AI Creator

𝐒𝐞𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟏, 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟕

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A quiet beat passed. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He paused. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It just comes," you repeated softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you scared of war?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Michael didn’t move an inch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you,” Michael murmured.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

© 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐥𝐲𝐩𝐲𝐭𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐛𝐱