself melt into him as your arms wrapped around him. His own arms settling around you and holding you close.

“For what?”

“Punching him.”

Michael laughed slightly and you felt the vibration rattle your chest.

You spent the next two days in a strange sort of domestic purgatory. The hotel room producing a small asylum hidden away from the rest of the world as you two ate room service and watched whatever old Hollywood reruns were playing on cable. Still tiptoeing around the elephant that seemed to be haunting your dynamic. Begging to be addressed but you’d bite your tongue when the words wanted to slip out.

You’d bite down every time your head would fall against his shoulder during a movie and his arm would drape over your shoulders. Bit your tongue that first night when you had to convince him to not sleep on the couch and that it was okay if he shared the bed. Bit your tongue at his shyness to slip under the sheets with you. Bit down so hard you tasted metal when you woke up in the morning with one of his arms lazily wrapped around your waist and his features relaxed in deep sleep, the morning light gently kissing his eyelids.

You bit your tongue when he said over lunch that he was needing to head back to California that night.

You didn’t say much of a word as you sat curled up on one of the seats of his private jet, still wearing his sweater because you couldn’t bear to take it off, feeling like it was some sort of tether to what if.

You felt like the last hours of your life had passed by in a strange, opium induced haze as you found yourself standing on the front doorstep of your house. Arms wrapped around yourself as you watched Michael try to find something to say.

“I…” he started, stopped.

You looked down at your feet, wearing a pair of shoes he had bought you given you couldn’t go around the last few days in a pair of socks or your supposed-to-be-wedding-heels.

You tried to make your voice sound more steady than you felt. “You don’t have to say or do anything.”

Because you really were tired. Exhausted from this back and forth that seemed to have no end. Feeling as if you were near the final jagged strings of your thread after years of unraveling towards a maybe.

He said nothing as he pulled you into a hug, resting his chin on top of your head and you could hear how fast his heart was beating as you nestled against his chest.

Then he stepped back, his hands trailing down your arms as he did so, fingers briefly squeezing yours before they fell away.

୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧

1991

Bill looked slightly irritated every time he saw him, something Michael wasn’t overly appreciative of but he also knew why and couldn’t blame him.

The moment he had stepped back into the car after dropping you off, the man looked like he wanted to throttle Michael over the head.

“Now why the hell are you back in my car and not with that young lady?”

Michael shook his head, sinking into the expensive leather.

“It’s not the right time.”

Bill blinked at him, very slowly. “Joker, it’s been years.”

“She just called off her wedding.”

“For you.”

“You don’t know that.”

It was a rare moment when Bill rolled his eyes at him.

“You’re helpless.”

Despite the warranted frustration, Michael still felt like he had made the right decision. Jumping into something, asking something from you, right after a broken off engagement and cancelled wedding just didn’t seem like a good idea. He was sure it was likely a mixture of insecurity and being pragmatic, but he worried if he had asked, would your answer have been what you truly wanted? He was terrified that you’d only say yes to him because you were in a bad headspace.

Now, he had learned, he didn’t completely drop off the face of the earth like last time.

He called you frequently, and if he could’ve had it his own way, it would’ve been every night.

But between both of you working on new music and the demands of PR, moments to just take a second to breathe were rare.

When you two were able to meet in person, the air was different. Thicker and just a bit sweeter on the tongue.

Lingering touches he had no excuse for. Stolen glances.

He noticed you liked to play with his fingers a lot, notably the hand that had been bloodied and bruised while punching your ex. Your fingers lightly dragging over the now long ago healed knuckles as you sat next to each other while not fully paying attention to what was on the screen.

You were so soft, both physically but also the way you held yourself. A grace about you seen only in rare souls.

Sometimes, when the hour was well past appropriate and the third movie of the night was playing faintly in the background, he liked to just sit at the kitchen counter and watch you cook. The way you’d pull your hair back and navigate around the space easily, wearing his sweater, now well accustomed to where everything was. Whipping something together with whatever he had in the fridge because you always got hungry late at night.

He rarely did, mostly sticking to just ice cream as a late snack, but once he realized you liked to cook he made sure to have a stocked kitchen whenever you came over.

Some of his favorite evenings were spent showing you around the gardens of Neverland Ranch, watching your reaction to things with rapt attention, desperate to know if you liked it or not. Trying and probably failing to look nonchalant as he pointed out the new plot of gardens that were littered in your favorite flowers.

One evening you two had been in his studio, Michael showing you some of his demos for Dangerous when he got a call, his mother insisting he come over for dinner and he hadn’t thought much about it as he agreed, muttering he was going to be bringing a friend.

You had looked terrified to meet his family, something he found rather endearing. He sat throughout the night, quiet for the most part as the chatter was endless, watching as you shared a few laughs with Janet and raising an eyebrow at Marlon as he tried to flirt with you. Then later into the night, he’d walked past the living room to see you hunched over a photo album with his mother, your smile small but the way his mom was looking at you…

It hit him nearly violently in the chest. The knowing. Even though there had been the underlying assumption in his heart for years, it truly hit him face on in that moment.

He absolutely adored you.

★

You sat on one of the many benches that were littered around Neverland, your eyes watching the way the petals of your favorite flowers moved in the late night breeze as you raised a cigarette to your lips.

You could faintly hear music pouring out from the house, the sound of cheerful and half drunken conversation dancing underneath it.

It was the release party for Dangerous, at least a personal friends and family only kind of party. So the air was inherently more relaxed given the lack of cameras and press coverage.

“Are you ever gonna knock that habit?”

You turned, finding Michael walking towards you with a can of coke in his hand and a small, knowing smile on his face.

You shrugged a shoulder halfheartedly as he sat down next to you. “It calms me down.”

“You’re nervous that often?”

“I’m always nervous around you.” The confession slipped past your lips easily, your tongue being loosened by the wine you’d had and you immediately felt your cheeks warm.

He didn’t say anything for a moment, merely drumming a beat into his leg with his fingers before he apparently decided something.

Setting down his can of something that was definitely stronger than coca-cola, he stood up and held out his hand.

You raised a brow at him. “What—“

“Dance with me.”

“Here?”

“Yes.”

You blinked at him, looked down at his hand.

“Okay.”

You let him pull you up and you dropped your cigarette, crushing it beneath your heel and he tsk-d.

With a slight roll of your eyes, your hands rested around his neck as his fell to your waist.

“I promise I’ll pick it up.”

“Thank you,” he muttered, gently starting to guide you into a rhythm that fell in step with the music pouring out of the doors.

Your fingers absentmindedly played with the curls at the nape of his neck, letting your mind slide into something more relaxed as he lead the way. Your shoes crunching in the gravel as you moved. Your skin beginning to ripple in goosebumps despite the warmth of the night as his fingers ran light circles into your skin through the thin fabric of your dress.

Like the universe demanded it, your eyes flicked up and he was already looking at you. His gaze set low and heavy, eyes dark in a way that had nothing to do with the lighting.

One of his hands slid up from your waist to your arm, spinning you out before pulling you back in, your hands resting against his chest and feeling a little breathless.

He pulled you closer, if possible, your bodies pressed together as you moved. The music swirling around your bodies and tugging at your strings like a masterful puppeteer.

Your eyes fell down to his mouth without warrant. Taking in the soft shape of his lips and the faint sweet smell of moscato on his tongue as he quietly muttered your name.

“Mikey! Where are you, we’re gonna take pictures!” Tito called from somewhere in the distance.

You shut your eyes at the interruption, nearly wanting to laugh because of course that would happen now.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, pressing his forehead gently against yours before pulling away.

“It’s fine,” you wrapped your arms around yourself, the warmth going out of the night as you watched him start to walk away for the hundredth time.

Michael made it a few steps before halting, head dropping as he looked down at his shoes and he laughed. The sound being ripped directly from his diaphragm as he shook his head, leaning his head back to look up at the sky.

“You know what? No. I’m not doing this shit again.”

Next thing you knew he was walking back towards you, each step heavy with purpose and you barely had time to register his hands coming up to cup your face before his lips crashed against yours.

You felt dizzy. The hottest of colors were dancing behind your eyes as your lips parted on their own accord, a broken sound of relief tearing up your throat and disappearing into the kiss.

It was desperate, the way you two were grabbing at each other, to get closer in ways that weren’t humanely possible. Reaching for something in each other that had been at your fingertips for years.

“Michael,” you breathed, his name winding between your ribs and binding your lungs tightly.

He enveloped you in his arms like you were his life source, his fingers greedily tugging at the fabric of your dress and he tasted so sweet as his tongue traced the inside of your cheek.

Your own fingers buried in his hair, wanting to feel all of him and folding into his body as his arms wrapped around your waist.

There was a knot tightening between you and neither wanted to break it just yet.

His lips moved away from yours, and before you could utter a complaint, his mouth latched onto the space below your jaw.

Reaching, rising, blowing.

It was a plea in disguise, seeing as Michael was never good at putting such emotions into words with you. It was a plea for understanding. Desperate that you now knew how long he had been wanting to do this.

You pulled his head back by his hair gently, a barely audible groan passed his mouth but it was swallowed by your breath.

You hardly had any recollection of ending up in his room. Flashes of you smiling at people as Michael dragged you through his house by the hand flickered in your mind, but you were so desperate to kiss him again that it all felt like a blur.

The moment the door shut behind him, he was on you. His hands everywhere, wanting to map out every inch of your skin.

You settled into your own greed comfortably, pulling at his jacket or anything else that was hiding him away from you.

Nearly ten years of frustration and want snapping violently.

He picked you up easily, leading you through the room as your arms wrapped around his neck, your mouth finding its way back to his naturally. Like it had always meant to be there.

His soft sheets met your back but all your mind could focus on was the heat of him. How warm he was against you and the roughness of his hands as he pushed your dress up around your waist.

Your fingers dug into his shirt, pulling at the fabric and he helped you yank it up and off, laughing lightly at how needy you were being but you didn’t have it in you to care at the moment. Only finding it wildly attractive as he smiled against your mouth as he kissed you again. Your breath stuttering as you felt his fingers hook into the band of your underwear and start to tug them down, followed by his own body lowering and his mouth dusting kisses along your skin as he did.

It felt surreal seeing him like that, between your spread legs and his fingers digging into your thighs. His dark eyes meeting yours as he lowered and his mouth met your pussy with an opened mouth, wet kiss.

The sound that left you was sinful enough to create a whole new circle of hell.

Your back arched off the bed as he ate you out like a man starved. His fingers digging into your hips to keep you steady, his tongue setting a relentless pace and when he moaned you felt it vibrate directly into what must’ve been your soul.

Your hands buried in his hair, your hips rolling up to meet his mouth and then you felt whatever loose grip on sanity you had slip and shatter on the ground as you felt two of his fingers slowly sink into you.

The way his name dripped off your tongue didn’t even sound like you.

Michael smiled, looking ridiculously pleased with himself. “That’s it, baby.”

The term of endearment made you clench and he hummed in content before going back to your clit dutifully. His fingers continuing a rhythmic thrust as he curved them slightly, hitting some sweet spot inside of you that made you see stars.

You came suddenly and without much pretense, curling in on yourself and trying to get away from his mouth due to the sensitivity but he kept going. Appearing mindless and completely lost, drinking you up as if he was a man who had stumbled upon a desert spring.

“Michael, I— fuck.”

“One more, baby. I know you can do it.” His voice was soft, dropping into a lower cadence you only heard on rare occasions. You felt warm all over but the heat mainly centered low in your belly, the sensation on the cusp of being overwhelming.

When he flattened his tongue over your clit, eyes flicking up to meet yours— the imagine of that alone did it for you as you crashed over the edge again, the orgasm truly feeling like a little death.

You barely registered him kissing back up your body, faintly hearing the metallic sound of his belt coming undone.

His lips and teeth and tongue were everywhere, exploring anything he hadn’t been able to with a feverish sort of curiosity.

Michael’s large hand cupped your chin, bringing your mouth to his in a kiss that was a complete mess but absolutely perfect.

His teeth caught on your bottom lip as he pulled back, his pupils blown wide as he looked down at you and watching with the most devout look on his face as he took in your reaction to the head of his cock nudging against your entrance.

Michael’s hands then took hold of yours, lacing his fingers through your own and pulling your arms up and above your head, lips falling back in place against yours as he finally sank in. Inch by inch and he shuddered against you so violently he rattled the bed frame, his moan into your mouth making you clench.

He hissed into your mouth at that, pulling away to bury his head in the crook of your neck, his grasp on your hands getting tighter as he slowly pulled out. Sunk back in.

It was euphoric. You had no other word to describe it.

The drag of him in and out of you akin to heaven as your head fell back against the sheets, overwhelmed by the worldly pleasure of sex.

Though his thrusts were measured, there was an underlying brutality to them. A desperate need to get closer to you. To dig so deep his fingers brushed against your soul, tethering you to him for forever.

You cried out as he adjusted the angle of his hips, his cock somehow going further and the head brushing against that spot again.

“That’s it,” he praised low into your ear. “There she is.”

You felt Michael smile into the side of your neck, knowing you were close and chasing the high with you. His rhythm started to settle into something more erratic, the sounds he was making in your ear, the sensation of being filled by him so completely.

“I’m… Please.”

“You’re doing so well, baby.” His hips settled against yours, the roll of them sliding against your clit and you were pretty sure you started to cry as you tipped over the edge again, your back arching and chest pressing against his. Michael’s lips catching your moan and he followed soon after, his hips faltering for a moment, his thrusts getting more shallow as he started to come.

You felt full, in ways you had no proper way to elucidate.

He practically melted on top of you, his cock still buried in deep and your sweat coated bodies stuck to each other like they were always meant to be in such a position.

Heavy breaths and your roaring heartbeat was all you could hear for a few minutes, trying and failing to come down from the dream state you were in.

Michael’s fingers finally let go of your own, pulling his arms down so he could lift himself up slightly, his thumb gently wiping away the smeared mascara that had made a mess beneath your eyes.

He simply observed you, and despite what you two had just done, you blushed. “What?”

His lips tugged up slightly, you could see him turning something over in his head as he had a brief mental debate. And then the answer landed. A sudden clarity shifting his features into something you had never quite seen on him before.

It was breathtaking.

“I love you.”

Your eyes flicked between his. The confession you two had been circling for years finally out in the air, sitting between you now and expectant.

He pressed his forehead to yours gently. “I love you. I should’ve said it a thousand times by now and I’m sorry that I haven’t.”

“Michael—“

“I do. I love you—“

You kissed him, pulling his face down to meet yours. It felt different. More real and more tangible than anything else that had just happened in this bedroom.

Just barely pulling away from his mouth, your fingers lightly dragged along his cheekbone, wanting to take in all of him openly and without any fear. It was your turn, he deserved that as much as you did.

“I love you.”

A smile, a grin more like, slowly pulled at his features. “Yeah?”

You nodded, your own giddiness starting to take a foothold as you laughed. Tears beading up in your eyes for a whole new reason. “Yeah.”

And you two started again, the evening blending into a hazy bliss of touch and tenderness. His mouth all over, not wanting to leave a single inch of you without attention.

୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧

1992

Michael was smiling so hard his face hurt, his eyes crinkling at the edges as he looked out into the masses of the crowd. The first night of the Dangerous tour a success for a multitude of reasons.

He couldn’t hear a damn thing. Not just from the screams or the fact his ears were ringing, but the adrenaline was making his head feel fuzzy.

“Thank you!” He called out into the microphone, going through the list of people who had helped make the show possible. Thanking the fans for their unwavering support and love. Thanking God for being so generous with him.

“And lastly,” he said a little breathless. “I’d like to thank my beautiful wife.”

There was the briefest moment of silence, barely a heart beat, before the crowd erupted. Nearly deafening with the wave of sound that slammed into him like a wall.

His eyes slated to the side of the stage, laughing again when he took notice of you shaking your head at him, your own smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

When he had told you this is how he wanted to break the news to the world, you thought he had been joking. But then that morning he slipped on his wedding ring, acting oblivious to the curious glances people and reporters were giving him and answering no questions.

He walked off the stage then, hands immediately taking hold of your face and smiling into the kiss he gave you.

“You’re so dramatic,” you mumbled against his lips.

“And you love it.”

୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧

michael jackson masterlist

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