my comfy place☕️

after one final cry out, he didn't show up. didn't pull you in when you needed it.

no.

michael had screamed. he had yelled, "every waking moment cannot be catered towards you! I have my life. I have my work. I have my passions. I have my family. Not everything can be about you."

and the thing was--

michael never yelled. never screamed. he rarely used his natural and genuine voice. but he had.

it made you nervous. it hurt you.

he walked out of the hills home, and went to the westlake recording studio without a second thought.

slyvia, his longtime personal assistant -- and you're closest confidant and friend, stayed behind as you sobbed.

she knew how much his distance and absence had been killing you.

slowly but surely, breaking you bit by bit.

and so you left. in hopes michael would wake up. in hopes that being on your own, would help clear your head. give you solace as you decided what you wanted to do, where you wanted to be and most importantly: who you wanted to be.

did you want to stay in a role, that had suffocated you?

did you want to stay in a marriage, that had made you isolated?

did you want to stay as mrs.jackson, and forget who you were?

because you weren't a weak woman. you weren't a sad, hopeless or insecure person.

you were the complete opposite. but bit by bit, from the world, the media and even your goddamn husband -- you changed.

but the one thing that hadn't changed? your spine.

and michael felt it. oh, he felt it all.

he knew you were a strong person, that's partially why he fell in love with you.

therefore, michael knew that you would be difficult to crack. would be difficult to convince to come home. but he also believed against his better judgement, you would have been back within a week. but now, here he was for the 32nd morning -- almost 5 weeks later, he was waking up alone.

and damn. did he hate it. he was stubborn. he was incredibly stubborn, but you also adored that about him. so you know he would take a while to crack. but you had been hopeful. seeing your clothes and personal items, moved out of the home -- would have been a wake up call. but clearly, it hadn't.

instead of day and night, being catered towards him -- you reclaimed pieces of yourself that you had lost over the years. the biggest one? independence. sure, michael had never given you rules or regulations. but, you felt as though there were invisible ones - because each and every decision had to be calculated and decided on.

now? you walked in and out of your west hollywood apartment, day and night, without a care in the world.

you went out with friends on weeknights, after work. you went to different exhibits and art galleries, throughout the los angeles county and even down to san diego. you woke up at 6 am on sundays just because, heading to the los angeles farmers market or the beach to grab a quick walk-in with yours and michaels 4 year old-- mini daschund, stevie. furthermore, you felt as though you could finally breathe again.

you had missed your independence and living on your own.

you missed being your own person.

___

you weren't home when Sylvia called.

no.

you were out at the farmers market, as it was sunday and you had been going for weekly produce and flowers from there.

erik -- your security guard, followed from behind your car.

the one thing you would agree too, after conversing with sylvia when you first left, was to have erik with you at all times or at least aware of where you were.

after too many way-too-close calls, the past few years, you were grateful for him.

iced coffee in hand, hair whipping in the wind, the santa monica sunlight catching you just right. nirvana blaring from your cd player speakers, you realized how happy you were.

you had missed this.

yes, you missed your husband. you loved him beyond words could describe. beyond any painting you could ever create.

there was no doubt about your love. but the doubt that was there? michaels. you didn't know, now, 32 days later if he wanted you still. if he loved you. hell, you didn't know if he did the past year alone. you're mind didn't waste the opportunity to say: he's hurting you on purpose. because that would be incredibly cruel, you thought.

sniffling once as you pulled into the historic El Palacio, apartment complex, right off of sunset blvd.

you pulled right into the driveway, erik right behind you, and he quickly stepped out to retrieve some of the bags for you.

you thanked him, heading towards the side door with a key before stepping into the tuscan, Spanish Renaissance 1931 era home. stevie running up to greet the two of you, before erik took him outside.

you pressed click on your phone to play the messages, if there were any.

slyvias voice played immediately.

"hey girl...i wish you picked up, shit. you're probably not home right now-," and that's when she heard michaels voice in the background.

"shes not gonna come!" he cried out.

your eyebrows furrowed immediately.

michaels cries filled the background of the call. slyvia repeatedly tried to calm him down.

"we wanted to know if you were coming out tonight a-," michael cut his assistant off.

"she's not gonna come!," he paused with the phone in his hand, "she doesn't love me anymore!" you heard the broken and vulnerable voice of you husband, that you seldom saw.

and then the phone went dead.

he sounded exhausted. he sounded unsure. he sounded scared.

he sounded lonely.

but michael was wrong. you still loved him. you had never stopped. and you don't think you ever would, or could.

you turned to erik with tears pricking your eyes. no word was spoken except a simple nod from him.

you quickly hurried upstairs, smoothing down the small ballerina bun you had put in before you had gone to the market.

you threw open the closet full of dresses, special 2 pieces and some suits that you had made based off of michaels. without a thought as to why, you pulled your wedding reception dress.

you and michael had gotten married on new years even of 1989, ringing in the new years and a new decade -- as a married couple. you had a custom vera wang dress, a very early design by the woman herself. after an hour, you took it off and put on a custom ralph lauren floor-length, ivory-white silk satin gown that feels effortlessly glamorous rather than overly embellished. The dress has a sleek, liquid-like drape that skims the body without being skin-tight, creating a classic silhouette.

looking in the mirror and at the clock, you quickly added just enough makeup that accentuated your features naturally, rather than full glam. you had found over time through the years that, a soft glam was more you than anything else. and it also didn't help that michael adored seeing more of you than the makeup. something on his own, he had been insecure about for quite some time before the two of you worked through those feelings, together; did he become more comfortable and most importantly: confidant.

black tights on. black heels. silver earrings on. silver rings and wedding band, along with your classic black ray bans-- you were all set.

if traffic complied, you would be at the shrine auditorium right before the red carpet closed and michael opened the show.

erik helped you into the blacked out chrysler, and he slid in on the other side.

with a small sigh, your eyes shut as the two of you and your driver sped down san vincente blvd.

"i called slyvia, at the venue, she knows your coming. michael doesn't." erik explained a few minutes after taking off. you nodded at him, giving him a grateful smile.

your heart felt as though it was going to beat out of you chest. your nerves throwing you stomach for a loop. and your fear sitting on your mind, full throttle.

even though he didn't think you were gonna be there, there was still a chance he wouldn't want you to be there, right?

right?

___

michael had gone 32 days without speaking with his wife.

the absolute love of his life. his sun, solace and peace in the darkest and most complicated times.

there was no one else for him. there hadn't been since the moment you two met, at the griffith conservatory, back in summer '87.

he was gone the moment he spotted you, taking in the sunset, taking photographs on your classic canon from the 50s.

your thumb was placed over one of your eyes as you essentially, created a mental picture, so you could paint in later. after a few minutes, you quickly pulled out your sketch pad and began to draw for a few minutes. not realizing that one of the greatest musicians of all time was staring at you from afar. studying you. tito was laughing his ass off as he watched his baby brother fall in love, from afar. he pushed his shoulder, pushing him forward and tito pointed at the girl.

you and michael had tito to thank for the rest of your lives.

he had thought about that moment constantly and quite agononaly since the day you left.

he thought about the moment he proposed to you in the south of France. when the clock striked 12 on 1990, signaling a new decade and solidified the union between you too. he thought about the moment he walked you through the door of yours and his, hills residence, after the wedding. your confusion was endearing as you two were drive up the cobble driveway.

he rememebrs your soft voice, "mickey...," you trailed off, your eyes swelling in confusion before he opened the door and held out a hand, for you to take. you two had walked up the stone steps, your confusion ever more apparent.

"micke- oh!" you shrieked as he picked you up bridal style, opened the french doors, "welcome home honey." he hummed as you two stepped over the threshold.

your eyes widened as you took in the french architecture and styling.

you turned towards michael after doing a small turn and pulled him in for a kiss, that quickly turned passionate, then heated, before the both of your outfits trailed up the stairs.

michael smiled at that memory as he stood backstage, his aviators covering his eyes, as he stood waiting for his cue.

"show time." the producer next to him spoke, and michael made his way onto the stage.

the past 32 days had made your husband realize that you were the glue holding him together. you were the stitch holding him upright, the sunlight in his life that warmed and molded him together. you were the moon that gave him solititude and grace, when he needed it most. your words illuminated him when needed.

michael had been a fool, he now realized. an absolute fool.

the distance between you too was too much, physically and emotionally.

time had hurt him. time had brusied him. time had broken him even more.

he wasn't even sure if you wanted him anymore. he wasn't sure if you would even let him come to your door. he sure as hell didn't know if you'd at least hear him out. but he knew what he had done. he knew his behavior prior to him screaming had been subpar. he had been a bad husband. a bad partner. a version of himself, and one that was not true.

michael decided as he stepped onto the stage, that after the performance, he was leaving.

he was going home. he was going to see you.

the music started.

or as you would say, the performance started.

'dont stop til you get enough.'

'the way you make me feel.'

you too your seat, along with everyone else as that song began, sitting down next to sylvia who took your hand in hers.

'black or white.'

'billie jean.'

then, dangerous began. michael threw off his hat, his jacket, and began to open his button up shirt.

you shifted in your seat a bit, a small, humorous grin forming before you covered it with your hand. sylvia, who sat next to you giggled into your side.

no. you weren't laughing at him. no. you were still shy after so many years.

your cheeks reddened. the camera closest to you, turned towards you and got every moment.

michaels eyes followed in hindsight at the current movement, before the chords changed and 'you are no alone', began.

his eyes founds you.

his solance.

his peace.

tranquility.

his moon that illuminated during the night.

his swan.

trying desperately not to break at the seams. his adrenaline spiked.

michaels heart swelled as you two stared at one another for a brief few seconds, he realized just which dress you had on. one that had accompanied the best night of your lives.

a fond smile beginning to form before he looked away.

his back turned towards the crowd, as he attempted to collect himself.

you watched as the gospel choir began to flood the stage, harmonizing with michael.

then midway through the song, the chords began to change as the choir hummed in the background, following the change of song.

you knew instantly which one it was. it was one of your personal favorites on the dangerous, album.

Beethoven's Symphony No. 9 began and you smiled.

michael allowed them to open the song, as he watched on from the stage left.

everyone in the audience stood up as michael joined quickly moving through the bridge and chorus, the crowd clapping along with the choir.

you swayed next to slyvia as michael made the awards ceremony, look like sunday mass, you sung the song under your breathe as the choir faded out softly, before harmonizing with the piano, going slower.

michael stood in the middle of the stage.

he had long ago, thought of the idea for this.

even if you weren't here -- he'd still be saying these very words.

his eyes found yours in the crowd.

your heart stilled.

In our darkest hour,

In my deepest despair,

Will you still care?

Will you be there?

oh.

those weren't just any words.

no.

those words you had held close to your heart, the very moment he spoke them.

In my trials

And my tribulations

Through our doubts

And frustrations

In my violence

In my turbulence

Through my fear

his voice gave out a bit as he looked away, his emotions getting the best of him. his gaze fell to the floor.

And my confessions

In my anguish and my pain

Through my joy and my sorrow

In the promise of another tomorrow

I’ll never let you apart

his gaze found yours once more.

For you’re always in my heart

his private vows.

your eyes swelled with tears, as the two of you gazed at one another. as soon as the stage went dark, only then did you wipe the tears that fell.

michael thanked the crowd and choir, as the lights turned on once more.

you and slyvia hugged as you softly cried. she helped wipe the tears that fell.

___

as soon as michael was able to get changed, he bolted.

he made his way to you, his wife.

god.

michael begged god, praying that this wasnt just a pr stunt. that this was a genuine decision. for her to come.

you were in the middle of chatting with michelle pfeiffer, the two of you had known each other for a few years, when she popped into your gallery for a classic.

michelle smiled widely as her eyes flickered behind you. "we'll get lunch soon, ok?" she said hugging her quickly before you had a chance to figure out why she practically bolted herself.

you turned back towards slyvia, and thats when you saw him.

he was now a few footsteps from you.

without a second to really digest it -- his hands found your cheeks.

"michael?" you basically whispered as he gazed at your lips.

he kissed them with much passion.

a month of silence.

a month of isolation.

a month of dread.

fear.

a month of thinking, you were really gone for good.

he pulled back after a few seconds.

you both smiled shyly, "you came." he whispered, his eyes flickering a speck of worry.

you smiled warmly.

"ofcourse, i came. i wouldn't miss this.. i wouldn't miss you," michaels heart swelled.

"i will always be there." you finished and it felt as though you two were the only ones in the room.

michael smiled widely down at you before pulling you in for another quick peck.

he turned towards slyvia, "can we leave?...you know what, i don't care. i already got the award." he mused before taking your hand in his and beginning his descent out of the auditorium.

it wasn't long until you two were pulling up the west hollywood apartment.

"stevie will be happy to see his papa," you mused as he helped you out of the black car.

michaels face brightened.

he had missed that little guy so much.

"ill be right in." michael stated softly, before kissing your cheek, letting the apartment door shut behind you.

you bent down to greet the mini daschund, before bringing him out to the backyard where he immediately took off towards the far end of the gate.

you stood there leaning against the french doors, your head resting softly.

michaels arms found your waist from behind, his chin finding the spot between your neck and shoulder, that you often found his chin to be.

he kissed your shoulder before returning there.

"i had erik leave for the night, bill as well." he hummed.

your stomach fluttered.

and yet, your mind couldn't stop rewinding the past month.

and hadn't since leaving the auditorium.

no.

your mind replayed your independence, freedom, solace, and peace.

things you hadn't seen or felt for some time now.

michael took in your silence for a minute before turning you in his arms, "what's going on in that head of yours, my swan?" the tender nickname rolled off his tongue sweetly.

naturally. lovingly.

your eyes shut, betraying you.

you sighed softly, your eyes reopening and meeting his.

"just because i came tonight, doesn't mean everything is forgiven. doesn't mean what i have felt and thought the past year alone, is all but forgotten. no. we have much to talk about michael. i can no longer feel like a prisoner in our own marriage, our own home for christs sake." you explained, you voice wavering throughout.

michaels gaze fell behind you, taking i your words seriously.

he understood.

you added, "what you said to me before i left, was not ok. not at all. i will not allow you to treat me that way." and michael looked at you again.

he knew he was wrong.

he knew he was wrong in the moment.

the words had came out bitter.

the words tasted like vile on his tongue.

his mind betrayed his heart.

anxiety had overtaken his true feelings.

he nodded.

"ofcourse swan...," he paused with a soft sigh, "what i said to you will never be ok. i knew as they came out, i was wrong. so very, very wrong . i allowed my fear and anxiety take over. i allowed the stress and exhaustion to override my true feelings. i never meant to say them, and i never meant to hurt you, my love." he spoke fervently. and softly.

you nodded, watching as tears swelled his eyes.

"you reminded me that i had forgotten i was my own person, i had forgotten who i was. i allowed myself to be pressured into a role. a character i never agreed to. that's why i left. i left to find my independence. my character. who i was before...our marriage," you paused, your voice giving out.

michaels heart broke.

"i love being your wife michael, i truly do. i love what you have given me. i love you, and everything you are...but i never thought it would have taken as much as it has in so little years...i miss my freedom. my freedom before you." you finished explaining, as you voice held strong.

god, you loved him. loved him beyond words. but these were attributes that you would no longer negotiate without. could no longer live without.

you were standing tall. michael knew that if you didn't have these very things, you would be gone. the love for yourself mattered more and had always been louder than you love for him.

and that?

one of the things he loved the very most.

michael knew that if things weren't going to change, you'd stay here-- with stevie and would walk out of his life forever.

he nodded.

he smiled.

the beautiful smile you adored.

"yes," he paused, "a thousand times yes," he paused once more as stevie collided with his shins.

you both laughed.

stevie had never outgrown his clumisiness and poor judgement.

he always came in hot.

michael picked him up, which, stevie promptly freaked out while shrieking and giving him kisses.

michael noticed your gaze after about 10 seconds and smiled softly.

"come home, with me. i know youre worried-- scared, im scared too. but i never want to be apart from you, i never want to go through this ever again....let me give you all of that and more, swan..." he trailed off, his heart beating out of his chest damn near.

you tore your gaze from him, thinking.

you looked back at him and nodded.

his face fell in relief, the biggest smile he'd had all night, his shoulders dropped.

he looked at stevie who stared up at him, "your mama still loves me." he hummed, cheering like he had just won the lottery.

but he had.

the moment you agreed all those years ago, to a date, he had won.

won the lottery of life, with you.

michael never needed to worry. nor did you.

neither of you had ever had to wonder if the other would be there.

for you two will always come running, when it really counts.

the pain is tolerable, but today it seems more painful than normal.

he's probably being a bit silly, because who is the guy who made a short film with zombies and wrote a song about the thriller night—it was him! and somehow he fears going to the dentist.

he knows that if you find out about his wisdom teeth, it will be a disaster—you’re as stubborn as him. so he chooses to pretend everything is fine inside his mouth.

it works for a while.

“baby, i brought you kfc! let's eat!”

sweet girl, you know that he loves the extra crispy chicken from kfc. but he feels a slight twinge in that wisdom tooth, and he's sure in less than 3 hours it will become a pain in the ass.

but if he says he doesn't want the damn wings, you'll suspect him.

he's got a plan.

“mama, can you actually bring it here? i'm working on a melody, and i can't lose my focus.”

well, it's sort of true. he is indeed working on a new melody; he's just not telling the whole truth. you bring his favorite chicken wings—the crispy ones—and he waits for you to go down the stairs.

bubbles will be his savior.

not even 2 seconds after you close the room's door, he gives all the chicken to bubbles, who doesn't hesitate to eat it.

“smart boy! you can eat all of it, alright? just don't tell mama.”

you suddenly open the door—oh, he knows that face—the face that knows he's doing something. he avoids looking at you, because if he looks at you—you’ll know for sure.

“baby, are you okay? i think i heard something.”

“i’m good, mama, just trying some new combinations.”

“michael jackson, why are you not looking into my eyes—and why is bubbles eating all of your favorite crispy wings?”

he finally glances at you, because he can't resist you. you're there by his side, looking at him with those gorgeous eyes that can see all of him. he can't hide himself from you.

you lean closer to him, sitting on his lap—you place your hand on his chin:

“tell me. now.”

“mama…”

“michael jackson, don't call me mama. tell me why are you acting so weird?”

“the thing is—”

he lets out a deep gasp:

“my wisdom teeth are hurting, and i didn't think it would be a good idea to eat my favorite wings. so i gave them to bubbles.”

“that's all?”

“yes, ma'am.”

“so we just need to fix it. let's go to the dentist.”

you press your hands on his chest, making circular movements on his lap, grinding against his growing bulge.

“mike, we need to go. it's for your own good, yes?”

you're a tease—kissing his neck, purring like a cat in his ear, pressing his bulge with your ass. torturing him, driving him insane.

“devious woman.”

you press a kiss to his soft lips, knowing that you've already won.

“bill will be taking us there.”

……..

“mama, i can't go there,” he looks at you with those pretty doe eyes, and you want to laugh—because the bad boy who always has an attitude can't take going to the dentist.

“why not? it will be fine, mike. bill, tell him that it will be okay.”

bill does what you didn't do. he laughs at michael, squeezing his shoulder:

“son, you have a chimp at home! and you're talking like the dentist is the one who is going to do something to you?”

“listen to bill, mike. it’ll be really quick, you'll see. when you least expect it, you'll be at home.”

……….

“b-aaaby, you're so p-retty, kiss me, please, please, please.”

“mike, stop moving!! i’m trying to take your clothes off.”

you already know michael won't remember any of this tomorrow. he's mumbling that you're a greedy girl and talking like a big baby while you can't stop giggling at him.

“a-aare yooouuu go-oing to boou-uunce on my cock?”

“mike, you can't even talk right. please, raise your hands.”

he sticks ‘em up, and you take his white shirt off. god—sometimes, you feel like you genuinely just need to take care of him. he looks as if he is about to sleep, but before closing his eyes, the next words that he says shock you.

“b-be my wife, please, maama. i-i love yoooou so muuuchh. m-marry me and protect me from dentists.”

oh—he’s going to hate being himself tomorrow.

you can't wait to tell him what he said.

taglist

“Baby,” he said softly, already reaching for you the second you got close enough. You sighed dramatically. “You’ve been ignoring me for an hour.”

“I’m working.”

“Yeah..sure.” He finally glanced up then, amused by the pout on your face. Mature era Michael always had that unfairly calm expression when he knew he was getting under your skin. “Come here,” he murmured. You stepped between his knees and immediately his hands settled on your hips, warm and possessive through the thin fabric of your skirt. He leaned back in the chair, staring at you quietly for a second before smiling a little. “Attitude today?”

“You started it.” You rolled your eyes. “Oh, did I?” His fingers slid slowly along your thighs, teasing, unhurried. The movement made you inhale sharply and he noticed immediately, eyes darkening just slightly. Michael loved that—loved seeing your composure crack first.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

“Mama,” he said lowly, thumb rubbing against your skin while you tried not to react, “you get needy so fast.” You rolled your eyes, but it was weak. “S-shut up.” That only made him laugh softly. “So pretty when you’re pretending not to want me.”

The worst thing about Michael was how patient he was. He’d keep you right there between his legs, touching you slowly until your hands ended up gripping his shoulders for balance. Meanwhile he stayed completely composed, looking up at you with that lazy little smile like he had all the time in the world. “Look at you,” he murmured. “Can barely stand still. Mmh.”

“Michael…” You bite your lip. “Mmhh..There she is,” he whispered instantly, voice warm with satisfaction the second you finally sounded desperate for him. “That’s my baby.” He smirks and bite his lips. “You’re gonna’ have to keep it down mama, if you don’t want to get caught. I’ll gladly fuck you in the middle of my office with an audience if it meant that everyone knows you’re mine and I’m yours, you wan’ that?”

He carefully placed you down on his lap, and lifted your skirt, to put his hands down your skirt. “Spread your legs baby.” He helps you spread your legs wider with his big hands. His fingers ran down your pussy to dip into your soaking hole. Oh and did i mention he already took your panties of?? You let out a moan and touched his wrist as he took his wet fingers and circled your clit with them.

“Ohhh yess moan for me baby. Moan for me. That’s a mama mmhh.” he cooed into your open mouth. Your breath fanning his face as he started to finger you harder and faster.

“Fuck, look at thattt, you’re so fucking wet mama. Hear your delicious juices already squirting around my fingers” His fingers curled up to hit your g spot and you were convinced that your half of your skirt were completely soaked at this point. “That feels good Mmh?” He grabs his clean hand to make you look at him. You can also feel that he’s hard.

Then, He slides his second finger inside you, slow and deliberate, curling it to find that spot again, Making deeeeep eye contact with you and that makes your vision white out, and you moan, long and loud, unable to help yourself. He tried and adds a third finger… yes girl, a third one.

stretching you, filling you, and he starts to pump them in and out, his wrist twisting, his knuckles dragging against your walls in a way that makes you see stars. “A-ah! ff-fuckk, michael! Yes!”

You came hard on his fingers with a loud, shuddering scream. “Michael—! Fuck, I’m cumming—!” Your entire body convulsed hard, thighs clamping around his fingers, shaking your head and stopping his hand, powerful waves of pleasure crashed through you. “Fuckk.. atta girl, mmhh so, so good.”

Your pussy clenched and fluttered around his fingers gushing wetly on his lap and fingers while he continued to rub your clit, to see a small reaction. “Mean, huh? aww look at you mama.”

through every pulse of your orgasm. You thrashed on the chaise, moaning shamelessly, eyes squeezed shut as the intense release left you trembling and breathless. His other hand stayed firmly on your hand that’s stopping him.

you fix yourself on him and your skirt then turning towards him very shy… his eyes meet yours. “you did so good mama. So good.” he says, squeezing your legs softly. you two smile at each other and he hugs you right. “You really embarrassed me, Michael.” You said shyly. (◞‸ ◟)💧 He kisses your forehead. “Don’t be embarrassed’ mama, you did so well.”

mil talks ૮ • ﻌ - ა. First time writing smut.. heh nervous >.< its lwk ahh.. so I’ll probably delete it.

but… michael would love that for you, right? he’s your best friend after all, and he knows your goal is to eventually find your one true love. maybe lucas is that person.

with that mindset, you sit next to michael on the sofa, practically jumping in excitement to tell your best friend the good news. how cute lucas is, how he totally understands your literary taste, and how you’re able laugh with him. really laugh with him. how you met him in a bookshop, the most romantic place of all places in the world.

“you’re never gonna guess what happened,” you begin, placing your hands on his thigh to get michael’s attention. michael’s lazily paging through the tv guide, trying to find something interesting while attentively listening to you. “tell me, pretty.”

you scratch your neck in shyness, feeling the heat dawn on your cheeks and the curve of your ears. “i’m going on a date.” and with that, you let your statement hang in the air. you sound squealy, excited, even.

suddenly, michael stops paging through the tv guide. his eyes flick up to you, where you sit next to him, all pretty and perfect, where you belong. “a date?” he asks in confusion, wondering if he heard you correctly. because since when do you speak with other guys? do you have other guy friends he doesn’t know of? “and you said yes?”

you breathe out a tiny laugh, folding your arms around your chest to make yourself small. “well… yes. we’re going tonight. he’s taking me to the movie theater. this new horror movie.”

michael huffs out a laugh, a tad bit cocky. “you don’t like horror.” he says it like it’s a fact.

part of it burns within you, how he knows you so well and uses that advantage to get his way all the time. you want to stand tall and go against the ferocity of his actions and manipulation, but part of you likes knowing that there’s someone in this world who knows you like the back of their hand.

the pressure in your chest tightens. “things can change, michael.” you say, already knowing where the conversation is headed. a piece of michael thinks it’s endearing, how you try to be cross with him, go against everything he says. he thinks the little frown on your face is rather adorable than scary.

without another word, michael pats his thigh. “let me explain somethin’ to you.” his tone is all authorative and deep, leaving no room for argument. you comply almost instantly, dropping your weight on his lap as michael brings his large hand out to give your chin a wiggle.

“listen to me, sweetheart,” he starts, his free hand kneading the fat of your waist under your top. “he’s just pretendin’ to like you, baby. he doesn’t love you like i do. y’don’t need him—” he brushes his thumb back and forth over your cheekbone. “y’have me. that’s all that matters.” he gives your chin another wobble to emphasise his short lecture.

and you just stare at him, saying nothing. only busy with recollecting your thoughts that seem to crumble in your mind. the feeling of michael’s warm thigh under you, his soft hand caressing your face. it’s mind-numbing, but at times like these, when michael clearly shows you that he knows best, you relish in the fact that you have a best friend who knows how to take the lead.

well, normally you would. you don’t want that today, you decide. “i think i should go out with other guys my age, mikey,” you confess softly, peering at the rough denim of michael’s jeans. “i think it’s good for me.”

at that, michael barks out a melodic laugh. it sounds condescending and hearty at the same time, and it makes your clit pulse underneath the cotton of your panties. “y’think it’s good for you?”

not even an hour later, michael has you face down, ass up on the sofa while he slides his cock in and out of you. your warm slick streams out of you in droopy strings, keeping michael’s length attached to your little hole as the sloppy sounds fill the room, mixed in with your small cries.

“he’s not good f’you—” michael starts again, thrusting himself in you again. at this point, your warm muscle is totally used to him, welcoming him in and accommodating his size in your soppy entrance. his tip nudges at your cervix, making you feel like electricity runs through your veins everytime he pushes your lowerback down to force your back into an arch as michael keeps ramming in you. “only i am good f’you, right, pretty?”

the sounds of skin on skin echo through the living room, and you feel weird. “yes— yes, only you—” you babble, voice muffled in the cushions, feeling him all the way in your throat. your cunt feels raw as your hole sputters out more of your cream at the thought of getting fucked by your best friend on his sofa.

he enters you again, agonisingly slow. “he can’t give this to you, can he?” he deliberately pushes his cock in inch by inch, making sure you feel his length penetrating your narrow alley. demanding to be felt. demanding to wedge it within you and mould your insides to his shape.

you whimper at the feeling of michael bottoming out, the crown of his cock kissing your cervix deliciously as your wetness drips on the expensive leather of the sofa. “n-no…” your pussy twitches from sensitivity, hips bucking backward when michael’s free hand reaches down to rub controlled circles to your clit.

your cunt flutters open like a flower, white slick gushing out of you like a greasy waterfall, and michael has the audacity to coo at you. “can he make you feel like this?” oh, you hate him. big time.

michael slides out of you with ease, then right back in, creating a ring of white around his shaft. he listens to your muffled cries and moans like it’s his latest demo, and actually finds joy in how you welcome him in so easily. “look at you, taking your best friend’s dick and going onna’ date later.”

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You stared at yourself in the mirror, having redone your hair for what felt like the millionth time. Getting so frustrated you almost started hitting yourself in the head with the brush.

You wanted, no, needed everything to be perfect.

Tonight was the night. You knew it, could feel it with each beat of your heart.

It was your birthday and Michael had promised you a special night. A shyness to his smile as he’d said it that made your mind wander to all the what if’s.

The two of you had been dating for a while now and it was going wonderfully. Honestly, you had no complaints.

There was just one thing.

One insatiable itch you’d been dying to have scratched.

Said itch had been… maintained, you could say. Michael struggled to keep his hands off of you. Loved to hold your hand or your waist, fond of cradling the nape of your neck as you walked through crowds. And anytime he got the chance, he had a habit of lightly slapping you on the ass.

That was just in public.

Behind closed doors that shyness slipped away and the two of you had only remained tame for so long. Makeouts easily and unavoidably bled into other activities that made your heart race.

Remembering the time he first went down on you was enough to make your thighs clench as you put on some lip gloss.

And although all those moments felt amazing you wanted more.

Desperately.

Michael did too. Always muttering against your ear how much he wanted to fuck you as his fingers dragged in and out of your pussy and—

You stood up quickly to open a window, desperately needing air.

You had actually never seen him. Just the outline and sure, you’d felt it. One too many nights you’d end up straddling him, grinding against each other but never reaching a satisfying end due to all the layers of fabric.

Just imagining what it would finally, finally be like to have him inside you made you bite your lip, mind spinning off into a daydream.

When the doorbell rang you jumped, your cheeks in a permanent blush.

You could do this.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Michael’s head was spinning and he felt short of breath the whole night.

Watching you intently over the table as you had dinner, slotted away in a private room at your favorite restaurant. Your face lit in a warm glow by the candles and your lips were stained red with wine.

You looked beautiful. You always did, but there was just something a little special in the air tonight.

Tonight…

God, he was so nervous he wasn’t even hungry. Shuffling the food around on his plate to look like he had actually eaten.

When the idea first popped into his head, he thought he was a genius. What better way to make the first time special?

But as the days dwindled down he realized he genuinely had no idea what to do or what to expect. The books he’d bought felt utterly useless. Too technical and a complete lack of heart.

After your favorite dessert was brought out and the bill paid, he opened the car door for you and couldn’t help but watch your ass and you bent down to get in.

He looked up at the sky, saying a silent prayer in hopes tonight was exactly what you deserved.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You unlocked the door to your place, trying not to smile as you did so. Your heartbeat loud and your mind a little fuzzy with wine.

The moment the door shut, Michael was on you. Hands wrapping around your waist and dipping you low as he kissed you, muttering a Happy Birthday Baby against your lips.

You smiled into the action, tongue dancing against his as his hands slid down to lift you up, your legs easily wrapping around him as he carried you to your bedroom.

God, you felt high.

He neared your bed, catching the edge of the mattress with his knee as he carefully lowered you into the sheets. Mouth never leaving yours until his lips started traveling lower, dancing down your jaw and chest, leaving a hot and wet trail as his teeth nipped.

Then Michael’s hands were pushing up your skirt and you could feel the heat of his mouth hit your covered cunt like a shock to the nerves, a lewd sound bubbling up in the back of your throat as you looked at him laying between your hips.

He was trailing kisses along your inner thighs as he slid off your underwear, his large hands then caressing your skin before he took hold of your left thigh and hiked it over his shoulder.

The sound that left him when his eyes finally fell between your legs made your head spin.

“God, look at you.”

On self-conscious instinct you tried to shut your legs but you weren’t going anywhere. Michael’s fingers digging lightly into your thighs to hold you still and it made the muscles in your thighs twitch.

“Perfect,” he mumbled before pressing a kiss directly to your clit that sent your hips shooting upward and your hands flew to his hair.

“Oh my God,” you gasped in a half moan as his tongue began to work against you.

He hummed and you felt a jolt of electricity shoot up your spine, rocking against his face with embarrassment you were sure you’d feel in the morning.

“You taste like heaven,” he said heavily as he ate you out like a man starved. His lips closed over you and you yelped when a finger sank inside of you.

Calloused. Larger than yours. Delicious.

His rhythm was even, curling up slightly and your back arched.

“More,” you gasped. It wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough. “Please.”

“I was planning on it,” Michael laughed lightly, looking up at you to gauge your reaction as he added another finger. His smile lazy as he watched your mouth drop open at the sensation of being stretched. Filled.

The slow drag of his fingers was torture and your face flushed red with the whine that left you.

Because it wasn’t enough and you felt like crying. A level of greed you weren’t even aware you had the capability of possessing was bleeding into every nerve ending.

It felt like a day dream, watching him between your thighs. As if you were an altar he came to for worship.

Michael Jackson.

He was so painfully perfect you could sob.

Why you? Why had you gotten so lucky?

“You’re thinking too much,” Michael said, picking up his pace and silencing your mind effectively as he then sucked your clit while running the tip of his tongue over it in tight circles.

His fingers curled as he dragged them out and when you noticed he was grinding into the bed mindlessly chasing his own pleasure, you felt the crash of an orgasm slam into you all at once. Nails digging into his hair to hold him close, his tongue and fingers not stopping as he worked you through it. Smiling against you as you moaned his name and he moaned yours, his hips still rolling, desperate to find something to satisfy his own high.

You were panting heavily, hands falling from his hair to his face and you pulled him up to meet your mouth.

“Michael, please.”

You didn’t sound like yourself.

Deranged. A woman lost in the mindless sea of pleasure.

“Fuck.” His face fell into the crook of your neck as you felt him settle between your legs, barely able to catch a glimpse but then you felt it.

The head of his cock sliding against your entrance and it was so much bigger than you’d expected and you shivered, holding onto him tighter and then he was sinking in, inch by deliberate inch, and you felt so fucking full for the first time you were pretty sure you were crying with relief.

And then he was buried all the way in, breathing heavily into your neck and teeth sinking into the soft flesh and as he started to pull out he was trembling.

“Fuck, baby I can’t…”

And then your pussy clenched around him and his hips snapped back into yours and the way he said your name— you’d never forget it.

You felt his cock twitch inside of you, his hips rolling and desperate to get deeper in ways that weren’t possible and the way he was whimpering made your head spin.

After a moment he melted on top of you, head still hiding in the crook of your neck and you blinked up at the ceiling of your bedroom.

“Michael?”

He was breathing heavily and eventually shook his head, refusing to lift up to look at you.

“I ruined it,” he mumbled into the sheets, lips tickling your neck.

Your brows furrowed, body still wrapped around his and his still very much inside of you.

“You didn’t ruin anything—“

“I didn’t think… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to finish that quickly but,” he sighed and lifted his head, eyes meeting yours and you’d never seen his pupils so blown. “You felt so fucking good I couldn’t help it.”

You shrugged, your smile teasing and he raised a brow. “What?”

When your teeth bit into your bottom lip and his eyes flicked down to the sight, you felt him twitch inside of you.

“We have all night to try again.”

Michael was kissing you now and a laugh left you between kisses.

“And again and again and again…”

michael jackson masterlist

taglist: @solarrandom @mjssluttyfish @sometranslationnoteru @tojiswifeforlife (if you’d like to be added to the taglist for mj fics, please leave a comment under this post)

Nothing could have prepared you for that morning. Nothing. Before you had fallen asleep, everything had been fine. He was by your side, laying in your shared king sized mattress. He was breathing, he was smiling, he was talking, he had kissed you.

You had gone to check on the children when the doctor came in that morning, Michael was still asleep. You saw his chest rising and falling. You had kissed his head and thought nothing of the anxious feeling growing in your chest.

You were in the nursery, gently rocking your 6 month old baby girl, when you heard the doctor's voice shouting nervously from your bedroom.

After that, things were a blur. Your brain had shut out most of the memory, but you knew you had seen him despite the doctors best efforts to keep you from the room. You remembered the paramedics arriving far later than they should have, you remembered the sounds of the hospital, the voice of the doctor as he tried to tell you that your husband was gone.

You think you cried, you honestly weren't sure. You just remembered the feeling of emptiness settling into your chest, the feeling of your heart growing cold.

You refused to go back to the house for weeks, opting to stay with Janet. Those weeks were the darkest weeks of your life, you had lost your husband, the one person who understood you, the person who you had given your life to. And just like that, he was gone. It wasn't fair, nothing about this was fair. Not the fact that he was gone so suddenly, not the fact that you hadn't gone with him, not the fact that you had the children to look after.

You had really done your best to be there for the children, for the baby, Paris, and Prince. You tried to put up a strong front around them, to show them support, but there was only so much you could do.

There were days where you couldn't find the strength to leave the guest bedroom you were staying in. And there were a lot of days where you had wished that you hadn't woken up. But no matter how badly you wanted to be with Michael, you knew you couldn't.

You and Janet stuck together for a long time, leaning on each other for support. But there came a day when you knew you would have to go back to the Ranch, go back into the room to get your things. You had bought a small apartment, far away from all the things that reminded you of Michael. You couldn't live in the house, it would have driven you insane.

Janet kept the kids for the day, as you headed back to Neverland. You pulled off to the side of the road multiple times, trying to regulate your breathing. Since he had left it was like panic had embedded itself in your chest, you were always short of breath, you were always on guard, and you were always on the verge of a breakdown. It didn't help that you were receiving letter after letter from news outlets begging to get a statement from you. The entire family had given statements, but you were silent. Even at the funeral, you hadn't said anything. It took a lot of convincing to even get you to go, but you did, for the children. But you didn't say anything, instead you stood near the back, holding the children tightly, tears falling into a puddle at your feet.

The press took your silence and ran with it, saying that you had never cared for Michael, saying that you were in it for the money. The paparazzi had been stalking you more than ever, and you knew they would be at the gates of Neverland, waiting for your black Cadillac to drive by.

And that they were. There were so many of them, that they completely surrounded the car, trapping you just outside of the house. Their cameras flashed in a frenzy, blinding you from inside the car. Your throat closed up as you did your best to block out their antagonizing questions.

"Are you here to get the rest of his money?"

"Were you conspiring with the doctor?"

"How much money did he leave you?"

"Will you finally drop the act?"

"Are you happy your husband is dead?"

You covered your ears, sobbing into the steering wheel as security tried to get a hold of the crowd.

But the damage was done. The little amount of your heart left shattered into a million pieces. Everything around you blurred as you gasped for air, choking on your own tears and cries. Your sobs turned to screams as you curled in on yourself in the car, clutching your head in your hands.

It was Michael's two heads of security that shook you from your spiral. You jolted at their touch, body shaking as they looked at you with horrified expressions. You had been unreachable for 10 minutes, despite the fact that the reporters were gone and the two men were trying to talk to you.

You looked pale and frail, and they tried to make you go to the hospital, but you refused, saying that if you didn't go into the house now, you never would. They made you get into the back seat as they drove the car the rest of the way, sharing nervous glances with each other.

They stayed by your side while you walked through the house, getting the things you had come for. It wasn't as bad as you thought until you were standing in front of your and Michael's bedroom door. You quietly asked for a moment alone, to which the two bodyguards begrudgingly agreed to.

You stayed in the bedroom for a long time, hand running against the sheets, or the clothes in his closet. You slowly got your clothes, before carefully taking a few of his, the things that smelled most like him. You knew that his scent would fade away soon, but you didn't care. You needed something of his to hold onto. His familiar scent made your head spin, because you could smell him, but you knew he wasn't there.

When you got back to Janet's, you locked yourself away in the bedroom with his sleep shirt.

The next day, the front pages of the tabloids were plastered with your devastating face. The titles called you crazy, out of your mind, insane, a loose screw, anything they could think of they called you it. Janet was furious, but you couldn't find the strength to care.

All your strength had left you the day your husband died.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

It had been almost 17 years now, and you were better, but you still weren't healed fully. Things had been up and down, some years were good, and then some years were particularly bad. Especially while raising the baby, those were the hardest years. You were on your own, you were inexperienced, you were lonely, you were depressed, and you were paranoid beyond all belief. The press had still been bombarding you, still trying to get some sort of formal statement. But you were a sealed door, they weren't getting anything from you. These were the same people who mocked your husband, the same people who lied and tried to ruin him, and now they wanted to play the sympathy card. They could all go to hell.

There were days you begged God to bring Michael back, and there were days where you cursed at him for taking Michael away from you. When your daughter got older, she started asking questions about her daddy. Paris and Prince would always go quiet when she asked, and they would look at you. You always did your best to answer her questions without crying, you wanted her to know everything she wanted about her daddy. But it was hard, it was hard when she asked you why he was gone, if he was coming back, and it was hard when all three of them talked about how badly they missed him. You never tried to sugar coat things, you told them it was hard for you too, but that Michael believed all of you were strong, and that he was watching over you all.

Things got better as the press stopped hounding you, of course there was always a letter or two every month, but nothing like how it was before. That was until your husband's biopic had come out. You were proud of everyone involved, especially Jaafar. The premier was the first time you had been seen publicly at an event since Michael's funeral. You didn't dress up all crazy like other people, but you did wear his favorite dress. You thought the movie would be hard to watch, but it made you smile. For the first time in a long time, you felt your husband's presence. It was almost like he was sitting beside you, holding your hand. After the screening you found Jaafar and gave him the biggest hug you could muster, not caring that cameras were flashing behind you. You pulled back and smiled at him softly, "Michael would be so proud of you."

The moment was brief, but there was a lot said in how you looked at each other.

After the movie, it was like the floodgates opened. All those news outlets who had given up on a statement from you were suddenly pounding at your door, staking out your driveway, emailing you, emailing you, sending you letters. You hadn't felt this anxious in a long time, and you were nervous things would get bad again. You relied heavily on a prescribed medication to keep you from spiraling, but since things had been okay the doctor took you off of them. You had been okay for years, and now everything was starting to crash back in.

As much as the thought angered you, you knew how to get them to stop.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

After a lot of thinking, you had agreed to a singular interview, and only if they sent you a list of questions and stuck to the ones that you okayed.

And so there you sat, fidgeting nervously in a plush chair under studio lights. Janet was off to the side, there for emotional support.

The interviewer was a younger woman, she seemed nice, she seemed new, so you figured she would be professional, that she would stick to the questions on the page. And for the most part she did. She was polite, she asked about how you and Michael met, what it was like being married to him. And then one of the producers from offstage cleared his throat and looked at the poor girl sternly. She looked at you nervously, giving you an apologetic look.

Your chest dropped, you knew what was coming. You wanted to leave, you wanted so badly to take off out the door, but your body felt frozen in its place.

"There's a lot of speculation about that day, Mrs. Jackson. People want to know the truth. Did you have something to do with your husband's death? Did you marry him to get his money, was the love a whole scheme to become rich?"

Your mouth felt like a desert, you could feel your heart beating painfully in your chest. "No-" you breathed out, eyes stinging with tears.

"Is it true that you went crazy after he died? Were you sent to a mental hospital for help?"

The question struck something in you, and the fear was overrun with anger. "Let me ask you something. If the only person on this planet that truly understood you died while you were in the next room feeding your 6 month old baby would you be okay? A part of my soul died with him that day, do you understand what that's like? Do you understand what it's like to have to stay strong for your children when the person you loved more than life itself was taken from you? And do you know what it's like to be stalked, scrutinized, and bombarded by the same people who tried to tear down that person? No. You don't. My husband was my entire world, and when he was taken from me I was accused of being a part of it, I was followed. I couldn't sleep, I couldn't eat, I could barely breath most of the time because my world was taken from me. So do not sit there and act like you know anything about what I went through, or assume that I went crazy. Because if that happened to you, you would have gone "crazy" too." You stood up. "I think we're done here,"

"Mrs. Jackson." She called out.

"No more questions, thank you." You walked straight to Janet, taking her hand and walking out of the studio.

As you got in the car, Janet couldn't help but smile, "That was quite the official statement from you. I don't think I've heard you speak that much in 17 years."

"Yeah well, they can take their shitty journalism and shove it up their ass."

Janet smiled and reached over, grabbing your hand, "I've missed you."

You smiled and leaned your head on her shoulder. "I missed you too."

Cool January air nipped at your skin as you exited the limousine hand in hand with your prospective husband. You and Michael were the picture of perfection. A dark pin-striped blazer cloaked your upper body and accentuated the curves you’ve been blessed with. The tie around your neck was simple, a deep black that drew eyes toward you. Plain black slacks adorned your legs, and a matching pair of close-toed stilettos pulled the outfit together.

Your hair was styled beautifully for the event: blown out, meticulously parted, curled, and incredibly dangerous. A set of pearlescent earrings rested in your lobes, and a few spritzes of the Chanel perfume your fiancé picked out wafted in the air as you passed by.

And Michael? Well, he looked like Michael. Regal and almost excessively flamboyant. Red sequins gleamed in the light as he moved, waving at the cameras with an award-winning smile. His eyes were hidden beneath the aviators he never left home without. Gold accents in his jacket emphasized his status as American royalty. Black dress pants covered his lower half, and those signature white socks and penny loafers cradled his feet.

Your eyes darted around, blinded by the constant flashes of light in your direction. Incessant shouts filled the air, as expected when accompanying the world's biggest star: “Michael! Who’s the girl?” one of the paps asked. He wasted no time answering, “Her name is y/n,” not quite elaborating on your role in his life.

“Y/n! Over here!” You weren’t even sure which way ‘here’ was. What you were sure of was that Michael had bickered with you about wearing his sunglasses at night for a reason. He shielded your eyes quickly. “I told you,” he rasped as you shuffled into the venue.

These events have always been so exhausting: filled with endless small talk, cameras clicking, questionable singing, and poorly written speeches. That’s all that was waiting for you at this year’s American Music Awards ceremony. When your eyes finally adjusted to the low-light setting surrounding you, one sweep across the room let you know that it was going to be a long night. Roughly three thousand people filled the auditorium.

“Come on, baby. Let’s go find our chairs,” Michael mumbled. You nodded and followed closely behind him, keeping your focus on the path ahead. Several attendees greeted you both in passing, until one in particular stopped the pursuit for seating dead in its tracks.

“Mikey!” a shrill voice rang out. Your fiancé came to a complete stop, and you nearly crashed into his back. He looked over his shoulder with a knowing smile. As if you were a ghost, the woman, wrapped in what seemed to be a gold…tablecloth, brushed past you with open arms. Michael turned fully, eyes lit up like a Christmas tree, and stepped into her tight embrace.

“Diana!” He exclaimed, squeezing her just as hard.

The two of them remained that way for a moment, gently rocking side to side. You didn’t miss the way his hands moved to rest on her hips, and how hers trailed up his back as if it were second nature. “It’s been so long!” He beamed, placing a gentle kiss on her cheek. You watched, irritation already bubbling in your chest, as your fiancé cradled her like a long-lost lover. Well, I suppose that’s what she was, which made the encounter all the more intimate. In front of god and everybody, Michael made a show of just how much he missed her.

Regretting your decision to come, you folded your arms, hoping that your ever-attentive fiancé would have gotten the hint. When he didn’t even cast a sideways glance in your direction, your face fell flat. The sound of your throat clearing had both heads snapping in your direction. The man you came with glanced between the two of you and stepped back from the older woman. Now, it was his turn to clear the discomfort in his chest.

“Uhh, Diana.” He muttered nervously while picking at the hem of his jacket, “This is my…friend, y/n.” You glared at him incredulously, not believing what you’d heard. Her thin eyebrows raised as she studied you, “Friend, huh?” All thirty-two of your teeth flashed at her as you bit out a response. “Oh, yes.” The words dripped slowly from your lips, “Such good friends that he brought me as his plus. one. Can you believe it?”

Internally, Michael had gone into full panic mode. He wasn’t sure why he referred to you as his friend; you’d been engaged for a year, and together for five. The look in your eyes shook him to his core. He’d only seen that stare once, and it didn’t end well for him. Before he had a chance to correct his mistake, Diana began the turf war.

“Oh?” She cut her eyes to meet his while rubbing his bicep. “Well, Michael,” Diana started, tone sultry, “If you needed a date, why didn’t you call me? You know I’m always available…for you. I’d hate to see you trapped with someone who isn’t from your world.”

The man before you must certainly be an idiot; what he sputtered out next proved that. “I— well, yo-” The older woman waited expectantly. “You’re just so busy these days, I didn’t want to bother you, and y/n is always available.” Your arms uncrossed, and you looked to your partner in disbelief. He avoided your gaze but remained aware, feeling like a prey animal being observed by an apex predator.

Michael knew that it would only be worse for him if he faced you right then. It was her turn to flash a smile. “Nonsense, you didn’t have to settle.” Her eyes flickered across your frame once before returning to his. “I would’ve gladly accepted the invitation, and I certainly wouldn’t have shown up in…that.” You skimmed your body, and then hers.

“Apologies. I didn’t know I was supposed to steal my mother’s curtains for this event,” you snarl. The anger resting in your belly was going to reach a fever pitch soon. “Hm. I take it, raiding your father’s closet seemed like a better choice?” Michael wished he could disappear as the catfight grew more intense.

The passive-aggressive comments flew back and forth, and began to teeter more toward hostility. Two very important women in his life were clashing right in front of him, and it was his fault. He didn’t want to choose a side, fearful of hurting either, but things were dragging on, and the show was starting to begin.

“Ladies, the announcer is going up to speak in a few—” Diana held her hand up, eyes still burning into yours. “Listen here, wench. Michael is delicate. He shouldn’t be with a woman like you.” Your mouth opened in shock. This bag of bones really had some nerve. A rebuttal didn’t have a chance to make it past your teeth.

“He needs someone that cares for him…inside and out.” She finished with her eyes on Michael, batting her lashes. “He needs me.” He stood there, stunned that she would say something like that to you, but he didn’t open his mouth to correct her. No, instead, he became fascinated by the auditorium's ornate detailing. His eyes were everywhere but on the two women in front of him.

As Michael tried to calculate his next step, a defining slap reverberated through his ears before all hell broke loose. A high-pitched “Bitch” was all he could make out between your violent swats at the elder. One hand clutched tightly in Diana’s mane while the other landed wherever it could reach. The older woman wailed as you continued your assault. “I don’t know who you think I am!” Once the initial shock passed, your fiancé made quick work of prying you off his first love.

“Okay…Okay!” He yelled as arms caged around yours, “Y/n, that’s enough!” He pulled you back, lifting you in the process. Your feet kicked toward Diana, heels threatening to cut her night short with a trip to the emergency room. They didn’t have a chance to connect as the man holding you back twisted his body. The hag, trying to catch her breath, moved to speak again, “Michael..” she grunted, “Keep that bitch on a leash!”

You wriggled in your captor's arms, itching to show her how much of a bitch you could really be. His arms squeezed you tighter, forcing you still. You heard him gulp and felt his head nod frantically. Was he serious? Diana kissed her teeth and stormed off to find her seat, no doubt embarrassed by the shape of your hand branded into her skin. When she made it far enough not to be dragged back, Michael finally let you go. You shrugged him off roughly, fixed your hair, and smoothed out your jacket.

Your fiancé glared at you, as if the commotion were your fault. He then grabbed your hand and started weaving through the auditorium, hoping to find a place out of view from the others. When he happened upon an empty dressing room, he threw you inside and closed the door behind him. You stumbled with a squeak, catching yourself on a nearby chair just before you fell.

“Why the hell would you do something like that, y/n?” His normally soft voice was filled with a bass that rubbed you the wrong way. What the hell was he talking about? Your head snapped up, and you rose to your full height. The look of disappointment and annoyance on his face pissed you off more than she did.

“Oh! I am just soo sorry, Mikey,” you started, feigning concern, “Was I a bad friend?” He flinched at your remark, moving further into the room before going to speak. “Yes!” Michael yelled as he threw his arms up. Your eyes were the size of saucers; the nerve this man had baffled you. He thought for a moment before continuing to dig himself into a deeper hole.

“Well— Not, a friend, but—”

“But what?” you mused, curious as to what his explanation for your impromptu demotion could have been.

Michael sighed while rubbing his forehead. He was growing frustrated as he tried to explain his slip-up to you. “I just didn’t know how to tell Diana that you’re my fiancée, okay?” You scoffed and brought your fingers up to rub your temples.

“And why the hell not? Hm?” A sort of choked sound escaped his body as he tried to form an answer. Patience for him had stretched incredibly thin, and you weren’t sure how much more of this you could take. The night had formed into the biggest shit-show, and its main character refused to take any responsibility. “Was it too hard to tell your ex— Whatever the fuck! That you’re getting married?”

Michael’s face warped, offense clear as day across his soft features. You’ve never spoken to him like this, and he didn’t appreciate the sudden abrasive tone you had taken. “Y/n, you don’t have to use that kind of language.”

Your shoulders dropped, and the only thing you could offer him in response was a long, cold stare. Language, really? A deep inhale through your nose is the sole thing keeping you steady. You thought for a moment, about when you first arrived. How he didn’t make it clear who you were from the start. Michael knew better than anyone who would be in attendance; these were his peers.

A lump formed in your throat as it dawned on you that he cared more about what she thought than about letting the world know you belonged to him. You needed to leave before you pounced on him next. “You know what, Michael?”

He gazed at you curiously, as if his statement held incredible merit that you shouldn’t have been questioning.

“Whatever.”

Michael's hands came to rest on his hips, and a brow quirked up, unable to believe you’d actually thrown in the towel. “Whatever?” Michael mirrored. You rolled your eyes, exhausted with him now.

“Yes, whatever. I’m not about to play second fiddle to that woman all night.” He huffed and looked around in disbelief. “You aren’t—” Before a lie could slip past his teeth, you cut him off. “I am, and you know it.”

His mouth closed, and for the first time since the catastrophic fallout, his eyes met yours, and his arms fell to his side.

What he found in them was a defeated kind of hurt. He’s let you down, and there wasn’t anything he could do to fix it now. Still, he tried, “Baby,” his voice came out soft, in that tone that would normally make it all better, as he moved toward you. Your eyes stung, and tears brimmed in your waterline. You took a step back, not wanting to be touched by the man who had all but betrayed you.

A hand came up to stop him, leaving no more room for conversation. You shook your head as a single tear fell, “Just...find Bill and let him know I want to go home.” With that, you turned, pulled the door open, and made your way to the building’s exit.

When you settled into the limousine, the weight of the night came crashing down on you. There was no need to save face anymore, no cameras watching your every move. Only you, and the thought that Michael couldn’t ever love you as much as he did her.

Your shoulders shook slightly at first, with only small whimpers leaving your lips. But as the car pulled off and your mind ran faster, those whimpers devolved into full-blown sobs. Bill offered the best comfort he could without making you recount the details, but all you could do was cry. By the time he’d pulled into Havenhurst’s driveway, the loud wails that filled the space had morphed into sniffles.

“Ms. Y/n, we’re here.”

You nodded, not trusting your ability to speak just yet. As you slid out of the car, the ring that decorated your finger had been left in the backseat, along with any respect you had left for the world’s biggest star. You marched through the house and up to your and Michael’s shared room. Sadness had gone, and in its place, anger and disgust settled. If he wanted to be single so badly, you’d grant him his wish.

The first thing you did when you made it up was grab a suitcase and rip it open. The second? Clearing any sign that you’d ever been there. You cursed and huffed as you threw your clothes, shoes, perfumes, and even your toothbrush into the luggage haphazardly. Then, you zipped it and headed for the door leading to the stairs outside. The thing nearly came off the hinges with how fast you tore it open. Without much of a second thought, you sent the suitcase careening over the railing, and it landed on the concrete below with a loud ‘Thud!’

That was thirty-four days ago.

Thirty-four days since Michael had embarrassed you.

No, he hadn’t done just that. That would have been forgivable. He had forsaken you and made it clear that it was intentional. When you’d arrived at your mother’s doorstep with your head hung low, she welcomed you with open arms and a copy of some tabloid that detailed Michael’s eight-time win at the award show…and your encounter with Ms. Ross. You begged her to spare you the speeches, but with her being your mother, it was almost as if you’d said nothing.

For the first two weeks, the phone rang tirelessly, no doubt your fiancé trying to right his wrongs. You stopped paying it any mind after day three. On day seven, you just took the receiver off the hook. Then began the letters. The post doesn’t move fast enough to deliver one every day, so you knew he was having them dropped off. They all said the same thing: how sorry Michael was, how he just wanted you to come home, how he loved you. Hell, there were even a few marred with tear stains.

How fitting, the man who made you weep, was crying out for you to stay by his side. Still, you stood strong, and after another five days, every letter made its way back to him. Across the front of each one, painfully bright red ink marked “Return to Sender.”

After the letters failed, it became apparent that Michael had grown desperate. Ridiculously expensive gifts graced your mother’s doorstep next. Bags you had no use for, shoes that didn’t fit in your closet, clothes that you would’ve only worn by his side, and even jewelry that you knew cost more than a few limbs. Just as before, you tried to get rid of it, wanting nothing to do with Michael’s theatrics.

On day sixteen, the almost endless display of gift boxes that littered her countertops had pissed you off. The longer they sat there, the more they mocked you. Michael sincerely thought he could sweet-talk or even buy his way back into your good graces. By no means would a blank check grant him redemption.

You rounded everything up and hauled it outside. Your mother came into the kitchen, yelling about something you had forgotten to pick up at the store, and noticed the empty spaces. She’d been robbed, that was her first thought.

She flew out the front door and down the porch steps with a quickness someone her age should not have. “What the hell?” she muttered as she approached you. The older woman had caught you, jumping up and down, trying to stuff everything into the garbage; that’s where she drew the line.

“Uh-uh!” She hollered while trying to pull you away from what you considered to be an expensive heap of junk. You huffed and pushed harder, already knowing where this would go.

“Mama, I don’t want any of this. It’s all trash to me.” You fussed.

“Oh, girl, stop it!”  She yelped, attempting yet again to pry you away. Your mom succeeded this time, but not without some serious effort. The look she gave you while catching her breath could’ve put you six feet under. “Mama!” You breathed out, “I don't. want. it.”

“You don’t!” She yelled, fed up with your theatrics. “Just because y’all are in a little spat, that don’t mean good stuff should go to waste!”

You let out a frustrated groan as she sifted through the items. “It ain’t a spat, mama. He chose her, right there in front of me!”

The older woman rolled her eyes and waved her hand, having had enough of the melodrama stirred up between two twenty-somethings. “Y/n, he didn’t choose her. You just didn’t like that your name wasn’t plastered on his forehead.”

You froze and turned to look at her fully as a sour feeling began to rest on your tongue. “Mama, how could you say that?” You uttered, voice barely there.

The older woman paused and sighed. “Because, baby. That boy is scared of his own shadow.”

Your brows knitted together, and you threw your hands up, not understanding what that had to do with anything. Your mother could sense your confusion and continued,

“What he said was foolish, yes. I’ll give you that. But baby…knowing Michael, it could have been an honest mistake.”

You shook your head and scoffed out a laugh. Honest mistake? She couldn’t be serious.

“I’m more than serious, y/n.”

Oh, you said that out loud. Doesn’t matter. What she was saying still didn’t make any sense. How could his adamant refusal of your engagement be “an honest mistake”?

You tried to walk away, having lost all patience for the conversation, but the woman before you grabbed your arm and held you steady.

“Little girl, mind yourself. I wasn’t done talkin’.” Her tone cemented your feet where they were. She let go as she finally pulled away from the bin, and looked you in the eye.

“Y/n. Michael is a perfect idiot. And if that ragged woman was right about one thing, it’s that he is delicate. He didn’t mean to cause as much damage as he did, I’m sure.” She rambled, rubbing your arm in an attempt to soothe you.

The silence that fell between you let her know that you didn’t believe a word she said. He was a grown man after all. Delicate or not, something had to give. Your mouth opened, ready to refute everything this woman said, but she beat you to it.

“Now, I’m not saying that what he did was right. What I am saying is that before there was you, there was her. She’s all he’d ever known about women and relationships. As wrong as she was for going after a boy like him… honey, scars from claws like that don’t just vanish. He loves you, and he’s never done anything before now to suggest otherwise.” She said, voice stern.

You hated to admit it, but the older lady was right. Michael really didn’t have much experience outside of you and Diana, and anything he did have was short-lived because of her. It was hard not to be upset about it, though.

You’d spent so much time breaking down his walls and showing him what real love looked like, and all it took for that work to crumble was a few words exchanged with the very woman who had broken him. You wanted to hear your mother out, you did, but what he had done wasn’t excusable in your book.

This woman knew you like the back of her hand, which meant she could tell most of what she had said fell on deaf ears. Still, she gave you enough to think about, and before this could drag out any further, she finished her spiel. “Give him some grace. At the very least, talk to him.”

Your lips folded inward, and you gave her a single nod before turning on your heel and leaving her to pick through the discarded treasure.

Twenty-seven more days have passed since that conversation with your mother, and you still haven’t talked to Michael. Haven’t even tried. But when a formal invitation for the twenty-sixth annual Grammy Awards made its way into the mailbox, you accepted, silently, of course.

Your mother tries her hardest not to smile as you tell her. You know that she’s been updating him on what you’ve been doing, so you stress to her that he can not know that you’re coming. She nods and immediately begins planning your outfit. You laugh and tell her you want to do it big, something that catches and keeps eyes on you. Your mother nods excitedly as she finds a pen and paper to jot something down.

“She won’t run her mouth this time. We need to go down to the fabric store so I can start on this dress.”

The last day of February rolls around quickly.  You stand in the small living room as the older woman you’ve plagued with your antics adjusts the gown framing your body just one last time. “Mama, the dress is begging you to leave that spot alone.” You jest, trying to get her to let you leave.

She cuts her eyes toward you and huffs with a smile, “Oh, hush! I haven’t gotten to do something like this since your prom, leave me be.”

You giggle as she stands back and grabs her camera. “Mama, seriously? I don’t have time—”

She quirks a brow and cuts you off, “The hell you don’t, much time as I spent on this dress. I’m gon’ get a damn picture. Be still!” You roll your eyes and pose, smile shining bright as the diamonds in your ears. After a few shutters of the lens, and a kiss on your cheek, your mother pushes you out the door with a few parting words, “Don’t you dare come back to this house single, little girl!”

The car sent for you wasn’t from Michael, you made sure of that. One of your mutual friends agreed to keep your secret and have you transported like precious cargo. The ride to the venue rattles your nerves as memories from before seep back in. You wonder if this is a bad idea. If showing up would lead you to the same fate. But the wrath you’d have to face if you turned back now was enough to steel the thoughts. It’s a forty-five-minute drive from your mother's.

In that time, you shift your focus to what you’ll do when you see him. Will you cry? Maybe you’ll yet. Might even jump into his arms at the first chance. As much as you hate it, you miss Michael deeply. He’s been your everything for half a decade, and being without him has been pure torture.

You’re so lost in thought, you don’t realize right away that you’ve arrived. A long, deep breath escapes from your lips as you peer out through the glass. The door opens, only this time, there’s no fiancé to shield your eyes. You step out, and for a moment, the flashes stop. Everyone holds their breath as the woman before them walks forward.

She is elegance personified. A beautiful ball gown, fit for a queen, really, covers her body. Her bodice accentuates her form. It’s all-black, embellished with precious stones, and finely detailed lace. The skirt of the dress is fashioned similarly and reflects the light beautifully. The young woman's shoulders are cloaked with a white shawl. Her arms are exposed up to the elbows, the rest covered by dark, sheer gloves.

Between her breasts rests an eight-carat pendant dangling on a silver chain, and in her ears are smaller gemstones, still blinding as they catch the light. As a final touch, a delicately ornate tiara sits gracefully on the crown of her head, no doubt worth thousands.

Almost as quickly as they stopped, the clicks began again, accompanied by shouting. The paparazzi here nearly topple over one another trying to get to you.

“Y/n! Who are you wearing?”

“Is the dress custom?”

“Are you here alone tonight?”

All you can spare is a gentle smile as you make your way past them. Inside the building, loud chatter fills the space from wall to wall. As you move through the room, the volume dwindles. Eyes cut toward you from all directions, joined by a few gasps and whispers of who you might be here with.

The tiniest grin forms on your lips, mission accomplished. The men at the event show little shame in offering their company, promising a good time, but you politely decline.

After a bit of searching, the table with your name card comes into view. One of the women there helps you lift the back of your dress so you can sit comfortably. When she moves away, you look around, feeling a little defeated. You haven’t seen Michael at all, which means he hasn’t seen you. The outfit you chose for the night almost feels foolish as you settle further into the chair. Just as you prepare to give up hope and chalk this up to a loss, the namecard resting across from you catches your eye. Fuck’s sake.

You shake your head and stifle a giggle. Of course. Your mother couldn’t hold water, this was no doubt her fault. As you ponder all the ways you absolutely will be chiding her for not following directions, a voice cuts through the air, announcing your ex-fiancé’s arrival. Your eyes find the source of the noise, and meet his producer waving across the room.

“Smelly!” Quincy shouts, beaming as he greets the younger man. They hug briefly and engage in a bit of small talk. While they do, you take advantage of the lack of attention.

Michael is dressed similarly to the way he was the last time you saw him. The only real difference is that his jacket is a deep blue instead of a bright red. A symbol that tonight would be different, that he wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

Even though you aren’t all that happy to see him, you can’t deny that he looks good. That aside, over a month without your lover has left you a bit…needy. Your stare intensifies as you rake over his body. He always looks good, and the way he commands a room without even trying really does something to you. His hands move as he speaks. God, how you missed his touch. Your thighs clench together in an effort to steady yourself.

Mid-drool, Q points a finger in your direction. Your eyes flit away, and you give an Oscar-worthy performance pretending to be interested in the fabric of the tablecloth. Someone has to be listening to your prayers, because right then, one of the male attendees slips into Michael’s seat. He offers you a drink, and you take it embarrassingly fast.

As you sip, he tells you all about the ways he could make you happy, what kind of night he can give you, and, of course, how he could spoil you better than any man. You chuckle and look down. Uninterested, sure, but entertained nonetheless. Before you can respond, a set of loafters fall under your gaze.

Michael's words come out pointed and impatient. “Get out of my seat, and stop talking to my fiancé like that.”

The poor man in front of you freezes and turns his head slowly. He stands to his feet fast and utters a series of apologies that Michael certainly doesn’t hear. All he does is tilt his head in some other direction, and the poor fella gets the picture, scurrying off before upsetting Michael any further. Once alone, the American royal turns to you, and a tender smile graces his features.

“Y/n?” He breaths, almost certain you might be a figment of his imagination. “You came?”

You bring your eyes up to meet his, with an unamused look on your face. “Cut it out. I know my mother told you I would.” Michael laughs softly, nodding his head. “Okay, she did. But I couldn’t be too sure, I know how quick you can be to change your mind.”

You assure him that you almost did as he takes his seat. In true Michael fashion, he makes a show of it, scootching the chair across the wood floor so that he is placed right next to you. He holds your stare for a moment, searching for the right words.

“You look…stunning,” He whispers, with admiration shining in his eyes. After being in your absence for six weeks, your ex-fiance is breathless. When all he receives in response is a light hum, he tries a different approach.

“You sent my letters back,” Michael mutters.

You nod, “I did. There wasn’t anything you could say to make up for that night.” The lights dim as the show gets ready to begin.

Memwhile, the man across from you blanches, his mouth feels dry, and his hands are clammy. He sits back and groans. Michael practiced speaking to you in the mirror all night. And now, he can’t think of a single thing to follow up that kind of response. This is uncharted territory; he’s never had to win back a fiancée before, and none of his previous attempts had worked.

There’s only one thing he can think of that he hasn’t tried, and it would be tricky to pull off. Still, he needs to show you just how much you mean to him. Michael glances around a few times, making sure that all eyes, including yours, aren’t trained on him right now. You, along with everybody else, are focused on the presenter speaking. Good

He picks up the namecard resting on the table, and lets it fall from his fingers and onto the ground. His foot finishes the job, kicking it under the table. Michael makes sure you’re still oblivious and slithers under next. He kisses his teeth at your skirt, which is incredibly inconvenient right now.

You feel the rustle against your skirt. You look over to check and find that your impromptu date is missing. The feel of his hands caressing your calves warms your body. There’s no way. You attempt to push him away with a nudge of your heel, but his grip tightens and holds your legs steady. Your eyes dart around the dark room, hoping no one else has noticed his absence. When you relax, his hands soothe your skin again. They move reverently. Up your shins, and over your knees before coming to rest on your thighs.

Your cheeks burn as warmth settles deep in your belly. His thumbs rub circles into the meaty flesh of your legs under the dress. Your slick forms a damp spot in the center of your panties while he continues to massage your skin. You shift in your seat, hoping to ease some of the pressure. Michael's fingers then find the waistband of the fabric separating you from him. Your ass remains firmly planted in defiance. If he wanted this, he would have to work for it. Your refusal doesn’t deter the man between your legs. He simply rips them off, balling up what’s left of the fabric and stuffing it in his pocket. You jump at the feeling, earning a few puzzled looks. A polite smile is enough to throw everyone off your scent. For now.

Michael’s breath fans against your pussy, leaving your body buzzing with excitement. Your fist finds itself between your teeth as Michael presses featherlight kisses to your clit. He continues teasing until your hand comes down to cradle the back of his head. A sign of surrender. He smiles against your center and sets to work. The first lick is tentative and has you biting back a loud moan. The next few are stronger, applying just the right amount of pressure to that bundle of nerves. Two long fingers prod at your weeping hole next, entering slowly and curving upward.

You cough, trying to appear as if you aren’t falling apart in your seat. Michael pulls your clit into his mouth, sucking hard as he swirls his tongue. Tears from the pleasure form in the corners of your eyes as you try your best to hold on.

As if this couldn’t get any harder, the man from before returns, asking where Michael has gone. Under the table, at the sound of his voice, Michael grunts and presses his fingers into that mushy spot deep in your walls. A choked noise tears from your chest, and the only thing you can do is sputter out a rushed “Bathroom!” The gentleman in front of you asks if you’re okay. You are not, far from it. Still, you nod your head and manage to tell him he should go before Michael gets back. He nods with an incredulous look on his face and walks away. Thank god.

The digits driving into your cunt move faster, and you double over with your hands coming to grip the edge of the table. A low moan leaves your lips before you can stop it. Michael pinches your thigh in response, reminding you where you are. He continues to eat as if this is his last meal, rolling your bud over his tongue, and bullies into you harder. The pleasure builds faster than you could’ve anticipated. The honey on his lips is bountiful, a product of his devotion. His apology is bliss, and with one more harsh suck and a few more strokes, the band snaps. Searing white-hot pleasure shoots up your spine, your body tenses, and your head hits the tabletop as the high consumes you.

Michael doesn’t let up, making sure his redemption is guaranteed. The licks you through the aftershocks, cleaning up the mess he’s made, on both fronts. He only stops when he feels your body slump, letting him know you can’t take any more. He kisses both of your thighs before leaving your heat. A silent promise made to be kept later. When he comes up to face his lover, what he finds makes him giggle. You face down, breathing heavily and twitching, a true sight to see.

By the time you find the strength to pick yourself up and look over at the man who has ruined you, the presenter is calling his name for the first time that night. You give him a once-over, making sure there's no evidence of his penance. His chin shines with your essence, and if you didn’t stop him, he would surely wear it like a badge of honor. You take a napkin and dab it away quickly so you can send him up to the stage. Michael kisses you, slow and deep, before he goes. Cheers erupt around the room. That doesn’t have your focus, though. The taste of yourself on his tongue does. You pull back and plant a kiss there on his cheek, leaving your mark.

When they call his name for the eighth time that night, he walks across the stage on a mission. He arrives back at the podium and grips the edges tightly before speaking. “I know I’ve said most of my ‘thank yous’, but, uh, well, there’s one more person who deserves one. The biggest one, really. My fiance, y/n.” He points you out in the crowd before continuing. “Thank you. You’re the reason I’ve been able to get this far. I can’t think of any other way to repay you than by being by your side and caring for you as your husband for the rest of our lives. I love you, always.”

A tear falls from your eye, but this time, it isn’t because he hid you away.

Current Archivists: @siiighrns @xlsnisax @szalipcombo @watamotee33 @narratedillusions @cvntttyybumblegumprincess @rlm-11 @mrsj4cks0n @ssamanthasaenz @backupschmuck @delictezz @cashmoneydia @devilslittlehelper @morutefawns @mxnijuana @yourfavoritefangirl @ksavamp @mjenthusiaist @swag313gurl @theonlyfemme @jermmediately @starliqhtsworld @p-pynkdeptt @theyluvkylaaa @jaafarsaura @cappaslota @devynrulesboisdrool @ladybugnectar @bookklover23 @daniiibananiii @vict-oryy @maczken @ghettofabu05 @michealsapplehead @ladybugnectar

The paparazzi's flashing bulbs outside the venue had been blinding, a chaotic wall of noise and light that always made your heart race just a little faster.

Inside, the grand gala lounge wasn't much quieter. It was a sea of high society—opulent chandeliers casting a heavy, golden glow over velvet-draped walls, the clinking of crystal glasses, and the low, collective hum of wealthy executives and celebrities mingling.

You stood by Michael’s side, your hand tucked securely into the crook of his arm. He was entirely in his element, a natural gravity pulling everyone in the room toward him. Every few steps, someone new would approach, eager to shake his hand, to pitch an idea, or simply to be in his presence.

Michael handled it with his usual grace, smiling politely and nodding, but you could feel the subtle tension in his frame.

Even in a crowded room, his focus kept drifting back to you, his thumb gently rubbing the back of your hand where it rested on his sleeve, checking in without saying a word.

"Michael, excuse me for just a moment," a prominent producer interrupted, stepping into your space with two other executives in tow.

"We really need to discuss the track order for the upcoming release. The board is pressing for a decision."

Michael glanced at the men, then down at you. You gave him a reassuring smile, squeezing his arm. "Go ahead, baby. I'll just be right here getting a drink."

He hesitated, his eyes scanning your face as if searching for any sign of discomfort. "I won't be long, promise," he murmured, his voice a soft, private whisper amidst the noise. He gave your hand one last squeeze before reluctantly stepping a few feet away, turning his back to draw the producers further into the corner so you wouldn't be crowded by their conversation.

You took a slow breath, enjoying the brief moment of quiet, and leaned against the polished marble bar to wait for the bartender. You picked up a fresh glass of champagne, letting the cool bubbles tickle your nose as you watched the crowd.

That’s when the space beside you suddenly shrank.

"You know, a beautiful woman shouldn't be standing all by herself in a place like this," a smooth, uninvited voice purred.

You glanced over. It was some slick, sharp-suited executive—you hadn't caught his name and didn't care to—but he was already stepping way too close into your personal bubble. His shoulder brushed against yours as he flagged down the bartender, his eyes boldly raking down the length of your dress before settling on your face.

You politely took a step back, creating space between you, and deliberately lifted your champagne glass with your left hand, flashing your wedding ring in the dim light. "I'm not alone," you said, your tone polite but firm. "I'm here with my husband."

The man didn't take the hint. In fact, a slow, arrogant smirk spread across his face, as if he took your boundary as a personal challenge. "Is that so? Well, he's clearly distracted," he said, nodding vaguely toward the corner where Michael was deep in conversation.

He leaned closer, his voice dropping an octave as he tried to isolate you in the noise. "A woman like you deserves undivided attention. Someone who knows how to appreciate what they have."

Before you could snap at him, he reached out. His fingers brushed against your bare forearm, his touch lingering, his breath way too close to the skin of your neck.

The air in the room instantly turned to ice.

Before you could pull away or open your mouth to put him in his place, a heavy, commanding arm wrapped firmly around your waist. The grip was unyielding, instantly hoisting you back against a chest that felt like solid rock. The sweet, unmistakable scent of his perfume enveloped you, but the usual comforting warmth attached to it was entirely gone, replaced by a suffocating, possessive tension.

Michael stood there, towering slightly as he stared down at the man. The soft, gentle husband who had whispered sweet promises to you moments ago had vanished. In his place was a man entirely consumed by a dark, lethal protectiveness. His gaze was cold enough to cut through glass.

"Is there a problem here?" Michael’s voice wasn't his usual whisper. It was low, raspy, and laced with a quiet, dangerous authority that made the executive’s smug smile instantly evaporate.

"N-no, Mr. Jackson. Just making conversation," the man stammered, his face draining of color as he raised his hands defensively and took a step back.

Michael didn't blink. He didn't offer a polite laugh or a diplomatic nod.

He simply tightened his iron grip on your waist, pulling you so flush against his hip that you could feel the rigid, furious tension vibrating through his thighs. "We're leaving," Michael enunciated perfectly, his eyes drilling into the man until the executive practically scurried away, disappearing into the safety of the crowded room.

Michael didn't say another word to anyone. He didn't excuse himself to the producers or say goodbye to the hosts. He gripped your hand, his fingers locking with yours so tightly it was borderline bruising, and led you straight through the crowd toward the back exit where the limousine was waiting.

The ride home was dead silent, the atmosphere inside the vehicle thick with an unspoken, heavy friction.

Every time you tried to speak, to tell him you were fine, Michael just stared out the window into the passing city lights. His jaw was clenched so tight a muscle ticked in his cheek, and his thumb aggressively, almost mindlessly, rubbed the back of your knuckles.

He wasn't mad at you—you knew that—but the sheer possessiveness burning inside him was a ticking time bomb.

The moment the heavy front door of your estate clicked shut behind you, locking out the rest of the world, the bomb went off.

Michael grabbed your wrist—not painfully, but with an absolute, dominant strength—and spun you around, pinning your back flat against the heavy mahogany door.

The sudden impact made you gasp, your eyes widening as you looked up at him in the dim light of the foyer. His hair was falling wildly into his eyes, which were completely dark, blown-out, and entirely consumed by a mix of raw lust and jealousy.

"Michael—"

He didn't let you finish. His lips crashed down onto yours with a feral intensity that stole the breath right out of your lungs. It wasn't the sweet, tender kissing you were used to. This was a demand.

His tongue slid into your mouth, claiming you completely, tasting the residual champagne on your lips, while his hands gripped your hips, lifting you slightly against the wood so you could feel exactly how hard and ready he was beneath his trousers.

"You're mine," he growled against your lips, his voice a deep, gravelly rasp that sent a violent shiver straight down your spine. "Only mine. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Michael, yes," you gasped, your fingers knotting into the fabric of his shirt, completely intoxicated by this overwhelming, dominant side of him.

He didn't waste another second. He scooped you up into his arms, ignoring your small squeal of surprise, and carried you up the grand staircase with long, predatory strides.

He kicked the bedroom door open and marched straight to the bed, throwing you down onto the center of the mattress.

The impact was soft but sudden, your dress fanning out around you on the sheets.

Before you could even attempt to sit up, Michael was hovering over you, his shirt already unbuttoned and ripped open to reveal his chest, the fabric discarded carelessly on the floor. He looked down at you like a predator surveying his prey, his breathing heavy and ragged in the quiet room.

"Michael, please," you whimpered, arching your back instinctively toward him. "Shh, don't beg yet, baby," he whispered, his voice dark and dripping with promise.

He crawled over you, his knees pinning your moving thighs securely in place. He grabbed both of your wrists, raising them above your head and pinning them to the mattress with just one of his large hands. With his free hand, he reached down, gripping the fabric of your dress and bunching it up past your hips, exposing your lace panties to his dark gaze.

He stared down at you, his eyes scanning every inch of your flushed, trembling skin. "He touched you here," Michael muttered, his thumb pressing firmly into the skin of your forearm where the man had brushed against you, leaving a warm friction. "I'm wiping him off. I'm putting my mark all over you so nobody ever forgets who you belong to."

He leaned down, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He didn't bite to hurt, but he sucked the sensitive skin hard, marking you hungrily, making you cry out as he left a dark bruise that would leave no doubt as to who owned you.

You writhed beneath him, your pinned hands twitching, wanting desperately to touch him, but his grip on your wrists was a steel vice.

"Michael, let me touch you, please..."

"No. Just lay there and take it," he commanded, a dark smirk playing on his lips as he saw how desperate you were.

He shifted, his hand moving down to rip your underwear to the side. He didn't use any foreplay; your body was already slick and aching for him from the sheer intensity of the ride home and his dominant display.

He unzipped his trousers, freeing his length, and without a single moment of hesitation, he drove himself deep inside you in one heavy, uncompromising thrust.

You shrieked, your head tossing back into the pillows as the fullness of him stretched you completely open. It was a deep, guttural stretch that made your toes curl.

"Oh God, Michael—"

He didn't give you time to adjust to the stretch. He began to move, his pace fast, hard, and unforgiving. The mattress creaked beneath the violent rhythm, your body sliding up against the sheets with every heavy, driving push of his hips. He was relentless, pinning your wrists harder into the bed, using his body weight to completely master yours.

Thud Thud Thud

The sound of his hips slamming against yours echoed in the quiet room. It was rough, primal, and totally overwhelming. Every time you tried to catch your breath, he would drive in even deeper, hitting your sweet spot with a pinpoint accuracy that had you crying out his name like a prayer.

"Look at me," Michael growled, his voice breaking with the sheer friction of his own pleasure.

You forced your heavy eyelids open, staring up into his face. He looked breathtaking—sweat glistening on his skin, his jaw sharp, his eyes entirely focused on you and only you.

"Whose are you?" he demanded, picking up the pace, his thrusts becoming shorter, faster, and incredibly shallow right against your clitoris, sending waves of intense electricity through your lower half.

"Yours... I'm yours, Michael! Ah!"

"Good girl," he panted, the rough praise sending you right over the edge.

Your walls clamped down around him tightly as your orgasm shattered through you, your back arching completely off the mattress as you sobbed from the sheer intensity of the release.

Hearing your cries, Michael lost the last of his control. He released your wrists, his hands flying down to cup your thighs, pulling them up over his shoulders to bury himself as deeply as physically possible.

With three more heavy, desperate thrusts, he let out a low, animalistic groan, his body stiffening as he spent himself deep inside you, filling you with his warmth.

He collapsed against you, his chest heaving, his sweaty forehead resting against your shoulder as you both tried to catch your breath. The heavy, jealous tension that had filled the room all evening was finally gone, dissolved by the friction of your skin, replaced by the soft, familiar warmth of your husband.

Slowly, Michael shifted, tangling his fingers in your hair and pulling your face up to kiss you—softly this time, lingering and incredibly sweet.

"I love you," he whispered against your lips, his voice returning to its gentle, breathless cadence as he stroked your damp cheek. "But don't ever let another man look at you like that again."

“Oh, thank goodness you haven’t left yet!” Your voice bursts through the speaker in a breathless rush. 

“Hey, pretty girl,” He says, plopping down on the edge of the bed, smiling at the sound of your voice. “Y’alright?”

“I’m fine,” you respond. In the background he can hear the typical hospital noise—the clatter of something in the distance, overhead pages, phones ringing urgently—a chaotic soundtrack he’s grown used to hearing whenever you call him from work. “I’m just… held up. Again.”

He can picture you clearly: scrubs wrinkled, hair messily pulled back, your foot tapping as you anxiously fiddle with the phone cord. 

“Let me guess… Your coworker?”

“Yes,” you groan. “The same one. Late, again! I swear she lives in a different time zone.”

Michael chuckles under his breath, trying to ignore the slight pang of disappointment in his chest at the thought of your long-awaited plans being delayed. He didn’t want to make you feel even worse. “I was about to head downstairs for Bill.”

”I know, I know, and I’m sorry, baby.” You say quickly. “But listen—I still want you to come over. Just head over to my place. Use your key.”

The key. Even after months of having it, the reminder of it still makes something flutter in his chest. His palm lands softly on his front pocket, where the small silver key sits on its own ring. You had tried to be nonchalant as you handed it to him, but he hadn’t missed the way you blushed and stumbled over your words when offering it—still nervous and giddy around one another despite nearly two years together.

”You sure?” He asks, now having taken the key out of his pocket, fiddling with the cold metal between his fingers.

“Positive.” You assure him. “I’ll only be an hour… or two. Tops.”

Your voice lowers. “And before you say anything—I bought groceries this time.”

He blinks, chuckling at your declaration. “You did?”

“Yes, Michael. Real groceries. My refrigerator now contains more than stale bread and expired milk.”

“I wasn’t gonna say anything!” He laughs again, warm and bright. 

“You absolutely were!” You counter. “But you can’t, because I stocked up on your favorites.”

That gets him. He feels it—the soft, quiet bloom of warmth in the center of his chest at the feeling of being considered. You’re tired, juggling a dozen things at once, and still, you thought of him.

”Alright,” he says, cradling the phone between his ear and shoulder as he stands up to zip his jacket the rest of the way. “I’ll head over now.”

”Good.” You say, a smile in your voice. “Make yourself at home, okay?”

He bites his lip shyly; smiling at nothing, at everything. “I always do.”

There’s a small pause—the kind that only happens when neither of you wants to be the first to hang up.

“I love you,” you say softly.

His smile deepens, that feeling in his chest growing even warmer. “I love you too, baby. See you soon.”

You both linger for a beat before the line finally goes quiet. By the time Michael arrives at your apartment, the sun has dipped low enough to paint the sky in soft pinks and golds. He thanks Bill, throws his bag over his shoulder, and exits the vehicle with a quiet, eager energy he hasn’t felt in weeks. 

It’s been too long—too many late nights for him in the studio, too many early mornings for you at the hospital, too many missed calls and ‘sorry baby, I just got home,’ messages, and he misses you. He misses this—the simple act of spending the weekend with his girlfriend.

He reaches your door, pulling out his key and slipping it into the lock. He steps inside and closes it behind him with a soft click, shrugging off his jacket and draping it neatly over the back of a chair. He toes off his loafers with a relieved sigh, nudging them aside neatly with a soft scrape against the floor. He exhales, shoulders finally relaxing as he takes in the space. 

He loves your apartment, he always has; each and every corner a reminder and reflection of you. Photos line the walls—some crooked, some perfectly straight—more stuck to the fridge with mismatched magnets. Knickknacks and trinkets cover every shelf and surface; mismatched decor, tiny animal figurines from your childhood, little gifts he’s given you over the years. Your books and record collection are neatly arranged, meanwhile a heap of mail is stacked in a slightly chaotic pile on the counter. A few dishes from breakfast sit in the sink. Your diplomas hang proudly on the wall outside of your bedroom. Below, a small mountain of laundry waits patiently on the floor.

It’s lived-in. It’s warm. Clean, despite the clutter. It smells like you—familiar and comforting.

He smiles to himself, wandering further into the kitchen. When he opens the fridge, he actually laughs out loud. You really did buy groceries. An unopened gallon of orange juice sits front and center: a blue post-it with your handwriting pasted to the front of the jug: “for angel face <3”

He blushes, shaking his head at your shameless flirting, and is about to close the door when something on the fridge catches his eye—a photo tucked under a magnet shaped like a strawberry.

A photo of him.

It was taken the night of the Off The Wall release party in 1979. He’s smiling wide, laughing at something or someone outside of the frame. He has a hand in the pocket of his blue jacket and he balances on roller skates. 

He remembers the night vividly—but not because of the party.  Because of you. 

Michael’s smile softens as the memory pulls him in—

The rink was buzzing that night—music loud, neon lights spinning, people laughing as they wobbled around on skates. 

You were working part-time at the roller rink—juggling shifts between nursing school classes and study groups. It wasn’t glamorous, but it paid the bills. You were behind the rental counter that evening, exhausted and burnt out, but still smiling at everyone who came your way.

Then Michael walked in with his friends and family, and the whole atmosphere of the room shifted.

Of course, you had recognized him—all of them, actually—instantly. Aside from being a fan, you knew the group was coming, your manager having told the whole crew in advance about the party being held in honor of Michael Jackson releasing his new solo album, Off The Wall. You were all under strict instructions not to make a scene—or swoon—when they arrived.  The same could not be said for Michael himself, though.

He had walked into the room excited and proud, ready to finally celebrate the album he had worked so hard on with some of his favorite people, but the moment he saw you, he stopped in his tracks. Completely. 

You were laughing at something a coworker said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear when he felt it—a sudden, ridiculous flutter in his chest. 

“Mike,” Jackie nudged him. “You good?”

He didn’t answer. He was too busy staring.

“Earth to Michael,” Tito added, waving a hand in front of his face.

Nothing. He was hopelessly, helplessly smitten at the sight of you in your cute little uniform, totally oblivious to his swooning just ten feet away.

When he finally approached the counter to collect his skates (or was he shoved?), you looked up at him with that bright, open smile—the one he would eventually come to love more than anything—and he was speechless. Utterly speechless. As in, literally unable to form words. 

“What size?” You had asked, pen poised over the rental sheet.

He didn’t respond. He simply stared at you—openly, hopelessly—essentially forgetting the whole reason he was there the second he laid eyes on you. 

”Um… what size skates do you need?” You repeated, blushing.

He blinked, snapping out of it. “Oh—sorry! Uh, size… nine? Yeah, nine. Please.”

You handed him the skates, trying not to be too obvious as you stared into his pretty brown eyes. “Happy birthday,” you had said, shy but sincere as you recalled the date.

He smiled, but shook his head. “Thank you, but… we’re actually here to celebrate the release of my new album. Would you like a copy?”

He gestured to the box his team had brought with them—signed copies of the album to give to the staff as a ‘thank you’ for hosting the party.

“Oh! I would but I… kinda already have one.”

He blinked. “You do?”

You nodded, a blush rising to your cheeks. “I stood in line for hours at the record store this morning. I’m…kind of a big fan.”

His heart did a full somersault at that, his smile turning boyish and shy. “Well, then… you should have a signed one too.”

Before you could protest out of sheer politeness, he reached into the box and handed one to you, trying not to become flustered as your hands accidentally brushed. He giggled nervously as you thanked him, quickly disappearing into the crowd in hopes of not embarrassing himself further. 

He tried to act normal the remainder of the night, he really did, but he failed. Miserably.  Every few minutes, he’d drift dangerously close to the wall because he was craning his neck to catch another glimpse of you. At one point, he’d nearly collided with a group of kids doing tricks, almost wiping out himself.

His brothers noticed—because of course they did— and didn’t hesitate to tease him mercilessly.

“Mikey…” Marlon sing-songed. “You’re starin’ again.”

”I’m not!” Michael protested, while actively staring.

”Uh-huh,” Tito adds. “Our little Mikey’s in love.”

“Shut up Tito!” He hisses under his breath, cheeks becoming hotter by the minute. 

”Just go talk to her!” Jackie urged.

“I did talk to her,” Michael shoots back, his cheeks turning more and more red the further they taunt him.

”Yeah,” Marlon said. “And you stared at her like a lovesick fool. Go ask for her number, you pathetic schmuck.”

By the end of the night, after watching him sneak glances and make a fool of himself for hours, the entire group had had enough. Marlon himself eventually grabbed Michael by the shoulders, and physically shoved him toward the rental counter.

”Go. Now. Before I do it for you.”

”Marlon!” Michael hisses, mortified, heart hammering in his chest as he stumbled toward you. If he were being truthful, the only thing worse than him making a move and being rejected was the thought of Marlon making a move and getting your number instead.

He set the pair of skates on the counter—harsher than intended—and immediately began rambling. “Uh—hi. I mean—hello. Again. I just, uh, wanted to return these. The skates. Obviously. And also I—well—I was wondering if maybe, if it’s not too forward or anything—if I could, um…have your number? Your… phone number?”

You froze, jaw falling open in shock as he babbled, totally unconvinced that you weren’t simply daydreaming.

Taking your silence as rejection, Michael immediately began to regret all of his life decisions and had opened his mouth to backtrack when you began to scramble wildly for anything to write on—a receipt, a napkin, a scrap of paper, anything. 

You finally settle on a crumpled up candy wrapper and scribble your number down with shaky hands, and hand it to him, your fingers brushing once again, sparks igniting at the brief contact.

You both pretend not to hear his brothers hooting and cheering in the background. - Michael closes the refrigerator door gently, continuing to smile fondly at the photo. The memory continues to unfold—not just that night, but everything that followed.

The truth was, you never expected him to actually call. You were flattered of course, dizzy with disbelief. You had practically floated home that night, clutching the signed album to your chest as if it were made of gold. 

But you knew who he was: famous, busy, traveling the world and performing for millions of people. And you were just… well, you: an ordinary girl working part-time at a roller rink trying to survive college.

But he did call. The very next day, actually.

You were in the middle of studying for an exam when the phone rang. Then you heard his voice—soft and shy—and you nearly dropped the receiver. “It’s Michael. Remember? From the roller rink…?” He had said. You had to hold back a giggle at his introduction—acting as if he were just some random guy who had asked for your number, and not Michael Jackson himself. You didn’t get any more studying done that night, the call lasting hours. He called the next day too. And the day after that. And the day after that.

Even when he was on the road, even when you were drowning in exams and clinical rotations, you talked. Somehow, no matter how chaotic life became, the two of you always made time for each other—sometimes five minutes, sometimes hours, and sometimes just enough to say “I miss you.”

You had clicked instantly. Not simply as a crush, but as friends—real friends. The kind who could talk about everything and nothing without ever running out of things to say.  The kind who laughed until your stomachs hurt, the kind who felt strangely familiar from the very beginning—saying things to one another that you had never said out loud to another soul.

It wasn’t long before he asked you on a date, and it took even less time for him to ask you to be his girlfriend. His first girlfriend. His first everything. And he wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

You had fit into his world with an ease that surprised everyone around you. His sisters adored you. His mother welcomed you with open arms, always insisting you stay for dinner or come by whenever you had time. Even Joseph tolerated your presence… well, somewhat—which was about as high of a compliment as you could get from that man, so Michael took it as a win. His brothers teased the both of you relentlessly, flirting with you shamelessly simply to get under Michael’s skin. You never missed a beat, though, effortlessly putting them in their place with a quick comeback or humbling retort—and they loved you for it. Michael loved you even more for it.

He loved the way you held your own with his family, the way you made him laugh, the way you treated him like a person rather than a superstar. He loved the way you made everything feel lighter on even the heaviest days.

It wasn’t until your third date—a quiet dinner with the two of you sitting close enough that your knees brushed beneath the table—that you finally admitted to him that the night at the roller rink hadn’t actually been the first time you met.  Months earlier, you and a friend had won a radio contest—front row tickets to The Jacksons’ Destiny Tour that included a meet and greet with the group.

When you told him, he was absolutely devastated. ‘You were there? And I didn’t remember you?’ His voice had gone soft, quivering slightly as if he had failed you somehow.

You reached across the table, grasping his hand. ‘Michael, don’t be silly. You were exhausted. And it was so quick, you probably met hundreds of fans that day.’

Still, he was crushed. In his mind, he was mourning the extra months he could have had with you. You, on the other hand, seemed… relieved? “Honestly…I’m kind of glad you don’t remember.”

“Why?” He blinked.

“I mean…” You shrugged, cheeks growing hot as you tried to deflect. “I was so excited to meet you all. I probably embarrassed myself.” 

He was sure that wasn’t true—you were always perfect in his eyes. You insisted though, so he let it go and he accepted your reassurance, despite his disappointment.

Michael finally shakes himself from the memory, feeling hopelessly lovesick as he tears himself away from the photo. You couldn’t get home soon enough. 

A half hour slips by before Michael grows restless. He tries to be patient—really, he does.

The first ten minutes pass easily enough. He puts on one of your records, something he knows you like, letting the music fill the quiet of your apartment. He sits on the couch for a while, stretching out and tapping his fingers against his knees, humming along to the soft tunes. 

Another ten minutes pass. He checks the clock. Then checks it again two minutes later. 

He even considers taking a nap, leaning back against the cushions and closing his eyes for a moment. But the stillness of the apartment, the soft hum of the record spinning and the faint scent of your perfume lingering in the air all make him restless in a way he can’t quite shake.

Then, his curiosity wins out. It always does. 

He tells himself he’s not snooping. He’s just… looking around. Appreciating the space. He really tries to believe it, but after a few minutes of wandering around the living room with his hands in his pockets, he sighs and admits it to himself: Alright. He’s snooping.

It’s a terrible habit—one he’s had since he was a little boy. He’s always been endearingly curious, poking around drawers and closets he had no business opening. His mother used to scold him for it constantly, telling him it was bad manners and just plain rude.

He should know better by now, he really should—but he can’t help it. He loves your space—loves the little pieces of you tucked into every corner, and he never gets tired of learning things about you that you never think to mention. It makes him feel closer to you, even when you're not there. And, frankly, you should have known better than to leave him unattended and bored. 

He starts with the bookshelf, running a finger along the spines of your novels and old nursing school textbooks. At the end, a few cookbooks. 

He snorts softly. You own cookbooks. You, who barely has time to buy groceries, let alone cook. He shakes his head in amusement, imagining you optimistically buying them and then promptly forgetting they exist. He pulls one out and quickly leafs through it—finding not a single page dog-eared, nor one stain or smudge. He snickers under his breath before sliding it back into place.

And that’s when he spots it—a thick, slightly worn high school yearbook wedged in at the end.

He pulls it out carefully, glancing nervously toward the door like you’re about to walk in at that exact moment, then settles onto the couch with it resting on his lap. He examines the pages slowly—scanning the class photos and candid shots of students laughing in hallways. It takes him less than a minute to find you.

He spots your photo and immediately breaks into a grin that he couldn’t hide even if he tried. You look younger, of course—softer around the edges and hair styled differently, but still undeniably you. He giggles under his breath, tracing the edge of the photo with his thumb. He reads the messages your classmates wrote to you in the margins—grinning at the inside jokes he doesn’t understand and the sweet notes from friends he’s never met.

He wonders, not for the first time, how differently things would have turned out if the two of you had gone to school together—if he’d seen you in the hallways, or sat behind you in class, or watched you laugh with your friends at lunch. Would you have gone to prom together? Went to football games hand-in-hand? The thought makes him smile, then laugh softly at himself. 

Who was he kidding? He was nearly too shy to talk to you when he met you at age twenty-one. If he had met you as a teenager, he probably would have tripped over his own feet trying to say hello. 

He allows himself another moment of reminiscing before putting the yearbook away where he found it. 

He continues exploring. On the bottom shelf of your TV stand, he finds an old shoebox with a lid that doesn’t quite close all the way. He hesitates for barely a second before picking it up and lifting the lid. 

Inside is a jumble of old memories—some new, some old: friendship bracelets, faded movie tickets, a few Polaroids, some photo negatives, a folded note or two. He smiles as he sifts through them, careful not to bend or misplace anything. It feels like flipping through a scrapbook of your life before he knew you.

Then, he finds something else tucked near the bottom of the box—a bundle of photos with a rubber band holding them together. He pulls them out gently. 

On top is a ticket stub—The Jacksons’ Destiny World Tour. 1979.

Jackpot. He thinks to himself, immediately sliding the rubber band off and beginning to look through the photos—grainy, slightly overexposed shots of the stage. The crowd. Him and his brothers mid-dance. 

Then he finds one that makes his heart skip a beat: a photo of him—he’s mid-spin, completely unaware that somewhere in the crowd, a girl he hadn’t met yet was watching him with a camera in her hands. The girl he would fall in love with. The girl he would marry someday—he’s sure of it.

He continues flipping through the stack of photos, settling deeper into the couch. He recognizes some of the photos, you had shown them to him before, back when you first told him about the concert you attended. He had to coax you into letting him see them at all—he recalls how shy you were, insisting they were so embarrassing. Michael disagreed.

He flips to a photo of you and your friend outside of the venue, both of you pointing excitedly at the billboard advertising the tour. You’re both grinning so wide it looks painful. You both wear white t-shirts: “The Jacksons” and “Destiny Tour 1979” spelled out in bright lettering across the front, the design clearly homemade. He had tried to tease you about the DIY project when you originally showed him the photos, but he’d barely gotten a sentence out before you smacked his arm playfully and told him to hush.  “We were broke college students! We had to make our own merch!”

He remembers laughing—he had never seen someone look so adorably proud in a t-shirt they had designed themselves with a pack of fabric markers.

He moves onto the next photo, another shot of the two of you outside the venue, this time with your arms thrown around each other mid-laugh, the crowd buzzing behind you. He can feel the energy radiating from the photo—the anticipation, the excitement, the electricity.

Then, he reaches the first photo from the meet-and-greet. He’s seen his photo before too, but for some reason, it hits him differently this time. Maybe it’s because he’s sitting in your apartment, surrounded by your things, thinking about your history all afternoon.

There he is—right in the middle, where he was always positioned. You’re sandwiched between him and Marlon, and your friend stands on the opposite side between him and Randy.

Him and his brothers look exhausted—sweaty, flushed, hair sticking to their foreheads—but they’re smiling, bright and genuine, still riding the adrenaline high from the performance. Always excited and grateful to meet fans. 

Michael can’t stop looking at you in the photo; so young, so excited and unbelievably cute. It still drives him crazy that he can’t remember you. He knows he shouldn’t feel bad— he’s told himself that a million times. It was after a show, he was exhausted. You were one face in a sea of faces. But still.

He wishes he remembered you, that he had noticed you that day, that he had looked up and seen the girl who would someday become the most important person in his life.

He flips through the rest of the photos with a quiet fondness, taking his time with each one as the stack gets smaller and smaller. 

Then he reaches the last photo and freezes, nearly dropping the whole pile in surprise. He’s never seen this one, he’s sure of it. He would have remembered.

It's another shot taken in front of the venue, but this one was taken from behind—you and your friend standing with your backs to the camera, hips popped out dramatically, each of you pointing your thumbs toward writing on the backs of your DIY t-shirts, the lettering bold and bright.

Written on the back of your friend’s shirt:  ‘Randy’s #1 Girl’

On yours? ‘Marlon’s #1 Girl’

Michael’s jaw drops. 

Then, he bursts out laughing. It's loud, sudden and completely unrestrained—the sound surprising even himself. He doubles forward, hand flying over his mouth, shoulders shaking. His cheeks flush, partly from amusement, and partly from the sheer irony of it all. 

“Oh… oh lord…” He wheezes, wiping at his eyes.

He should be jealous, he thinks. And a year or two ago, he probably would have spiraled—making up all sorts of ridiculous scenarios in his head, convincing himself you would have preferred someone else, letting his insecurities gnaw at him until he was sick.

Maybe he is a little jealous, just a tiny bit. But more than that? He’s delighted. Absolutely thrilled.

Because this—this—is leverage. Real leverage. The kind he never gets with you.

You almost always have the upper hand when it comes to teasing. You’re quick, clever, merciless in the most affectionate way. You know exactly how to fluster him, exactly how to make him blush, exactly how to get him sputtering and defensive.

He tosses the rest of the stack to the side and holds the photo up, grinning like he just discovered buried treasure. “Girl… you are never living this down.” He murmurs to himself.

Admittedly, if it were anyone else, perhaps he would have been jealous, but it's not anyone else. It’s Marlon.

You and Marlon bicker like you were siblings yourselves—loud, dramatic, ridiculous, and completely harmless. Michael has never once felt threatened by your relationship with any of his brothers. Even if he does get irritated at times, he knows their natural flirtiness is just part of who they are, and you’ve always handled it with humor and a scathing comeback. 

Besides, it was Marlon himself who gave him the final shove toward you at the roller rink. A fact that his older brother likes to bring up constantly, essentially crediting your entire relationship to his self-proclaimed matchmaking genius.

Michael leans back into the couch, snickering to himself. He cannot wait for you to walk through that door.

-

You finally pull into your driveway, turning off the engine and letting your head fall back against the seat for a moment, closing your eyes and letting out the kind of long, heavy sigh that only comes after a shift that lasted far too long. 

What was supposed to be a normal twelve-hour shift had stretched into fifteen—cutting into your perfect evening with Michael—all because your stupid coworker was late. Again. You’d spent the last few hours trying not to fall asleep on your feet, counting down the minutes until you could go home and fall into his arms. 

You’re exhausted in that bone-deep way that only healthcare workers understand. All you want to do is to peel everything off and stand under a hot shower until the day melts off of your skin. Preferably with your very pretty boyfriend in there with you. 

Despite the exhaustion, though, a spark of energy remains humming beneath your ribs—the excitement that’s been building for days.

Because the rest of the night belongs only to you and Michael—movies, snacks, and a whole weekend with no interruptions, no opposite schedules, and no rushed phone calls squeezed in between responsibilities. Just the two of you, finally in the same place at the same time.

It had been too long—truly too long. 

You’re so incredibly proud of him—of the work he’s pouring into Thriller, of the long nights and early mornings he spends in his studio, of the way he talks about his music like it’s alive—an entity of itself. 

You can’t wait to hear the final record. You have no doubt that the sneak-peeks and demos he sometimes lets you hear do no justice to the finished project. But more than anything, you can’t wait to have him to yourself for a little while.

The thought of coming home to him tonight makes your heart flutter in a way you try not to think too hard about—especially when it’s quickly followed by the thought of coming home to him everyday.  The idea of moving in together has crossed your mind more than once—slipping in between late-night phone calls and early mornings when you’re half-awake and missing him more than anything. You wouldn’t have to worry about going weeks without seeing each other if you shared the same bed every night and woke up next to each other every morning. Maybe soon. Maybe once the album is out. Maybe when life slows down just enough for the two of you to breathe at the same time.

You gather your things—your bag, your change of shoes, the lunch you never had time to eat—and step out of your car into the cool evening air. 

Your body aches, your feet hurt, and you’re dog-tired, but none of that matters because Michael—your Michael—is inside waiting for you, and suddenly the day doesn’t feel quite so heavy anymore. 

The moment you push open your apartment door, the familiar warmth of home wraps around you like a blanket—the soft lamplight, a hint of vanilla from a candle Michael must have lit while waiting for you, soft hum of a record spinning in the background, and a whiff of his cologne coming from his jacket draped over the chair closest to the door. 

You barely step one foot inside the threshold when you hear it—the unmistakable sound of footsteps hurriedly making their way toward you. 

Then Michael appears—or rather, launches himself into the room—skidding around the corner. He couldn’t possibly look more goofy as his socked-feet slide a little on the hardwood and he catches himself on the wall. He straightens himself quickly, like he meant to do that, and hadn’t just sprinted toward you like a puppy greeting its owner. He tries to look casual, lifting his chin as he leans nonchalantly against the doorway—but the bright, boyish excitement in his eyes gives him away instantly.

You, meanwhile, don’t even pretend to play it cool.  You drop your things to the floor in a completely ungraceful heap, and you’re in his arms before either of you can say a word. 

He catches you easily, arms wrapping around your middle with a kind of desperation that makes you want to melt into him and resurface. He squeezes you tight, lifting you just slightly off the ground before setting you back down, but not letting go yet.

“Hi, baby,” you murmur against his skin, burying your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling deeply. He smells like home—the scent hitting you so hard that you almost do melt—right then and there. 

He hums a soft sound—something between a laugh and a relieved sigh—and presses his cheek against the top of your head. You can feel him smile against your hair, his arms tightening even more. “Hi.”

You pull back just enough to get another look at his handsome face—and you lean in and kiss him. He sinks into it, his warm hands gliding up your back simply for the opportunity to hold you a little closer.

“I hope you didn’t get too bored waiting for me,” you say, finally breaking away for air, brushing your thumb along his jaw.

Before he can respond, the dam breaks—the exhaustion and frustration of your very long day comes rushing back all at once, and you start shedding layers as you talk—your coat first, then your scrub top, the long sleeved undershirt getting tangled along with it as you pull the fabric over your head and throw it aside. You kick off your shoes haphazardly, causing them to land messily next to Michael's neatly-placed loafers. You ramble on without taking a breath, words spilling out in a rush as you stand there in your bra in front of him, long past any shyness or decorum.

”You would not believe the day I had—fifteen hours, Michael, fifteen! I swear if my coworker is late one more time I’m going to lose my mind. I’m starving, I’m exhausted, I feel gross. I just want to shower for an hour and then order pizza and put on a Disney movie and—”

You stop when you realize he’s staring at you. Not in a worried or confused way, or in a ‘my girlfriend is standing in front of me half-naked’ kind of way—but in a way that is so foreign it makes your stomach flip and your brows knit together.

He’s trying—very poorly—to suppress a smirk, and he’s holding one hand behind his back.

You narrow your eyes. “What are you doing?”

”Nothing,” he says, far too quickly.

“Michael Jackson.” You say sternly, crossing your arms at his evasion.

”Nothing!” He giggles—actually giggles—the sound bubbling out like he just can’t help it. “I just missed you.”

You squint at him, suspicious. “Then why are you looking at me like that?"

He shrugs, all innocence, though the corners of his mouth twitch. “Just looking at my girl.”

You soften a little at that, and begin to turn away to gather your dirty clothes off the floor—until he adds with a casualness so deliberate it was practically glowing:

“My #1 girl.”

You freeze. Oh no. Oh no, no no.

Your entire body goes still—his words hitting you like a jolt of electricity. You spin around on your heel so fast you nearly lose your balance, because you know exactly what he’s referencing—that exact phrasing.

And he knows you know. He stands there, trying—and failing—to hide the cocky grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, hand still tucked behind his back like he’s holding an explosive.

You stare at him with a wild, startled look. Your pulse jumps as your eyes dart around the room, and then you see it: the source of his smugness. 

Your memory box, wide open—sitting on the coffee table in the background like a glowing neon sign that reads: you fucked up!

Your soul briefly leaves your body as you look back up at him to see what he’s holding. 

The photo. That photo. The one you probably should have burned. 

He pinches it between two fingers, dangling it in the air like bait—a victorious expression spread across his stupidly pretty face. You let out a horrified, choked sound—and immediately lunge for it. 

But he’s faster.

He lifts his arm effortlessly, holding the photo high above your head. Damn your height. Damn his height. Damn the universe for giving him such long arms. 

“Michael!” You whine, standing up on your tip-toes, fingers brushing uselessly at the air.

He giggles again, stepping back just enough to keep the photo out of your reach. 

“Or…” he says, drawing the word out torturously, eyes sparkling with mischief. ”Is it Marlon’s #1 girl?”

You gasp, making another grab for the photo. He lifts it even higher. “Michael Joseph Jackson! You nosy little—“

You jump again, uselessly—your fingertips missing the photo by a good four or five inches. You can only imagine how pathetic the scene would look to anyone watching—you, dressed only in a bra and wrinkled scrub pants, leaping like a frantic gremlin while your boyfriend stands there laughing at you. 

”You weren’t supposed to find that!” You whine, continuing to stretch your arm as far as it will go. You briefly consider getting a stepstool.

You stop jumping, finally admitting defeat. Your shoulders slump as you let out a long, dramatic groan, dropping your head until your forehead lands against his chest. Michael simply stands there, smug and delighted. He looks so pleased with himself—too pleased, really, for your taste—and you know there’s absolutely no recovering from this.

You should have known better. You did know better. Leaving your sweet, curious boyfriend alone in your apartment with nothing but time and his lifelong, incurable nosiness to keep him company? That was on you.

”Baby?” You mumble against his chest, your cheeks warm.

“Hm?” 

“Are you mad?” You ask, suddenly feeling a little guilty and ashamed for hiding the photo from him at all.

The question hangs in the air—soft, genuine, vulnerable—and for the first time since he flashed that stupid smirk, his expression changes. The teasing fades just a little, replaced by something else entirely. Your chest tightens. 

He lowers the photo a fraction, dark bambi-eyes softening as he looks down at you, then back at the photograph. 

His expression shifts into something thoughtful, humming softly—the sound low in his throat, and says, almost to himself, “I mean… I probably should be mad.”

You look up at him with wide, pleading eyes, searching his face for any sign of real hurt or insecurity. He doesn’t give you one, and the uncertainty makes your breath catch. You would almost rather die than hurt his feelings, intentionally or not.

“I really should,” he continues, nodding solemnly while keeping his eyes on the photo. His tone is slow, deliberate and downright torturous, each word landing heavier than the last.

”I mean…my girlfriend, my sweet, beautiful girl…” He pauses, tilting his head slightly. “…swooning over another man. Right in front of me.”

He lifts the photo a little higher, examining it like evidence. Your face burns even hotter. “And over my own brother, no less.”

Now, your entire body feels like it's on fire. With every teasing word, your embarrassment grows. You want to disappear into the floor. Or snatch the photo and run. Or both.

”Michael…” You whisper, fully mortified.

Michael looks at you fully now, biting his lip, and finally lowers the photo, extending it toward you. You snatch it back gently but urgently, gripping it with both hands and holding it protectively against your chest, effectively hiding it from the world. 

Your cheeks burn, the heat blooming all the way to your ears. You can barely look at him in the eye, your embarrassment so intense it borders on dizzying.

Before you can open your mouth to defend yourself—or scold him some more, you haven’t decided—he leans down and kisses you. Not a quick, teasing peck, but a deep, steady kiss that anchors you right where you stand, immediately silencing every frantic thought swirling around in your head. 

His hands cradle your face for a moment, warm and steady, before one pinches your cheek gently, affectionately, causing you to let out a surprised squeak.

His hands trail down your sides and land on your bottom with a soft, mischievous squeeze. He pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, his gaze intense. “I’m not threatened by anyone,” he says quietly, but firmly. “Especially not Marlon.”

You let out a long, shaky sigh of relief, shoulders finally relaxing. “Good,” you murmur, still clutching the photo that has begun to crumple slightly in your grip. “Because I love Marlon, but as a brother. As a friend. There were never any sparks. Ever.”

You pause at that, and add with a groan, “And he can never find out about this photo. If he does, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Michael laughs at that, clearly imagining exactly how unbearable Marlon—and the rest of his brothers, really—would be with this information.

You roll your eyes and continue, “Besides, my other friend—you remember Kayla? From middle school?—had already claimed you as her favorite member. I couldn’t break girl code like that. So naturally I had to pick someone else.”

Your cheeks heat up in embarrassment as soon the words leave your mouth. Good god, you sound like a 16 year old. 

Michael simply laughs again, shaking his head. He pinches your cheek again. “I’ve been in this industry for a very long time, sweet girl. I am very familiar with fangirl logic. It’s very cute.”

You smack his shoulder lightly, your embarrassment finally giving way to amusement. “Well, if it makes you feel better, my favorite has definitely changed.”

He nods, eyes sparkling with mischief again. “Good. Because we are going to the store first thing in the morning to pick up fabric markers so you can make yourself a new shirt.”

You groan, burying your face in his chest again. He giggles again, wrapping his arms around you again. He pulls away slightly, studying you for a moment—your flushed cheeks and embarrassed little frown, the way you’re still clutching the photo like it might leap out of your hands and betray you for a second time—and he kisses you again.

You melt into him without thinking, the tension of your day dissolving with the warmth of his mouth against yours.

When he finally pulls away, he doesn’t go far. Instead, he presses another kiss to the corner of your mouth. Then your cheek. Then the other. Then the tip of your nose. Your forehead.

You start to giggle helplessly as he continues—kissing all over your face with exaggerated affection, each one softer than the last. He trails down your jaw, your chin, the crook of your neck, beginning to nip and bite at your collar bones. He continues until you’re laughing openly, half-heartedly pushing at his shoulders.

”Michael—!” You squeal, half-laughing, half-pleading as he continues his assault.

He grins against your skin, clearly delighted by your reaction. His hands glide down your waist, fingers curling gently as he delivers a playful tickle against your bare skin—just enough to make you squirm and laugh harder. 

“Stop, stop!” You shout breathlessly, attempting to twist out of his grip. He finally relents, pulling back to take another look at you—cheeks flushed, eyes bright, breath unsteady from laughing. He smiles, impossibly in love.

He turns you by your hips, pushing you gently towards your bedroom, delivering a light, affectionate swat against your backside to send you on your way. “Go on, get in the shower and change into something comfy f’me.”

You watch as he begins walking in the opposite direction with a little bounce in his step. “And what are you doing?”

“Ordering us a pizza!” He calls over his shoulder.

You bite your lip, shaking your head as you start down the hallway toward the washroom. Your heart is impossibly full—still fluttering from his kisses, cheeks warm from his teasing, ribs aching from how hard he made you laugh. 

You can hear him humming—something soft and unfamiliar—and you can’t help but smile. Then, you realize you’re still holding the photo and another thought hits you. 

You stop dead in your tracks, spinning around so fast your hair whips in front of your face. You clear your throat loudly, and he freezes mid-stride, turning to look at you with confusion.

You narrow your eyes, lifting a finger to point at him with all the authority you can muster for a person who was just kissed breathless. “Don’t you dare get into anything else while I’m gone. I mean it, Michael. Not one drawer. Not a single cabinet. Not one.”

He blinks innocently, lips twitching as he tries to think of a retort. You continue, “Because if you do, I swear to god my new shirt is going to say ‘Jermaine’s #1 Girl.’”

His jaw drops in faux-outrage, clutching his chest as if he were mortally wounded. “…You wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t I?”

“Now you’re just playin’ dirty.” He shoots back, hands landing on his hips.

“Oh really?” You raise an eyebrow. Clearly, it was time to show him exactly what ‘playin’ dirty’ actually looked like. You casually reach behind your back and unclip your bra. “Try me.”

He watches as it falls to the floor. He chuckles slowly, taking a single step toward you. “You better run, girl. You’re in for it now.”

You let out a yelp as you bolt down the hallway, laughter spilling out as he chases after you. 

Pizza and movies would have to wait. You have a long and eventful night ahead of you. It’s good to be home.

michael’s wrapped up in the way your hips swirl in front of him in graceful little movements, aviators low on his nose, watching intently how you slide off your tiny skirt in a slow glide. his bottom lip disappears between his teeth, eyes flickering over your long legs, your soft stomach.

his large hands are jammed into the pockets of his trousers, adjusting his dick to make himself even more comfortable as he licks his lips.

the lights are all dim, casting an amber glow across your skin as michael’s big hands can’t help but caress every inch of your exposed, soft skin as you kick off your skirt, leaving you in your tiny top and panties, your perfect body sliding down his spread legs.

your movements falter a little when you notice michael’s heavy stare behind the glasses, his smile all dopey and satisfied at seeing your plump ass move in front of him. his pretty girl doing a little private dance for him.

“why you stallin’, angel?” he murmurs when your ministrations quiver. your cheeks feel warm when you notice his nimble hands wanting to reach over to your figure.

the flat of his hand sharply taps the middle of your ass cheek as a hint for you to giddy up, his long fingers digging into your plush flesh to douse the sting blooming across your ass.

“oh.” your voice sounds small when you realise what michael did. what he did to your ass. hitting it. branding it as his — and only his — to touch.

his warm hands roam over your hips at the exact moment you want to bend down in front of him. “don’t be shy, baby,” he croons at seeing the black lace of your panties shoved between your ass cheeks. “show me what that ass can do.” michael says in a way that makes you feel small.

the words sound so vulgar coming from his lips. the wetness in your panties blooms at realising how extremely obscene the scene looks in your mind. “know my baby can dance real good f’me.”

you try to move your waist to the sensual rnb tune playing in the background, michael’s fingers still feeling heavy and present on your hips, using your core to move up and down, all flexible.

“thaaat’s it, angel. y’r a natural,” he praises, voice lazy as you bend over even more. “look at’cha. don’t even need my help.”

a tiny, helpless whimper escapes you at his shameless praise.

“oh— y’like that?” michael’s face is so close to you, his breath coating the globes of your ass as you feel his soft mouth pepper kisses over the skin there, leaving wet dots as he alternates between the two cheeks, free hand cupping your cunt as you hump against it out of desperation. “y’like when i kiss on that pretty little ass?”

he noses the skin there, all sweet-smelling, knowing grin on his face. a needy, breathy “yes” from you shows that his special attention to your backside turns you on even more, back bowing deeply into a curve.

“love ’er too.” michael groans, ignoring the strain in his trousers, hand coming in firm contact with your butt, eyes transfixed on how your flesh bounces from the impact.

his steady hand on the soft of your ass gets you even more messy. “y— that’s so nasty, mike—” you sigh, slick sliding down your legs already, feeling so exposed and vulnerable for the man behind you.

“look at that, baby, milky lil’ hole ‘s droolin’ already, yeah? gonna leave a handprint—” another smack to your round ass, “right there.”

you flutter your eyes shut, hips jerking back when you feel michael’s fingers wriggle under the elastic around your hipbones.

“wan’ your mouth on me,” is all you can verbalise, your hands coming back to push michael’s hands onto your ass cheeks again, pushing them up and open for his eyes to take in. you spread your legs wider, cool air swishing between your walls. “fuck, p-put your mouth on me again, please.”

“and i am the nasty one?” michael huffs amusedly, teeth grazing over the soft flesh. “baby, you’re the dirtiest from the two’f us.”

the noiret’s teeth hook around the slim strip of fabric that disappears between your full ass cheeks, pulling it out, letting it snap back as he delivers wet smack after wet smack to the side of your ass, pressing kisses all over, from where your ass meets leg all the way over to the inside of your thigh, smelling your seeping arousal.

the echo of skin hitting skin travels across the room, so obscene and filthy. your pitchy moans get increasingly louder the more michael smacks your flesh, the muscle jumping dramatically as his eyes remain fixated on your reddened skin.

“jus’ lemme love on that needy ass,” he promises, more to himself, as his large hands rub over it. your whines get wetter, needier, unconsciously humping the air to get some satisfaction.

“look at’chu, shovin’ it in my face like the sweet girl you are.”

a/n: do we all know that clip of him adjusting himself because omg his hands look so big and warm and large and thick i know he’d be able to cover my whole face with just one hand. + omg also that clip in which he’s walking behind that model and slaps the air behind her goodbye???? please smack my ass while i ride ur dick with ur abnormally large fingers in my mouth thanks