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With every minute that passed, (y/n)'s worry grew and grew. When Peter had left to go on patrol earlier, she kissed him goodbye and told him to be careful like normal. He was always home by 2 in the morning, but he was nowhere to be found. Every now and then, he would be out later, but he always send his loving wife a text saying he'd be home late.

(Y/n) had woken up at 3am to go coddle Ben, her and Peter's 6 month old baby, to find an empty bed beside her. Her heart rate picked up slightly as she quickly turned over and grabbed her phone from the nightstand. At first glance, she didn't see a text notification, so she went and double checked every way they communicated. The young woman was known for having a level head and not getting stressed out like many others did. At this situation, though, fear shot through her heart like a bullet, and stress overtook her.

She was about to call Peter but Ben let out a wail, and she was reminded that she needed to get him back to sleep before trying to find Pete. It's what he would want. Walking into Ben's small, red and blue nursery decorated with Spiderman decorations, (y/n)'s vision blurred with tears. She picked up Ben and placed him on her chest.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. Mommy’s here.”

After a few minutes of rocking him softly in her arms, he slowly fell asleep. (Y/n) gently placed him back down in the crib and quietly left the room, flicking off the light. When she closed the door, a terrible thought popped in her head.

'If something happened, it would be on tv, right?'

Running to the living room with light footsteps, she frantically grabbed the remote and turned on the Daily Bugle. JJ Jameson hated Peter, well, Spiderman, so if anything had happened to New York's resident web-slinger, he would surely be celebrating. To her relief, the headline was the average, "Spiderman: Hero or Menace," that was a constant with Jameson. She let out a shaky breath she didn't know she had been holding.

She started to pace around the room, thinking of what to do next. Whipping out her phone, she called Peter with a hopeful heart. With every ring that passed, her hope began to dissipate. When she got to his voicemail, dread washed over her.

"Hey, this is Peter Parker. I can't come to the phone right now, but just leave me a message and I'll get back with you sooner than you can say Spidey."

It warmed her heart to hear his soothing voice. With a deep breath, she waited for the beep.

"Hey, Pete. It's me. I'm worried sick about you. Where are you? Are you okay? I-Please, please, call me back when you get this, Peter. Ben and I love you. So much."

After calling 4 times and getting voicemail repeatedly, she sank into the couch with a strangled sigh. With everything going on in her mind, she let her composure go for once. So, (Y/n) Parker laid on the couch, crying into her husband's favorite sweatshirt, praying that he'd soon come through the window, and not found in some alleyway.

While his loving wife was crying back at home, Peter was wandering a city that looked like his New York, but was very different at the same time. There was crazy technology that he had never seen before, and as a nerd for all things science, he was obsessed. Swinging into an alleyway, he glanced behind him and saw something that topped the list of weird things he had seen that day: a sparkly circle who's inside looked like an apartment. When the people inside started calling his name, he was even more surprised.

As he walked towards it, he recognized one of the people he loved the most: (y/n). Walking through the portal, he pulled off his mask as he walked and engulfed who he thought was his (y/n) in a bone-crushing hug.

"Where's Ben?"

He should've realized that this was not his wife based on the reaction of her and the other people in the room. Her arms were rigid by her sides and the teenagers were yelling at him.

"Whoa, mister. You're not Peter."

"Yeah, I have a boyfriend," (y/n) started. "And who is Ben?"

Backing away slowly, he took in his surroundings. There were two teenagers, a grandma, and (y/n). As he also looked at her again, he realized that she too, was a teenager. His eyes widened at this, and memories of them together in high school flashed in his eyes. This was (y/n), but it was not his (y/n). The old woman screamed.

"Hi. Hi." he waved nervously. To his amusement, she threw a pillow at him. "No, no, no. It's okay. It's okay. I'm a nice guy."

"Who the hell are you?" asked a tall girl beside the dinner table.

"MJ! Be nice." (y/n) scolded, and Peter felt comforted by her voice, but also reminded him that she as home waiting for him, probably worried sick.

"(Y/n)! This guy shows up dressed like your boyfriend and our best friend, so I don't know how I'm supposed to be nice." MJ exclaimed.

Peter had to suppress a smirk that threatened to form on his face. (Y/n) and Spiderman were together in this world as well.

"It's okay. I'm Peter Parker."

Their heads whipped to each other with confused expressions before looking back at him.

"No way. Your not Peter."

"I'm Spiderman in my world. But then yesterday, I was...just here. Look, I have my wife and son that I need to get back to."

Their piercing looks softened at his confession. He was lost in a place that was familiar but foreign to him at the same time. (Y/n) was confused by his hug minutes earlier. She wondered why he acted like that if he had a wife at home. (Y/n) being blunt as she was, asked him about it.

"If you have a wife back home, why'd you flip out and hug me?"

The older man let out a chuckle at the similarities between the girl in front of him and the woman he came home to each day. "Funny story, actually. You're (y/n) (y/l/n)."

Her brows furrowed in confusion. "How do you know that?"

"Well, in my world, you're (y/n) Parker, my wife. You look exactly like she did when we started dating about 10 years ago." He says with a sheepish smile, rubbing the back of his neck.

She stared at him in thought, and he could see the gears turning in her mind. His smile widened when she began pacing around the room, a habit his (y/n) had too.

"Sting theory, multidimensional reality, and matter displacement. All real?" Peter asked with wide eyes at his realization.

"Yeah." they agreed.

Pumping his fist wildly, "I knew it! Just wait til' I tell (y/n/n)." he exclaimed.

They all looked at each other again, but this time, they looked surprised. "What did you call her?" The boy asked for the first time.

"Uhh, (y/n/n). Why?"

(Y/n) spoke up. "Because my Peter is the only one who calls me that."

~

Since his introduction to Ned, MJ, and this world's (y/n), he had met two other Peter Parkers that were also Spiderman. This world's Peter, labeled Peter 1, filled him and Peter 2, on what was going on and that a few of the villains they defeated were back.

Peter told the other two about Doc Connors and about the cure he had created for the man all those years ago. Before he knew it, they were in a lab, each working on something to save the man they were fighting for the second time. He glanced over and saw Peter 1 and (y/n) talking softly as she comfortingly rubbed his arm. A sweet smile grew on his face, and he turned back to his work, trying not to spy on their obviously private moment.

A few minutes later, Peter 1 walked up to him. "So I heard you're married to (y/n) in your world."

His smile widened at the thought of you. Dang, he missed (y/n)’s smiling face, even if he got to see it here too, but it wasn't the same. He also missed the way she'd hold Ben when he was crying, whispering sweet nothings into his ear.

"Yeah. She's the love of my life."

"Me too." he agreed, glancing over to his (y/n) across the room.

"It's worth it."

"What is?" He asked with a furrowed brow.

"All this. All the crap you have to go through being a hero. It's all worth it when you get to go home and see her smiling face when you walk through the door at the end of the day. When she's holding your child. It's all worth it."

The man didn't realize he had tears in his eyes until Ned wheeled over on a rolling stool, offering a tissue.

"Been keeping these closeby today." he said kindly.

Peter chuckled lightly, and pulled one out of the box. "Thanks, man."

~

The fighting was finally over, and as much as he enjoyed meeting the other Peter's, he was more than ready to be home. The Peters all shared a group hug before the foreign ones disappeared back to their dimensions with a smile. In the blink of an eye, Peter was back in his New York. With breakneck speed, he swung across the city to his and (y/n)'s apartment. Quietly sliding open the window and crawling in, his heart broke at the sight before him.

(Y/n) was asleep, sitting on the floor beside the window with tear-stained cheeks. He pulled out his phone, which was finally working, and checked his messages and the date. It had been a day and a half since he had disappeared. He also had 20 missed calls and texts from her. Cursing softly, he went to pick her up and carry her to their bed, but was cut off by the beginnings of a cry from Ben.

Opening Ben's door, he smiled at the face of his baby boy. He had (y/n)’s (y/h/c) hair, but other than that, he looked like a carbon copy of Peter. He picked him up and sat in the rocking chair in the corner rubbing his back soothingly, trying to coax him back to sleep.

"It's alright, buddy. Daddy's here." he cooed.

This was all he ever wanted in life, and he hoped that the youngest Peter would get it, too. Having an amazing wife and child was the best thing that ever happened to him; 100 times better than becoming Spiderman. If he had to choose, he would easily choose (y/n) and Ben.

Before long, Ben had fallen back asleep and Peter placed him back in his crib, ready to be with his wife. Walking back into their room, she was in the exact same position as before. He picked her up bridal style, careful not to wake her, and placed her in their bed. Quickly taking off his suit, he changed into some comfortable shorts, and slid into bed beside her.

She subconsciously snuggled up to his chest, making his heart melt. He put his arms around her and pulled her closer to him, pulling the covers over them. The motion caused (y/n) to stir and open her eyes slightly.

"Peter?" She asked sleepily.

"Yeah, it's me."

Still half asleep, she peered up at him, rubbing his bruised cheek with her soft hand. Tears filled her eyes.

"I was so worried," she whispered. "I thought something happened to you...where were you, Peter?"

Placing his hand over her's, he replied. "I'm okay. I'll explain everything in the morning."

Her eyes began to flutter shut, and he could tell how exhausted she looked as she slurred, "'kay. love you."

"I love you, too, sweetheart."

But when one has found their muse, the pen glides easily on the paper.

There had always been speculation about who could be the subject of your songs. Most believed your boyfriends of the time, then your then-husband, gave you inspiration. It was not the case. But you were not willing to admit it to the world. That was a secret you would bring to your tomb.

Or so you thought.

You underestimated your friend's blabbermouth.

You were sitting on the couch, your legs folded beneath you as you tossed a few chips in your mouth. The TV was set on a music channel owned by a radio station that occasionally broadcast interviews. Your long-time friend--Penelope or Penny, for short--who also happened to be a journalist, would often host shows and interviews that would be live broadcast on TV.

The music video of Destiny's Child's song, which you had a writing credit on, ended and faded into a shot of a radio booth. This time, Michael Jackson was a guest on the show to speak about his album, Invincible, which had just been released a few days prior. A pure delight to the ears, might you add.

Michael was always so well groomed, with a nicely tailored suit and a crystal-encrusted brooch clipped right at the collar. His silky hair, with a gracious wave to it, fell loosely on his shoulders, wisping so charmingly. He was as beautiful as the first time you had met him, back in 1982. His sparkling doe eyes and his stunning smile remained the same despite what the media claimed. His voice was akin to that of an angel, blessed by the gods, and his personality was so endearing. Michael was heaven-sent, a kind of beauty and benevolent heart seen only once every few centuries.

The first half of the interview was the typical kind. Michael spoke of the story behind the song, how it came to life, his collaboration with Darkchild, how he produced it and layered the instrumentals, and how fun it was to have Chris Tucker do the intro for You Rock My World. Then, the fun part of the interview began. The silly questions about his interests, about his favorite characters or artists he liked to listen to, a few questions about his children, and such and such. Very innocent, very funny. Michael was clearly enjoying the moment, which was a feat, given all knew of his dislike for the media.

It was then that it went downhill. Not for him.

But for you.

"There is this myth, so to speak, that every artist has a muse," Penny said. "Do you have one?" "I don't have a muse, no," Michael refuted. "Or rather, life itself is my muse. I find inspiration in everything." "Well, I'm sure you're the muse of a bunch of people. Is there any song written about you that you like?"

He let out a shy laugh, the kind that never failed to make your heart miss a beat. It sounded so melodious.

"No, I don't think people write songs about me," he replied.

Penny frowned, looking at him dead in the eyes.

"Michael, most of the songs you've heard today are literally about you."

Your heart dropped.

"Dangerously In Love and Perfect Man by Destiny's Child, Mariah Carey's My All and Dreamlover, Britney Spears's Baby One More Time, even Eternal Flame by The Bangles is about you."

Michael looked at Penny, utterly confused, or perhaps as if she were crazy, because he would surely know if these songs were about him, right? There was no way all the women she had listed had ever been infatuated with him. Especially The Bangles. Eternal Flame was a song from the late 80s!

"But those songs--" "Were written by my friend (Y/N)," Penny said.

The colors drained from your face. The bags of chips fell onto your lap as you sat up straight, completely mortified.

"That woman is absolutely captivated by you," Penny continued. "She has an entire catalog of songs and demos about you. All the greatest hits she wrote in the 80s--Madonna and Whitney's songs, and that Top Gun song were all about you too."

"No..." you muttered. "No, no, no, no, no, please, no... what are you doing...?"

"Wait, I think I have a photograph of her somewhere."

You let out a high-pitched scream of pure horror as Penny pulled out a picture of you and handed it to Michael. It was as if she had planned this from the very beginning.

Your hands clutched a death grip on your curls, watching, utterly horrified, as Michael's lips stretched into a smile, his head cocking to the side and his eyes slightly squinting while he examined that photograph of you--one taken at the VMAs of the previous year. You had been invited as you had writing credits on several nominated songs.

But it kept getting worse.

"I also have one of her demos-- would you like to hear it?" Penny asked.

You sprang up from the couch, the bag of chips falling to the floor, scattering slices of fried potatoes everywhere.

"No!" You exclaimed, both your hands held out as if sending imaginary vibes that would get Penny to finally shut the fuck up and move on.

But she did not.

"I'd love to," Michael replied with the biggest smile. "Alright, this one is called Morning Dew; it's her most recent work." She reached for the console. "And of course, you inspired it too. You're her muse. I think she got the idea after listening to your song Break of Dawn."

You let out a scream as she played the demo, praying to heaven it was just a nightmare you would wake up from. But the smile on Michael's face kept growing as he bopped his head to the rhythm. The yearning in your voice was so apparent to all, barely hidden and on full display.

Out of all the songs you asked for her opinions on, she had to play this one. The only one where you played with double entendres. The only one about morning sex. Of all the songs, she had to choose this one! Yes, it could be considered a response to Break of Dawn--the woman's point of view, in a way--but it was so damn embarrassing you wished you could just die on the spot.

Michael's bit his lower lip. "I love this. She has such a beautiful voice. Has she released anything?" "No." Penny shook her head. "She prefers having a pen in her hand rather than a mic." "I'd love to meet her. Can I ask--"

You could barely comprehend anything that was being said. You watched Michael, the man you'd been so enthralled with for over twenty hears ask so many questions about you with such sheer curiosity as your friend kept answering each and every one of them.

So you rushed to the CRT TV.

"No!" You grabbed the screen and shook it, though it barely moved. "Shut up! Stop talking! Stop talking! Shut up!"

You kept screaming, shaking the TV as if she would somehow hear you or feel your distress from the camera, but she did not. Penny kept speaking, Michael kept asking questions about you, and she kept answering.

What kind of generational bad luck was this? You thought you'd get away with this, and the universe pulled one hell of a Uno reverse card. Karma just bitch slapped you full force and kept beating you down despite you having already waved the white flag. Having your infatuation and admiration aired like this to the very man you were infatuated with and admired, and in front of the whole damn world... that was a kind of embarrassment seen in movies only, and yet it happened to you. How were you supposed to recover from this?

All you could do was watch, hopeless, already knowing what the next day's tabloids' front pages would be like, or hear your phone ring every two minutes as all your industry friends and family, possibly even your ex-husband, would spam call you asking if it were all true.

You fell to your knees, nearly pulling your hair out as you mumbled in despair before grabbing a pillow and muffling a scream into it, then throwing it across the room. It bounced against the balcony's glass door and fell to the floor.

"Fuuuuuck!" You shouted, punching and kicking in the air in pure and killing shame. "This is so fucking embarrassing!"

You wallowed in self-pity, coming up with different ways to leave the country and disappear from the face of the earth, becoming one of the biggest unresolved mysteries for the generations to come. Maybe it was time for retirement. It may be too young, since you were just reaching forty years of age in two years, but you had had a fruitful career, your fair share of fun, and enough money and royalties to live comfortably for the rest of your life. It would not be that bad.

It was only when the interview was over that you got up from the floor. Some rock music was now playing, but you snatched your flip phone from the coffee table and dialed Penny's number.

The line opened after the second beep. "Girl, guess what--"

"What the fuck is wrong with you?!" You exclaimed.

"Damn, what happened to 'hello, how are you?'"

"Why would you tell Michael Jackson that the songs I wrote were about him?!" You continued, completely ignoring her. "Have you lost your fucking mind?! And why would you play this demo out of all the ones I sent you?!"

"Babe, I was lending you a hand. He's so curious about you now."

"A hand? You literally exposed me to the whole fucking world! What kind of hand is this?!"

"Don't you think you're being a little dramatic?"

"Dramatic? I'm being dramatic?" You repeated in disbelief. "You've just told Michael Jackson I've had the fattest crush on him for years and backed it up with fucking evidence! On a fucking radio broadcast that the whole world can fucking listen to!" As if the reality of the situation finally sank in, you fell back down to the floor. "Oh my God... I'm never living this down..."

"Doll, he wants to meet you." You heard ruffling on the other line, as if she were looking around. "He's still here--"

"Don't you dare pass him the damn phone," you warned, nearly feeling murderous. "Or my number, for that matter."

"That's, like, the dumbest thing I've ever heard. This might be your only chance to meet him, and you want to let it pass?"

"Yes. Exactly. You know why? Because I'm going to fucking exile. There's no way Imma show my face in the industry ever again after this. I'm moving to the most remote place where nobody fucking knows me."

Penny laughed. "Now, you're being a drama queen."

"No, I'm protecting the last pieces of dignity I have left because you've DESTROYED THE REST!"

"Ok, geez, I'm sorry," she said with a giggle. "But just so you know, he really wants to meet you."

"Tell him I died." And you hung up the phone.

You let out a sigh. Perhaps you were indeed being dramatic, or perhaps it was a valid reaction to having your business aired without your prior consent. You knew Penny only thought she was helping you, and it did move you that she was always willing to take any opportunity to uplift you.

She was the kind of friend who would go up to a guy at the club and say, 'My friend over there likes you.' She would always do the things you never dared to. And though it helped you sometimes, this was Michael fucking Jackson on a damn live broadcast. In a club, it was fine. You were most likely never going to ever meet that guy. But you were bound to cross paths with Michael in the future, and now people will remember that damn interview for years and years and years to come. This has become your legacy that people will never stop bringing up.

You screamed again through gritted teeth. You were so done for.

As expected, you made the headlines the next day, and your phone nearly shut down, burning up from all the calls from people trying to figure out whether it was true or if the media were back at it again with their lies. Whitney kept teasing you; Quincy said he always had a feeling you had a secret muse; literally everyone called you, including Jermaine. Fans tried to get hold of you, and so did the paparazzi.

You were someone very discreet, with little known about your private life, but suddenly some old, silly stories about you resurfaced as the world dissected every song you ever wrote and tried to figure out when you could have ever met Michael. Or even just comprehend how it was only revealed two decades later that he was your muse. Some reporter even went as far as trying to interview your ex-boyfriends and ex-husband about it.

So naturally, naturally, the only thing left to do was avoid Michael like the plague. You limited your public appearances, nearly going M.I.A, and instructed all your close ones to never share your private number. But you knew he had possibly found it; he was Michael Jackson after all. But you never answered unknown IDs, and never answered his team's emails.

Perhaps it was childish and immature. It probably was. It definitely was. But you could simply not face him. Not because he was Michael Jackson, but simply because a piece of your heart had been laid bare to him--to the whole world--without you ever preparing for that. Without you even wanting it. That vulnerability you had protected so closely was left defenceless. These feelings you had kept private for so long were now discussed and dissected by outsiders. People you did not want had invaded your space. And you simply did not know what to do.

So you managed to keep a distance. And it lasted for two months.

Until the 2002 American Music Awards on January 9.

You knew this year would be different. You had yet again been credited on several songs that were nominated, so you would have gotten an invitation regardless. But you also were well aware that that damn interview played a part in the increased scrutiny around you.

The sounds of your heels were muffled against the red carpet, as the silver belts around your hips clanked with each step you took, your long jumbo twists waving in your back. It matched the bustier corset that added elegance to the casual air your jeans gave. It contrasted against your brown complexion, toning with the bangles and gorget-like necklace. You posed in front of the photo call, ignoring the questions the paparazzi shouted, then followed an usher into the Shrine Auditorium of Los Angeles.

Inside the venue, you sat beside Penny.

"I've been meaning to ask." She leaned toward you and muttered, "You co-wrote Apple Pie À La Mode, too, right? Was this one also about Michael?"

You beamed her an innocent smile. "Please, kindly shut up."

She only laughed.

But the answer was yes. Obviously.

The ceremony began, and you vibed to some of the songs, sometimes gossiping with Penny whenever the camera was aimed at the opposite side of your section. Then the first awards were handed out; some winners were surprising, and some others were not. Eventually, you slipped away from the hall to prepare backstage to announce the next category.

One of the hosts introduced you, and you walked the stage under the warm spotlights and cheers of the audience. At the lectern, you recited your lines before the nominees were introduced with snippets of their songs. Once done, the camera panned to you again.

"And the winner for Favorite Pop/Rock Album is." You opened the letter and beamed a radiant smile, your eyes squinting in joy. "Survivor by Destiny's Child!"

A roar of cheers erupted throughout the venue as the girls walked up to the stage. You handed them the award and hugged them all, who also thanked you for participating in the making of the album. You took several steps back to allow them the stage to say their thank-yous.

And then you let your eyes wander on the crowd.

You shouldn't have.

Your body went still when your gaze crossed that of Michael's. He was sitting in the front row, his eyes already on you. His head was tilted, his hair falling to one side as his lips were stretched into a discreet smile. Per his brand, he sported a sparkling white jacket, defining his silhouette.

You swallowed and immediately averted your eyes. You kept your gaze fixed on the black floor, your palms getting sweaty. Like a statue displayed in a museum, you hardly moved. You knew he would be in attendance, and you hoped you had prepared for it. But there was just no way you could ever forget the context behind all the spectacle around you now.

Relief took over when Destiny's Child kept their speech short, and you recovered your seat on the opposite side of Michael's section. When the ceremony ended, you wanted to return home at once. And you would have had Penny not drag you to an after-party.

At first, you enjoyed it. You talked with several friends and conversed with the artists you had worked with. And for a time, for a minute, you were able to truly enjoy the moment and not feel the curious eyes around you. Not feel as if anyone wanted to get the good gossip, the sweet tea.

But then he walked in.

And your eyes met his again.

And there was just no way you would stay.

So you quietly slipped away from the gathering and went to retrieve your purse and coat. The staff gave it back to you, but you could not even take a step when a voice spoke.

"Are you running away from me?"

You froze.

The soft-spoken tone mingled with a hint of playfulness.

You took a sharp breath and slowly turned around, facing Michael, who was already looking at you with amusement. His hands were clasped behind his back, and his head tilted with that impishness glimmering in his pupils.

"I'm starting to really get offended," he said, teasing.

You beamed an easy smile.

"Why would you think that?" Your voice a little too high. "I'm just a very busy woman, and I'm currently working with a bunch of artists simultaneously, and I got this amazing surge of inspiration, so I gotta work on it before it disappears and I forget. So yeah." You cleared your throat. "I'm sure you know what I mean; you're such an amazing artist with amazing ethics, so..."

The delight in Michael's eyes shone even brighter at your poor attempt at an excuse.

"I do, yeah." He closed the distance between the two of you, standing just a few steps away. "So it has nothing to do with me, right?"

You shook your head. "Nothing at all."

"Great, I'm relieved. Because it's been awfully hard to contact you. I really hope that interview a few months ago isn't the cause."

You choked on nothing, which made him softly laugh. He was truly enjoying every second of your state of fluster.

"What, uh, what interview?" You played dumb.

Michael giggled again, but decided to end the torture.

"I really love your songs, you know," he said, truthfully. "I'm truly a big fan. Have been for a while."

You fidgeted with your clutch purse. "It's... thank you, it really means a lot."

"No, I should be the one to thank you." You frowned, confused. He added, "That’s actually why I wanted to meet you."

"Why?" you asked.

"I was really flattered when I found out these songs were about me." Michael looked down a moment, a few strands of his hair curtaining his eyes. But you could see the glint of sadness in them. "I thought I'd never had any song written about me. Songs with... so much love and sincerity. I thought... I don't know, I wasn't really desirable. That I wasn't the type women were attracted to. But then I hear your songs, I read the lyrics you wrote, and it makes me feel loved. Seen, in a way." He looked at you, genuinely. "So thank you."

Michael's life had not been easy; you knew that. You truly realized it when you heard him say one day that offering a piece of one's heart meant more than all the wealth in the world. He had everything. The wealth, the fame, the property, the artistry, the talent. But he lacked one thing. A human bond. Real relationships. Someone to trust and understand. Someone to love and rely on.

This was the one thing that always failed in his life. Because the people he trusted always betrayed him in the end. That loneliness--you could sense it whenever you'd see him. That smile as if convincing himself everything was so perfect, while he lacked the things that he yearned for the most. The thing he had been searching for since forever.

Perhaps it was the reason Michael was your muse. Perhaps it was the reason you wrote these songs about him. Perhaps it was because you saw yourself in him. Because you had never truly felt fulfilled, searching for that great, deep love of a lifetime. Hopeless romance.

"Well, for what it's worth," you said timidly. "You're very easy to love."

It was a simple statement, something said so innocently, and yet it reached right to Michael's heart. Right to his soul. For a long time, he believed that, perhaps, he was the problem. That something was wrong with him. But there was none. And you were the proof of that.

"May I ask you how it started?" He gently asked.

A blush crept up to your cheeks. "It was at some after-party in 1983; you probably don't remember."

Michael mused a second, then his eyes lit up.

"The Motown 25 after-party?" Your eyes widened, and he smiled. "Yeah, I remember. The only time we met, right? You were in a champagne gown, I think."

The first and only time the two of you talked, yes. You were twenty, and he was twenty-five. You remembered it like it was yesterday. You were lucky enough to get a ticket to attend the show, and your mentor, who worked at Motown and who taught you everything about producing, invited you to the after-party. And it was impossible not to look at Michael. Like a prince, he stood under the soft lights.

"Um, yes. Yes, that's the one I was referring to," you said, coming back to your senses. "My heel broke, and you helped me out. You even massaged my ankle to make sure I wasn't hurt and got your security to drive me home safely. I already knew of your kindness back then, but... that night, I don't know, I got inspired. And, well, I hope it doesn't sound weird, but the cologne you wore back then was very soothing."

It was quite surprising to Michael that such a small act of kindness had such an impact on you, but given the fact that he still remembered that night clearly because you were pretty, he was not one to talk. He recalled how his eyes would often find you in the crowd, detailing your curly hair and sparkling gown that hugged the curves of your body gracefully.

But the very fact that you remember that gesture he did without much thinking also speaks a lot about you. You valued the little things in life that people thought were insignificant. You had a sensitive heart just like him.

And perhaps Michael should have given this moment more importance back then.

Because, for the first time, he finally felt it deep within him. That bond he had been searching for all his life.

To say Michael did not know you would be a lie. Of course, he knew of you. Of course, he knew of your amazing pen game. And it would be another lie to say he had not wanted to work with you in the past, but it never fell through. But back then, he was too infatuated with women who barely looked at him. He was too blinded to notice you. But perhaps he should have fought harder for that collaboration, because seeing the person that you are, he regretted not meeting you sooner.

But perhaps it was meant to be. Some great loves arrived later in life.

Better late than never.

"Well, uh, I'll go now," you said.

"Wait." He reached out, but quickly retracted his hand. It was almost silly how flustered he suddenly felt, his heart beating maddly, his eyes flickering to you, then down to the floor, before darting back to you. "I'd like to take you to dinner. If that's okay?"

For a second, you forgot how to speak. Michael truly made you feel that young love, as if you were a teenager again experiencing a first love.

You smiled. "I'd love that very much."

Underneath your materialistic nature, you were the perfect lady for him. Albeit a lot younger than he would’ve usually gone for, not that he cared nowadays, but you were the embodiment of marriage material. You spoilt him with unconditional love and affection, showered him in praise and compliments that left him blushing, tended to his needs and wants whenever he so needed, respected his busy, demanding career, spent every minute at his side, supporting and sticking up for him, and never stopped loving him no matter what.

You were proud to be his woman — no matter what anyone had to say about you.

A week didn’t go by without the tabloids reporting on how you were a horrible girlfriend, irritating you further as it was hard to miss the humongous twenty-four carat gold Cartier engagement ring on your finger that literally blinded everyone who walked past you, and that you were dragging him down by being a spoiled brat.

They also didn’t know that Michael made you this way.

Before him you were a normal girl — you grew up in a traditional household, seemingly classic childhood, and didn’t have things handed to you on a silver platter. You understood you had to work for what you wanted, and that extravagant, expensive things didn’t come without effort.

It was only when you started dating Michael did he remind you that money actually did grow on trees in his eyes — and those paper notes in his wallet were at your fingertip whenever you so desired.

It all started on your twenty-fifth birthday — you had been seeing Michael for a mere few months at this point, and had been slowly integrated into his bustling lifestyle. You saw the money, the clothes, the antiques, the jewels, the cars — everything. It was a sight to see, the wealth that oozed from like it was natural, like how a billion-dollar net-worth was normal.

You had spent the evening at an extremely fancy restaurant, one that required a minimum of two years waiting time to get a table, one that Michael had obtained with a five minute phone call two days beforehand. He was Michael Jackson after all.

He had arranged, in the sweetest way a boyfriend could do, for all your family and friends to join you in the restaurant that had been booked out — leaving you with your loved ones, and very famous boyfriend, to have some much needed privacy. You all indulged in ridiculously overpriced, minuscule portioned food that, much to your dismay, tasted incredible — practically moaning with each bite.

It was only when dessert had been polished off, did the gifts begin to roll in. Your parents had bought you a gorgeous necklace, a locket, with a portrait of their wedding photo and your baby picture on each side — a heart-warming, sentimental present that had tears welling up in your eyes.

Your friends got you personal, hilarious yet fitting gifts that had a smile spread so wide across your face you were certain it was stuck there.

But, when it came to Michael’s gift, it took the cake.

He placed an item in front of you on the table, unable to his smile, as the words ‘Hermés’ embroidered into the cotton covering hit your eyes.

“No way, Michael.” You breathed, eyes practically bulging out of your head at the gift before you.

“Open it, baby.” He pressed, voice soft and calm was he awaited the excitable panic to arise.

Your hands trembled frantically as you tore the covering off, gasping loudly, as well as many others on the table, as a chic, white Birkin bag rest in your hands. The very one you’d mentioned to Michael you’d wanted your whole life, an item you knew you’d never have, but desired more than anything.

The loud scream-like squeal that left your mouth had Michael chuckling softly as you rose to your feet, jumping up and down in undeniable joy, hands flailing as the realisation hit you that the one physical item you had wanted in the whole world had been blessed upon you by your boyfriend of only six months.

You flew into Michael’s embrace, throwing your arms around his neck as you giggled delightfully into his ear, pulling back to litter kisses all over his grinning face.

“Happy Birthday, sweetheart.” He whispered, pressing a kiss to your cheek, as you flew back into your seat, gazing lovingly at the bag, feeling wrong to even be able to touch it, let alone carry it around.

It was from that moment Michael knew he had created a monster — watching as the glint in your eye, as you gazed at the present, grew stronger than any reaction you’d given to the previous presents. He could tell, by the look in your blown pupils, that this, this bag, that cost a fortune, that was just a drop in the ocean for him — meant more to you than the any personal, sentimental gift your loved ones had got you.

A bag — a fucking bag, meant more to you than a personalised present that had real meaning.

And when you got home that night, in a loved-up daze of excitement as you rode him into the mattress, all other gifts discarded downstairs, back arched into his touch as his cock slammed into you, did Michael feel the obsession with money begin to start by the way your eye kept catching the bag that rest upon the nightstand in the moonlight — needy whines of pleasure only increasing in octave at the moment you realised you needed more.

More of his cock, more of him, more of his money — you didn’t care. You just knew that Michael was yours, forever and always.

And Michael felt the exact same way. He knew you deserved this, that he wanted to spoil you rotten with this expensive lifestyle, not because he wanted to win over your love and loyalty — but because you already gave it beforehand without needing to be spoiled. You had shown irrevocable love and attention to him, despite his life, career and age, and never once faltered. You had been there, a constant reminder from the day he met you a year ago, to the moment he gifted you that bag, that you were always going to be the one to love him.

That’s when he decided he had to turn you into his little princess. One that was shocked when something was only $3,000, claiming that it was cheap, or refused to buy (let him buy) something that didn’t come from Dior or Chanel, or didn’t understand why you had no more room in your walk-in closet at your shared home after your thousandth shopping trip on his card this week.

You were truly spoiled tooth decayingly rotten.

But, you never let it ruin how you felt towards him.

He could’ve gone broke and you would still love him. Sure, you’d be fucking devastated as you now you were hooked on clearing out every department store every chance you got — but you knew he was the one for you. The one you wanted to marry, have children with, love forever and grow old with.

But, you were too far gone now.

Michael had marked his expensive taste into you forever — branding you into a materialistic diva who always needed his card or his cars. And he loved it — literally dying at any chance to spoil you, shower you in gifts and surprises that cost thousands each time, something he wouldn’t even notice coming out of his bank account, but something that would leave you smiling and squealing, kissing him all over.

He had built the perfect lady to spoil.

And the more you were drenched in expensive clothing, and jewellery, and sunglasses, and nails and a new blow-out each week, did you become just that little bit more ditsy.

Ditsy and unaware of how unbearably stunning you were — and how much of a brat you had become.

Everyone around you, including Michael, knew — they could sense it each time you’d have a conversation with him or talk about things that were such first-world problems, but meant so much to you. They would exchange glances, as Michael would just smile, glistening eyes hidden behind his infamous aviators, as you rambled on, pouting about how Armani didn’t have the $14,000 dress you wanted in stock, even after you told them you were marrying Michael Jackson.

They would see you, pouting and complaining about something totally unnecessary and borderline ridiculous, and then Michael, enabling the behaviour by apologising to you, kissing you with a smile, before getting Giorgio himself on the phone to demand the dress to his home within the next twenty-four hours or else he’d pull his credit card from file and threaten to never spend another cent there again if they upset his lady like that again.

They’d watch, utterly gobsmacked, as you’d purr praises into his ear as you kissed along his jawline, complete oblivious to the fact that other people were in the room and watching you press yourself up against him, whispering ‘Thank you, Mikey, I just need it so bad, ‘Love you so much.’

But, with being a spoiled brat came with its downsides.

The downside being your temper tantrums at your least favourite word.

No.

A downside that he thought was utterly hilarious and adorable each time your eyebrows would furrow in irritation with a pout on your face whenever he’d, once in a blue moon, say the word ‘No’ to you. A reaction he’d only brought upon himself with his incessant spoiling — but he didn’t care, he would just tease you back, tugging on your jutted out bottom lip, pressing a peck there before demanding you to behave or else he’d never spend another dollar on you again.

You both knew he was lying whenever he uttered those words — because you’d soon get your way.

But, these tantrums would make you into a real brat. Often acting up just to further your point or to piss him off deliberately, just so he could feel exactly how you felt right now.

Your latest had been after being told you couldn’t have a $150k Chandelier for a room you never even went into in your twelve bedroom mansion.

So, in retaliation, you’d either not speak to him for a few hours, caving in yourself in the end after you realised your silent treatment didn’t prevail, or refuse to drink the $50 cocktail you ordered when he’d take you out for dinner just to rub it in his face, or blast music throughout the house, a song with deliberate intent to wind him up.

Just like today — you had walked down stairs, rubbing your eyes from the tiredness that plagued you, yawning as you sauntered into the living area, where Michael resided with a few familiar producers, musical engineers, his manager and his close personal friend, Chris Tucker.

“Ah, there she is!” Chris spoke excitedly, “Speak of the devil, huh?”

Michael chuckled, peering behind him to meet your sleepy frame, lip coming between his teeth at the sight of you.

You were dressed, barely, in a Dolce & Gabbana lacy nightgown, one that left little to the imagination due to its short length and thin straps that were loose over your shoulders — a beautiful duck-egg grey that complimented your skin tone, a colour Michael loved on you. His eyes raked over you, a familiar seductive glint present in his pupils at your erect nipples poking through the satin filled his vision.

“What’s that supposed to mean, Christopher?” You sassed, eyebrows furrowing as you stared him down.

Chris laughed, “Damn, someone’s not a morning person, huh?” Michael returned the chuckle at the truth in his question, “We were talking about that Chandelier.”

Michael groaned, rolling his eyes with a playful smile, “Don’t get her started.”

You instantly burst into a smile, “Oh my God, isn’t just such a good idea!” You exclaimed, “It’s so pretty, like the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. I need it.”

“Baby, we don’t even go in the room you want it in.” Michael reminded, peering over at you as the room erupted into laughs.

“That’s beside the point.” You huffed, hands settling on your hips, “It’s pretty and I want it.”

You missed the way the room exchanged looks that said ‘Oh, wow’ in shock at your sassed firing back, as Michael just smiled at you.

“Do I not even get a good-morning kiss before you start demanding stuff this early, baby?”

Your face changed dramatically again, a soft grin tugging onto your face as you giggled, walking towards where he sat on the couch.

You bent down, completely unaware to how your nightdress rode up your backside, flashing the curve of your ass and your lacy panties to the men sat behind you, as you pressed a kiss to his lips. The only noise, in the uncomfortable silence only falling upon those not engaging in the lip-locking, was your happy hums into his mouth and the sound of lips connecting.

You rose once again, the room huffing out stabilising breaths as your behind was covered once more, again barely, smiling down at Michael, “So, can I have it now?”

“Still no, baby.”

And it started.

You frowned deeply, an even deeper pout forming on your face as your hands crossed over your chest, not noticing the way Michael licked his lips hungrily as your tits pressed up more into his view, as the tantrum began.

“Why?”

“Because it’s $150,000, angel, for something that will collect dust and never even be seen.” Michael spoke, voice still soft despite your attitude.

“It won’t collect dust, I’ll clean it.” You attempted to convince him, knowing that it was all lies.

Michael snorted, “Baby, I don’t think I’ve seen you clean a single inch of this house, let alone a Chandelier in the guest bedroom.”

You huffed, finding the other men’s laughter behind you taunting, “Fine, I’ll get Martha to clean it.”

Michael chuckled harder as you dragged the maid into your convincing, “I don’t particularly want her breaking her neck trying to get up there, honey.”

“Come on, Mikey, it’ll look so nice in there.” You whined, forcing your pout out further to push him to agree to your ridiculous request, “All the guests who stay in there will agree with me.”

“Baby, no one stays here. It’ll just go to waste.”

“Chris can stay, I’m sure you’d love waking up to a Chandlier, right, Chris?” You turned around, facing the laughing man who shot his hands into the air in surrender.

“Don’t drag me into this, girl.” He chuckled, shaking his head, “I’m with Mike on this one.”

You groaned, stomping your foot, clad in fluffy slippers, on the floor, “Michael.” You drawled out, voice a whiny beg.

“I said no, honey. Sorry, that’s final.”

You huffed loudly, grumbling under your breath, as Michael just smiled up at you. He was loving this — he absolutely adored riling you up, seeing you pout and get so irritated at him as you sassed him, just making him fall in love with you more.

“Fine, I’ll just go hang out in the kitchen where I’m actually wanted.” You shot back, words completely unreasonable and false as you acted out.

Michael breathed out a laugh, reaching for your hand, “Baby, you are wanted here. I just told you no and you don’t like it. Come on, give me a smile, pretty girl.”

“No.” You fired back, moving backwards to avoid his touch, believing only you were allowed to say the word, “Have fun without me, boys.”

Michael just shook his head, grinning deeply as you moved to storm away, hands still firmly pressed over your chest, “Hey, angel, will you grab me an OJ while you’re in there?”

“No Chandelier, no orange juice, Michael!” You shouted as you moved out of the room, disappearing into the kitchen and out of his view as the room burst into laughter once again.

You were truly a brat — and he adored it.

“Jesus, Mike, that lady of yours sure is something.” One of his engineers chuckled, still in disbelief at your ordeal.

Michael smiled, “She’s perfect.”

And he meant it — even when you were throwing your toys out of your pram like you were so hard done by, he loved you. He was utterly, crazily in love with you. He always treated you with the utmost adoration and respect — caring for and tending to you like you were a real queen, giving up everything to make you happy.

But, when you pushed him too far — you knew about it.

So, when a familiar 90’s tune began blasting from the kitchen, did Michael start to feel his patience wear thin.

His jaw clenched as the lyrics hit his ears, as well as your loud singing, that caused the men sat before him in the room to side-eye one another with cackles at your dig towards him.

No Scrubs by TLC.

A song directly dissing a broke, lazy boy who had the confidence of a King, but couldn’t afford anything for his woman and made himself look a fool.

You say particularly hard when the song sounded, ‘Always talkin’ bout what he wants, and just sits on his broke ass!’, directly aiming it towards your fiancé who twitched in irritation at your insinuation that he was anything but a provider for you.

“Oh shit.” Chris laughed, puffing out his cheeks as Michael kissed his teeth, choosing to let you have your fun.

He didn’t let it affect him too much, knowing that the lyrics were more fitting to you as you were the one who talked about all the things you wanted from him — but it wasn’t the last time you pushed him that day.

He had parted from the house, composing his frustration as you moved your face when he leant down to kiss you before he left for an important meeting, his lips landing on the corner of your mouth instead of where he intended.

He brushed it off, only giving you a pass as you reciprocated his words when he told you he loved you, as most times you’d give him the silent treatment, and went about his day.

But, alas, you didn’t let up.

He had been deep in important business — having a serious conversation about contracts, and expenses, and documents that needed to be signed, when you came storming past the large window that covered the conference room.

The room went silent as the sound of your voice, arguing with the office building receptionist, who trailed behind you, commanding you to stop walking and leave at once, rang through the room, muffled through the glass.

“Ma’am, that is a confidential meeting, you are not permitted to be in there.” The older lady demanded, pointing her finger at you harshly.

You scoffed, “Lady, I’m the wife.” Michael had chuckled at your false words as you wiggled your ring-clad finger, ignoring the way the businessmen in the room looked at him in confusion, “If I wanna talk to my man when he’s in a meeting, I can. Talk to the hand, girl.”

Michael laughed again at your childish response as you shoved a manicured hand in her face, ignoring the way she gasped as you pushed the door open.

“Hi, baby!” You exclaimed, smiling brightly as you shuffled into the room.

You were an oxymoron to the boring professionalism of the meeting where middle-aged men with greying beards in dark-coloured suits watched you in shock as you stood in the doorway — dressed head to toe in a pink D&G mini-dress, kitten heels on your pedicured feet, five large shopping bags in your right hand, and a baby-blue, bedazzled leash in your left, connected to your two-year-old Pomeranian puppy-dog who barked loudly, one he’d got for you on your one-year anniversary.

“Say hi to Daddy, LV!” You let the leash go from your grasp as the tiny dog ran towards Michael at the end of the table, jumping up at his leg as it continued to bark.

Michael, choosing to ignore the way everyone in the room looked utterly bewildered at what was occurring in front of them, picked up the small dog and cuddled it in his lap, letting the pup lick all over his face.

“Ugh, what a day I’ve had already, Mikey.” You started with a huff, setting your bags down in the large table that adorned majority of the room, unaware you’d just placed them on important documents right in front of a random man, before you continued with your rant, “The lady at Louis tried to kick me out because I brought LV in there.” You scoffed, rolling your eyes, “Even after I told her I named my baby boy after the store.”

It was true — you had legitimately named your dog after Louis Vuitton. Something that Michael thought was hilarious and adorable all in one each time you’d beckon the pet into the back garden to use the bathroom before bedtime.

“Sounds awful, honey.” Michael spoke softly, hands still pawing at the fluff-ball in his hands, “How much today?”

You peered down at the many bags splayed across the table as he nodded towards them, wondering how much of his net-worth had been drained today.

“Oh, not even that much, like $8k?” You smiled, “Found some self-restraint.”

Someone in the room scoffed, cutting through your conversation, all heads whipping towards the noise as the man scrunched his face up into disgust as he stared at you.

“You do realise we are in the middle of an extremely important meeting, right?” The man spoke, hands waving towards the men crowded round the table.

“Yeah, so?”

Michael couldn’t help but smile at your ignorant response — revelling in how ridiculously rude, yet hilarious, your interrupting prescene was. He thought it was blissful — you visiting him while he was working despite your morning.

But, he knew you had an ulterior motive.

You were deliberately embarrassing him — making an unnecessary scene just to make a fool of him. To piss him off just because he said no to you. That you travelled from the other end of town where the shopping mall was just to bombard his meeting.

He knew it was annoying you that he hadn’t snapped yet — that your hard work to rile him up wasn’t working. Yet. You still had a few tricks up your sleeve — one’s that would have him seething.

“Ma’am, I—“ “Anyways, baby, which one should I wear later?”

Michael’s jaw clenched tightly as you reached into one of your shopping bags and pulled out two sets of extremely promiscuous, laced lingerie sets — leaving nothing to the imagination as you held them up for the whole room to see.

One was red, with a garter belt you could wear around your thigh, with silk and lace decorating the rim of the panties and bra. The other was white, with pretty bows on the front of both items, and the panties were crotchless.

Michael sucked his lip between his teeth, shaking his head as you smirked evilly at him — you both had a silent understanding that you knew exactly what you were doing.

“I’m thinking the white,” You started, peering at it as you held it higher, “Easy access, y’know?”

You didn’t miss the way Michael’s eyes darkened as you giggled, feigning innocence, as the room plastered shocked expression on their faces at your audacity.

“Still a no, baby.”

You raised your eyebrows at his words, tongue rolling over your front teeth as you titled your head to the side, looking at him as if it were just the two of you in the room.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re referring to, Michael.” You fired back, a hand on your hip as you moved your head sassily.

“You do. And it’s still a no.”

Michael couldn’t help but feel a sense of success as you huffed in irritation, stomping that heeled foot once again, shoving the sets back into one of the bags and snatching the rest off the table quickly, letting papers fly to the floor, ignoring the way people groaned out loudly in frustration.

“Come to Mommy, LV,” You ordered, tapping your bare thigh as the little dog jumped from Michael’s lap to sit by your feet as you took the leash in your hand once again, “Daddy clearly doesn’t love Mommy as much as he says.”

Michael laughed, “Baby, c’mon now.”

“Whatever, Michael.” You spat, waving him away as you turned on your heel and stormed out of the room, heels clicking as the door slammed behind you, head held high as you flicked the sunglasses that rest upon your head back over your eyes, disappearing around the corner.

The room fell into awkward silence as the men exchanged disbelieving looks with one another until Michael let out a chuckle, still finding your out-break humorous.

“Let’s continue, shall we?”

Michael had assumed, in his ignorance, that maybe you would let this go soon enough — that you’d find something else, hopefully a little less expensive, to obsess over. Maybe he’d surprise you with new heels you could wear out with your bratty stomping, or a new bag you could smack him with whenever you fell into one of your adorable little moods that he loved.

But, no.

You weren’t giving up that easy — it was no fun getting glamorous things without a little challenge sometimes.

And Michael soon realised you weren’t letting this go when he slipped into the back of the black Mercedes that always transported him around, now late in the evening, sighing as he got comfortable in the seat, eyes hiding behind his aviators as people swarmed the car, raising a hand to wave with a smile to his delighted fans.

It was only when he looked down at the Nokia you had bought him for his birthday, one that he still had no idea how to use, and saw a notification that had him cursing under his breath and grinding his teeth in anger.

-$150,000 — New transaction from ‘R.H CHANDELIERS’ on American Express ending in 3398

Oh, you had really done it now.

When Michael pushed open the door to your home, ignoring the way it slammed against the wall from the sheer strength of his hands against it, you were no-where to be seen. Just a few handy-men who walked down the stairs, carrying empty boxes and bubble wrap, sighing in fatigue as they wiped sweat from their foreheads.

“Who are you?” Michael snapped, not even bothering to be jovial and pleasant as the two worn out men froze.

“I, uh, sorry, Mr Jackson, we just had a call to fit this new Chandelier, your fiancée said it was urgent.” One spoke up, voice cracking nervously at the look of rage in Michael’s face.

“Get out.”

They didn’t wait around — instantly rushing out the door and shutting it gently behind them, with trembling hands. Michael also didn’t skip a beat, striding up the stairs with long, rushed steps as he rushed across the house, straight to the guest bedroom.

However, when he pushed the door open, chest heaving, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

There was no Chandelier.

“Wrong room, jackass.”

Michael’s head snapped to his left, clenching his jaw at the sight of you stood in the doorway of the master bedroom where you and Michael resided the most, clad in the white lingerie set you had once attempted to embarrass him with, the heels you were wearing previously still on your feet as you stared at him, daringly.

“What did you just say to me?” Michael snapped, walking slowly towards you, clear anger spread across his face, only furthering his heightened emotions as you just smiled.

As he reached you, you slipped away from him inside the room, making sure to sway your hips the way you knew he loved, as you disappeared out of view. Michael followed you, cursing the betrayal of his lewd mind as his eyes fell to the curve of your bare ass, before walking straight into the room you had hidden in.

His breath caught in his throat at the sight.

You were now splayed across the bed on all fours, back arched, legs spread to display your glistening pussy through your crotchless panties, a seductive grin still tugged onto your lips. And above you — a breath-taking, bejewelled Chandelier, cladding 3,500 diamonds that twinkled in the sunrise through the large window behind you.

“Which is prettier?” You spoke lowly, never leaving his eyes as he undressed you with his eyes, the burning flame of fury never leaving his gaze.

Michael was scarily quiet as he sauntered slowly towards the edge of the bed — eyes dark and unreadable as he approached you silently. His jaw was still pressed into a tight clench when he reached you, forcing you to swallow thickly in anticipation.

“I told you no.”

The words hit deep in your chest as the insinuation of the concequence of your actions crept up your spine — the smile now dropping from your lips as you shuddered.

“‘M sorry, baby, but,” There it was, your argumentative tone as usual, “You said no to the guest room — not in here.” You sassed, sporting your usual pout

You gasped loudly, half-heartedly mixing with a moan, as Michael’s large palm connected with the bare of your left ass-cheek, sending shockwaves of anticipatory pleasure through your body.

“You never listen.” He started, rubbing soothing circles over the skin he had assaulted, “You’re so ungrateful.”

You whimpered at his harsh words, before squealing as another crack of his hand against your stinging cheek sounded into the room. Even despite the blinding pain with each brutal spank, your body betrayed you as your soaked cunt clenched around nothing, begging to be touched as the sexual tension ignited in the room.

“I’m really sorry, baby.” You mewled, tears springing to your ears as another smack landed on your swollen skin, “Just wanted it so badly.”

“And I wanted you to behave but you decided to be a fucking brat instead.”

You couldn’t suppress the moan that fell past your lips at the word, meant to be an insult, but sent shockwaves of arousal coursing through your veins, landing straight between your legs where you dripped.

Michael’s eyebrow twitched up his face at your reaction, a dangerous smile creeping up onto his face, “Oh? You like being called a brat, huh?” He started, fingers trailing down the skin of your inner thighs, “You like it when I call you out for being my fucking spoiled little princess?”

“Yes.” You cried out, hips jerking backwards as his fingers finally dragged along your clothed pussy lips, avoiding the opening where your cunt revealed itself to him, now drenched from your essence, “Please punish me, Daddy.”

Michael groaned — the sensuality of the nickname hitting him beneath his boxers where he too twitched, now the hardest he ever had been as you lurched back into his touch, whining with your lip tucked under your teeth.

It was only when he slid a finger through your spread folds, collecting your arousal on a singular digit, drowning in the way you whined his name like a prayer, hips now jolting involuntarily as you begged for his touch as his finger swirled around your clenching hole, did he finally smile. He teased you relentlessly, letting you cry out, tears now falling freely from your eyes as he refused to fill you with his fingers, watching as you writhed pathetically from one touch.

“Beg for it.” He commanded, dipping just the tip of his middle finger into your spasming cunt, smirk deepening as you whined loudly.

“Please, God, please, baby, I’ll be good. I’ll be so fucking good f’you—fuck!” You panted, streaming eyes locked on his eyes as you pleaded, “I’ll never disobey you again, Mikey, I promise. I’ll be such a good girl, forever, I swear.”

He hummed, satisfied with your response, pushing a singular finger inside you, vision locked on the way your back arched deeper as he curled his finger just the way you liked — a needy, theatrical moan leaving your test-stricken lips as you ground back onto his hand.

His free hand spread across your side, pulling you back down onto his fingers as he slid a second inside, rubbing tight circles into the curve of your hip-dips, as you fucked yourself back onto him. His name fell from your lips in a chant — eyes rolled to the back of your head in pleasure as the pads of his fingers repeatedly abused the sweet spot inside you that had you seeing stars.

“Need your cock!” You exclaimed, eyes now squeezed shut as the arousal thumped deep in your bones, wanting nothing more than to be filled by his manhood.

“Don’t think you’re in a position to be making demands, sweetheart.” Michael reminded, grip tightening on your hip.

“‘M sorry—mmgh—just need to f-feel you!”

He hated the way he felt his resolve wearing thin at your pitiful begging — cock throbbing violently in his briefs as your cunt clenched around him, your wetness dripping down his knuckles.

“Oh, God, don’t stop!” You cried out, head thrown back as your hair splayed across your back, “Fuck, I’m gonna cum!”

And as soon as your release threatened to spill over — it was snatched away from you as Michael retracted his fingers swiftly. You whined loudly, much like you had done in recent times, more tears splashing down your flushed cheeks as your head hung low as the blissful sensation of an orgasm fizzed away.

“You don’t get to cum.” Michael spoke darkly, the sound of his belt clinking against the floor mixing with his voice as he knelt against the bed, “Not until I say so.”

You nodded meekly, whimpering, “Yes, Michael.”

“Good girl. See? Not that hard, is it?” Michael praised, a hand coming to rub smooth, gentle circles on your ass cheek.

You gasped once more as the head of cock slid between your folds, catching on your aching clit, your muscles tensing as the familiar pleasureful sensation that was ripped away from you climbed back into your body. Your hips pushed back into him at the feeling — whining for more as he just stared down at you menacingly.

“Convince me why I should let you have it, baby.” Michael started, gliding his stiff cock between your folds, collecting your essence over the tip, revelling in the way you whined each time it would nudge your clit, “Why should I let my baby have what she wants all the time?”

“Fuck, please, Michael, please.”

Michael scoffed, “Gotta do better than that, sweetie.”

You cried out, hips jerking back to feel more of him, a desperate noise leaving you, “‘Cuz I love you so much, Mikey—fuck—‘cuz I’m so pretty and sweet and spend all your money on cute clothes that you l-love me wearing. ‘Cuz I wanna marry you and have your babies—oh, fuck me please!”

I mean, you weren’t wrong. If anything, it made Michael chuckle behind you — what you said was so correct yet so you at the same time he couldn’t help but let you have it. You cried out, hand clawing at the bedsheets beneath you as you fell into them, as Michael’s cock dragged to your entrance and slid inside — stuffing you to the hilt as he bottomed out immediately, your cunt twitching aggressively as it struggled to accommodate the fullness.

“So tight for me, baby, fuck.” Michael groaned, eyes fluttering at the sensation of your convulsing sex wrapped beautifully around his hard cock.

His thrusts were relentless from the get go — the first drag back and push in was harsh and brutal, slamming against your cervix each time. Your eyes were permanently rolled to the back of your head as you drooled, mouth hanging ajar as you jittered around him, the prettiest noises sounding from your lips with each jerk of his hips.

He was unsympathetic — fucking you like he hated you as he set a devilish pace, grunting behind you as pleasure consumed him, too. Your hands frantically flailed behind you, pushing against his flexed abdomen to shove him away, his impressive stamina getting the better of you as he stretched you open — but it did nothing, only spurring him on to fuck you senseless for your teasing and childishness.

“‘Can’t—Can’t take it, It’s too big!”

Michael landed another harsh slap to your ass cheek, “You can and you will. You owe it to me, baby, for being such a fucking brat.”

His words elicited a pounding throb to your clit — your whines only increasing in octave and decibel as his pace remained unceasing. Michael noticed the way you clenched, begging for more as you sucked him in, and leant over to grab a fistful of your hair — dragging you firmly, albeit still gently, up against his chest.

You panted as your head threw back against his shoulder, eyes still slammed shut, as his thrusts never let up — pleasure surpassing what you had ever felt as his hand slithered down your strained body, and began rolling tight, precise circles onto your clit, slick coating his fingers once more.

“Look at that stupid thing, baby.” Michael ordered, your eyes pouncing open, the ethereal bedroom decoration filling your vision, “Think those diamonds can see how much of a pathetic little princess you are?”

“I’m not—Not pathetic.” You managed to blurt out, whimpers falling past your lips the second sentence left you.

“Quit your bitching.”

Michael soon shut you up, shoving his free hand of fingers down your throat — the taste of your essence landing on your tongue as you hummed and swirled the warm muscle around him, now plugged at both ends as his other hand still worked magic against your clit, the familiar sensation of your release creeping up your spine.

“I’m there!” You mumbled against his fingers, spit coating his digits as you slobbered over him.

“Yeah? I’m there too, pretty, give it to me. Give Daddy what he wants for once.” Michael panted, breath hot against your ear, “Gonna fill this pussy so good you’ll want nothing else from me ever again.”

You cried out — loud enough so that everyone in the house could hear exactly how blissfully pleasured you were as your orgasm hit you full force. You writhed in his grasp, the hand stuffed into your mouth now grabbing a handful of your breast, toying with your erect nipple through the lace of your bra as he continued to not only plough deep into your convulsing cunt, but also play with your swollen clit. You chanted his name like a prayer as he soon found his release, groaning as he sunk his teeth gently into the bare of your shoulder to ground himself as his hips finally stuttered, burying himself as deep as he could reach — his warm, spurting cum flooding your spent pussy.

Michael, despite your whines of overstimulation, rolled lazily, deep thrusts inside you — ignoring his own overwhelm as he fucked seed further inside you, before pressing a soft, loving kiss to where his teeth marks con-caved into your skin.

When he pulled out, hissing at the sensation, you fell forward onto the bed, panting as you attempted to retrieve your breath — cheeks now red hot, and body aching from the relentless sex. Michael crashed next to you, sighing loudly, as he pulled you against his chest, until the only sound that filled the room was his thumping heartbeat in your ear, and soft, yet ragged breaths.

“You.”

“What?”

“You’re prettier.” He admitted, eyes meeting your dazed ones, both of your lips tugging into a smile.

You leant up — connecting your lips in a gentle kiss, displaying your deep, irrevocable adoration for your man, mouths moving slowly together. You pulled away, brushing a stand of his silky hair away from his face, cupping his cheek, before pecking the tip of his nose.

“Does that mean it can stay?”

Michael laughed — even after everything, you were still set on that damn Chandelier.

“Fine,” He breathed out a chuckle, kissing to your cheek as you both peered up at the glistening decoration that had caused your playful disagreement,

“It can stay.”

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

“Good morning baby.” You hummed as you padded barefoot into the kitchen, a shirtless Steve turned to you, setting down his newspaper and placing a warm hand on your waist.

“Happy Father’s Day.” You whispered against his lips as you pressed a sweet kiss against them.

“Huh?” Steve muttered, pulling back to see your face, you had to hold in your laughter at the confusion written all over his face. “But… you’re not? Wait… Are you?” He asked, eyes wide as his hands smoothed over your waist, glancing down to your stomach.

“No, I’m not pregnant.” You laughed, grabbing his wrists. “Yet.” You added, raising an eyebrow at Steve, who still looked confused. It’s like his brain short-circuited. His mouth opened, then closed again like a fish.

“Steve. I’m ready to have a baby.” You explained with another laugh.

He seemed to catch on then, you watched as about five different emotions flashed behind his eyes, shock, disbelief, awe, slight panic before settling on something close to unadulterated need.

Then suddenly, he kissed you. Hard.

One hand slid up into your hair while the other pressed firmly against your waist as he backed you against the kitchen counter, you gasped softly at the intensity, your hands instinctively finding their way around his neck, tugging at the soft curls that lay there.

The kiss was deep and hungry, Steve’s lips moving against yours with a desperate kind of desire, tongues fighting for dominance, his hands touching you wherever he could reach.

When he finally broke away for air, his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing fast.

“Holy shit,” he breathed out in a laugh that shook through him. His hands came down to rest on your waist, rubbing soothing circles over the fabric of your shirt.

“Need you baby.” You breathed as your arched into him, and Steve didn’t hesitate in picking you up, his hands firmly on your hips.

You wrapped your legs around his waist and pressed opened mouth kisses against his jaw as he carried you upstairs.

He kicked the bedroom door shut behind him, his mouth crashing back onto yours as he gently laid you down on the bed. His hands were everywhere, your face, your hair, sliding under your shirt to trace warm fingertips along your skin, eventually pulling it over your head.

Steve hovered over you for a second, just drinking in the sight of your bare skin under morning sunlight filtering through the curtains. Then he kissed down your neck, soft at first, then with more pressure when you tilted your head to give him better access. His hands mapped every curve like he was memorizing it all over again.

“God, you’re perfect,” he murmured against your collarbone before dragging his teeth over the same spot. One hand slid up to cup your breast while the other traced slow circles on your hip, teasing, worshiping. “Gonna make you feel so good.” He hummed.

A low groan vibrated against your skin as you arched into his touch. His mouth circled your nipple, biting down just enough to make you gasp, then soothed it with a slow drag of his tongue.

“Steve…” Your voice came out breathy, your fingers tangling in his hair as he switched to the other breast, lavishing it with the same attention. His free hand slid down between you two, fingertips brushing over where you needed him most through the thin fabric of your shorts.

He chuckled darkly at your gasp, pressing his palm firmly against you before sliding his fingers under the waistband of your shorts, a shit eating grin spreading across his face as he felt how soaked you were already.

“So wet already, this all for me baby?” he teased in that stupid sexy voice of his, kissing back up your body while his fingers teased you through your underwear.

“Fuck, Steve.” Your hips jerked up into his touch as he rubbed slow circles over the damp fabric. He smirked against your skin when you whimpered his name again, dragging out the torture by pulling back just enough to watch you squirm.

“Say it,” he demanded in a low growl, pressing harder with two fingers now while his thumb worked tight little circles right where you needed it most.

“Tell me who’s got you like this.”

“Y-you,” you gasped out, back arching off the bed as your hands fisted in the sheets beside your head, knuckles turning white from how badly you were gripping them.

“Only you…” You breathed, rolling your hips into his hand, desperate for more friction.

“Hmm… Good girl.” He groaned, finally pulling your shorts and underwear down your legs, throwing them somewhere across the room. His mouth was back on you in an instant, pressing hot kisses against the inside of your knee, thighs and hips.

“Please baby… stop teas- oh.” Your voice cracked with a moan as Steve finally dragged his tongue through you in one slow, filthy lick. His hands gripped your hips hard to keep you still as he took his sweet time tasting every inch of you like a man starved.

“Tastes so fucking good,” he muttered against you, Steve wasted no time after that, diving back in with hungry enthusiasm. His tongue circled your clit before sucking gently, one hand slipped up to pinch and roll your nipple while the other held you down against the mattress.

Your thighs trembled on either side of his head, toes curling as pleasure shot through you like lightning. Every flick of his tongue, every suck sent sparks behind your eyelids, you were seeing stars already.

“Steve!” You cried out when he added two fingers inside you suddenly, curling them just right while keeping that perfect pressure on your clit with his mouth. “Mm baby.” Your words dissolved into another moan as your face scrunched up in pleasure.

His mouth and hand working magic between your thighs while his fingers toyed with your breast, sent shockwaves of pleasure through you. You writhed beneath him, moaning louder than intended, your own hand flying up to cover your mouth in an attempt to muffle the sounds spilling out of you.

“Nuh uh.” Steve growled against you, prying your hand away from your mouth and pining it next to you on the mattress. “Wanna hear you. Fuck, gonna make me come just from those pretty sounds.” He explained never lifting his head.

“Don’t… I need your come.” You purred, sitting up on your elbow to watch Steve. You freed your pinned hand, raking it through his hair, curling your fingers just as his did inside you.

Steve groaned, the sound vibrating through you. His hips jerked forward involuntarily at your words, already hard and aching in his sweatpants.

“Don’t worry baby, this pretty pussy’s gonna be full of it when were done.” He pulled away to say, looking up at you through his unfairly long eyelashes before diving back in. You whined at his words, wrapping your legs around his shoulders as you leaned back, completely surrendering to the pleasure.

“That’s it, just like that.” You praised as your thighs started to shake. His fingers curled deeper as his tongue pressed harder against you, the room was filled with the sound of wet kisses, your moans and Steve’s occasional groan when you tugged his hair just right. The tension was building fast, the familiar heat pooling in your stomach.

Steve’s name spilled from your lips in a breathy cry as you came, his tongue never stopping, lapping up every drop like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted. His fingers slowed through your orgasm while he pressed lazy kisses against your clit.

“Fuckin’ perfect.” He muttered when he finally came up for air, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes were dark and hooded as they raked over your spent body, watching you with that stupid smug grin of his.

Steve climbed up your body, capturing your lips in a deep kiss so you could taste yourself on him. His hard length pressed against your thigh through his sweats as he settled over you, your hand already working to undo the drawstring.

“Off.” You demanded before biting down on his bottom lip, swallowing the groan that tore from his throat. You pulled at the waistband of his sweatpants and Steve didn’t hesitate before he stood up.

“Yes ma’am.” Steve chuckled, shoving his sweatpants and boxers down in one motion. His cock sprang free, hard and leaking already. He kicked them off somewhere before moving to sit next to you, his back against the headboard. “C’mere.” He muttered, grabbing your hips and pulling you on top of him.

You straddled him, feeling his cock twitch against your bare core. Steve’s hands immediately found your ass. His mouth crashed onto yours again, kissing you messily while grinding up against your core. You lifted your hips, letting Steve guide himself right where both of you wanted it without breaking the kiss.

You hissed and Steve groaned into your mouth, his head falling back against the headboard as you took him inch by slow inch, his hands gripping the curve of your ass to hold you down onto him, letting you get used to the sheer size of him. No matter how many times you had been together, Steve still manages to stretch you open.

“Fuck, Baby” Steve gritted out between clenched teeth, his abs flexing as he fought the urge to buck up into you. His hands slid from your ass to your waist, thumbs brushing over the skin just under your breasts while he watched you with hooded eyes. “So goddamn tight for me.” He groaned when you bottomed out on him.

You rolled your hips experimentally, watching Steve’s jaw clench and his eyes flutter shut at the sensation. A shiver ran down your spine as he suddenly sat up, capturing one of your nipples in his mouth while one hand slid down to the small of your back, guiding you to grind against him again.

“Shit-” Your voice broke as you moved, placing your hands on Steve’s chest, you threw your head back in pleasure, arching your chest into his face. “Love how you feel in me. So big.” You panted, nails digging into his shoulders. Steve’s hands dropped your hips, guiding you as he pressed hot kisses onto the column of your throat.

“Need you to go faster baby.” Steve muttered against your throat as his hands found the back of your thighs, lifting you up and then dropping you back on him with a breathy whine, guiding you to bounce on him. You moaned out at the new sensation, mirroring his movements.

Steve’s grip tightened on your waist, helping you ride him harder and faster. Every time you came down on him, his breath hitched and the bed creaked beneath you both. The slap of skin filled the room, mixed with your combined moans and gasps.

“Fuck that’s it baby, good fucking girl.” he panted against your skin before capturing your lips again in a sloppy kiss full of teeth and tongue. You moaned into his mouth as one of his hands came down to rub tight circles on your clit while the other held onto your waist for dear life.

“Steve I-” You were cut off by another moan against his lips as his fingers worked magic on your clit, the dual sensation of being stuffed full and stimulated making you see stars. Your hips stuttered, thighs trembling around him as pleasure coiled tight in your stomach again.

“C’mon baby, let go for me.” He coaxed in a rough whisper against your ear, his fingers never slowing on your clit even as he felt you tightening around him. “Wanna feel you come all over my cock.” The filthy words sent another shockwave of pleasure through you and with one final roll of his hips upwards you shattered.

Your back arched violently as waves of ecstasy ripped through every nerve ending, your thighs pressed tightly against Steve’s hips as your nails dug into his shoulders, your thighs ached as you leant your head on Steve’s shoulder, still panting through the aftershocks.

Steve held you through your orgasm slowing his pace to give you some mercy and pressing soft kisses along your shoulder as he waited for the tremors to subside. Once they did, his lips found yours again in a slow kiss while his hands rubbed soothing circles on your back.

“I love you so much,” Steve murmured against your lips between kisses, his voice thick with emotion. He still moved inside you gently, not chasing his own release yet. His thumb brushed away a strand of hair stuck to your sweaty forehead. “Want me to take over pretty girl?” He hummed, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“Mm, yeah.” You whimpered, your voice still shaky as you nodded. Steve flipped you both effortlessly so that he was on top now, his body covering yours completely. His hips began to move in thrusts that had your toes curling all over again.

Steve’s movements were slow and deep, each thrust dragging his cock against that sweet spot inside you. He kept one hand tangled in your hair while the other braced beside your head, his forehead resting against yours as he watched every little expression on your face.

“That’s it baby, take me so good.” He groaned out between gritted teeth before picking up the pace just slightly to hear those pretty sounds from you again. Your legs wrapped around his waist to pull him even closer; Steve’s lips crashed back onto yours as he started fucking into you with more urgency.

The slap of skin grew louder, and your moans mingled between messy kisses, the headboard knocking against the wall in rhythm with your movements. Steve’s head dropped to your shoulder as he thrusted into you.

“God, Steve…” Your voice cracked as you dug your nails into his back. The slow drag of him was maddening in the best way possible, each thrust sending little sparks of pleasure through you all over again. “So good.” You moaned out when he hit that spot just right.

“Gotta third for me?” He lifted his head to watch your face twist with pleasure. You nodded frantically, your hands tightening on Steve’s shoulders. He could feel himself getting closer, but he wanted you there with him. “Come for me again baby,” he begged against the shell of your ear before biting down gently on it.

The bite sent a jolt through you and with Steve still pounding into that perfect spot, you came again. Hard. Your whole body tensed as pleasure overtook every sense.

Steve groaned as he felt you clench around him again, his hips stuttering when your walls milked him so perfectly. He cried out your name like a prayer as he came hard inside you, holding his hips against your tightly as he spilled every last drop into you.

For a few blissful moments, Steve just collapsed on top of you, panting heavily against your neck. His body was warm and heavy but comfortable as he pressed lazy kisses wherever his lips could reach without moving much. When he tried to pull out and roll over, you tightened your grip on him, keeping him buried inside you. 

“Stay for a minute.” You hummed, pressing soft lazy kisses to the top of his head. Steve chuckled breathlessly against your skin, his spent cock twitching weakly inside you as he nuzzled into the crook of your neck.

“Filthy girl.” He teased in that fond way of his, not complaining one bit about staying buried inside you. His arms wrapped around you tighter as he pressed another kiss to the corner of your mouth.

“Oh please.” You chuckled, though made no effort to tease him back, still too blissed out. “Same time tomorrow?” You giggled, raking your hands through his hair, smiling at him fondly.

“After that, I think I’ll be hard again by lunch time.” Steve barked out a laugh, his body shaking against yours. He kissed you deeply before rolling onto his back and taking you with him so that he was still inside you. His hands rubbed slow circles on your lower back as he stared up at the ceiling in awe.

What the actual fuck?

Your heart starts pounding so forcefully against your ribcage that the sheer power of it threatens to knock the wind out of you. This is it. This is the moment where the random improv acting elective you took forever ago finally has a chance to pay off for something. It takes a great deal of effort on your part to not let your jaw drop to your chest.

“O-oh, no, you have the right day. Right on time, actually,” you reply, snapping yourself out of your stupor with a small laugh that you hope didn’t sound as nervous as you felt. You introduce yourself, offering him your name before stepping aside on slightly wobbly feet. “Come on in.”

You guide him to the living room to sit, stealing a quick glance at your little cousin as you pass by the playroom. The Blue’s Clues episode episode he's watching is so engrossing that he barely even glances up as you not-so-subtly kick a stray toy laying on the floor aside.

“Please have a seat,” you say, feeling your heart hammering in your chest. Your expectation for meeting  some high-powered business man with commitment issues has been completely shattered as you mentally contrast the presence of the superstar against the simplicity of your home. If someone had told you earlier that this is how your afternoon was going to play out—with Michael Jackson in your goddamn living room—you would have bet your savings against them. He politely declines your offer for a drink, settling into one end of the well-loved sofa in your living room. You do the same on the armchair to the left of him, uncomfortably hyper-aware of the way you’re sitting. You settle on crossing your legs and hugging your knee with laced fingers.

Act normal. Talk to him like any other person, you silently command yourself, still trying to wrap your head around this unreal situation. 

“I was very impressed by your written statement,” he starts, taking off his maroon-colored baseball cap. His hair swoops on either side of his face, framing it, and you try your best not to stare. You fold your hands together and discreetly dig your thumb deep into your palm, trying to invoke enough of a pain response to wake yourself up if you were dreaming.

“Thank you,” you squawk out rather awkwardly. “They told me to write about my experience, but I’ll admit I don’t have much in terms of being a surrogate and everything. I was kind of surprised, actually, when the agency said I got picked for something.”

“Yes, well… something about your statement spoke to me. You wrote about your mother doing something similar for your aunt, right?”

“Oh yeah, about ten years ago,” you begin to explain. “My auntie Sheena—my mom’s third oldest sister—had some really bad complications after my second cousin, and was told she wouldn’t be able to give birth again. She really wanted to have more kids, though, so it was kind of devastating to her. That’s when my mom stepped in and offered to act as a surrogate. She’s honestly the sweetest and most selfless person I know.”

“That’s so wonderful. She really does sound incredible,” Michael says with an earnest smile. 

“She really is. Honestly, she’s my role mod–”

Your sentence is cut short by something—or more-so someone—tapping your knee. You look down to see your baby cousin, who somehow in the short time that you and Michael sat down had left his little playroom in search of you. 

"There's no more juice, Titi," he states disappointedly, looking up at you with big, pleading eyes.

"In the fridge? Are you sure?" you frown. He simply pouts, looking like he's on the verge of a tantrum, and you sigh, fighting the urge to roll your eyes. You turn to Michael, who’s watching the whole interaction with knowing amusement on his face. 

“Excuse me one second, would you?" you tell him, smiling apologetically. 

After realizing there was indeed no juice in the fridge, you get up to search the pantry for a juice box to give him. It gets transferred into a sippy cup along with some water; if you don't dilute it, he'll be hyper all day, which is the absolute last thing you need with such an important meeting in the house. Seemingly satisfied with the beverage you hand him, the little boy darts back to the playroom to continue watching his Blues Clues episode, completely oblivious to the magnitude of the conversation he just interrupted. You get back to Michael and sit back down, hands nervously folded once again in your lap.

"So sorry about that. He gets very serious about his juice," you ramble with a nervous laugh.

"Oh no, I don't mind, really. My sons can be the same way," Michael reassures you. “Is he your nephew?”

“Oh, Zeke? Well, he’s my cousin, and I’m an only child so I technically don’t have any nieces or nephews. But, we’re so far apart in age that he just calls me auntie,” you tell him. “Well, Titi, since he can’t really pronounce ‘auntie’ correctly. We’re working on it.”

Michael laughs softly at your explanation, his eyes focusing solely on you as he tries to figure you out. “Do you want children of your own one day?”

“Probably, after I get my degree and hopefully find the right man to settle down with, y’know. My mom had me young and never got to go to college, so she’s very big on education,” you explain. “What about you? Is three kids your limit?”

“Oh, definitely not; I have three already, actually—my daughter and my two sons. But I’ve always wanted a big family, like the one I grew up in. I have nine siblings, and I’d like to think I’ll beat my parents’ record someday. Maybe eighteen?”

Your eyes widen to an absolutely comical size.

“Eighteen kids?” you ask incredulously. 

“Or maybe thirteen?” he says sheepishly, unable to stop himself from smiling at your reaction.

“You say that like it’s any less,” you giggle, and Michael seems pleased with himself for making you laugh.

“No, no, I’m just pullin’ your leg. But I do want somewhat of a big family, having come from one myself. I just love children and being a father so much,” he replies wistfully. 

“That’s very admirable, Mr. Jackson,” you say, voice softening a bit before you cringe inwardly at your use of his last name. Why the actual hell did I just say that? 

“Oh, no, please; you can always call me Michael. Just Michael.”

The phone call comes in the middle of you helping your mom prepare dinner. Your knife is splitting through the center of a white onion when the home phone starts ringing.

“I’ll get it,” you say, wiping your hands off with a towel and moving towards the phone dock. You pick it up right before it goes to voicemail.

“Hello?” you answer, cradling the phone on your shoulder by tucking it under your chin. The voice on the other end says your name and asks for confirmation that they’re speaking to you. “Yes, this is her.”

“Good evening! This is Maggie from The Pacific Center for Reproductive Medicine. We’re pleased to tell you that our client has chosen to move forward with you for the surrogacy.”

You freeze for a second, and your mom notices, slowly stirring the pot on the stove while she gauges your reaction. 

“Really?” you say in disbelief.

“Really,” Maggie says, laughing a little bit on the other end of the line. “We’ve already mailed the additional documents you need to sign with rush shipping, so you should receive them by the end of the day tomorrow,” she continues. “There’s a return envelope in the box with a prepaid label, so just place everything in there and drop them off at the post office, alright? And if you have any questions, hon, you can always give us a call.”

“Thanks so much. I’ll be sure to get those over to you guys as soon as possible,” you promise before you hang up the phone with a click. You turn to your mom, who has her eyebrows raised expectantly.

“Well,” you say, laughing. She sighs, and your smile drops ever so slightly.

“I know you’re a grown-up woman. And I can’t control what you do, but… are you really going through with this?” she questions.

“Yes, mom, I am,” you reply, crossing your arms defensively. “I want to help people the same way you helped Aunt Sheena. Is that really so wrong? And the money definitely doesn’t hurt—it’ll push me way over the goal I have for my tuition.”

“I’m not saying don’t help people, but there has to be a way to do that without having to go through nine months of intense change on your body. You don’t even get to keep the baby in the end.”

“You didn’t get to keep Aunt Sheena’s baby!” you protest.

“Yes, but he’s my nephew. It’s completely different. I see him all the time,” she waves dismissively. “At the end of the day, I guess it is your decision, no matter how hesitant I may be and how much I try to dissuade you. I just hope you understand all of the risks involved… it’s your first pregnancy, and I don’t want you growing attached to a baby you can’t keep and raise.”

You pause, taking in your mother’s words for a moment.

“I see where you’re coming from, but… you know me. I’m a fairly analytical person. I’ll be able to handle it. Plus, I think the fact that the baby isn’t really technically mine will help me deal with the fact that I’m not taking him or her home with me, y’know? I can handle it,” you repeat confidently. You walk over to where she’s standing and she wraps you in a bear hug, picking off a stray piece of lint from your crewneck. 

“I know you can, sweetheart,” she says with a big sigh. “I just... I think that this isn’t what I expected your first pregnancy to be like, so I guess I’m just coming to terms with that.”

“I know,” you reply, your voice muffled in the shoulder of her soft maroon sweater. “Thanks for trusting me anyway. Besides, you said your pregnancy was easy-peasy, so I’m hoping you passed some of those lucky genes on to me. That’s possible, y’know. I read it in your What to Expect When You’re Expecting book.”

At this, she laughs.“Oh gosh, my copy is a bit outdated; we’ll have to get you a new one. Besides, easy is relative, sweetie. Even if everything goes right, and you don’t have morning sickness, or weird cravings, or mood swings, pregnancy is still hard,” she warns. “But I think you’ll do just fine, my love.” 

“Thanks, mom.”

The papers arrived in the mail the next day as promised by the agency—a thin, elongated box with PCRM’s logo printed crisply on the outside. Inside was a much thicker stack of papers compared to the preliminary agreement you signed when you first applied to this. The title cover is simple: Gestational Surrogacy Agreement. 

You sit criss-cross on your bed, highlighter in hand, flipping through the pages as various bolded headers jump out at you: Base Compensation, Incidental Fees, Invasive Procedures Clause, Diet, Travel, and so on and so on. Your “salary”—if you could call it that—would be paid out in monthly installments once a heartbeat was confirmed. There was a wardrobe allowance for maternity clothes, a mileage reimbursement for driving to appointments, and a more-than-generous monthly allowance for groceries and prenatal vitamins. There was even a budget for a personal shopper and a dedicated driver later in your pregnancy if (when) you could no longer drive yourself comfortably.

The diet and medical section was pretty standard—bans on raw fish, unpasteurized cheese, high-caffeine intake, alcohol, unauthorized drug use, and smoking, as well as strict instructions to follow all instructions from Dr. Aris, attend every scheduled appointment, and take all prescribed medications and vitamins as needed.

The sheer amount of 'heretofores' and 'hereinafters' was making your head spin, but it was the clauses tucked into the back that made your breath catch. There’s a whole non-disclosure agreement dedicated to “Media Discretion”, which explicitly threatens lawsuits in the millions if you so much as whisper Michael’s name to any reporter. The only exception was your emergency contact, and they would have to sign NDA forms of their own. Your mom didn’t even know exactly who you were being a surrogate for—but that was a battle for another day. 

“Any photos taken of [The Surrogate] during the pregnancy, or any medical scans (e.g. ultrasounds) legally belong to [The Intended Parent] and cannot be shared or kept publicly by [The Surrogate].” 

“Makes sense,” you mumble to yourself as you sign the bottom of what feels like the hundredth page. You’re finally getting to the last, and perhaps the most important section of the document: the parentage waiver section.

Your thumb brushes over the bolded enlarged font. Section VII: Establishment of Parentage and Relinquishment of Rights. Your eyes scan the dense blocks of text, catching phrases that strangely feel a little like a punch to the gut despite knowing exactly what you signed up for.

“[The Surrogate] hereby acknowledges and agrees that while she is providing the genetic material (the ovum) for the conception, she completely, irrevocably, and permanently waives, terminates, and relinquishes any and all past, present, or future claims to parental rights...”

You trace a finger over the word irrevocably. It’s unmistakable, bold and final. The document goes on to state that the moment the baby is born, they go directly to Michael. His name is going to be the only one on the birth certificate. You wouldn't even have the right to ask for a photo. Taking a slow breath, you fiddle with your ballpoint pen.

I mean, this is the deal, right? I’m giving a lonely father another child, and he’s giving me an insane amount of money to set me up for my future, you tell yourself.

You press the blue ink to the paper on the final [Surrogate Signature] line, effectively signing your life away for the next nine months.

You don’t really remember much about the weeks between the drop off of the documents at the post office and the first pregnancy test you took. You had continued on with life, going to your waitressing job like usual and helping your mom around the house. The ovulation paper strips that you picked up from the clinic dictated when you would come in for your artificial insemination appointment. The second you got a positive on the thin paper strip, you called Dr. Aris's clinic immediately. They told you to come in the very next morning, because timing is everything. 

When you pull up to the clinic the next day, you’re led through a private back door, away from the prying eyes that can lurk at the public entrance. The room is sterile but nice—dim lighting, soft elevator music playing from a wall speaker, and a standard examination table with stirrups. 

Dr. Aris adjusted her stool, the wheels squeaking softly against the pristine linoleum before she looked up at you with a reassuring, practiced smile.

"Alright, everything looks perfect on the ultrasound, and the lab just brought up the sample," Dr. Aris said, gesturing vaguely toward a small, capped vial resting on the stainless-steel tray. "The timing of your ovulation was spot-on, so we have the absolute best conditions today."

You grip the edge of the paper-lined table, its crinkling sound filling your ears as you try your very best to ignore the way your heels felt cold in the metal stirrups. "Okay. And... it doesn't take very long, right?"

“Not long at all,” she reassures you, shaking her head. “The entire procedure takes less than five minutes," Dr. Aris explained smoothly, her voice dropping into that calm, rhythmic tone doctors used to soothe nervous patients. "First, I’m going to insert the speculum—just like a standard annual exam. You’ll feel a little bit of pressure, but it shouldn't be painful."

You nodded, taking a slow breath. Just like a standard exam. Except the DNA in that vial belonged to a man who is currently (and likely will always be) the best selling artist of all time.

"Once that's in place," the doctor continued, snapping on a fresh pair of latex gloves with a sharp crack, "I’ll guide a very thin, flexible plastic tube called a catheter through your cervix and directly into the uterus. You might feel a tiny pinch or a bit of mild cramping as it passes through, but most women barely feel it. Through that tube, I’ll push through the washed sperm."

"Washed?" you echoed, your brain trying to visualize what that meant.

Dr. Aris offered a small, knowing chuckle. "Yes. The lab separates the healthiest, most viable sperm, and it gives us a highly concentrated sample. Once the sample is in, I’ll remove the catheter, and we’re all done."

"And then I can go home?"

"Not quite," Dr. Aris smiled, reaching for the speculum. "I’m going to have you lie completely flat right here on the table for about twenty minutes. We let gravity do a bit of the heavy lifting for us. I’ll dim the lights, leave you with some music, and let you rest. Ready?"

You took one last deep breath, staring up at the sterile tiles in the examination room before deciding to close your eyes.

"Ready."

****

You take the test about three weeks after the appointment—not because you feel any different, but because the clinic told you to. You had a pretty busy shift, closing the night out with a rowdy table of men in town for a bachelor party, who made you roll your eyes at their poor attempts to flirt but left a pretty decent tip. 

You dip the end of the test into the small container of urine you had collected, washing your hands before you set a five minute timer. You're not sure why you nearly jump when the timer finally goes off, but you shut it off and make your way to the bathroom apprehensively. 

Breathe in, breathe out, you tell yourself. Gripping the plastic part of the test, you silently count to three before you flip it over. There was one line, solid and dark. And then, right beside it, a faint, undeniable second pink line that burned into your corneas. 

“Holy shit,” is all you can manage to say, feeling your heart beat so forcefully behind your ribs you were scared it would leap out and fall on the floor. It was one thing to meet with Michael, or to sign the endless papers, but seeing the test in front of you had reality crashing down. This was actually happening.

The first person you wanted to tell was your mom. You race your way over to her bedroom, knocking on her door before you hear a muffled come in. You open the door, standing frozen at her doorway.

“What is it?” she frowned, putting down the book she was reading and climbing out of bed. You simply held the white and pink plastic test up, and her eyes widened when she saw it.

“Oh my God! Wasn’t your appointment a couple of weeks ago? That was fast,” she says with a smile. She pulls you into a hug and rocks you back and forth. “Congrats honey. I guess that means I’m technically a grandma.”

“God, mom, no,” you laugh, shoulders shaking in her embrace. “But thank you for supporting me and everything. I’m a tiny bit nervous , but mostly really excited I get to help someone in this way.”

“I’ll always support you, sweetheart,” she says, smoothing your hair from your face. “I’m so happy for you.” 

The clinic gets called first thing in the morning, and they manage to squeeze you in for an evening appointment that same day to do a blood and urine test in the office. Same results—positive. You leave with a bunch of pamphlets and a crisp, up-to-date edition of What to Expect When You’re Expecting.

Within a week, it becomes your nightly ritual. Long after your mother has gone to sleep and the house has fallen quiet, you sit propped up against your pillows, turning the thin paper pages by the dim light of your bedside lamp. You read diligently, tracing your fingers over the chapters on fetal development, trying to memorize every milestone.

But tonight, as you close the book and stare at the pastel cover, your eyes drift to the cordless phone resting on your nightstand. You find yourself wondering how Michael reacted when the clinic told him. Was it genuine excitement, his heart pounding in his chest the same way yours did? Or was it subdued satisfaction, the same way someone might feel if they’d finally put down the last missing piece of a puzzle? 

Your mind settles on the latter. As cynical as it may seem, you have to force yourself to remain realistic. The man already had three other children, to be fair. How much more special could this be?

They would pull you into hangouts, and you’d always find yourself scowling because you had no idea what they were talking about. It felt as if they were speaking a foreign language, especially since you couldn’t get any of the details whenever they visualized their moments together with their mates.

All you could do was zone out every time they brought up their relationships, listening to them giggle, sighing during the overviews of their dates, groaning whenever their topics got even more ambiguous.

There were even times when they pushed your patience to its limit, convincing you to come along for a swim at the river. You always agreed, thinking it’d just be another day spent with your friends, only to let out a groan the moment you realized they had invited their boyfriends too.

Like right now.

it felt like a slap in the face because they knew better than anyone how awful your luck had been when it came to finding someone, yet they always seemed to pull this on you. Still, you couldn’t exactly call them insensitive when they insisted they were only trying to make sure you weren’t left all alone.

It was frustrating since your best friend, Neteyam, spent most of his time away from the village on patrols and scouting missions. As much as you hated to admit it, the girls were right about one thing, if they didn’t drag you along, you’d probably end up sitting alone with no one to keep you company.

And you definitely didn’t want that.

“And then tonight, Re’kitan and I will go to the Tree of Souls… you know what happens beneath the glowing tendrils, right?” Kxira giggled, her fingers cupping her boyfriend’s jaw to pull his lips back to hers.

The girls laughed along, but your forehead only wrinkled at the sight tht was taking on you. What you were witnessing felt obscene, with your friend soaking in the river right beside a man, letting him touch her like that in broad daylight.

“Girl… you’re a wild woman, letting the Greatmother witness such things,” Meya teased with a shake of her head.

“Out of everyone here, I believed you would understand me,” Kxira pouted, leaning back against Re’kitan as he washed the water down her spine. “You mated with Tritxo just last week, when your blood ran hot during the season… so who’s really the wild one?”

Meya’s mate bit his lip, “She is wild. It’s sexy.”

“Darling, don’t expose me!”

So much for not wanting me to feel left out, you thought bitterly, sitting there physically while your mind detached from the conversation.

Eytsing grinned, splashing the water with her tail. “Meya, tell me what it feels like! I think Awngìn and I will do it soon… he has just been so busy with the tasks, we can never seem to find alone time lately.”

“It’s beyond words, sister. Everything becomes clear the moment your queues twine together and you see him through the Greatmother’s eyes. You feel the beat of his heart, the rush of his thoughts, and how deeply he wants you. It’s like your spirits are walking in the same body, and the warmth of it never truly leaves your blood… Ever since we mated, we just stopped arguing.”

You watched as Meya pulled Tritxo into a deep kiss, her cheeks rising as she smiled against his lips. You didn’t fail to notice the way they lingered after breaking apart, staring into each other’s eyes for what felt like an eternity before you forced yourself to look away.

There’a no way you had just been subjected to that.

“I cannot wait to finally claim Awngìn as my own! The day he returns from the hunt, I’m dragging him straight into the deep forest to taste him until he forgets his own name,” Eytsing giggled the girls broke into laughter.

“As if you two haven’t already been doing exactly that,” Meya teased, splashing water om her way.

“If you’re already acting like an unchained animal in the bushes, what more when your kurus are connected?” Kxira rolled her eyes, she hissed when Re’kitan accidentally pressed a thumb into an aching spot on her shoulder. “Watch your grip, babe.”

“My bad…” Re’kitan kissed her shoulder.

Eytsing only grinned wider, leaning her chin on her knees as she watched the ripples in the river. “It’s different now though, the tension is driving us mad… he looks at me during the evening meals like he wants to tear my loincloth off right there in front of the Olo’eyktan.”

“Awngìn has always been impatient,” Tritxo chimed in from behind Meya as he caressed his hands over his mate’s hips. “A hunter who starves for his woman always catches the best prey. I’m sure he will give you a good bonding night, Eytsing.”

“What about you, Y/n?”

You glared at Kxira, your chest tightening. “I don’t know. What about me?” You crossed your arms, the water splashing around you. “I don’t have anythjng! A mate or whatever! I don’t even have a boy who wants to court me because every time I try, it always ends the same way with oh, I’m not ready, oh, I only see you as a sister, oh, I was just being kind, I didn’t think you’d fall. It’s exhausting!”

“Oh, dear… you will find the right one soon!”

“You don’t have to rush it… just wait for the right season.”

“The Greatmother sees you!”

Of course they would say things like that, their pity only damaging your ego further. It wasn’t even about rushing; even if you wanted to, you couldn’t force someone to want you the way you wanted them to.

You had already stopped whispering prayers to Eywa after the fourth time a boy broke your heart, giving up hope that someone would ever step forward to claim your soul, or that you would ever experience the things your friends so happily shared.

Recognizing the sudden drop in your mood, Meya cleared her throat, “Eytsing, speaking of… the village has been too quiet without the main party around.”

“Tell me about it,” Eytsing pouted. “I miss my boyfriend so much my chest hurts… it’s so unfair that he gets to fly around the mountains while I’m stuck here waiting.”

Your hands sink beneath the surface to grip the river rocks. Your fingers traced the hard edges of the stone, opposite to the way Tritxo’s thumbs were drswing slow circles into Meya’s waist, or the way Re’kitan leaned down to rest his chin against Kxira’s damp shoulder.

You pulled your knees closer to your chest, the hollow ache in your own stomach widening as you witnessed the instinctual gravity pulling the couples together.

“That reminds me, when exactly do they even come back?”

Eytsing leaned on the rocks. “Awngìn didn’t tell me anything before they flew out, he was too busy packing his gear…”

Then pairs of yellow eyesnmoved across the water, all locking onto you. You raised an eyebrow, your ears twitching. “What?”

“When are they coming back?”

“How am I supposed to know, genius,” You muttered, rolling your eyes as you leaned back against a larger boulder as well.

“C’mon, you’re attached to the hip with their team leader, Neteyam,” Kxira pointed out, a smirk playing on her lips.

“That doesn’t mean I have the right to know their scouting schedule,” you said, splashing a wave of water toward her direction.

“Looks like we’ll just have to wait for the horns to tell us they’re back then,” Meya sighed, her fingers playing with Tritxo’s braid.

“Whatever, the longer the hunt takes, the more goods they offer to the clan anyway,” Kxira shrugged, resting her head back against Re’kitan’s chest.

Re’kitan’s gaze went over to you. “Actually, I’ve been meaning to ask… how did you and Neteyam even click? He’s like usually swallowed up by his duties or training with the elders but he somehow always finds time to track you down.”

“We’ve known each other since we were small nodes on the same branch. My mom is away trading with the neighbouring clans, father would drag me along when he visited Neteyam’s family to share the evening fire. That’s how I bonded with the Sullys, i guess.”

The others nodded, their ears perking up, “That’s something. To walk so closely alongside the chief’s bloodline!”

“What does it feel like?”

“What does what feel like?” You crossed your arms under the water. “Being close with Neteyam! Isn’t he rigid with you? He carries himself with such manners whenever he walks through the village. I cannot picture anyone actually having fun with him.”

You shrugged, “He’s simply himself. You guys view him that way because he’s carrying his weight well, he has the reputation of a future leader to uphold after all.”

“Is he still without a mate?” Kxira asked, her eyes twinkling. The question hit you, ears pinning flat against your skull, and your tail ceased its swaying beneath the surface. Every single one of them was staring at you again, leaning in.

“Why are you guys looking at me like that? I don’t know,” you muttered, pulling your knees tighter against your chest, wishing the water would just swallow the ache growing in your throat.

“Oh, Y/n, you’re better than that! You literally spend half your suns tucked away in his shadow. Surely you’ve noticed if any of the females have caught his eye. Hasn’t he mentioned anyone while you two are whispering by the fires? Not even a word on who he might choose to walk before Eywa with?”

“Why would we speak about such things?”

“I find that hard to believe,” Tritxo chuckles, tightening his grip around Meya’s waist. “A warrior at his peak, carrying the weight of the clan on his shoulders... he must have a hunger in his blood. If he’s not talking about women to his closest friend, he’s either a metal made of stone, or he’s hiding it very well.”

“Can we kindly not speak of him right now? It feels wrong to dissect his life behind his back,” you frowned, looking down at the water.

“We’re only speaking the truth, sister,” Kxira smirked, resting her chin back on Re’kitan’s shoulder. “If he’s still walking alone out there, he’s for the people to see. If you want to take your shot with the future Olo’eyktan, you better do it before the next hunt, or someone else will claim him.”

A few suns later, the blast of the hunting horns jolted the community awake. The men had returned from the eastern canyons. You found yourself pushing past the gathering crowds as they flooded the ground to welcome the party home.

Your eyes went over the incoming ikran and the goods they carried, searching through the sea of broad shoulders and braided hair for a glimpse of one specific warrior.

“Y/n!”

You turned your head at the sound of your name, a grin creeping onto your lips as Neteyam broke through the crowd toward you. You raised a hand to wave, but before you could even say a greeting, he lunged forward, pulling you into a headlock.

“Hey!” you gasped, reaching up to pinch his exposed waist, but his quick reflexes kicked in, he dodged away before your fingers could even brush his skin. “You demon.”

“Where my hug at?” he asked, opening his arms wide. You launched your weight forward, catching him off guard. He lost his footing, his tail flailing for balance before you both went crashing down onto the soft grass.

“Get off me, lady,” he groaned, you pinched his striped cheeks with a smirk before finally scrambling off him. Standing up, you offered him your hand to help him up, but the moment his fingers wrapped around yours, he yanked you right back down into the dirt.

Before you could even yell, Neteyam was already on his feet, vaulting toward his ikran. “The first one to our spot gets their request granted by the loser!” he shouted over his shoulder.

“You— skxawng!” you hissed, pushing yourself up from the grass and letting out a whistle to call your own mount.

Your laughters sung across the open air as the wind whipped against your face, the thrill of the chase burning in your veins. Cornering him near a jagged rock formation, you leaned into your ikran’s flank, guiding its massive wing to clip against the side of his banshee.

Neteyam’s mount let out a startled screech, veering slightly off course and forcing him to pull the reins to stabilize their flight. Seizing the moment, you dug your knees in and urged your ikran forward, rocketing past him and diving straight toward the secluded cliffside that marked your spot.

The moment your ikran’s leather wings touched down, you slipped out of the saddle and ran a hand down her smooth snout. “Good girl out there,” you kissed her skin, a grin breaking across your face as the silhouette of your friend’s arrival blocked out the sun.

He landed his mount beside yours, instead of stomping over to you, he stepped to the front of his ikran, checking its body for any signs of injury from the mid-air collision you had just pulled off.

You scoffed, crossing your arms over your chest. “Don’t be so dramatic, man. I’m not an unchained woman, I wouldn’t wound him.”

Neteyam clicked his tongue, his tall frame blocking out the view of the valley as he stood over you. “You cheated, lady.”

“Nope!” You popped the syllable, tilting your chin up and leaning right into his space. “You’re simply a loser.”

“That was cheating. You startled my mount on purpose.”

“That’s called strategy! And a clear weakness on your end for not anticipating what I could pull!” With a toss of your hair, you turned your back on him, folding your hands behind you as you strolled toward the edge of your cliffside spot, skipping.

Neteyam let out a chuckle, trailing just a step behind you. “I didn’t know you were hiding such foul moves.”

“Perhaps, but they’re the exact reason you lost!” You threw a smirk over your shoulder before turning around. “What did you say again? ‘The first one to our spot gets their request granted by the loser.’ What now, warrior?”

Neteyam let out a laugh and sank onto the grass, leaning his back against the wide trunk of the ancient tree you two had claimed as your own. “Name it then, lady.”

You smirked, tapping your chin in a show of thinking before letting yourself settle down on the grass to his left. You left a gap between your hips, a lingering habit from days of feeling like an outsider to affection, but he didn’t let the space live.

He reached out, his large hand wrapping around your waist to yank you close to his side. A shared laughed bubbled between you as your shoulders collided, the warmth of him seeping straight into your skin.

“I think I might keep this request for future purposes…” you said, winking at him. “Y’know… for when you’re finally the leader. I could use it to make the whole village work for me for a whole cycle! I’ll have the weavers craft all my garments so I never have to touch a loom again, the hunters can bring me the rarest cuts from the deep forest, OR I can just have the communal cooks serve me hand and foot.” You flashed him an exaggerated grin.

Neteyam rolled his eyes, “I would do all of that for you for free. You don’t need a royal decree, nor do I need my father’s title to spoil you.”

“I’m not spoiled!” You gasped, shoving his shoulder with your hand. “Whatever you say, pretty,” he murmured, his tail lashing against yours in the grass.

The two of you spent the entire afternoon tucked away on that cliffside, watching the sky bleed into bruised purples and deep oranges. It felt so nice to just talk after a week apart.

He walked you through every detail of his mission, leaning back as he described getting cornered by a pack of viperwolves. He puffed out his chest, bragging about how his superior strength saved his skin then admitting that he didnt actually fight them off, but rather scrambled up a rock face like a startled hexapede.

You had traded the talk for village gossip, your thighs were draped across his lap as you had guided his hand on your inner thighs, arguing that since his surprise race forced you to sprint and mount your ikran without stretching, your muscles were aching to the bone. He hadn’t even protested, and did what you asked.

With your back resting comfortably against the massive stone beside the huge tree, Neteyam rested his right elbow on his knee while his left hand massaged the tense muscles of your thigh.

“I’m telling you, she was looking at him during the dinner,” you continued, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “She has taken a liking to him. A man who’s literally twice her age!”

Neteyam’s hand paused on your leg, his eyes widening as a genuine gasp escaped him. “Seriously? He has grandchildren training with the younglings!”

“I know! And I think the communal cook has taken a liking to her too. I mean, can you blame him? His mate left his hammock for another hunter last-last season. I guess he hasn’t been receiving any attention since he’s like an elder now.”

“Still… it’s strange to me,” Neteyam mumbled, a frown tugging at his brow. His thumb pressed a little deeper into the tight muscle of your thigh, making you sigh at the pressure. “The gap between their cycles is literally the span of our entire lives, Y/n.”

“It’s whatever. It’s her life anyway,” you shrugged, leaning your head back against the stone. “She’s old enough to choose her own path. And to be honest… if I were desperate enough, I’d probably do the same.”

Neteyam’s hand went still on your leg, he looked up at you, his ears twitching forward. “You’d bind yourself to a man twice your age?”

“Yes! Would you not?”

“Why would I?” He rolled his eyes, looking away from your gaze. He looked offended that you could even conceive of him doing such a thing.

“That’s why your life is so boring, Neteyam. No thrill.”

“I’m simply saying that I have no intention of ever sharing a hammock with someone who has seen the same number of eclipses as my parents.”

You scoffed, letting out a loud laugh. “That’s not what I meant! See? You’re just proving my point. Why did your mind leap to your mother and father the moment ‘twice your age’ is even mentioned?”

“Because it’s ridiculous,” he argued, his eyebrows furrowing as his ears flattened. “I don’t see why anyone would pursue an elder when there are plenty of unmated people our age.”

“Because older people are mature and they can provide without struggle. I actually don’t see the problem,” you teased, a wicked grin spreading across your face. You crossed your arms, leaning closer to whisper. “In fact, I’d go after your father!”

Neteyam yanked his hand away from your inner thigh, snapping his arms across his broad chest as he glared at you, you burst into a fit of giggles at his reaction.

“He’s a happily mated man, lady. Dont even let your mind wander there,” he warned. “I’m kidding!” You smacked his bicep before grabbing his large hand and dragging it right back onto your aching thigh. “Do you think so lowly of me? I’m not that desperate!”

His hand settled back against your skin, but his fingers tightened. “Many haven’t found their one in our generation, Y/n… you don’t need to look backward. I mean… unless older men are your preference, then I won’t stand in your way… but I just— I-I don’t know.”

You let out a chuckle, but it withered into a frown. He was right, there were plenty of unmated people your age in the clan. You knew their names, their faces, and how their laughter sounded when they turned you down. If any of them actually wanted you, they would’ve stepped forward seasons ago.

Your gaze drifted down to the grass, your voice trailing off. “You’re acting like you don’t know my history among the men of this village, Neteyam…”

“Sorry,” he whispered, his voice dropping into that raspy voice reserved only for you. “That’s not what I meant.”

The silence that followed was filled only with the sound of forest insects as the first bioluminescent veins began to wake up across the surrounding leaves.

He moved beside you, sliding closer until his chest was pressing flat against your shoulder, both of you now resting your backs against the cool stone, your legs still on his lap. His thumb began to move in smooth strokes against your thigh, apology written in his palm as he watched your lips pull into a pout.

“I know how they’ve treated your heart,” he began, his golden eyes fixed on you, refusing to let you look away. “They were stupid, Y/n. Every single one of them. They’re blind to what’s standing right in front of them.”

You swallowed hard, that ache rising in your throat as the memory of your friends’ pity back at the river flashed through your mind. You stared down at his large, blue hand on your thighs, your fingers twitching with an urge to lace themselves through his, just to feel that bond Meya had gushed about.

A wave of heat rushed up your neck as Neteyam’s tail found yours beneath the grass, wrapping itself in a tight spiral around your own.

“Don’t let their blindness make you think you must settle for an elder, or anyone who doesn’t see you. For the right person won’t tell you his spirit is unready. He won’t treat your affection like a burden. And he certainly won’t touch your skin for days only to claim he treats his sister the same way… that’s disgusting.”

A chuckle escaped you. Hearing him list the exact nonsense those boys had pulled made you realize just how foolish it was that your heart had broken over them in the first place.

“...I know you hate it when the others tell you not to rush your path... I know you’re not rushing, you’ve been too patient with those boys, Y/n. But as your friend, I only want the best for you, and I believe Eywa will provide when the time is right. I don’t want you to give your trust to someone’s sweet tongue, only for him to reveal his true colors once he got what he wanted.”

“Really now?”

“Really. If that ever happened, he’ll taste his own blood on the wind,” Neteyam hissed. You let out another laugh, rolling your eyes at his statement. “You’re just so violent, aren’t you?”

“Only to those who deserve the strike.”

“Enough about me,” you sighed, shoving his shoulder to break the mood. “I don’t want to waste our time talking about them. What about you?”

Neteyam tilted his head, his ears twitching as he looked down at you. “I obviously don’t wanna waste my time on those too.”

“I meant… well— how do I say this…” You trailed off, looking away. You swallowed hard, running your tongue over your lip before your eyes drifted down to his hand. His fingers were still touching the lines against your skin. Just below his palm, your tails were still entwined, making you bite the inside of your cheek to fight off a smile.

“Tell me,” he whispered as he noticed your hesitation. You looked back up, meeting the gaze of his sparkling eyes. “It’s just that… my friends and I were talking about you a few days back by the river.”

“What were you saying about me?”

“It’s…” You scrunched your nose, you wanted to hear his answer, but you didn’t wanna cross a line. “quite personal. You don’t have to answer if it makes you uneasy. I just… perhaps a part of me wants to know too, because lately, I feel like there are parts of you I barely know.”

“Hm?”

“So… do you have anyone? Like… any women in the village you desire, or maybe men?”

Neteyam blinked, the forest around you seemed to fall silent since he didn’t say a word, his eyes searching your face, trying to read the motive hidden behind your words.

“Sorry… I knew it was a weird question,” you mumbled.

At your sudden bashfulness, a devastatingly gorgeous smile began to tug at the corner of his lips. The tension in his shoulders melted away as he leaned his head down toward yours, his breath fanning across your cheek. You instinctively tilted your face back, your heart beating fast as you tried to maintain a safe distance.

“Why do you ask? Are you looking to clear the field for yourself, or are you just hunting for more gossip to bring back to your friends?”

You scoffed, trying to swallow down the heat rising to your face, but the way his chest was so close to yours made it a losing battle. “I’m doing neither,” you said, forcing your eyes to stay locked onto his, even as your chest tightened. “It was just a question. You don’t have to get all… self-satisfied about it.”

“Me? Self-satisfied?”

You rolled your eyes, attempting to regain your composure. “Yes. Mhm. Look at you, I only asked because everyone in the village talks about the Olo’eyktan’s eldest son and then I realized there that I actually have no idea what your tastes are. Or if you even have them.”

“My tastes,” he repeated, the words rolling off his tongue. He let his eyes drop to your lips for a heartbeat before looking back up to your eyes. “And what do you think they are, y/n?”

“I don’t know, that’s why I asked,” You gave his shoulder a nudge, though you didn’t move his hand away from your leg. “Stop answering my questions with more questions. It’s annoying. Just tell me if there’s someone during all those long missions, or if your head is just filled with responsibilities.”

Neteyam grinned, his shoulders shaking against yours. He looked away for a second, watching the bioluminescent moss on the tree trunk glow brighter as the darkness deepened, before his gaze settled back on you.

“No one on the hunt. And no one in the village either. My mind is usually too loud for that kind of distraction.” He paused as he watched the way your breath hitched. “But that doesn’t mean I’m blind to what’s right in front of me.”

“What that mean?”

Neteyam only hummed, an attractive sound that vibrated against your shoulder. He didn’t give you the satisfaction of a straightforward answer. He tilted his head back against the stone, his eyes tracking the waving trees above.

“I mean exactly what I said,” he whispered, his thumb resuming that stroke against your inner thigh. “Those boys… they have eyes, but they don’t see. They look at the sky, they look at the tracks on the ground, but they miss the most obvious things.”

“Neteyam, be direct,” you warned, glaring at him.

“You wanted to know my tastes, lady. I’m telling you. I value someone who has fire. Someone who doesn’t back down from a challenge, who can mount an ikran even when their muscles ache, and who doesn’t mind sitting on the moss to talk about the village fools with me.”

Your heart did a flip. He was describing you, or at least, everything you had done today, but he was keeping it just broad enough that you couldnt technically call him out on it without sounding delusional.

“That’s still vague,” you said, crossing your arms and puffing out your chest to mask how fast your heart was beating. “You’re just describing a dedicated person...”

“Maybe you’re right. I do want a dedicated woman. One who makes me forget about my responsibilities for a whole day just by laughing. A woman who’s just so beautiful it makes you wonder why men aren’t fighting over her,”

Your heartbeat stopped for a second, chest rising and falling against his shoulder, but he didn’t break eye contact. “Y’know… I watched those boys walk away from her seasons ago and thought, how stupid must an individual be to turn his back on a grand prize like that? To look at that woman, of all people, and see nothing?”

He smiled, his gaze dropping to your lips again. He had basically admitted it, yet he still hadn’t given you a name, leaving you suspended in the heat of his words.

“But as you said,” Neteyam grinned, his tail giving yours a squeeze beneath the grass, “perhaps you just don’t know my heart as well as you think.”

Your jaw tightened as you tried to process what he had just admitted. Your brain was scrambling, trying to find a clever retort, anything to keep your cool. But with his fingers still pressed against your skin, the words died in your throat.

“You’re infuriating. If you have something to say, just say it. Don’t hide behind those words.”

Neteyam’s grin widened, showing you his fangs. He loved this. He loved when you fought back, when you didn’t just faint into his arms like half the other girls in the clan.

“I’m not hiding,” He chuckled, then his hand slid upward from your thigh, his large palm resting against your hip, his thumb hooking into the strap of your loincloth.

“But if you want a name so badly,” he whispered, “why don’t you tell me whose name you want to hear?”

“...What about… Lläna?” you asked, gulping as you watched his face for any sign. “She’s one of the entertainers. She can make many lose their breath from laughing too much.”

“I may not be part of that ‘many’ if that’s the case,” he said. He lifted his hand, his fingers tucking a stray lock of your hair behind your ear, his touch lingering on your cheeks.

You swallowed the flutter in your chest, scrambling for another name to throw his way. “Maybe Neyza? She’s a warrior, she never gives up even though her whole body is already aching from the hunt. She’s very dedicated.”

“She’s a fierce one, but her stubbornness belongs on the training grounds.”

“Then… what about Sa’eyla?” you pressed. “She crafts the most beautiful pieces in the clan, and everyone says her voice can soothe an angry thanator.”

“Sa’eyla’s songs are for the gatherings,” Neteyam grinned as he watched you struggle. You clicked your tongue, frustrated by how he was shutting down every option while keeping his focus pinned on you.

“You’re being too difficult. What about Txewì then? She’s—”

“No,” he interrupted. “You’re running out of names, y/n.”

He leaned in, his nose almost brushing yours, closing off the rest of the forest until it was just the two of you in the bioluminescent glow.

“Why won’t you ask about yourself?” he whispered, “Why do you keep offering me to everyone else, when yours is the only name I want to hear?”

One thing led to another, and you found yourself biting down hard on your lower lip, trying to silence any sound as his lips pressed against the sensitive skin of your neck.

The heat of his mouth oh so intoxicating sent a wave straight down your spine. He stirred his weight, pinning you gently as one of his strong arms braced against the smooth stone behind you for balance.

His other hand slid lower, the side of his hand close against the heat between your thighs, dangerously close to your sore core, sending your thoughts into a panting spin.

He pulled back from your neck, an uneven breath leaving him as his right hand retreated from your thighs. His hand slid up your torso until he was cradling your jaw, angling your face up to force your eyes to meet his.

With his left arm still resting behind your back, on the stone, he swallowed hard, his chest heaving against yours. His thumb moved, dragging across your lower lip to part them.

He tracked the slow drag of his thumb before locking his eyes back onto yours. He drank in the sight of you staring up at him, your expression consumed by a blend of deep devotion with starving desire.

Unable to hold back for another second, he leaned down and pressed his lips against yours.

You hummed against his lips, rubbing your thighs together. You lifted your right arm to rest on his shoulder, while your left hand wandered, walking its path from the curve of his neck down to the center of his chest.

His hands slid down your arms to grip your waist, lifting you near him. The movement made you gasp as he slipped his tongue past your parted lips to tangle with yours. A moan escaped your throat when he groaned into your mouth, the sound shuddering against your chest.

Your thighs rubbed together, looking for any kind of brush to lessen the ache between them. His large hand moved down from your stomach, sliding past the edge of your hips to cup your pussy right through the fabric of your loincloth. You bit your lip hard, hips rolling against his palm.

You pulled away from the kiss, head rolling back as you adjusted your posture. You scooted into a proper seat against the stone, widened your thighs to give him better access. His fingers began sliding up and down against the damp cloth, making you whine.

You gulped as you rolled your hips in circles, lifting them to move more freely. You wrapped both arms around his shoulders, hiding your face in his neck as his fingers slid under your loincloth and rubbed your pussy. He circled your clit with his fingers, making you moan against his skin.

“Oh, keep going… ’teyam,” you whimpered beside his ear, rolling your hips in an eager circle to match the heavy lean of his weight.

You felt two of his thick fingers parting your wet skin, stretching you wide before his thumb made a dragging swipe right across your throbbing clit. Neteyam let out a grunt, a grin tugging at his lips as he bit his own down, watching the way your body melted around his touch, leaving his fingers slick and dripping with your heat.

“What do I get in return?” he murmured, watching your hips move. “Just… let this be my request,” you moaned against his neck, sinking your teeth into his skin to swallow the loud noise.

Neteyam snickered, his thumb striking over your sensitive peak once more. “Hmm… I would do this for free though, baby.”

Neteyam grinned at how you tried to keep quiet, even though he could hear every moan right by his ear. He lifted your head by your hair with his left hand, capturing your lips in another deep kiss and swallowing your sounds. His tongue tangled with yours as his fingers kept rubbing your wet pussy.

He opened one eye to see your thighs trying to close around his hand. He pulled his fingers away for a second, using his leg to keep yours open before diving back in. You arched your back when he sped up, then slowed down again, making you lose your breath. You gasped against his mouth and pulled away to watch his fingers pleasure you.

“Lift it, pretty,” he said in that deep voice. You bit your lip and did what he asked, lifting your top and massaging your left breast while he licked the other.

He kept eye contact with you as he sucked on your nipple, tongue swirling around it. You threw your head back against the stone, moaning loudly. His fingers never stopped rubbing your pussy, making you wetter with every stroke.

Your eyes rolled back every time he teased your entrance before returning to your clit. He pulled away from your chest and took your left hand from it, sucking on your fingers, he settled so he could reach your tits better.

He let out a wince when he felt you palming his cock through his loincloth. He looked down at your hand before you pulled away. “S-Sorry…” you stuttered.

Neteyam scoffed and grabbed your hand, pressing it back on his hard cock. He used your palm to stroke himself through the fabric. “Faster, Y/n,” he hissed, eyes closing as you did what he asked.

He returned his fingers to your pussy, rubbing your clit while his other hand caressed your hair. He went back to sucking on your breasts, humming against your skin. He was trying not to make too much noise, wanting to hear you more than himself.

He couldn’t believe what was happening. You were touching his hard cock, and he was fingering your wet pussy.

It was so arousing to do something like this together.

So this was what the other girls in the clan were always whispering about, giggling over their hut when the elders weren’t looking.

No wonder they spoke about it like it was the greatest gift from Eywa, because the heat pooling in your lower stomach was unlike any hunt or flight you had ever experienced.

“You close?” Neteyam whispered against your ear before biting your earlobe. You sighed, nodding fast. “Mhmm… please, right there.”

You whined when he pulled his fingers away from you. You bit your lip as you watched him stretch his arms before sitting up straighter against the tree. He patted his lap. “C’mere.”

You crawled over him shakily, straddling his legs, your hands rested on his chest to help you balance. He wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you closer, making you sit right on his hard cock before kissing you impatiently.

Both of you moaned into the kiss as he started thrusting up against your tewng. You met his movements by grinding back down on his hard on. Your hands moved idly, going from his chest to his shoulders, then pulling his hair and lightly choking his neck.

Neteyam groaned into your mouth, hands squeezing your ass as he kept grinding up against you. “You feel so good. Keep moving like that,”

“You’re so… so hard,” You whimpered, rolling your hips faster, feeling how hard he was through the fabric.

He pulled away from the kiss to look at you. “And you’re so wet. I can hear it,” You blushed but kept grinding on him, needing more friction. “Neteyam… please. I need you.”

He kissed your neck, sucking on your skin while his hands guided your hips. “I know, babygirl. I need you too. But let me feel you like this first…”

You whined loudly, head falling back as you kept riding his clothed cock. Neteyam pulled away from your neck to watch both of your hips moving together. He licked his lips, hs brow creased deeply as he stared down at you grinding on him.

His hand tickled your skin as it moved from your stomach up to cup your breasts. He lifted your top higher so he could hold your bouncing tits properly. He squeezed them gently, making you moan louder as you rode his hard cock even harder.

Neteyam groaned softly, thumbs brushing over your nipples. “You look so good like this, princess. Riding me so beautifully,” You whimpered, hips rolling faster against him. “it… feels so good.”

His hands moved up to your breasts, squeezing and pinching the sensitive peaks while you continued to move on top of him. His own hips thrust up to meet your downward pressure, driving his clothed cock harder against your throbbing core.

“Oh.. just like that,” Neteyam rasped into your ear, his voice rough and strained. He tightened his grip on your chest as he surged against you again, whispering, “This is what those morons missed out on.”

You moaned his name again, hands gripping his shoulders for support. The friction was driving you crazy, making you grind down harder. Neteyam watched your face, biting his lips. “You’re so gorgeous, fuck.”

His hand slid down from your nipples, his fingers curling to roll his knuckles over your clit through the fabric. You threw your head back against his shoulder, gasping out a breathless, “I’m so close…”

“Mhm, we’re gonna cum in our clothes?” Neteyam teased, before he slid his palm up and down your waist, drawing a line down to your ass before delivering a smack, making you cry out uncontrollably as the slap sent you right over the edge.

You came right into your loincloth, collapsing forward to lean against his collarbone as your body trembled through the intense orgasm. Neteyam kept his grip tight, squeezing and letting his palm collide against your ass as his own release hit him, his hips thrusting up slowly one last time to press his hard length against your pulsing core.

The day concluded with the two of you resting within each other’s embrace that night, the heat of the moment never crossing past the boundary of humping each other dry. There was still that shy distance between friends that kept both of you from initiating anything far more intimate.

That was exactly why you made the asinine decision to avoid him throughout the next week.

You simply couldn’t take it anymore.

Every single time you caught a glimpse of him, your heart would thump so hard against your chest, feeling like it was trying to rip itself right out of your ribs.

And just seeing him laugh across the camp was enough to make you feel like you were melting, your knees weakening so badly that you had to actively avoid him at all costs during the nightly dinner gatherings.

It only made things worse that your friends were actively pushing you toward him, and after everything that had happened at your spot, you couldn’t help but see him as a different person, and definitely not just a friend anymore.

Ever since that night, you began noticing his features in a way you never had before, caught up in how handsome he really was. It made you wonder how he had never courted anyone or even had a girlfriend before this.

You knew he was popular with the girls in your clan, heck, even the boys. You had always thought you were privileged to be his closest friend, getting a lot of his attention for free and never having to work for his affection the way everyone else did.

Every single time he returned from his duty, he always brought back reserved goods just for you. Whether it was the sweetest fruit or a smooth bead for your hair, he always made sure you got the best pieces before anyone else could even ask.

You only mentioned it once, about wanting a specific type of shell for your top that could only be acquired when the Tlalim clan came to trade. Yet, right after his very next hunt, he walked up and handed them to you, having gone out of his way to look for it himself.

You felt ashamed realizing that while he gave you the world, the only thing you ever really gave him in return was your endless clan gossip. He would sit there for hours, listening to you ramble, content just to have your full attention.

That’s why you found yourself hiding in your kelku, skipping your weaving lessons just to make something for him on your own. Neteyam had complained a few days ago about growing taller, mentioning that his loincloths were starting to feel too short and uncomfortably tight around his hips.

As you measured out the fabrics, your face suddenly flushed a deep, burning indigo, a breath catching in your throat as your mind replayed what happened in your spot.

Just remembering how you had literally ridden his hard on to a screaming climax, with nothing but your loincloths separating your bare skin from his, made a wave of embarassment wash over you. You squeezed your eyes shut against the memory, feeling shy for showing wildness to your best friend.

He was really big, though…

A fact that made your stomach flip. You hadnt actually seen it, but you had definitely felt that, the thickness pressing through his fabric every time his hips had thrust up into yours.

“—Y/n!”

Your thoughts were cut off by a loud voice calling out from just outside your hut. You scrambled to hide your weaving tools beneath the blanket, standing up to pull back the entrance curtain only to find all your friends standing there. Before you could even ask, your eyes widened as they glared right at you, shoving past your shoulders to let themselves inside.

“Hey!” you snapped, pulling the curtain shut tight as you turned to watch them start snooping around your space. “What’s going on?”

They looked back at you in bewilderment, hands on their hips as one of them scoffed, “I don’t know, Y/n! Are you hiding something from us?”

“Pardon me?” You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms defensively against their sudden interrogation.

“You heard us,” Kxira sighed, tossing her braids over her shoulder as she stopped pacing your small living space. “You’ve been ghosting us, skipping the weaving circles, slipping away before the evening fires are even lit.. you’ve been hiding in here like you’re harboring some scandalous secret!”

Eytsing stepped forward, grinning as she peeked toward your bed hammock. “Are you sick? Or are you just avoiding a certain son? Because just so you know, your fine warrior has been looking for you!”

Your heart skipped a beat at the thought of him looking for you but you forced your expression to remain blank. “I’ve just been tired. The hunting season has been long.”

“Well, your resting days are officially over,” Meya declared, marching over to grab you by your wrists and pulling you toward the exit. “The communal dinner is already beginning, and Eywa knows you’re not spending another night brooding in the dark. You’re coming with us right now.”

“I’m not hungry—”

“We don’t care if you eat or not, you’re coming for the company!” she interrupted, a grin spreading across her face as she leaned in close. “The Tsahik just welcomed visitors from the Tayrangi clan who have arrived for a celebration. Their ikran riders are legendary, Y/n. And the warriors— we’re going to introduce you to them.”

The others giggled, already pushing you out past the woven curtain into the evening air. Your stomach twisted into an anxious knot. The last thing you wanted was to be paraded in front of strangers from the coast, especially when Neteyam would undoubtedly be sitting at the head of the gathering, watching your every move.

It was indeed packed with people, the air thick with the smell of roasted meat and sweet woodsmoke. The sounds of drums thumped against your chest, matching the beat of your own heart as children dodged through the crowd, laughing and running around.

“We’ll be back, girl! You sit your pretty ass right there and we’re gonna go get you some food!”

You quickly reached out, grabbing at her hands before she could scatter into the crowd. “Wait let me come with—”

Kxira caught you by the shoulder, using her weight to push you back down onto the carved wooden log. “No way. You’ll save us a seat!” With a wink, she and the rest of the girls dissolved into the crowd, leaving you stranded in the open.

You let out a loud groan, pulling your knees tight to your chest to keep from being ntoiced by the passing people. Every time a warrior with tattoos of their clan walked by, you looked down at your hands, terrified your friends would actually drag one of them over.

But it wasnt the strangers making the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Across the campfire, sitting among the clan elders, was Neteyam.

He was listening to an older Tayrangi rider, nodding along and gesturing as he spoke. He wore his riding visor pushed up, his cummerbund snug against his waist, and his armguards and armbands gripping his muscular limbs, making him look more like a seasoned warrior than you could ever find words to describe.

It made him look so commanding, and it was so hot.

Afraid he’d catch you staring, you wrenched your eyes away and buried your face against your legs, resting your head on your knees. You could no longer deny the effect he had on you.

“Hey, woman.”

You looked up to find an unfamiliar male leaning over you, he smiled down at you, the gesture so confident that you found yourself flashing a polite smile back. “Hi.”

“Such a cute girl to be sitting all by herself,” he grinned, gesturing with a flick of his tail toward the empty space beside you on the log. “May I?”

You shifted to the left to give him room. “Ah, sure, my friends just went to get some food and I was about to go look for them, so...”

He sat down anyway, “That’d be a shame for I’d love the chance to get to know a beauty like you.”

You let out a nervous laugh, the blunt flattery making you break eye contact as you scanned the clearing for your friends. You really had no desire to continue the conversation, but you didn’t wanna seem rude to a visiting warrior.

“The name’s Atan,” he said, leaning in. “Yours?”

“Uhh, Y/n.”

“A beautiful name for a beautiful girl.”

“Thanks...” you mumbled, your throat tightening under his intense gaze, though you kept your eyes trained on the dirt to avoid encouraging him further.

“You don’t seem to talk much,” Atan mentioned, his voice dropping as he reached out to brush a stray braid behind your ear, his fingertips lingering against your skin. You flinched away from his touch, your ears flattening backward in warning.

“Uh—”

“Sister!”

You both looked up at the call, spotting a trio of Omatikaya girls marching toward your log with smug grins. You didnt bother waving, your brow furrowing as they stopped right in front of you, their eyes darting between you and Atan. He leaned back with a smirk, resting his elbows on his knees as his eyes darted between you and the newcomers.

“We just wanted to say congratulations!” Fhey’ri squealed, clapping her hands together while the two behind her chuckled and nudged each other’s shoulders.

“For… what?”

“For securing another warrior so quickly! I mean, last week we saw you trailing behind Ze’ni, Virran, then Neteyam, and now you’re already ensnaring the visitors. You must really know how to pull them in… you should teach us. Anyway, y/n, just so if you ever get bored of this one too, make sure you pass him down to us.”

“Keep my name out of your mouth before you embarass yourselves,” you sat up, stepping right into her space with your tail lashing behind you, Fhey’ri tilted her head with a venomous smile.

“Oh, we didn’t mean to offend you, sister,” Fhey’ri purred, taking a step forward to match your height. “We just admire how... generous you are with your time, spending it so freely with every man who looks your way, even if you cannot seem to keep any of them for long.”

You let out a scoff, crossing your arms as you looked down your nose at her. “Are you done?”

The girl behind Fhey’ri stepped up, her eyes glaring as she tried to defend her friend. “You think you’re so above us just because the Olo’eyktan’s son throws you a scrap of attention? Neteyam’s just being polite, Y/n. A future leader must be kind to the less fortunate of the clan.”

“If being ‘less fortunate’ means I don’t have to resort to pathetic gossip just to get a man to notice my existence, then I wear it proudly,” you said as you leaned in closer.

Fhey’ri smile dropped as she hissed, “You think you’re so smart? everyone sees what you’re doing. You’re just a distraction.”

“Why? Are you distracted? If so then my bad,” you shot back, a grin playing on your lips as you gestured toward the open clearing. “The feast is that way. Go find a man who’s blind enough to tolerate your annoying screeches.”

“Excuse me?!” Fhey’ri barked. Behind you, Atan didn’t say a word, captivated by the exchange as he watched you put the girls in their place with an amused smile.

“You heard me,” you replied, you didn’t back down an inch, standing tall as you held her gaze.

”You speak boldly for someone who has accomplished nothing,” the girl on her left spat, trying to salvage their pride by sneering at your attire. “you hide away in your kelku while the rest of us contribute to the clan.”

“If you came over here hoping to make me look pathetic in front of our guest, you’ve failed. You only succeeded in showing him how insecure the Omatikaya women can be.”

Fhey’ri eyes twitched, her fingers shaking like she wanted to hit you, however the crowd was too thick and the elders were too close for her to throw a tantrum without consequences.

“What’s with this commotion?”

You looked to the side to see Neteyam approaching, his steps carrying a weight as his tail swayed behind him, his brow furrowing in irritation. Fhey’ri took a step back from you, turning toward him with a gasp that made your ears twitch in disgust.

“N-Neteyam! Y/n is being so cruel!” she wailed, putting on an act as she gestured at you. “My friends and I were just trying to greet her, but she started attacking us out of nowhere and saying the most horrible things—”

Before she could finish her lie, you surged and grabbed a fistful of her hair, yanking her forward so hard she stumbled toward you. But before you could land a blow, Neteyam stepped between you both, his broad chest blocking your view as his strong hands gripped your wrists to stop the fight.

You looked up at him with a scowl, your chest heaving with adrenaline as he gave you a look that told you to stop. You swatted his arms away from you, refusing to be handled, before throwing one last lethal glare over his shoulder at the trembling girl.

“Tell them to fuck off,” you commanded Neteyam in a whisper, shoving past his side to make sure he knew you weren’t asking. Neteyam didnt hesitate, turning his gaze back toward the trio.

“Everyone, to the feast,” he ordered. The authority in his tone broke their remaining confidence, forcing Fhey’ri and her minions to scurry away into the crowd, rolling their eyes in an attempt to save whatever dignity they had left.

From behind you, a man let out a sigh, breaking the sudden quiet. “Finally, that’s over. You girls were acting like you were in heat.”

You had forgotten that the Tayrangi man was even sitting there, but Neteyam’s attention snapped to him, his eyes glaring. “Brother, why didn’t you bother stopping the fight between the women of my clan?”

Atan just chuckled, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned back against the log with an arrogant shrug. “I was just minding my business with this chick until those girls started fighting over me, like. I cannot believe my popularity follows me even into the forest.”

“Are you serious? You didn’t even step in like the warrior you claim to be?” Neteyam challenged, taking a step forward and using his height to tower over the visitor, feeling your hand wrapping around his wrist.

“Big brother, c’mon. Those are arguments between girls and I have no power over their tongues,” Atan stated, smirking. “You should know what they say, let the women lead. I was just doing what a gentleman is supposed to do.”

“If you were a gentleman, you would’ve protected the woman you were conversing with instead of watching her be attacked for your own amusement.”

“Neteyam,” you called, stepping up and shaking your head at him to put an end to it before he started a diplomatic incident, prompting him to finally take a tense step back from the boy.

He was following you deep into the forest as you walked away from the scene, a sulk written all over your face. Your friends had probably left you alone on purpose to give you space with that Tayrangi guy, probably oblivious to the fact that some girls had come over just to cause trouble.

You had no idea why you had suddenly grabbed her hair like that, pulling it so harshly, if Neteyam hadn’t stopped you, the girl would’ve probably ended up bald by now.

As you stormed through the brush, Neteyam was following closely behind and scolding you nonstop for your actions. He kept lecturing you about how you shouldn’t have put your hands on a fellow clan member, and that your outburst had startled the people.

“Y/n, c’mon. Talk to me.”

“Stop following me,” you snapped, throwing a glaring look over your shoulder as you pushed past the giant ferns.

“At least let me accompany you back to your place so I know you’re safe.”

“Just get back to your duties, Neteyam, I’m clearly not in the mood after dealing with those freaks,” you stated, picking up your speed while your tail swayed in frustration. “If you stay here, we’re just gonna keep fighting. I don’t wanna hear another word about how I’m in the wrong.”

“We’re not fighting, lady,” he sighed, his ears twitching as he matched your fast pace. “The peace of the festival has been interrupted over some argument, a weaver of the Omatikaya should hold more grace than to attack someone in public.”

“Oh? So now I’m lacking grace because I refused to let them humiliate me?” you hissed, stopping in your tracks and spinning around to face him, stomping your foot hard against the damp moss. “Maybe you should just go back and comfort her instead, since she clearly matches your perfect standards of how a woman should act!”

Neteyam hissed lowly, “This has nothing to do with her, Y/n.”

“It has everything to do with her!” you yelled, your voice echoing through the trees as your warfreak tendencies flared up. “She was watching my every move, talking about how close you and I have been!”

“She talks too much, everyone knows this, but you pulling her hair just makes it look like her words actually have power over you.”

“Or maybe you actually believe those rumors too!” you shot back, the toxic thought spilling out before you could stop it as you stepped right into his space. “Maybe that’s why you’re scolding me so much, Neteyam, because you think I’m indeed a whore who just throws herself at every visitor who smiles at her!”

“Don’t say that,” he commanded. He took a step closer, his tall frame shadowing yours. “You know exactly how I view you, Y/n, I’m simply telling you how your actions out there—”

“I don’t care about the others, Neteyam, I care about the fact that you assumed I was the one causing a scene!” you cut him off, your voice cracking with an upset as you shoved his shoulder with your hand. “You didn’t even see how she cornered me, you just saw me striking someone and decided I was a problem that needed to be managed!”

“Y/n—”

“Why do you even care so much about what happened back there? Huh?!” you yelled, your chest heaving as you glared up at him.

“Why?” Neteyam retorted, stepping so close his breath brushed against yours, his demeanor shattering as his tail lashed behind him. “I care because you were sitting there letting him touch your hair, letting him whisper in your ear, and you just smiled right back at him like it was nothing!”

“Atan was just talking to me! Unlike you, who only ever comes around to lecture me like a child!” you screamed back, your hands balling into fists as you refused to take a single step back from his tall frame. “You have no right to dictate who I sit with, Neteyam, you do not own me!”

“Really?” Neteyam let out a bitter laugh. “He stood there and did nothing while someone tried to tear you down.”

“And what were you doing, Neteyam?” you shot back, shoving a hand against his chest. “You only stepped in to stop me, not her. you saw a girl who had to be restrained, so don’t stand there pretending you’re any better than him!”

“I’m better than him because I care about you!” he shouted, making you hiss. “Then why are you acting like this, Neteyam?!”

“I’m jealous of him!”

You froze, your brows pulling together as his words settled over you. “Jealous?” you repeated in disbelief. “Why in Eywa’s name would you be jealous of him?”

“Because I love you!”

“And I love you too!” The words escaped before you could stop them, torn straight from your chest. Your eyes widened the moment they left your lips, your breath catching as the silence between you became deafening.

His mouth was left agaped as he stared down at you, his eyes dropping to track the movement of your lips as he couldnt quite process the sound. He couldn’t utter a single word after hearing the exact phrase that had just slipped from your mouth, a faint “Huh.” escaping his throat.

“I don’t know why you’re so worked up right now, Neteyam,” you snapped, your brows knitting together as you jabbed a finger against his chest. “You’re making my blood boil. You know exactly what happened between us at our spot. If that wasn’t enough to tell you how I really feel, then I don’t know what ever will.”

His lips parted, ready to answer, but no words came. He swallowed hard, his chest rising like his own heartbeat had lodged itself in his throat. You let out a shaky breath and looked aside. “Leave. I suggest you leave now... before I say something I cannot take back.”

“Say it again.”

“I said leave!” You shoved at his chest, forcing him back a step. Before you could pull away, his hand closed around your forearm, stopping you in place as his eyes searched for yours.

“Say that you love me,” he whispered. “Again.”

Your jaw fell open, your eyes widening in disbelief at his request. “Are you serious?” you snapped. “Don’t be so ridiculous. I’ve never been more furious with you.”

“Im completely serious,” he begged, his grip on your forearm sliding down until his fingers slid into the spaces between yours, locking your hands together. He stepped back into your space, biting his lips and gulping under the gaze of you. “I need to hear them from your lips.”

“I’m not saying anything to you while you’re acting like a stubborn man,” you hissed, your tail whipping behind you as you tried to yank your hand back from his tight grasp.

Your heart was beating so loud that you were sure he could hear it, the shift from a heated argument to this intense closeness making your head spin as a deep indigo blush crept up your neck.

Neteyam didn’t move, using his free hand to gently cup the side of your face, his thumb resting right over your cheekbone to lessen the tension bleeding out of you. “I’m sorry. I’m acting this way because I’ve been losing my mind for weeks without you… Just say it, please?”

Your jaw tightened as you looked up at him, your earlier facade crumbling under the weight of his vulnerability. You saw the slight quiver of his ears, the way his chest rumbled, and you realized that the future leader of the Omatikaya was trembling right in front of you over a handful of words.

“I… love you,” you said, the words spilling out in an exasperated breath. You didn’t look away from his gaze. “I love you, skxawng. I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you. Is that enough for your massive ego? Do you need me to shout it to the forest?”

A beautiful laugh broke from his throat, all the tension leaving his broad shoulders. You let out a chuckle at how silly he looked, you bit your lower lip, heart soaring at the sight of him smiling so widely just for you.

“Will you really do that?” he teased, eyes shining with affection as he nudged your shoulder with his palm.

“Oh, I will!” You turned toward the thick brush and cupped your hands around your mouth, shouting into the valley at the top of your lungs. “I love you, Neteyam! Everyone, I’m in love with this annoying man beside me, and I want him all for myself—”

Before you could finish your wild confession, his large hands slid down to grip your waist. You let out a surprised gasp as his lips captured yours, swallowing your laughter in a deep kiss. Your fingers found his neck, holding on as he lifted you off your feet and pulled you flush against his warm chest.

He spun you around under the glowing trees, both of your tails tangling together in a spiral as laughter bubbled between your lips. You finally pulled away from the kiss, gasping for air as you slapped his shoulder. “Put me down, skxawng!”

You found yourself smiling far more often after that, the heaviness that had clung to your heart over the past few weeks finally lifting. There was no more taking the longer paths around the village or pretending not to notice him whenever your eyes met.

The girls in your circle noticed the change, nudging your shoulders whenever you caught yourself smiling for no reason or staring blankly at the loom with flushed cheeks.

The evenings became your favorite part of the day again. Whenever you sat together during communal meals, his tail would find yours beneath the grass, curling around it while he casually told you about the day’s patrols, difficult hunts, or whatever dumb thing one of the younger warriors had done.

Even your spot felt different now. You still draped your legs across his lap while rambling about the latest village gossip, but now his hand would settle naturally against your hip, his thumb stroking slow circles as he listened to every word you had to say.

Making out was often all you could do together now, neither of you ever feeling like you had enough of each other’s lips, or enough of the addictive way your bare skins pressed so hungrily against one another.

He would pin you against the cool stone, his mouth ghosting from your lip down to the sensitive skin of your neck just to hear the sounds you made. Your voice had become music to his ears, a melody that drove him crazy and made his discipline disintegrate whenever you whispered his name against his skin.

It had gotten to the point where the two of you, especially Neteyam, would wake up craving each other after dreaming of what more could be.

The erotic dreams would leave his skin hot and sweating, his loincloth straining against the heavy ache of his desire, while his heart drummed tightly in his chest within the quiet of his family’s hut. His mind was completely consumed by the vivid memory of your hands sliding across his chest, fueling a desperate need to finally bridge the gap between you.

The boundary of only humping dry was beginning to feel like a sweet torture, and every morning he opened his eyes, the hunger in his blood only demanded more of your bare skin. He could still feel the way your body had moved against his, the way you had moaned his name, and it made his cock throb every single time.

Neteyam sat up in his hammock, breathing hard as he ran a hand through his braids. He looked around to make sure no one in his family was awake before slipping out quietly. The forest was still dark, but he knew exactly where he was going.

He needed to see you.

He moved through the trees until he reached your home, he hesitated for a moment outside, ears twitching as he listened for any sound, before he slipped inside and found you sleeping.

You stirred when he knelt beside your hammock, eyes fluttering open. “’teyam?” you whispered, voice sleepy. He leaned down and kissed you softly. “Sorry. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I needed to see you.”

You sat up slowly, rubbing your eyes before clasping his face with your palms. “It’s late, baby...”

Neteyam climbed into the hammock with you, pulling you into his arms. “I missed you. I keep dreaming about you. About us.”

You blushed, hiding your face against his chest. “You shouldn’t be here. If my parents find out…” You bite your lip before turning your head to see your parents wrapped in each other in their own hammock, exhausted from the expedition.

Neteyam held you tighter against his chest, his lips pressing a kiss onto the top of your head. “I know. But I cannot stay away, not when I want you this badly.”

Before you could answer, his large hand closed over yours, guiding your palm down the center of his stomach until your fingers rested directly against the throbbing hardness straining against his loincloth.

A blush rushed to your cheeks as your eyes drifted down. There he was, hard and straining against the fabric, and right over his heat was the very token you had painstakingly hand-sewn with your own fingers just a week ago. Knowing your handmade gift was framing his arousal made you rub your thighs.

Your nose scrunched in fluster as you licked your dry lips, the heat and thickness of him burning right through the fabric into your palm. Your fingers curled, giving a squeeze around the rigid length of him.

Neteyam’s breath caught in his throat, a moan escaping his lips as his grip on your waist tightened so hard his fingernails dug into your hip.

His hands slid down your skin, squeezing your ass. You whimpered softly, pressing closer to him and hiding your face in his neck. “Neteyam… what if they wake up?” He lifted your head to kiss your lips sloppily. You tried to hide your moans, nervous because your parents had high-hearing ears. “Let’s play the quiet game then?”

“Are you sure? I don’t think I can be quiet…” you murmured, looking up at him as you took his hand and placed it directly over your top.

Neteyam leaned down, pressing a peck over your breast before sliding his lips up to lick the sensitive skin of your neck, making you whimper. His boner grew even harder against your thigh at the thought of you losing control, unable to handle your own noises out here.

“Only if you want to, ofcourse…”

You whimpered, nodding against his chest. You laid on your back, putting your leg on his lap as you opened your legs wide, guiding his hand below as you kissed his lips. His fingers cupped your pussy, letting the loincloth press against your wetness as his fingers slid up and down to make you even wetter than you already were.

You opened your legs wider, rolling your hips slowly against his fingers as he teased both your core and tits. You pressed your lips into a straight line to keep from making sounds. You looked down to watch his fingers moving in circles on the fabric you were wearing.

Neteyam leaned his head to your hair, pressing a kiss before he dove into your ear, sucking on your earlobe since it had always been your sensitive spot. He skimmed his tongue down to your collarbone, grinning when he felt your fingers scratching on his biceps as he fastened the pace of his fingers.

He slipped under your loincloth, rubbing your cunt slowly. “So wet already,” he whispered. “Who’s this for?” You moaned quietly, hips rolling against his hand. “For you…”

Neteyam pushed two fingers inside you, curling them perfectly. “That’s my good girl. So tight around my fingers.” You bit your lip to stay quiet, thighs shaking. “Neteyam… feels so good.”

He kept fingering you, thumb rubbing your clit while he kissed your neck. “I want to make you cum, baby. Want to hear those pretty sounds.”

“Please… go on.”

He didn’t stop just then, he kept moving his fingers faster, whispering praises against your skin. “So beautiful… and needy.”

You were gasping for air as you neared your orgasm, lips drawing blood as you tried to contain your noises. You were afraid your parents might wake up at any moment and see your legs spread wide for the most respected warrior of the clan who kept fingering you.

“You like this? The thought of your parents hearing your noises and the wetness of your little cunt? It’s so wet, baby. I can hear it all the way,” he whispered.

You gulped, hiding your face in his neck before biting his skin to muffle your moans. Your nails dug into his biceps as he quickened then slowed his pace to tease your release.

“Fuck… ’teyam. C’mon, I’ll kick you here,” you whimpered. He chuckled and let you cum with a muffled moan against his skin. You clenched around his fingers as your body trembled. Neteyam kept moving his fingers through your orgasm before pulling them out.

He lifted your head from his neck and let you lick your release from his fingers. You were still shaking as you weakly wrapped your hands around his wrist to hold his hand in place. You licked your own cum off his fingers hungrily.

Neteyam groaned deep in his chest at the sight of you licking your own cum from his fingers. He pulled his fingers away with a hint of jealousy before holding your jaw to pull you into a wet kiss, letting him taste the blood. He pushed his tongue in to dance with yours, tasting your cum on your tongue that had been on his fingers.

His hands moved to your legs, turning you to face him and wrapping your leg around his waist. He pressed his clothes cock against your thighs. He held his cock, lifting his loincloth before rubbing the tip against your cunt.

He was teasing your entrance with slow thrusts but not letting it go inside your hole just yet. You were humming against his lips in the kiss, pulling tight on his braid as you rolled your hips in circles against his tip. He let the tip slip in for a second to tease you, making you squeak before he pulled it out again.

You pulled away from the kiss and bit his lower lip to scowl at him, sending him a glare. He licked his lip before stealing another peck from your lips. He looked down, rubbing his sensitive tip that felt like it was about to explode if it didn’t enter your pussy and feel your tight walls around it.

“Turn around for me, baby.”

You nodded and turned on the hammock. You felt him press a kiss to your shoulder before he groaned when you rubbed your ass against his pulsing cock.

Neteyam’s hands gripped your hips tightly as he pulled your lower body against his. He was breathing next to your ear, wanting more of you.

You could feel every inch of his length as he began to slide his cock between your inner thighs, using the tightness of your skin to pleasure himself. The movement forced his hardness to slide right against your swollen pussy with every push, making you open your mouth to let out small gasps as you felt the thickness of his size.

You whimpered, pushing back against him. “Neteyam… please…” He groaned, rubbing his cock along your wet folds without pushing inside. “I hear you. Let me do this first…”

He kept grinding against you, tip brushing your entrance over and over. Both of you were whimpering to each other, bodies moving together in desperation. The risk of your parents waking up only made everything feel more captivating.

Neteyam whispered against your ear. “You feel so good, Y/n. So wet for me…”

You moaned softly, pushing back harder against him. “I want you inside me…” Neteyam groaned but kept teasing, not giving in yet. “Let me prepare your body first, okay?”

He whispered against your ear before taking hold of your thigh, lifting it up so he could thrust against your pussy. He shifted so his cock could rub your clit, making you fold your knees and hold them as you watched his cock sliding against your cunt, letting him hold it again while you push your top to tease your nipples.

You turned your head to pull him into a kiss, then pulled away again to watch how he was thrusting against your skin. It was just like in the forest and the days before this, but now it was bare.

Before, you two couldn’t then get enough of each other, so you ended up fucking through your loincloths.

Now there was nothing between you.

Neteyam leaned down to capture your nipple with his lips, moving his tongue to wet it, making you arch your back as the feeling of his cock and mouth on your body made you even more aroused.

He returned to your neck, whispering in your ear. “I’m going to put it in now, baby… you want that?” You nodded frantically, begging him. “Yes… please, ’t-teyam. I need you inside me.”

He pushed the tip of his cock against your entrance, rubbing it up and down your wet folds. You whimpered, trying to stay quiet because your parents were sleeping just a few meters away.

Neteyam whimpered, still teasing your entrance. “Fuck… you’re soo wet...” You rolled your hips, trying to get him to push inside. “Please… I cannot wait anymore. Fuck me, Neteyam.”

He finally pushed the head of his cock inside you slowly, stretching you open. You gasped, biting your lip hard to keep from moaning too loudly. Neteyam stayed still for a moment, breathing hard against your neck. “Oh, that’s good… you’re so tight.”

You forced your palm flat over your mouth to smother your moans, your hips trembling as you tried to adjust to his size. “Move… please,” you whimpered against your own skin.

He began thrusting into you, pacing his movements to keep the friction from growing too loud. The mesh of the hammock swayed heavily with the momentum of his weight, causing the tight rope binding to creak against the bamboo post.

The sudden noise made you both instantly freeze in place, your breath catching in your throat as you strained your ears to listen if your parents had stirred awake.

As you lay there paralyzed with fear, the panic made your swollen pussy clench tightly around his cock, forcing a moan to catch deep in Neteyam’s throat.

He kept moving, slow and deep, whispering in your ear. “You’re so perfect, y/n. You’re hugigng me tight…” You moaned quietly. “Harder… but be quiet, damn it…”

He thrust a little faster, still trying to stay silent. You could feel every inch of him inside you, stretching you perfectly. Neteyam groaned softly, burying his face in your neck. “I… fuck… y/n.”

You rolled your hips to meet his thrusts, both of you moving together clumsily. The hammock swayed with your movements. You bit your lip hard, trying not to moan too loudly. “Neteyam, it’s so... Don’t stop.”

He kept thrusting, one hand on your hip while the other braced against the hammock. “Don’t clench too hard—” You whimpered, clenching around him harder. “Faster… please. I need more.”

Neteyam sped up, still careful not to wake your parents. You were both attempting to hide the gasps, trying to stay quiet while chasing pleasure. “You feel so good, Y/n. I could stay inside you forever.”

You moaned softly, pulling him closer by his hips. “I want you deeper… please, Neteyam.” He thrust harder, lifting your leg to the air, hitting that perfect spot inside you. Both of you were lost in each other, and it was overwhelming.

You couldn’t contain the pleasure, your hand dropping flat onto the floor to balance yourself as you used the leverage to thrust your hips straight back against his length. Your other hand remained clamped over your mouth, hiding the moans tearing from your throat.

Neteyam chuckled, pulling you back onto the hammock and sliding out of your wet cunt, making you let out a whine at the abrupt loss of his cock. Before you could complain, he sank down onto his knees on the floor, burying his face between your thighs and wrapping his lips around your throbbing clit to make you gasp.

You hooked one leg securely over his broad shoulder while the other braced against the floor, gripping the tight ropes of the hammock as you rode his face. His tongue flicked over your sensitive core, driving you wild with the waves of heat pooling in your body.

In a haze of desperation, you locked your fingers into his hair and pushed his head deeper into your pussy, suffocating him against your soaking heat, but he didn’t care an inch, for he would gladly die right there in your cunt.

“G-Gonna comee…” you mumbled, throwing your head back to surrender to his touch, but he suddenly pulled away from your clit, pressing a teasing parting peck right over the peak that made you scoff.

“This… fuck,” you breathed out as he pulled you to your feet, swapping places with you so that his tall frame now occupied the center of the hammock. You stepped over him, holding his jaw to press your lips against his as his large palms cupped your breasts, his thumbs sliding beneath your accessories to pinch and roll your sensitive tips.

You sighed into the kiss, dragging your body against his, your knees curling up while your fingernails dug into the muscles of his shoulders and neck. He squeezed your ass before slapping it, your torso against him as he tilted his head to deepen the kiss, his fangs grazing your lower lip.

Pulling away to catch your breath, you turned your back to him and ground your ass right against his face, making him swallow hard at the blatant invitation. His hands brushed over your hips, grasping the skin before pulling your cheeks wide to drink in the sight of your dripping pussy.

He leaned in and dragged his hot tongue over your entrance, making your thighs shake as you reached back to grip his thick braids for support. You widened your stance to give him more access, rolling your hips in tight circles against his mouth to gather every ounce of friction his tongue could offer.

You clamped a hand over your mouth to stifle a scream, looking over your shoulder to watch him devour your wetness in the dim light of the kelku.

You were unable to stay still, so you spun back around and lifted one leg, pushing his head down. He leaned down as his mouth found your clit once again, driving you right over the edge. “Oh… fuck… I love that, Neteyam,” you muttered, your toes curling at the pleasure of his tongue on your pussy.

He looked up at you while licking, “Mhm? I love this too… it tastes so good. You taste delicious.” He spoke while sucking your pussy, making you feel the vibration of his voice right on your folds. You opened your mouth to let out your breaths as you watched him lick your wetness.

You reached blindly behind your back to grab your own queue, watching its tendrils at the tip light up, glowing with a hunger for a connection. Your body knew exactly what it wanted, who it wanted, and why.

Your fingers sank into Neteyam’s hair, caressing his head as his mouth remained buried between your thighs. He let out a whimper against your wet skin when your hands slipped down to enclose around his kuru, letting it rest over his shoulder now. The contrast of your touch made him look up, his eyes dark with blown-out pupils.

Grasping his jaw, you squeezed his cheeks, lifting your thighs away from his face just enough to lean down and catch his lips in a soaking kiss.

You moaned aloud as his large hands gripped your ass, lifting your leg high over his shoulder once more to expose you completely. He broke the kiss, peppering a messy smooch along the corners of your mouth before diving back down.

Your breath was cut as his tongue swept over your throbbing clit, his gaze locked onto the sight of his own saliva slicking your slippery skin while his fingers parted your lips wide.

Tritxo wasn’t lying; Neteyam really did have a hunger running through his blood. You could feel it in the press of his hands and the way his eyes devoured you.

You gasped when he practically made out with your clit, flicking his tongue on it and making you shake, unable to hold your weight properly.

He noticed this and leaned back, rubbing his fingers on your cunt before he laid on the hammock, patting his thighs.

You bit your lip before climbing back into your sleeping hammock, straddling his legs. You leaned in seductively, smirking in the kiss as you opened one eye to find his cock, making him almost close his legs together at the touch. He whimpered when you held his cock and teased the tip on your entrance.

You pulled away from the kiss before sitting up straight to guide his cock throbbing for your pussy once again. At last, you hissed as you slid down easily on his cock, you began thrusting down on his size to chase your release since you hadn’t cum yet after the long session.

Neteyam watched you fuck yourself stupid on his cock. He lifted his head to glance at your parents who were still sleeping soundly before his lust-filled eyes returned to you. You dropped your hands on his chest as he leaned up to capture your lips.

“Look,” His hand went to your skin just above your pussy. “You see this? I can feel myself right through your skin,” he smiled at your shy expression as you looked down at your belly, slowing your thrusts to see the faint bump on your stomach from his cock inside you.

You grinned before speeding up your pace on him. You lifted his hand to your breasts, holding it tight against your skin while his other hand went to your hair and tucked it behind your ears. He leaned in to peck your cheeks, your nose, your forehead, your neck, and your collarbone, avoiding your lips.

You left your neck open for access as you looked up at the ceiling of your hut, jumping up and down on his cock. You felt his mouth clamp on your neck, licking your skin as you held him there. His mouth moved to your nipples again while his hands found your ass and squeezed it tight.

You placed your hand over his queue where it rested on his shoulder before grabbing your own, tilting his head up. When he gave you a nod of approval, you both slowed the thrusts of your hips. You watched, mesmerized, as the glowing tendrils of your braid flashed, reaching out to twist and wrap tightly around one another, locking you together.

Neteyam let out a broken sigh at the impact of the bond. It wasn’t just the tight, pulsing heat of your walls squeezing his cock anymore, now, your unadulterated pleasure was flooding into his nervous system through the connection.

Just as Meya had told you, everything became beautifully clear the exact second you were connected. You could feel th racing jump of his heartbeat as if it were your own. You could hear his raw thoughts, and the dizzying realization of just how deeply in love with you he was.

It was a rush, two souls walking in the very same body. Your chest tightened, your heart skipping a lot of beat at the weight of what this meant: you were now bound to this person for the rest of your life.

And it was Neteyam.

You licked your lips before pulling him away from your neck and resting your head on his collarbone, delivering lazy thrusts on his cock.

Neteyam felt your tiredness through the bond and laid back down again, moving his legs so he could thrust up into your pussy. He held your back and hair as he began thrusting up into you, the new angle making you wrap your arms around his neck as you let him take control.

You moaned right next to his ear, moaning as fast as his thrusts. Your pussy clenched down on his cock as you pulled his jaw down for a kiss.

A synchronized gasp tore from both of your throats as a blinding shockwave of pure pleasure detonated through the bond. The sensation struck like liquid lightning, shooting straight up your spines and blinding your vision into a haze of bioluminescent light.

Your bodies locked up in unison, the neural feedback loop amplifying your shared ecstasy until it was almost too much to bear. Neteyam buried his face into the crook of your neck with a groan, his fingers digging into your hips.

Sooner, you didn’t get the chance to warn him but he knew you were close because you couldn’t stop clenching around his cock.

You came around him so he slowed his thrusts, not wanting to overstimulate you, but still chasing his own release. Neteyam kept moving inside you, breathing hard against your neck. “You feel so good, baby. You get so tight when you cum.”

He then came inside your pussy from your desperate clenching, his heavy release filling your tight walls as his body shuddered with the force of his orgasm.

“Shit, Neteyam…” you breathed out, leaning back to admire his features, his bioluminescent dots flaring a light, indigo from the recent pleasure his body had just released.

You pressed grateful kisses over his cheeks before leaning your head down against his shoulder, your fingers stroking shapes over the skin of his chest.

You bit your lower lip to stop yourself from smiling, a sudden wave of heat rushing to your face as you grew conscious of the situation. You had actually just mated with him, had sex, got your cunt eaten out while your parents were sleeping just nearby, and to make your head spin even faster, his cock was still buried deep inside you, pulsating along your throbbing walls.

Neteyam caught the tail end of your thoughts through the bond. He bit his lip, a smile breaking through his shock as he reached up to pat your back, pulling you close.

He couldn’t believe it either.

He knew he lacked experience in these things, but he was far from clueless. A spike of irritation flared in his chest, not at you, but at himself. He couldn’t believe his brain had short-circuited so bad that he had ended up mating with you here, in such an unromantic place, instead of giving you the proper ritual you deserved.

You grinned at his thoughts and leaned up to press a tender kiss against his cheek. Your lips lingered against his warm skin for a long moment, comforting him before you slowly pulled back.

You swallowed hard as your eyes locked onto his. The intensity in his gaze was magnetic, holding you so much that it felt like you couldn’t tear yourself away even if you tried.

Neteyam’s gaze drifted down from your eyes to your lips, staying there for a second before rising back up. In the golden depths of his eyes, you could see a faint, desperate flicker of hope, mirrored by the rapid burst of his heart.

Magnetically drawn together, you both began to lean in, closing the distance in a slow motion. It was intimate. In that second before your lips finally met, everything about Neteyam, the warmth radiating off his skin, the gentle slack of his jaw, the affection in his eyes, felt like the very definition of love.

You both pulled away before chuckling, his chest rumbling with a satisfied sound. “That was… I’m speechless, my love,” he whispered, covering his eyes with his forearm in disbelief as his other arm wrapped around your waist, cradling your head securely against his chest.

You laughed along with him, leaning back once more to look up at his face. “Do you think… they heard us?”

Neteyam moved his arm from his face, a wicked smirk spreading across his lips as he shook his head. “I’m sure they did, baby. You weren’t exactly quiet, just like you said you wouldn’t be able to be quiet.”

You pouted your lip, letting out a hiss at his teasing. “You were louder,” you retorted, and to put him in his place, you clenched the tight walls of your pussy around his buried cock.

The sudden squeeze made Neteyam utter a startled whimper, a gasp escaping his throat before he covered his mouth with his hand, his golden eyes widening in shock at how loud he had just been.

You giggled at his panicked expression, pulling his hand away from his lips so you could lean up and kiss him. He kissed you back, the pace slowing down into a deep, tender embrace that was overflowing with the romance between two best friends who had finally become everything more.

Pulling back, Neteyam rested his forehead against yours, a smile tugging at his lips. “...I have to tell my baby brother that my biggest advice will be to ruin the friendship.”

You giggled, shaking your head as his large hand came up to cup your jaw. He gently pulled you back in for another kiss before you murmured against his lips,

“Tell him not to wait as long as we did.”

taglist - @k----a27s

requested　﹒　n/a ♡

Wine buzzes lazy through your veins, a warm river pooling in your stomach as you lean against the doorframe of your shared closet. Michael sits on the edge of your king-sized bed, the wine glass held loose in one elegant hand, the other resting on his thigh. He’s already changed from his day clothes into a loose, black silk shirt, unbuttoned halfway, and a pair of matching pajama pants. The soft light of the bedside lamp catches the silver initial bracelet around his wrist, the one you bought him last anniversary.

“Reaady?” you call out, your voice a little husky from the wine and the thrill of what you’re about to do. Michael takes a slow sip of his wine, his dark eyes never leaving yours. A small, knowing smile plays on his lips. “Born ready, angel.”

You giggle, a light, bubbly sound that feels foreign to your ears. With a deep breath, you push off the doorframe and reach for the first outfit. A classic sailor uniform. The fabric is a crisp, navy blue, the collar starched stiff and trimmed with white. The skirt is scandalously short, ending mid-thigh, and the little white sailor hat perched on your head feels ridiculously small. You turn to face the full-length mirror, adjusting the hat at a jaunty angle. You look like you’re about to star in an old-fashioned musical, one with lots of tap dancing and wholesome, patriotic fervor.

“Ahoy there, handsome,” you say, trying to deepen your voice into a more authoritative tone. “'Mission t'come aboard?” Michael’s eyes widen, a flicker of amusement and something darker in their depths. He sets his wine glass down on the nightstand with a soft click. “Well, well, well…” he drawls, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through the floorboards. “Looks like m'in fer a treat t'night.” He pats the space on the bed next to him. “Why don’t you come on over here an' let th' captain inspect his new recruit?”

Your heart hammers against your ribs as you cross the room, the short skirt swishing around your thighs. You stop in front of him, standing at attention. “Recruit reportin' for duty, sir.” “Good girl,” he says, his hand coming up to rest on your hip. His thumb traces circles over the fabric, sending shivers down your spine. “Very good. But I think you’re wearin' a li'l too much for this inspection.” His fingers dip beneath the hem of the skirt, teasing the skin of your thigh. “Why don'cha show me whatcha got under this uniform?”

You bite your lip, a blush creeping up your neck. With a shaky breath, you reach back to unzip the skirt. It pools at your feet, leaving you in just the sailor top, a pair of plain white panties, and the ridiculous hat. Michael’s gaze is hot, heavy, as it roams over your body. He hooks a finger in the waistband of your panties, tugging you closer. “Much better,” he murmurs. “Now, 'bout that inspection…”

He doesn’t give you a chance to respond before his lips are on yours, a hungry, demanding kiss that tastes of wine and desire. His tongue slides into your mouth, tangling with yours in a dance as old as time. His hands are everywhere, stroking, caressing, learning the curves of your body as if for the first time. You moan into his mouth, your hands tangling in the soft strands of his hair. You’re breathless when he finally pulls away, a smirk on his face. “I think this sailor's had 'nough' of th' high seas,” he says, his voice thick with desire. “Wha's next on th' agenda?”

You take a moment to catch your breath, your body still humming from his touch. With a final, lingering glance at Michael, you retreat back into the closet, shedding the rest of the sailor uniform as you go. The next outfit is a classic chef’s coat, a crisp, white double-breasted jacket that’s way too big for you. You roll up the sleeves, a simple white apron tied loosely around your waist. You grab a wooden spoon from the kitchen on your way back, holding it like a weapon. “Bon appétit, monsieur,” you say, your best French accent sounding more like a mangled New Yorker. Michael chuckles, a deep, throaty sound. ““Ooh, I do love a woman who can han’le herself in th’ kitchen.” He leans back on his elbows, legs sprawled out in front of him. “What’s on th’ menu t’night, chef?”

You stride over to the bed, the wooden spoon held aloft. “You are,” you say, your voice low and seductive. “I’m th’ main course, an’ you’re the dessert.” You tap the spoon against his chest, right over his heart. “But first, ya gotta earn your meal.” He raises an eyebrow, a challenge in his eyes. “Oh? An’ how do I do that?” “By tellin’ me what you want,” you say, leaning in close, your lips brushing against his. “Tell me how you wan’ me. Tell me all your dirty little secrets.”

He groans, a raw, primal sound that goes straight to your core. “I wan’ you,” he says, his voice a low growl. “I wan’ t’taste every inch of you, t’feel you writhing beneath me. I wan’ t’hear you scream my name as I take you, hard n’ fast, until you can’t remember your own.” You pull back, a triumphant smile on your face. “Good answer,” you say, before you're once again retreating to the closet.

The flapper dress is a slinky, silver number that shimmers under the soft glow of the lamp. It’s a straight-cut, dropped-waist style that hangs loose on your frame, the fringe dancing around your knees. A pearl necklace completes the look, the cool beads a stark contrast against your heated skin. You pin your hair up in a loose, faux bob, smudging a little dark eyeliner on for good measure. You glide back into the room, your hips swaying to a silent jazz tune. “Well, hello there, daddy-o,” you purr, your voice a smoky, seductive whisper. “Buy a girl a drink?” Michael’s eyes are dark, almost black, with desire. He sits up, the silk shirt falling open to reveal the smooth, muscular planes of his chest. “I’ll buy y’the whole damn bar,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “C’mere, you li’l minx.”

You sashay over to him, the fringe of your dress swirling around your legs. You straddle his lap, your arms looping around his neck. “What’s a girl gotta do to get a lil’ attention around here?” you murmur, your lips tracing the line of his jaw. “You’re already gettin’ it, mama,” he says, his hands coming to rest on your hips, holding you in place. “More than y’know.” He rolls his hips up against yours, the hard line of his erection pressing against your core. You gasp, your head falling back as a wave of pleasure washes over you.

“Michael…” you breathe, your fingers tightening in his hair. “Yeah, baby?” he murmurs, his lips finding that sensitive spot behind your ear. “Tell me what y’want.” “I want…” you trail off, your mind going blank as he continues to assault your senses with his touch. “I want you t’dance with me.” He chuckles, a low, throaty sound. “Dance?” he asks, his hands sliding up your back, under the cool fabric of the dress. “Is that what they’re callin’ it these days?” You laugh, a breathy, desperate sound. “Dance with me,” you repeat, your voice a little stronger this time. “Right here, right now.”

With a groan, he stands, lifting you with him as if you weigh nothing. He sets you down on your feet, his hands still on your hips. The music is silent, but in your head, a lively jazz tune is playing, a fast-paced, frenetic melody that matches the rhythm of your heart. Michael’s hands are firm on your waist as he guides you, his body moving against yours in a way that’s both elegant and utterly sinful. The flapper dress is a blur of silver fringe, a whirlwind of motion as you spin and dip, your bodies pressed close together. The room feels hot, the air thick with the scent of wine and desire. When the music in your head finally fades, you’re both breathless, your bodies pressed together in a tangle of limbs and desperation.

“You’re dangerous,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against yours. “So are you,” you whisper back, before you’re pulling away, the promise of more hanging in the air between you. You give him one last, lingering look over your shoulder before you disappear back into the closet, the flapper dress a pool of silver at your feet.

The cowgirl costume is all denim and lace. A pair of tiny denim shorts, a fringed leather vest worn over nothing but skin, and a pair of cowboy boots that you’re not entirely sure you can walk in. You place a Stetson hat on your head, the brim casting a shadow over your eyes. You look at yourself in the mirror, a wild, untamed look in your eyes. You look like you could ride a bull and win. You stomp back into the room, the heels of the boots clicking against the hardwood floor. “Howdy, partner,” you say, your voice a low, husky drawl. “You lookin’ for a good time?”

Michael’s eyes are wide, a flicker of surprise and something darker in their depths. He lets out a low whistle. “Well, hello there, cowgirl,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “You certainly know how to make an entrance.” He pats his thigh. “Why don’t you come over here n’ take a ride?” You saunter over to him, the boots making you feel powerful, invincible. You stop in front of him, your hands on your hips. “This ain’t my first rodeo, handsome,” you say, your voice a low purr. “You sure y’can handle me?”

“I’m willin’ to risk it,” he says, his hands coming up to rest on your hips, pulling you closer. “I’ve always been a fan of a good ride.” He leans in, his breath warm against your ear. “Why don’t y’show me what you’ve got?” You don’t need to be told twice. You straddle his lap, your knees on either side of his hips. You can feel the hard length of him against you, a silent promise of the pleasure to come. You start to move, a slow, deliberate rocking motion that has you both gasping for air in a matter of moments. His hands are on your ass, guiding your movements, his hips rising to meet yours with every downward thrust. The fringe on your vest sways with your movements, a soft, rhythmic counterpoint to the slap of skin against silk.

“Michael,” you gasp, your head falling back as a wave of pleasure washes over you. “That’s it, baby,” he groans, his hands tightening on your hips. “Ride me. Jus’ like that.” You’re lost in a haze of pleasure, your body moving on instinct, your mind a blank slate of sensation. You can feel the pressure building inside you, a tight coil of need that’s about to snap. You’re so close, so damn close, and then—

You pull away, a wicked smile on your face. “Not s’fast, cowboy,” you say, your voice a low purr. “Best things in life are worth waitin’ for.” He lets out a frustrated groan, but there’s a smile in his eyes. “You’re gonna be the death of me, woman,” he says, his voice thick with desire. You just wink, before you’re once again retreating to the closet, the cowboy boots kicked off with a sigh of relief.

The cat costume is simple, but effective. A black, form-fitting bodysuit, a pair of fuzzy cat ears on a headband, and a long, black tail attached to the back. You draw on some whiskers with an eyeliner pencil, completing the look. You feel sleek, powerful, predatory. You crawl back into the room on your hands and knees, your movements fluid and graceful. You rub up against his leg, purring, a low, rumbling sound in your chest. “Meow,” you say, your voice a soft, seductive whisper.

Michael’s breath hitches, a strangled sound. He reaches down, his fingers tangling in your hair, stroking your head like you’re a real cat. “Well, hello there, kitty,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “You look like you’re lookin’ for a li’l trouble.” You lean into his touch, a soft sigh escaping your lips. “Maybe,” you purr, your tail swishing back and forth. “What’re you gonna d’about it?”

“M’gonna give you exactly what you want,” he says, his hand moving from your head to your chin, tilting your face up to meet his. “What d’you want, kitty? You want me to pet you? To stroke you ‘til you’re purrin’ my name?”

“Yesss,” you hiss, your eyes fluttering closed. “Please, Michael. Touch me.” He doesn’t need any more encouragement. He pulls you onto the bed, your body molding against his. His hands are everywhere, stroking, caressing, learning the curves of your body as if for the first time. He finds a sensitive spot behind your ear, and you arch into his touch, a loud purr rumbling in your chest. He chuckles, a low, throaty sound, before his lips are on yours, a hungry, demanding kiss that tastes of wine and desire.

This one is harder to pull away from. His touch is electric, a current that runs through your veins, setting your nerve endings on fire. But you manage it, untangling yourself from his arms with a soft sigh. You give him one last, lingering look over your shoulder, your eyes promising more, before you disappear back into the closet, the cat costume a puddle of black on the floor.

The last costume is, by far, your favorite. A simple, white, floor-length nightgown, a pair of feathered wings strapped to your back, and a cheap, plastic halo perched on your head. You feel ethereal, otherworldly. You look at yourself in the mirror, a soft, serene smile on your face. You look like you’ve just descended from heaven.

You glide back into the room, your movements slow and deliberate. You stop at the foot of the bed, your hands clasped in front of you. “Are you Michael?” you ask, your voice a soft, melodious whisper.

Michael’s eyes are wide, a flicker of awe and something darker in their depths. He sits up, the silk shirt falling open to reveal the smooth, muscular planes of his chest. “I am,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “And who might you be?”

“M’your guardian angel,” you say, your voice a soft, seductive purr. “I’ve been sent t’watch over you. T’protect you. To… guide you.” “Guide me?” he asks, a challenge in his eyes. “And how d’you plan on doin’ that?”

“By showin’ you the way t’heaven,” you say, a slow smile spreading across your face. You move towards the bed, the white nightgown flowing around you like a cloud. You stop in front of him, your wings fluttering gently. “Show me,” he whispers, his eyes dark with desire. “Show me the way.”

You lean in, your lips hovering just above his. “Close your eyes,” you whisper. He obeys, and you take a step back. With a deep breath, you reach up and unstrap the wings, letting them fall to the floor with a soft thud. Then, you reach for the hem of the nightgown, pulling it over your head in one smooth, fluid motion. You stand before him, completely and utterly bare. The soft light of the lamp kisses your skin, casting you in a warm, golden glow. You are vulnerable, exposed, but you have never felt more powerful.

He opens his eyes, and a gasp escapes his lips. His gaze roams over your body, hot and heavy, lingering on the curve of your breasts, the dip of your waist, the swell of your hips. He looks at you like you’re a masterpiece, a work of art he can’t quite believe is real. “Who are you dressed as?” he asks, his voice a husky whisper, full of awe and wonder.

You take a step forward, closing the distance between you. You cup his face in your hands, your thumbs stroking his smooth cheeks. You lean in, your lips brushing against his, a feather-light touch that sends shivers down both your spines.

“Yours,” you whisper.

And with that, the game is over. The pretense is gone. There’s no sailor, no chef, no flapper, no cowgirl, no cat, no angel. There’s only you, and there’s only him. A growl rumbles in his chest, a raw, primal sound that goes straight to your core. In one swift, fluid motion, he surges to his feet, scooping you into his arms. You wrap your legs around his waist, your arms around his neck, as he carries you the few steps to the bed. He lays you down gently, almost reverently, as if you’re something precious, something to be cherished.

He stands over you for a long moment, just looking. His eyes are dark, almost black, with an emotion so intense it takes your breath away. He shrugs out of his silk shirt, letting it fall to the floor, revealing the expanse of his chest, lean and muscled. Your gaze follows the trail of dark hair that disappears beneath the waistband of his pajama pants, and your body tightens with anticipation.

He kneels on the bed, his knees on either side of your hips. He leans down, bracing himself on his forearms, caging you in. His hair falls around his face, a soft curtain that blocks out the rest of the world. It’s just you and him in this bubble of light and desire. “You have no idea what you do t’me,” he murmurs, his lips a breath away from yours. “Show me,” you whisper back.

And he does.

His kiss is slow, deep, a thorough exploration that leaves you breathless and wanting. It’s not a kiss of frantic hunger, but of deep, abiding tenderness, a kiss that says more than words ever could. His hands trace the lines of your body, a slow, deliberate path that sets your skin on fire. He learns the curve of your waist, the dip of your back, the swell of your hips, as if committing them to memory. His lips leave yours, trailing a path of fire down your neck, your collarbone, the valley between your breasts. He takes his time, worshiping your body with a devotion that brings tears to your eyes. He’s not just touching you; he’s cherishing you. Adoring you.

His hands find your breasts, cupping their weight, his thumbs brushing over your nipples until they pebble into tight, aching points. He lowers his head, taking one into his mouth, and a sharp, indrawn breath is your only warning before a bolt of pure pleasure shoots through you. He lavishes attention on one, then the other, his tongue and teeth working in tandem until you’re a writhing, whimpering mess beneath him.

“Michael…” you breathe, your hands fisting in the sheets. “Please…”

“Please what, baby?” he murmurs against your skin. “Tell me what y’want.”

“I want… I want you,” you gasp, arching into his touch. “All of you. Now.” He lifts his head, a slow, satisfied smile on his face. “Patience, angel,” he says, his voice a low, husky purr. “We’re jus’ gettin’ started.”

His journey continues, a slow, torturous descent down your body. He presses open-mouthed kisses to your stomach, his tongue dipping into your navel, making you gasp. His hands are on your thighs, stroking, caressing, coaxing them apart. You yield to him without hesitation, opening yourself to him completely. He settles between your thighs, his breath warm against your sensitive sex. You can feel the heat of his gaze, and it’s almost too much to bear. You’re exposed, vulnerable, but the look on his face is one of pure, unadulterated reverence.

“You’re s’beautiful,” he whispers, his fingers tracing the folds of your flesh, exploring you with a gentle curiosity. “S’wet for me.” He leans in, and the first touch of his tongue is a revelation. It’s a slow, deliberate swipe that sends a jolt of electricity through you. He’s not in a hurry. He takes his time, tasting, exploring, learning every secret part of you. He finds the tight bundle of nerves at the apex of your thighs, and circles it with his tongue, slow, lazy circles that build a fire in your core.

Your hands fly to his head, your fingers tangling in his soft hair, holding him to you. You can feel the pressure building, a tight coil of need that’s about to snap. Your hips move of their own accord, a slow, undulating rhythm that matches the movements of his tongue.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs, his voice a low, rumble against your clit. “Let go. Come for me.” His words are your undoing. The coil inside you snaps, and pleasure, sharp and blinding, crashes over you. You cry out his name, your body arching off the bed as wave after wave of ecstasy washes over you. He doesn’t stop, not until you’re a spent, trembling mess, your body boneless with satisfaction.

He kisses his way back up your body, a slow, languid journey. He covers you with his body, his skin warm against yours. You can feel the hard length of him against your thigh, a silent promise of the pleasure to come. He’s still wearing his pajama pants, and the thin fabric is a frustrating barrier between you. “Michael,” you whisper, your hands finding the waistband of his pants. “Take these off.”

He chuckles, a low, throaty sound. “Eager, are we?” “You have no idea,” you say, your fingers nimbly untying the drawstring. He lifts his hips, and you tug the pants down, freeing him. He kicks them off, and then he’s naked against you, all warm skin and hard muscle. He pauses, his elbows braced on either side of your head. He looks down at you, his eyes dark with an emotion so intense it takes your breath away. He brushes a stray strand of hair from your forehead, his touch gentle, almost reverent.

“I love you,” he says, his voice a raw, vulnerable whisper. “More than words can say.” Your heart swells, a feeling so overwhelming it almost hurts. “I love you, too,” you whisper back, your hands coming up to cup his face. “S’much.” He leans in, and this kiss is different from the others. It’s slow, deep, and full of a love so profound it leaves you speechless. 

He shifts his hips, and you feel the blunt head of him at your entrance. He pauses, giving you one last chance to change your mind, to stop this. But you don’t. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, a silent invitation. He enters you with a slow, deliberate thrust, filling you completely. You gasp at the sheer size of him, the feeling of being so full, so complete. He stills, giving you a moment to adjust, to get used to the feel of him inside you.

“Y’okay?” he asks, his voice a low, concerned murmur. You nod, unable to speak. You move your hips, a silent plea for more. He gets the message. He starts to move, a slow, steady rhythm that builds a fire in your core. Every thrust is a declaration of love, every stroke a promise of forever. He’s watching you, his eyes dark with an emotion so intense it makes your heart ache. He’s not just taking you; he’s worshiping you. Adoring you.

Your hands roam over his back, feeling the play of muscles under his skin. You dig your nails into his shoulders, holding on as the pleasure builds to an unbearable pitch. The room is filled with the sounds of your lovemaking, the slap of skin against skin, your soft whimpers, his low groans. “You feel s’good,” he groans, his head dropping to your shoulder. “S’damn good, baby.”

“You, too,” you gasp, your hips rising to meet his. “Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.” “Never,” he whispers, his lips finding yours in a desperate, hungry kiss.

The pace quickens, the rhythm becoming more erratic, more desperate. You’re both teetering on the edge, so close to falling into the abyss of pleasure. He reaches between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit, and that’s all it takes. The world shatters. A scream is torn from your throat as pleasure, sharp and blinding, crashes over you. Your body convulses, your back arching off the bed as wave after wave of ecstasy washes over you. He follows you over the edge a moment later, your name a hoarse cry on his lips as he finds his own release.

He collapses on top of you, his body a heavy, welcome weight. You hold him close, your arms wrapped around his waist, your legs still tangled with his. You can feel his heart pounding against your chest, a steady, reassuring rhythm that grounds you. For a long moment, you just lie there, tangled together in the aftermath, the only sounds in the room your ragged breaths and the pounding of your hearts. The wine has worn off, leaving a warm, pleasant buzz in its place. The room is bathed in the soft glow of the lamp, the discarded costumes a silent testament to the game you played.

He finally stirs, propping himself up on his elbows. He looks down at you, his eyes soft, a gentle smile on his face. He brushes a stray strand of hair from your forehead, his touch gentle, almost reverent. “Hi,” he says, his voice a low, husky whisper. “Hi,” you whisper back, a slow smile spreading across your face. He leans down and presses a soft, gentle kiss to your lips. “That was… somethin’ else,” he says, a little breathless. “I think we found a winner for this month’s new thing.”

You laugh, a soft, breathy sound. “I think we might’ve,” you agree. “Though I was partial to the cowgirl myself.” He chuckles, a low, throaty sound. “Oh, I liked the cowgirl,” he says, a mischievous glint in his eye. “But I think my favorite was t’very last one. The one with no costume at all.” “Mine, too,” you whisper, your heart swelling with a love so profound it almost hurts.

He rolls off you, pulling you into his arms. You rest your head on his chest, your arm draped over his waist. You can feel the steady rhythm of his heart, a comforting, soothing sound that lulls you into a state of sleepy contentment. “I love you,” he murmurs, his lips pressed against your hair. “I love y’too,” you whisper back, your eyes drifting closed.

— 𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐄

𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐄'𝐒 𝐈𝐍𝐕𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐃 ♡ tagged: @hawtstreet

Alcohol often does incredulous things to people.

And right now, you finally understood why.

Waking up with a pounding headache, throat dryer than the Sahara, eyes squinting almost painfully from the bright light that shone through the ajar curtains, and an unsettling bubble of nausea growing in your stomach — all roads led back to alcohol.

What didn’t lead back to alcohol was a noticeable sting between your thighs, and a dull ache from blooming bruises on your hips.

In the shape of fingers..?

And the puzzle piece only started slotting into place when your head turned to the side, eyebrows neatly furrowed into your forehead, as a hand came up to rub your tired eyes—Ouch!

Your hand retracted instanetously when something cold, hard and metallic scraped along your eyelid — your eyes blowing wide open at the jewellery clad on your ring finger.

Your wedding ring.

One you had taken off over a year ago — was now firmly pressed back onto your ring-finger like it hadn’t left at all.

And oh! If that wasn’t enough to remind you of your previous night.

Your stark naked ex-husband, Michael, littered in lovebites and smudged lipstick, sleeping soundly next to you, in his bed, at his house, was more than enough to do so.

Looking down, reality hit you like a ton of bricks — you had evidently had sex with your ex-husband. Plain and simple — and embarrassingly clear. The deep, indented, slowly forming bruises now adorning your hips were, painfully obviously, in the shape of the hands of the man deep in slumber next to you.

Eight years together makes things like that easy to spot.

And that daunting fact, slowly, but surely, let the ever-so-wonderfully reminding thought that you were in fact divorced, creep back up into your pounding brain.

You were divorced. Split up. Not together anymore. Legally binding from February 2003.

But, this didn’t look very divorced right now.

“Oh, God.” You mumbled, voice hoarse and croaked as you sat up, stomach churning and the relentlessly thumping in your head never letting up, as you sighed, running a, wedding ring free, hand over your face.

Your hands fell lazily and defeated into your lap as you shook your head at your heedless actions — vision locking on the diamond-encrusted wedding band that fit like a glove on your finger, and was twinkling in the morning light.

The divorce had been messy, and rushed for that matter. A meticulous, devastatingly, continuous stamp on your heart every time you had to appear in court — bags evident under your eyes, the same ones that were glassed over in constant tears, and hands shaking from adrenaline and sheer emotion over having to recount the same story of your marriage over and over again to the Judge.

It wasn’t as though anything particularly nefarious had happened in your marriage that would cause such a divorce, something horrible like infidelity or abuse, no, far from it, Michael was the perfect husband — until he started slipping.

He slowly, but nevertheless painfully, turned from the doting, present husband — to so brutally consumed in his career that it felt as though you were a single mother. Late nights at the studio, events that stretched long into the night, tours all across the States, even going as far as globally — all of it added up. Pushing you further and further into a lonely pit of despair — begging for the man you once knew.

Michael never did this maliciously, and that was quite possibly worse, he didn’t even realise what he was doing. Nor the damage he was causing. And every time you’d bring it up to him, whenever you finally got a night just to the two of you, cuddled up in bed, a hand on your small, growing bump — he would act none-the-wiser, as if the pain you were feeling didn’t exist. Promising that he would be home soon, be around more, that things would change — but, alas, they never did. If anything, he only got busier.

Having three kids was difficult, especially so when a fourth was on the way, and even more so when you have a career like Michael Jackson does — having to juggle recording, then interviews, then tours, then gala’s, and award shows, then signings, and then coming home to help look after three children and your pregnant wife.

But, none of it phased him — at the start. He was, and is, an excellent father. Spending every last second he could with his children before leaving for an eighteen hour day, or coming home at three-AM and kissing his children on their foreheads as they slept, and then retreating slowly into his bedroom, where his pregnant wife slept, and pulling her close, and holding her all night.

It came naturally to him — he was made to be a lover, and a father. And he adored every minute of it.

But, where the waters got muddied was when he began to blend those two separate aspects of his life — music and family. And when music seemed to become a higher priority than his family.

A house polluted with the noise of three screaming, giggling kids, a children’s television show blasting throughout the living room, or toys screeching out nursery rhymes from a plastic, worn out speaker that was staticky and stuttered pathetically, fighting against the electrics of the old mechanism — was now also filled the noise of demo’s, loud business men laughing, inappropriate jokes and guitar strings, plugged into an obnoxiously loud speaker.

In August 2002, you’d had enough.

It was the hottest summer the 2000’s had seen yet — the sun was beating down relentlessly over California, and the humidity was at its highest. Mixing the warmest weather you’d ever experienced in your lifetime with having a five-year-old, Prince, with the energy of a wild animal, a four-year-old, Paris, who was constantly screaming for her Father, and a clingy six-month-old, Blanket, who daren’t not be on your hip or else he’d wail the place down, all the while being four-months pregnant, wasn’t a good cocktail.

You silently cursed yourself for having such an attractive husband and being so horny only two-months postpartum that now led you to this mess.

And on top of all of that, Michael had so kindly, not, invited some friends, musical and not, round to work on some new demos he’d been cooking up late in the studio recently.

But, it wasn’t the fact that he’d invited people over, that you didn’t care about, you could handle the kids, to an extent, on your own just fine — it was the noise.

Michael was shy, and often quiet anyways, but with his pals round, his infamous loud laughter, mingling in with the loud strums of a guitar and the deep, rumbling voices of men you’d never even met before, was now sounding throughout the house like thunder. All that jovial, unnecessarily high in decibel, laughter blending with the screams and squeals from your children had now manifested itself inside you in a blinding headache.

This headache, now bordering on a migraine, wasn’t just your average Joe — it was a deep, dark thud of pain that stretched from behind your eyelids to the nape of your neck. Any noise was a shrill, blood-curling scream in your head — grating through your bones like nails on a chalkboard.

It had to stop.

And it forced you to reach that extent

Usually, whenever Michael and whoever he had brought round for the umpteenth time this week, would make noise and near enough trash the house with cans of beer, cartons of orange juice (For your Michael) and boxes and bags of devoured KFC, you’d let them be — let the boys have their fun.

But, today, enough was enough.

“I know, baby, but Mama’s feelin’ a little sick right now, okay? We can play outside later when Daddy’s not with his friends, how does that sound?”

“Noooo! ‘Wanna to go outside, now!” Prince, tears now forming in his lower lash-line, demanded, stomping his little foot onto the carpet of his bedroom, now pushing your hands away abruptly as you attempted to change his shirt which was smothered in his lunch.

You sighed, your patience beginning to wear thinner and thinner as you repeated yourself for the thousandth time that day about not going outside as Prince refused to let it go.

You raked a hand over your face, a noise of frustration leaving the back of your throat as you met Prince’s eyes — whose were now streaming with tears as he cried violently, cheeks flushed and stained with the evidence of his upset.

“Baby, please, stop crying for Mama, please? I promise—Mama pinky promises we can go outside later, okay?” You tried one last time, trying to put on the most motherly, comforting voice you could as you forced the irritation down your throat.

Just as Prince began to consider diminishing his resolve and abandoning his tantrum, Paris ran into the room, “I wanna play outside, too, Mommy! Please, please, please!”

The groan that left you was failure of suppression — your eyes fluttering shut as the two small children now teamed up against you, both now chanting in their high-pitched voices to go outside. And if that wasn’t enough to send you over the edge, baby Blanket began wailing at the sudden loud noise of his siblings screaming to do what you distinctively told them not to repeatedly over the past morning — his screeches and cries of displeasure colliding with the sound of Paris and Prince begging loudly.

You scurried to your feet, a lump in your throat forming, as you took Blanket in your arms, rocking him gently in your grasp, cooing softly into his ear as you attempted to nurse him to silence.

No avail.

For once, baby Blanket wanted nothing less than to be in your arms — you tried every rocking sensation you knew he liked, but no luck. He continued to scream — tears staining his cheeks now flushed a dark shade of crimson, as his little fists bawled up tight at his sides.

You had reached your wits end.

You only realised your feet were moving until you reached the stairs — turning on your heel to watch as your two younger children ran after you as you exited Prince’s room. Their relentless chanting to go outside had been, finally, abandoned — but, now replaced with ‘Where are you going, Mommy?’ ‘Why is Blanket crying, Mommy?’ ‘What’s wrong with Blanket, Mama, is he okay?’ ‘Mama get Blanket to stop crying! It’s hurting my ears!’

It was incessant.

You absolutely adored your children — but moments like these you wished you could just run away.

And that’s exactly what you did.

You stormed down the stairs, checking back every so often to make sure Paris and Prince weren’t on the brink of falling, before heading directly towards the loudest area of the house. If that was even remotely possible with the screaming baby in your arms.

You marched into the room — eyes landing on Michael who was sat on the couch, surrounded by at least twelve other men, not that you even had the brain capacity to count in the moment, all laughing and shouting as they recounted former memories.

“Baby.” You spoke, voice trembling.

No answer.

The conversation continued, as if you weren’t even there, the loud laughter only worsening the pain that consumed your brain.

“Michael.”

Laughter.

“Michael.”

Laughter.

“Michael!”

For the first time in weeks, the room fell silent.

The sound of your distraught, wrecked shout of his name even sent your wailing baby in silence — for about three seconds, before his screeches of discomfort sounded throughout the room once more. Everyone’s eyes were on you, including your confused husband, whose were now wide with shock at the sight you — eyes now also streaming with tears, lip wobbling, hands shaking with a screaming Blanket in your arms, and Prince and Paris at your feet, now also babbling about the garden and tugging at your clothes.

“I can’t—I can’t take this.”

Michael rose to his feet, “Baby, what’s wrong?”

“Don’t you ‘What’s wrong?’ me!” You exclaimed, “Look at me!”

He was lost, and quite frankly, worried — he had never seen you so wrecked, a silent plea for help as you shook where you stood.

“Ta—Take him.” You extended your still wailing baby out into the air, eyes fluttering as droplets of tears you didn’t even realise had fallen, drooped from your eyelashes.

Michael rushed over to you, instantly taking Blanket into his embrace — rocking him slowly in his arms as the crying slowly fading into soft whimpers as Michael comforted him.

You let out a scoff of a laugh at the irony of the situation — Michael, who got to sit around and play with instruments like toys with his friends all day, soothed your crying baby in three seconds as if you hadn’t been dealing with it all day with no prevail.

“I’ve gotta go. I actually can’t—I can’t do this anymore, Michael.” You started, voice rapid and racing, buzzing with emotion, “You—You can’t sit around all day and do nothing, and expect me to deal with this all day—I can’t, I just can’t.”

“Baby, please, what are you talking about?” Michael questioned, concern and confusion laced in his tone, “What happened?”

“What didn’t happen!” You exclaimed, not caring that thirty pairs of eyes were all on you as you blew up what you’d been holding in for weeks, “Prince threw his lunch everywhere, all over the floor and his clothes, and then refused to change, and then begged and begged and begged to go outside even after I told him no.” You breathed out a laugh, despite finding none of the situation amusing, “And Blanket barely slept last night and neither did I, and he will not stop crying—it’s been on and off all day, and I’ve got a pounding headache and I’m tired, and I just can’t take it anymore.”

Your rant ended with a loud sob, one that echoed throughout the room as your Nanny, one that had failed to be absent while all of the commotion from your children had occurred, took a concerned looking Paris and Prince away from the room by their small hands, as you ignored the way they stared at you worriedly as they exited.

“And don’t even get me started on you.” You spat, pointing an accusatory finger at Michael, “You’ve been at this for weeks! You’re a father too, y’know! I need help, I’m pregnant for fuck’s sake and doing everything while you sit around and fiddle with guitars like children and laugh at a fucking thousand decibels.”

“Honey, wait—calm dow—“

“Don’t you fucking dare tell me to calm down.”

He could tell you were serious. To your core. You had never ever spoke to him that way, ever. You looked absolutely destroyed — like the world had literally come crashing down on you all at once.

“I’ve had enough. Enough, Michael.” You exclaimed, watching as the Nanny returned to pry a now sleeping Blanket from Michael’s arms, before scurrying out of the room once more, “Whether it’s phone calls at three-AM, or late nights at the studio, or events that end you up in the club until early hours, or inviting God knows into our house—you’re not here!” Tears were now streaming down your face with no sign of stopping, every word now a silent sob as you broke down, “I feel like you’re not—sob—not even here anymore! I feel like I’m doing this all alone, and we’ve got another one on the way for fuck’s sake! I can’t—I genuinely cannot do it anymore, Michael, I’ve had it up to here.”

As your hand raised to demonstrate the intensity of how thin your patience has deteriorated — Michael couldn’t help notice the way your hand shook aggressively.

It all finally rained down on him.

Like violent meteorites — all his wrong-doings came crashing down in an abrupt realisation.

Every point you made was correct, and that’s what hurt most. You weren’t exaggerating or overreacting — you were speaking the plain, distasteful truth. A truth that flooded guilt and heartache throughout his system harder than he’d ever felt it. His subconscious absence had pushed you over the edge — without him even realising he was doing it.

You had promised him, the day you started dating, that you would always be there despite his demanding career — but, you, nor him, imagined it would get this bad. So bad to the point you were considering walking away from the family you had built from the ground up. A family you had literally created in utero — and formed from a lousy blind date your friend set you up on, now blossomed into a committed marriage with three, nearly four, children.

In your romantic pledge, you didn’t ever mean this. Never meant that you’d let yourself be humiliated and abandoned so brutally to the point where you were metaphorically, and nearly literally, tugging your hair out.

And Michael’s flabbergasted silence only made things worse.

He couldn’t even find the words to claw himself out of this grave that he’d dug — mouth opening and then closing as he stared at you, eyes still blown wide open as he watched you heave, still sobbing violently.

Instead of waiting for an apology you knew wouldn’t fix things now, you scoffed and turned on your heel, storming out of the room as another sob wracked through you. Michael instantly chased after you, ignoring the tension that had settled from the uncomfortable audience behind him, his longer legs catching up to you as you made it to the front door.

“Hey, hey, stop—baby, wait!” He reached you, hands grabbing your arms and stopping you in your tracks, “Baby, wait, please, don’t do this, please.”

Another loud, distraught gurgle of tears left you, your head shaking as you stared at the ground, “I—I can’t take anymore, Michael”

“I know, I know, I’m so sorry.” He started, “I’m so so sorry, baby. I’ve been the worst husband in the world, I’m so sorry.” His heart clenched as another sob left you, “I should’ve been there, I’m sorry, I know better, I do. Things—Things have been hectic with the new album, and I just—I don’t even have a reasonable explanation, I should have been around, there’s no excuse.”

At the sound of his declaration of wrong-doing and his utmost apologies — your loud cries turned into soft sniffles and hiccups. You finally lifted your head, bloodshot and glossy eyes meeting his worried ones — lip quivering as you settled.

“Baby, I’m so sorry.” Michael whispered, voice breaking ever so slightly, “Please, don’t leave. If it’s not for me, please don’t leave the children. They need you.” He went silent, “I need you.”

“I needed you, Michael. But, where were you when I did?”

The words hit him directly in the chest.

It wasn’t because they were hurtful, or disrespectful, or offensive — it was because they were true.

When they said the truth hurts — he never imagined he’d experience it this way.

Watching as his wife, mother to now four of his children, literally begging for his presence for weeks, and subconsciously taking no notice, had broken his heart — but, not nearly as much as he broke yours, which made things twice as bad.

“Baby..” His voice trailed off, quiet and broken, a beg for you, not that he was even in the place to do so right now.

You shook your head, another silent cry leaving your mouth, tears cascading down your cheeks in a slow, aching reminder to Michael of exactly what he’d done — a twang vibrating through his heartstrings.

“I’m sorry, I just—I need some space.” You spoke, a loud, huff of a shaken breath leaving you as you stepped back, retreating from his embrace.

“Baby, please,” Michael begged, “Please, don’t go. What about the kids?”

“Only for a little while. I’ll be at my Mom’s, just for a few days while I think.”

“Think? Think about what?”

“Whether or not I can take anymore of this.”

Michael didn’t think it was possible to feel anymore heartbroken and scared — but your final sentence before turning your back to him and walking out the door exceeded that. His heart ached, a hand coming up to rest against his chest, as he watched you climb into the back of a car and whizz out the driveway — the last evidence of you being dust and dirt that flew up into the air at your exit.

That night Michael called your Mother’s house phone twenty-seven times — each time going straight to answerphone, as you begged your Mother to just ignore it as she held you while you cried into her lap. And each time, Michael would leave a message on her answer machine.

‘Baby? I don’t know if you can hear this but I love you, and the babies love you. I miss you already and I’m so so sorry. Please come home soon.’

Beep!

Riiiiing! Riiiiing!

Ignore.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t want to bother, I know you’re upset, and I know it’s ’cuz of me, but I just—I can’t leave you there knowing you’re so broken and it’s all my fault. I wish there was something I could do to turn back time. I love you, baby, please come home.’

Beep!

Riiiing! Riiiiing!

Ignore.

‘Please, call me back, baby. I need you. I’m so sorry I let things get to this. I’m sorry I let things get so bad. I’m sorry for everything. Please, baby, please, I love you so so much, I can’t do this without you. And that quite possibly makes it so much worse, as that’s exactly what you needed from me and I subconsciously denied it from you for so long. I’m such an idiot, a total, complete and utter idiot. I should’ve been better, I’m so sorry. Please, honey, please.’

Each time the answer machine would beep and another message would come through, now late into the night as you curled up on the couch and drifted off to sleep, Michael’s voice grew more and more wrecked, now laced with silent sobs and broken whispers to prevent waking the children. And each time, you would continue to cry — face smushed into the cushion, now soaked with your tears, until the answer machine finally went silent at four-AM.

The next morning, your chest sported a dull, deep ache of emotional distress as you awoke — eyes swollen from the relentless crying. The headache had subsided, thankfully, but now replaced with an intense heartache that you knew would never diminish.

Not after everything that had happened.

After a few days to allow the dust to settle, you decided returning home was a reasonable idea — letting your Mother lecture you about ‘not putting up with anymore shit’ before you left her house, a bag full of dirty over-night clothes and an old toothbrush slung over your shoulder.

The drive back to Neverland was unusual — you weren’t quite sure what the forefront emotion you were feeling was.

Worry? Sadness? Hurt? Confusion? — it wasn’t clear. But, the waves of anticipatory nausea that flooded through you were enough to show that you were definitely concerned about where this left your relationship with Michael.

You had spent the last three days at your Mother’s pondering on what to do. The much needed space, despite calling your children every night to remind them that Mommy still loved them and was coming home soon, allowed you to think about whether or not your marriage was still fulfilling anymore — whether you could continue to live in a house that, despite being full to the brim of people, felt so unbearably lonely.

The walk up to the house felt longer than usual. Like you were moving in slow-motion as you reached the door, hands trembling, not only from the lack of sleep you’d gotten over the past seventy-two hours, but increased anxiety for what you were about to walk into.

And if you’d known what came forth — you never would’ve stepped back into the house at all.

Your heart stopped as you pushed open the door, vision locking on the scene before you — face scrunching into a look of undisguised shock and despair, an array of swirling emotions buzzing round your body in a brutal battle to become the forefront.

But, the one that took the cake was disgust.

There, stood in foyer, laughing, smiling, joking, and holding your baby was Lisa.

Lisa Marie Presley.

Your husband’s ex-wife.

When you described to people after the divorce what really happened, when they pried for answers to their personal, probing questions, you claimed you struggled to find a time where you knew the marriage was over.

But, you knew the truth.

You knew that this very moment before your eyes was that time.

And you knew Michael knew it too.

His eyes instantly shot towards the door, smile still pressed on his face at something she had said — before it fell faster than a brick to the ground. The sheer altitude of how swift the grin wiped itself off his face was almost cartoony — like the main character in a corny, children’s TV show had just had a nanosecond change in expression in the freeze-frame.

Alas, this wasn’t a show nor fictional — this was your life. And the extent of the situation was becoming all too real for the both of you.

“Baby?”

Michael’s voice sounded out first, breaking the atmospherically intense atmosphere that had skyrocketed from thin air — the squeaked sound of his surprised, scared voice filling the room.

At first, words failed you — all of the thousand things you could’ve screamed or yelled or cried lodged themselves in your throat like a hard piece of candy swallowed too quickly. It felt as though you’d been punched by world-class boxer in the stomach — knocking all the air from your lungs in a brutal, nefarious blow.

“I—I swear—I promise it’s not what it looks like.”

The classic one-liner.

You scoffed, the sound almost coming out gurgled as the lump in your throat formed — eyes glassing over in tears.

“What the fuck is going on here?”

He took one slow step forward, hands out in front of him, creeping like a man to a provoked bear, in attempt to keep you where you were. Your eyes darted between them — Michael, who looked as thought he was attempting to save million-dollar porcelain china from falling off a thousand foot drop, and Lisa, who looked like she’d been caught in the act, an expression of bewilderment and shock plastered across her face.

“Honey, please, calm down. I swear there’s an explanation.”

A breathless laugh left you as a single tear slipped down your face — cheeks flushed with exceeding adrenaline as your nervous system went into overdrive.

“Why the fuck is your ex-wife here, Michael?” You snapped, voice a harsh, bitter spit of venom.

Michael sighed, eyes wrecked as he attempted to piece things back together helplessly, “I—I just—I got overwhelmed with the kids, and Blanket was crying and Prince was crying—all for you, they wanted you, and I didn’t know what to do.” He let out a broken breath, “I didn’t know what to do, so, I called the first person I thought of who had children and would know what to do.”

Your heart sank.

No, no, more like violently plummeted — straight to your stomach, mingling with the growing nausea that never let up, concocting together in a ruthless cocktail.

“Are you fucking serious?” Your voice came out shaken and depleted, tears now streaming down your cheeks in a merciless storm, “You—You called your ex-wife for help with our children? You called your fucking ex-wife instead of the Mother of those children?”

You were shouting now — pointing and yelling as your voice hit a higher decibel than you knew it even could, sobs croaking from your throat in wrecked, consuming wails.

“I didn’t know what to do! I was a mess—A total mess, I—I was scared and worried, and you had left, and I—“

“I only left because of you!” You roared, “All of this—this fucking mess—is because of you, Michael! You!”

“I’m sorry! Fuck, I—I’m so sorry.” The curse left him before he could even stop himself. In another scenario, if your brain wasn’t total mush, you would’ve realised Michael’s apology was sincere due to his usual lack of using curse words, but you were too far down the rabbit hole of despair to notice.

As Michael began another spout of meaningless explanations behind his reckless decision, your glassy eyes landed on Lisa, who stood awkwardly by the stairs, vision locked on Michael’s apologetic frame and your angered own — eyes refusing to meet your own.

But, upon further inspection, your stomach dropped again — as if on a never-ending rollercoaster that relentlessly dropped you from high heights, toying with your body like a game of cat and mouse.

“Did she fucking sleep here?”

The room fell silent — that was all the answer you needed.

You’d figured that distressing fact out by paying close attention to Lisa’s clothes — her body sporting one of Michael’s pyjama t-shirts, one that you had bought him at Disneyland on one of your anniversary’s.

“Baby, please, I swear, we didn’t sleep in the same bed.”

Michael’s frantic plea for you to listen went on deaf ears as you stumbled back out the door — heart hammering nearly medically worryingly fast as you clutched onto the doorframe for support.

“Oh, my God, I’m gonna be sick.”

And that you did.

Hunching over and vomiting violently into the grass that adorned the front yard of Neverland — stomach churning as you emptied your guts from the sheer panicked and distraught truth that came before you.

Michael rushed to your aid, calling your name in a frenzied, worried manner as he pinned your hair behind your head, making sure none of your aggressive release got into it.

You instantly shoved him away — standing upright, and wiping your mouth, “Don’t fucking touch me, Michael.”

For the first time in his life, Michael truly understood what it was like to not be the heartbroken, depressed, wrecked person, and finally be the one to be inflicting the pain — a feeling he never, ever, in his deepest, darkest nightmares, thought he’d be giving to someone.

Let alone his loving, devoted wife.

A loud wail sounded out through the room, this time not from you, but from Blanket who writhed in Lisa’s arms.

Anger became the fore-front emotion rapidly.

You stormed past Michael, barging past his shoulder harshly as you went, and marched straight up to the woman who was curating this argument. The sound of her comforting Blanket sent shockwaves of coursing fury through you — as if you’d been struck by lightning as you pried the baby from her arms.

“Don’t you fucking dare come near any of my children again, do you hear me?” You yelled, face like thunder as you grit your teeth, not caring how deluded and psychotic you must’ve looked covered in tears, spit and vomit, as you came face to face with her.

“I’m so sorry.” She whispered, breathlessly as a single tear slid down her face.

You laughed a bitter, choked, unamused laugh, “What the fuck are you crying for? Realising you’ve broken up a marriage? Oh, boohoo, poor Lisa, always the victim.”

“Wait, what?”

The room fell silent as Michael’s devastated voice hit your ears.

“Broken up a marriage?” He sounded windless and confused, eyes now brimming with tears as he locked onto your gaze, “So, you—you’re leaving me?—“

“Prince! Paris!”

You ignored him as you shouted your children’s names, refusing to listen as Michael stumbled over his words at your insinuation.

Soon, two pairs of pattering feet came storming through the house, innocent giggles and squeals of excitement masking the sound Michael’s broken stutters. Prince and Paris screeched in excitement as they clung to your legs, exclaiming their adoration for you, as they tugged at your clothes.

“Mama, why are you crying?” Prince asked, a pout forming on his face as he took in your devastated expression.

You knelt down to his eye-level, pressing a kiss to both his and Paris’s cheeks, “Mama’s okay, baby, I’m just a little sad, but Mommy will be okay, I promise.”

“Don’t be sad, Mommy.” Paris chimed in, resting her cheek on your knee as she mimicked her brother’s pout.

“I’m not, baby, don’t worry.” You smiled at her as maternally, and convincingly as possible, “Go get in the car for me, okay? We’re gonna go stay with Grandma for a while.”

“No, baby, please.” Michael’s voice cut through the discussion, “Please don’t do this.”

As Prince and Paris, now in the care of the Nanny, with a baby Blanket in her embrace, taken from your arms, were escorted out of the home, you stood back up to face him.

Anger had been replaced by unadulterated, hopeless anguish.

“Why, Michael?” You whispered, another sob threatening to wrack from your throat, “Why would you do this to me?”

Michael finally let himself break — a miserable, wretched wail escaping from his mouth, streaks of unstoppable tears falling from his eyes.

His hands reached for you as you stepped towards the door, “Please, don’t leave. Don’t leave me, baby, I beg of you. Please let me make things right, I—I swear things will be better, I—“

“I thought you loved me, Michael?”

I thought you loved me.

Those were the last, non-legally binding words you spoke to Michael, one’s that rang in his head every-day since, before you left for good. Turning on your heel in a slow, wobbled movement, and scurried down the driveway, letting yourself cry for a few seconds more, before you hopped into the passenger seat of the black Mercedes, wiping your eyes and putting on a brave face for your children. You blocked out Michael who chased after the car in a screaming, dejecting protest as it sped off, leaving him in a cloud of dust, and a swarm of tears.

He was served the divorce papers the next morning.

From then on, it was everywhere — every news, radio and TV station was covering it, plastering pictures of you and Michael over the front cover with a taunting, exaggerated headline. You tried to block it out, like you always had done, but reading ‘Not even this one could hold Jackson down for even a decade’ definitely had a negative effect on you.

After a long, mentally-depleting five months of court, the divorce was finalised in February, and you were now nine-months pregnant and over it. Your large belly had dropped — signifying you were creeping nearer to labour. You knew the stress of the break-up and the gruelling divorce wasn’t good for the baby, so you took time after court steady.

Back in December, right before Christmas, you moved into your own place. It was a beautiful house, not as large as Neverland, nothing ever could be, but it was home. Unfortunately, or not, the home had been plagued before you even stepped foot into it.

As Michael had paid for it.

You had told him a thousand times that you weren’t together anymore, that you were no longer ‘Mrs Jackson’, so therefore paying for such lavish things like a whole house, wasn’t necessary. But, as he always did, he insisted — and demanded you never attempt to give him even a cent back. Whether it was a sly con to get you back, you didn’t know — but it certainly did work.

In the midst of the divorce, you settled for shared custody — that was a given. Michael was a fantastic father, and you’d never deprive him of his children. You thought just because your relationship broke down, didn’t mean his with your kids had to. So, every week, Bill would turn up outside your front door in the same black Mercedes he always did, with an excitable Michael in the front seat — grinning like a Cheshire cat, opening the door before Bill had even stopped. He’d race out the door and scoop up the children in his arms, kissing their faces all over and letting them ramble on about what they did with you that week. You’d stand in the doorway, watching with a soft smile as Paris would instantly cling to Michael’s clothes like she was scared he was going to disappear while Prince would pinch his cheeks, and a now nearly one-year old Blanket, nestled into the crook of Michael’s neck.

If he couldn’t be a husband, he was definitely going to be a dad. And a good one at that.

But, the damage had been done. And whenever Michael would approach you, letting Bill scurry the children into the backseat, clipping them into their car-seats, the awkward tension would arise. The conversation would be polite and acquainted, as if you’d never met before, with a simple ‘How are you?’ and ‘Were they good?’ or ‘How many weeks left?’

The last question always made your chest ache, not only because you knew you’d soon be a single mother, and having to accommodate your now ex-husband into your routine after the baby was born, but because you knew he already knew — he had kept a strict track of your pregnancy, knew every trimester, how many weeks, your cravings, discomforts, how you liked to sleep, how many kicks you’d had that day, he knew it all. So, every time he’d ask, you knew he was trying to be polite, and come across as nonchalant — like he didn’t know you like the back of his hand.

But, the nonchalance melted into nothingness once the baby came.

It was a cooler day in February, clouds settling over the skies of California, and your back had been aching from the moment you woke up. Luckily, a lazy morning was in order as it was Michael’s week to have the kids — so once eleven-AM rolled around, you forced yourself out of bed.

Unlike at Neverland, where personal chefs were at your beck and call whenever you so pleased, you had to grow to love cooking for yourself. Luckily, you often cooked for your children, even when you lived with Michael, and even more so now you lived alone, so cheffing up a quick breakfast wasn’t too taxing.

But, trying to ignore the dull, relentless ache that settled itself in your lower abdomen was growing harder to do so, gritting your teeth as you scrambled eggs on the stove. This wasn’t a usual cramp or crotch pain like you’d experienced — it was a familiar feeling that you’d felt three times prior.

And your suspicions only came fact when you turned on your heel to fetch salt from the pantry when a flood of liquid gushed through your shorts and onto the floor.

Contractions started simultaneously — growing more and more frequent from the car-ride to when they situated you into a private hospital room. You had been attempting to pace your breathing, the sharp, brutal pains of labour sending you into tachycardia as pain consumed you, the minutes between them decreasing quicker than you remembered they were supposed to, giving you no time to recover.

You were alone in the room, figuratively rather than literally, as dozens of nurses swarmed you, but no loved ones were present. And that was quite possibly worse, your anxiety was sky-rocketing, important people were asking important questions you didnt have the brain power to answer, and hands were all over you, attaching a cannula — it was all too much.

“Mrs Jackson, I’m going to have to ask you again to sit down, you’re bordering on seven centimetres, so baby could come at any time soon, and it’s important you’re in a sensible position.”

You groaned loudly, choosing to ignore the way the nurse referred to you as ‘Mrs Jackson’, as your head hung low, eyes squeezed shut as you hunched over the bed once more, legs wobbling from the sheer intensity of the contraction.

“Ma’am, I going to have to—“ “Enough.”

You breathed a loud sigh of relief, one that your more mentally stable being would’ve kept to yourself, as Michael’s voice sounded throughout the room.

The room fell into hushed silence as he stepped forward, ignoring the eyes on him and shared glances between nurses, and pressed a hand on your back, glistening in tiresome sweat.

“Do you want all these people in here, baby?”

The familiar pet-name fell from his lips before he could even stop himself — an all too welcoming feeling spreading across your chest as you shook your head, mumbling an almost inaudible ‘No’ that mingled into a loud whine of agony.

“You heard my wife, if you’re not going to be delivering our baby, please leave.”

Michael was never rude to workers, but right now he was stern and he wasn’t apologetic about it — he wanted nothing more than your comfort in one of the most important moments in both your lives.

But, even in your pain consumed state, you still managed to pick up on his words, “I’m not your wife anymore, Michael.”

He shushed you gently, rubbing soft circles into your back, before leaning down to press a tender kiss into your hair, “I know, but, just for today, baby.”

You would’ve scolded him if you had the ability, tell him off for acting so husbandly and loving even though only a mere few weeks ago your divorce was finalised — but you hadn’t the energy. And secretly, you needed all the love and support you could get right now.

Luckily, shortly after Michael ordered the dozens of nurses out of the room, your baby was born. You had decided to keep the sex a secret to you both for when it was born, a surprise meant to be then shared and celebrated once the two of you went home together — it was beautiful, but bittersweet, as you knew you would both go off to your respecting homes afterwards instead.

It was a boy — your third boy of the family, and now the littlest. Age and weight, he was, unlike most babies born after their siblings, smaller than your others — weighing seven pounds, three and a half ounces, all of beauty and wonder.

The birth was tiring, but luckily short, not diminishing your energy as much as the others had, and left you unscathed of any tearing. You liked to believe it was the universe giving you a little luck after the heartbreaking few months you’d had to endure.

Once you’d settled in your bed, blanket pushed up to your chest as you held your little boy in your arms, body aching nonetheless, Michael entered the room, pushing the door open quietly.

“Is he asleep?” He whispered, popping his head through the crack in the doorway.

You smiled, “No, come in.”

Michael did so willingly — creaking the door open fully before stepping inside the room, and closing it gently. He walked softly, with a proud smile on his face as he approached you, taking a firm seat in the chair next to the bed with a sigh.

“He’s perfect.” He spoke tenderly, voice cracking ever so slightly as he brushed a delicate finger over his son’s cheeks.

You giggled as you watched your son’s eyes darting around the room, totally entranced by the lights and noises surrounding him, “He is, isn’t he?”

“Have you thought of a name yet?” He asked quietly, eyes still locked on the way his son’s nose twitched and his lips smacked as he became accustomed to life.

“What do you think about Mickey?”

Michael could’ve sworn his heart had grown twice the size already today at the birth of his third son — but this moment was slowly tripling it.

His eyes flicked up to yours — a raw, deep, utterly loving expression crossing his face.

“Y’know, ‘cause you love Disney and Mickey Mouse so much..” You trailed off your explanation, “He can still be Michael Joseph, but, I don’t know, I just thought it was sweet.”

“Baby..”

Your expression softened at him for the first time in nearly a year — he was wrecked. Slow, overwhelming tears trickling down his cheeks that flushed crimson, lip wobbling and eyes full of adoration at your idea of his son’s name — chosen solely from his love for Disney.

“Do you like it?”

“Honey, I love it.” He whispered, sniffling, a hand coming across to rest over your own that cradled the baby’s head, “I love it so much, baby, thank you. Thank you for thinking of me.”

“‘S okay,” You whispered, smiling softly at him, “So, Mickey it is?”

“Mickey it is.” He confirmed, leaning down to press the gentlest kiss known to man-kind to the top of Mickey’s warm head, “Mickey Jackson. Heh, kinda sounds like Michael, huh?”

You chuckled, “Bad or good?”

“Good. Real good.”

You noticed the way his thumb absentmindedly stroked over your knuckles — a romantic display of his utmost adoration and gratitude for you for bringing his fourth baby into this world. And in that moment, your heart had never felt so full — even after the worst pits of hell you’d felt you’d crawled into over the past few months after everything that had occurred, none of it mattered in that room, holding your baby as he drifted off into a slumber, with the father of said baby holding your hand as he did so.

The overwhelming hormones and emotions from birth hit you like a truck as tears began to fall — cascading down your cheeks just as Michael’s did.

“Hey, what’s wrong, honey?” Michael question, a tight knit in his eyebrows as he glanced at your upset expression.

“Nothing, nothing, I’m—I’m okay, I just—I’m just happy.” You sniffled, “Happy you’re here.”

You looked up from peering at Mickey’s sleeping face and meet Michael’s eyes — ones that were full of devotion. His hand left the embrace of your own, and reached up to wipe the tears that slipped from your waterline.

“Me too, baby.” He spoke delicately, his hand coming across to cup your flushed cheek, “Me too.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward or forced like it had been recently since the divorce, no, it was raw — a subtle demonstration of overpowering intimacy that needed no words, only a look of sheer joy at the miracle that had been brought onto this Earth from the love you both shared. The intensity of the soul-baring, vulnerable, cherished sensation that flooded both of your systems became overwhelming — the sound of both of your hearts hammering in your chests blasting in your ears as you remained locked in a sincere gaze.

“Michael.”

He didn’t even need confirmation — he leant forward before he could stop himself and connected your lips in a gentle, warm, deeply devoted kiss that send shockwaves of electricity throughout your body. You gasped into his mouth, hands tightening ever so slightly around Mickey to steady yourself as he moved his mouth slowly against your own. You kissed back immediately — a sound almost like a sob leaving your throat as more tears spilled from your eyes, as your lips collided together in a scared, dreamlike connection.

You pulled away to catch your breath — panting softly as your head lolled forward to rest your forehead against his own, the scent of his cologne becoming intoxicating from the closeness.

No words were spoken about that kiss ever again.

Not when yours and Michael’s family came to see the baby, especially so when your three children came to do the same, and even more so when you returned home and went about your lives. And there was definitely more than enough time to discuss it, even though it never was, especially when Michael was at your house practically every day to come check on you and help out with Mickey.

Some nights he’d even sleep on the couch downstairs, and take the night shifts to let you rest, or he’d take the kids out into the garden or back to Neverland to play, with Mickey, while you showered and cleaned the house, or took everyone out for dinner to save you cooking — he was always there. And instead of feeling uncomfortable and awkward like you assumed it would’ve been while you were still pregnant, it was surpisingly pleasant. And felt like old-times.

But, once Mickey reached the four-five-six month old mark, you didn’t need as much help — and your old routine went back into motion. And with all things considered, everything between you and Michael was jovial.

Until Wednesday.

Today, Friday, thirteenth of February 2004, the day of your son, Prince’s, seventh birthday — you had to battle showing a brave, excitable face for your son, who was buzzing in joy over all the presents laid out in the living room of your home, with the undeniable fury that flamed inside you at what Michael had done.

On Wednesday, Michael had been spotted out at a lavish, fancy restaurant in Manhattan with his ex-ex-wife, Lisa Marie Presley.

Oh, yes! The same woman that helped break up your marriage two years ago — that Lisa!

Why Manhattan? Why that restaurant? Why the secrecy? Why two days before his son’s birthday? Why Lisa?, most importantly — a million questions swirled around your head, and you knew it’d be difficult to keep them there, and not spewing out of your mouth.

Especially when you were seeing him in an hour.

Michael had decided to host a massive gathering for Prince’s birthday at Neverland, inviting all of his family over to celebrate — and obviously, being Prince’s mother, included you. And you definitely weren’t going there looking like you usually did, oh, no, you had to make a statement. Remind him of who gave him four children, who stayed even though the marriage was failing, and carried his baby all through an exhausting divorce — you.

So once Paris was in her prettiest dress, Blanket and Prince in their finest dress shirts, and baby Mickey in an ironic Mickey Mouse t-shirt, you slipped on the most eye-catching, jaw-dropping dress you could find appropriate for the occasion.

It was black, Michael’s favourite colour on you, and figure-hugging — clutching your hips and curves in all the right ways, and showing just enough cleavage to make Michael sweat. It was perfect — and just enough to make him realise what he was missing.

Not that you were intending to make him come back, or so you thought.

The drive was boisterous — nearly one-year old Mickey was, unusually, wide awake, most likely from all the noise his siblings were making as they chatted loudly in the backseat. Paris, now six-years old, and Blanket, two nearly three, were old enough to engage in playful conversations as Prince recounted to you, and Bill who chuckled in the drivers seat, all of his favourite presents, which, surprise surprise, was all of them.

“Thank you, Bill. Nice to see you.” You spoke kindly, offering him a sweet smile as you pulled Mickey onto your hip, as the others clambered out the car.

“And you.” Bill replied, “Tell Michael I said hi.” You smiled thinly, knowing there was nothing you wanted to do less than speak to him, “If he’s still surviving after seeing you in that dress, that is.”

You laughed loudly as Blanket took your hand, now old enough to walk, “Well, if you don’t hear from him, then you know why.”

Bill chuckled softly as he waved goodbye to the children, before driving away. Paris and Prince instantly took off towards the door, squealing as they went. Blanket, although confident and more than capable of running, was still the clingy baby you birthed nearly three years ago, and liked it better by your side, as Mickey nestled his face into your collarbone, sucking his thumb.

You took a long, precise, deep breath as you reached the door, collecting yourself and pushing your anger further down your nervous system before pushing the door open.

The room erupted in excited laughter and shouts of your names as they locked eyes on your presence entering the home. Prince and Paris, of course, had sped off in the direction of where all the noise was — jumping into the arms of their uncles and aunts, and accepting countless kisses from their Grandma Katherine, Michael’s mother.

Blanket’s hand slipped from your own as you shut the door as he jogged towards an all too familiar face that emerged from the crowd.

“Daddy!”

“Hey, Applehead!”

The hilarious term of endearment Michael had given all of his children rang in your head as Blanket jumped into Michael’s embrace — instantly wrapping his short little arms around his neck as he cuddled into his shirt.

“You okay, buddy? How was your morning at Mama’s?” Michael asked, smoothing his hair across his forehead.

“Good, Prince got loads of presents.” Blanket revealed, as you fought the urge to laugh.

“Well, that’ll be you in a few weeks, bud.”

Michael was right, Blanket’s birthday was only around two weeks post-Prince’s, thankfully, not, for your bank account. Michael looked up from Blanket’s smiling face to meet your gaze, and he folded instantly. He didn’t even try and hide the expression that spread across his face — jaw slack and eyes blown as his vision trailed along your frame, clad in a gobsmacking dress and heels.

However, your stare was ice-cold, and he noticed — watching as you daren’t smile as you sauntered near him, heels clicking against the floor.

“Hey, you okay?” He spoke, clearing as throat as he attempted to regain some composure.

You hummed in response as you stopped next to him, watching as he gulped thickly.

“Hey, little man, how’s my littlest boy, hm?” Michael turned his attention the smallest son your hip, who now blabbered and kicked violently in your arms at the sight of his daddy — now slobbering all over himself.

Michael reached over and used his free hand, the one not holding up Blanket, to use his bib to wipe his mouth clean, “How was he this morning? Prince didn’t wake him up with all the noise, did he?”

“No, he’s been good. They’ve all been good.” You forced out jovially through gritted teeth, eyes only focusing on Mickey who giggled as Michael squished his cheeks.

“So, Prince had a good morning, then? I’ve been so busy recently, I can’t believe how fast his birthday has rolled around.”

“Busy, huh?” You fired back as Blanket wriggled from Michael’s grasp and ran towards his Auntie Janet who beckoned him over, “You been real busy, Michael?”

You knew you didn’t need to say anymore, as you walked away, from the look on Michael’s face — he knew you knew now and it was obvious in his expression. His jaw twitched as it fell ajar ever so slightly, his eyes squeezing shut as you walked away, muttering under his breath, shaking his head.

“Hey, girl!” Janet called, her voice excitable as she smiled at you, waving you over as she just did Blanket, who was now playing with her hair.

“Hey, Jan.” You smiled, leaning over to kiss her cheek, as she did the same “How ‘you been?”

“Oh, yeah, good, good. What about you?”

The conversation flowed from there as if you saw one another yesterday — laughing wildly and joking playfully about all of her brother’s and sister’s, who fawned over your kids dramatically, while discussing her relationship with American rapper, Jermaine Dupri, who she’d been with for two years at this point.

“Yeah, he’s so good to me, it’s so refreshing.” Janet told you as you settled on the couch, shortly after saying hello to the rest of Michael’s family, “We’re going away to Hawaii in April, I’m convinced he’s gonna propose.”

Although you smiled and gasped in joy, grasping her hands and asking a thousand questions about her possible engagement, you couldn’t help but let your heart ache at the mention of the start of a new beginning — your mind instantly jumping to the memory of Michael proposing, and then your wedding, and into the start of your marriage.

“Girl, I know that look, talk to me.” Janet cut herself off, raising her eyebrows at you as she took a sip from her glass of red-wine.

You groaned, rolling your eyes with a playful smile— Janet knew you nearly as much as Michael did, playing the part of a real sister, even if you weren’t married to her brother anymore.

“It’s just—Please tell me you saw it too.” You started, not even wanting to say it out loud.

Janet instantly knew what you were referring to, “Honey, everyone saw it.” She scoffed, “I think he’s a complete idiot for doing that.”

You laughed, shaking your head, “Well, it’s not like we’re together anymore, so there’s no loyalty there, but, why her, y’know? Out of everyone he could’ve chosen to take out, or even date, it had to be her.”

“She’s a vulture.” Janet spat, “I never forgave her for going on vacation with her ex while they were together. Totally unforgivable. And I will support Michael till the day I die, and I did when he didn’t speak to her for six weeks after that, but this? This is a big no.”

You sighed, “Yeah, me too. He’s the father of four of my children, so, I’ve gotta keep the peace for their sake—but, fuck, Jan, I’m livid. I didn’t think I could even get this angry anymore.”

Janet rest a soft, comforting hand on your knees as you let out another audible breath, “Honey, I don’t blame you. Not after what she did before you broke up. She knows exactly what she’s doing.” Janet leant in, “But, I doubt Michael had such, how do I put this?, devious intentions. Like you said, he is technically single and can date whoever he likes, but I doubt he’d ever do it to hurt you. He’s just too polite for his own good and it ends him up in bad situations. But her? She’s got an ulterior motive — ‘cause she’s a bitch.”

You chuckled again, harder this time, “No, I know. I know he would never intentionally hurt me, but I just get more irritated when it’s her, y’know? Especially after everything that happened between us three.” You let a breathless laugh escape you, “I mean I’d rather it be Diana.”

Janet cackled, “Girl, I reckon that ten times worse.”

The two of you shared more laughs and glasses of wine as you changed the subjects quickly — discussing vacations, work, your children, fashion, family, everything. Janet had always been your favourite, after Michael of course (not that you’d ever admit that to him now), and then Marlon, who was now approaching you from across the room.

“There she is! My favourite baby mama!” He called, arms out wide as he entered your orbit.

You snorted in laughter as you stood up to hug him, “What the hell, Marlon? I’m pretty certain all of my children are Michael’s.”

“Let a man dream, alright?” He quipped, nudging your shoulder with a playful grin, “Hey, later on, all of us are gonna have some drinks once the old fogey’s leave and the kids are asleep — just like old times. Whadda’ say?”

What Marlon referring to was when you and Michael first started dating, you would often go with him to Hayvenhurst when he visited his parents, alongside his siblings. And once Katherine and Joseph went up to sleep, all the siblings and their partners, including you, would all huddle in the living room and drink to your heart’s content — the house getting increasingly more loud as the group of you got more and more intoxicated. Michael never got that drunk at that age, and especially so when he felt a responsibility to take care of you — which he did. More often than not after one of those evenings, carrying you to bed once you returned home, undressing you and taking your makeup off while you babbled and kissed him all over, before passing out, which often amused him.

“Uh, duh.”

Marlon laughed, clapping his hands together in anticipatory excitement to his future drinking, before Katherine’s voice sounded out into the room.

“Cake time!”

Prince practically exploded with excitement as he raced over to you, squealing like a little piglet as he clabbered onto your lab. He sat with his small back facing your chest, legs kicking wildly against your shins as he radiated with joy — little hands grabbing at the material of your dress in anticipation.

Soon, the room fell into silence just as Blanket and Paris climbed next to you, nestling into your sides, as the lights flicked off before Michael arose from the darkness, a large buttercream frosting covered cake with seven ignited candles standing atop — as his melodic, sweet-symphony of a voice sounded out into the room.

Everyone soon joined in, even your two little ones next to you, for the famous Happy Birthday song, even Katherine. You knew birthdays and Christmas weren’t celebrated amongst their family due to Katherine’s religion — so, you felt an extra splash of gratitude for the Jackson’s when it came to celebrating the day of your son’s birth without their faith in mind. But, you knew Kate would do whatever her grandbabies.

Just as Michael reached you, crouching down to Prince’s level as he giggled, the song came to an end, and the birthday boy blew out his candles, with a slight struggle from his little lungs. And as the room enclosed into darkness and cheers of ‘Hip-Hip Hooray!’ echoed in your head, your eyes landed on Michael’s, whose were already locked on you.

The look in his eye was a familiar one — a glint that he wore four times previously, and on this day seven years ago when his first baby was born, was one of pride and intense adoration. The same look he also sported before the intimate lock of lips you shared in the hospital last year when Mickey was born — the look of love.

It was undeniable — the way his lip wobbled as his eyes glassed over in proud tears, cheeks flushing a sheer shade of burgundy, and the raw shine of adoration in his vision.

You soon adorned the same look, a simple, unspoken expression that said a thousand words, as well as one more plain sentence of ‘That’s our baby boy’.

But, the lights flicked on and you both snapped out of it — clearing your throats and swallowing thickly as you looked away from one another, forcing your attention onto Prince who demanded a slice of cake that had to be bigger than Paris’s. And soon, the night continued as it had done, now with bellies full of cake and, for the adults, wine.

However, as ever, Michael’s intense and noticeable gaze was hard to ignore — every conversation you slotted yourself into was always dragged away by a subtle eye movement behind said person, and catching the locked stare of Michael, who watched you like a hawk, often letting his bottom slip between his teeth before looking away. Every time your stomach would jump — a flare of burning electricity coursing through your veins like wildfire.

And, as it always does, the party began filtering out — offering hugs and kisses to cheeks before heading out the door. Even including Joseph, who grumbled a good-bye, and Kate, who engulfed you in a tight embrace, kissed your cheek and thanked you for bringing her beautiful grandchildren into this world, before leaving with Michael’s eldest sister, Rebbie, who had to send her children off to bed.

You did the same — sending your four babies up the stairs of Neverland, and into their respecting bedrooms, cooing each little one to sleep with a sweet, hushed bedtime story or a recount of their day, before they all succumbed to a much needed slumber. And as Mickey, who fell asleep in your arms, was laid carefully in his crib-like bed in Michael’s room, you shut the door and head back down the stairs to where the party awaited you.

And then, there were nine — You, Janet, La Toya, Jackie, Marlon, Jermaine, Tito, Randy and, of course, Michael.

The dozen of you situated yourselves in the living room adorning three large couches — all spreading across the furniture in equal numbers. Michael, tactically, sat across from you. You knew exactly why — he wanted to keep staring. But, you’d let him — what else was the dress for?

Marlon took a firm seat before letting three bottles of wine clatter onto the small table that sat in the middle of the room — before grabbing one himself and pouring a large glass.

“Let’s get the real party started.” Jermaine laughed as he took the bottle from Marlon, and topped his one glass of.

“Hey, that’s my baby’s birthday party you’re dissin’.” You quipped, chuckling as you thanked La Toya for passing you the bottle after she’d finished with it.

“I’m not dissin’” Jermaine defended with a smile, taking a sip of his wine, “I’m just sayin’, ain’t this way more fun?”

“Love Prince, but absolutely.” Marlon joked, sending the room into laughter.

The room settled into a comfortable buzzed environment — everyone quietly conversed with those nearest to them, occasionally engaging in a large group discussion, as the multiple glasses of consumed wine took over everyone’s blood-streams.

“Oooh, you know what we should play,” La Toya squealed, “‘Never have I ever?’!”

Jackie laughed, “Seriously? Are we fifteen?”

“What? It’s fun!” Toya defended, crossing her arms over her chest.

“I mean,” Marlon started, grinning playfully, a joke clearly pending, “We are in Neverland.”

“You are so corny.” Randy shot with a chuckle, “I’m down.”

“Yeah, me too.” Janet said with a grin, “Why not?”

As everyone, including yourself, agreed, all eyes landed on Michael — who had remained deliberately quiet.

“You in, Mike?” Tito question, placing his nearly empty wine glass on the side table, peering over at his brother next to him.

Michael let out a breathy laugh, eyes flicking up to you before he nodded, “Sure.”

Everyone cheered before putting one hand in the air as La Toya cleared her throat, before stating the first prompt.

“Never have I ever spent more than $50,000 in one day?”

The room chuckled as Jermaine, Michael and Janet put a finger down — but, Michael was a given. He was Michael Jackson after all.

“That’s so tame, sis.” Marlon laughed, “Never have I ever had sex in a pool?”

“Ew, Mar, what the hell?” Janet scrunched her face up, as Marlon cackled with laughter.

La Toya, Tito, Jackie and Jermaine put a finger down, succumbing to the teasing that soon followed from their siblings as the room erupted into laughter once more.

“Alright, alright, if that’s the route we’re going down, Never have I ever had sex more than ten times in one day?”

Well, shit.

Your eyes locked on Michael’s as the room fell into silence as everyone’s visions darted towards everyone’s hands — but, soon chaos ensued as you and Michael’s fingers slotted down.

“Oh, my God, Mike.” Jermaine cried, clutching his stomach, “You dog.”

You chuckled, shaking your head as you recounted the memory clearly in your head. It was the night, and more so day, after your wedding — and you spent the whole twenty-four hours after tying the knot making love. So much so, you both slept for at least fourteen hours that night, both covered head to toe in sweat, spit and cum — and completely spent.

“We’d just got married, what did you expect?” You giggled, the deep smile on your face on deepening as Michael dropped his head as he laughed breathlessly, clearly embarrassed from such intimate talk.

A few more intimate, hilarious and interesting rounds followed — memories from the siblings childhood, as well their respecting relationships and embarrassing moments all being revealed with each breath. As well as more wine.

“I can’t believe you peed on Randy, you two.” Janet gasped for breath as she laughed.

Michael laughed loudly, shaking his head, as he recounted the memory of sharing a bed with his brothers, “He’s such a liar.” He spoke, his words slightly slurred as the alcohol took over.

“I am not!” Randy fired back.

“Well, it wasn’t me.” Michael giggled, raising his eyebrows in Marlon’s direction who screamed with laughter.

“When you gotta go, you gotta go, little brother.” He winked, ignoring the way Randy cursed at him, “Alright, if you wanna come for me, Never have I ever got caught having sex by Mom?”

Randy groaned as he put a finger down, just as you gasped, “Oh, fuck’s sake, that includes us!”

“No way! When?” La Toya gasped as the room bustled with questions at your drunken revelation.

“Oh, come on, girl, why’d you tell ‘em?” Michael whined, his voice drawled as his cheeks flushed, as he slotted a third finger down.

The alcohol had clearly hit everyone, including you, as your cheeks flushed pink and your body buzzed with a heavy, noticeable daze of intoxication, as you began retelling the story. It had been a night just like this, five years ago, when Paris was still young, and your Mother had been looking after her and Prince while you had a party-night at Hayvenhurst with all the siblings. But, this time, Michael got equally as drunk as you, and was too under the influence to attempt to get home, so opted for spending the night at his parents. And, as most couple’s do when drunk, you began having sex, albeit much louder than you intended to. But, you hadn’t let Kate know you were staying over — so, when she marched into the room, wondering if there was a burglar, she witnessed you, naked, atop of her son, riding him.

Michael’s hands enclosed around his face as Tito shook his shoulders with a laugh, teasing him, as you added Kate had a stern talk with you the next day, like you were irresponsible teenagers, about safe sex, especially after having a baby.

“That was your fault.” Michael pointed at you, a lazy grin spread across his face, as his eyes drooped slightly.

You giggled, “Me? You came on to me.”

“More like into, but sure.”

“Oh, good, God, Michael!” La Toya squealed, covering her ears as everyone laughed.

“I always forget how he gets when he drinks.” You slurred with a chuckle, “As the story reveals.”

“Oh? You wanna go there?” Michael fired, “Never have I ever broke a mirror during... it?”

You gasped, folding a finger down as the memory of your legs giving way, and falling forward when Michael was fucking you from behind in front of the mirror, and it smashing from the weight of your tumble, hit your brain.

“Alright, Never have I ever fell asleep during sex?”

Marlon cackled as Michael pursed his lips together, “It was after the tour, girl, I was tired!”

“Put that finger down, Michael.”

“Fine, speaking of fingers, Never have I ever broke a finger during sex?”

As you slot a finger down, recounting the way you jumped on Michael from the edge of the bed, in between switching positions, and broke his pinky finger, you shot back, “Never have I ever slipped in the shower during sex?”

Michael cursed with a laugh as he put a finger down — the tension of his previous actions melting into nothingness as your teasing continued.

“Never have I ever been pregnant?”

“Oh, that’s playing dirty.” You gasped, putting a finger down until one was left, “Never have I ever woke the kids up from how loud you were being?”

“Fine, Never have I ever argued with me during sex?”

“Never have I ever been an asshole that it required an argument?”

Michael’s jaw clenched as the room fell into uncomfortable silence, “Never have I ever divorced the one man who actually put up with you?”

Oh, now he was pissed — and so were you.

“Oh, fuck you.” You spat, the tension rising back up as you dropped your hand, now not caring about the game, “Never have I ever ruined my marriage by letting my ex-wife sleep over at my house and take care of my loving wife’s kids while she was crying at her Mom’s house because of what I’d done?”

“You know it wasn’t like that.” Michael spat through gritted teeth, his hand also abandoned.

“Oh, really? So maybe, Never have I ever took my other ex-wife out for dinner who ruined my marriage, two days before my son’s birthday, is more fitting?”

Before Michael could even get another word out, you slammed your wine glass onto the table and stormed out of the room — heels clicking wildly against the floor, covering the sound of your quiet sobs as tears slipped from your eyes.

You soon found one of the many downstairs bathrooms, slotting yourself inside with a stumble due to your intoxication, and locking it shut. You hunched over the sink, letting tears drip onto the cold tiles that surrounded the basin as you choked out a sob.

‘Divorced the one man who put up with you’ rang in your head like a blasting speaker in your mind — circling around in your drunken thoughts. Michael had never been cruel, even when drunk, but his words had been harsh, which allowed your slurred brain to run away with itself, believing that it was true.

After a few minutes, a soft knock sounded onto the wood of the door, “Honey? It’s me.”

Janet’s quietened voice hit your ears from behind the door, as you stood up with a huff and unlocked the wooden barrier, pulling it open. She sighed sadly at the sight of your crying frame, before pulling you into a tight hug, rubbing your back as a few stray tears fell from your waterline.

“I’m sorry, honey, I—I have no idea what happened back there, but, I think you two have a lot to discuss.” She spoke gently as she pulled away, offering a small smile, “We’re all heading home now, do you need a ride?”

You let out another long sigh, “No, I’m okay. And you’re right, we should probably talk. I’m sorry you had to see that.”

“Don’t stress it, sweetie. Call me if you need, okay?”

And with quiet goodbyes with his brothers at the front door, who teased you carefully about your dispute with Michael, letting the tears dry and soft laughter erupt from your chest, the house fell into loud silence — the kind where you could move one step and it would echo.

You breathed out again, wiping your cheeks with the back of your hand, before heading back to where the group had once been. Your chest ached at the sight of Michael — head in his hands, elbows resting on his knees, body unmoving, now in dim lighting, the main light dialled down to a softer array of light across the room.

Michael’s head lifted at the sound of your heels clicking as they had done all day, your footing still unstable from the lingering alcohol, as you approached him. You took the high road, sitting firmly next to you with a huffed breath, hands settling on your thighs as you got comfortable.

The room, if it was even at all possible, fell into deeper silence, the only sound radiating between you was the sound of your slurred, slow breaths.

“I’m sorry.” Michael finally spoke, voice croaked and quiet as he sighed, “I—I don’t know why I said that.”

“Why did you?” Your voice a near whisper as tears threatened to brew at the reminder of the sentence that was haunting you, “Was I really that bad?”

“Not at all.” He spoke quickly, turning towards you briskly, his eyes meeting your own, “I was just angry and I blurted it out.” He ran a hand across his face, “I don’t know why I did.”

“That really hurt, Michael.” You breathed, “And, when you—sigh—when you, y’know, with Lisa the other day.” You swallowed down the lump in your throat, “Why?”

Michael grew quiet, pursing his lips together as he breathed out once more, “I don’t even know. I was bored, and in Manhattan for a gala, and she called me asking if I was free. I just—I just wanted to catch up.”

“Catch up with your ex-wife? After all that happened?” You questioned, furrowing your eyebrows.

“I know it sounds ridiculous, I hear it, I do. I don’t even know why I agreed really, but, we didn’t go home together, or kiss, or nothin’, if that’s what you’re thinkin’, ‘cause I bet you are.” You let a soft chuckle at his words, which were undeniably true, “It was harmless, to me at least. I definitely see how it looks.”

“Looked real bad, Mike.” You laughed breathlessly, “Jan said you were probably just being polite, and I guess she was right. But, it still hurt, Michael, seeing you with her, it was like opening an old wound that I worked so hard to heal.”

Michael didn’t reply right away, just stayed locked in your gaze, eyes a sunken display of his upset — hurt in the way he’d caused you pain. The look in his eyes was a watered down version of the way he looked at you when you caught him with Lisa the day you split up — the vision sending shockwaves of irrevocable pain coursing through your traumatised veins.

“I’m sorry.” He mumbled again, a hand coming down to rest over yours that crumbled together in your lap, “The last thing I want is for us to fall out when we have kids. It’s not fair to you, as well as them. That’s the last thing I want for us.”

The latter word hung heavy in your head the second it left his lips — a spike of a familiar adoring feeling spreading through you.

“Us.” A smile drifted onto your face, as you glanced down at your connected hands, “Haven’t heard that in a while.”

Michael watched as you toyed with his fingers, rolling the digits between your own, rubbing the soft skin with the pad of your thumb so delicately his heart skipped a beat at the touch.

“We were pretty good together.” He admitted softly, “You made it perfect.”

Your smile deepened, “So I wasn’t hard to put up with?”

Michael chuckled softly as you reciprocated, “No, not at all.” He confirmed, “I wouldn’t be who I am today without you, and that’s a positive thing. I mean I’m a dad of a four now, and I love being a father, and I love our kids, and I love yo—“

He cut himself off, visibly tensing, before he could finish the sentence — but, it was too late. The way you gasped softly revealed you’d heard it — his casual revelation for his love for you, even after all this time.

“Michael.” You whispered, peering up from your entwined hands to meet his gaze, “What did you say?”

You had heard, loud and clear, but you needed confirmation before you let your heart burst, while it hammered violently in your chest.

“I said I love you.” Michael sighed, accepting defeat and owning it, “I do now, as I always have done, even after everything. The break-up, the divorce, the kids, Lisa — everything.”

His voice was lazy and slurred, and strong smelling of alcohol as it drifted over your nose from his breath.

“Michael, I—“

“You don’t need to say anything. I know you left for a reason, and a valid one at that. I know I fucked everything up, before and after we split up, I just—I don’t think I can go another day without you.” He let out a broken, shaken breath as a single tear slipped down his face, “I still love you so much, so much it physically hurts whenever I see you leave when you pick up the kids. I can literally feel my heart breaking in my chest whenever we talk like we didn’t spent eight years together. Eight years learning routines, and favourite dinners, and—and little quirks. Eight years of sleeping next to one another, washing together in the shower, and rubbing each other’s feet after a long day, or taking off your make-up when you’re too drunk to do it.” You laughed softly at his words, “Eight years of marriage, seven of being parents to the most wonderful children on the planet, I just—I can’t bear that they think their Mommy and Daddy don’t love each other anymore, when that’s not the truth.” He finally took a breath after he rambled, “At least it isn’t for me.”

You didn’t even realise you were crying until salt lingered on your tongue from where your tears trickled onto your lips — eyebrows tucked deep into the crease of your forehead, lip wobbling as you let him pour his heart out, a raw, vulnerable display of his adoration.

“I never stopped loving you, Michael.”

The sound that left Michael was a broken choke, half a sob as his hands enclosed tighter around your own.

“I was mad at you—fuck, so mad at you. So mad and distraught and lonely, and you saw none of it. You were just so busy and cooped in your own insanely demanding career that you took me for granted. Assumed I’d always be there, that I’d never leave, that I’d always put up with it.” You sniffled, wiping the tears that dripped from the tip of your nose, “But, I just couldn’t. I let you push me closer and closer to the edge, until I willing jumped off, y’know? I just couldn’t take anymore.” You continued, “But, that never meant I stopped loving you.”

As you finished, you let out a deep, trembling breath that released all of the past two years of stress from your body — your shoulders slumping ever so slightly as more tears slipped from your eyes.

“I could never, ever stop loving you, Michael.”

Michael didn’t waste a beat — hands flying from your enclosure to cup your cheeks, and connect your lips.

You gasped into the kiss, your own instantly taking a hold of his shoulders as he moved quickly against you. He was making up for lost time — his hands moving from your face, to your neck, to your waist, pulling you closer to his body radiating pulsing heat, as he hummed into your mouth. A low, deep grumble left him as you crawled onto his lap, lips still connected, instantly finding a familiar comfortability as your legs settled either side of his. Your tongue swiped his bottom lip, requesting entry, as your hands splayed across his panting chest, as he let you in. The kiss only got frequently more frenzied, hands running across one another’s bodies, as if attempting to remember the shape, as your tongues glided together — the kiss growing warm, wet and messy.

If alcohol wasn’t in the equation, you most likely would’ve left it there — pulling away from the kiss and continuing the conversation about your relationship, maybe even attempting to reconcile or rekindle, but not now. Not when your hips slowly began grounding down on the obvious tent in his slacks, moaning into one another’s mouths as his hands cupped the curve of your behind through your dress. The same one that had ridden up your thighs, now revealing your delicate, lace panties that sported a wet patch from where you drooled from anticipatory arousal — now rolling against Michael’s crotch.

“Oh, God, I missed this.” Michael panted, lips leaving your own, revelling in the way you whined into the air, as his mouth trailed down your jaw, to your exposed neck, as your head lolled back, “Missed you, shit, I missed you so much, baby.”

His mouth licked and sucked the skin of your neck, erupting in red-hot heat from the alcohol, and the ecstasy his mouth was providing — littering your skin in dark, blooming love-bites, ones he soothed with his tongue afterwards.

“Michael, please.”

Michael groaned at the sound of your needy plea — a hand guiding your rocking hips against him as he leaked into his boxers at the sensation, “Tell me what you need, sweet girl.”

“Need—fuck, need you, baby, Oh—“

Your breath caught in your throat as Michael lips reached your breasts — pressing open-mouthed, spit-stricken kisses against your cleavage as a hand crawled up to cup your left breast, kneading one in his palm.

“Yeah?” He breathed, voice panted and wrecked, mouth now covered in your lipstick, “What do you need, baby?”

You whined, loud and desperate, your eyes rolling to the back of your head as he grazed your erect nipple with his teeth, your back arching at the feeling, “Make love to me, please.”

How you ended up in Michael’s bedroom was a blur — a rushed, hushed and stumbled run up the stairs, shedding clothes before you even made it to the room, stealing kisses and subtle touches in the dark, in quietened voices to not wake your sleeping children.

But, once you made it, Michael pounced like a lion on its prey — guiding you backward as he kissed you until your legs hit the bed, before laying you down gently. Michael had always been a tentative, doting lover in the bedroom, making sure you always finished first, and had the most pleasureful, comfortable experience possible — and even after all this time, he was the same.

He had already rid his shirt outside the room, and managed to pull your dress halfway up your legs, so when he fell to his knees in between your bare thighs, he only had to push your dress the other half of the way off, before you were bare before him, aside from your panties.

He shimmied your soaked underwear down your legs and shuffled back on his calves — eyes trailing over your stark naked, trembling frame.

“Wow.” He breathed, “My beautiful lady. God, the things you do to me.”

“I think I have somewhat of an idea.” Your voice was teasing and tantalising as a bare foot, your heels left to rot on the stairs, pressed firmly onto the bulge in his trousers.

Michael cursed under his breath, head falling forward to rest against your knee as his hand gripped your ankle at the sensation — he hadn’t had any sort of physical contact with a woman, besides hugging, since you split up a year ago, and by God, was he desperate now.

As your foot retracted and he gained composure, he pressed swift kisses up from your knee and along your thighs — before two large slowly parted your legs as he slot his face between them.

Before he delved in to where you needed him most, he peered up at your panting frame, eyes blow at the anticipation of his mouth, “Can I taste you, baby?”

“Oh, God, please, ye—Oh, fuck, Michael!”

The cry left you before you stop yourself as his tongue flattened against your sex — a low rumble of a groan leaving his lips, vibrating against your core as he let the taste of you settle on his tongue. You writhed at the vibration, soft gasps and whines leaving your throat as he began slow, practiced figure-eights along your throbbing clit — your hands flying to capture his hands that rest against your thighs in a tight grasp to steady yourself.

“Fuck, you taste even better than I remembered, mama.” Michael mumbled against your sex, licking a long stripe from your weeping hole, to where your clit twitched violently.

He dove back in, but this time, slipping a slender finger inside you — revelling in the way your back arched and you cried his name, the pleasure you yourself too hadn’t felt in a year consumed you entirely. His fingers found that spot instantly — rubbing the part of your drooling cunt that made you cry out in overwhelming pleasure repeatedly as you saw stars.

With the dual sensation of his fingers and relentless mouth now suckling your clit into his mouth, releasing it with a pop! and then swirling his tongue around it — your orgasm approached quicker than you expected. And hit you like a freight train.

“Oh, my, God, I’m gonna—fuck, Michael, I’—“ You sounded awfully desperate and whiny as you panted, legs shaking as your first non-self-inflicted orgasm washed over you.

His name fell from your swollen lips like a chant — hitting his ears as he contained to stimulate you, his tongue and fingers never letting up as you rode the wave of your release.

“That’s it, that’s my girl.” Michael coaxed, his fingers slowing as you slumped against the sheets, “Did so good for me, baby.”

Michael gasped as you sat up and grabbed him by the belt — dragging him to his feet as his crotch became level with your face from where you sat on the bed. Your nimble fingers worked open his belt with practiced ease, an action you’d performed thousands of times over your relationship, as you pushed his slacks and boxers to his ankles.

Your breath hitched in your throat at the sight of him — you’d seen his cock, hard and soft, a million times before, but this time was different. He looked the hardest he’d ever been — twitching cock flushed a deep shade of pink against the mauve-coloured tip, pulsing veins painting the underside of his shaft, and sporting a drool of perfectly white pre-cum from the head that stained his abdomen as it slapped against it.

You pulled him down by his hips as you lay flat against the sheets — back hitting the bed as Michael crawled atop of you. He connected your lips instantly, but, this kiss was gentler than the previous — his mouth moved slowly and delicately against yours, as if savouring the taste of sweet red-wine and buttercream frosting on your tongue, mixing with the familiar taste of your saliva.

His hands moved quicker than his mouth — pulling your legs up into the air by the back of your knees, and slotting them onto his shoulders, as he nestled closer to your chest. With a spare hand that wasn’t cupping the nape of your neck, fingers tangled in your hair, Michael took a firm hold of the base of his cock and slot it between your folds with ease only a former husband of eight years would know to do, even in an intoxicated state.

“Please, baby.”

“Patience.” He whispered against your mouth, pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of your lips before sitting up on his knees, “Wanna do somethin’ first.”

He leant over to the nightstand next to the bed, ignoring how you whined from the lack of touch, and retrieved a small black box. He lodged himself back between your raised legs, and chuckled, opening the black box, as you gasped.

“Wanna be my wife again for the night, baby?”

There, in the black, velvet box, the same one he opened nine years prior on golden sands in Italy at sunset, held your engagement ring, and nestled neatly above it, your wedding ring, the same one you wore for eight years, and mailed back to him the day after you broke-up. One that he kept all this time in the drawer of his nightstand — a subtle way of holding onto you all this time.

Michael pulled the wedding ring out of the box, saving the engagement ring for safe keeping, and threw the box across the large bed. He slotted your legs over his shoulders once more, slithering his cock between your glistening folds, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth at the sound of your breathy whine — before guiding himself to your clenching hole.

With one swift, beautifully erotic jerk of his hips — Michael sheeted himself inside you, at the same time as he slipped your wedding ring back onto your ring-finger.

The sensation of not only being stuffed to the hilt of the cock you’d missed for two years, the one you touched yourself to the thought of every night since you left, whining as your cunt struggled to stretch around the size of him, but also your finger now snug with your wedding ring around it once more had your pussy gushing and pulsating around the length of him.

Michael didn’t miss it — leaning forward, slotting himself only deeper with a huff, and pressing his mouth against yours, “Oh? You like that, huh?” He teased, lips ghosting against your own, “You like the idea of being my wife again, baby?”

“Mmh—fuck, yeah, baby—” Your eyes rolled to the back of your head as the tip of his cock nudged your cervix — a sensation that had you gasping for breath at the fullness.

“That’s right, darling,” Michael breathed, pulling back slowly so only the tip of him remained, “‘Wanna make you mine again so bad.”

And his relentless thrusts began — hips moving at such a pace that you lost your breath, eyes rolled so far into the back of your head you became dizzy, and noises of undeniable pleasure so loud you were certain at least one of your children were to wake. Michael always had insane stamina, especially so after your wedding, but right now it was unstoppable — so pent up for your body for over a year that you didn’t think he’d ever stop.

His hands rest harshly on your hips, grip so hard you were certain it’d leave a mark, and that it did, as he fucked you back down onto his cock — the sound of your squelching cunt filling his ears.

“Oh, sweetheart.” Michael breathed, breath warm against your skin, “Listen to that—y’pussy’s so wet f’me, honey. Missed your husband that much, huh?”

“So—fuck—so much, Mikey—God.”

Your noises were whiny and needier than you’d ever heard them, not that your drunken brain was registering in the moment, as you buried yourself into the crook of his neck — lips instantly finding solace in his warm skin, covered in a sheen of sweat, that danced on your tongue as you sucked marks into the flesh. Michael groaned near the shell of your ear, hands tightening around your hip as you clamped down on him — now rutting impossibly faster at the sensation of your spasming cunt and your lips against his skin.

“Michael!—Holy fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck—“

You only got louder, and therefore whinier, when he pressed your legs against your chest in a brutal mating press — now despicably deeper inside you, and relentlessly abusing the sweet spot, the one he previously curled his fingers against, as your second orgasm crept up your abdomen.

“God, baby, you feel—Jesus, just like how I remember.” Michael panted, moving his head to capture your mouth in a fierce kiss once more, “Fuck, I love you.”

You cried out indefinitely into his mouth, hands threading through his soft locks of hair at the nape of his neck, “I love—Mmh!—love you so much, Michael.”

He cursed under his breath, jaw hanging swiftly slack as his eyes squeezed shut — cock now twitching violently inside you as he quickened his thrusts swiftly. Your orgasm was dangerously close — now only a few ruts against your G-spot away as Michael continued to pepper kisses over your lips and face, groaning against your skin.

“Fuck, baby, I—“ He cut himself off with a whine, deep from his chest, “Wanna give you another baby so bad.”

His words sent you over the edge — cunt clenching him so hard his thrusts faltered ever so slightly as he cried out at the sensation. Your orgasm hit you like a ton of bricks — your back arching and mouth falling open for frenzied pants and whines to escape your throat as the sweet, delicious familiarity of an orgasm coaxed out by Michael consumed your body. Irrevocable ecstasy coursed through you like buzzing electricity — setting you alight as you mumbled incoherently into the air.

“Jesus, is that what you want, mama? You wan’ a fifth? Oh, Jesus—“

Speaking the filthy words aloud, Michael threw himself into his own release — hips sputtering as he pushed himself impossibly deeper, spilling inside you with a loud groan, muffled by the safe haven of your collarbone, his teeth sinking into the skin to soften the noises. His pushed his incredibly, obviously, fertile seed further inside you — retracting his teeth and licking the marks in your skin in a soothing manner as his hands tightened around your hips, the jerks of his own slowing with each lazy thrust.

Soon came the silence — now this time not angered, or tense, or awkward, or saddened, but familiar. The ragged pants of breaths as you attempted to catch them, and gentle, loving, soft kisses stolen on necks, jaws, cheeks and lips — whispering heartfelt desires and thoughts into one another’s skin, promising love and devotion.

Michael pulled out with a wet pop! and crumbled next to you — instantly pulling you to his chest, and situating you under the blankets. His head hit the pillow with a sigh as you nestled onto his skin — both your brains swirling with alcohol and adrenaline-induced intoxication.

Just as your eyes fluttered shut, sleep threatening to take over, Michael pressed an adorably gentle kiss to your forehead. Your eyes squinted open, fighting sleep in a loosing battle, as you met his too sleepy gaze.

“Whatever happens in the morning,” He whispered, “Just know I love you.”

He didn’t expect a reply, especially so when your eyes fell back shut and you drifted off to sleep, as moments later he did the same.

And that’s the reality of the night that had hit you in this very moment — sat upright in Michael’s bed, more hungover than you anticipated, and swarming with dread as you stared down at the wedding ring on your finger.

The night wasn’t unpleasant — it was far from it. If anything, it actually fixed the main problem in your life — being a single mother of four, and having to pretend like you didn’t still have feelings for your ex-husband. But, fucking him drunk wasn’t exactly the route you thought you’d take to reconcile your relationship.

“Baby?”

Michael’s hoarse, croaky, morning voice hit your ears, making you jump as you gasped softly, breaking out of your train of through as you met his sleepy gaze. He mumbled softly as consciousness erupted in his system, rubbing his tired eyes as they settled on you — covered in love-bites, bruises and completely stark naked.

“Oh, Jesus, did we—?”

“I think that’s fairly obvious, Michael.” You forced out a scarce laugh, pursing your lips against one another as Michael slotted the puzzle pieces together, “Do you—Do you remember anything, or..?”

“I—I think so, I don’t—Is that your wedding ring?”

You peered down at the shining jewellery, as a soft chuckle escaped you, “Uh, yeah. I think we kinda got re-engaged last night.”

“Oh, my God.” Michael groaned, covering his face with his hands bashfully, “I’m so sorry, I just know it was me who instigated that.”

Another genuine laugh slipped from your mouth, mingling with Michael’s in the air of the bedroom, “Yeah, seems like it.”

Silence followed shortly — but, as it had been ever since you revealed your unspoken love for one another after everything, it wasn’t tense. Nor unsettling. If anything, the silence was calm and peaceful — like you both had so much to say, yet felt no pressured obligation to do so frantically.

“Well, you, um, you put it on.” Michael spoke shyly, “So, do you want to—do we, uh, shall I—“

You slipped the ring from your finger, and presented it to him, “I think we should have this decision when we’re of more sound mind.”

“Oh, yeah, sure.” Michael replied quietly, taking the ring from your grasp.

You could tell from the way he spoke that he was disappointed — like you had shattered his heart all over again.

“That’s not to say I don’t want to discuss us, and what was said last night. I’m not closing that off for good, so, don’t worry. I just think getting engaged before we even discuss getting back together is a bit far-fetched.”

Michael chuckled, a real laugh escaping him as a smile danced onto his lips, “Yeah, you’re right, good idea, mama.”

You couldn’t help but let your heart flutter with fondness at the easiness of the nickname — the familiarity of it sending waves of butterflies through your stomach.

The rest of the morning was jovial — you washed and dressed yourself, in a pair of Michael’s old joggers and an old Victory Tour t-shirt, with light banter and easy conversations with him, both of you waking the children up together and curating breakfast for the whole family. You managed to shut down any probing questions Prince and Paris hounded you with, like ‘Mama, why are you here if you don’t live with Daddy anymore?’ or ‘Mama, are you and Daddy back in love?’ and ‘Daddy, are you gonna marry Mommy again soon?’

You diminished them all with a stern warning to stop asking, before exchanging hushed giggles and side-eyed glances to one another at the comedic timing of your two eldest.

But, all good things must come to an end, as Michael helped you with yours and the children’s belongings to Bill’s car, which awaited you out front. As Michael conversed with Bill, you ushered the children into the back seat, clipping them in like you had done the day previously, before turning to Michael.

“Come here.” He smiled, opening up his arms.

You chuckled softly, walking into his embrace as he wrapped his arms around your waist, as yours situated against his chest, the sound of his rhythmical heart beating making your heart flutter. He pressed a swift kiss, while the kids weren’t looking, to your forehead before you pulled away.

“Call me, okay?” He spoke to you, blowing a kiss to Paris as she waved at him through the window, “We can talk about everything, whenever you want.”

“Okay, Michael.”

You returned the smile he offered to you as he pulled the car door open for you, and pushing it gently shut once you’d climbed in. Michael waved theatrically goodbye as the car sped off out the driveway — his frame becoming smaller and smaller in the wing-mirror as Bill drove further away.

“The dress trick worked then, huh?” Bill teased with a playful smile.

You laughed, “Don’t even start.”

From then on, you contacted Michael frequently — calling him, even if it was just to ask him about his day, often, just to hear his voice. You didn’t know when you wanted to discuss that night, as you were the one who ended the relationship, and as dearly as you loved him, you had to be sure that things were going to change. You didn’t want to mess yourself around, as well as your children, by getting back into a relationship out of infatuation and attachment, rather than knowing for sure.

So, Michael would take any opportunity he could to show you just how much he meant what he said. He took you out anywhere and everywhere, just the two of you, dates like the old days when you first got together — dinners, theme parks, movies, bowling, dancing, all child-like and utterly ridiculous, but yet so meaningful. And he never once talked about work, unless you asked, never answered a phone call, or started mentally drifting away from the conversation as his mind slipped back into work mode — he was there. Physically, mentally, emotionally.

He started making a real, true, genuine effort — and one that you never asked him to.

The first time you called him after that night was a few days afterwards — just to check in. And he asked you out — said he would love to take you out to dinner to the restaurant you both used to religiously go to when you were married. Your favourite Mexican restaurant in all of California.

And from that point on, he never stopped — never let up on his effort. He took you everywhere, and treated you like you weren’t his ex-wife whom he was attempting to get back. He was behaving out of pure love and devotion to you — proving himself and making up for lost time. Meanwhile, not once did he ask nor expect sex — your drunken night had been intoxicated led, and as much fun as he had, he strictly told you that the time you were spending together wouldn’t be sexual, as he wanted it to be meaningful. When you teased him that you thought he was saying your sex wasn’t heartfelt, he quickly shut it down — reminding you that although sex between you two is sacred to him, earning your trust and respect back was more so.

At the six week mark of you and Michael beginning to rekindle your relationship — you had never felt so high. Your children were let on to a ‘little secret’ that Mommy and Daddy are close friends now, and can be around one another — so dinners and trips out were spent as family again. Their adolescent brains didn’t question it for very long — but you could tell your eldest were secretly pleased. Especially Paris, who whispered to you one night while you coaxed her to sleep, with Michael stood in the doorway, watching happily, that she was happy you and her Daddy were friends again, and that she loved you both so much, before falling asleep.

That was all the confirmation you were making the right decision that you needed.

Michael had woken at his own house alone, this morning, for once — you had spent the evening out with his sisters last night, and requested a solo night at your house. A choice he respected — which led him to awake in his bed all by himself. He had the kids round, which meant his peaceful morning would probably be disturbed in a matter of minutes, with Prince, Paris and Blanket leaping on bed, before he fetched Mickey from his.

But, the first disruption was the loud sound of the phone ringing.

Michael jumped — body seizing as the sound rattled through him. He cursed under his breath as he reached for the phone, picking it up and bringing it to his ear.

“Hello?”

“Michael?”

The sound of your voice would usually bring a smile straight to his face, and flutters throughout his body — but, you sounded panicked. And he instantly noticed.

“Baby? Are you alright?”

“You better get that wedding ring out again, Mike.” You laughed, but clearly sounded unamused as Michael furrowed his eyebrows.

“Huh? What do you mean, honey?” He replied, confusion swarming his senses.

“I’m pregnant.”