d 🪐

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You sat on the bed with your hands in your lap, messing with the edge of the glove you wore. A new outfit Michael had bought for you and insisted that you wore.

He was leaving in two days and would be gone for a while, not to mention you were about to go on a press tour for your new movie, and he had been slowly working up your confidence to get you to say yes to making a tape.

A sex tape.

The thought made you blush as you watched him set up the camera, the lens positioned directly at the bed. Your eyes then cautiously trailing to the door— because of course he chose to do this when your family was visiting. Not only that, you two were supposed to go to dinner with them in an hour.

You already felt light headed. Even though it was just you and Michael, you still felt watched. One half of you found it terrifying, the other a little thrilled.

You loved trying new things, especially if he was excited about something.

Thus your current get up of black latex.

Your eyes then flicked down- it was crotchless.

And there you go feeling lightheaded again.

"Okay," Michael muttered, mostly to himself. "I think that's good." He then stepped behind it, checking to see the angle and the grin that stretched his face as he saw you through the monitor was down right fiendish.

“You look beautiful, baby.” He said softly, “I’m gonna start recording now, okay?”

You bit your lip, eyes glancing at the door one last time before you nodded. “Ready.”

That flashing red light started a moment later and you watched in bated breath as Michael lowered his boxers, his lips tilting in amusement at the immediate starstruck look to your gaze.

You barely had time to appreciate the size of his cock when his mouth pressed to yours in a heated kiss, his hands raking along your bare back and you melted against him. His teeth grazed along your bottom lip and opened for him, his wet tongue sliding into your mouth and tracing every inch.

The feel of your breasts pressed against him sent blood all the way down to his already painfully hard cock and he had to hold himself back from grinding into you. Instead he pushed forward, pressing your back down into the sheets. His lips trailed down to your jaw, a hand winding in your hair and he yanked your head to the side to expose your neck, earning a lovely sound from the back of your throat.

Open mouthed, he latched onto your soft skin, sucking and biting lightly, careful not to leave a mark even though he desperately wanted to. That was fine though, he’d mark you a different way.

“We… we need to be quick.” You managed, your fingers burying themselves in his hair.

“Not too quick, I plan to wreck you baby,” he muttered into your skin as his mouth drifted to your collar bones, his free hand coming up to caress and tease your nipples and that made you groan and buck against him, your bare pussy peeking out from the slit in the crotch and sliding against him.

Michael shivered, reeling in his self restraint. “None of that. Keep still.”

Nonetheless, he pushed against you harder and your hips rolled again, causing him to pull on your hair harder and you whimpered, but it only made you more wet. “You’re a needy little thing, aren’t you?”

“All for you, honey.”

He hummed and you yelped as he suddenly hooked a hand under each of your knees and pushed your legs up and out.

You could hear the voices of people passing by down the hall, but you didn’t have time to dwell as Michael lowered his hips and you ground against his length, an electric sort of friction against your clit and you moaned and a groan tore its way up his throat.

His hands dug into your sides and his mouth latched onto your right breast, causing you to arch into him. Your hands came up to hold his head to you, but before you could manage, your wrists were then pinned above you, Michael holding you against the mattress with his hips to yours and he ground into you again. “Don’t try to take control, baby. You don’t want to embarrass yourself.”

“Usually the man finds it hot when the woman takes control.”

“It’s an entertaining thought but I rather like the sight of you writhing beneath me, and I bet you just love it when I do this…” Michael slowly snaked a hand up your throat, his fingers dancing along the soft and vulnerable skin of your throat before his grip slowly tightened.

You could still breathe, but you could feel your pulse thudding violently and you shuddered as he pressed against you again.

“Keep your hands above your head, don’t move them.” He ordered, his voice a caress on your skin and you nodded, eyes heavy as he started to move down your body.

Then his fingers were pulling the latex out of the way, a blissful sigh leaving him as his breath hit your exposed pussy, making you shiver. “God, look at you… your fucking dripping, baby.”

And then his mouth was on you, tongue flattening from the bottom of your opened and dragging up to your clit before he wrapped his lips around it, rolling his tongue in a point and your back arched off the bed. You bit down harshly on your bottom lip, trying to keep your moaning at a minimum and your fingers grasped at the sheets, desperate to reach down into his hair but wanting to do as told.

You felt like your soul was leaving your body as his mouth dragged down, tongue fucking you as his ofher hand came up to play with your clit.

“Michael, please.” Your tone was torn between a moan and a whimper.

“Use your words.”

“I need your fingers—“

He abided immediately, lips dragging back up to your clit while two of his long fingers sunk into you. Dragging and curling up, his pace quick and deep and you threw your head back, feeling euphoric.

You came embarrassingly quickly, the sensation taking you by surprise but then he kept going— his other hand pressing low on your abdomen while he fucking you with his fingers and his tongue flattened on your clit.

“Michael, I feel… what—“

“Come for me, babygirl. I know you can do it again.”

He pressed down on your pelvis just a bit more and you came again, liquid squirting out of you and all over his face and fuck… he looked so pleased.

“Such a good girl for me,” he praised, bringing up his hand to suck his fingers clean as he then settled his hips against yours.

You bit your lip, your gaze becoming even more hungry as you took him in. Like everything else about him, his cock was an impressive length, thick, and the tip flushed as pre-come leaked out.

Brushing his hips forward, the head of his cock slid through your folds and rubbed against your clit, causing a buzzing moan to leave your lips and you rolled her hips forward, desperate for more but his hand danced back up to your throat and tightened. “None of that,” he warned, his dark eyes nearly looked feral as he glanced down at your dripping and awaiting cunt.

Slowly, he began to enter you, not taking his eyes off the way you stretched around him as he sank in.

“Fuck ,” you hissed, throwing your head back against the bed and you felt dizzy with your lower lack of air supply, his hand warm and firm around your neck.

A groan rumbled in the back of his throat, you were so tight but he didn’t stop pushing in until he was at the hilt. Then slowly pulling out, you clenched around him and he bit into your shoulder to bite back his own moan.

Michael’s thrusts were slow and steady, in no hurry and every few seconds his grip on your throat would loosen before tightening again. He rolled his hips forward, stretching you out and his pelvis created friction against your clit and you moaned loudly, momentarily not caring who heard you but his mouth swallowed the sound as he kissed you, wet and opened mouth.

Picking up his pace, his thrusts rammed into you, rocking the bed frame into the wall and the wood groaned in protest.

You continued to moan and whimper into his mouth, your arms tingling and begging to hold onto him. Michael must’ve read your body language and he pulled back, “rest them on my shoulders.”

They fell immediately, your nails digging into his shoulders and your eyes watered as you were temporarily deprived of air.

“You feel so good, baby.”

He shifted the angle of his hips, dragging himself in deep to the point where he hit your cervix. It was painful and wonderful and maddeningly delicious all at once.

Michael tilted his hips forwards and ground into you, his pelvis creating a slippery friction against your clit, then as he pulled out the the head of his cock dragged against that sweet spot and for fuck’s sake you practically screamed.

“Fuck! Do that again, please, oh my-”

Michael clamped a hand over your mouth, not being able to help it as he laughed and he didn’t stop his rough thrusts—

There was suddenly a knock on the door.

“Sweetheart, we’re gonna leave for dinner in about half an hour.” Your dad called through the door. “You okay? Or still getting ready?”

Michael’s cock continued to drag against your inner walls, slamming into you, his grip on your throat tight and tears slipped down your cheeks. He looked at you pointedly before removing his hand from your mouth, instead burying it in your hair as his mouth latched onto your neck.

“Yeah… yeah, I’m okay. I’m still getting ready… fuck-” Michael bit into your neck. “My hair won’t cooperate.” You bit down on your lip so hard to stop yourself from screaming again as his hand left your hair and dragged down to rub tight circles into your clit.

“Do you want your mom to come help?”

“Fuck no,” your voice was breathless and you cleared your throat the best you could, “I’m sorry, I think she’ll stress me out more. I’m okay… God, I’ll be down soon.”

“Okay, sweetheart.” Your dad walked away and Michael nearly laughed but it turned into a moan of his own as you clenched painfully hard around him. You were close.

“Did that excite you, baby? Nearly getting caught while I fuck you?”

You whimpered, your nails biting into his shoulders painfully and he took in the tears that were streaming down your cheeks, how your chest was heaving, how he stretched you out and how your clit was swollen.

“Come for me, come all over my cock, baby. I want the whole fucking house to hear you.”

The head of his cock rammed into that spot again and he rubbed another circle into your clit and you came with a hard cry, the sensation felt like you just shattered from being struck by lightning.

Michael didn’t stop, but he shuddered violently as you clamped around him.

His rough pace slipped into something erratic, fucking you harshly and the bed slammed hard into the wall, rocking violently on its legs and your heels dug into his lower back, pushing him in deeper.

“Fuck,” he panted, you were trembling and your skin was flushed, his pelvis grinding into your oversensitive clit and you clenched again.

“Just like that baby,” his grip on your throat tightened to the point where it hurt and you genuinely couldn’t breathe.

“Michael!” you cried out, your voice a rasp and laced in pain and arousal.

His whole body shuddered as he came with a deep moan tearing up his throat, his come filling you up, spurting and hot and you felt full.

Michael had never finished inside of you before.

You weren't on any contraceptives, but the thought was lost in the shadows of your subconscious as Michael rode out his high before pulling out, sighing as he watched how his cum mixed with your pooled between her pussy and dripped between your thighs. He ran a finger through it and you whimpered.

Michael lifted his hand to your lips, his eyes burned as he looked at you, “open.”

Doing as told, you parted your lips and his finger slid against your tongue, which you then took to swirling it around the digit and sucked on it.

He could only long to have those pretty lips of yours wrapped around him, but he knew they didn’t have the time before dinner.

You let go of his fingers with a pop and immediately after his mouth pressed to yours, though this time much more gentle and he slowly lowered your legs and rubbed circles into your thighs through the latex.

“You did so good for me,” he muttered and your hands buried in his hair and pulled him closer, your lips molding together.

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It was seven in the morning and you had only just forced yourself up to make a cup of coffee after the London premiere for your movie when the phone rang. Your tired eyes blinked at it, confused as to why it would be doing such an offensive thing at this hour.

You picked it up on the last ring, voice rough around the edges with sleep, “hello?”

“Baby? Did I wake you?”

Your sleepiness waned a little bit at the sound of Michael’s voice. “No, I got up a few minutes ago. You okay? Isn’t it like two—“

“Have you turned on the tv or read the paper at all?”

As your grogginess faded, you started to pick up on the edge to his voice.

Your brows furrowed. “No? Why?”

He sighed. “Baby, I’m really sorry. Really. I don’t know how it happened, someone must’ve gone through my things. I’m gonna have to have Bill do a screening on everybody and—“

“Michael, slow down.” You pinched the bridge of your nose. “What happened?”

The other end of the line was dead silent and you gnawed at your lip, dread suddenly pooling low in your stomach.

“…No.”

“I’m really sorry.”

Your knuckles tightened on the phone and your teeth sank into your bottom lip before you threw your head back— “Fuck!”

You slumped against the wall, not having the faintest idea on what to do with yourself.

“I mean,” Michael started, tone cautious, “on the bright side, you looked great—“

“Michael, do not finish that sentence.”

You lowered the phone and stared up at the ceiling. Mind reeling because of course this had to happen. Your manager was going to kill you and you dreaded the phone call you’d undoubtedly get within the next hour.

Your gaze then flicked down to the kitchen counter, breath hitching because you had completely forgotten you’d taken a test last night. Two, actually. Just in case.

“Michael,” you started slowly, staring at the two pink plus signs.

“Yeah, baby?”

“How quickly can you get a flight to London?”

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michael jackson masterlist

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The morning sun was pale as it slipped past the curtains, slowly warming up the hardwood floors as much as it could with winter approaching.

You sat on the edge of your bed, your cat brushing up against your legs, impatient to be fed. Leaning down, you picked him up, taking in the soft fur and his warmth as he purred. Trying to gather the courage to get out of bed.

A melancholy had taken hold of your heart the past few months. A weight resting on your shoulders. A presence.

Ever since that night.

Weakness. Loneliness. Desperation. Sin. Whatever it was to be called.

Your mind felt like it was in hell as you called out into the night, teary eyes gazing up at the moon. At an angel. At God. You didn't know, you just needed help. An out. Not knowing how to outrun your mind.

Come to me. You cried, hands clasped so tightly in prayer, your bones shifted beneath your skin. Come to me. Guardian angel. A spirit of comfort. Any celestial being, a sob racked your chest. Come to me. Hear my prayer.

Suddenly it felt as if your breath had been robbed. Stolen. Ripped right from your lungs. The moon too bright and air too still.

But your mind— it was so quiet. Calm.

Something was holding you. The presence greedy.

Your feet carried you across your room, acting on their own accord. Or perhaps someone else's. A string tied around each joint and tugging you along, coiling you up and closer to the puppeteer.

You were brought to the window, the moon so bright. Looking at you.

Oil slipped over you mind as something, someone, he spoke.

I've got you. A caress, enveloping you. Bliss.

You shook your head, begging the memory to go away before it finished.

You always woke up in a sweat despite the long dead fire. Feeling as though you’d been dragged through something. Some sort of unreachable plane.

He was haunting your dreams. Stalking you. You felt like a rabbit running from a wolf. Not a person. Feeling it, Him, crawl beneath your skin like a spider, spinning a web around every vein and heartstring.

The clock chimed and it startled your cat, causing him to leap off your lap and his claws dug into the flesh of your thighs through your nightgown, spotting it with crimson.

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Late.

You pushed through the door with your hip, holding a crate of glass bottles filled with herbs and elixirs. Your spine felt stiff. Your bones not right. You could've sworn you felt Him on your walk to the apothecary that morning.

You were losing it. You knew you were. You couldn't have possibly… it wasn't possible.

But as you turned, the air on the back of your neck stood and it wasn't the cold.

The faintest voice. An echo rattling in your mind.

Come to me.

You blinked the thought away. The daylight was supposed to be safe.

Your boss called your name from somewhere in the back of the shop. Shortly after his head peaked over the shelves, his graying hair a mess. "Have you brought it?"

“Yes, sir." You set the crate down, urging the thoughts of Him, your shadow, to the back of your mind.

You dug the few bottles your boss asked you to order from the crate, the glass cold against your palms, bitter from the atmosphere.

He made his way between tables, his black coat heavy on his shoulders and his glasses perched down his nose as he took one of the bottles from you.

Observing it with scrutiny to see if you’d done a good job. Which you always did. You never messed up.

A slight crease formed between his brows and he set the glass back down into the crate. Barely a nod. That's all you ever got from him. All that you needed. He wasn't one to give thanks or praise. He took a chance on hiring you, you knew that. He didn't owe you anything else but your weekly wages.

He got back to work as you began organising bottles and mincing up ingredients, trying not to let your mind wander as the blade sliced through dried lilac. The sound of the knife hitting the cutting board in tune with your heart.

It began to rain on your walk home, the droplets bitter cold and feeling like bullets of ice. Other city dwellers used what they had as umbrellas if they had none.

You didn't see a point. Your skin was burning, your blood bubbling as if it were trying to claw its way out of your veins. You needed this. The cold.

You didn't mind it as rogue hair stuck to your forehead and neck, water dewing up so heavy on your lashes it was hard to keep your eyes open.

Come to me.

You flinched, turning to the sound, feet picking up pace and frantic to get away. Instincts kicking in as your eyes darted around the bodies rushing to find cover, feet splashing up water.

He was here. In the city. You knew it to be true.

Turning, your world suddenly upended as you collided with someone, black clouding your vision and you felt gloved hands grab hold of your arms to break your fall.

You blinked the rain away, your mind spinning, not understanding and your manners tried to quickly scramble their way forth.

“Apologies," tumbled out of your mouth and you tried to right yourself, but your dress was heavy with water and your skin was tight with the cold.

The hands slowly slid away from you, almost hesitant, and you finally allowed yourself to look up.

Your breath caught, heart skipped a beat, for a mere moment you thought…

“It’s okay."

The man looked down at you. Imposing. Face hidden half in shadow from his hat and the veil of rain.

Your mouth hung open slightly. Your nerves tangled in shock and what might've been trepidation.

The water pounded into the cobblestones beneath him. The rain soaking through his fine coat and hat, water beaded up on his own lashes. His eyes, they looked like the dark side of the moon that kept you company every night. Familiar.

He tilted his head to the side as he watched you, his eyes practically glowing with something you didn't think you’d ever be able to name.

Your heart was thudding in your ears. Or maybe that was just the rain.

Do something.

"I'll be–"

“Have we met–"

You both spoke at once and you couldn't help it as you felt yourself blush, but you blamed it on the cold.

He took his hat off for a moment to push his wet hair back, the locks nearly looked like spilled ink as a black-gloved hand ran through his curls. His eyes met yours again, his expression unreadable ans far too encompassing.

“Find a fire, I wouldn't want you to get sick." With that he bowed his head and stepped past you, the sharp click of his shoes fading in with the rest of the crowd.

You looked after him, watching the slight sway of his shoulders, his presence alone towering over everyone else. Men parted for him as he walked, not thinking twice, like he commanded the tides.

His voice...

A crack of thunder startled you and you kept moving, your skin prickling up again.

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Those eyes flickered, blinding you, dancing in your mind. Intent. Obsessed.

You gasped, ripping yourself awake before your mind suddenly eased, like warm water was slowly consuming your body. You were slipping, your mind's chatter easing into quiet as you went under the surface.

You saw him again. That stranger. But not quite. His silhouette was flickering in the shadows but his eyes gleamed of moonlight.

Who are you? You asked, though the air remained still.

The shadows folded, swayed, his eyes tilting. You pulled me out of the dark. His voice was like oil, dripping over the room and staining it.

But who, you stretched your jaw, your common sense fighting its way up, trying to break the surface.

He stepped closer. Your breath hitched. Equal parts frightened and enamoured.

Dark curls suddenly caught the moonlight but it was still difficult to make him out. A shifting phantom. Restless. Crazed as you felt something rough yet soft slide down the side of your neck.

A hand. Possessive.

You are not for the living, your stranger said.

The sharp planes of his face morphed into something tangible as he leaned down. Cool breath hitting your face and you felt in a trance as you looked up at him.

His thumb dragged across your bottom lip. Eyes intent as he followed the action.

You knew you were in the presence of something beyond humanity but you couldn't look away. Couldn't back away. The strings all tangled and too tight.

When you woke up the next morning, your room was empty and your cat sat at the end of your bed, staring at the corner of your room.

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Your mind was muddled as the week went on. He had never touched you before in your dreams. Never... he had never been someone. You wondered if your mind was playing tricks on you. Trying to slot a face into the voice and presence you always felt. Deciding to pick that man you had run into.

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Your hand slipped and the knife tore into your hand, the pain quick and sharp but it was a mere echo.

Wrapping some cloth around the wound, you heard the bell above the door chime.

"One moment!" You called, pulling the cotton tight and weaving your way around the tables and boxes. You wished your boss would let you organize properly. But he had everything where he needed and wanted, peering down his hooked nose every time you asked and sneering, It is organised.

You rolled your eyes thinking about it.

Rounding the corner of some shelves, you stopped short at the sight of a man leaning down, hands in pockets as he looked at some of the medicinals the shop sold.

Dark eyes. Sharp cheekbones.

At your presence, his eyes flicked up, down to your hand, then back up again. Pupils blown a little wide.

"You," you breathed the word without realizing it.

He blinked a few times as he straightened, eyes dancing down to your cut hand again, the blood dotting on the fabric. "You're hurt." His tone held nothing. No worry. No concern. Though, he did sound ever so slightly breathless. Just a bit. Or maybe you were imagining things.

His eyes. He looked hungry.

"I'm fine," you managed to get out, walking behind the counter. For safety, perhaps. Some semblance of security. He was even more overwhelming in broad daylight. In person. Your dream now fading into an even more warped fantasy. Right now he was far too real.

His jaw clenched, the muscles working under his skin. Running his tongue along the inside of his cheek as he seemed to force himself to look away from you and to the wall of bottles and dried goods.

You gnawed at her lip, brows furrowing as you watched him. Taking a breath, you all but ground the words out. "Can I help you with something?"

He sighed, eyes slating towards you, nearly looking pained and it made you feel dizzy. Who was this man?

Your boss snapped your name, appearing from what seemed to be thin air and you flinched. The old man was looking at you like you had grown a second head. "Are you just going to stand there or help him? What do I pay you for?"

You opened your mouth to argue but he was already disappearing into the back of the store. Leaving you blushing and a bit embarrassed. But when you turned back around, the stranger was gone.

You let out a breath of air. Equally relieved but disappointed. In what, you weren’t sure. Curiosity, perhaps. Your eyes looked down at your hand but stopped short when you noticed the dried flowers laying on the table, a black ribbon tied around them with a small piece of parchment. Two letters were drawn in ebony ink.

M.J.

You gently picked them up. Red carnations and Fern.

Your eyes danced to where he had stood, wondering if you focused hard enough he'd materialize like he did the other night.

"Who are you?" You whispered.

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Fresh air. You needed fresh air.

Yanking the sheets off of you, your skin was cold but covered in dew drops of sweat. You could feel it. Feel Him. Crawling over your bones and staining them. An insatiable itch you couldn't reach.

You blindly made your way down the stairs and out into the garden. Your feet silent as they padded across the frost crusted grass. Your body was burning up and you wanted to strip yourself from the cotton, desperate and feeling suffocated as the moon stared down at you.

You yanked at your hair. Strands sticking to your skin. Too much. Too sensitive.

Come to me.

You squeezed your eyes shut, a cry almost leaving you as you felt your feet start to move somewhere. North, maybe.

Your conscience took a step back, a door closing, looking at you with knowing eyes. Wait– you called, but the door locked and oil spilled over again.

Who are you? You asked. You’d always ask till you got an answer, your legs carrying you through the bushes and closer and closer to an unknown. The back of your mind whispered that your parents wouldn't like this. This behavior. Your father nearly sent you off after that first night. Nearly sent you off every night you woke the house with your ramblings of a shadow man.

His voice swirled around you, almost teasing in its lilt— You know.

I do not.

A hand wrapped around the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair. It sent chills down your spine, ravishing your skin.

I... you blinked against the dark, your feet suddenly hitting cobblestone. I know you, don't I?

The hand danced down, leash loosening only a bit and you heard that familiar click of expensive shoes as they walked.

You fell in step with the sound, not feeling the bite of snow on your bare feet. Darkness was folding around you, snuffing out the flames of street lamps. You could faintly make out the sway of his shoulders.

Your head was spinning. Spinning and spinning as you turned down an alley, feet faltering and so bitterly numb you fell to your knees, scuffing your shins and you looked down. Blood. So much. It felt like the earth was pulsing around you from an open artery.

There was a body. A man. Lying stiff a few feet away. Eyes blank and empty. Soulless. Blood poured from his neck.

You should scream.

He knelt at your side, head tilting, brushing your hair away. The blood was sticky and warm against the snow.

What is this insufferable darkness? You felt like you couldn't breathe.

His nose brushed yours. Your phantom. Yours. He belonged to you. His hands twined with your own. Fingers long and much larger than yours. Holding you.

Dream of me. Only me. You felt a chaste kiss against your forehead. Swear it.

The blood was getting stickier. Voices. Approaching steps.

The words left you in a puff of air.

"I swear."

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Your nightmare hadn't ended yet. You were sure of it.

You sat dazed in the chair. Your parents sitting nearby. Your mother clutching her rosary like a vice. Your father wouldn't look at you.

"Father," your father's voice shook with conviction. "Is there anything you can do? Anything we can do?"

You felt dizzy as you stared up at the multicoloured windows. Mother Mary gazed down at you, tears in her eyes.

"Someone has offered to take her in."

Your eyes snapped forward, staring at the priest and he averted his eyes. Right now you were the other. The secret. Fallen. Your mind had been tainted for years now. Your mother said so as she cried into her cross.

"Who?"

"A practitioner… a doctor, of sorts. He's known within a small community for handling rare cases such as these with his treatments." The priest paused, shifting in his chair and removing his spectacles. "However–"

"And what were the results?" Your father asked, inching forward in his chair.

The holy man sighed. "His methods are... are arcane, if any, and I can't–"

"Were they successful?"

The priest rolled his jaw at your father, seeing a lost battle in front of him. "To a degree, but I advise you to think on this, the Church can provide perfectly–"

All you did was stare as the whole... transaction unfolded. That's what it felt like. Being handed off in such a way. The priest's warnings fell on deaf ears. Your mother only bowed her head as the carriage door shut on you. Your father did not say a word.

Your eyes slid to the man sitting across from you. He worked for whoever you were being sent off to. This practitioner. You were hopeless. Damned. No one could possibly fix you. You weren’t sure if there even was anything to be fixed.

The man across from you was not phased at your stare. He returned it tenfold. Gray eyes sharp.

Insightful.

"Where am I going?" You eventually asked, watching the city fade as the wheels turned.

"Somewhere where you know how to be handled."

Your eyes narrowed slightly. "I don't need to be handled."

He settled himself in his seat, crossing an ankle over his knee and forcing you to lean back. "I'm the attendant."

You looked away out the window, your breath fogging up the glass. "I don't care."

"Your father said you could be a handful, he didn't say you were rude."

Clenching your jaw, you looked back at him. He was pale. Strikingly so. His greying hair hidden beneath a cap. "Where am I going?" You asked again.

He sighed as he lit a pipe. The fire from the match lit up his eyes and for a moment they gleamed red. He waited to answer you till he held the pipe between his teeth and smoke plummed out.

"The Jackson Estate."

You raised a brow. You’d never heard of it.

"It's the Practitioner's residence."

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Heels clicked against the polished flooring. It was dark. The only light being candles that flickered along the hall. Illuminating the portraits in a macabre sort of beauty.

You held your breath as the attendant— he still had yet to give you his name, escorted you inside. The estate felt heavy. Dense. The air a little suffocating. You felt Him here. Strongly. Concerned that without the bustle of the city to drown him out he'd be more... loud.

His tour was curt and to the point. Telling you what was off limits and what wasn't. Telling you your schedule, though it was vague. Treatment. He wouldn't elaborate.

Everything was very...elaborate. Elegant. Old.

Refined and styled with thought. Every stitch in the carpet intricate. You felt horribly out of place. And too hot. You had passed by numerous hearths, all of them roaring. Flames licking out onto the marble.

He came to a stop in front of a door on the third floor, turning its silver handle and it popped open with a click. "Your quarters."

You didn't know what you were expecting. A small bed with restraints, maybe. Isn't that what mad people get put through? Bars on the windows. Rats in the corners. Scratch marks on the walls.

But as the door creaked open, you were met with an elegant, albeit ordinary room. Your brows furrowed and looked at him. "What is this?"

"Your room." He said flatly, like you were stupid.

Your jaw clenched and you waved an arm out. "No, what is this? Everything. This house. What treatment? What practitioner?"

He bit the inside of his cheek, looking past you into the room. "You can ask all the questions you want at dinner."

He left before you could say anything else, mouth agape like an idiot as another servant brought in your single trunk. He only nodded briefly at you, not sparing you a glance before scuttling from the room.

You huffed. Confused. A little scared, but your curiosity was winning that battle.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You weren’t even sure where the dining room was.

Come to me.

The rug softened your foot fall as you walked. Your hand trailing along the wood paneling of the wall. Dizzy as you looked at some very old portraits. They looked like Him. Your stranger. Your ghost. He was haunting you, even here.

The practitioner didn't attend dinner that night.

The attendant said he had a mess to clean up.

Your questions went unanswered.

Jackson. The name was heavy on your tongue. Whispers in your sleep. Restless. Your stomach pooling. Melting. Those eyes. You clenched your thighs together and awoke with a start when there was a sharp knock on your door.

Your breath left you in heavy pants. A shadow could be seen beneath the door. Pulsating. Begging to be let in. Fighting against the moonlight that poured through the tall windows.

You bit your lip, fear crackling in your veins. It was Him. It had to be. You could feel it.

Your name was said lowly from the other side of the door.

You froze. Blinked. Hands moving the covers off of your body before you could think better of it.

You creaked the door open.

Dark brown eyes stared down at you, half swathed in shadow.

Your lips parted. You had a feeling, but lately you couldn't trust your own thoughts. You should've known.

His hands were clasped behind him. Still wearing a suit despite the late hour. He smelled faintly of iron and orchids.

"You." Your brows furrowed. A mixture of disbelief and anger. "How–"

"May I come in? I was told you had some questions."

Let me in.

You nearly fell backward with the force of it. Hands trembling as they opened the door further. He didn't spare you another glance as he walked into the room, shutting the door softly behind him.

"You're in my head," the words tumbled out and you pressed your back into the post of the bed.

His hands were in his pockets as he tilted his head at you. Moonlight glinting off his hair. Looking just like he had that first night you saw him in your room.

"It's... it's you." He was your melancholy. Your darkness. It was him.

"What on Earth are you talking about?"

"Don't deny it!" You bit out, your voice nearly a cry.

He sighed, as if you were being unreasonable. "I see treatment needs to start tomorrow–"

"What treatment? Who are you? You're the one who's been haunting me. I'm not mad, it's you."

All he did was stare at you. Patient.

Pupils wide in the dark.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You couldn't remember falling asleep. Just the heaviness. Dizziness. Your stranger, looking at you as if you were some sylph.

Your neck was sore and you winced as you moved but hands gently caressed your head.

You faintly heard your name.

You blinked. The world a blur and slowly coming into focus.

You were on the ground, someone kneeling over you, cool breath dusting your face. Thumbs swiping gently under your eyes. "Wake up." The voice. So soft. Smooth and like oil. His. A creature comfort.

You tried to take in the feeling of his calloused hands as he held your face. "What..." early morning light was pooling past the curtains. Your eyes finally found his. The closeness of him was more jarring than anything else had been.

Your brows furrowed. He was infuriatingly complicated.

"I'm not mad." Is all you could think to say.

He hummed, dark hair falling over his eyes as he observed you. This time more clinical. Less consuming than last night.

Had he stayed with you?

You became acutely aware you were sprawled out on the carpet in only your nightgown.

A blush reddened your cheeks and you tried to move but you winced again with the turn of your neck.

"Careful now." He helped ease you up. One hand on the back of your neck, the other around your waist. You were on fire again.

"What happened?"

"You fainted."

"I gathered that much, thank you."

His eyes twitched slightly. You weren’t sure if it was in amusement or not.

Before anything else could cross your mind, such as to push him away, his large hands found your elbows and he hauled you up.

"I'll see you after breakfast."

"What for?"

His hands dropped from you as he walked to the door.

"Our first session."

He left without saying anything else. And if you hadn't been so overwhelmed, you would've noticed the blood on his collar.

Would've noticed the blood on you.

You sat for some time after he'd gone, the faint imprint of his hands still warm against your skin. Your fingers brushed your neck again, wincing but you chalked it up to the faint, perhaps you’d twisted in the fall. That must be it. You told yourself so twice.

When you did rise, the room seemed too quiet, as if it had been holding its breath. You wrapped your arms around you and padded barefoot in circles around your room, the silence of the house only broken by the occasional tick of the grandfather clock below.

Your eyes then caught on a tray. Not sure when it had gotten there. Maybe he brought it. Though the gesture seemed too...kind.

Toast. A soft boiled egg. Tea that had already begun to cool. You sat, stared at it, then lifted the cup with trembling hands. The tea had a strange aftertaste to it. Iron, maybe? Or the remnants of your own unsettled stomach, but you drank it anyway. You needed something solid in you, or you feared you might float away altogether.

A light knock came at the door, too soft to startle.

The attendant’s voice called your name through the door.

"Yes," you replied, brushing some hair from your face.

He stood just beyond the threshold as he opened it, dressed in proper attire while you were still in your nightgown.

"Your first session," he said. "Mr. Jackson is ready, if you are."

You hesitated only for a moment before nodding.

The disquiet in your chest was not fear, it was something stranger. Curiosity. Longing. Like a moth pressing against a glass. You grabbed a robe hanging off a hook and tied it tightly around you, the softness of it only easing you slightly.

He led you through the house without speaking. The halls were long, lined with portraits you didn't recognize, faces that all seemed to follow you with their eyes. You tried not to stare too long.

The door to the study opened before you’d realized you arrived, the attendant excused himself while Mr. Jackson smiled at you.

The study was warm, fire lit though it was barely past dawn. Curtains drawn tight. A chaise lounge by the hearth and a high backed chair beside it. He gestured for you to lie down.

You obeyed. You didn't know why.

He took his seat, crossed one long leg over the other, folded his hands.

"Tell me about the voice."

So much for easing into things.

You stared at the ceiling, trying to get comfortable if even possible. "I don't remember much. Only that it was... kind. Gentle."

His head tilted. "And familiar?"

"Yes. I think so."

He said nothing. The fire cracked and hissed.

Your eyes fluttered closed for a moment. You could still feel his fingers against your face from earlier, the way he held you like you might vanish.

"It led me to the body, didn't it?"

"That depends. Do you think it did?"

You opened your eyes again. "I thought we were discussing memory, not madness."

He smiled at that, though not unkindly. "And what if they're the same?"

You looked away.

"I didn't hurt anyone," you whispered. "I couldn't have."

"No," he said softly. "You couldn't have."

It was the gentleness that undid you. That and the quiet assurance in his voice. A sudden ache pressed behind your ribs and your breath hitched, though you didn't know why. Not a person, you reminded yourself. A rabbit.

Perhaps you only wanted to believe him.

There was a rustle of paper shortly followed by his voice. "When did this start?"

Your mind wandered back. That night. Your loneliness had swallowed you whole. "Months ago. Dreams."

"Dreams?"

You nodded, twisting your fingers till they hurt. Not wanting him to ask but you knew he would.

"And what happened?"

You couldn't help the blush. The shame. How badly you had wanted comfort that night. "I don't know, it was..." you shut your eyes briefly. "They grew darker. My dreams. The first night felt like the first act. But the rest," you turned her head, neck still aching. "Tell me, does evil come from within us or beyond?"

There was a long pause. The kind that hung in the air like fog, wrapping cold fingers around your throat.

He didn't answer at once. He stood, slowly, the firelight casting long shadows across his face.

He moved toward the window, though the curtains remained drawn. One hand rested lightly on the sill, the other behind his back. He looked like a man waiting for something. Or someone.

"Tell me," he said at last, voice low, smooth as silk but sharp beneath it, "if a wolf kills a rabbit, is the wolf evil for wanting food?"

You blinked. The question struck you oddly, given the allusion he landed on was painfully familiar.

"No," you said carefully. "Of course not. It's the circle of life. The wolf survives. The rabbit... doesn't."

He turned his head, just enough for you to catch a glimpse of him over his shoulder. His eyes were unreadable, but there was a glint there. Not of mischief. Not quite of hunger. Something older. Deeper. You couldn't place it, and it unsettled you more than you liked.

"And what if the wolf enjoys it?" he asked.

You frowned. "Enjoys what?"

"The hunt."

Your mouth went dry. Your tongue felt too large for your mouth.

"I suppose that's natural too," you said, after a pause. "Isn't it?"

He smiled, slow and fleeting. "Natural," he echoed, as if tasting the word.

You drew the robe tighter around you. Your neck still ached, a dull throb now, pulsing with each beat of your heart.

He turned fully then, his expression polite once more, hands folded neatly before him.

"You've done very well," he said. "It takes courage to speak so openly. Especially when the truth feels... inconvenient."

You looked up at him, eyes narrowing slightly.

"Truth is only inconvenient when it frightens us."

A beat.

"Agreed.”

There was something in his tone, just for a moment, something that sounded oddly like admiration.

"I'll leave you to rest. You've earned it."

He moved toward the door, and again, you caught that strange sensation as he passed, like the air folded around him. Like the shadows themselves knew to step aside.

You waited until the door clicked shut before you exhaled.

You hadn't answered his question properly. Not really. Nor had he answered yours.

And you couldn't shake the feeling that he already knew exactly what you were going to say.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

It had been eleven days since your arrival.

Or perhaps twelve.

The house made time feel elastic, stretching and snapping without rhythm. Mornings bled into evenings. Meals arrived without clocks. Mr. Jackson, for all his precision, never gave you a fixed schedule.

You found yourself waiting for him anyway.

You stood now before the long mirror in your room, studying the hollowness beneath your eyes. You weren’t sleeping well. Or you were, but it was the wrong sort of sleep. You would wake with the taste of earth and copper on your tongue, your limbs heavy, tangled in sheets as though you’d been dancing with something in the dark.

He called it suggestion. A method of drawing the subconscious forward.

You called it dreams. Vivid, sickly sweet things that left your skin in a sweat and your mind fogged.

Still, you attended each session.

You told yourself it was part of the process. That the warmth in your chest when he looked at you was merely the result of trust. That the way your skin remembered his fingers long after they'd left was simply... psychological. A trick of the treatment.

Today, the parlour was darker than usual. Curtains half-drawn, the fire low. He waited, standing rather than seated, large hands clasped behind his back. His coat was red today. Velvet, or something like it. It made his eyes almost luminous.

He said your name with the faintest nod. “You're late."

"I wasn't told a time," you replied, chin lifting slightly.

"Even so." His eyes glinted. "You're slipping."

You opened your mouth to protest, then closed it again. He gestured to the chaise.

You lay down without being asked twice.

"You're tense," he murmured. He always knew.

"Let's begin."

He never touched you during these moments. Not really. Sometimes his voice alone felt like a hand resting lightly on your temple. Sometimes you swore you could feel his breath on your throat when he spoke low and close, but when you opened her eyes, he'd be across the room.

"Close your eyes," he said now. "Breathe in. Slowly. Hold it. Good. Again."

You obeyed.

The room dulled. Colours softened. His voice moved through you like music, smooth and lulling.

"You're walking through a garden," he murmured. "Stone underfoot. A chill in the air. You're not afraid. You are guided. Can you see it?"

"Yes," you whispered. And you could, wisteria hanging in curtains, fog coiling at your ankles. And a figure. Tall, blurred at the edges. Watching you.

"Describe him," he said.

"I... I can't."

"Try."

"He's... not a man. Not really. He's shaped like one. But..." Your brow furrowed. "There's something in his eyes. A hunger. He's—"

You jerked as though touched. Your eyes flew open.

The fire was brighter now. Your hands trembled.

Mr. Jackson regarded you with his usual calm. One eyebrow arched slightly. "Interesting."

"What was that?" you asked, breath catching in your throat.

"Your mind," he said softly. "It speaks, if you listen."

You sat up slowly, arms curling round yourself. "I don't like that garden."

"Few like the place where the truth begins."

You looked at him then, properly. The angle of his jaw, the stillness of him. Not a muscle twitched. Not even his breath.

"Do you ever sleep?" you asked suddenly.

He smiled without showing his teeth. "What would I dream of?"

You pondered it, rolling on your side and perching yourself up on one arm. Allowing yourself to really look at him. You knew absolutely nothing about him. He was poised. In control of himself. Calm. At least on the surface. But this estate... this house. It was far too big and too lonely. Daunting. Sometimes you felt like you could hear the portraits whisper at night. There was one in particular you always stopped by. So very old but better maintained than the rest. A woman with eyes like his but warmer. Fresh flowers were always underneath it. A loved one, you could only assume. The rest of the portraits were left to rot.

"The past, maybe."

His fingers tapped a rhythm into his thigh as he watched you. "You think of me as nostalgic?"

You laid back down again, eyes tracing the pattern in the carved ceiling. Thinking back to your childhood. How bright it all felt. The flowers smelled better and the sun shone more. You remembered laughing more, as a girl. Of running down side streets with your friends before they went off to university. Abandoning you.

"Aren't we all?"

It was quiet for a moment. The only sound was your beating heart and the crackle of the hearth before you heard him stand.

Your breath caught at his retreat. The sudden panic alarming but unavoidable.

"Mr. Jackson," you started. His footsteps paused. "Why is it they think you can... fix me. Find answers that others cannot?"

You didn't look at him. Couldn't. Waited for the sound of his shoes to click again with bated breath. A beat of your heart passed before you felt him shift closer to you.

"My reputation, perhaps."

You raised a brow, finally turning. Catching his eyes. Glowing. "Reputation?"

He observed you another moment before bowing his head slightly. "I'll see you tomorrow." And he left without another word.

More of your questions going unanswered.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You felt rigid that morning as you sat down for breakfast. A maid had come to grab you instead of leaving a tray like usual.

Your appetite was scarce and a trembling hand reached for your tea, the porcelain rattling against the saucer but you paused as soon as he entered the room.

Morning light made everything look hazy. Filtering in through the high windows and catching in the curtains that always remained half drawn.

In the time you had been there, you two had never eaten a meal together. Not even the attendant, technically. That first dinner he just sat there, drinking wine and being infuriatingly unhelpful.

Mr. Jackson sat, though he touched nothing laid out on the table.

"Good morning."

You clenched your trembling hand into a fist as you pulled it away from your tea, deciding it was best to clutch it beneath the table.

You dreamed about him last night. Again. Sinful and wrong. Wretched.

Lovely.

He didn't miss your silence and he looked at you with a brow barely raised.

Time ticked by. You could hear it on the clock.

He leaned back in his seat, adorning it like a throne.

"You don't seem to like practitioners very much."

Your jaw ticked and you looked down.

"Or do you just not like me?"

His question took you off guard and your usual attempt at being polite rushed forth. "No, I—" you bit your tongue. You shouldn't find excuses. Reasons.

You swallowed dryly and tried to focus on your food as you spoke. You couldn't look at him. "I've just had bad experiences, is all. Bags filled with knives. Strange things to measure my skull." All things considered you could at least admit to yourself the relief you felt when you realized all you two would be doing is talking. At least for now.

His fingers thrummed on the table and you finally took note of the ring he was wearing.

"I'm not that kind of doctor."

Your jaw ached as you clenched it. Watching him lean forward on the table by his elbows. His expression unreadable as he spoke.

"Are you afraid of me?"

"I don't know." You didn't. You hadn't the faintest idea how you felt about him. A thousand things. Perhaps nothing. A few. It felt complicated.

The thrumming stopped and he dug into his coat pocket before pulling out a moderately small package and holding it out for you. "This is for you."

You eyed it for a long moment. Taking note of his slender hands. The bones and muscle that made him up. A gift?

With furrowed brows and a cautious hand, you gently took it from his hold and peeled back the wrappings.

Your shaking hands suddenly stilled.

"What?" He asked, voice even, as ever.

You lightly ran your fingers down the cover, over the ridges of the title. It was the first edition of your favorite novel. "Nothing, just...a book?" You looked at him, brows furrowed. Trying to read him but he was written in a foreign language.

He nodded, resting his chin in his palm.

Was this a session?

"And what does it remind you of?"

Your lips parted to ask him how he even knew but the memory from your childhood outshone the rest of your thoughts.

It was Christmas morning when you were a child and your mother had grown tired of you stealing the papers from the neighbors despite them all saying the same thing. You were convinced you’d find something new in them and your father no longer had time to take you to the library.

It had been the first book you were ever gifted. Your own. The first thing you felt like you could truly call yours.

You blinked away tears and set the book down. "I'm sorry, I don't understand—"

"I think you understand me well enough."

So this was a session. He took you off guard. No warning. A change of scenery. You couldn't prepare. You hated it.

"A bookshop." The lie slipped out.

He hummed. He knew.

You thrummed your own fingers now on the table. This whole thing was off kilter. Not right. Your mind trailing back to the hesitancy of the priest.

"Are you a clergyman?"

He blinked. "No."

"Do you have any affiliation with the church?"

There was a moment, brief reluctance. “No.”

Your brows furrowed. Not understanding how your mother would have agreed to this. Not understanding the priest's suggestion even though he did try to warn.

Which brought you to your next question.

Why the warning?

"I'm a practitioner. I work with the mind. Diseases of the mind. I don't deal with fantasies of demons lurking in the shadows or behind closed eyelids."

Science. A man of science. Perhaps that was the reason for caution given the two tended to clash heads. But you still felt like that wasn't enough. Not to mention you weren’t diseased. You weren’t.

You were not mad.

He said your name in a lull, dancing around your throat and tilting your head up. "I'm here to listen to you. To reason." He paused and seemed to consider his next words. "I don't think you're mad. We just need to prove to everyone else that you're not. And that only begins once we stop your... night terrors."

"They're not night terrors." Your stubbornness was still intact, apparently.

He sighed, looking at you through long lashes. "I would like to help you. If you talk to me, I will listen. But—"

"I don't want to go back to the garden."

The words were out and you were holding onto your dress so tight you were sure the threads would rip. Thinking about that night is one thing. Actually reliving it, that was not something you wanted anyone else to witness.

All he did was hum and tap your book with a finger as he stood.

"Until tomorrow."

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You felt heavy. Caressed. Something soft grazing the side of your face.

The pain was sharp and sudden but melted into something alien and blissful. A silent gasp left you and your pulse thrummed. Skipped.

Hazy and opium filled the air.

You looked up through heavy eyes, spotting the now familiar darkness of his hair.

Part of you wanted to touch it. Touch him.

But your limbs were too heavy.

Only as you went to the bathroom later that morning did you finally take notice of the bruising.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Eyes bore into each other. The tick of the clock matched your heart.

He was so patient.

You were sitting today. Not laying. Not wanting to be that vulnerable, yet.

There was the rustle of fabric as you shifted. Watching him watch you.

"I'm not sure what you want me to tell you."

He shook his head, chin tilting down. "I don't want anything. It's what you want to say that's of interest to me."

You looked down. Your fingers tapped a light rhythm into the book you held in your hands. Since he'd given it to you, you were already about a quarter way in.

Silence stretched and pulsed.

"How's the book?"

You pressed your tongue behind your teeth. "It's fine."

"What do you think?"

Your eye twitched. "Are you laughing at me?"

"No." He leaned forward, elbows on knees. Keen.

"I'm just curious. The book seemed to mean a lot to you."

You shook your head, looking away again. "It's just a book."

"Does it remind you of anything?" That head tilt of his had a habit of slowly unraveling you. "Your childhood, perhaps? If we are to circle back to the topic of nostalgia."

Your skin felt too tight. He somehow knew. Knew too much. Too little. "Not quite. Lots of children want books—"

"And did you? Want books? Want that one?"

"To say so is bad luck."

"Bad luck?"

You hummed. Tracing the letters. "To say what you want does the opposite. It's best to keep it to yourself. Be careful of wanting anything." Your mind trailed to that night. Your desperate prayer. "You may be punished for it."

You hadn't realized he stood, now in front of you. Hands in pockets and staring down. A god deciding to observe mere mortals.

"Do you think you're being punished?"

His eyes. So stunning in their appearance. Their depth. Flickering red for a moment in the firelight.

You were breathless as you spoke. "I think so, yes."

You felt like you were being torn open.

Not like flesh. Not the gruesome tears.

Softly, like fruit. Too ripe and splitting with barely a tug.

Abrasive.

That's what he was. That's what this was.

"Have you had any dreams since being here?"

You paused as you messed with the hem of your sleeve. "I suppose." You didn't dare look at him. The room dark, as always. You debated on running to the window and tearing open the blinds just to see what he would do. "Not that I can remember them, though."

You couldn't help it.

A peek, that's it.

He looked... disappointed.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You were brought down for dinner.

Snow was coating every window and you couldn't help it as your mind wandered. Watching the gardens from each window you passed. That's the only time the curtains were pulled back. Swathing the estate in moonlight and candles. Fires roaring.

Christmas was nearing. Your first without your family. Your mother.

Every year you were gifted a book.

You wondered what this year would've been.

Your knife slipped at the thought and crimson bled onto your plate.

However, you were distracted from the pain by the sudden intake of breath from someone else at the table.

Your eyes danced up.

The attendant looked... well it was rather concerning.

He looked as if he were about to lunge at something—you, before Mr. Jackson’s sharp tone cut through the air.

"Take your leave." he practically snapped. A warning.

"Michael—"

"Now."

You’d never heard him sound like that.

Michael... so that was his name.

The scrape of wood met your ears as the man left and you looked at the head of the table.

He was sitting perfectly still. Not even blinking.

Pupils wide.

You bit the inside of your cheek. Grabbed your napkin and pressed it to the cut. "Rude not to offer a wounded lady help."

A beat.

"I was under the impression you didn't want my help."

You took a drink of your wine. Annoyed. At him. Yourself. Your life.

"And I was under the impression you were going to give it anyway."

He smiled slightly, into his own glass.

You shouldn't have felt pleased.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You laid awake as the night droned on. Staring at the ceiling and seeing red carnations in your minds eye.

M.J.

"So that's who..."

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You didn't remember falling asleep.

It was a craving. To know him.

Forbidden.

Insatiable. A lurid glare to it as you tried to claw your way toward it.

Down down down into the pit. Persephone stumbling after Hades.

You wanted to go where you knew you couldn't. Not that you weren’t allowed... it wasn't possible. Shouldn't be.

You shouldn't want to descend.

You shouldn't want to tear into his body like he did yours and look inside.

But you did.

You wanted to claw your way through shadows and flesh and hold the heart of your shadow.

Your affliction.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

It felt as if your skeleton had shifted inside of you.

Evolved.

Adapted.

You watched him more closely.

You knew he was familiar. Knew something wasn't right.

Come to me.

It didn't scare you anymore.

There was no fright.

Just fuel to the fire that was your curiosity.

You remembered all your dreams. You always had.

You wanted to know him.

Whatever the cost.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

The bruises bloomed like lilacs, soft-edged and dusky, nestled in the hollow of your throat and curling faintly at your jaw. They didn't ache like bruises should. They pulsed.

You stood at the washbasin, fingertips hovering above the discolouration. You didn't dare touch them. The skin there felt different, as though it didn't belong to you.

Sleepwalking, you thought. A fall, perhaps. A bedpost knocked in the night. You had no memory of it. Only of... warmth. A heaviness. A dream that left you breathless, as though you’d run from something and forgotten why.

And always, always his voice. Somewhere between a lullaby and command.

You dressed high-necked that day.

Michael— Mr. Jackson, didn't remark on it, though he watched your collar with pointed interest.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

That night, you dreamt of teeth.

Not fangs, not the obvious kind, but rows of them.

Clean, white, perfect. Smiling. Too wide. Set in a face you almost recognized, but the name felt wrong on your tongue.

When you awoke, your bed was cold. You had no memory of leaving it.

The bruises were darker now. Deeper. Like ink stains pressed just beneath the skin.

You no longer believed you’d walked into a bedpost— never believed it in the first place.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You stopped a maid that afternoon. A girl no older than twenty two, with flaxen braids and red-raw hands.

"Where is Mr. Jackson sleeping?" you asked.

The girl blinked, confused. "He doesn't, miss."

You tilted your head. "Doesn't?"

"Not since I've been here."

You left the conversation colder than you entered it.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

The next evening, you didn't sleep.

You waited.

You left the lamps unlit and the windows cracked to let the night in. Bitter cold with yule on the heels. You let the estate settle into silence, that old, heavy silence peculiar to large houses built to hold the dead. And then you crept from your room, barefoot on the carpet. Soft. Cautious.

Drawn.

The air grew colder the further you wandered. Corridors unfamiliar. Doors you hadn't seen. The paintings on the wall were more distorted here, melted faces, hands too long, eyes that followed.

And then you heard it.

Music.

Low. Disjointed. Like a lullaby played backwards.

It drew you to a door at the end of the hallway, grand, arched, carved with something that might have once been ivy. It was ajar.

You pushed.

Inside was not a room.

It was a chapel. Barely lit. The walls were stone, the air damp. An altar stood at its centre, not with a cross, but with something old, older than the Church, older than scripture. A symbol you couldn't place, carved in ash and bone.

And him.

Not standing. Kneeling.

Michael Jackson, his head bowed, dark curls catching the candlelight. His lips moved. Singing? Praying? You couldn't hear.

You took a step back. The floor creaked.

His head turned.

He said your name plainly. Gaze knowing. His voice was calm. Almost warm. "You ought to be in bed."

You didn't answer. Couldn't.

"Curiosity," he murmured, finally rising to his full height, "is a strange sort of affliction, isn't it?"

You swallowed. Your mouth was dry.

"I heard music."

"Did you?" He approached you slowly, like one might approach a skittish doe. "What did it sound like?"

You stepped back, suddenly afraid you wouldn't remember how to run if you needed to.

"What is this place?"

"A room for reflection," he said. "Or confession. Depending on what you bring to it."

"And what do you bring?"

His eyes glinted. That unreadable thing.

"Hunger."

"Hunger," you echoed, and your voice sounded thin, like stretched glass. "For what?"

He stopped just shy of you. Too close. His shoes almost scuffing against your slippers. Taunting.

"Truth," he said softly, tilting his head. "Is that not what you want as well?"

Your pulse was a staccato drumbeat in your throat. "You don't pray," you whispered. "You said so. You don't believe in demons."

"I don't," he agreed. "But belief is not a requirement for truth."

Your spine pressed against the cool stone of the doorway. He hadn't touched you, not really. Not with his hands. But you felt surrounded all the same.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You couldn't remember how you got back to bed.

"This isn't treatment," you breathed.

"No," he admitted.

A candle flickered beside you and in that small movement of flame, something shifted in his face. A flash, not anger, not cruelty. A melancholy.

He looked lonely.

He took your hand, gently, like you were spun sugar, and placed something cold in your palm.

A key.

"Next time you walk the halls," he murmured, "don't wait for music. Choose a door."

And then he turned from you, his coat whispering behind him like wings. The candlelight dimmed as he passed, and when you looked down at the key, you swore you felt it hum.

That night, your sleep was not your own.

When was it ever?

You stood in your dream, or in something like it, in the same chapel. Barefoot. There was no roof, only a black sky, the stars like puncture wounds.

Something brushed your collar. Breath, maybe. Wind. Or worse.

When you awoke, your feet were dirty. The key still clutched in your hand.

And the bruises had bloomed again.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

At breakfast, you wore a scarf.

He made no remark — only poured your tea, and added a drop of something from a dark bottle you hadn't seen before.

You didn't stop him.

Treatment, maybe.

"Tell me," he said after a long pause, "has the voice grown louder?"

You froze.

You hadn't mentioned Him in a while.

Had you?

You met his eyes across the table. Something within you said: ask. Ask the thing you don't want to know.

So you did.

"Am I sleepwalking?"

He took a slow sip from his glass, and when he set it down, the reflection in it wasn't quite his.

"No," he said evenly.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

The key was warm in your palm that evening.

It shouldn't have been.

You sat on the edge of the bed, the curtains drawn against the dusk. There was a hush to the estate that night, not silence, not quite, but the sense that everything was listening. The house breathed.

You held the key between your thumb and forefinger, turning it, studying the tiny sigils carved into the metal. Not letters. Not anything you knew. But the more you looked, the more they started to seem... familiar. Like the curl of smoke. Like the bone-white markings you'd once seen drawn in salt outside a chapel. A priest who spoke in tongues. A body buried without eyes.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You didn't remember leaving your room, only that you were suddenly in the east wing — the one the staff never went near. The corridor stretched long and crooked like a spine. Doors lined either side, tall and narrow, all unmarked. Some had handles. Some didn't.

One door breathed when you passed.

Another sighed.

The third... sang.

A low note. Barely audible. A single violin string beneath the floorboards. A tone that rang behind your teeth and in the base of your spine.

Your key fit that lock.

Of course it did.

Your fingers trembled as you turned it. The door creaked inward and a cold breath of air curled out, kissing your neck.

The room inside was, impossibly, a replica of your childhood bedroom.

Down to the crooked bookshelf. The lavender candle. The missing curtain hook. A pair of scuffed shoes too small to wear now, placed beside the bed.

You stepped in. The air was stale with memory.

"Clever," you murmured. To yourself. Or maybe not.

The candle lit on its own.

There, on the nightstand, was your old hairbrush. The one your mother had broken in half in a fit of frustration the year your hair refused to be tamed.

You lifted it — not a crack to be found.

Something in the mirror moved.

You turned. Nothing there. But your reflection lingered a moment longer than it should have.

You left quickly after that.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You didn't sleep. Not really. You floated. Drowned, more like.

The next morning, he greeted you with soft eyes and a darker waistcoat. You noticed his cuff was stained with something that looked like wine. But wasn't.

"Shall we begin again?" he asked, voice smooth as ever.

You didn't respond.

He gestured to the settee. You sat, heart stammering, mind fractured from the night before.

"I want to try something," he said. "Nothing frightening. Just... deeper. A guided state. The mind is like a room. Sometimes we must rearrange the furniture."

You blinked. "You mean hypnosis."

He smiled, but not unkindly. "I mean honesty."

Your fingers twitched.

"You're safe," he said, and for one treacherous second, you almost believed it.

His voice dropped into that lulling cadence you now recognized, the one that threaded through your dreams. The one that made the air feel thick and sweet.

"Close your eyes."

You didn't want to.

You did.

He was in the garden again. You could smell roses.

There was blood beneath your fingernails.

And in the trees, something watching. Breathing. Waiting.

He knelt before you.

Not the practitioner. The other him. The version with no shadow. With too-sharp eyes and a mouth that had forgotten how to be kind.

"Do you know my name yet?" he asked.

You tried to speak.

Couldn't.

He leaned closer, whispering into your throat.

"Say it, and I will set you free."

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Something was wrong.

You stared down at your hands as you sat in bed, watching the bones shift as you moved your fingers.

Something was missing. Fading.

But what?

Everything felt as if it were breathing. Too sharp. Too colourful. Too aromatic.

You crawled to the window, desperate for something fresh in this house.

The pane of glass creaked as it slid open and you inhaled winter sharply.

Not enough. Not nearly enough.

You didn't even think to grab your robe or shoes before you slipped out the door.

The gardens greeted you with open arms as if they'd been waiting for you. Lush despite the season. White roses gleaming with ice as they caught in the moonlight.

You felt faint needle pricks in your feet as they crunched through the snow. Your head pounding, a sharpness behind your eyes that made the stars a bit blinding.

Your breath came out in puffs and your skin was riddled in goosebumps but you didn't mind. It was a nice distraction. A needed one.

You did not want to sleep.

Your mind raced as your fingers brushed along the roses.

This treatment didn't seem to be going anywhere. You still had dreams. It felt as if it were getting worse now that you were covered in bruises.

You weren’t sure what was real or not in this place. That chapel, your childhood bedroom... being outside helped ground yourself a little bit.

"Taking a late night stroll?"

You spun around at the voice, your flesh snagging on thorns and blood began to drip into the snow.

The attendant went deathly still and you watched as his carefree smile grew tense. His eyes trained on your hand, the slickness of crimson and how it glinted in the moonlight.

"Sir—"

You weren’t quite sure how it happened. It felt like you had only blinked before you found herself on your back and blinking up at the stars, a silent sort of pained sound leaving you as something burrowed its way through your skin. Your cut opened up even more.

Blood terribly warm against the cool night air.

Someone was on top of you. Pinning you to the earth and snow soaked through your nightgown but you couldn't focus on the cold as hands gripped you tight, securing you in place.

You felt light headed, back arching slightly at the pain and you forced yourself to look down. At what was happening to you.

Your mind couldn't keep up or perhaps it simply couldn't understand.

It looked as if he was kissing you. The visual rather romantic. His mouth open and his tongue sliding against your skin, but his teeth–

They were in your flesh. Buried deep and you felt the pull.

He was there one moment and gone the next.

Ripped from you and only then did you scream as his teeth tore jagged lines from being forced away.

Everything was spinning but you faintly registered shouting.

Your head rolled to the side, trying to make sense of the blurry figures a few feet away from you.

Focus, your mind begged.

It was Michael and the attendant. Fighting. The latter looked like an enraged animal and the former attempted to restrain him.

It didn't take long.

A fist went flying in the air, knocking the attendant right in the temple and he crumbled, not getting back up.

You caught sight of dark eyes gleaming as footsteps crunched through the snow, approaching you.

Michael might've fallen to his knees at your side, but you weren’t sure.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Dim lighting flickered across the ceiling and you felt strange. Cold despite the fire. Despite being swathed beneath thick blankets.

Your eyes slated to the side, half surprised to see him there. A chair drawn close to the side of the bed, elbows perched on his knees and chin resting in his hands as he watched you.

There was something different.

Either regarding him, or yourself. You weren’t sure.

Something was missing.

“How do you feel?”

You felt… fine. Serene. Grounded in a way that didn’t feel correct.

“Am I dreaming?”

His hand reached out, tentative and slow as if he were approaching a wounded animal and your breath hitched as his thumb dragged lightly along your cheekbone.

“I didn’t think I would have to do this so soon.”

Your brows furrowed, your question dying on your tongue as Michael leaned forward, dark eyes drifting from your mouth to your neck.

The gasp that left you was a soft exhale as you felt something prick, too distracted by the softness of his lips against your throat to take hold of the concern that should’ve been paralyzing you.

You felt a pull, almost as if your soul was being unspooled by the fates and you felt so dazed as you gazed up at the ceiling. Your fingers burying themselves in his hair without thought, his own hand coming up to cradle the other side of your neck while his other arm wrapped around your waist, practically pulling you into his lap.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You felt him everywhere. The gentle touch of his fingers drifted over your sensitive skin like leaves dancing over flagstone, mere whispers but enough to entrance.

You couldn’t stop staring at him. Finding a different footing on a new sense of madness and yes… yes, you knew him. Knew who he was.

You had known all along.

He was your ghost. Your shadow. All those months… praying to him through the messenger of the moon.

The garden that night…

“It’s you.” Your voice cracked, the realization settling in the cavity of where your chest like a revelation worthy enough to be slotted into scripture.

His mouth tugged up at the side, being pulled by an invisible string and you could finally see them— fangs, the tips pressing into his bottom lip like a promise.

Michael’s hand cupped your throat, thumb pressing up beneath your jaw to tilt your head back while his other hand wound in your hair. “Look at you,” he spoke quietly, a dazed expression woven into his features.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You weren't used to them.

They itched. The kind of itch that was maddening and made your head swim— a lick of hunger curling around your stomach violently as you sat on the ground in front of the hearth, head resting against Michael’s knee as he ran fingers through your hair.

“It’ll pass,” he muttered, voice hiding beneath the crack of fire.

You were half tempted to sink them into his thigh, your eyes slating to the side as you looked at the muscle of his leg—

Michael’s hand tightened in your hair. “Don’t.”

Your eyes flicked up. He wasn’t looking at you.

Jaw tight as he gazed at the fire and eased his hold on your hair. “Once that line is crossed, I can’t—“ he shut his eyes and took a breath. “Just, don’t. Not yet.”

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Your dreams had stopped since then, or perhaps they’d become your reality— your own version of Alice slipping through the cracks of the soil after failing to follow the rabbit.

He had fixed you, his reputation not failing him.

You stood in the gardens. Slippers wet with blue snow and you stared at the frozen body of the attendant. Still crumbled up on the ground like a discarded newspaper.

It had been weeks. Days. Months?

You didn’t know.

Your eyes danced up to the moon. Please, you prayed.

A ravenous hunger hollowed you out and then you finally realized what had been wrong. What had been creeping up your mind like a spider.

You hadn’t heard your heartbeat in a while.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Your eyes met his in the dark. Breath still as your nail traced a line down his cheek to the corner of his mouth, thumb coming up to press against the tip of his fangs.

A breath passed as you waited for him to pull away. To grab your wrist. Not yet— his two favorite words lately.

Michael didn’t say a thing.

You barely had to try, not a moment later your flesh was pierced like it was ripened fruit. A spot of crimson dewing up and before it could drip, Michael’s lips wrapped around your thumb. Gaze locked on yours and you watched as his eyes flashed red at the taste of you.

You’d never known such longing.

The rawness of it as it consumed you, feeling on fire as he slowly dragged you towards him, pulling your strings because your limbs were suddenly useless.

Say it.

You shut your eyes as his voice blanketed your mind, his soul consuming yours as you straddled his hips.

His grip tightened on your waist, “please.”

Your hands came up to cup his face, taking in the beauty of him. He was sculpted of sharp lines, his creator clearly obsessed with perfection and his eyes— Christ, looking at him felt like damnation. Like Orpheus turning to glance at Eurydice because he just couldn’t help himself.

“Michael.”

His mouth met yours and you saw a burst of multicolored lights dance behind your eyes as they slid shut, melting into him as your hands greedily pulled him close.

He stood up, carrying you easily as you wrapped your arms and legs around him, hardly paying any mind as your back settled on the bed. You couldn’t feel anything but his soul and yours.

Michael’s hips settling between your own and his hand was in your hair again, pulling taught and guiding your mouth lower— “Now.”

One word. That one word sounded like Gabriel’s trumpet— heaven reigning down in a blinding cascade of fire and finally…

Your teeth sank into the side of his throat and the sound that left you wasn’t human.

He shuddered violently, holding you close and chanting your name like a hymn he’d known for thousands of years. A millennia passing before he finally got to taste the sweetness of it on his tongue.

Michael held you close, hips pressing into yours and when you felt him thrust inside— the drag of it felt like a hit of opium.

He pulled your hair, dragging your mouth to his, hot and open— tongue dancing with yours and he groaned at the taste of your blood.

Michael’s arms held himself up just enough not to crush you as he thrusted forward, pushing you further into the mattress and your mouth gaped open at the force of it.

He was dancing on the edge of violence and it was lovely. A macabre beauty to the way his hips rolled and then his teeth dragged along your throat, drawing blood and his tongue flattened over the fresh wound moments later.

Then he was saying your name again— the cadence an ancient lilt as his cock dragged out and back in, hitting something inside of you that teased the entrance to the Elysian Fields.

The orgasm hit you hard and you choked out a cry, legs trembling but Michael kept going, his mouth and teeth digging into your throat so deep you thought he might get carried away and actually start eating you.

“Michael.”

He forced his head back, mouth and chin and teeth covered in crimson and he looked so unraveled— hips slamming into yours and pelvis grinding against your clit.

Michael was kissing you again, the action a complete mess. Wet and tasting of iron and something else a bit sweeter. Dancing between the notes of orchids and ichor.

His thrusts became erratic, the bed slamming into the wall so hard the old oak frame cracked down the middle and the mattress collapsed to the floor like the earth had opened up beneath you.

When he came and your name dripped off his tongue, you knew you’d found it. What you’d been praying for.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

michael jackson masterlist

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