#mjblr

Michael loves pussy.

That is an undeniable truth about the twenty-year-old man watching his neighbor from across the street. She’s so gorgeous he might cry. From what he can see, her skin is smooth, her hair looks soft, and she has a body that would put a Playboy bunny to shame.

Michael catches his bottom lip between his teeth as he imagines all the ways he would like to have her. On the bed. On the floor. Against the wall. In the shower. By his pool, where the sun would warm her skin and make everything shine. The list keeps going, branching into new possibilities faster than he can follow them, and he doesn’t even know her name yet.

If anyone could peek into his mind this very second, they would find her ruined. Hair disheveled, mascara running, mouth parted around everything he has to give. He imagines her struggling to fit him down her throat, eyes watering while she looks up at him as though he is the most beautiful thing she has ever seen. The fantasy is crude, entitled, and entirely one-sided.

He knows he shouldn’t think this way about a stranger, but he really can’t help it.

For a bit of context, Michael grew up in an ultra-religious home. Church on Sundays and Wednesdays, no celebrations of self, and absolutely no premarital sex. His mother did the best she could to keep her youngest son from turning out like his brothers, or worse, his father. She watched him closely, corrected him often, and treated every question about the body as though it might be the first loose thread in a garment that would soon unravel.

For Michael, even learning about the ugly parts of life was off-limits.

Those years when a person transitions from adolescent to adult were heavily policed in his house. His mother had rules for what he could watch, what he could read, where he could go, and how long he was allowed to stand in front of a mirror. Vanity was dangerous. Curiosity was dangerous. A boy who thought too much about girls was already halfway to ruin.

Michael didn’t give it much thought at first. He didn’t understand what he was missing, so the absence felt natural. That changed when he began touring with his brothers. Away from home and out from under the watchful eye of the family’s matriarch, the world became louder, looser, and far more promiscuous than Michael was used to.

All kinds of women threw themselves at the group. They lingered after shows, slipped backstage, laughed too loudly at jokes that weren’t funny, and touched the brothers as though familiarity could be created by force.

Their father encouraged the boys to indulge in temptation. He spoke about women with the same casual confidence he used when discussing money, contracts, and applause. The older brothers listened, even encouraged one another.

Michael couldn’t do it, though.

He thought the women were dirty. Not because they had done anything wrong, exactly, but because that was the only word he had been given for desire. If a woman wanted his body, she must want something from him. If she flirted with him, she must be trying to use him. He didn’t want to give himself to someone who only wanted his body for brownie points, a backstage story, or bragging rights among her friends.

Still, he couldn’t fight biology.

Tainted or not, the girls affected him. Their perfume followed him into hotel elevators. Their laughter stayed in his head after the lights went down. A hand on his arm could make his entire body tense. He would lie awake in unfamiliar rooms, staring at the ceiling while an ache gathered beneath his waistband, and wonder what was wrong with him.

Coming home after nights like that always left him needy, but he was completely uneducated about how to handle those feelings. He tried to will them away. He focused on work, practiced a new routine, or repeated the same steps until his muscles burned and the ache between his legs finally dulled.

Michael learned to recognize the warning signs.

Restlessness, heat gathering beneath his pants, or his attention snagging on every woman who crossed his path. A smile from a pretty girl could derail an entire afternoon. He treated each symptom like an enemy attack, and spent extra hours rehearsing, took cold showers, and read scripture aloud until the words blurred together.

Anything that cooled the fire burning in his belly was worth trying.

His world changed completely at the ripe age of eighteen when his oldest brother sent him to look for a cassette.

Jackie had been in a hurry, shouting from somewhere down the hall that Michael needed to check the shelves in the spare room. Michael went looking without asking questions. He dug through old equipment, tangled cords, and stacks of records no one played anymore. He checked behind the television, beneath the cabinet, and inside a drawer full of batteries.

The cassette wasn’t there, but the magazines were.

Tucked behind a row of old music books, their glossy covers turned inward as though someone had tried to hide them without committing to the effort. Each one featured a different goddess. Michael noticed the women first, then the title, then the unmistakable reason they had been kept out of sight.

His mouth went dry.

He pulled the booklets from the shelf and settled in the center of the room. Side by side, each edition lay open on the plush carpet, flipped to the center pages while Michael viewed the beauty of women up close. The denim covering his legs grew tighter as he fought (and failed) to keep his composure.

The pictures were more explicit than anything he had encountered. They were arranged with such glossy confidence that he could hardly look away. The women smiled at the camera as if they knew exactly what they were doing to him. They appeared comfortable and unashamed in their bodies, bare skin serving as an invitation.

Michael studied them with the concentration he really only reserved for choreography.

He noted the tilt of a hip, the curve of a waist, and the careful placement of a hand. He examined the way one woman arched her back and how another turned her face toward the camera. He told himself he was merely trying to understand what all the fuss was about.

Naturally, he had been caught.

“Mike!” Jackie called from the doorway. “Did you find th—”

The culprit’s body went rigid, a total deer in the headlights.

Jackie stopped with one hand still resting on the doorframe. His eyes traveled from Michael’s flushed face to the magazines scattered across the carpet. For one precious second, neither of them moved.

Then Michael scrambled to collect the very damning evidence at his feet.

He snatched one magazine, then another. The pages slapped together in his shaking hands. His knee caught the edge of a third, sending it skidding beneath the table.

Jackie’s grin widened.

Michael knew, before Jackie even opened his mouth, that he was finished.

The eldest wasted no time alerting the house about his younger brother’s…private time.

“Man! Y’all!” he shouted, already laughing as he ran through the halls. “Mikey up here touchin’ himself!”

Michael heard his mother scold Jackie from downstairs. He also heard one of the other brothers ask what happened, followed by a chorus of delighted voices.

He didn’t stick around to hear more.

Michael grabbed the magazines against his chest and fled to his room. Once safely inside, he shoved the door closed and dragged a chair beneath the knob. Then he stood with his back pressed against the wood, breathing as though he had just run from the police.

The embarrassment was brutal.

It, however, wasn’t what lingered in his mind.

Instead, it was what his brother had said.

‘Touchin’ himself.’

Michael repeated the phrase silently. The words sounded filthy in Jackie’s voice, but they also sounded strangely ordinary. Jackie hadn’t sounded horrified. He had sounded amused, the same way someone would if you were caught picking your nose.

Sure, this may seem like something Michael should have figured out quite some time ago, but self-discovery had been explicitly named sin, and that principle had been drilled into his head for the last eighteen years.

His mother had never explained what self-discovery meant. She had only warned him against it. The phrase had appeared in sermons, conversations, and stern reminders delivered while she straightened his collar or checked the length of his hair. Do not touch yourself. Do not encourage impure thoughts. Do not let your body lead you somewhere your spirit cannot follow.

The instruction had been simple.

The problem was that no one had ever told him what would happen if he ignored it.

But those magazines, they were there for a reason.

Michael glanced toward the chair beneath the doorknob, suddenly feeling too warm. The magazines sat on his bed, covers turned face down, but he could still feel the women watching him from inside them.

If his older brother knew about them, it couldn’t be that bad, right?

Whatever the answer was, Michael was more than willing to find out.

After all, those women were still at the forefront of his mind, and most of the blood flowing through his body had already rushed between his legs.

He sat on the edge of his bed and stared at the floor, mulling over his convictions. He tried to summon the appropriate horror and imagine his mother’s face. The disappointment in her eyes, or the prayer she would insist on saying over him.

The fear came, but so did the want.

The want won.

Michael decided he could repent later.

Shaky fingers found the button on his jeans and popped it open. Next came the zipper, which he lowered slowly, pausing twice to listen for footsteps in the hallway. When none came, he hooked his fingers in the waistband of his pants and underwear and pulled them down.

A soft hiss left his lips as the head of his dick kissed the air.

There wasn’t really an instruction manual for this kind of thing. No pamphlet had been tucked into his Bible, and his older brothers certainly hadn’t sat him down and explained what to do.

So now, Michael sat on his bed with his dick hard against his stomach, staring at his lap for what felt like an eternity.

He was paralyzed.

It felt as though every sermon and warning had been leading up to this moment. The moment when he would prove himself weak, fleshly, and destined for hell. He could practically hear the congregation singing beneath him, could picture his mother’s hand tightening around his wrist as she led him toward the altar.

His right hand hovered over his heat, fingers curled as though he were about to pick up a raw egg. He didn’t even know how to hold it.

‘Maybe like a microphone?’

He had done that onstage plenty of times, but now he would only be performing for himself. Michael lowered his hand. His thumb brushed across the head, dragging over the slit with delicate pressure.

His body lurched forward, and his breath caught, then an involuntary sound escaped him. It was high, almost anguished, and entirely unfamiliar.

The man froze.

The room seemed to freeze with him. The muted television, hallway creaks, and humming air conditioner all faded behind the pounding of his heart. He waited for shame to descend with the force of a thunderclap, for his skin to burn, for some unmistakable sign that he had crossed a line from which he could not return.

Yet, nothing happened.

His body remained eager, hand still resting where he had left it.

This was what they had been so desperate to keep him from?

This?

Never had Michael felt more cheated in his life.

He tried the movement again, slower this time. The pad of his thumb was slick with the clear fluid that had beaded at the tip. The initial shock gave way to a growing hunger. His hips jerked upward, searching for more, and his left hand gripped the bedspread to keep himself anchored.

What came next?

Michael had no idea.

Memories of his siblings’ crude behavior with bananas and hot dogs at the dinner table flooded his mind. He had always rolled his eyes or pretended to gag, but now he realized he had been taking silent notes. At the time, he thought his brothers were being disgusting for the sole purpose of making him uncomfortable.

Now, with the magazines scattered somewhere outside his locked door and his own body reacting to the smallest touch, their jokes seemed less like jokes and more like instructions he had never been allowed to ask about.

He wrapped his hand around himself, loose at first. Then he tightened his grip to see what felt better.

Everything felt better.

The discovery sent a strange shiver through him. For the first time, he understood that his body wasn’t a test he could fail. He could adjust, pause, start over. He could listen to himself, even if no one had ever taught him how, and there was no fire and brimstone waiting for him after. This was liberating.

His thumb found a sensitive spot just beneath the head, and another whimper escaped. He muffled it with the heel of his palm, eyes widening as though someone might have heard.

He pumped experimentally, grip too tight, then too loose. Every adjustment brought new and unpredictable pleasure. He watched his hand as though it belonged to someone else, fascinated by the simple mechanics of it. The motion became less awkward after a while. His wrist found a pattern, and his breathing began to follow it.

He was panting now. His thighs trembled with both anticipation and confusion. The old voice that reigned supreme in the back of his mind hissed at him, whispering, ‘No! This is wrong!’

But something newer, something louder, screamed, ‘More, more, more!’

He thought of the girls again. The one on the magazine cover biting her finger. The others he had seen on late-night shows, their bodies lit in soft colors while the rest of the house slept. Michael imagined those girls admiring him the way he had admired them.

Would they find him just as beautiful?

The thought of someone looking at him that way deepened the pressure building inside him. It became a growing ache, a warmth that made his eyes roll back. He wanted to lose himself in the feeling and stay lost.

More than that, he wanted to understand what it meant to be wanted.

His family had made desire sound like a trap laid by the devil, something that reduced a person to appetite. Yet, the fantasy of a woman watching him with the same hungry attention he gave her made something inside him unfold.

For once, he wasn’t the boy his family treated as something to be corrected, monitored, and warned. He was a man with something worth wanting.

When he began to move a little faster, it nearly killed him.

He gasped, hips bucking upward, and for a moment he almost feared he might faint. His back fell against the bed, and a loud, whiny groan tumbled from his mouth. The sound startled him, and his hand froze.

Michael stared at the door, certain someone had heard. His whole body went rigid as he listened. The hallway remained silent, devoid of footsteps shuffling up the hall. No knuckles struck the door, and no voice called his name.

Only the hum of family chatter drifted up from downstairs.

Michael swallowed and looked back down.

The fear should’ve stopped him. It should’ve sent him scrambling for his clothes, kneeling beside the bed with his head bowed and a prayer already forming on his lips. Instead, the old warnings rose in him then faltered, still frightening but no longer powerful enough to decide for him.

The interruption only sharpened the feeling.

He had reached the edge of something delicious.

Once the silence assured him no one was coming, Michael continued his ministrations. His palm moved from base to tip as the slickness gathered with each pass. The friction was dizzying. His hips followed the movement in jerky, uncontrolled thrusts. Each new sensation folded into the last until his body seemed to move ahead of his thoughts. He tried to slow down, but instinct carried him forward.

Heat gathered beneath his skin while his pulse filled his ears. It was as if all five senses had sharpened at once. The sheets scraped beneath his fingers, as each beat of his heart crashed through him like a drum. He tried to savor the feeling, but his hand refused to obey. It pushed him further toward bliss.

Michael squeezed himself tighter and moaned louder, sinking deeper into the mattress with every stroke. His mind raced in a panic of lust and disbelief.

He wondered whether anyone could sense his transgressions down the hall. He thought about whether the neighbors across the street could see his silhouette writhing in the window. The embarrassment was nothing compared to the anticipation, which mounted second by second until his thoughts were reduced to static.

The magazines had promised a certain kind of pleasure, all lacquered smiles and theatrical poses, but none of them had prepared him for this. There was no graceful way to experience it. His fingers were clumsy, and his breathing broke apart in his chest. His face felt hot, and his body moved without permission.

This was the moment Michael discovered real pleasure.

He had imagined desire as something a person could control if they tried hard enough, something that could be switched on and off like a light. This, however, was a tide surging through him, indifferent to every rule meant to hold it back.

His free hand twisted in the sheets. The fabric bunched beneath his grip, anchoring his body to the room while the rest of him seemed to float somewhere outside of it. His eyes squeezed shut; closing them only made the images brighter.

He tried to hold on to one fantasy and lost it almost immediately. One girl’s hair became another’s smile. A painted mouth blurred into the soft outline of someone he had seen while onstage. A pair of eyes became a pair of thighs.

The details no longer mattered.

The need was enough.

A broken noise gathered in his throat. Michael squeezed himself a little harder, driven by instinct rather than thought. The pressure coiled low in his body and tightened with every stroke. His muscles clenched. His toes curled. A thin sheen of sweat gathered along his chest and temples, and his hair stuck to his forehead.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he heard his mother’s voice reciting the old sequence: Sin. Shame. Punishment. Hell.

Sin.

“Oh- ”

Shame.

“My.”

Punishment.

“Fucking.”

Hell.

“God!”

His hand moved faster, rougher, and his hips pushed up to meet it. He tried to breathe through the rising intensity, but each breath came out thin and uneven. His chest heaved. His throat worked around another moan, one that escaped before he could smother it.

The pressure climbed higher.

Michael’s eyes rolled back. His shoulders pressed into the mattress, and his fingers lost their careful grip on the bed.

He was close.

He knew that much, though he had no idea what ‘close’ meant or what would happen when he reached his destination. The uncertainty frightened him, but the coil winding in his belly washed the fear away. In its place, it left desperation.

Michael’s thighs trembled as he tensed. His mouth fell open, and the sound that came out was barely recognizable as his own.

Then the band snapped.

For a moment, Michael could do nothing but stare at the ceiling while he crashed into ecstasy. His hand stilled, and his ears began to ring. His overworked cock twitched once, then again, as hot sticky ropes of his essence spilled across his shirt.

He gasped as though he had surfaced from deep water, lungs burning, heart racing, with every muscle quivering.

As Michael came down, the world returned in pieces. The air conditioner hummed. Cars passed outside. Someone downstairs laughed at something on the television. A cabinet opened and closed. The ordinary sounds of life resumed as though nothing had happened.

It was a little jarring. The young man trying to catch his breath on the bed had just undergone a metamorphosis…of sorts, and the world didn’t even notice.

He lay very still, one hand curled beside his hip and the other resting uselessly against his forehead. His chest rose and fell beneath the fabric of his shirt. Sweat cooled along his skin. He felt emptied, stunned, and inexplicably robbed.

Perhaps even offended.

There was no thunder.

No voice from heaven.

No sudden certainty that he was damned.

Only a faint buzz in his bones and the devastating fact that he wanted to do it again.

Even though Michael was in the clouds, shame and guilt still took their places in his mind, much slower than he expected, only creeping over the edges of his satisfaction rather than swallowing it whole.

He thought of his mother and what she might think, which left him feeling deflated. He had let her down, and there was no way to take it back now.

On the other hand, he felt as though she had held this part of life out of his reach for her own peace of mind, not his well-being. Michael thought about everything she had told him over the years and wondered how much of it had been a lie meant to keep him safe.

‘Safe from what? My own body?’

The questions settled uneasily in his chest.

Then his thoughts drifted to his older brother’s laughter carrying through the halls. He imagined Jackie telling the story to everyone they knew. The teasing would be never-ending. Michael might have to change his identity to get away from it.

He covered his face with both hands.

“Oh, dear God,” he whispered.

Michael moved to change, still unsteady, when a different thought entered his mind.

The magazines.

His imagination had served its purpose this time, but he was definitely going to use those prints later.

By ‘later,’ I meant for the next week and a half.

Michael began to build a collection of his own, hiding the issues beneath his mattress, inside old instrument cases, and behind stacks of sheet music. He learned which stores kept their magazines near the back, which cashiers avoided eye contact, and which corners of his room offered the best privacy.

Women quickly became a central focus, second only to music.

The rising star learned that he truly did love every part of a woman’s body. He loved their breasts and curves. He loved the softness of a stomach, the shape of a mouth.

But their thighs…did they leave him weak.

Now, if there were ever a time to admit that Michael, budding connoisseur of skin and silhouette, had never been inside a woman, this would be it.

Despite all his night time rehearsals and the encyclopedic knowledge he had amassed from centerfolds, the truth was that he had spent more hours fantasizing about girls than actually talking to them.

He had never been kissed or touched anywhere worth mentioning.

Not that he hadn’t tried. He had, several times...over the past two years.

But whenever the opportunity presented itself, Michael’s soft demeanor and childlike tendencies led women to believe he only wanted a friend.

He listened too carefully, and smiled too politely. He asked questions and remembered the answers. He could spend an entire evening making a girl laugh and still somehow fail to communicate that he wanted her. By the time he realized she had been waiting for him to make a move, the moment had already passed.

He often found himself mourning the loss of all the pussy that had been thrown his way before he knew what to do with it.

Safe to say, it had been a long, cruel summer.

Now, standing at the edge of his porch, Michael watched the new girl across the street.

She was wrestling with a cardboard box nearly as wide as her hips. The box had been marked ‘KITCHEN’ in thick black letters, though the word had been written at an angle and was partly obscured by a strip of packing tape. She held it against her chest, arms wrapped around either side, while trying to maneuver up the short walkway toward the open garage.

Even from a distance, Michael could see the way her shorts bit into her thighs.

A damp stripe of sweat ran down her spine. Her cropped shirt exposed a narrow stretch of skin above the waistband of her shorts. Her hair was frizzy and moist from the heat, curling around her face and neck.

The same sweat that darkened her hairline ran down the side of her neck, over the swell of her breasts, and disappeared into her very visible cleavage.

Michael’s mouth ran dry.

He told himself he was only watching because she was struggling. That was the neighborly thing to do. A decent man noticed when someone needed help.

A less decent man noticed the way her hips shifted beneath the box.

Fuck.

He needed to think faster.

There were options. He could wait for her to drop the box and rush to her rescue, but that seemed corny, even for him. He could be casual, walk across the street pretending to check the mail, and strike up some neighborly conversation. That seemed too passive.

He could simply cross the street and offer to help.

The idea was so obvious that it immediately became terrifying.

Michael looked down at his clothes. Khakis, Mickey Mouse T-shirt, and his signature loafers. Nothing about the outfit seemed wrong, but suddenly every piece of it felt like evidence. He ran a hand down his face, then stopped when he remembered the girl might still be watching.

She wasn’t. Thank god.

She had shifted the box higher against her chest and was attempting to turn without dropping it.

Michael watched for another minute, psyching himself up. His heartbeat thudded so loudly he worried the girl might hear it from across the street. His palms turned clammy, and he wiped them against his jeans while rehearsing a smile in the dark reflection of the porch window.

The first smile looked strained.

The second looked frightened.

The third looked almost natural.

He settled for the third.

The box jostled in the girl’s arms. She staggered, caught herself against the side of the garage, and let out a curse loud enough to alert the neighborhood to her struggle.

Michael straightened; that was his opening.

The sun was blinding, so he squinted and shaded his eyes with one hand as he stepped off the porch. The girl stopped struggling for a moment and looked up, catching him staring.

For a split second, Michael considered retreating, but something stubborn rooted him to the sidewalk. He offered a wave, then crossed the street in a few quick, awkward strides. Each step felt more deliberate than the last. By the time he reached the curb, he had forgotten every sentence he had rehearsed.

By the time he reached the driveway…he had forgotten how to stand normally.

As he drew closer, the girl readjusted the box and huffed.

“You here to watch me break my back?” she asked, voice sharp.

Michael released an awkward laugh. He wasn’t used to people speaking to him like he was normal.

“No, no, jus’— uh, looked like you needed some help, that’s all.”

The girl raised an eyebrow, squinting at him through the sweat. “No offense, sugar, but you don’t look like you’d fare much better than me.”

Michael glanced down at his arms. Though not particularly impressive, years of dancing had given him strength, but not the kind that showed itself in broad shoulders or thick biceps.

“Well, four noodle arms are better than two,” he replied, surprised by the bite in his own voice.

She laughed, shrugging one shoulder.

“Fair point. Grab that end there, then.”

Michael stepped forward and took the opposite side of the box. The cardboard was warm beneath his fingers, its edges soft from being handled too many times. He leaned into the weight, careful not to crowd her, though the narrow driveway made that difficult.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Unless you plan on standing there all day,” she quipped.

“Right. Yeah. On three?” He questioned.

“Just lift.” She huffed

The box rose unevenly, forcing Michael to adjust his grip. Together they shuffled up the walk, the girl moving backward while Michael tried not to trip over his own feet. He could smell her now beneath the dust and cardboard: soap, sweat, and something sweet he could not identify.

He kept his eyes on the box.

Mostly.

“Left,” she instructed.

Michael moved left.

“No, my left.”

“Right. Sorry.”

“You’re doing great, honey.”

He heard the sarcasm in her voice and felt heat climb his neck.

“I’m usually better with directions.”

“I’m sure you are.”

They made it into the open garage, where the shadows were cool, and the air smelled like dust and old paint. The box thudded to the floor between them.

Michael straightened, breathing hard.

The girl stretched, lifting both arms overhead. Her shirt rose just enough to reveal a lace pattern covering her bosom. Something stirred deep within the man before her.

The girl dropped her arms and caught him looking, but not at her face. Michael's neck burned as he shifted his gaze down to the concrete, then to the rafters, then to a rusted rake leaning in the corner. Anywhere but the lace he had just memorized for…later use.

He had looked at women in magazines, studied them with the concentration of a scholar. Curves, poses, and proportions all committed to memory without any regard for the subject in the photo.

This was different, though. The heat radiating from her skin, the rise and fall of her chest with each breath, the faint pulse visible at her throat, everything about this girl overwhelmed his senses.

Michael had never been this close to a woman before. Alone, with the afternoon sun slanting through the garage windows and his heart hammering a rhythm that had nothing to do with music.

He forced his eyes back to her face. She was watching him with a knowing look, one eyebrow raised, waiting for him to speak.

"My name's y/n," she said, wiping her palms against her shorts. "And you're the neighborhood welcome wagon, I guess?"

"Michael." The name came out cracked, as if he were once again a prepubescent boy. He cleared his throat and hoped she didn’t notice. "Uh, Jackson. I live across the street."

Recognition flickered in her eyes. "Michael Jackson? Like the singer? Jackson five, Michael Jackson?"

Unease settled under his skin. He’d had interactions like this before, and they always seemed to end in the other party being put off or disappointed by his current appearance.

"That's... yeah. That's me."

She laughed, bright and surprised. "Well, I’ll be damned! I move to the suburbs and get a superstar to do manual labor. What a treat!"

Michael chuckled softly and thought about what she said.

"Not a superstar yet," he mumbled, looking down at his loafers. "I’m normal too, y’know."

"Normal, huh?" She said the word like she was tasting it. "S’that what you call it?"

Y/n turned toward the interior door, hips swaying beautifully.

Michael watched the movement without meaning to. Her backside beneath those shorts mixed with the casual power of a woman who had never been taught to shrink herself, and she was doing things to him.

"You comin’ Mr. Normal?" she called over her shoulder. "Still gotta get the box into the kitchen!"

Michael took in a deep breath and grabbed the heavy container. It was a struggle, but it didn’t stop his feet from moving without permission. The house smelled of lemon-scented cleaner and stale air. Boxes towered in the hallway, branded with what he assumed to be her handwriting.

Y/n navigated between them with the confidence of someone who had done this before, many times. She pushed through a swinging door and emerged into a kitchen frozen in 1962.

"Nice, huh?" She asked, leaning against the island and looking out of the window above the sink. As she took in the view, the young woman noticed something, and a small grin formed on her face. "Bet you get a real pretty sunset from over there."

Michael's pulse hammered. He looked at her, really looked, and found her watching him with the same knowing eyes from before.

"I wasn't-" he started.

"Yes, you were." She dragged as she pushed off the counter and stepped closer, close enough that the man could smell something tropical and fruity. “Question is, what were you thinking while you watched?"

Michael's mouth opened then closed, like a fish out of water.

"Just uh— Wondering who was moving in," he managed. "Being neighborly."

"Neighborly?" She laughed, a low sound that vibrated somewhere in his chest. “ Is that right?"

She turned away, opening the box he’d brought in, finding the glasses. "Want some water? It's all I got."

Michael nodded frantically and squeaked out a soft "Please."

She filled two glasses from the tap and handed him one. Their fingers brushed, and Michael, who felt the contact like a spark, fought to control his expression into polite neutrality.

"So," she began, leaning against the counter again. "Michael Jackson, from across the street. What do you do when you're not helping strangers move in?"

He laughed through his nose while his fingers danced against his glass. "Recording. Touring. Trying to figure out what comes next."

"Off the Wall just came out, right? It’s so good!" She assured, trying her hardest not to scare him off.

"Thanks." He felt the familiar warmth of praise, but it was different coming from her. More personal. "Means a lot."

Before too much silence could settle between them, Michael decided it was his turn to ask a question. "What about you? Why’d you move here?"

Y/N sighed, rolling the glass between her palms. "Work. Marketing at a firm downtown. Better pay, better title, less chaos than Chicago."

"Big change," he murmured, keeping his voice light. "Suburbs are quieter."

"That's the point." She laughed, bright and easy. "I needed quiet, and a place where no one knows my business."

Michael nodded, understanding. He understood needing space. He understood the relief of anonymity.

"Must’ve been hard," he spoke softly, "Moving all this way alone with no one to help you get set up."

"I managed." y/n’s chin lifted slightly, almost defensive. "I've always managed on my own."

"I'm sure you have." He paused, let the silence stretch. Then, casually, "But…your man didn't want to come help?"

Y/N's laugh was dry this time, almost bitter. "No man, pretty boy. Just me.”

Michael feigned shock, eyebrows lifting, mouth opening slightly. "Really? I just assumed someone like you— I mean, you must have-"

"Have what?" Her tone carried a playful edge. "A nigga waitin’ in the wings? Someone to carry my boxes and kill my spiders?"

"No! I didn't mean-" Michael’s eyes widened, and he held up his hands, the picture of apology. "I just meant you're— well, you’re beautiful and successful. So, I figured there had to be someone."

"Nope." She popped the P, sharp and final. "My last relationship ended six months ago. He wanted me to shrink myself to fit his lifestyle. I don't shrink for nobody."

Michael held her gaze for a moment longer than necessary. Something shifted in his expression, so subtle she might have imagined it. The boyish charm dimmed. The downcast eyes lifted. The young woman had piqued his interest from the moment he saw her, but now she had his full attention.

"So what's your type then?" he asked, voice low and steady. The question landed between them like a stone thrown into still water.

Y/N blinked. "What?"

"Your type." He repeated, setting his glass down on the counter with a soft clink. "I'm jus’ curious about what kinda man does get to have you."

He began to move, unhurried, almost casual. The way he rounded her form seemed innocent enough. However, there was nothing innocent in his eyes. She saw it just a bit too late. The shift from prey to predator, the moment the mask slipped.

His hands found her waist, and she flinched, surprised by the warmth of him, the sudden proximity. His palms slid down, slow and deliberate, coming to rest on the fat of her hips.

Michael leaned down, just enough for his breath to fan against her ear. She felt caged between his arms and the counter in front of her.

"What's your type, Ms. y/n?"

She choked. Actually choked.

This was not the sweet man who had stumbled across the street with a timbre as soft as dandelions and an awkward smile. This was something else entirely. When she spun around to face him, she found the eyes of a predator watching its prey, patient and hungry.

"I thought-" she stammered, pressed against the counter, his arms bracketing her in. "I thought you were a good boy. Y’know, shy…reserved—"

Michael smiled, already aware of how she’d been viewing him, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

"I might just be the farthest thing from it, mama."

His voice lowered an octave, rough velvet against her skin as he continued. "I'm curious though."

He leaned down again. His lips brushed the spot behind her ear, soft as a whisper, and she felt the contact shoot straight to her core. He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes.

"How good can you be?"

She made a sound-half gasp, half whimper-and then his mouth was on hers.

It wasn’t gentle. It was claiming, demanding, his tongue sweeping past her lips to taste her fully. His hands tightened on her hips and pulled her flush against him, and she felt it then-the hard length of him pressed against her stomach, thick and substantial even through denim. Her hands found his shoulders, gripping hard, and she kissed him back with equal ferocity. It was messy, anything but innocent. An all-out battle of teeth and tongue that Y/n was losing quickly.

"Bedroom," she rasped between kisses.

Y/n grabbed his hand and pulled him through the hallway, past rows of boxes, through a door that led to room barely unpacked. The bed was the only thing she had managed to get together. She turned and pulled him down with her, and they landed in a tangle of limbs and desperate mouths.

Michael pulled back, breathing hard. He looked at her sprawled beneath him, hair wild, lips swollen, and something dark and triumphant flickered in his expression.

"Off." he said, fingers hooking in the hem of her top.

Y/N lifted her arms as he stripped the fabric over her head and tossed it aside. His gaze raked over her, the bra he had seen earlier now fully exposed, her breasts rising and falling with her rapid breaths.

"Oh," he breathed, and the sound was almost reverent. "Oh, you're... you're perfect."

He descended on her again, mouth finding her neck, her collarbone, the swell of her breasts above the lace. He pushed the cups down and took her left nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, and she arched off the mattress with a sinful cry of his name.

"Michael-"

He switched to the other breast, teeth grazing sensitive flesh, and his hands were everywhere. Sliding down her ribs, gripping her waist. Finding the button of her shorts, he popped them open, dragged the zipper down, and pulled the denim off her legs with rough efficiency.

The lace panties matched the bra. He paused, looking down at her, and she saw his throat work as he swallowed. The damp spot at her core pulled a garbled sound from his chest.

"Jesus," he whispered, mostly to himself. "You're so wet. Can you... can you feel how wet you are? All this for me?"

Y/n nodded silently with hooded eyes, begging for him to touch her.

Michael hooked his fingers in the lace and pulled. The fabric tore. She gasped, shocked by the violence of it, and then his mouth was on her, and she forgot everything.

There wasn’t a shred of hesitancy to be found. He feasted on her like a man starved, tongue sweeping through her folds to find her clit, circling it with devastating precision. Y/N's hands flew to his hair, gripping tight, and she ground against his face with abandon.

"Michael, fuck, right there, don't stop-"

He didn't. He actually doubled his efforts, sliding two fingers into her tight heat, curling them to find the spot that made her see stars. No amount of money, or any composition Quincy cooked up, could compare to the sounds falling from her lips. Michael was a goner.

"You're so sweet," he murmured against her, the vibration making her shudder. "So sweet, baby. Knew you would be. Mhmm, knew you'd taste like this."

The man continued to babble on about y/n’s pussy, and how it had to have been a gift from god, but she couldn’t hear any of that. She was close, so close, climbing fast. He felt it in her thighs, the rhythm of her hips, the way her nails scored his scalp.

"Let go," he commanded, looking up at her with dark eyes, her arousal glistening on his chin. "I want to feel you cum on my tongue. Give it to me, mama."

His words cast a spell that left her dizzy. Her back arched off the mattress, and a strangled yelp tore from her throat as pleasure crashed through her in waves. It wasn’t enough for the beast between her legs. He kept going, desperate to drink her up before she ran dry.

The overstimulation caught y/n off gaurd; she wasn’t used to being pushed past her limit like this. In the midst of the aftershocks came another wave of bliss. Her release flooded his mouth and chin, and she couldn't stop, couldn't control it. All she could do was ride out her high as he kept fucking her with his fingers, drawing it out until she was sobbing his name.

"Michael, Michael, please, I can't-"

He finally relented, pulling back with a wicked smile. He wiped his chin with the back of his hand, never breaking eye contact.

"That's one," he cooed, soft and sweet.

‘One?’ She thought, ‘surely that was two.’

Y/N lay panting, boneless, watching through half-lidded eyes as he stripped off his own clothes. The t-shirt went first, revealing a lean torso, dancer's muscles defined beneath smooth skin. Then his jeans, and his cock sprang free, thick and heavy and impossibly long, curving up toward his stomach.

The woman stared with wide eyes. She couldn't help it. He was bigger than any man she’d ever been with, thick enough that her fingers wouldn't close around him, long enough that the thought of taking him fully made her clench with equal parts fear and want.

"See something you like?" he teased, wrapping his hand around himself and stroking slowly, his voice breathy and soft.

"You're going to split me in half," she breathed.

"Godwilling, baby."

He crawled over her, cock dragging against her thigh, and claimed her mouth again. She tasted herself on his tongue, musky and intimate, and moaned into the kiss. His hands roamed her body with possessive hunger, squeezing her breasts, gripping her hips, sliding down to hitch her legs around her waist.

"C-condom," she sputtered. "In my purse, the box by the-"

"I've got it." He reached to the floor, found his jeans and produced a foil packet from his wallet. She watched him roll it on, the latex stretching tight over his considerable length, and felt fresh arousal pool between her thighs despite the orgasms still echoing through her.

He positioned himself at her entrance, the broad head nudging against her slick folds. He didn't push in. He teased, dragging himself through her wetness, tapping her clit until she was writhing beneath him.

"Michael, please-"

"Please what?" He leaned down, breath hot against her ear. "Tell Mikey what you want, baby."

"Fuck me," she gasped. "Please, I need you inside me, I need—"

In one long stroke, Michael buried himself to the hilt, and y/n screamed, back arching, her nails raking down his frame. He was so big, so fucking big, stretching her impossibly full, and the burn of it was perfect, exactly what she needed.

"Oh," he groaned, forehead dropping to her shoulder. His voice was high as he dragged himself out just to the tip, "Oh, God, you're so tight. So tight around me, baby. Feels so good."

He started moving. Slow at first, letting her adjust to his size, each thrust dragging against every nerve inside her. Then faster, deeper, his hips snapping against hers with increasing force. The mattress creaked beneath them. The room filled with the sounds of skin on skin, their ragged breathing, Y/N's desperate cries and Michael's soft, breathy whimpers.

"Look at me," he commanded, gripping her chin and forcing her eyes to his. "Look at me while I make love to you. I want to see your face when you cum for me."

She held his gaze, transfixed by the intensity there, the raw hunger mixed with something almost vulnerable. This was the real Michael, she realized.

He shifted his angle, stomach grinding against her clit with every thrust, and she felt it begin again, that delicious heat licking against her body.

"Michael, I'm gonna-"

"Not yet." He pulled out abruptly, ignoring her cry of protest, and flipped her onto her stomach. "On your knees, baby."

She scrambled to comply, ass in the air, face pressed to the mattress. He gripped her hips and slammed back into her, deeper from this angle, hitting places that made her vision blur.

"Touch yourself," he ordered, one hand fisting in her hair and pulling her head back. "I want to feel you come with my cock inside you. Do it now, sweetheart."

Her hand flew between her legs, fingers finding her clit, circling frantically. The combined sensation-his thick length pounding into her, his grip in her hair, her own fingers working her sensitive flesh-was overwhelming.

She felt it building, a tidal wave of pleasure that threatened to drown her. It was far too much for y/n to handle. She clawed at the edge of the mattress, pulling herself away from the intoxicating pleasure. Her chest met the plush carpet, and she thought she had been granted a moment of peace.

Instead, she’d found that Michael had followed her down. One of his large hands tangled in her curls, while the other pinned her hips to the edge of the bed. Once he had her secured, Michael drove into her walls like a madman. The sounds of their pleasure bounced off the empty walls.

‘Shlick. Shlick. Shlick.’

“No, honey, don’t run.” He begged, nearly whimpering as he continued his assault. “Take it. Supposed to be good f’me, remember?”

Y/n didn’t realize just how much she had underestimated the man above her. Her own pleas fell on deaf ears. It wasn’t until she tensed that he began to listen again.

"Michael, I can't-I'm going to-"

"Now," he growled, removing his hand from her hair and bringing his arm around her throat. Michael’s thrusts were so deep she felt him in her lungs.

"Cum for me now, baby. Let me feel it."

By his command, she exploded. Her release crashed through her with violent force, body convulsing, and inner walls clamping down on him so hard he groaned. Again, y/n soaked them both. Whatever was left of her didn’t even attempt to run from the pleasure again.

Michael kept pounding into her, strokes becoming erratic and desperate. With a brutal snap of his hips, he pulled her completely off the bed. They tumbled onto the floor in a tangle of limbs, Michael landing on top of her, still buried deep inside. The carpet burned against her knees, but she didn't care. He was fucking her into the floor now, hips snapping with renewed urgency, the angle even deeper, hitting places that made her scream.

"Michael-"

"One more," he gasped, breath hot against her neck. "Please, jus’ one more, baby. I want to feel you come apart for me one more time."

His hand slid around to find her abused clit, rubbing in tight, desperate circles as he pounded into her from behind. She was so sensitive, so overstimulated, but his fingers were magic, and his dick was hitting that perfect spot and-

She came again, even harder than before, her vision whiting out, her entire body seizing. She felt him follow seconds later, his thrusts losing all rhythm, becoming wild and uncontrolled. He buried himself deep and came with a cry that was half whimper, half whine, cock twitching inside her walls as he filled the rubber.

For a few uninterrupted moments, the couple lay there on the floor, panting and tangled together. The afternoon sun slanted through the window, painting gold across their skin. Michael rolled off of the woman, and pressed lazy kisses to her shoulder, her neck, the shell of her ear. He promised that she did so good, and gently pulled himself from her core. He tied off the condom, and moved to discard it in a small trashcan near the door.

"So," he murmured, voice hoarse and satisfied. "How's that for neighborly?"

Y/N laughed, breathless and giddy. "I think I need to move more often."

"I hope that was okay," he said softly, fingers tracing patterns on her back, "I've never... I mean, that was my first time. With anyone."

Y/N propped herself up on one elbow, staring at him. "What?"

"I've never been with anyone before." He looked almost shy now, the predator completely gone, the boyish uncertainty flickering back full force. "I just... with you, I couldn't help myself. I wanted you so bad. M’sorry if it was too much."

She stared at him, stunned. "Michael. You just— you rearranged my guts. And you mean to tell me…that was your first time?"

He nodded, biting his lip, and she saw his eyes dart around the room, landing everywhere but on her. He was fidgeting, picking at a loose thread on the sheet, glancing toward the door, the window, the pile of boxes in the corner.

"Hey," she said, catching his chin and turning his face back to hers. "What's wrong?"

He swallowed hard. "I just... I wanted to ask you something, and I'm nervous."

"Ask me what?"

"Will you... would you maybe want to go to dinner with me sometime? Like, on a date?"

Y/N stared at him for a full three seconds. Then she cackled. Full, loud, uncontrolled laughter that shook her whole body and made her clutch her stomach.

"Oh my God," she gasped. "You just fucked me like I owed you money, and now you're scared to ask me to dinner?"

Michael flushed crimson, burying his face in his hands. "I know, I know, it's stupid but-"

"It's adorable!" She poked his ribs, still laughing. "Michael Jackson, international superstar, undercover pornstar, can't ask a girl on a date."

"I've never been on a date," he mumbled into his palms.

She laughed harder. "You've never had pussy either, but that didn't stop you from diving in face first!"

"Hey!" He grabbed a pillow and smacked her with it, his eyes bright with embarrassed amusement. "That's not fair! I was very respectful about your... your..."

"My pussy?"

"Stop saying that!" He hit her with the pillow again, but he was grinning now, the tension broken. "Just answer the question, woman. Will you go to dinner with me or not?"

Y/N's laughter died down to a soft chuckle. She looked at him and saw a sweet, dominant, whimpering, confident boy who had just given her the best orgasms of her life, who was now blushing like a virgin because he wanted to buy her a meal.

‘How backward,’ she thought.

"Yes," y/n said, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his lips. "I'll go to dinner with you. You're spending the night though. I'm not done with you."

Michael rolled his eyes, but his smile was pure sunshine. "I was gonna do that anyway, mama. You think I'm leavin’ after all that? I finally found out what all the fuss was about. I'm stayin’ right here."

He pulled her down beside him, tangling their legs together, and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Besides, someone has to help you unpack all those boxes."

"Four noodle arms are better than two?"

"Exactly." He grinned against her hair. "And just so you know, I'm way better with directions in bed than I am with moving furniture."

Y/N laughed, curling into his warmth. "Prove it."

"Give me five minutes," he murmured, already half-asleep. "Then I'll prove it twice."

She laughed harder, burying her face in his chest. "Michael."

"What?"

"You said 'four noodle arms' when we met."

"So?"

"You tossed me around like it was nothin', Mikey."

He opened one eye, looking down at her with a smug smile. "I told you, baby. I'm the farthest thing from a good boy."

"Yeah, yeah." She yawned, settling against him. "Save it for our date, Casanova."

"Casanova?" He made a face. "Cassanova doesn’t hold a candle to me"

"How about 'Freak', huh?" y/n teased.

"I can work with that." He yawned, pulling her in closer.

Michael fell asleep there on the floor with a smile on his face, and only one thought on his mind.

‘God, I love pussy.’

“What’s got you all chipper this morning, Maine?" Tito questioned making everyone turn their heads towards him.

“This is the smile of a man who got some love last night.” He replied with a self-satisfied smirk.

Janet groaned fake gagging whilst his brothers erupted into loud laughter and whistles, knowing grins plastered their faces as they patted him on the back. 

Michael gave a small smile watching the scene unfold, but he refocused his attention on Janet—–he never was one to be interested in sex talk and his brother's manly habits. He believed sex and intimacy was something to be cherished—something to be kept privately between a male and female.

Which is why no matter how many times his brothers tried to pry or be nosey about his and yours relationship, Michael always shooed them off before enjoying you all to himself behind closed doors. He really was the black sheep of his brothers. 

Whilst explaining the cross word to Janet, he felt Jermaine’s hands clap his shoulders as he took a seat beside him. “Hey Mike.”

“Hey maine, how you been?”

“Good. How about you and mrs lover girl?”

Michael felt his face grow warm at the mention of you, he always grew shy whenever you were brought up—his brothers never failed to tease him over it. 

“She’s good, we’re good– she’s comin over tonight actually.” He replied before adding “How’s you and Hazel?” 

“Extremely good as you can tell” Jermaine replied mischievously whilst gesturing to himself with his hands—Michael rolled his eyes with a smile at his brother's cockiness.

“Yeah i can see that maine, whats that?” He asked curiously whilst he nodded his head towards a purplish coloured bruising resting just above Jermaine’s collarbone. 

His brother’s grin only grew cockier before he responded. “That, my innocent lil brother, is a hickey.”

Michael blinked confused—completely unaware of the term whilst his two older brothers Jackie and Tito turned around after the conversation caught their attention.

“A hickey?” Mike repeated, testing out the words still not understanding whilst his three older brothers bursted into laughter—he shrank into his seat feeling embarrassed.

“C’mon mike, you know what a hickey is man.” Jackie said expecting Michael to have been joking but when he saw his younger brother avoiding eye contact he stopped laughing “Oh you serious.” 

“Mike you mean to tell me you and her still ain’t done nun yet?” Tito inquired.

Even though he didn’t like having his brother's noses in his love life—Michael wasn’t a virgin, but he was still relatively new to it all—only having done anything with you maybe once or twice, which is why the concept of hickeys was still something that was foreign to him. 

“I’ve told you guys before, its nun of your business.” He replied, growing irritated by their questioning. 

“He still ain’t done nun yet that's why he avoiding the question.” Tito said, making the brothers laugh uncontrollably again whilst Michael sighed shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

“Don’t worry Mike, when you finally get one of these you’ll become a man.” Jermained laughed whilst he pointed to the hickey on his neck.

Feeling offended by his words his brows furrowed “I am a man Jermaine.”

“Whatever you say Michael.” Jackie responded between laughter.

“Go get a hickey from her and we might take you seriously.” Jermaine remarked sarcastically, trying to stifle his amusement. 

“Oh you think i can’t?” Michael retorted, sitting up more straight—starting to feel slightly competitive by their doubt.

The three brothers exchanged amused glances—their reactions speaking for them before Michael scoffed standing up to walk out of the kitchen.

“Watch me.”

𓂃⋆.˚  

The sound of lips smacking filled Michael's bedroom. His family were fast asleep in their rooms whilst he was up against his headboard holding onto your waist where you straddled his lap, exploring his mouth with your tongue. 

You arrived at Hayvenhurst for a sleepover a couple hours ago when you had dinner with the family. Michael had been quiet the entire time, barely talking to his brothers the way he usually would, when dinner was over and the two of you headed up to his bedroom—you barely made it across the room before he started kissing you hungrily.

“Baby– keep it down we can’t be too– loud.” He said between the kisses whilst your fingers caressed his fro, tipping his head back to kiss him deeper.

“You started this Mike, you shouldn’t have started kissing me like that.” You whispered against his lips grinding onto his growing erection through his pajama trousers.

“Angel–” kiss “Angel wait– i-i need to ask you somethin.” 

You paused, pulling your head back to look at him. “What's wrong Mikey?”

His eyes flickered away from yours. “Nothing i just…”

“Tell me mike.” You cupped his face forcing him to make eye contact as he exhaled softly.

“What's a hickey?” He asked nervously.

Your eyes widened slightly—expecting anything but that. “A hickey?” You repeated.

“Yeah…a hickey….Jermaine had one when he came home this mornin n they were all teasin me about not knowing.” 

He began to explain the comments they made, the way they laughed, and how Jermaine doubted he could ever get one. 

Understanding flashed across your face as you started to piece everything together—his silence towards his brothers during dinner and the heated kiss he gave you. 

“Well for starters i’m gonna kick their asses for teasing you.” 

He cracked a smile, chuckling slightly at your words.

“Don’t worry baby, I'll tell you all there is to know, okay?” You said softly, caressing his cheek with love whilst he nodded looking up at you with those big doe eyes you fell in love with. 

“Okay so, a hickey is when a person places their mouth on someones skin, and sucks real hard till it bruises—dont worry though, it feels really good, especially if it's on the neck in a sensitive area of the skin.” You explained whilst Michael listened intently, visualising it whilst you spoke.

“Have you…ever received one?” He asked suddenly feeling shy.

“Yeah baby i have.” You responded.

“Oh..” His tone was mixed with slight jealousy—a rare appearance that always made you turned on whenever it happened.

“Wanna give me one mikey?”

His dick slightly twitched in his pants—which you felt because you were still straddling him—at the seductiveness of your voice.

“I-i…i wouldn’t know how–”

“I can teach you. You want me to teach you baby?”

As if hypnotised by your words he nodded turning into complete jelly at the sound your voice. You smirked before adjusting yourself on his lap, getting yourself comfy again before you placed his hands on your waist to hold.

“Good, now lean into my neck and just start off with soft kisses mikey.” You murmured softly as he hesitantly leaned in but started pressing gentle kisses onto the skin of the right side of your neck.

The sweet smell of your natural skin mixed with Cocoa butter made his tense muscles relax completely as he spread the warm kisses around the area feeling the way your own body melted onto him.

“Mmh that feels good baby, okay now make the kisses a little wetter, add your tongue into it.”

He does as told gently placing his tongue flat before smooching onto the skin, he repeated this about five times as your eyes closed and your bottom lip was folded between your teeth trying not to release a moan that was starting to form in your throat.

Growing slightly confident, he trailed the tongue filled kisses across your neck moving to your left side which had you finally release the small moan you were trying to hold back.

“Does it feel good angel?” Michael muttered against your neck seeking reassurance as you nodded rubbing his back urging him to continue.

“Mhm y-yes baby it does…okay now i want you to suck onto the skin, still making it wet but this time suction your mouth baby.” You instructed softly.

He listened, you felt him readjust his mouth before his lips closed over the area in a sucking motion—instantly, he sucked onto your sweet spot that was just where your pulse was and you moaned again, tipping your head back more for him.

“Oh yes…yes baby you’re doing so well, m’so proud of you.” You spoke lowly, slightly feeling breathless.

Hearing the way your responses start to become breathy, Michael sucked onto your neck with more confidence, his tongue swiping all the areas that triggered more moans from you as you started to grind your hips onto his now completely hard crotch.

Feeling your hips move—it was Michael’s turn to release pleasure filled sounds which he released onto the area he was sucking, his hips bucking upwards as the grip he had on your waist became tighter. 

“I love you baby– love making you feel good, I love being good for you.” His hot breath tickling your wet bruised skin as he panted softly against it at the way your clothed core was grinding onto his pajama pants where he was now leaking precum through his boxers.

“I love you too, such a good boy for me Mike, doing so well marking me up—you like marking up your girl hm?”

Michael nodded whilst he groaned against your neck painfully and possessively as he continued to suck on your skin like there was no tomorrow. 

“Aht aht, i need your words Mikey.”

“I do! I love marking you up baby—love marking up my pretty girl.” He responded frantically.

Just as he was about to suck on the other side again, you pulled back slightly, lifting his head up—he whined about to protest before you silenced him with a hungry kiss to his lips that he returned gratefully, his tongue wrapped around yours passionately, neither of you caring how loud your kisses were as you deepened it before pulling away with a playful tug at his bottom lip with your teeth.

“How do you like your work, Picasso?” You teased as you tilted your head back allowing Michael to get a full view of the fresh dark prominent hickeys on your brown skin.

His eyes darkened seeing the outcome of his work, once again you felt him twitch beneath you as you pulled your head back forward meeting his gaze with your lustful one. 

“You liked that mikey? Like seein me all marked up because of you?” You whispered against his lips with a smirk as he nodded rapidly still staring up at you as if he was in a trance. “y-yes i do.”

You pulled back and he leaned in not wanting to escape your warmth but you rested your palm on his chest creating distance. “Now that I've taught you the principles of a hickey, and how it works….its my turn.”

The excitement that filled your boyfriends wide eyes caused you to chuckle gently as he eagerly gripped your waist again pulling you impossibly closer till you were chest to chest.

“Looks like someone's eager.” You ribbed 

“Please, please I need to prove Jermaine wrong—needa wipe that smug grin off his face, all of em.”

Fueled by your own desperation to help your boyfriend succeed, you leaned into his neck—the warm scent of clean skin and faint cologne filled your nostrils before you pressed soft kisses on the area doing the same exact process you taught him—licking his skin gently you smiled against him hearing the way his breath hitched. 

“Just relax baby, gonna make you feel so good.” You whispered before you started sucking on the area.

Michael’s eyes flickered shut as he released a soft shaky moan—so this is what a hickey felt like.

He bit on his bottom lip trying not to moan too loudly but when you started to roll your hips again—resuming your actions from earlier, he buried his face onto your shoulder whilst you moved against him and continued to work your mouth on his skin. You licked it, feeling his pulse quicken against your tongue.

“O-oh that feels so good.” He whimpered, moving his hands to your ass and squeezing a handful—his sudden confidence made you release a surprised sound onto his skin before you continued sucking.

“That’s it baby, grip my ass while i mark you.”

He continued to dry hump with you, neither of you losing the momentum as you panted into his skin grinding your now completely drenched clothed core onto his erect Pajama pants pushing your clit forward and back until you were a moaning mess. You sucked hard onto the skin making sure you left your mark on the very visible area before you released his skin with a pop and switched to the other side. 

Just like he did earlier, your mouth immediately found his sweet spot when you moved to his right side—Michael released a quivering moan tipping his head back to give you more access to the skin as you continued to abuse it, slurping and sucking on it whilst your hips moved on their own accord.

"F-fuck mikey you feel so good against me, so perfect and hard for me baby." You praised.

The two of you were now moaning in unison—completely losing yourselves, Michael’s head was thrown back with drool escaping his lips at how good your mouth felt on his neck and how good your pussy felt dry humping him, your spit trickled down his neck as you sucked hungrily over his adams apple.

“Ngh– oh God— oh baby—” Michael was an incoherent mess his words scrambling over each other as he pushed your hips down on him—harder, faster whilst you were your own disaster still latched onto his neck with tears of pleasure rolling down your face. 

“A-angel, angel im coming— im com— aghh!”

Michael came hard into his boxers his grip on you deliciously painful as he held you tighter, moving your head you bit onto his shoulder just as your own orgasm crashed through you as well whilst you continued to relentlessly rub your overstimulated clit through your panties onto his crotch before releasing his skin from your mouth with a whiny moan. 

After it became too sensitive and too much to handle, your hips gradually slowed down, the two of you panted heavily—both of your eyelids heavy as Michael rubbed your back soothingly with his palm. 

“You okay?” His voice low and soft.

“Yeah, you?” You replied as he nodded with a tired smile formed on his lips, his eyes sleepy but filled with love as they stared at you.

You stared back with matched tiredness and infatuation, brushing your thumb against his wet hickeys—a wide smile of pride painted your pretty face.

“Lets get some rest angel face, you got some showing off to do in the morning.”

𓂃⋆.˚  

The family's loud breakfast morning routine took place as usual, this time Latoya and Rebbie were there to make sure the pancakes weren’t burnt this time, whilst the brothers—marlon, Jermaine, Tito and Jackie sat at the table playing cards above their cereal bowls.

The loud chatter and bickering filled the atmosphere as the late morning sun shone through the sheer floral curtains of the kitchen. 

Janet was sat up on the counter completing the crossword Michael had taught her how to do yesterday whilst Randy got on her nerves trying to distract her. 

After finishing up the pancakes—Rebbie took the motherly role like always and fixed everyone a plate before she raised her finger and counted everyone in the kitchen then asked. “Where’s Michael?”

As if on cue, the third to last sibling strolled in, his face wearing the same exact expression that his brother had on yesterday. 

He took a seat at the table completely ignoring the extremely loud silence that had filled the air along with the heavy weight of eight eyes being directed at him as he took his plate from Rebbie, thanking her.

“Mike…” Latoya trailed off her lips parted in shock at the sight of him.

Ignoring what was on Michael’s skin, was like trying to ignore the elephant in the room—his entire neck was decorated with massive deep purple—almost black, bruises. They covered almost the whole neck skin, around five to six on each side, each one being larger than the other. 

Michael finally looked up meeting the shocked eyes of everyone before shrugging. “What?”

His brothers looked between themselves before wide massive smiles plastered their faces and they jumped up rushing to Michael with cheers and laughter, playfully slapping him on the back and jostling him whilst his sisters rolled their eyes resuming what they were doing.

“My man!” Jackie exclaimed proudly, ruffling his afro.

“Ain’t no way.” Marlon’s jaw dropped.

“Mike– you out done me. You actually out done me.” Jermaine said, still shocked but filled with excitement.

“Let me see! Let me see!” Randy tried to pull his head back.

For the next five minutes, his brothers continued to joyfully shove him around, demanding answers to their millions of questions that were being thrown at the speed of light whilst Michael tried to hold in his laugh giving them short responses.

Their game of twenty one questions was interrupted when you’d finally come down from his room, you cleared your throat and leaned against the kitchen’s door frame with your arms crossed wearing one of Michael’s old t-shirts—your brown skinned neck mirroring his own, your curls in a high ponytail to proudly show it off.  

Latoya and Rebbie turned to you with knowing grins before his brothers immediately left Michael and rushed to you, they swarmed you with their own shocked questions whilst Michael smiled and watched with a fuzzy feeling inside. 

“Yup, and don’t make fun of my man again.”

𑣲⋆｡˚

Thank you so much for reading <𝟑 .ᐟ

The camera unbelievably close as Michael recorded the rain outside. You stood in the rain barefoot as the droplets fell on you. Your eyes closed as you took a sigh of relief. You felt serene. "You want to record?" He asked Prince as his chubby hands took the camera from him.

Prince put his eye up to the camera as it shot around the room. The camera landed on Michael who smiled at him. Prince walked closer to him before pointing it towards you. Paris stared out the window at you as you let the rain pelt you. Michael turned his head to look at Paris.

"Are you watching Mommy, Paris?" He called to her as she glanced at Michael briefly before looking back at you.

You never got to do this as a kid and it was so relaxing. "Is Mommy staying outside?" Prince asked as he held the camera that was unstable in his little hands.

"Mommy just wants to feel the rain right now." Michael explained as the camera turned to Paris who eyed it briefly.

"I want to go outside with Mommy." Prince mumbled to Michael as he recorded the ground.

"You'll get sick." Michael told him as he set the camera on a nearby table. "I'll go get Mommy for you, okay?"

Prince agreed as Michael stepped outside with an umbrella. The two siblings pressed against the glass watching their parents interact. Michael got closer but you didn't flinch. The freeing feeling to good to pass up. You felt the rain stop falling on your skin causing you to peek an eye open at him.

"They're asking for you." He mumbled as you heard the rain pelt the umbrella.

"Clingy little angels, aren't they?" You teased as you turned your head to see the kids staring at you both through the glass door.

You gave them a small wave that they returned enthusiastically. "I love them." You spoke softly into the air.

"So do I." He smiled as he pulled you into him.

"Michael, I'm soaked." You grimaced as you put your hands on his chest to create distance.

He furrowed his eyebrows. "I've seen you with a fever of a hundred and three, I can handle a little rain."

Clinking could be heard through the video as the camera catches Paris' eyes staring into it. A few shuffles later and the camera is pressed into Prince's face. He stared before smiling and the camera whipped to you and Michael outside. You burst into laughter as he kissed your cheek multiple times. The camera was shaky as it caught you two sharing a few kisses in the rain.

"Mommy's gonna get sick." Prince said with a tremble to his voice. Paris cut the camera to him as he pouted as the camera cut off.

The camera whirred back to life to an older Paris and Prince. Prince held the camera as he was filming the house for Christmas. The tree was up and gifts wrapped. The camera flipped rapidly as Prince showed different parts of the house at a weird angle. "Where's Daddy?" He asked himself as the camera wobbled around the corner.

"Prince, why do you have the camera?" Michael laughed from the couch where he and Paris rested.

"It's Christmas." He announced as he walked closer to Michael.

"It is and it's very important." Michael informed him. The sound of your slippers caused everyone to look towards the hallway.

Prince turned abruptly causing the camera to shake. "Mommy and Bigi!"

The sounds of small cooing and babbling from the hallway caught everyone's attention. You came down the hallway holding Bigi in your arms. You wave his tiny hand towards everyone. Prince walked up as the camera smushed into your shirt as he tried to hug his baby brother. You kissed his head before making your way towards Michael and Paris.

Michael took Bigi out of your arms as you kissed Paris on the cheek. Michael smiled widely at Bigi as he gave him a few kisses. Bigi giggled loudly as he was plastered with Michael's kisses. "Merry Christmas, my babies." You smiled radiantly.

"Merry Christmas, Mommy." Prince said as he clung to your leg. You couldn't help but to pick him up.

The tape showed how wild Christmas was. Between Paris and Prince opening presents and Bigi having a ball ripping up wrapping paper, you and Michael were beat. Michael pulled you to the side to give you a special gift. You opened the box to find a ring which you giggled about. The camera rolled as Paris held it, trying to get a good secret angle of her parents.

"What's are you doing, Paris?" Prince asked as he squished in next to his sister.

"Recording Mama and Papa." She whispered as she hushed Prince.

"What's this for?" You laughed as you looked up at him.

"Just something I thought would look good on you." He complimented as he kissed the corner of your mouth.

You rolled your eyes playfully. "You're sweet talking me."

"I definitely am." He laughed as you laced your fingers together.

By the time the kids were a bit older, there were many tapes piled up. If you watched one, you and Michael were always in the back staring into each other like love sick puppies. Your children grew up knowing what love looked like. Between how you raised them and how you treat each other, you both raised some fine and dignified humans.

𝐒𝐞𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟏, 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟕

The air inside the private mixing suite at Westlake Recording Studios was heavy with a rich, unmistakable scent of vintage leather, magnetic tape, and the subtle, lingering floral notes of Michael’s preferred perfume. Outside the soundproofed mahogany double doors, the chaotic machinery of the global press launch for Bad was already humming at a frantic pitch—publicists whispering into bulky corded phones, assistance shuffling schedules, and security guards pacing the carpeted hallways.

Inside, however, time seemed to slow to a deliberate, excruciating crawl.

You sat in a plush, chocolate-brown velvet armchair, carefully smoothing down the hem of your sharp cream blazer. Underneath, a deep burgundy silk blouse hugged the lush, generous curves of your bust, tucking neatly into a tailored pencil skirt that emphasized the dramatic swell of your hips and the long, smooth line of your legs. 

Your long, dark curly hair tumbled over your shoulders in soft, voluminous coils, framing a face characterized by smooth, glowing dark skin, sharp high cheekbones, and expressive pair of dark brown eyes that had seen through enough media fluff to know when an artist was performing and when they were being real.

Across from you, sitting on a matching velvet sofa with his long legs casually crossed at the knee, was Michael Jackson.

He was striking—almost painfully so. Wrapped in the dark, edgy aesthetic of his newest era, he wore a black leather jacket fitted with silver buckles along the sleeves, a soft red shirt unbuttoned slightly at the collar, and black trousers that clung to his lean frame. 

His dark jheri curl glistened under the warm studio spotlights, soft tendrils framing his face. His aviator sunglasses rested on the glass coffee table between you, right beside the polished silver cassette recorder that sat waiting to capture your exchange.

What surprised you most wasn’t his appearance, but his eyes.

Press rumors had painted him as painfully shy, timid, and quick to hide behind his hands or his sunglasses. But from the moment you had stepped into the suite, extended your hand, and introduced yourself as a senior feature writer for Ebony, those dark, wide eyes had locked onto yours with a quick, unwavering intensity.

He didn’t look away. He didn’t blink. He sat there, chin resting lightly in his palm, studying the cadence of your voice, the curve of your lips, and the confidence with which you carried yourself. 

You reached down, your long, manicured fingers hovering over the small red button of the tape recorder.

“All set, Michael?” you asked, your voice smooth, rich, and naturally composed.

Michael tilted his head, a slow, incredibly soft smile playing at the corners of his lips. His dark eyes tracked the movement of your fingers, then drifted back up to hold your gaze with an intensity that sent a subtle, electric shiver straight down your spine.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he murmured. His voice was a gentle, velvety purr, but there was a quiet, playful edge underneath it. “I’m all yours.”

You pressed Record. The small red light flickered to life, and the subtle click of the reels turning filled the narrow gap between you.

“It’s been almost four years since you’ve recorded and come out with a new album,” you began, leaning back into your chair, crossing your long, smooth legs. The slit of your skirt shifted slightly, exposing a silver of golden-brown skin. Michael’s gaze flicked down to your knee for a fraction of a second before snapping right back to your eyes. “How do you feel now that the album is out?”

He shifted on the sofa, leaning his elbow on the padded armrest, resting his jaw against his knuckles. He didn’t break eye contact for a single breath.

“I feel… rejuvenated, kind of,” he answered softly, his voice carrying that signature rhythmic cadence. “Because after working on it for so long… it's so much work. A lot of people, they’re used to just seeing the outcome of the work. They never see the side of the work you go through to produce the outcome. And… I feel, you know, rejuvenated and happy. It’s a jubilation. I mean, it’s what it is. It’s like a celebration. Like we’re done.” 

“A celebration well deserved,” you said, offering a warm, knowing smile. You looked down at your notepad, though you hardly needed it. “How long did it take to come up with the creative process for this project? You wrote seven or eight of the songs on this album yourself.”

Michael let out a soft, airy laugh, his dark eyes sparkling as he watched you.

“I don’t remember,” he admitted softly, a gentle shrug shifting his black jacket. “I totally don’t. I don’t even count the hours or anything. Every song is different. Sometimes it happens quickly, sometimes it happens slowly. No one can quite say what the creative process is, because I have nothing to do with it, almost. Because it’s created in space… it’s God’s work, not mine, you know?”

“Talking about that,” you said, leaning forward slightly, resting your forearms on your thighs. The movement brought you closer across his space, the subtle of your vanilla-and-cherry blossom perfume drifting across the table. His dark eyes widened slightly, his nostrils flaring just enough to catch the scent before his gaze anchored back on yours. “God gives us a lot of gifts, a lot of times. And you’ve been really blessed with a tremendous amount of gifts. And yet, it seems as though a lot has been required of you. Do you sometimes regret being so famous?”

A quiet beat passed. 

Michael’s expression softened, the playful spark giving way to something deeper, more introspective. But his eyes never left yours.

“No… sometime. Only sometime,” he corrected gently, trailing off for a moment. “Sometimes I want to sneak into places and not have any hoopla, or you know… and it doesn’t work all the time, because people start and they crowd around, which is sweet—I mean, I shouldn’t complain…”

“No, but you have a right to complain,” you interjected smoothly, your tone dripping with genuine empathy. “Because everybody has the right to go out there and just be alone. But it seems like that right isn’t really given to you.”

Michael’s gaze deepened, a profound look of appreciation washing over his features. It was clear he was used to reporters glossing over his feelings or pushing for scandal, but the warmth and authority in your voice held him captive.

“That’s part of the work, I would say,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave lower, turning darker, more intimate. He leaned forward, crossing his wrists over his knees, effectively closing the physical distance between your chair and his sofa. “It’s just… part of the work.”

You swallowed down a sudden knot of tension in your throat, maintaining your poised, professional mask even as your pulse accelerated under the weight of his stare.

“Let’s talk about the title track,” you said, shifting smoothly to keep the momentum going. “How do you feel about the song Bad? I have to tell you, when I listened to it, I liked it because it feels like a real statement. You’re making it clear that when it comes to the music industry… you’re the baddest out there.”

His lips curved into a slow, mischievous smirk. The shy, thoughtful man vanished, replaced in an instant by the formidable, supremely confident artist behind the leather and buckles. He bit down gently on his bottom lip, his dark eyes sweeping over your face—taking in the arch of your eyebrows, the rich tone of your skin, the full curve of your lips—before returning to lock onto your gaze. 

“Well, it is quite different from anything I’ve ever recorded or I’ve ever written,” he said, his voice laced with a subtle, teasing warmth. “It’s a bold statement to say… but I mean it in all good ways, you know? Don’t take it wrong.”

“Of course not,” you replied with a playful tilt of your head, leaning back and boldly crossing your legs again. The rustle of your skirt drew his eyes downward once more, a dark, hungry flicker passing through his gaze before he forced his sight back up to yours. “It’s a way of saying you’re cool, you’re tough, you’re all right.”

“Right,” Michael chuckled softly, leaning his head back against the velvet cushion, though his eyes remained fixed on you like a hawk. “I’m not saying I’m like, criminally bad, of course. That’s how some people might take it. It’s just… a bold statement to make.”

“And the short film reflects that,” you continued, holding his gaze without flinching. “A lot of songs make social statements, and the video does too. You know, when I watched it… my name is Darryl in the script Martin Scorsese shot, but listening to the narrative of that young man… I grew up in Harlem and the South Bronx. I went away to a private school on a scholarship, and I had to come back home and deal with the intense peer pressures of two completely different worlds. How did you come up with that specific idea?”

He paused. 

The flirtatious air yielded instantly to a profound, respectful quiet. He looked at you not just as a journalist, but as a woman with a rich, complex history—a Black woman who had walked through the fire of the very reality he was trying to depict on screen.

“Well… it wasn’t really my idea,” Michael explained softly, his voice dropping into a tender, solemn register. “It’s actually part of a true story…”

He goes on to tell the story of a kid from the ghetto who went to school upstate in the country, emphasizing on how he tried to make something out of his life, leaving his friends behind. But when he returned for a holiday break, his friends became so envious of him that they killed him.

“That’s a heavy reality,” you murmured softly.

“In the film, I don’t die, of course,” Michael added, his eyes searching yours, as if checking to ensure you were okay with the subject matter. “It’s a true story we took from Time magazine. And… he was a Black kid, like me. And it’s a very sad story.”

“How does that make you feel when you see those kinds of sad stories?” you asked, your tone rich with quiet intimacy.

Michael sighed, a soft breath escaping his lips. "Well... something like that is very sad, because it's all negative. It's wrong. I think that's life—to want to grow and become more. Like you plant a seed, it grows into something beautiful, and it never dies, really. I think people should be that way."

The silence that followed was charged, thick with an intellectual and emotional connection that neither of you had anticipated when the tape started rolling. Michael was no longer just answering questions; he was hanging on your every word, completely captivated by the quiet strength and striking beauty sitting just inches away from him.

You took a slow, measured breath, letting the solemn weight of the short film discussion settle before subtly shifting the atmosphere back toward the music itself.

“You know what my personal favorite song on the album is?” you asked, allowing a small, genuine smile to warm your features.

His eyes instantly lit up, a soft curiosity breaking through his intense demeanor. “What is it?”

“Man In The Mirror,” you answered smoothly. “I tend to hold a feeling that no matter what you do in the world, it really has to start with you. That’s always been my philosophy.” 

A brilliant, radiant smile across Michael’s face, illuminating his features. He clapped his hands together once, a soft, delighted sound, before resting them back on his lap, leaning in even closer.

"It's my philosophy, too!" he exclaimed softly, his voice full of warmth. "If you want to make the world a better place, take a look at yourself and then make a change. People don't look at themselves honestly. They don't look at themselves and point the finger at themselves—it's always the other guy's fault, or somebody else. You should change yourself. Look at yourself, make better of yourself."

"When you look in the mirror," you asked softly, holding his gaze with absolute poise, "are you happy with what you see?"

Michael hesitated. His dark eyes flickered over your face, dropping down to the curve of your throat, the swell of your collarbones beneath the burgundy silk, and the rich, glowing tone of your skin, before rising back up to lock with yours.

"In what way?" he countered, his voice smooth as velvet, turning the question back onto you with an undeniable flirtatious edge.

"In terms of that social philosophy," you clarified, a small, knowing smirk gracing your lips. "Or just... as a man."

He let out a quiet, raspy chuckle, shifting his weight on the couch, sliding slightly closer to the edge of his seat. His long fingers played casually with the zipper of his jacket, but his eyes never left yours for a single microsecond.

“I’m… never totally satisfied,” he admitted, his voice dipping low, laced with a smooth, lingering warmth. “I always wish the world could be a better place. But… when I look in the mirror right now… I’m pretty happy with what’s reflecting back.”

The implication hung in the air, heavy and sweet. You felt a wave of heat rise along your neck, but you maintained your composure, offering him a slow, indulgent nod before glancing down at your notes to transition to the next topic.

The red light on the cassette recorder flickered steadily, casting a faint, rhythmic glow across the glass table.

You shifted slightly in your leather armchair, uncrossing and recrossing your legs with a quiet rustle of fabric. The tailored pencil skirt rode up just an inch or two higher over the smooth curve of your thigh, exposing another sliver of glowing dark skin to the warm studio lights.

Across the table, Michael didn’t miss a single beat of the movement. His dark, almond-shaped eyes flicked down to your legs, tracking the golden hue of your skin before slowly–deliberately—rising back up to meet your gaze. A heavy, lingering stillness settled between you both, thick with the scent of your perfume and the quiet hum of the studio tapes.

“Let’s talk about the ballads,” you said, keeping your voice cool, rich, and impeccably professional, though the sudden intensity in his eyes made your pulse flutter against your ribs. “On the album version of I Just Can’t Stop Loving You… you make some very strong, very sensuous remarks to the woman you’re lying next to. You’re whispering to her in the dark…”

The moment the words left your lips, a low, raspy chuckle escaped Michael’s throat.

The reserved, quiet posture he had maintained earlier completely dissolved. He shifted forward again, sliding his long frame right up to the edge of the cushion. He uncrossed his legs, leaning in close over the table, effectively closing the physical distance between you until he was sitting mere inches away.

“I was in a bed when I was doing that,” he confessed softly.

His voice had dropped an entire octave, turning into that thick, velvety purr—the exact tone he used in the spoken intro. He rested his chin on his knuckles, his dark curls spilling forward to frame a face lightened by a slow, wicked smirk.

“Really?” you asked, leaning forward just a fraction to meet his halfway, refusing to let him see you sweat. “In a bed?”

“Yeah,” he purred, biting down gently on his bottom lip as his gaze swept over your face. He took in the arch of your brow, the smooth expanse of your collarbones peeking through your burgundy silk blouse, and the rich fullness of your lips. “I was lying under the covers and everything when I did that whole rap. In the dark… just me and the microphone.”

“It sounded… remarkably authentic,” you countered smoothly, holding his gaze without flinching. “Almost like you weren’t acting at all. Like you were talking to someone specific.”

He tilts his head, his eyes sparkling with unadulterated heat and playfulness. He reached out casually— his slender fingers hovering over the glass table before settling right next to the tape recorder, his knuckles brushing against the edge of your notepad. 

“Maybe I was thinking about someone,” he whispered, his eyes dropping intentionally down to your lips before locking back onto yours with agonizing intensity. “Or maybe… I was just waiting for the right woman to come along and make me say it for real.”

A subtle wave of heat flushed down your neck, but you offered him a slow, tantalizing smile, arching one dark eyebrow in silent challenge. 

“Is that right?” you murmured, leaning your elbow on the armrest and resting your cheek against your knuckles, matching his exact posture. “And what kind of woman makes Michael Jackson want to say those things out of the studio?”

Michael let out another quiet, breathless laugh, his gaze dropping down the length of your body—admiring the generous swell of your hips, the sharp tailoring of your blazer, and the long, shapely line of your legs—before settling back on your face with undeniable appreciation. 

“A woman who knows what she wants,” he said softly, his voice carrying a dark, smoldering edge. “Someone smart. Someone who asks real questions and doesn’t get intimidated when I look at her… even when I’m looking really close.”

He leaned in another inch, his chest rising and falling rhythmically under his red shirt. The quiet hum of his presence was overwhelming, radiating a potent, masculine confidence that had nothing to do with fame and everything to do with pure, raw attraction.

“You’re very comfortable making your subjects nervous, aren’t you?” you whispered, your voice dipping low to match his intimate register, the tape recorder catching every soft, dangerous breath between you.

“Not all my subjects,” Michael murmured, his fingers twitching on the table as if itching to close the last few inches of space and touch your knee. “Just you.”

The silence went on for a fraction of a minute before you had to continue. It was becoming increasingly hard in between his eyes burning a hole so deep into you that you could feel him penetrating your soul and the way he leaned so close to you that with one wrong move, his hand could end up your skirt. 

“And the lyrics…” you snapped out of the staring contest, watching the way his chest rose and fell beneath his shirt. “You talk about people not understanding you. 'I see a lot of people misunderstand me, because they don't know me.' Is that really how you feel when you're being that intimate with someone?"

"People believe a lot of crazy stories they read," he murmured, his voice so soft it was almost a whisper, yet every word carried immense weight. "Some is true, some are not. But when you're with someone... when you're really with them, in the dark, under the covers... none of that press stuff matters. They get to see the real me. The man behind all the noise."

He paused, his eyes scanning your face with an intensity so raw it made your breath catch in your chest. His dark gaze traced the lush fullness of your dark curls, the smooth perfection of your skin, and the elegant, curvaceous silhouette of your body sitting before him.

"Does it hurt when you see those crazy stories?" you asked quietly, pushing past the sudden surge of static in your veins to keep the interview on track.

"Sometimes," Michael admitted softly. "But... it's part of the work, you know?"

"You ever want to lash out?" you pressed, offering a sympathetic tilt of your head. "In any type of way, and say, 'Hey, that's not true'?"

"A lot of times," he chuckled softly, shaking his head, a dark curl falling across his forehead. "Yeah. A lot of times. But why bring more attention to a thing?"

You nodded slowly, noting his response on your pad before looking back up. "There’s another song on the album that caught my attention. It’s not quite Man in the Mirror, but Liberian Girl."

Michael smiled warmly, a soft, nostalgic look entering his eyes. "Yeah?"

"Is there a Liberian girl in your life right now?" you asked directly, raising an eyebrow with a cool, confident air. "Or perhaps... another Black woman who inspired that kind of devotion?"

Michael let out a soft, melodious laugh, a sound so genuine and sweet it made the entire room feel warmer. He leaned back against the sofa, but his eyes remained anchored on yours, refusing to let you go.

"No," he said gently, shaking his head. "I wrote that at my house, in the game room. I guess I was playing some pinball or something, and the song just popped in my head. And I think I ran upstairs, put it on tape, and it became Liberian Girl. Same thing with We Are the World... I didn't really think about it, it just comes."

"It just comes," you repeated softly.

"It just comes," he confirmed, his voice dropping into a lingering, velvet hush. "Like inspiration. You can't force it. You just have to be open to it when it walks into the room."

The tension in the suite had morphed from professional curiosity into an overwhelming, magnetic pull. Michael was no longer making any effort to hide his fascination with you. Every answer he gave was wrapped in that intense, unwavering gaze, his soft spoken words serving as a delicate contrast to the sheer, smoldering heat radiating from his posture.

You glanced down at the tape recorder. The reels were still spinning silently, capturing every breath, every pause, every subtle inflection of his voice. You knew you had already gathered incredible material for Ebony—the kind of candid, deeply human interview that editors dreamed of.

But as you looked back up and met Michael’s dark, hungry gaze once more, you realized with absolute certainty that the most compelling part of the afternoon wasn't going to be captured on tape at all.

The soft click of the cassette reels turning served as the only break in the heavy silence that followed his quiet confession. He remained leaned forward over the coffee table, his hand resting inches from your knee, his dark eyes burning into yours with a flirtatious intensity that threatened to melt your professional composure entirely. 

You took a slow, deliberate breath, allowing a subtle, knowing smile to curve your lips as you reached down to adjust the page on your notepad.

“Let’s move on to another track that’s already generating massive conversation,” you said, your voice a rich, velvety alto that filled the narrow space between you. “You have some extremely heavy rock and metal influences on this record, specifically with Dirty Diana.”

The moment the title left your lips, a low, knowing murmur rumbled in Michael’s chest. He shifted his long frame, sliding even further toward the edge of his cushion. 

“Ah, yeah,” he purred, a dark, slow smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Dirty Diana. I love that track.”

“Why that song in particular?” you asked, crossing your legs once more. The subtle rustle of your skirt drew his eyes downward before his eyes were on you again. “It’s aggressive, it’s intense… what brought that narrative out of you?”

“Because it’s a life story of a groupie,” he explained softly, gesturing subtly with his long, elegant fingers. “I used to hate the word ‘groupie’, but that’s really what it is. It’s something that I’ve experienced, and a lot of people who grew up on the road like me experience. You have these women who… they know the locks to every door. They know the nights you’re lonely, and they know exactly what to say to get what they want.”

You leaned back slightly, arching one dark, perfectly shaped eyebrow in silent intrigue. “And do they usually get what they want from you, Michael?”

Michael’s smirk broadened into a full, breathless laugh. He rested his chin against his knuckles, his dark eyes sparkling with an intoxicating blend of mischief and heat. 

“Sometimes,” he confessed, lowering his voice until it was barely a whisper above the hum of the tape. “When you’re young, and you’re on the road… it’s easy to get caught up in the thrill of it. But as you get older… you realize those women aren’t really seeing you. They just want the idea of you. The stage light. The fame.”

He paused, leaning forward until his chest was mere inches from the edge of the glass table. The distance between your chair and his sofa had effectively evaporated.

“That’s why a woman like you is so dangerous,” he murmured, his gaze dropping down to your lips before returning to hold your eyes with an agonizing, deliberate slowness. 

You kept your face completely composed, though your heart hammered heavily against your ribs. “Dangerous? How so?”

"Because you aren't looking at the jacket, or the buckles, or the record sales," Michael said softly, his voice dropping an entire octave, wrapping around you like velvet in the dark. "You look right through all of it. You sit there, asking these sharp, beautiful questions with those smart eyes... and you don't break eye contact once. That's a different kind of power. That's the kind of woman a man actually loses his mind over."

A subtle wave of heat flushed along the back of your neck once again, but you offered him a slow, tantalizing smile, refusing to yield an inch of ground.

“Is this your way of trying to distract the interviewer, Mr. Jackson?” you asked, leaning forward just enough to bring your face into his immediate space, your vanilla perfume washing over him. “Flipping the script when the questions get too personal?”

“Is it working?” he countered instantly, a wicked, boyish spark dancing in his eyes.

“Not a chance,” you replied coolly, tapping your pen against your pad. “We’re still on the record.”

Michael let out a soft, raspy chuckle, shaking his head as his dark curls fell over his forehead. “Okay, okay… ask your next question, Miss Writer.”

“You’ve been in the industry virtually your entire life,” you noted, leaning back into your armchair, your dark eyes studying the subtle shifts in his posture. “I mean, do you even remember a time when you weren’t performing?”

"No," Michael admitted, a quiet, nostalgic shadow crossing his features before he offered a gentle shrug. "I don't remember not performing."

"Do you feel as though you missed out on something because of that?"

“‘Course I missed out on things,” he admitted quietly, his voice gentle and raw. “A lot of simple things people take for granted. Just walking down the street holding someone’s hand, or sitting in a quiet room without ten people waiting outside the door. But… I’ve gained a lot, too. I get to see the world. I get to express love to millions of people.”

He paused, tilting his head as his gaze swept slowly over the curve of your cheekbones. 

“But you’re right,” he added softly, leaning in even closer. “Real connections… normal connections… they’re rare for me. Most people are too nervous to just talk to me like a man. They stumble over their words, or they act like I’m a statue in a museum.”

He reached out slowly. His hand hovered over the glass coffee table, right past the cassette recorder, until his long fingers gently—almost imperceptibly—brushed against the side of your knee.

The touch was feather-light, just a whisper of heat through the fabric of your skirt, but it sent an electric jolt straight through your entire body. He didn’t grab, and he didn’t press; he simply let his fingertips rest there for a heartbeat, testing your reaction, keeping you entirely on your toes. 

Your breath caught in the back of your throat, your pulse spiking violently, but you didn’t pull away. You looked down at his delicate hand resting against your knee, then raised your eyes back to his, holding his smoldering gaze with absolute, unyielding boldness.

“And am I acting like you’re a statue in a museum?” you whispered, your voice dropping into a thick, low register that matched his own.

Michael’s thumb made one slow, tender stroke against the side of your knee before he casually lifted his hand, pulling it back to rest on his lap, a slow, triumphant smirk spreading across his lips. He had felt the quiet gasp you held in; he knew exactly the effect he was having on you.

“No,” he purred, his eyes burning into yours with pure heat. “You’re treating me like a man who’s got your full attention… and I intend to keep it that way until that little tape runs out.”

The silence in the room stretched paper-thin, vibrating with a raw, undeniable physical tension. Your heart was drumming against your ribs, but you were far too poised to let him completely derail your interview.

You took a slow, deliberate breath, leaning back into your armchair with an unbothered, regal composure. You crossed your legs smoothly, pulling your knee just out of his immediate reach, and arched one dark eyebrow at him.

"You speak about people treating you like a statue or a novelty," you said, your voice rich, steady, and commanding as you pulled the dynamic right back into your hands. "Which is interesting, because when you look beyond the music and the press, you have very specific personal interests that touch on that exact feeling. You've mentioned before having a deep fascination with human anatomy... specifically the story of John Merrick, the Elephant Man."

The playful, dangerous smirk on Michael’s face faltered, morphing in an instant into a look of quiet, profound surprise. The flirtatious rockstar persona receded, revealing something far more raw and vulnerable underneath. He uncrossed his arms, leaning forward over the coffee table once more—not to tease you this time, but because you had genuinely touched a nerve.

"Yes," Michael whispered softly, his dark eyes wide and remarkably clear as he held your gaze. "I... I do. I feel a real closeness to his story. It’s a very sad story."

"Is that fascination purely anatomical for you?" you asked gently, your tone shifting from competitive banter to genuine, deeply respectful empathy. "Or is it emotional?"

Michael rested his chin in his palm, his dark curls spilling over his brow. His eyes searched yours, clearly touched by the fact that you weren't ridiculing his interest or bringing it up like a tabloid headline.

"It's both," he admitted, his voice dropping into a tender, solemn register. "I’ve been to the London school for doctors twice just to visit his remains. People look at his history and they just see a spectacle... but when I look at him, I see someone who was misunderstood. Someone who was judged by everything on the outside, while nobody bothered to care about what was on the inside."

He tilted his head, his gaze anchoring onto yours with a new kind of intensity—one built on emotional intimacy rather than just physical heat.

"The part of his story that hits me the most," Michael continued softly, his voice carrying a vivid, almost theatrical passion, "is when he’s trapped in that subway station after being used and chased around... and he finally turns to the crowd and yells, 'Leave me alone! I'm not an animal! I'm a human being!'"

The sheer raw emotion in his voice echoed through the carpeted suite. You held his gaze without flinching, nodding slowly as the weight of his words settled between you.

"Do you think," you asked quietly, leaning in slightly, "that we treat people like animals too often in this world?"

"Too many times," Michael whispered, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fleeting second before rising back to your eyes, heavier now, layered with both desire and profound respect. "Man's inhumanity to man... it's in war, and it's in how we treat each other every day. That's why when I meet someone who actually sees me—who listens to what I'm saying and treats me like a real human being..."

He trailed off, reaching out across the glass table once more. This time, he didn't touch your knee. He simply rested his hand near your notepad, palm open, offering a quiet, silent invitation as the tape reels continued to spin.

"...it makes it very hard to let them walk out that door when this interview is over."

“Are you scared of war?”

“I don’t think anybody likes war, in truth,” Michael said gently, shaking his head. “No… I don’t like war. I like peace. I’m a peaceful person.”

“You know,” you said smoothly, leaning forward and resting your forearms on your knees, bringing your face just inches from his across the small table. “with how accepted you are around the entire world… do you ever think about being an ambassador of some kind?”

Michael let out a soft, breathtaking chuckle, his dark eyes scanning the full curve of your lips, the sharp elegance of your jawline, and the calm authority radiating from your presence.

"I feel I'm that already," he purred, his voice dropping into a low, smoldering hush that made the hairs on your arms stand up. "With my music... and what I've done. Music breaks all barriers. I don't have to make a political statement. I do all of that with music. It breaks all language barriers, to all races of people... it goes all over the world."

He reached out slowly, his long, slender fingers hovering right over the edge of the glass table, just a hair’s breadth from touching your hand.

"And when I'm sitting across from a woman who actually understands that..." Michael added, his voice so velvet-soft it was almost a whisper, "it makes me feel like the message is getting through exactly where it needs to."

The small red light on the cassette recorder flickered one final time before the tape reached its end, the internal mechanism stopping with a crisp, definitive click.

The quiet sound echoed through the warm, dim studio suite like a starter pistol.

You sat back in your velvet armchair, taking a slow, deep breath to steady the rapid pulse thumbing against your ribs. With practiced elegance, you leaned forward, clicked open the cassette door, and slid the small plastic tape into your leather briefcase, snapping the brass lock firmly into place.

“Well, Mr. Jackson,” you said, your voice returning to its smooth, authoritative, professional register, though your dark eyes remained locked onto his. “That covers everything I need for the feature. Thank you for your time.”

Michael didn’t move an inch.

He remained seated right on the edge of the velvet sofa, his long legs uncrossed, his arms resting on his knees. The moment the tape recorder was safely stowed away, the quiet, thoughtful interviewee completely dissolved. In his place sat a man radiating an undeniable, magnetic authority—the smooth, confident rockstar who commanded global stadiums, nor narrowing his laser focus onto a single room.

“Is that so?” he murmured. His voice was no longer the soft, airy purr he used for public broadcast. It had dipped into a raspy, low register, thick with a dark smoldering warmth that sent a sudden shiver tracing down your spine. “Official business is all done?”

“Official business is wrapped,” you replied, arching one dark eyebrow as you closed your notepad. You smoothed the hem of your cream blazer, aware of how his eyes tracked the movement, taking in the rich curve of your bust and the long line of your legs beneath your tailored skirt. “My editor at Ebony will be thrilled.”

Michael let out a low, breathy laugh, biting his lower lip as he slowly stood up from the sofa. Standing at his full height, he looked imposing—clad in black leather, silver buckles, and dark jheri curl tendrils framing a jawline set with quiet determination. 

He walked over to the mahogany double doors that led out to the bustling hallway. He opened them just a crack, peeking his head through to where his personal manager, security detail, and two audio technicians were standing by with heavy equipment. 

“Bill,” Michael called out softly, his voice carrying an effortless command that made the hallway quiet down instantly.

“Yeah, Joker? We ready to head to the soundstage?” his bodyguard asked, stepping forward.

“We’re done with the tape,” he said calmly, keeping his hand on the brass doorknob. “Give us twenty minutes. I need to go over some… post-interview notes with Miss Writer. Privately.”

Bill paused, glancing past Michael into the room to see you sitting composedly in your armchair, your briefcase resting against your leg. Sensing the unmistakable shift in the air, the manager nodded slowly.

“Understood, Joker. We’ll clear the corridor. Security will hold the floor.”

“Thank you,” Michael murmured.

He slid the heavy mahogany door shut. The lock engaged with a solid, heavy thud that echoed through the room, sealing out the rest of the world, the press rollout, and the noise of the studio.

Michael turned around slowly, resting his back against the locked door. His dark, almond-shaped eyes locked onto yours, unblinking, heavy with an explicit, simmering heat that made the air in the room instantly feel ten degrees hotter.

He reached up with long, slender fingers, casually unbuttoning the top two buttons of his red collar, exposing the smooth skin of his neck. Then, with deliberate slowness, he unbuckled the top silver strap of his leather jacket, letting the heavy material slide slightly off his shoulders.

"Now," Michael whispered, his voice dropping into a thick, velvet hush as he took his first slow, deliberate step back toward your chair. "No tapes. No security. No official business."

You stayed seated, resting your cheek against your knuckles, holding his gaze with absolute, regal composure even as your heart hammered wildly against your ribs.

"And what happens now, Michael?" you asked softly, a teasing, dangerous smile curling your lips.

Michael stopped directly in front of your armchair. He leaned down, placing one hand on the left armrest and his other hand on the right, trapping you completely within his frame. The scent of his perfume, mixed with the warm, masculine heat radiating from his chest, enveloped you instantly.

"Now," Michael purred, leaning in until his lips were brushing the shell of your ear, his warm breath fanning across your neck, "you answer my questions."

He didn’t back away, and you refused to yield. You slowly turned your head, bringing your face mere millimeters from his. Your dark eyes locked onto his—unblinking, steady, and blazing with an authority that matched his own. A single dark curl cascaded over your temple, brushing against the smooth, flushed expanse of his cheek. 

“And what makes you think I’m off the clock, Mr. Jackson?” you whispered, your voice dipping into a thick, velvet purr that made his jaw flex in subtle surprise. “The tape stopped, but my memory is sharp. Every word still counts.”

Michael let out a low, breathy laugh, the sound rumbling deep within his chest. Slowly, his right hand slid off the leather armrest, his long, slender fingers weaving gently into the thick, voluminous coils at the nape of your neck. His thumb rested along the sharp curve of your jawline, holding you anchored in his space.

“Because your pulse is racing,” he murmured softly, his gaze dropping down to the deep, rhythmic rise and fall of your chest beneath your burgundy silk blouse. His thumb stroked gently over the sensitive hollow behind your ear, making an involuntary shiver trace down your spine. “And because you haven’t moved an inch toward that door.”

“Maybe I’m just evaluating my subject,” you countered smoothly, arching one dark eyebrow in silent, delicious challenge. “Checking to see if the man in person is truly bold as the man on the record.”

Michael’s smirk broadened into something slow, hypnotic, and undeniably dangerous. He reached into the inner pocket of his black leather jacket with his free hand, pulling out a sleep, unlabelled cassette tape. With a quiet flick of his wrist, he set it down gently on the glass coffee table right beside your leather folder.

“That’s a rough mix of a track nobody in the world has heard yet,” he whispered, his voice dropping into a thick hush. His face hovered so close to yours that you could feel the heat radiating off his skin, his eyes tracking every flutter of your dark lashes. “It’s yours. But only if you stay right here for another twenty minutes… and tell me what you really came here to find out.”

Before you could offer an answer, a firm, heavy knock echoed against the outside of the door.

“Mike?” Bill’s muffled voice called out from the corridor. “Press manager’s calling from Tokyo. They need you on the satellite line in two minutes. You coming out, or should I clear the floor for another half hour?”

The heavy silence in the room stretched thin, vibrating like a pulled guitar string.

Michael didn’t look back at the door. His hands remained tangled in your dark curls, his thumb resting against your jawline, his gaze dark, heavy, and completely unblinking as he waited for your move.

Your fingers hovered right over the edge of your briefcase. You could pick up your tape, take the exclusive story for Ebony, and walk out that door as the polished, untouchable professional… or you could leave the briefcase right where it sat, let the security wait, and find out what happened when the man in front of you got everything he wanted. 

Michael tilted his head, a slow, wicked smirk touching his lips as he read the sudden flicker of hesitation in your eyes.

“Well, Miss Writer?” he murmured, his thumb stroking your cheekbone one last time. “What’s it gonna be?”

© 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐥𝐲𝐩𝐲𝐭𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐛𝐱