Dalila June Ross She is a talented singer, actress, and dancer.
She is extremely professional and competent, working with her is easy.
She is a very motivated woman with the things she desires, and she dedicated years of her life to becoming the perfect singer, and she fulfilled her goal of winning over Michael Jackson.
She will be his partner, the mother of his children, and his greatest support; she will be the perfect woman for him because Michael Jackson only deserves the best.
Michael Jackson. And the happiest man in the world, he's dating his first love.
Dalila is perfect, everyone likes her, she wants to have at least four children and doesn't care if he's weird, she loves him sincerely.
He could hardly wait to marry her, his wish was to elope, but Delilah deserved more than a hasty marriage; people might think she was pregnant.
Dalila's love is sincere, but she's a little obsessed with Michael; she's a reincarnated soul who got involved in a ritual and ended up being reborn in the past.
She doesn't mind getting her hands dirty with blood to ensure the happiness of her beloved.
Notice: Protagonist is slightly Yandere, in a codependent and possessive relationship.
And if it wasn't obvious, the protagonist is Diana Ross's niece and basically a copy of her in terms of appearance.
prólogo
1Best friend
2 One day I want to marry you.
3I'm in love with you.
4 Under the Moonlight
5 Thoughts on marriage
6 Dalila's thoughts
7 Thoughts by Diana Ross
8 A wedding to remember.
9 I will be your wife.
10 Love story
11 A memorable night
12 Thoughts of Prince
13 Nothing is better than our home.
14 A farewell
15
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Credits to
@pixopix
Comment on this post if you want to be tagged (I had forgotten about that).
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I don't even care that your story a technically oc in the reader tag(I'm supposed to read the story as oc right? Or is it reader? Clarify for me). You are feeding me!!!
Btw a new story with a bisexual.
Do you know how long I've been waiting for this, hoooo I'm about to make a name for myself
And it's in that time period, I'm already waiting for this as we speak.
Penelope comes from a world where women were the most numerous gender; she has considerable experience with lesbian sex.
And as much as I don't like Diana Ross for her actions (not necessarily hate) I love how you make her feel like a person, less like a villain (however I do not condone a lot of the things she's done)
Also with the new story you're making I like that MC because she's never really known Diana Ross from her universe. She views her as less of a Rival more of another woman because she doesn't really know Diana all too well
Absolutely Brilliant
I honestly don't like it when they use Diana as the villain in Michael's stories. Okay, the woman did a lot of wrong things and I don't like her, but reading the same formula gets tiring.
Dalila and Michael get married, and Diana ponders the matter.
The wedding on the very first day of the year seemed exactly like the kind of decision Dalila would make.
For months, Diana Ross had been convinced that, sooner or later, she would receive a rushed phone call from her niece.
"I got married."
That would be all. Maybe a laugh on the other end of the line. Maybe a quick plea not to be angry.
Eloping felt far more in character for Dalila than planning an actual wedding.
So when Diana discovered there would be guests, flowers, music, and a traditional ceremony, she was genuinely surprised.
It was all Michael Jackson's fault.
Or, as Dalila liked to say with a smile, "the hopeless romantic in the relationship."
Michael had been the one who insisted on gathering their families and closest friends. He wanted to celebrate the day surrounded by the people who loved them both. He wanted photographs, vows, music, and memories they could treasure for the rest of their lives.
Dalila hadn't cared much about any of it.
She agreed simply because it made Michael happy.
The ceremony took place in the couple's new home.
The house still carried the faint scent of fresh paint, yet it already felt lived in. There were paintings they had chosen together, plants scattered throughout the rooms, elegant furniture softened by delicate touches that unmistakably reflected Dalila's presence. It was beautiful, warm, and surprisingly quiet for a place about to welcome dozens of guests.
It looked like a home built for a lifetime together.
When Dalila appeared, even Diana found herself holding her breath.
Her niece had never worn white in public.
Seeing her step forward in a wedding dress made the moment even more unforgettable.
It wasn't the classic gown everyone might have expected. The design was modern, elegant, and full of personality without being extravagant. It was different—just as Dalila had always been.
And yet it was impossible to imagine anyone else wearing that dress so effortlessly.
Michael couldn't hide his emotions.
His eyes were already shining before she reached the aisle.
Diana recognized that look.
It was the same expression he wore whenever he thought no one was watching him look at Dalila.
Completely in love.
Hopelessly, unmistakably in love.
After the ceremony came the speeches, the embraces, and the music.
Eventually, someone handed the two of them a microphone.
It was inevitable.
Michael started singing first.
Dalila joined him moments later.
Their guests laughed as the newlyweds turned every love song into a heartfelt declaration. They sang while gazing into each other's eyes, smiling through the lyrics, interrupting themselves to laugh at private jokes before picking up the melody again as though they were the only two people in the room.
They were almost embarrassingly affectionate.
No one seemed to mind.
Everyone had come to expect that kind of behavior from them.
Those who knew them often joked that Michael and Dalila had been living as though they were on their honeymoon ever since they first met.
Now that they were married, Michael also seemed much more comfortable showing affection in front of other people. He had grown up believing there were boundaries that should be respected before marriage, and he had taken those beliefs seriously.
The wedding seemed to have removed that final barrier.
It wasn't unusual to see him holding Dalila's hand, kissing her forehead, wrapping an arm around her waist, or simply finding some excuse to stay close while they talked.
To the public, they were the picture of the perfect couple.
Young, talented, deeply in love, and—according to the carefully maintained image they had preserved throughout the years—two virgins who had waited until marriage to fully embrace their love.
Diana admired their discipline.
Maintaining an impeccable reputation under the spotlight was far more difficult than most people realized.
Her eyes drifted back to Michael once more.
There was no denying it.
He had grown up.
The shy little boy from Motown had become an extraordinarily handsome man. Elegant, courteous, charismatic... and completely devoted to Dalila.
Diana could acknowledge his good looks without the slightest discomfort.
She could also understand perfectly why so many women sighed whenever Michael walked into a room.
But he never seemed to notice any of them.
His eyes always found their way back to his wife.
Watching them together filled Diana with immense pride.
The little girl she had helped raise had built an extraordinary career, achieved financial independence, bought her own home, and found someone who loved her with a sincerity that was increasingly rare.
It was everything an aunt could possibly hope for.
And because of that...
It hurt a little.
For the first time since Dalila was a child, Diana realized she was no longer the one with the final say.
She was no longer the one deciding where Dalila would go, which contracts she would sign, where she would spend Christmas, or when she would come home.
Dalila had a home.
She had a husband.
She had a family of her own.
And she needed Diana a little less with each passing day.
The realization was bittersweet.
Not because Michael gave her any reason to worry.
Quite the opposite.
He was kind, respectful, and treated her with an affection that was almost filial.
Even so...
He now occupied a place that had belonged to her for many years.
Michael was the first person Dalila turned to.
He was the one she ran to whenever she had exciting news to share.
He was the one with whom she would build her future.
Diana smiled quietly, hiding the melancholy behind a composed expression.
It was a selfish thought.
Perhaps even a childish one.
But it was true.
Then her gaze found Dalila once more.
She was holding one of the Jackson children in her arms while Michael whispered something that made her burst into laughter.
He leaned in and kissed her temple as naturally as breathing, earning a smile so bright it seemed to light up the entire room.
In that moment, Diana understood that she wasn't losing her niece.
She was simply watching Dalila build a happiness that no longer needed to be managed or protected by anyone else.
And as bittersweet as that realization was, Diana couldn't have wished for a more beautiful gift on the first day of the new year.
One curious thing is that Diana Ross was engaged to Michael twice, so it makes sense to me that she would be in this chapter.
Diana thinks Michael Jackson is handsome, but in this universe she would never date him because it would be social suicide.
Dalila is very happy to finally be married, and she and her husband are looking forward to their honeymoon.
Technically, Michael and Dalila are virgins, even though they've done a lot to each other's bodies.
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Penelope came from a world where men were scarce, so she accepted male rejection very well.
In her previous life, being rejected by a man was one of the most devastating things for a woman, since there were very few of them available among the thousands of women.
There was even specialized therapy to deal with it.
Rejection by a man was a very complicated thing in that world, since men only chose the most beautiful and fertile women to have sexual relations with, as no sperm could be wasted.
If Michael Jackson broke up with Penelope, she would be sad, but she would soon get over it; after all, there are thousands of men in the world.
But that will never happen because Michael knows very well that Penelope is the right woman.
…
WC: 3522+
Rating: Mature 20+
Setting: 1981 Havenhurst Home
Contains: Dirty Talk, Masturbation, Real descriptions.
…
︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶
Michael's POV:
The house was eerily quiet past 2 AM in the way houses only get when nobody's coming home. No music from down the hall, no footsteps, just the refrigerator just buzzing from the kitchen and the blue glow of a television he'd left on in the front room playing reruns to nobody.
Michael couldn't sleep.
He'd been laying there for over an hour staring at the ceiling with the sheets tangled at his waist, the August air in LA sitting heavy even with the window cracked. His t-shirt stuck to his chest and his briefs felt too tight and everything about the room felt like it was pressing in on him. The week had been long, all of them had been lately. Too many
people wanting too much from him, too many rooms full of noise, too many nights where his brain wouldn't shut off and his body wouldn't settle and he just laid there marinating in all of it until the sun came up. He carried the tension in his shoulders, his neck, the pit of his stomach. A tightness he couldn't stretch out or run off or pray away.
He'd had a dream. One of those ones that sits in your body after you wake up, dark rooms and voices he couldn't place and the feeling of being watched by something he couldn't see. He'd woken up with his heart hammering and his pillow damp and his fingers gripping the sheets like he'd been holding on to something that wasn't there.
Twenty-two years old and still sleeping with the hallway light on. He'd never tell a soul.
He got up and walked to the kitchen in his socks, poured himself a glass of orange juice and drank it standing at the counter in his briefs and a thin undershirt, the tile cool under his feet. He set the glass in the sink and padded back to his room, punched his code into the keypad on the door, four digits only he knew, the lock clicking shut behind him.
He laid back down and pulled the sheet up to his chest, watching the ceiling fan turn its slow circles above him. His body was still wound up but it wasn't from the dream anymore. It was from everything. Weeks of tension packed into his muscles with nowhere to go, no outlet, no release.
His hand drifted between his legs and grabbed his dick through the cotton without thinking, squeezing once. He caught himself doing it and stopped, pressing his hands flat at his sides. Ceiling fan going around. Going around.
His eyes drifted to the nightstand.
He brought his hand to his mouth and started biting at his thumbnail, chewing on it absently while he stared at the drawer, his knee bouncing slightly under the sheet. He'd picked it up on a whim two weeks ago at the spot on Ventura Boulevard, wasn't even planning on it. He'd seen the cover while paying for gum. Ester Cordet, October '74. Something about her face made him slide the issue across the counter before he could talk himself out of it, hat pulled low, sunglasses he didn't need at 9 PM, cash, no eye contact with the man at the register, with a pack big
red gum and the magazine rolled inside a brown paper bag before he hit the parking lot.
Probably one of the luckiest times that no one recognized him.
He didn't usually do this. That was the thing. He kept himself busy enough that he didn't have to think about it, stayed disciplined, stayed in control of what his body wanted. But every once in a while, when the stress sat too heavy and the house was too quiet and his skin reminded him that discipline only worked until it didn't, he'd find himself right here. Staring at a drawer. Biting his nails. And when he gave in, he gave in all the way. That's why he avoided it.
He switched to biting his index fingernail now, his other hand resting on his stomach, rising and falling with his breath. His dick was already starting to thicken against his thigh, pressing against the cotton. His body knew what he was thinking before his brain had signed off on it.
He looked toward the door. Locked. He'd punched the code. He heard the click.
He got up anyway. Walked to the door in his socks, pressed his ear against it and listened for his bodyguard. Sometimes a bodyguard stayed up late watching television in the front room, sometimes he knocked out early on the couch. Michael stood there for a second, holding his breath, hearing nothing but the faint hum of the house settling. Good. Because when he got into it, really into it and he damn sure wasn't quiet. He knew that about himself. The sounds he made when it was good, the groaning, the whimpering—it came out of him whether he wanted it to or not. The last thing he needed was someone knocking on his door asking if everything was alright.
He got back in bed, reached over and opened the nightstand drawer. The magazine was underneath a stack of mail and an old TV Guide, right where he'd buried it. He pulled it out, Ester on the cover, and held it for a second without opening it, his thumb running along the spine. Then he turned off the overhead light so it was just the lamp throwing a warm circle across the bed, sat up against the headboard, and opened it.
He flipped through quickly at first, past the articles and the cologne ads and the interviews, his fingers slowing as he moved deeper into the pages. Women spread out on satin with their tits out, their legs open, their bodies oiled up and posed in ways that made his mouth dry. A woman on her knees with her ass arched high, another one touching herself in a bathtub with her head tilted back. He didn't linger on any one of them too long but his breathing was already different so much deeper, his chest rising slower, his exhale thicker.
He settled somewhere in the middle of the magazine on a spread that hit him in the stomach. A woman laid out with her legs open, her pussy on full display, her nipples real hard, one hand resting on her inner thigh like she was about to touch herself. He stared and felt everything below his waist get heavy.
His hand was under the sheet before he'd made a conscious decision to put it there, his palm sliding down his stomach over the waistband of his briefs to where his dick was pressing hard against the cotton, the head swollen and pushing at the fabric. He rubbed his thumb over the tip through the material, slow, pressing into the damp spot that had already soaked through, tracing the ridge of the head through the wet cotton until his hips shifted up into his own touch and a breath slipped out of him that he didn't plan on making.
He pushed his briefs down under the sheet, his dick pressing up against the cotton above him now, heavy and free, and he wrapped his hand around himself and just held it for a second. He could feel the veins pulsing under his fingers, the head was fat and slick where the precum had been leaking. All that tension, all that stress, all those weeks of keeping himself wound tight, sitting right there in his grip.
He started slow. Squeezed the base and pulled up, dragging the skin with him, his fist sliding over every vein and ridge until his thumb reached the head and pressed into the slit where the precum kept pooling. He smeared it around the tip with his thumb, rubbing circles into the swollen head until his toes curled, then dragged his slick thumb down the underside, tracing the thick vein that ran the length of him all the way back to the base. He paused, brought that same hand to his mouth, let the spit collect on his tongue, thick, then dropped it into his cupped palm and wrapped it right back around his dick. The wet sound hit him immediately and his stomach caved in, his hips grinding up off the mattress as his fist slid from the base to the tip of his uncircumcised length in one slow, filthy pull that made him groan out loud.
He looked at the page while his hand worked. A woman on her back, legs open, her fingers between her thighs pressing into her pussy, her lips swollen and parted and glistening. He stared at the wet shine between her legs and his dick throbbed so hard in his grip that his hand squeezed on reflex.
He flipped the page. Another woman, bent over on her knees, her ass up, looking back with her mouth open. He could see everything from this angle, her pussy peeking out from between her thighs, slick and pink, the curve of her ass, the dip of her spine. His breath got heavier and his bottom lip caught between his teeth.
"Mmm." His hand moved faster. "yes…"
He turned another page. A close shot—just a body from the waist down, her fingers pulling herself open, wet and swollen, everything on display. His stomach dropped and his dick leaked a thick bead of precum that ran over his knuckles and dripped onto the sheet.
This was the only thing that did it. The only thing that actually reached the place where he stored everything he couldn't say out loud. His shoulders dropped. His neck relaxed against the headboard. His stomach unclenched for the first time in days while his hand worked himself under the sheet, squeezing on the upstroke, twisting his wrist at the top so his palm rolled over the head, then sliding back down loose and wet.
His t-shirt had ridden up past his navel and he could see the muscles in his lower stomach flexing and releasing above the sheet, tightening every time his wrist turned. He grabbed the hem and pulled it up to his chest because he wanted to see himself and his stomach contracting, the sheet tented over his fist, the wet spot spreading on the cotton where the head of his dick pushed against the fabric on every stroke, a dark circle growing
each time he pulled up and the precum smeared through.
A moan escaped him that he didn't hold back. Real, full, let loose into the room because there was nobody to hear it and he was tired of being quiet about everything in his life.
He slowed himself down, tightening his grip on the upstroke until the skin stretched taut over the head and loosening on the way down so his fist barely grazed him, edging himself, pulling back every time the heat got close. His thighs tensed under the sheet and his toes curled and released, his hips rolling up into his fist in a lazy grind while he imagined hands on him that weren't his. Dainty, softer. A mouth at his ear. A body pressed against his side, warm and bare, watching him do this with heavy eyes.
"Yeah," he breathed into the empty room, his voice rough and low and nothing like the voice he used in daylight. "Just like that girl."
His hand sped up and his hips started moving with more intent, pushing up into his fist so that his ass lifted off the mattress under the sheet, the springs creaking beneath him. He
cupped his balls with his free hand and squeezed, rolling them between his fingers while his other hand worked his dick, and a groan came out of his chest that vibrated through the room.
The women in the magazine were older than him. Most of them. He noticed that about himself always had. A woman who didn't ask, who told. He'd never said it out loud. Didn't need to. Anybody paying attention could've figured it out by now.
He was getting close. He could feel it real tight in his stomach, in his thighs, behind his balls, and he slowed himself down again, squeezing the base and holding it, his whole body trembling from the effort. He let go completely and just laid there with his hands at his sides, his dick twitching against his stomach under the sheet, leaking, the wet spot spreading on the cotton. Every nerve raw and open. He tried to count to ten and made it to four before his hand was back on himself.
He spit into his palm again, collected it on his tongue first, let it fall slow and wide into his cupped hand, wrapped his fist around his dick and pulled up from the base, squeezing
tight, his spit and the precum mixing into this slick, warm mess that made the sound of his hand on himself twice as loud and twice as filthy. His head fell back against the headboard and his eyes closed and a groan rolled out of him that started in his chest and ended in his throat. He did it again. And again. Twisting his fist on every upstroke so his palm rolled over the swollen head, the wet, sucking sound of his grip filling the room.
His head stayed back, his neck exposed, his Adam's apple dipping with every swallow, his curls pressed against the wood, his mouth hanging open while he fucked up into his own fist with slow, deep thrusts — pulling almost all the way out of his grip and then pushing back into it, watching the sheet tent and fall, tent and fall.
No more of that teasing. No more slow stuff.
He imagined a mouth near his ear. Not whispering sweet things. Telling him what to do. A voice that was sure of itself completely. A woman who'd grab his chin and make him look at her while he stroked that heavy dick.
"Yes ma'am," he whispered, barely audible, his hand twisting tighter around his dick. The words came out of him so naturally it startled him. He said it again, quieter, under his breath like a secret. "Yes ma'am. Whatever you want from me."
His hips pumped up into his hand, the mattress complaining beneath him, his back arching. He imagined her on top of him, looking down with those sure eyes, her hands pressing his wrists into the pillow. He imagined the weight of her. The warmth. Her thighs on either side of him, how she'd smell this close, how her breath would feel against his mouth before she kissed him.
"You feel so warm on it," he breathed, his voice wrecked and private. "I can feel you everywhere. All over me."
He imagined her riding him slow. Not rushing. Taking what she wanted because she knew how and he was happy to let her. He imagined her leaning down, her mouth brushing his ear, telling him he wasn't allowed to cum yet. He imagined saying "yes ma'am" again, meaning it, trembling underneath her while she took her time.
"Mmm, I'm being so good for you." His stomach locked. His feet pressed into the mattress, his thighs rigid, his hand pumping under the sheet, fast, frantic, the cotton wet and clinging to his fist.
"Yeah yeah yeah, right there. You feel so good I-I can't… breathe. I can't—you're making me lo-lose my…ahh mind." His breath was coming apart now, ragged and open, his voice dissolving into sounds more than words.
He imagined her whispering his name against his neck, low, possessive, like it belonged to her. Imagined her saying "give it to me" in that voice that didn't ask.
"I'll give you everything," he whispered back to nobody. His voice barely holding. "Anything you want. I'm yours. Tell me I'm yours."
The pressure swallowed everything. Rolling up from the base of his spine, gathering behind his balls, his vision going white at the edges. He pulled the sheet tighter over himself on instinct, his hand a blur underneath the soaked cotton.
"Oh god yeah yeah, I'm cumming, I'm..." His bottom lip caught between his teeth, biting down hard enough that the skin
went white. His eyes rolled back, his lids fluttering, the veins in his neck rising to the surface as his head pressed into the headboard. His hand didn't stop. His hips kept pushing up into his fist and his mouth fell open again, his lip releasing red and swollen, and this hoarse broken voice came out of him that didn't even sound like his own..."it's coming, it's coming oh oh god it's... "
His whole body seized and his back lifted off the mattress, his mouth wrenching open as a moan tore out of him, raw and disgusting, bouncing off the walls of his empty bedroom, the kind of sound a man only lets himself make when nobody in the world can hear him. Under the sheet, his dick pulsed hard in his grip and he felt the first load hit his stomach fat and hot. Then another, and another, pumping out of him in waves, pooling on his skin, soaking through the sheet from underneath. His hand kept stroking through it, his cum coating his fingers, running warm down his dick, dripping onto his balls, his abs contracting with every spasm while his thighs shook so hard his knees knocked together. A continuous choked moan kept breaking out of his mouth, falling
apart into short gasps each time his body pulsed, until the sensitivity crossed over from pleasure into something sharper and his hips jerked away from his own hand and he finally let go with a shudder that ran from his scalp to the bottoms of his feet.
He laid there for a while. Head back against the headboard with his eyes closed, his chest going up and down, his hand resting on his thigh under the ruined sheet. The ceiling fan hummed above him. His body felt like liquid, like someone had drained every ounce of tension out through the base of his spine and left nothing behind but weight and warmth and quiet.
He opened his eyes and looked down at himself. Peeled the sheet off his stomach slowly and took in the mess underneath, his cum pooled in the crease of his abs, smeared across his stomach glistening in the lamplight, his hand still coated, his briefs soaked at the waistband, the fitted sheet beneath him damp. His face changed. His lips pressed together and he blinked at the ceiling and let out a short puff of air through his nose. That particular brand of embarrassment that only exists when there's nobody to be embarrassed for, and you feel it anyway.
He sat up carefully, peeled the sheet the rest of the way off, pulled his briefs down and kicked them off the end of the bed. He stripped the fitted sheet off the mattress, the flat sheet, the pillowcase. Balled the whole thing up and dropped it on the floor. Grabbed the spare set from the closet it was the blue ones and made the bed in the dim light with quick, practiced hands, tucking the corners, smoothing the wrinkles. Like nothing happened.
He picked up the magazine from where it had fallen and closed it without looking at the cover, sliding it back into the nightstand drawer underneath the mail and the TV Guide. Closed the drawer.
He walked to the bathroom with nothing on and turned the shower on, stepping under the water before it got warm, flinching when the cold hit his shoulders and then letting it have him. He washed himself with his eyes closed, thorough and unhurried, his hands moving over his own body with a gentleness he never seemed to know how to give himself
when the lights were on and people were watching.
He turned the water off, stepped out, grabbed the towel and dried himself, wrapping it around his waist. The mirror above the sink was fogged over completely — a solid white rectangle. He reached out and wiped it with his forearm, one slow stroke left to right.
His face appeared. Brown eyes, damp curls stuck to his forehead, water running down his neck into the chain at his collarbone. His lips slightly parted, still flushed. He looked at himself for a long time, not fixing anything, not performing, just searching his own reflection for something he couldn't quite name. The version of himself that existed before he opened that drawer. The one that kept it together. The one that didn't need this.
He couldn't find him. Wasn't sure he wanted to.
He turned off the light, walked back to his room and dropped the towel, pulled on fresh briefs and a clean t-shirt from the dresser, and got into the newly made bed. The sheets were cool and crisp and smelled like nothing.
He clicked the lamp off. Dark. The ceiling fan moving. The house empty and still. His heartbeat slow and even, his body loose and heavy and finally, finally quiet.
He fell asleep in under a minute.
----
I couldn't upload this properly on wattpad because of the new rules so here I am on Tumblr.
I'm terrible at writing shows, so don't expect much.
Synopsis Dalila goes on stage for the last time and Michael suffers from sexual frustration.
People who worked daily with Diana Ross always demonstrated the same reaction when they truly met Dalila. Even before encountering her, they expected someone demanding, impatient, and difficult to please.
After all, working alongside Diana meant dealing with a perfectionist artist, strong personality, and owner of a temperament that many described as intimidating.
Dalila, however, defied all those expectations.
Backstage, she was surprisingly kind. She greeted every crew member by name, thanked them for small gestures, made a point of listening to opinions, and treated everyone from musicians to assistants with the same courtesy. She never raised her voice and managed to be firm and resolve problems with calm, even when tight schedules put everyone under pressure.
She also had a fairly simple reason for acting this way: she desired to build a good reputation, not just as an artist, but as a person. In her opinion, kindness cost absolutely nothing. And one should never mistreat the people who worked to organize her career and manage her personal life—people who dedicated countless hours so that everything functioned perfectly.
Backstage, the atmosphere was one of pure anticipation. Technicians crossed the corridors carrying cables and instruments, makeup artists made last-minute touch-ups, costume designers adjusted every detail of the clothing, while producers checked the schedule one last time. The bustle was constant, but no one could hide the anxiety.
The newspapers had already dubbed that night "the Show of the Decade," and everyone felt the weight—and the privilege—of being part of that moment.
When the arena lights finally went out, an anxious silence took hold of the audience. Seconds later, the first chords echoed through the speakers, drawing an explosion of applause.
The opening was handled by Dalila and Diana, who appeared side by side on stage to perform "Where Is My Husband." The voices of the two intertwined with impressive harmony: Diana's experience and elegance met Dalila's power and brilliance, creating a performance loaded with emotion that captured the audience's attention from the first note.
On backing vocals, Jermaine and Prince completed the performance. Their voices added depth to the choruses, enriching the arrangements and giving even more strength to the duet. The result was a grand opening, worthy of the expectation created around the spectacle.
Even before the song ended, the audience was already on its feet, applauding and singing along. It was clear that this would not be just another performance. It would be a night destined to enter the history of music.
The most emotional moment of the night was when Dalila joined all of her Jacksons and they sang "I Want You Back" in a much longer number lasting five minutes that drove the audience wild.
The final number was sung by Dalila and Michael, where they performed a duet of "Until I Found You."
More than 100 million viewers across America were watching that moment that would be etched in the history of music.
That night would be remembered as Dalila Ross's farewell, who would soon become a Jackson.
The reunion of Jermaine with his brothers and one of the largest audiences in television history.
(. . .)
There was nothing that compared to the post-show adrenaline—the electric current that still coursed through his veins long after the final bow, leaving his skin hypersensitive and his blood boiling. Michael always became aroused after a performance; the euphoria of thousands of screaming fans, the physical exertion of dancing, the raw energy of being worshipped on stage—it all accumulated in his groin, leaving him hard, aching, and desperate for relief.
Tonight, the need was unbearable.
He had locked himself in his dressing room, breathless and trembling, still wearing the sweat-dampened shirt from his performance. His hand was already inside his pants before the door clicked shut, wrapping around his throbbing length with a groan that sounded more like pain than pleasure. He leaned against the mirror, watching his own reflection—cheeks flushed, pupils blown wide, lips parted—and imagined Dalila's voice, that smoky, sultry contralto that had haunted his dreams for months.
*Michael...*
He stroked himself furiously, thinking of her saying his name like that, breathless and wanting. It wasn't wrong.
They were getting married anyway. She would be his wife, her body his to worship, her pleasure his to give.
The thought alone—Dalila naked beneath him, Dalila moaning, Dalila *his*—pushed him over the edge embarrassingly fast. He came with a stifled cry against his own shoulder, spilling into his hand, but the relief was fleeting. Already, within minutes, he was hard again, insatiable, starving for the real thing.
Michael may or may not have seen his sister—who clearly had been doing sexual things—exiting a dressing room with Prince.
They made eye contact, and Michael looked away. It wasn't his business.
He already knew far too many details about his brothers' sexual exploits; he didn't need to add his twin sister and her famous lover to that mental catalog.
Photos were taken. A brief interview about the wedding—Are you nervous? Excited?—that he barely remembered answering. God, he could hardly wait to be a married man.
To have Dalila legally, morally, completely his. The license meant nothing compared to the vows, the ring, the promise of forever.
Honestly, he almost regretted insisting on a conventional wedding. He should have agreed with Dalila when she suggested they elope to Vegas, find some tacky chapel with an Elvis impersonator, and be done with it. The waiting was torture. The separation was torture. Every day that passed was another day he couldn't wake up with her, couldn't touch her without counting the hours until he had to leave again.
But social obligations chained him. He had to make an appearance at the post-show celebration with his brothers—smiling, toasting, pretending to care about their conversations while his entire body screamed for Dalila. She had escaped early, claiming some mandatory post-show beauty ritual that required hours of solitude and expensive creams. He didn't believe her for a second, but he envied her the excuse.
Thirty minutes. That was all he could endure—and it was the minimum required—thirty minutes of clinking glasses and forced laughter before fabricating some excuse about exhaustion, about needing to rest for tomorrow's rehearsal. The lies tasted bitter on his tongue, but the anticipation burning in his gut was sweeter.
Instead of leaving with Bill, who would take the usual route back to his own empty hotel room, Michael slipped into Roger's car—one of Dalila's security guards, the driver who knew, who had been briefed, who would take him to his fiancée's apartment across town.
Bill would transport some associate to the hotel, maintain the illusion, cover his tracks.
As the car pulled away from the venue, Michael pressed his forehead against the cool window, eyes closed, heart hammering against his ribs.
Three months. Ninety-two days. Two thousand, two hundred and eight hours since he had truly touched her.
They arrived at the building and Michael took a private route up to Dalila's apartment floor, and the entire time Roger was ensuring that no one saw him.
Once he arrived, he didn't go straight to the bedroom but went to take a shower to wash away the impurities from his body.
Afterward, he put on a robe and headed toward the bedroom.
Upon entering, he saw Dalila sitting on the bed, already waiting for him with open arms.
In the next chapter we'll have Diana's point of view, and finally we'll have Dalila and Michael's wedding, and this chapter is among my favorites.
He spent his life believing he would never be loved for who he truly was.
Penelope never imagined she would be given a second chance.
In her first life, she was born into a world where there was only one man for every thirty women.
Marriage was a political arrangement, and a loving marriage was a luxury only a few women could ever hope to have.
To be chosen for love belonged only in fairy tales and movies.
She became a second wife while still very young, experienced motherhood, struggled with postpartum depression, and died at the age of twenty-two while giving birth to her youngest child.
Her final farewell was spent holding her sister's hand
She died without regrets, knowing her children would be loved and cared for.
When she opened her eyes again, everything had changed.
Now she was living in a world where women could marry for love. Everything seemed perfect, and Penelope was determined to embrace the new life she had been given.
They meet in the late 1970s, at a time when both believe love has slipped away from them forever. Michael has just accepted that the woman he loves will never return his feelings. Penelope discovers that the man she had fallen in love with never intended to love her at all—and that he was actually in love with her brother.
Out of heartbreak, an unexpected friendship is born.
Little by little, that friendship becomes the safest place either of them has ever known.
With Penelope, Michael can laugh, make mistakes, and forget the weight of the world for a little while. For the first time, he feels truly seen for the man he is, rather than the superstar everyone expects him to be.<br />
By Michael's side, Penelope discovers something she had never experienced in her previous life: being loved without having to compete, prove her worth, or beg for someone's affection.
She never feels jealous of the thousands of fans who adore him. On the contrary, she finds it impossible to blame them.
"How could anyone not fall in love with you?"
Her honesty catches Michael off guard every single time. Her unusual perspective on the world turns awkward moments into unforgettable memories, and before he realizes it, he finds himself falling more deeply in love with the woman who makes him forget fame ever existed.But for Penelope, one moment surpasses them all.
The marriage proposal.
In her first life, she was chosen out of convenience.
For political alliances.
Out of necessity.
In this life...
Michael chooses her because he loves her.
And when he asks her to spend the rest of her life with him, Penelope realizes that her simple "yes" heals a wound she has carried across two lifetimes.
Preface
Penelope's apartment in New York had already become a second home for Michael.
Neither of them felt the need to fill the silence with conversation. Simply being together was enough.
On the television, Star Wars was playing once again. In theory, they were watching the movie. In reality, neither of them was paying much attention.
Penelope sat cross-legged on the couch, carefully sewing small fabric stars onto the sleeve of a denim jacket.
The work required precision, and every now and then she bit the tip of her tongue in concentration.
Beside her, Michael stared at the television with a distant expression.
She knew that look.
It was always the same.
Whenever Michael stared off into space like that, there were only two possibilities.
Either he was mentally composing a new song...
...or he was thinking about one he had already written and convincing himself it was terrible.
Penelope would never understand that logic.
It was an incredibly frustrating trait shared by geniuses.
They could create something capable of moving thousands of people, and five minutes later decide it was complete garbage.
Many musicians would have gladly given up their favorite guitar just to write a single melody that Michael considered "just okay."
Prince was exactly the same.
Both of them were brilliant.
And equally dramatic.
She smiled to herself as she sewed another star.
Then Michael finally spoke.
"Pen..."
She looked up from the jacket.
"Hm?"
He seemed... nervous.
"Would you... like to go out with me?"
Penelope blinked.
"Go out how?"
Michael made a vague gesture with his hand.
"Like... on a date."
She raised an eyebrow.
"Okay... I'm going to need more information."
He frowned.
"More information?"
"Yes." She pointed the needle at him as if she were questioning a witness. "Is this a friends' date? Because we already do that all the time."
Michael opened his mouth...
...then closed it again.
She continued, completely serious.
"Or are you asking me on the kind of date where, by the end of the evening, I get promoted to girlfriend?"
Michael froze.
The silence lasted so long that Penelope began to wonder if she had made a bad joke.
Finally, he took a deep breath.
"The second option."
Silence.
Now it was Penelope's turn to stop functioning.
She blinked once.
Then again.
She looked at Michael.
Then at the television.
Luke Skywalker was fighting Darth Vader.
That somehow made more sense than the conversation they had just had.
She turned back to Michael.
"Wait..."
Another silence.
"Are you... serious?"
"I am, Penelope. I really want you to be my girlfriend."
"I accept. I'll be your girlfriend," she said.
Michael looked genuinely surprised before letting out a laugh.
"Marlon was right."
"What?"
"It's actually easy to ask a girl to be your girlfriend."
Next chapter
In the next chapters we will get a glimpse into Penelope's life and how she met Michael Jackson.
And maybe we'll talk about how it's unhealthy to put people on a pedestal and about Michael's very strange relationship with Diana.
If you want to be tagged, comment on the main post.
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He spent his life believing he would never be loved for who he truly was.
Penelope never imagined she would be given a second chance.
In her first life, she was born into a world where there was only one man for every thirty women.
Marriage was a political arrangement, and a loving marriage was a luxury only a few women could ever hope to have.
To be chosen for love belonged only in fairy tales and movies.
She became a second wife while still very young, experienced motherhood, struggled with postpartum depression, and died at the age of twenty-two while giving birth to her youngest child.
Her final farewell was spent holding her sister's hand.
She died without regrets, knowing her children would be loved and cared for.
When she opened her eyes again, everything had changed.
Now she was living in a world where women could marry for love. Everything seemed perfect, and Penelope was determined to embrace the new life she had been given.
They meet in the late 1970s, at a time when both believe love has slipped away from them forever. Michael has just accepted that the woman he loves will never return his feelings. Penelope discovers that the man she had fallen in love with never intended to love her at all—and that he was actually in love with her brother.
Out of heartbreak, an unexpected friendship is born.
Little by little, that friendship becomes the safest place either of them has ever known.
With Penelope, Michael can laugh, make mistakes, and forget the weight of the world for a little while. For the first time, he feels truly seen for the man he is, rather than the superstar everyone expects him to be.
By Michael's side, Penelope discovers something she had never experienced in her previous life: being loved without having to compete, prove her worth, or beg for someone's affection.
She never feels jealous of the thousands of fans who adore him. On the contrary, she finds it impossible to blame them.
"How could anyone not fall in love with you?"
Her honesty catches Michael off guard every single time. Her unusual perspective on the world turns awkward moments into unforgettable memories, and before he realizes it, he finds himself falling more deeply in love with the woman who makes him forget fame ever existed.
But for Penelope, one moment surpasses them all.
The marriage proposal.
In her first life, she was chosen out of convenience.
For political alliances.
Out of necessity.
In this life...
Michael chooses her because he loves her.
And when he asks her to spend the rest of her life with him, Penelope realizes that her simple "yes" heals a wound she has carried across two lifetimes.
𓊆❤︎︎𓊇 : after your car breaks down, the nice farmerboy nearby gives you a roof over your head for the night. However, you aren't aware of the cowboy hat rule.
𓊈❤︎︎𓊉 : farmer/cowboy michael. chubby/curvy reader. and michael likes that veeeeery muchhhh. reader gets lost. reader doesn't know about the cowboy hat rule. michael is a gentleman. he is also very smitten. embarrassed michael & embarrassed reader. cowgirl. reverse cowgirl. doggy. ass slapping. michael calls you 'sugar'. unprotected sex. creampie. michael is a sweetheart. p in v. pussy eating. lots of praise. pussy drunk. filthy dirty talk. michael loves your ass. lots of nicknames. 𓏽 ♫ 𝟏𝟓.𝟗𝓀
𓊆ྀི❤︎𓊇ྀི : oh my god this is so long... and i fear i got a little too carried away at the smut part.
𝓂asterlist || 𝒾ntro || 𝓃avigation
You'd been driving for what felt like hours.
The sun had disappeared not too long ago, leaving the country roads illuminated by little more than your headlights and the occasional glow of the moon overhead. The journey had started pleasantly enough. There was something oddly calming about being alone with your thoughts, watching the scenery change from busy highways to endless fields and quiet back roads. You hadn't minded the drive at all. In fact, for most of it, you'd been singing along to the radio without a care in the world, drumming your fingers against the steering wheel whenever a favourite song came on and laughing to yourself whenever you forgot half the lyrics. There was nobody around to hear you, after all, and that somehow made it even more enjoyable.
Eventually, though, the music faded into bursts of static as you drove further into the countryside. You twisted the dial a few times in search of another station, but every attempt was met with the same crackling interference. With a small sigh, you admitted defeat and switched the radio off altogether.
"Well... that's just rude," you muttered to yourself with a small smile.
The silence settled around you almost immediately.
It wasn't unpleasant, but it did give your mind far too much room to wander. You found yourself thinking about how much longer you had left to drive, whether the little town marked on your map was actually as close as it claimed to be, and if it would still have somewhere open by the time you arrived. You were beginning to regret not stopping at the last gas station you'd passed nearly an hour ago—not because you needed fuel, but because at least there had been people there. Out here, there was nothing but open land stretching endlessly in either direction.
You glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It was later than you'd realized. 'If I'd known this road was gonna take forever...' you sighed, shaking your head. Almost as though the car had taken your complaint personally, it gave a small shudder beneath you. Your eyebrows drew together.
"...Huh."
You loosened your grip on the steering wheel for a second before tightening it again, listening carefully. The engine continued to hum as it always had, and after another few seconds you convinced yourself it had probably just been a bump in the road.
Then it happened again. This time there was no mistaking it.
A strange sputter echoed from somewhere beneath the bonnet, followed by a brief hesitation that caused the car to jerk ever so slightly before carrying on.
"Oh, no..."
You instinctively looked down at the dashboard, your eyes darting between the gauges as though one of them might explain what was happening. Everything seemed... normal enough. Nothing immediately jumped out at you.
"C'mon," you murmured a little desperately, giving the steering wheel an encouraging little pat. "Don't start acting up now..."
You pressed your foot a little more firmly against the accelerator. The car responded. For all of thirty seconds. Then the engine coughed again, louder this time.
Your stomach sank.
"No, no, no..."
Your gaze immediately searched the road ahead. Nothing. You checked your rear-view mirror. Still nothing.
Not a single pair of headlights. Not another car. Not even a farmhouse with a porch light glowing in the distance. The realization settled over you far quicker than you'd have liked.
If something happened to the car out here, you were completely on your own.
"...Okay," you whispered to yourself, taking a slow breath. "Think."
You reached across to the passenger seat and rummaged through your bag, eventually pulling out the folded road map you'd been relying on all afternoon. You unfolded it across the steering wheel, smoothing out the stubborn creases with your palm as your eyes searched for where you thought you might be. You thought.
There was one problem.
Every winding road on the page suddenly looked identical beneath the dim glow of the dashboard lights. With a quiet huff, you folded it back up again, and tossed it onto the passenger seat. Maybe you could flag somebody down.
The thought barely had time to settle before you looked through the windshield again. There wasn't anybody to flag down. Not a single passing car.
You chewed thoughtfully on the inside of your cheek before reaching for the door handle.
The night air greeted you immediately, warm but noticeably cooler than it had been during the day. It carried the scent of grass and fresh earth, accompanied by the constant chorus of crickets hidden somewhere amongst the fields. Closing the car door behind you, you wrapped your arms loosely around yourself and looked up and down the road once more, almost hoping that standing outside would somehow make another driver magically appear.
No such luck.
With a defeated sigh, you walked around to the front of the car and released the bonnet latch from inside. A moment later, you lifted it open, propping it up as you stared into the engine. You had absolutely no idea what you were looking at.
There were... engine things. Hoses. Metal. More hoses.
You blinked.
"...Yep."
You couldn't help but laugh quietly to yourself. It was either laugh or cry, and crying wasn't likely to get the engine running again.
Resting your hands on the edge of the bonnet, you let out a long breath and looked across the dark fields surrounding you. They seemed endless beneath the moonlight, interrupted only by the occasional line of fencing disappearing over the hills.
Beautiful.
Just not somewhere you'd particularly wanted to spend your evening. You wondered briefly how long it'd be before somebody happened to drive this way.
Ten minutes? An hour? Morning?
The last possibility made you straighten slightly.
Morning.
You looked back towards the car, then down the empty road stretching out in front of you. No. Surely not.
You weren't going to spend the entire night sitting on the side of some unfamiliar country road waiting for daylight. There had to be another option. There was always another option. At least, that was what you told yourself.
You lowered the bonnet again and walked back around to the driver's side, opening the door and reaching inside for your bag. Your first thought was your phone, even though you already knew what you were going to find. You picked it up anyway, pressing the button and waiting for the screen to light up.
No signal.
You stared at it for a moment longer than necessary, as though the little bars in the corner might suddenly appear out of pity. They didn't.
You let out a quiet sigh of defeat and lowered the phone into your lap.
It was strange how quickly a situation could change. Less than an hour ago, you had been enjoying the drive, singing along to the radio and thinking about how peaceful the countryside was. Now you were sitting in a car that refused to start, in the middle of nowhere, trying to figure out what your next move was.
You weren't someone who scared easily. Usually, when something went wrong, you were the person who tried to stay calm and find a solution. Panicking never helped anything, and you knew that. But there was something unsettling about not knowing what came next.
You didn't know how far away the nearest person was. You didn't know if anyone would even pass by. You didn't know if your car was dealing with a small problem that could be fixed in the morning or something much worse. The uncertainty was what bothered you the most.
You rested your head back against the seat, closing your eyes for a moment.
"Okay," you whispered again, mostly to yourself. "Don't panic."
Taking a deep breath, you opened your eyes and looked around the car. There was a small blanket folded in the backseat, a half-empty bottle of water, and a few snacks you'd bought earlier without thinking much about them. Not exactly enough supplies to spend a night stranded, but enough to make you feel slightly less helpless.
You reached for the blanket, placing it beside you, before looking back out through the windshield. You glanced at the road once more, wondering if you should try walking.
Maybe there was a house nearby that you hadn't noticed. Maybe someone would answer the door and let you use their phone.
But the thought of leaving your car behind made you hesitate.
What if someone came by and moved it? What if you walked in the wrong direction? What if the nearest house was much further away than it looked?
You hated admitting it, but you didn't actually know what to do.
For a few minutes, you simply stood there beside the open car door, listening to the sounds around you. The quiet hum of the night. The wind moving through the grass. The distant sound of something you couldn't identify somewhere far out in the fields.
Then, just as you were beginning to accept that you might have to wait it out...
You heard something. At first, you thought it was your imagination. A faint sound in the distance. You held still, listening carefully.
There it was again.
An engine.
Your eyes immediately lifted towards the road.
For a second, you weren't sure if you should feel relieved or cautious.
A pair of headlights appeared in the distance, slowly making their way towards you. The sight of them made your shoulders relax before you even realised how tense you had been.
Someone was coming.
You stepped away from the car slightly, watching as the vehicle approached. The headlights grew brighter, illuminating the empty road in front of it as the sound of the engine became louder.
It was an old pickup truck.
And although you were grateful that someone had finally come along, you couldn't ignore the small voice in the back of your mind reminding you that whoever was driving was still a stranger.
So you stayed where you were, waiting.
The truck slowed as it reached you, eventually pulling over a short distance ahead of your car.
The engine remained running for a moment.
Then the driver's door opened slowly, and for a moment all you could see was the silhouette of the person stepping out against the glow of the headlights behind him.
He wasn't what you had expected.
You weren't entirely sure what you had expected, truthfully. Maybe some tired-looking mechanic who had happened to come across you on his way home, or perhaps someone who would immediately ask what was wrong with the car before anything else.
A cowboy hat rested on his head, casting a shadow over his features, and he wore a simple button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up slightly, paired with worn jeans and boots that looked like they had seen plenty of long days outside. There was nothing particularly intimidating about him. If anything, the way he approached you was careful and considerate.
A flashlight hung loosely in one hand, though he kept it pointed towards the ground rather than directly at you. He stopped a few feet away from you, leaving enough distance between you that you didn't feel cornered.
"Evenin'," he greeted. His voice was softer than you expected.
You gave him a small nod.
"Hello."
His eyes briefly moved towards your car, taking in the open bonnet before looking back at you.
"Everythin' alright?"
There was genuine curiosity in the question. You let out a small breath, almost embarrassed by the situation. "Uh, no, not really—my car. It decided to just stop working..."
He glanced back at it again.
"Out here?"
You nodded.
"Apparently."
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Well..." he murmured, adjusting the brim of his hat. "'s probably about the worst place she could've picked." Despite yourself, you smiled slightly.
"Yeah. I was thinking the same thing."
The man seemed to relax a little when he saw you smile. He looked back towards the truck, then towards the road behind you.
"Been waitin' long?"
"Nah, not too long," you answered. He gave you a look that suggested he didn't quite believe you. A quiet chuckle left him.
"Right."
He took a step closer to the car, but stopped before reaching you.
"Name's Michael, by the way."
He removed his hat as he spoke, holding it against his side. It was such a simple gesture, but it immediately stood out to you. Like he had been raised to treat every introduction with a certain amount of respect. "'m sorry. I should've said that first."
You shook your head, "'s okay."
He smiled softly.
"Well, I'm Michael."
He paused, waiting for you to introduce yourself. When you did, he repeated your name quietly, committing it to memory.
"'s a pretty name for a pretty girl."
The words came out naturally. Almost as if he hadn't realized he'd said it aloud until after he had. You just blinked at him, taken aback by the bluntness. A faint blush appeared on his face, and he cleared his throat before looking back towards the car.
"Mind 'f I take a look at it, suga'?"
The nickname caught you slightly off guard as well. But this time not because it felt inappropriate. Quite the opposite. The way he said it was so gentle, so naturally warm, that it felt less like flirting and more like a habit. Something he'd probably been saying his whole life.
You nodded. "uh, yeah sure. Go ahead."
"Alright."
He moved towards the front of the car, rolling his sleeves up a little further as he looked beneath the bonnet. You watched him for a moment.
There was a sense of relief that came with seeing someone who actually seemed to know what they were doing. You had tried your best, but staring at an engine and hoping it would explain itself had only gotten you so far. At least now there was someone who could take a proper look.
Michael leaned over the front of the car, his flashlight moving carefully over the different parts beneath the bonnet. Every now and then he hummed quietly to himself, not in frustration, but more like he was thinking through what he was seeing. You rested against the side of the car, watching him.
"Do you know much about cars?" you asked after a moment. He glanced up briefly.
"A little," he admitted. "Spent 'nough time fixin' up old trucks 'nd farm equipment that y' kinda pick things up whether y' want to or not."
There was a small smile on his face as he looked back down. "Can't say I ever planned on spendin' my evenings under a bonnet, though."
You smiled slightly too. "Sounds like you've had a lot of practice."
"More than I'd like," he chuckled softly. "Somethin' always needs fixin' when y' live out here." He moved something beneath the bonnet, checking a few different parts before stepping back slightly.
"How long has she been actin' up?"
You thought back. "Honestly? Not long. My car was fine most of the drive. The radio started cutting out first, and then itstarted making that weird sound." Michael nodded slowly.
"Mm."
That little sound made you look at him. "Is that a good 'mm' or a bad 'mm'?"
A quiet laugh escaped him.
"I'd say it's somewhere 'n the middle."
"That's not exactly reassuring."
"Nah, I know," he said, smiling. "Sorry, suga'."
There it was again. The nickname. You still hadn't quite gotten used to it. And if you were honest, it does make you blush a little.
Michael leaned back down, examining something near the engine.
"She ain't overheatin', is she?"
"No. The temperature looked normal."
"Strange smells?"
"No."
"Any noises before this?"
You thought for a second. "Just the sputtering."
He nodded again.
"Alright."
There was a brief silence as he continued checking over the car. You noticed that he wasn't rushing. He wasn't randomly pulling things apart or pretending to know exactly what was wrong. He was actually taking his time, trying to figure it out.
"Y' from 'round here?" he asked after a moment.
You shook your head.
"No. Just passing through."
"Thought so." You raised an eyebrow.
"What gave it away?"
He looked up, a small smile appearing.
"Well, folks 'round here know better than to take this road after dark unless they gotta."
You laughed quietly. "Good to know."
"Didn't mean it like that," he quickly added, almost as if he worried he had offended you. "Just... this road's pretty empty. Easy to get stranded."
"I figured that out."
That earned a small laugh from him.
"Yeah, I reckon you did."
He returned his attention to the engine, and for a while the only sounds were the night around you and the quiet movements of him working. It was odd.
A few minutes ago, you had been completely alone, wondering how long you would have to wait before anyone came by. Now you were standing beside a stranger's truck on the side of the road, and somehow the situation felt much less overwhelming.
After another few minutes of looking over everything, Michael finally straightened up, wiping his hands together as he stepped back from the engine.
You watched his expression carefully, trying to figure out whether he had good news or bad news before he even spoke. Unfortunately, his face didn't give much away.
"Well..." he started.
You waited hopefully. He looked back at the car, then at you.
"Don't think she's gonna be drivin' anywhere tonight."
You let out a quiet breath, though you weren't entirely surprised. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you'd already accepted that possibility.
"That bad?"
"No, I wouldn't say bad," he assured you quickly. "Just... ain't somethin' I can fix out here with what I got."
He reached down, closing the bonnet carefully.
"Looks like it's probably somethin' with the engine. Could be a few things, but I don't wanna start guessin' 'nd make it worse."
You nodded, appreciating that he didn't pretend to know more than he did. "So what does that mean?"
Michael glanced down the road, then back at you.
"Means y' probably need a mechanic."
You gave him a small, humorless laugh, "that would be easier 'f I only knew where one was."
"Closest one?"
You nodded.
"Yeah."
He was quiet for a moment.
"About thirty-five, forty miles."
Your eyebrows lifted. "You're kidding..."
"Wish I was."
You looked back at your car, then at the empty road ahead. That was definitely not the answer you were hoping for. Michael noticed the expression on your face and immediately softened.
"Hey."
You looked back at him.
"Don't worry. We'll figure somethin' out."
The way he said it was simple. Not like a promise that he could fix everything, but like a reminder that you weren't stuck dealing with it by yourself anymore. You nodded slowly.
"Thank you for stopping, by the way." He looked almost surprised by the gratitude.
"'Course."
"No, I mean it. You didn't have to..."
Michael shook his head slightly, putting his hat back on.
"Yeah, I did."
The answer came so naturally that you almost didn't know how to respond. He seemed to realize how certain he sounded and gave a small shrug.
"I mean... anybody would've stopped."
You both knew that probably wasn't entirely true. But you didn't point it out. Instead, you smiled a little.
"So what now?"
Michael looked back towards his truck.
"Well..."
He hesitated. And for the first time since he'd arrived, you noticed a little uncertainty in him.
"I got a place not too far from here," he explained. "Jus' a few minutes down the road."
You listened quietly.
"My mama raised me better than to leave somebody stranded out here overnight." A small smile appeared on his face.
"Especially not a lady."
The words made you smile slightly.
"Your mom sounds like a good woman."
"She is."
There was a warmth in his voice when he said it that made it clear there was no hesitation behind the statement.Michael looked back towards the road.
"You got somewhere y' supposed t' be tonight?"
You shook your head.
"Not really. I was just trying to get to the next town."
He nodded.
"Alright."
Another pause. Then he looked at you.
"Now, I know we're strangers, and I don't wanna make you uncomfortable, but..." He adjusted the brim of his hat, almost nervously.
"My place is right nearby. Got a spare room. You could use the phone, get yourself somethin' warm to eat, 'nd figure out what you wanna do in the mornin'."
He quickly continued before you could answer.
"Only if you're comfortable with that, of course. Don't want you thinkin' I'm just some fella offerin' up his house to a woman he just met."
A small laugh escaped you. "I wasn't thinking that."
"Good," he said, smiling faintly. "Just wanted t' make sure."
You looked down the empty road again.
Normally, you wouldn't consider accepting an invitation from a stranger. You knew better than that. But there was something about the way Michael carried himself, the way he had gone out of his way to make sure you felt comfortable, that made the idea seem less frightening. And besides...
You weren't exactly overflowing with better options. You looked back at him.
"How far is it?"
Michael smiled slightly.
"Not far. Five minutes."
You considered it for another moment before nodding.
"Okay."
His expression softened with relief.
"Alright."
He stepped back towards his truck.
"Go ahead 'nd grab whatever you need from your car. I'll give you a hand."
You opened the driver's door, reaching inside for your bag and the few things you'd need for the night. As you did, you couldn't help but glance back at him. Michael was standing beside his pickup, waiting patiently.
The drive to Michael's place was quiet at first. Not uncomfortable, just quiet.
You sat in the passenger seat of his truck, your bag resting beside your feet as you looked out the window at the fields passing by. It was strangely peaceful.
Michael kept both hands on the steering wheel, his attention mostly focused on the road ahead. Every now and then, though, he would glance over briefly, just to make sure you were alright. He tried not to make it obvious. He really did.
But now that you were sitting closer to him, it was a little harder to ignore.
When he had first stepped out of his truck, the darkness and distance had made it difficult to see much about him. Now, under the soft glow of the dashboard lights, he could see you properly. And he thought you were beautiful. Such a pretty girl.
Not just in the way people usually meant when they said something like that. It wasn't only your appearance, though he couldn't deny that you were very pretty. There was something about the way you carried yourself. The way you had tried to stay calm despite being stranded. The way you had thanked him more than once, even though he hadn't done anything extraordinary in his mind. You seemed kind.
And Michael liked kind.
He quickly looked back at the road when he realized he had been staring for a second too long.
"Everything alright?" you asked. His eyes flickered back towards you.
"Yeah," he said quickly. "Yeah, 'm alright."
You smiled slightly, though you weren't entirely convinced.
"You sure?"
He gave a small nod.
"Just thinkin'."
You looked back out the window.
"About my car?"
"That too."
There was a brief pause. Then, with a small smile, he added, "Mostly thinkin' about what I'm gonna do with it tomorrow."
You laughed softly, "I appreciate you taking this seriously."
"'Course."
The answer came easily. You looked at him for a moment. The same thing happened to you then. Up until now, you had mostly been focused on the fact that he was helping you. You had noticed his kindness, his manners, the way he spoke so gently. But sitting beside him like this, you had the chance to actually look at him. And you had to admit...
Michael was very handsome.
Not in an obvious, overly confident way. There was something softer about him. His features were gentle, his eyes kind, and there was an almost boyish quality to his smile that made him seem younger than you initially expected. You found yourself looking away when he glanced in your direction, suddenly aware that you had been staring.
"You always help strangers on the side of the road?" you asked, mostly to distract yourself. Michael just smiled.
"Not always."
You raised an eyebrow.
"No?"
"Nah."
You looked at him.
"Then why me?"
He thought about it for a moment before answering.
"'cause y' looked like y' needed help."
It was such a simple answer. You smiled softly.
"That's a pretty good reason."
Michael shrugged lightly.
"Seems like the right thing to do."
The truck continued down the road, the silence returning for a moment. Michael glanced over again when he thought you weren't looking. And this time, you noticed. You didn't say anything. You just smiled quietly to yourself and turned your attention back towards the window.
Usually, sitting in a stranger's car would have felt strange. You probably would've found yourself searching for something to say, filling every quiet moment just to avoid the unfamiliarity of it all. But with Michael, the silence seemed easy. Every now and then, he would ask you something small. Where you were headed. How far you'd been driving. Nothing too personal. And every time you answered, he listened.
"So," he said after a moment, one hand resting comfortably on the steering wheel, "what made you take this road anyway?"
You looked over at him.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, like I said before, most folks 'round here know better than t' take this way at night unless they live nearby."
You smiled slightly.
"That your way of saying I made a bad decision?"
He let out a quiet laugh.
"No, no. Ain't sayin' that." His eyes briefly flickered towards you before returning to the road.
"Just curious."
You looked back out the window. "I was trying to get somewhere faster."
Michael nodded.
"That usually ends up bein' how it goes."
"What does?"
"People tryin' to save time and endin' up takin' the longer way."
You laughed softly, "are you speaking from experience?"
He smiled.
"Maybe."
"You've done that before?"
"Maybe."
You smiled at that.
"Do you live alone?" you asked. The question came out naturally, though you immediately wondered if it was too personal. Michael didn't seem to mind it though.
"Nah," he answered. "My family lives close by."
"Oh."
He nodded.
"I've got my own place, but we're all still pretty close." There was a warmth in his voice when he spoke about them. You smiled.
"That sounds nice."
"It is."
The warmth inside the truck slowly became more noticeable as the drive continued.
At first, you hadn't minded it. After standing outside in the cool night air for so long, the heat had actually been comforting. But sitting beneath the soft glow of the dashboard lights with the windows rolled up, you started to feel a little too warm. You shifted in your seat, pulling lightly at the sleeves of your thin jacket.
Michael noticed the movement out of the corner of his eye.
"You alright?"
You looked over.
"Yeah, I'm fine. Just getting a little warm." He nodded, immediately turning his attention back to the road.
"Can turn the air up if ya need."
You smiled slightly.
"I think I'll survive."
"Alright. Just makin' sure suga''."
You shook your head amused. After another moment, you slipped the jacket off your shoulders, relieved to finally get rid of the extra layer of warmth. You folded it loosely and tossed it onto the passenger seat beside your bag, revealing the simple black tank top you had been wearing underneath.
The fabric is soft and clings to your curves, hugging your chest and stomach in a way that feels liberating despite the unfamiliar company.
The sudden movement draws Michael's attention. As you settle back into the seat, adjusting your position to find some relief from the heat, the low neckline of the tank top dips lower. Your breasts, full and soft, press against the dark fabric, creating a deep, inviting cleavage that catches the dim glow of the dashboard lights.
Michael's grip tightens fractionally on the steering wheel. His eyes betray him for a split second, flickering downward toward the swell of your chest before he forces them back to the road ahead. He swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in the shadows. "Yeah..." he manages to rasp out, his voice sounding slightly rougher than it did moments before. "Could be gettin' warmer."
You notice the slight shift in his demeanor, the way his breathing seems to catch for a heartbeat, but you attribute it to the heat as well. "Mhm, it sure is."
You stretch your arms above your head, feeling the fabric of the tank top pull across your torso, emphasizing the soft swell of your hips and the generous curve of your waist.
Michael keeps his gaze fixed forward, but his jaw is set tight. He's hyper aware of your presence beside him now. He was fighting every inch of himself to not look over again. He did not want to come across as a creep and scare you off.
He just wasn't used to this.
Not the feeling itself, exactly. Michael had always appreciated beauty. He noticed it in people, in nature, in music. But there was something different about having someone sitting right beside him, someone whose presence he was becoming increasingly aware of.
And he didn't want to make you uncomfortable.
"So..." you said after a moment, breaking the quiet. Michael glanced over.
"Hm?"
"You said you live on a farm?"
He smiled.
"Yeah."
"Do you actually do all the farm stuff yourself?"
He chuckled, "Some of it. Ain't exactly easy work, but I like it."
"You don't get tired of it?"
He thought about it.
"Sometimes."
You laughed. "At least you're honest."
"Well, 'm not gonna lie 'nd say I wake up every mornin' excited to fix fences."
That made you laugh.
"But most days?"
"Most days, yeah."
You looked out at the passing fields again.
"I think I'd like that."
"Farm life?"
"Maybe. It seems peaceful."
Michaels face softened.
"It can be."
He paused.
"But it can also be a lot of work."
"I believe that."
Another quiet moment passed. Then Michael spoke again, his voice a little softer.
"You'll get to see it soon."
You looked back at him.
"The farm?"
He nodded.
"Yeah."
A small smile appeared on his face.
few minutes later, the glow of the headlights caught the outline of a house in the distance. You looked out the window as Michael turned the truck onto a gravel driveway, the tires crunching softly beneath you. The house wasn't anything extravagant, and honestly, you hadn't expected it to be. It was a simple farmhouse with a porch light glowing warmly near the front door, surrounded by open land that stretched out into the darkness. It looked comfortable. Lived in. Like a place where someone had spent years building a quiet life.
"This is it," Michael said, slowing the truck as he pulled closer to the house. You looked around, taking it in for a moment.
"It's nice."
Michael glanced over briefly, a boyish smile appearing on his face.
"Yeah. 's my home."
He parked the truck and turned off the engine, leaving the two of you sitting in the sudden quiet for a moment. Without the sound of the road beneath you, the night seemed even calmer. You could hear the faint sounds of the countryside around you—the wind moving through the fields, the occasional noise of an animal somewhere in the distance.
Michael reached for his keys before stepping out of the truck. You followed a moment later, grabbing your bag from the seat, though before you could properly lift it, Michael was already reaching for it.
"I got it." You looked at him.
"You really don't have to carry my things."
He looked almost confused by the statement.
"I know."
The simple answer made you smile a little. He wasn't doing it because he thought you couldn't handle it. He wasn't trying to make a point. It was just something he did without thinking. As you walked towards the house, Michael glanced over at you.
"Hope y' don't mind stayin' here tonight."
You shook your head. "Are you kidding? I'm just happy I don't have to figure out how to sleep in my car."
That earned a quiet laugh from him.
"Yeah, figured that probably wasn't the best option."
"No," you agreed. "Definitely not ideal."
Michael smiled slightly as he unlocked the front door.
"I got a spare room y' can use," he explained as he opened it. "'s nothin' fancy, but it's clean. There's fresh towels in there, 'nd y' can use whatever y' need. Bathroom's just down the hall."
You stepped inside, looking around as he switched on the lights.
The house felt exactly like you imagined it would. Not in a stereotypical way, but in a comfortable one. There were little signs of everyday life everywhere. A few things placed where they were actually used, furniture that looked like it had been there for years.
"Michael, this is already more than enough," you said. He looked back at you.
"Don't worry about it."
The way he said it was gentle, like he didn't want you feeling like an inconvenience. You followed him down the hallway as he showed you the room.
"I know this is probably a little strange," he admitted. "Comin' all the way out here 'nd endin' up at a stranger's place."
You tilted your head slightly.
"A little."
He nodded, almost expecting that answer.
"But I promise I ain't gonna make you regret it."
The words came out before he seemed to realize how serious they sounded. His cheeks warmed slightly, and he quickly looked away, adjusting the brim of his hat.
"I mean..." he added, a little awkwardly, "you know what I mean."
You couldn't help but giggle. "I do."
He seemed relieved. When he reached the spare room, he opened the door and stepped aside so you could see inside. It was simple, but comfortable. A neatly made bed, a small dresser, and enough space for your things. Nothing luxurious, but after spending the last hour wondering if you'd be sleeping in your car, it felt more than enough.
"Y' can put your bag there," Michael said, pointing towards the dresser. "'nd if you need anything, just call out."
You nodded.
"Thank you, Michael. Really."
He flashed you a smile.
"You're welcome."
There was a brief pause before he added, softer, "Make yourself at home, suga'."
After making sure you had everything you needed, Michael lingered for only a moment longer.
"Alright," he said softly. "I'll let you get some rest."
You nodded, suddenly realizing just how tired you actually were. The adrenaline from your car breaking down had kept you awake, but now that you were somewhere safe, the exhaustion was finally catching up with you. "Thank you again, Michael."
He smiled, shaking his head slightly. "You've thanked me enough times already."
"Still."
"Well... you're welcome." He stepped back towards the doorway, pulling his hat down slightly as he prepared to leave.
"'f y' need anythin', 'm right down the hall." You nodded. "I will."
"Alright, suga'. Goodnight."
"Goodnight, Michael." He gave you one last small smile before quietly closing the door behind him. The moment you were alone, you let out a long breath and looked around the room.
A few hours ago, you had been driving alone, singing along to the radio and thinking about nothing more than getting to your destination. Then your car broke down, a stranger found you, and now you were standing in a spare bedroom on a farm you hadn't even known existed.
You weren't sure how you felt about it all yet. But you were tired. Very tired. You pulled your phone from your bag and checked it again, though you already knew there still wasn't any signal. At least you had downloaded a few songs before the trip, so you wouldn't have to spend the night in complete silence.
You grabbed your earbuds, putting on a familiar playlist. The soft music filled the quiet room, giving you something familiar in a place that was still completely new.
The music through your earbuds helps block out the silence of the house as you move around the small room. You feel a little sticky from the drive and the humidity, so you decide to get out of your clothes before getting into bed.
You reached for the hem of your black tank top, pulling it over your head and setting it aside. You kick your by now uncomfortable pants off, leaving them in a heap on the floor.
You figured you were just going to sleep in your undergarments today, as the jeans and the tank top where a little too uncomfortable right now. For a moment you just stood there in the room, only wearing your matching black lace bra and panties, feeling the cool air from the room finally hit your skin.
Down the hall, Michael walked past the spare room with your thin jacket folded neatly over one arm.
He had noticed it sitting on the passenger seat of his truck when he went back outside to grab the rest of your things. At first, he had thought about simply leaving it on the chair in the hallway or outside your door, but then he figured it might get forgotten there. Besides, it was your jacket, and he knew the nights out here could get colder than people expected.
So, after a moment of hesitation, he decided he would just give it back to you.
He stopped outside the door, adjusting his grip on the jacket before raising his hand and knocking softly against the wood.
"Hey, suga'?"
No answer.
Michael waited a few seconds, glancing down the hallway. Maybe you hadn't heard him. He knocked again, a little louder this time.
"Sorry, 's just your jacket. Y' left it in the truck."
Still nothing.
He frowned slightly out of uncertainty. He didn't want to interrupt you if you were already asleep, but he also didn't want to leave without making sure you had it.
The faint sound of music coming from inside explained it. You must have your earbuds in. Michael hesitated for another moment before carefully opening the door just a little.
"Hey, I just wanted to—"
The words died in his throat immediatly.
You were standing in the middle of the room, facing away from him, and you weren't wearing your clothes. Well, you were barely wearing any clothes.
His brain took a full second to catch up. The black tank top was gone. The jeans were gone. In their place was a thin strip of black lace across your hips and a matching bra that pushed your tits up so high and so full he thought his heart might stop. The lamp on the bedside table threw warm light across your skin, catching the curve of your waist, the soft swell of your ass barely covered by the lace, the long line of your back.
Michael's hand went white-knuckled around the jacket.
He should move. He should turn around, close the door, walk away, pretend he never saw a thing. Every voice in his head was screaming at him to do exactly that. His feet wouldn't listen. His feet were bolted to the floor, and his eyes were locked on you, and his breath had gone somewhere he couldn't find it.
Then it hit him. Not the shame, not the guilt — that came later. First came the heat, low and sudden and brutal, surging up from his gut and slamming straight into his cock. It went hard so fast it almost hurt, a thick, heavy ache pressing against the inside of his jeans, and he felt himself twitch against the denim like his body had a mind of its own.
God. God, he shouldn't be looking. He shouldn't be standing here at all.
You shifted, reaching for something on the dresser, and the movement made your ass sway under the lace. Michael's mouth went dry. His cock throbbed, straining so hard against his jeans that he could feel every heartbeat in it, and the shame hit him then — hot and ugly and tangled up with the want until he couldn't tell them apart.
He couldn't do this. He couldn't stand here watching you like some animal.
Michael pulled the door shut as quietly as he could manage, the latch clicking soft behind him, and he was moving before he even knew he'd decided to. Down the hall, past the bathroom, into his own room. He closed the door and leaned his back against it, chest heaving, and his hand went to the front of his jeans before he could think better of it.
He was already so hard it hurt. The denim was tight and unforgiving around him, and when he pressed his palm flat against himself he let out a shaky breath through his teeth. He fumbled with the button, the zipper, shoved his jeans and his boxers down his hips, and his cock sprang free — heavy, thick, aching, flushed dark and leaking at the tip.
He wrapped his hand around it and his eyes fell shut.
He shouldn't be doing this. You were a guest in his house, a stranger he'd brought in off the road, a woman who'd trusted him enough to sleep under his roof. And here he was, jerking off to the memory of you in that black lace. Shame burned low in his belly, but it did nothing to cool the heat. If anything, it made it worse.
He worked his hand slow, up and down, and his mind went where it wanted to go.
He pictured you on your back in his bed, that black lace pushed up around your waist, your tits spilling out of the bra as he settled between your thighs. Pictured your legs wrapped around him, your heels digging into his back, the way you'd sound as you gasped his name when he pushed into you. He imagined the weight of you, the soft give of your hips under his hands, the way you'd feel clenching around him —
Michael's jaw clenched. A low sound rumbled up out of his chest and he stroked himself faster, thumb dragging over the head, smearing the slick that kept beading there.
Then he pictured you on top of him. Cowgirl. You straddling his hips, that black lace gone, your tits bouncing as you rode him, your head tipped back, your mouth open, taking him deep and slow and then fast, riding him until he couldn't think straight. He could almost feel your weight on his thighs, the heat of you, the way your cunt would grip him —
He was ashamed of himself. He was. But his hand kept moving, and his cock kept throbbing, and the image of you wouldn't leave him alone.
He pictured you bent over the edge of the bed, your ass in the air, that lace pulled to the side. Pictured himself behind you, hands on your hips, pushing into you from behind, watching the way you'd take him. He'd grab a fistful of your hair, gentle but firm, and pull your head back, and you'd moan his name —
Michael's breathing went ragged. He leaned his head back against the door and stroked himself harder, faster, chasing it, and the shame and the want tangled up until he couldn't separate them anymore. All he knew was the heat building low in his gut, the image of you burned behind his eyes, the sound of his own rough breathing filling the dark room.
He was so close. He could feel it building, coiling hot and tight, and he stroked himself with a desperate rhythm, his mind full of you — every position, every angle, every way he wanted to take you. The shame was still there, gnawing at the edges, but it only made the heat burn brighter.
His whole body tensed. He came with a shuddering gasp, his hips jerking into his fist, spilling hot and thick over his knuckles and his stomach, and for a long moment he just stood there, breathing hard, his forehead pressed to the door.
Michael looked down at his hand, at the mess he'd made, at the shame curling in his chest. He should feel worse. He knew he should. But all he could feel was the ghost of you — the curve of your waist, the swell of your pretty ass, the way the lamplight had caught your skin — and the knowledge that he was going to have a hell of a time looking you in the eye coming morning.
He cleaned himself up with a cloth from the bathroom and washed his hands. He didn't sleep much that night.
Morning came slow and pale through the curtains, the light thin and gray, and for a long moment you weren't sure where you were.
Then the smell of old wood and hay and something warm drifted in, and it all came back—
The broken-down car, the empty road, the cowboy who'd pulled over like he'd been sent for you.
You lay there a minute, letting the room come into focus. The bed was softer than you'd expected, the blanket heavy and warm. Outside, a rooster crowed somewhere distant, and you could hear the low sound of a truck engine idling, then cutting off. The farm was also waking up.
You stretched, the sheet slipping down your shoulders. The night air had cooled everything, and you reached for your clothes on the floor — your black tank top and the jeans and pulled them back on.
The hallway smelled like coffee. That was the first thing. Warm and dark and bitter, drifting up from somewhere downstairs, and your stomach turned over at the thought of it. You followed the smell down the stairs, past a coat rack and a stack of old boots, and the house opened into a kitchen at the back.
And there he was.
Michael stood at the counter with his back to you, one hand wrapped around a mug, the other holding a phone to his ear. He'd changed — fresh jeans, a clean flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the same worn boots. But the hat was still there, sitting easy on his head like it was part of him, and the sight of it made you smile.
"Nah, I told you," he was saying into the phone. "She just died on me. Right there 'n the side of the road, 'bout half a mile past the old Whitfield place. Engine sputtered out 'nd wouldn't start again."
A pause. He took a sip of coffee.
"I don't know what's wrong with it, 's the thing. 'm no mechanic, but I looked her over best I could. Somethin' with the engine, I reckon. Y' think y' could take a look at her?"
Another pause, longer this time. He nodded to himself.
"Mm-hm. Yeah. I got her here at the house. She's stayin' with me 'til we figure it out."
He glanced toward the window, and the morning light caught his profile — the line of his jaw, the way his brow furrowed a little as he listened. He was handsome in a way that snuck up on you, easy and unassuming, and you caught yourself staring.
"Alright," he said into the phone. "I'll bring her by tomorrow if that works. Appreciate it, Marlon. Yeah. You too."
He pulled the phone away from his ear, tapped the screen, and set it down on the counter with a small sigh. And then he turned, reaching for his coffee and stopped. His eyes landed on you standing in the doorway, and something flickered across his face. Surprise, maybe. Or something warmer. He blinked, and a smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, slow and easy.
"Mornin', suga'."
"Good morning," you said, and his smile widened a little.
"Sleep alright?"
"Better than I expected, honestly. That bed's real comfortable."
"Glad to hear it," he said, and he meant it. He gestured with his mug toward a chair at the kitchen table. "Coffee's fresh. Made it 'bout twenty minutes ago. There's eggs 'nd bacon if y' want somethin' to eat."
"You didn't have to do all that."
"No trouble," he said, already moving to the stove. "Was gonna make breakfast anyway. Just makin' a little more."
You sat down at the table, and he worked at the stove with his back to you, cracking eggs into a pan, the bacon already sizzling. The kitchen was warm and smelled like home, and for a minute you just watched him move — easy, unhurried, like he'd been doing this his whole life.
"Soooo, that was your brother on the phone?" you asked.
"Yeah," he said over his shoulder. "Marlon. He's the one in the family who actually knows his way 'round an engine. Runs a little repair shop over in the next town."
"Think he can fix my car?"
"If anybody can, it's him," Michael said. "Said he'll take a look at her tomorrow. I'll drive y' over there myself, if y' want."
"You'd do that?"
He turned, and there was something soft in his expression.
"Course I would."
He said it like it was the simplest thing in the world, and your chest did something quiet at the sound of it. He turned back to the stove, and the sizzle of the bacon filled the silence.
"You're really kind, Michael."
He ducked his head a little, and you could've sworn his ears went pink.
"Just doin' what's right."
He slid the eggs onto a plate, added the bacon, and brought it over to set in front of you. He was close enough that you caught his scent again. Dust, hay and soap, fresh from a morning shower, and something underneath that was just him.
"Eat up," he said, settling into the chair across from you with his own coffee. "Gonna be a long day."
You picked up your fork, and he watched you take the first bite. Then he reached for his mug, and his eyes drifted, just for a second, just a glance. Down over your shoulders, along the line of your neck, where the tank top sat loose against your collarbones.
And then he remembered.
It hit him all at once, the way it did every time he closed his eyes last night. You in that black lace, the lamp catching the curve of your waist— The heat came back low and sudden, and his hand tightened on the mug.
He looked away fast, down at his coffee, and his jaw worked. His ears went red, creeping up his neck, and he cleared his throat.
"Good eggs," he managed, not quite meeting your eyes.
You tilted your head.
"You alright, Michael?"
"Yeah," he said, a little too quick. "Yeah, 'm fine. Just — hot coffee. Burns the mouth."
You smiled, not quite convinced, but you let it go.
"Alright."
He took a long sip, staring down at the table, doing everything he could not to think about the way you'd looked yesterday.
You set your fork down, chewing the last bite of bacon, and looked across the table at him. He was still staring at his coffee like it held the secrets of the universe, his ears a little pink at the tips.
"So your brother's gonna take a look tomorrow?" you asked.
Michael blinked, coming back to himself. "Yeah. He's real good with engines. If it's fixable, he'll find it."
"That's good." You paused, turning the thought over. "So I guess I should probably start looking into a hotel or something. I don't want to be a bother."
His head came up fast at that, his brow furrowing. "A hotel?"
"Well, yeah. I can't just stay here for free. You've already done more than enough."
"Suga'." He set his mug down, and there was something almost offended in his voice. "Y' not a bother. Not even close. You're welcome t' stay here as long as it takes. I got the room, I got the food, and I got nobody else fillin' either one. 's no trouble at all."
You looked at him, at the earnest set of his jaw, the way he'd gone from flustered to firm in the space of a breath. "You're sure?"
"Positive." He said it like it was the easiest answer he'd ever given. "You stay right here 'til your car's fixed. I won't hear any argument about it."
A warmth spread through your chest, quiet and unexpected. "Alright. Thank you, Michael."
He nodded, a small smile tugging at his mouth, and reached for his coffee again. The silence settled easy between you, comfortable, and you found yourself looking around the kitchen — the worn wooden table, the row of hooks by the door, the window over the sink looking out onto green fields.
"So," you said, "you got a farm. What kind of animals do you have?"
Michael's face lit up. It was subtle — just a crinkle at the corners of his eyes, a loosening of his shoulders — but it was there. He leaned back in his chair, cradling his mug.
"Well, let's see. I got a couple'a horses — a mare named Daisy 'nd a gelding called Buck. Buck's got a mean streak, but he's all talk. Daisy's the sweet one. She'll follow you 'round the paddock like a dog."
You smiled. "That's cute."
"They're good company," he said, and there was a fondness in his voice that made you believe it. "Then there's the chickens. 'Bout a dozen of 'em, plus a rooster who thinks he runs the whole place. His name's Jasper. He's got an attitude problem, but he lays... well, the hens lay. He just struts around makin' noise."
You laughed. "He sounds like a character."
"He's a menace," Michael corrected, grinning. "But a lovable one. Then I got two goats — Bill 'nd Nanny. Billy's a little escape artist. Got out three times last month, 'nd I found him eatin' my neighbor's roses every single time."
"Oh no."
"Oh yes. Neighbor ain't spoken to me since." He shook his head, but he was smiling. "And then there's the cows. I got a small herd — 'bout fifteen or so. They're mostly just... cows. They stand around, chew grass, look at you like you owe 'em money."
You laughed again, and the sound of it seemed to settle something in him. He watched you with a soft expression, like he was enjoying the sight of you smiling in his kitchen.
You looked out the window, at the green fields stretching toward the barn in the distance. The morning light was warm on the grass, and somewhere out there a horse nickered, soft and distant.
"Could we go see them?" you asked, turning back to him. "The horses, I mean. I've always liked horses."
Michael's face did something quiet and pleased, like you'd asked him something he'd been hoping to hear. "Yeah," he said, setting his mug down and pushing back from the table. "Yeah, I'd like that. Let me just grab my boots."
He was already moving, and you smiled at his back, at the easy way he'd said yes. You stood too, and followed him toward the door, the morning stretching out warm and unhurried ahead of you both.
The screen door creaked as Michael held it open for you.
A cool breeze met you the second you stepped outside, carrying the smell of damp earth and fresh-cut grass. The sun had climbed higher while you'd been eating, burning away the last of the morning haze. Everything looked washed clean in the light.
The farm stretched farther than you'd realized from the kitchen window.
Rolling pasture disappeared into the distance, fenced in with weathered wood. A faded red barn stood a little ways off, its doors thrown open, and beyond that sat a wide paddock where two horses grazed lazily with their heads low.
"C'mon," Michael said, slipping his hands into his pockets. "They're out this way."
You fell into step beside him. The gravel crunched beneath your boots as you walked. Every now and then he kicked a loose stone off the path without thinking, his stride long but unhurried, always slowing just enough so you didn't have to keep up.
"You've lived here your whole life?" you asked.
"Mhm."
He nodded toward the fields.
"Parents bought the place when I was just a little thing. Not much changed since then."
"You never wanted to leave?"
He thought about it.
"I did."
You looked over at him.
"When I was younger." He shrugged. "Thought there had t' be somethin' bigger out there."
"And?"
He smiled to himself.
"Turns out... bigger ain't always better."
There wasn't any sadness in the way he said it. Just certainty.
"I like knowin' everybody in town. Like wakin' up before the sun. Like hearin' the birds instead'a traffic." He glanced toward you. "Guess I'm a simple man."
"I don't think simple's the right word."
"No?"
"I think... content."
That earned a quiet laugh.
"I'll take that."
They walked another few yards before the horses noticed them. The chestnut mare lifted her head first. Her ears perked immediately.
"Daisy," Michael called.
The mare whinnied softly before breaking into an eager trot toward the fence. You laughed.
"Oh my God, she really does come when you call."
"Told ya."
He climbed onto the lowest fence rail with practiced ease, leaning over to scratch behind Daisy's ears. She practically melted into him, nudging insistently against his shoulder until he laughed again.
"Easy now."
Watching him with the horse was... different.
He became even gentler somehow.
His voice dropped into a soft murmur, fingers brushing through her mane with absent affection, and Daisy responded to every touch like she trusted him completely.
"You've got her wrapped around your finger."
"Nah." He rubbed her forehead. "I'm the one wrapped around hers."
You smiled. "I can tell."
He looked over his shoulder at you.
"You wanna pet her?"
"I don't know if she'll like me."
Michael looked almost offended by the suggestion.
"Daisy likes everybody."
He stepped aside, leaving space beside him.
"Come here."
You approached slowly, reaching out with a cautious hand.
The mare sniffed your fingers, her breath warm against your skin, before nudging your palm with her nose.
"Oh."
Your face lit up.
"Hi."
Michael watched the entire exchange with an expression so soft it almost hurt.
"See?"
You scratched gently between Daisy's eyes.
"She's beautiful."
"Ain't she?"
You turned to him with a grin that was brighter than the morning sun.
"I think she likes me."
"I think she's already decided you're stayin'."
The words slipped out before he realized he'd said them. His eyes widened.
"I—I mean—"
His ears immediately turned pink.
"I just meant..." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Long enough t' get your car fixed."
You couldn't help smiling.
"I know what you meant."
"...Right."
He looked very interested in Daisy's mane all of a sudden.
You bit back a laugh.
The barn had a different kind of quiet than the rest of the farm.
Outside, there was always something moving — the rustle of grass in the wind, the distant call of birds, the occasional sound of an animal making itself known. But inside the barn, everything felt slower. The air was warmer, heavy with the scent of hay and old wood, with sunlight slipping through the cracks between the boards and painting golden lines across the floor.
You'd been following Michael around for most of the morning, watching him move from one task to another. He had shown you the horses, introduced you to the chickens like they were actual members of the family, and warned you very seriously not to trust Bill the goat, who apparently had a personal vendetta against anything that looked expensive.
You were beginning to understand why he liked it here. There was something peaceful about it.
And there was something about Michael himself that fit into it perfectly.
He stood near Daisy's stall, one hand resting on the wooden gate while he checked the latch. His sleeves were still rolled up, his flannel slightly worn at the elbows, and that hat sat on his head like it had been there forever.
Eventually, you couldn't help yourself.
"So…" you said, leaning against the half-door of Daisy's stall. "Do cowboys ever take those hats off?"
Michael looked up from fastening the latch.
"Hm?"
You pointed at him.
"The hat."
He blinked.
"I've been wondering all morning."
His hand instinctively touched the brim. A small smile tugged at his mouth.
"Yeah, I take it off."
"Hmm."
He narrowed his eyes slightly.
"What?"
"I don't know. I'm starting to think it's attached."
He laughed, shaking his head. "It ain't attached."
"You sure?"
"Pretty sure."
You looked at him, pretending to study the hat. "I've never actually seen you without it."
Michael opened his mouth to respond, then paused. You caught it. Your eyebrows lifted.
"What?"
"You hesitated."
"I did not."
"You did."
He gave a quiet laugh, looking down at the ground.
"You're somethin' else."
"That's not a denial."
Michael's jaw worked, but nothing came out. He just stood there in the barn door's shadow, arms folded, that worn straw hat low over his eyes, and you watched him try to find words. Before he could answer, you stepped closer. There was a little bit of hay caught near the brim, and you reached up without thinking.
Michael went still.
Not because you were doing anything strange, but because you were suddenly close. Close enough to smell him — hay and sweat and something warm underneath, like sun-baked leather. Your fingers brushed the edge of the hat, and before he could say anything, you lifted it from his head.
"There," you said, placing it on your own. The band was still warm from his skin. "See? Not attached." You tipped the brim slightly, grinning. "How do I look?"
Michael stared. Like his brain had forgotten what it was supposed to do. His eyes moved from the hat, to you, and then immediately away again — but not before they caught on your mouth.
And you saw it, the way his gaze snagged there for half a second too long. The tips of his ears turned pink first, then the color slowly crept down his neck, into the collar of his shirt. You lowered your smile.
"Michael?"
He cleared his throat, and his voice came out rough.
"Yeah. Uh..." His hand rubbed the back of his neck. "Y' might wanna..." He gestured vaguely toward the hat. "...take that off."
You blinked.
"What?"
"The hat."
You laughed softly. "Why? You said it wasn't attached."
"I know, I know." He shook his head quickly. "'s just..."
He looked genuinely embarrassed now, which only made you more confused. His eyes kept flicking to the hat on your head and then away, like he couldn't stand to look at it and couldn't stand not to.
"What?"
Michael glanced toward the barn door, then back at you, like he was hoping someone else might magically appear and save him from the conversation.
Finally, he sighed.
"My brothers... They used t' give me a hard time 'bout it."
"About the hat?"
"About what it means when somebody takes it."
You frowned slightly.
"What it means?"
He nodded, then immediately looked like he regretted saying anything. He shifted his weight, and the movement made his shirt pull across his shoulders, and you noticed it in a way you hadn't before.
"There's... kinda an old cowboy thing." You waited. Michael swallowed, his throat working.
"People joke that if... if a woman takes a cowboy's hat, it means she— uh... that she wants to... ride the cowboy, 'f y' know what I mean..." He mumbled the last words, almost too embarrassed to say it out loud.
The silence they left behind felt different than before— heavier, warmer, like the air had gotten thick.
You stared at him.
A beat passed.
Then another.
"Oh..."
His face somehow got even redder.
"Yeah."
"Oh."
"I know."
"No, I mean—"
You reached up quickly, taking the hat off your head. "I didn't know that—"
"I know you didn't."
"I was literally just messing with you."
"I know."
He smiled a little, trying to reassure you, but he still looked mortified. The smile didn't reach his eyes — his eyes were doing something else entirely, tracking you, watching the way your fingers moved over the brim.
"I figured."
The silence that followed was awkward, but not uncomfortable. Because now you were both suddenly aware of something that hadn't been there a few minutes ago. The closeness.
The way his eyes kept flicking back to you before he caught himself. The way you were suddenly very aware that his hat had been sitting on your head, warm from his skin, smelling like him.
You looked at it, then held it out to him.
"Here."
Michael reached for it, and your fingers brushed. Both of you paused. It was barely a second. But it was enough.
His hand was calloused and rough against yours, and he didn't pull away right away — he let the contact sit there, skin to skin, and you felt the heat of his palm before he finally closed his fingers around the hat and took it back. He settled it onto his head, pulling the brim down slightly lower than before, like he was hiding behind it.
You watched his throat move when he swallowed.
"You know," he said quietly, "for what it's worth..."
You looked at him. A small smile appeared on his face, and this time it reached his eyes.
"Y' did look good 'n it."
Your cheeks warmed.
"Thanks."
He nodded, looking away — but not before you caught the way his gaze dropped to your lips again, lingered, and then dragged itself up to meet yours.
"Y' welcome."
Neither of you moved. The barn creaked around you, and somewhere a horse shifted in its stall, and you both stood there in the warm, hay-scented quiet, the hat between you like a line neither of you was quite ready to cross.
Michael looked away first.
And you could see the effort it took. The way his jaw tightened slightly, the way he adjusted the brim of his hat even though it didn't need adjusting. Like he was trying to put something back into place.
"Well," he murmured, clearing his throat. "I should probably finish up out here before lunch." You nodded, even though neither of you moved right away.
"Right." Another pause.
Then Michael gave you that small, shy smile of his.
"Come on. I'll show you the rest of the place."
You followed him out of the barn, but the moment didn't disappear behind you. It followed you. It lingered in the space between you as you walked across the farm, in the quiet glances that lasted a second too long, in the way Michael seemed just a little more careful with himself than he had been before. Not distant. Just... aware.
Like he had become suddenly conscious of every little thing he did around you.
Michael showed you the rest of the property like he had promised. He took you past the old fence line that bordered the far pasture, pointed out the creek that ran along the back of the land, and told you about the time he had found Bill the goat halfway up a stack of hay bales with absolutely no explanation for how he'd gotten there.
You laughed so hard at the story that Michael had to stop walking just to look at you.
"What?" you asked, noticing. He shook his head. "Nothin'."
"You were staring."
"I was not."
"You were."
A small smile tugged at his mouth. "Just ain't heard someone laugh like that in a while."
Michael seemed to realize he'd said something too honest because he looked away, clearing his throat and turning his attention back toward the pasture.
"You wanna see the creek?" You smiled.
"Yeah."
And you followed him. By the time you made your way back toward the house, the afternoon sun had started to soften. The golden light stretched across the fields, catching on the tall grass and making everything look like it belonged in a painting. You found yourself slowing down. Not because you were tired. Because you didn't want the walk to end. That thought surprised you. You barely knew this man.
Before yesterday, you hadn't even known he existed. And yet somehow, walking beside him felt easy. Natural.
Michael noticed you had fallen behind and slowed his pace.
"Y' alright?"
You looked up. "Yeah, 'm good."
He studied you for a moment.
"Well..."
He looked toward the house, then back at you.
"I should probably start on dinner soon."
The thought of him cooking made you smile.
"You cook every day?"
"Most days."
"By yourself?"
"Mhm."
"That's actually kind of impressive."
He laughed softly.
"'s nothin'."
"You always say that."
"What?"
"That everything you do isn't a big deal."
Michael looked at you. Because you both knew what you really meant. Stopping on the road. Giving you a place to sleep. Making you breakfast.
His expression softened.
"Y' would've done the same."
The certainty in his voice caught you off guard. You weren't sure you would have. Michael didn't seem to think kindness was something special. He just thought it was something people were supposed to give.
Dinner was quiet. Not uncomfortable or awkward. You both were just quieter than before.
There was a new kind of awareness sitting between you both, something neither of you had acknowledged out loud but both of you seemed to feel. The easy conversation from earlier was still there, the small smiles and little jokes, but now there was something underneath it.
You found yourself noticing things you hadn't before— the way Michael's slender fingers curled around his fork, or the way his eyes would drift toward you before quickly finding somewhere else to look. And he wasn't the only one. Every time he adjusted the brim of his hat, every time his fingers brushed over it, you remembered the way it had felt in your hands. Warm from him. Carrying the faint scent of soap, leather, and the outdoors.
It was ridiculous how something so small had changed the atmosphere between you. But it had. Michael seemed to feel it too.
After dinner, the two of you moved into the living room, the sound of rain beginning softly against the windows. It had started while you'd been clearing the dishes, a gentle tapping that slowly grew heavier until it filled the entire house. Michael stood by the window for a while, looking out at the fields.
"You like storms?"
You sat on the couch, watching him.
"Sometimes."
He glanced over.
"Sometimes?"
You smiled.
"Depends where I am."
He nodded like he understood.
"Yeah. I guess it does."
The lights flickered once. Then again. Michael looked up.
"Well."
A second later, the whole house went dark. You both laughed quietly.
"That figures," you said.
Michael disappeared into the kitchen, returning with a few candles. The soft glow filled the room, making the farmhouse feel even older somehow. Warmer. You watched him set one down on the table.
It was strange.
A man you'd met yesterday.
A house you'd never seen before. And yet sitting there in the candlelight, listening to the rain, it felt familiar. Michael sat across from you, resting his forearms on his knees. For a while, neither of you spoke. It was the kind of silence that happened when two people were thinking the same thing but neither wanted to be the first to say it.
Your car would be fixed tomorrow. You would leave. And somehow, after only a day and a half, the thought felt heavier than it should have. You looked down at your hands.
"You know..."
Michael looked up.
"I thought I'd be counting down the hours until that car was fixed."
His expression shifted slightly. He glanced over.
"And now?"
The question was quiet and hung in the air You looked toward the rain-covered window. The fields beyond it were barely visible through the storm.
"Now I'm not so sure."
The silence that followed felt different. Just full.
Michael looked down at his hands, his thumb brushing slowly over one of the calluses along his palm. You noticed the small movement, the way he seemed to retreat into himself whenever something mattered too much. For a moment, he didn't say anything. Then his voice came quieter than before.
"Don't say things like that 'f y' don't mean 'em, suga'."
Your eyes moved back to him.
"Why?"
Michael swallowed. His gaze stayed fixed on his hands. Because he had been trying. God, he had been trying.
Trying not to read too much into the way you smiled at him. Trying not to remember the feeling of your fingers brushing his when you'd handed his hat back. Trying to forget how incredibly beautiful you looked yesterday, in your pretty black lace set.
"'cause..."
He stopped. The rain filled the silence for him. Then he looked up.
"'cause I've been trying real hard not to hope you might."
Your breath caught slightly. Michael immediately looked away, almost like he regretted letting the words escape.
"I know 's probably ridiculous."
"It's not."
His eyes returned to yours.
"You don't even know me." A small, smile touched his mouth. "And I don't know you. Not really...But I think I know enough."
He looked down again.
"Know 'nough t' know I like havin' y here."
Your throat went dry.
"I don't expect anything from you." He said it quickly, like he needed you to understand. "I mean that."
You nodded.
"I know."
"Your car gets fixed tomorrow, 'nd you go wherever y' headed."
You stood slowly. Michael looked up as you moved closer. Neither of you spoke again. The storm raged outside, but inside the farmhouse everything felt impossibly still.
"You know," you said softly, "for someone who says he's not hoping..." A tiny smile touched your lips. "You don't hide it very well."
Michael let out a quiet laugh, but it was nervous.
"No?"
"No."
You were close now. And still, he didn't move. He just looked at you. Waiting.
The candlelight flickered across his face, catching the slight tremor in his jaw. His hands stayed at his sides, fingers curling and uncurling like he was physically holding himself back. Waiting. Always waiting for you to decide.
You reached up.
Slowly.
Giving him every chance to move away.
His breath caught when your fingers brushed the brim of his hat. You didn't take it off. You just let your hand rest there, feeling the warmth of him beneath the shadow of it.
"Can I?" you whispered.
Michael's eyes searched yours.
He didn't ask what you meant.
He already knew.
"Yeah," he breathed, barely audible over the rain. "Suga', you can do whatever you want with me."
The words hit you low in the chest. You pushed the hat back off his head. It fell to the floor between you, forgotten. And then his hands were on you. Not gentle. Not careful.
His fingers curled into the fabric of your shirt at your waist and pulled, and you came against him with a soft gasp, your palms flat on his chest. He was warm. Solid. Real in a way the last two days hadn't quite felt.
"Michael—"
"I been wantin' to do this since you walked up my drive," he said, voice rough, eyes dark. "Since you stood in my kitchen smilin' at me like that. Y' such a pretty girl."
He ducked his head and kissed you. It was hungry.
His mouth slanted over yours, one hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck, tilting your head back. The other stayed at your waist, thumb pressing hard against your hip through the fabric. He kissed like a man who had spent too long holding back, like he'd been rationing this moment and had finally decided to spend it all at once.
You let out a soft sigh against his mouth. He swallowed it.
His tongue swept along your lower lip and you opened for him, and the groan that rumbled from his chest vibrated straight through you. He tasted like coffee and rain and something warm. His hand tightened in your hair, not pulling, just holding, like he was afraid you'd slip away if he loosened his grip.
The storm pressed against the windows. Neither of you heard it.
You broke apart only when you needed air, foreheads pressed together, both of you breathing hard. His thumb traced the line of your jaw, feather-light, and when he spoke his voice was wrecked.
"Told myself I wasn't gonna do that."
You laughed, breathless.
"Glad you lied."
He let out a shaky sound that might have been a laugh, might have been something else. His hand came up to cup your face, and he looked at you like you were the only warm thing in the storm. You pulled him back down.
The second kiss was slower. Deeper. His hands found the hem of your shirt and tugged it up, and you lifted your arms and let him peel it over your head, the fabric whispering past your skin, dragging over the curve of your breasts before it slid away.
He broke the kiss just long enough to look at you— and the way his eyes went dark, the way they dropped to your chest and lingered, made your stomach tighten into a hot, wanting knot.
"Jesus," he breathed, and it came out wrecked, like he'd forgotten how to make a sound.
His thumb traced the curve of your breast through the lace of your bra, feather-light, almost reverent, like he was memorizing the weight of you in his hand. He cupped you, tested the give of you, and a low sound rumbled in his chest. Then he dipped his head and pressed his mouth to the hollow of your throat, tongue dragging over your pulse, and the sound you made wasn't one you planned. A soft, broken whimper.
"Michael─"
"Shh," he murmured against your skin, his hands sliding around your back to unhook your bra, his fingers working the clasp like he'd been dreaming of it. "Lemme take care of y', baby."
The clasp gave with a soft click. The straps slid down your shoulders, and he pulled the lace away and let it fall, and then his mouth was on you. Hot and open-mouthed, his tongue dragging flat across your nipple before he sucked it between his lips. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, your back arching into him, offering more, and he took it. He laved and sucked and bit down just enough to make you gasp, his hand cupping your other breast, thumb working the nipple into a tight, aching peak.
"That's it," he said against your skin, his voice low and rough and thick with wanting. "'s my good girl. God, y' have so pretty tits, honey baby. So soft."
He worked his way down your body, kissing a slow, deliberate trail down your sternum, your ribs, the soft swell of your belly. His mouth lingered on the curve of your hip, his teeth grazing the skin there, and his hands gripped you, fingers sinking into the skin of your hips, thumbs pressing into the jut of bone. He held you like you were something to be savored, not rushed. And when he sank to his knees on the floor in front of the couch, between your spread thighs, you knew exactly what was coming.
He looked up at you from between your legs, the candlelight catching the hunger in his eyes, and he was already breathing hard.
"Wanna taste y', suga'."
You didn't have words. You just nodded.
He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your jeans and pulled them down your legs, panties with them, slow and deliberate, dragging the denim over the curve of your ass and down your thighs. And the way he looked at you when you were bare, the way his gaze traveled the length of you, lingering on the soft roll of your hips, the plush of your thighs— made your breath catch.
He pressed a kiss to the inside of your thigh. Then the other. Each one higher than the last, his mouth working closer and closer, until his breath ghosted hot and wet against your slick, so close you could feel the heat of him.
"Already this wet fo' me," he murmured, almost to himself, his voice filled with desire. "Look at ya', baby. Soaked. 'nd I ain't even touched y' yet."
And then his tongue dragged up the length of you, flat and slow, from your entrance all the way to your clit, and your hips bucked off the couch. "C'mon, angel, lemme get a taste o' this sweet lil' pussy..."
"Oh fuck!—"
He repeated the action.
He licked your cunt like he was starving, like he'd been thinking about this since the moment you walked up his drive, like he'd been starving for the taste of you for years. His tongue circled your clit, flicked, pressed flat and broad, and every time you gasped he'd groan against you like the sound drove him crazy. His hands gripped your thighs, almost with a bruising grip, spreading you wider, holding you open for him, and he buried his face in you like he wanted to drown in your juices.
"Taste like honey," he said against you, the words vibrating straight through your clit, making your whole body clench. "Sweetest thing I ever had, hunny. Could eat this pussy all goddamn night."
He sucked your clit into his mouth and you cried out, your hand flying down to tangle in his hair, gripping him there. He let you hold him, let you grind against his mouth, and he took it— took all of it— groaning like he wanted to live between your thighs. Two fingers pushed into your slickness then, curling, crooking against that spot that made your vision blur, and he pumped them slow while his tongue worked you in relentless circles.
"Please," you managed, your voice breaking. "Michael, please—"
"Please what, beautiful?"
"Want you. Want—" You couldn't finish. You couldn't think. How could someones mouth feel this fucking good?
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his mouth slick and shining with you, chin wet, eyes nearly black in the candlelight. He was wrecked. You'd wrecked him.
"Want what, suga'? Tell me. Talk t' me"
"Want you inside me."
A slow, teasing smile spread across his face, and his fingers curled deeper inside you, making you moan.
"You'll get it. But I want y' t' come on my tongue first." He lowered his head again, his breath hot against your soaked pussy. "Want t' feel it, sweet girl. Want y' t' soak my face. Drown me in it."
He went back to work, and this time he didn't let up. His fingers fucked you in a steady, curling rhythm while his mouth worked your clit, and the pressure built and built until you were shaking, your thighs trembling around his head, your whole body drawn tight as a wire. And he felt it. He felt every shudder, every clench; and he groaned against you like it was killing him.
"Thaaat's it," he said, his voice muffled against you, his fingers never stopping. "Come fo' me, pretty baby. Come on my tongue. Soak me."
And you did. It hit you like the storm outside, white-hot and blinding, your whole body bowing off the couch as you cried out his name. He lapped you through it, slow and greedy, drinking every drop, not stopping until you were twitching and oversensitive and gasping for air, until you had to push weakly at his head.
He kissed his way back up your body, slow and deliberate, dragging his slick mouth over your belly, your breasts, your throat. And when he kissed you, you could taste yourself on his tongue, salty and sweet. He was hard against your hip, straining through his jeans, thick and insistent, and you reached for him.
"My turn."
He caught your wrist.
"Not yet, sweet baby." His voice was wrecked, barely holding together, shaking at the edges. "Want y' t' come on my dick. Want t' feel that pretty little pussy squeeze me while y' fall apart."
The words went straight through you, hot and liquid, pooling low in your belly.
He stood, shucked off his shirt, and worked open his belt, the leather sliding through the loops. His jeans came down, and when he stepped out of them you got your first look at him — thick and hard and leaking, the head flushed and slick, his hand wrapped around the base. He was beautiful. He was everything.
"See what y' do t' me, suga'?" He stroked himself slowly, his jaw tight, his knuckles dragging up the length of him. "Been hard since y' stood in my kitchen. Been thinkin' about this sweet ass of yours all goddamn day." His vulgar words and confident tone shocked you. Was this really the shy boy from the barn you thought you knew? But you didn't mind. Not at all.
He climbed onto the couch, settling back against the armrest, and reached for you, his hands finding your hips and pulling you toward him.
"Come here, honey baby."
You straddled him. His hands found your hips, thumbs stroking the soft skin and he looked up at you with something raw and unguarded in his eyes, something that made your chest ache.
"You sure?"
"Michael." You reached down and wrapped your hand around him, and his breath hissed through his teeth, his eyes fluttering shut. "I've never been more sure of anything."
He guided you up, the head of his cock pressing against your slick, wet heat, and then he looked at you, one last question in his eyes. You answered by sinking down.
The two of you groaned together as he filled you, inch by inch, the stretch of him making your eyes roll back. He was so thick, so warm, and you felt impossibly, perfectly full. His cock splitting you open, seating deep inside you until you were flush against him, his hips against yours, his balls pressed to your ass.
"God," he breathed, his head falling back against the couch, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave marks. "Feel that, sweet girl? Feel how good y' take me? Ohhh, look at ya. All that soft ass, all that curve, sittin' on my cock like y' were made for it."
His words made you whimper. You rolled your hips, experimental, grinding down on him, and his hands clenched on your waist, a low groan tearing out of him.
"'s it. Ride me, baby. Fuck yourself on my cock."
You found your rhythm slowly, then faster, your hands braced on his chest, your tits bouncing in his face with every stroke. He watched you with dark, hungry eyes, his gaze dropping to your breasts, to the way they moved, and he reached up and cupped them, thumbing your nipples, groaning.
"Lord, y' so beautiful," he said, his voice rough and reverent. "Look at these perfect tits. Takin' all o' me. Squeezin' me so damn good."
You leaned forward and kissed him, sloppy and open-mouthed, and he groaned into it, his tongue tangling with yours. "Mmmm, Mikey... Y' feel soo good." You mumbled messily against his mouth. "Yeah? 'm fucki' you good, baby?" A little 'mhm!' sound left your lips.
His hands slid down to grip your ass, squeezing hard, kneading the soft flesh, guiding your pace as you rode him.
"My perfect, beautiful girl..."
You rode him harder, the sound of skin against skin filling the room, wet and obscene, and he let you take what you needed. But then his hands tightened on your hips, and he stilled you.
"Turn around, sweetheart."
You blinked, breathless.
"want to watch that ass bounce on my cock. Want to watch it swallow me up."
He helped you lift off him, the sudden loss of him making you whimper, and then he guided you to turn around, your back to his chest. He pulled you down onto him again, and you both groaned as he filled you from behind, his cock sliding back into you to the hilt.
"Jesus," he breathed against your ear, his hands already gripping your hips. "Feel even better this way, beautiful. Look at that pretty ass..."
You rode him reverse, his hands gripping your hips, his mouth on your shoulder, your neck, kissing down your spine while you moved. The angle made his cock drag against a spot that made your thighs shake, made you gasp and grind down harder. "Shit─ y' so deep in me, Mikey─"
And then his hands moved— one sliding up your back, the other reaching down to grip your ass, and then he spread you. He spread you open with his thumbs, pulling the cheeks apart, and you felt the cool air on your slick, wet flesh, felt him watching you — watching himself slide in and out of you. He groaned, a sound so raw it vibrated through your whole body.
"Ohh," he breathed, his voice wrecked with wonder. "Look at that. Look at my cock goin' in 'nd out o' ya. 'nd look—" His thumb traced the base of him where he was buried inside you, and you felt the creamy ring that had formed there, the mess of you and him slicking his skin. "Look at that, sweet girl. Look at all that cream. 's aaaall you, baby. That's how wet this pussy 's fo' me. How bad you want it."
You whimpered, grinding down on him, and he let you feel him watching, his eyes burning into the place where you were joined.
"Right there," you gasped. "Don't stop."
"Not stoppin', sweet girl. Not 'till y' come on my dick."
His hand slid around to your front, fingers finding your clit, slick and swollen, and you cried out. He worked you in tight circles while you rode him, his other arm banded across your chest, holding you against him, his cock buried deep inside you.
"'s it, sweetheart. Feel that? Feel how deep I am? Feel how good I fill ya up?"
"Yes—"
"Y' gonna come fo' me? Gonna soak my dick like a good girl? Gonna cream aaall over me?"
"Yes, Michael, yes!—"
"Come on, pretty baby. Let go. Come all over me. Make a mess."
You shattered.
Your body clenched around him, wave after wave, your pussy milking him, and he groaned through it, his hips bucking up into you, driving deeper.
"Thaaaat's it. Fuck, feel you squeezin' me."
He didn't let you stop. He shifted beneath you, and before you could catch your breath he was lifting you off him, pressing you down onto the couch on your hands and knees, your ass up, your spine arching.
"Flat, baby," he said, his voice soft but commanding. "Arch that pretty back fo' me. Push that pretty ass up."
You obeyed. His hands spread your thighs wider, and you felt the head of his cock press against you, slick with you and him, the mess of your cream coating his skin.
"Messy girl," he breathed, his hands gripping the soft flesh of your cheeks, squeezing, spreading. "So messy, sweet girl. So perfect. Love this perfect body o' yours."
He pushed in. Slow. Inch by inch, until he was buried to the hilt, and then he stilled, both of you breathing hard, his balls pressed against your wet flesh.
"You feel that, hunny? Feel how deep I am?"
"Yes," you whimpered.
He pulled out almost all the way, so slowly you felt every inch of him dragging against your walls, and then he slammed back in, and you cried out, your fingers clawing at the cushion.
"That's it," he growled. "Take it, baby. Take all of me."
He set a brutal pace, deep and hard, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, and the sound of it filled the room— the wet slap of his hips against your ass, the slick sound of him driving into your soaked cunt, the heavy, obscene slap of his balls against your flesh with every thrust. The couch creaked beneath you, the rain hammered the windows, and your moans mixed with his grunts, a filthy, perfect rhythm.
"You feel so good," he said, his voice wrecked, barely holding together. "So wet, baby. Squeezin' me like y' never wanna let go." Then he slapped your ass, a sharp, wet crack that made you gasp. "Love watchin' it bounce. Love the way it takes me."
He leaned over you, his chest pressed to your back, his mouth at your ear, his breath hot and ragged.
"That feel good, beautiful?"
"Yes—"
"Say it, sweet girl. Tell me how good it feels."
"So good," you gasped. "Mikey, y' feel so good—"
"Mhm," he groaned. "Feels so good."
He drove into you harder, faster, his hand sliding around to grip your throat — not squeezing, just holding, tilting your head back against his shoulder. His other hand found your clit again, working you in tight, relentless circles, and you were already so close, the pressure coiling tight and hot in your belly.
"Y' mine tonight, angel. All mine. Gonna come again, sweet girl? Gonna come on my cock again?"
"Mhm!—"
"Come on, then. Come on me. Let me feel it. Soak me, baby."
You came with a cry, your body clenching around him so hard he groaned and drove into you through it, his hips stuttering, chasing his own release.
"Just like that," he said, his voice shaking, wrecked. "Ohh, that's my good girl. That's my beautiful—"
He buried himself deep and came with a shudder, his hips grinding against you, a groan torn from his throat as he filled you, hot and pulsing, spilling deep inside you. You felt every pulse of him, felt him empty into you, and you collapsed together onto the couch, both of you breathing hard, slick with sweat and each other.
He pulled out slowly, and you felt the mess of him and you slide down your thigh, warm and wet. He kissed the back of your neck, soft and tender, his hand stroking the curve of your hip.
"Y' so beautiful, baby," he murmured against your skin. "'m gonna take good care of you..."
😔 I feel that Off The Wall Michael was the kinda person who couldn't wait to meet new people and make friends. Especially when he moved to New York for The Wiz.
He might have the time of his life then. Free to actually breathe and be himself. Until, the door of the greatness of Thriller closed many other gates of freedom.
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Synopsis Michael's point of view on his marriage to Dalila.
Michael never understood why so many men made jokes about marriage.
Ever since he announced his engagement to Dalila, it seemed that every older man felt obligated to give him "wise" advice.
Enjoy your freedom while you can.
Marriage is a prison.
Once you get married, your life is over.
Michael would just smile and agree out of politeness, but inside, he would be completely confused.
Prison? Marriage was something sacred between a man and a woman.
He looked at the engagement ring on his finger and felt like laughing.
If that was a prison, then he would sign the sentence with the greatest happiness in the world.
Because if Dalila were his jailer, they could throw away the key.
In fact, he could hardly wait to wake up every day beside her, share the same house, have dinner together after work, argue about which movie to watch, and call her his wife for the rest of his life.
He wanted to have children with her and be called husband.
That didn't seem like a punishment to him.
It was a prize.
Perhaps that was why those jokes never made sense to him.
Or perhaps it was simply because he was lucky enough to be marrying the right woman.
After all, not everyone was fortunate enough to marry their best friend.
(. . .)
Dalila's organizational skills should never have been underestimated.
At first, he hadn't understood why she was so insistent on acquiring that particular property. The owners had the surname Bennett and thought it would be good form to name the house based on the book *Pride and Prejudice*—with its sprawling grounds and the old manor house that needed so much work. But now, as Michael walked through the empty halls of Longbottom, he realized it was absolutely perfect for them.
It wasn't Neverland—there were no amusement park rides or exotic animals wandering the gardens—but for now it would be their sanctuary, their refuge away from the chaos of the world.
He could already envision himself losing entire days in his new recording studio, the one that Dalila had specifically designed to capture the perfect acoustics. He could see himself in the dance studio, rehearsing until his muscles burned, and then collapsing onto the sofa in their private quarters. They would be gracious hosts, offering intimate dinners for friends, and eventually... eventually, he could see their children running barefoot through the gardens, their laughter echoing through the halls, filling the space with a joy that no amount of fame could replicate.
Michael could hardly wait to finally live in his own home. No more Joe. No more critical eyes sizing him up every morning.
He would miss Katherine's gentle presence, her unconditional love, but he was ready now. He would be a married man, the head of his own household.
Almost everything was perfect.
But there was one shadow that occasionally darkened his excitement: Dalila was retiring from music.
The conflicting emotions tore at him. There was genuine sadness—his future wife possessed one of the most breathtaking voices he had ever heard. She had broken barriers for Black female artists, opened doors that had been sealed shut for generations. The closing show of her tour would be televised and broadcast on MTV—she would be the first Black artist to appear on the network. And her music had inspired an entirely new style that would influence future generations.
He had spent countless nights fantasizing about their future together, imagining them recording duets in their home studio, going on joint tours where they would perform together and then retreat to their shared dressing room, stealing kisses between costume changes.
The fact that she was walking away from all of that at just twenty years old made his heart ache with disappointment.
And yet... and yet, he couldn't deny the relief that coursed through him at the thought of having her entirely to himself.
He wanted children—and had spent their entire courtship terrified that Dalila would choose her career over motherhood. So many women in the industry had made that choice, prioritizing fame and fortune over family, and he wouldn't have blamed her if she had done the same. But Dalila had been wonderfully vocal about her desires from the beginning. She wanted a house full of children. She wanted to be a mother. And she wanted to create a home with him.
If she retired, he would never have to worry about conflicting schedules again.
Never have to endure months apart while she toured.
Never have to share her with millions of screaming fans who thought they owned a piece of her. His only concern, his delicious, consuming concern, would be putting a baby in her belly—again and again, until they had built the family they both dreamed of.
And God, how he ached for her.
Their schedules had become merciless walls between them. It had been three months since he had touched her, really touched her. Three months of hurried phone calls and stolen moments at industry events. Three months of going to bed alone, hard and hungry, dreaming of her.
Dalila was addictive. He craved her with an intensity that sometimes frightened him. Those soft, skillful hands of hers—hands that could play piano and soothe a baby and drive him absolutely mad with desire. He wanted them on his body, exploring every inch of him. He wanted to hear that magnificent voice of hers reduced to breathless whispers, wanted to hear her moaning *his* name until she was hoarse.
The thought of having her all to himself, of being able to reach for her in the middle of the night without worrying about public opinion or his mother's opinions...
He would wake up with her every morning. He would come home to her every night. She would be *his* in every way that mattered, and no one else would ever have a claim on her time, her body, or her heart.
The only thing above him in her life would be their children.
He hadn't forced her into this decision. He would never do that. But he couldn't deny the fierce, possessive satisfaction that burned in his chest at the knowledge that soon, very soon, Dalila Ross would belong only to him.
Michael Jackson had always been a little possessive when it came to the things he loved.
And he loved his fiancée more than anything in the world
As another consequence of the butterfly effect, Dalila is the first person to break a barrier.
In short, MTV got the rights to air the show's clips because Dalila is the most engaged singer among young people in the world.
Dalila is going to be the wife of the King of Pop; she has to be iconic.
Michael and Dalila talk a lot on the phone, and he's known about her retirement for a long time.
