It was only a few minutes into your takedown, a small pile of the discarded hair sitting next to you in a neat pile, as you leaned against the foot of the bed. The faint, quiet creak of the wooden door scraping against the frame of the door gave away Michael's presence before he even made himself known as he stepped closer, his feet padding lightly against the floor.

“Baby?” he called out, a soft chuckle falling from his lips, mixing with the sounds of the TV that filled the room.

“Hey, Mikey,” you spoke, leaning into the warmth of his touch as his lips pressed against your temple, almost making the dull ache that built up in your arms disappear.

“Let me help you,” he sat on the foot of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight as he adjusted himself, your head resting comfortably between his legs as he took one of your braids, careful not to tangle your strands with each other.

“Thank you,” you let your eyes flutter shut as Michael let his fingers take over the braid you were working so hard to unravel, making progress quicker than you would on your own, his years of practice now showing in the way he took care of each braid as the time ticked by, each episode of your show passing by with the outro playing on repeat.

“How do your arms feel?” He spoke, running his fingers through the section he'd just taken down.

“Like Jello,” you sighed, tossing your head back as you slipped your arms down to your sides, giving them a break from the time-consuming takedown.

“Yeah?” He chuckled softly before he spoke again. “Let's get you washed,” he softly spoke, quickly getting up to grab a towel, and as you made your way to the sink.

The strands of your fro thick with the buildup of gel, as you turned on the water, wetting the tips of your fingers to make sure it wasn't scalding hot, dipping your head under the faucet, the constant stream of water running throughout your curls, springing them back to life as Michael let his calloused fingers massage your scalp before taking a few pumps of shampoo, coating every strand, taking his time to give your hair the TLC it desperately needed, a satisfying hum escaping your mouth.

“Is that good?” He spoke, rinsing thoroughly, watching as the buildup and shampoo washed away.

“Mhm, it feels nice,” you whispered, like you were so close to falling asleep right on the spot as he ran the conditioner through your hair, taking a minute to give you another scalp massage. Your eyes fluttered open before shutting again, the warmth of the water soothing you as he rinsed it out, stopping the water, placing the towel over your head, gently drying the dampening curls.

“There you go,” he ruffled the towel against your hair one last time, stepping back to admire his work.

"Thank you, Mikey," you giggled, attempting to keep the towel balanced on your head.

"Of course, baby," he pressed a tender kiss to your lips.

©angelfacediary

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It was known that you dominated the charts and the fashion scene; it was hard for even top artists to get a number one album with you around.

The lights were heavy against your face, nearly blinding you as you tried your best to blink away the white spots that took over your vision as you looked over at the interviewer.

“Michael Jackson just came out with his first solo album. How do you feel about you being more successful than him, despite being in the industry less time and being the same age?” she asked, smiling at you, waiting for an answer as the cameras rolled, broadcasting that grainy texture that was fine for the time.

“Like Jackson Five Michael?” You laughed before continuing. “He's a cute little opening act, but it's very clear that I dominate the charts, and you know, I don't compete with opening acts. I mean, you don’t see him on the cover of Vogue either, do you? He's adorable though,” you relaxed back in your cushioned seat.

Unbeknownst to you, twenty-year-old Michael sat in front of his TV screen, looking at you like you'd hung the moon and the stars one by one. His hand clutched one of the magazines you were on the cover of; one of your CDs from his personal collection sat on the ground next to him. He was both angry yet intrigued by you somehow, and though he was beyond offended, he was still enticed by you.

Maybe that was just the effect you had on people despite your shitty attitude.

Fast forward to present day. Michael Jackson, the guy who sang hit songs of the time like "I'll Be There," "I Want You Back," "Don’t Stop 'Til You Get Enough," "Rock with You," and now most recently: "Thriller." But your main problem was the fact that both of your songs were fighting for the number one spot and the fact that it was Michael who you were fighting with. But you should have expected it with the fame he had from all his eras leading up to "Thriller," and though you were way more popular than him, you were still pissed. In fact, that number one spot should've been yours all the way, considering the fans all over that you'd accumulated through your years of making music, not to mention the modeling gigs that you had lined up for months in advance, including the shoot with Michael to promote the '84 Grammys.

The Grammys wanted to see their views climb, and the fans wanted to finally see the two most recognized artists in the world in one shot, so there you were at the Rolling Stone shooting that both of your PR teams forced you to be at in spite of you two hating each other's guts.

The set was beyond lively, the lights blared against the shoot, the crew ran around fixing the lighting and your outfits. Everyone was excited to work with the two biggest stars of the time.

“Michael, don't step on the dress!” you snapped at him, the tip of his shoe just barely nudging the edge of your dress, ruffling the fabric slightly.

“I'm barely touching it, stop being a baby!” he raised his hands up, acting as though he was so annoyed, but in reality, he was beyond excited to be near you.

“Okay, you two, let's get this over with so we all stop hearing this bickering,” the photographer spoke, angling her camera perfectly, attempting to catch the perfect shot.

“You heard her,” Michael whispered quietly enough that you were the only one who heard that slick comment.

“Whatever, just do what you're here for,” you bit back harshly. “You're only here because I'm carrying the cover.”

“Let's let the votes decide that on Grammy night,” the remark was smooth as he adjusted his tie, getting back into position.

“This isn't going to work,” the photographer looked at the images again, shaking her head. “I need you guys to scoot closer and act like you don't hate each other! Ah, perfect!” she snapped another photo, admiring the shot.

It was a few more hours of being in close proximity to the person you hated most, your eyes and head hurting from the giant lights that brightened the room as you stretched out your limbs, completely ready to take the restricting dress off and change into something less restricting as you headed towards your manager.

“See you Grammy night,” Michael smirked, walking past you and out the door. You hated that gorgeous smirk and how cocky he was no matter what room he was in, and it annoyed you completely. Actually, it did more than annoy you; it completely pissed you off.

Grammy night was beyond hectic, the constant flashes of light bearing down on your face as you smiled on the red carpet, full of other nominees as they chatted with each other, excitement buzzing in the air. The gorgeous updo that you had your hair in was perfect, matching with a silk ivory dress that made you look like an angel that fell down just for this night. The heels you wore were perfect, clicking across the floor as the hem of your dress swept against the carpet.

You looked unreal, angelic, and everyone knew it, especially Michael as his eyes drifted off to where you were standing. Even though in the public eye you were enemies, hated each other's guts, and though Michael didn't speak too much on it, it wasn't his style, but you? You were more than vocal on how much you despised him.

While Michael was nominated for twelve categories, you were nominated for just one more, making it one of the most anticipated Grammy nights in history. People were desperate to see who would take home the most Grammys in one night between the two of you as everyone sat in their seats, whirling with excitement. You sat in the front row, chatting with a few other celebrities, the lights dimming as a familiar voice, one you knew sounded familiar, spoke the opening monologue.

As the night went on, you became increasingly frustrated with the fact that Michael was following close behind in the amount of wins.

One, then two, then suddenly the count was tied with you, coming to a whopping eight Grammys. Each time he stepped up to the mic, he made sure to wink at you. The cameras instinctively moved in to see if there was a change in your facial expressions, a bitter smile playing out on your face that very few would be able to see through.

By the end of the night, you'd both cradled eight Grammys in your arms, a smile plastered all over Michael's face behind the blacked-out aviators as he smiled for the pictures, but you were pissed. You were supposed to be the winner tonight, not both of you. So there you were, a strained smile spread across your face, cradling the eight hard-earned Grammys you'd won like it was a baby you tried so hard not to wake.

It was even worse at the after-party. People swarmed the two of you, constantly asking how you felt about eight Grammys as the music blasted heavily through the speakers in the dim lights. Colored rays of light streamed through the air as the heat from everyone's body made the room feel immediately hot and stuffy. Your head started to hurt from the constant pounding of noise and questions that hounded you, taking a second to step out into the February night.

The sounds of the nightlife spilled out from the building. There was something about the dark night sky, stars that twinkled, illuminating them with the dim light as you took another deep breath. Sure, on the outside you were cocky and overconfident for a good reason, considering the fact that you were used to being on top, people all over rushed to catch your attention, pulling you every which way for photo shoots and performances. But deep down, it was nice to have someone who understood the pressure of being perfect all the time, even if it was your worst enemy.

"Hey," the sound of the door closing and that familiar voice, taking your attention away from the night sky. For once, you stopped to think if you should snap at him with a slick remark or if you should just be normal for once.

"People are looking for you." He stood next to you, hands dug in the pockets of his trousers, his eyes too focused on you, the occasional golden beam of light veiling over the two of you. It was a rare moment of silence, silence where there were no flashes of cameras, no yelling of paparazzi, no one there to ask you how you felt.

Just you and Michael.

“You feelin' all right?” Concern took over his voice; he looked anxiously between you and the road.

“I'm fine, Michael.”

“Oh, okay.”

Another moment of silence washed over you. The nightly sounds taking over the conversation as you stepped side to side.

“Y'know, I've always been a fan of you,” he laughed before continuing. “I kept up with you like you were the most important thing in my life. Then I saw that interview of you calling me an opening act and… I felt some kind of way, kind of angry, but I couldn't be mad because I was so obsessed with you.” The words fell out uncontrollably, falling into the almost empty night air.

"Yeah? I didn't know you felt like that," you shuffled, heels snapping against the concrete.

"Yeah, I've always thought you were gorgeous, hoping I'd have the opportunity to be close to you, but you always seemed to have something against me." He turned to face you as you stepped closer, your bodies nearly touching as you turned to face him.

"If I really hated you, would I still be standing here? And I sure as hell wouldn't be standing this close to you," you spoke, poking a finger at his chest, feeling his heart's heavy rhythmic beating under your finger.

"What? So you don't hate me?"

"Of course not. In fact, I admire you, how well you handle the pressure of the world." You leaned in closer, the warmth from your glossy lips radiating, only making the urge to press his lips against yours more heavy.

"I wanna kiss you," he murmured nervously, despite that cocky exterior.

"Do it then," you spoke like you were daring him before the feeling of warmth enveloped your lips, fingers instinctively intertwining with his own gloved hand.

Everything after that was a blur, from you two in the back of your car, lips sloppily connecting with each other as you made your way back to your penthouse, Michael feeling so bad that he ended up tipping your driver hundreds just for what he had to endure.

The heavy elevators slammed shut, the two of you barely making it inside without tearing each other apart, lips mashing together again, more desperate this time as the two of you could barely contain the excitement that whirled through the stuffy elevator before the ding of you reaching your floor caught your attention. The sound of the heavy door parting, revealing your penthouse, and the smell of you taking over his senses completely.

Your heels were the first thing to come off, the ache that was pinging through your heels easing from the sudden pressure that was being released from your shoes being tossed near the door before a trail of clothes led up to the door of your bedroom, your dress being the last thing to go as you slipped it down, revealing the perfect set underneath that made Michael's jaw go slack and his underwear grow tighter by the second.

"I-I've never done anything like this." The words came out nervously, despite the fact that he was on top of you, arms caging you in as you lay down against the plush sheets of your bed.

“What?” To be honest, you were a little shocked hearing that, and considering the fact that he was such a ladies' man and that he had Brooke Shields hanging on his arm all night, you were almost sure he'd at least have some kind of experience.

"Is… that okay?” You nodded slowly, sitting up on your elbows.

“Sit on the edge of the bed," you spoke, watching as he followed your orders, scooting closer to the edge of the bed as you slipped down to your knees, your finger intertwining with the waistband of the underwear, nudging it down and encouraging him to lift his hips as you slipped it down to his ankles, watching as his dick sprung against his stomach.

“Let me take care of you, okay? " you cooed, letting your fingers wrap around his shaft. The familiar leak of precum coating the sensitive head, your thumb rubbing over the slit. The warmth from your hands sent Michael in a spiral; his body felt hot, hands covering his mouth, worried that the lewd sound that threatened to slip from his throat would be too loud as he felt your hands slide up and down in a slow, teasing motion that made his hips buck instinctively.

“Oh…” he groaned, tossing his head back, soaking in every little bit of your pretty hands running against him.

“Is that good?” You murmured, slightly speeding up the pace.

“Mhm, more than good." His eyes were just barely open, looking at your eyes that peered up at him through his lashes, gasping at the sudden gush of sensitivity that washed over him, the sensitivity that was building up in his dick, which was so intense that he wasn't sure what to do with it.

He kept one hand on your head, the other planted into the mattress, keeping him up right.

“Wait, wait," he moaned out, his hips bucking up into your hand. “What's wrong?” You stopped in your tracks, filling your face as you shifted on your knees, the soft carpet saving your knees from the pain of the floor.

“It's not you, I promise. I just want to feel you, Mama."

It wasn't long before your bra and panties were tossed somewhere in your room. Michael was in between your legs as you lay on your back, too eager to feel your walls against him as you kept your arms around his neck, pressing a kiss to his lips, soaking up the feeling of him pressing inside your entrance, earning a moan from the both of you as he rocked his hips slowly, trying his best not to seem desperate for you.

“Is this okay?” He was nearly breathless. The only thing he wanted to do was bury himself inside of your walls as you cried out his name.

“Please, Michael," you whined, rolling your hips in a circle in order to get some kind of friction before he moved gently, each thrust accompanied by the wet squelching and skin slapping as you grasped at his back, manicured nails digging into his skin that went unnoticed because of the fact that he was way too deep inside you to care.

"Mike, you're doing so good, just like that." Everything felt way too much; the heat between your bodies made everything way too hot. A thin layer of sweat spread across the two. Your once neat updo is completely run ragged by you repeatedly tossing your head back against the pillows. The rest of your limbs were wrapped around Michael like he was the last thing you'd be able to touch.

His rhythmic thrusts became sloppy, mixed with the sensitivity of his previous near-orgasm, and the way he was pumping in and out of you now almost made him dizzy as your walls clenched around him.

“I can't s'good," he whined, continuing the sporadic movement of his thrusts. Michael didn't know much about sex, but he did know a few tricks from his years of hearing his brothers talk about all the girls they'd hooked up with. Taking that knowledge, he slid a hand that was once used to cage you in down to your clit, rubbing gentle circles, your body lurching forward in slow waves of pleasure as you rolled your hips.

“Fuck—” You were so close; everything was so, so hot, makeup running down your cheeks from the tears that kept falling through your already hazy vision.

"Michaell," you huffed out. Your body convulsed around him as you bit your bottom lip, nearly drawing blood from how hard you were biting down on it, as you gripped the sheets, making your knuckles hurt. Michael, on the other hand, was in pure bliss, somehow just barely managing to pull out, spurts of his cum leaking out onto your stomach as he caught his breath.

"Are you okay?” You laughed at his dazed face, eyes that seemed unfocused, glazed over, and mind clearly too fogged up to even think properly.

“Hm? Yeah, yeah."

“You sure?"

“Yeah, I mean, I'm here spending Grammy night with you, so I'm more than fine."

"Ugh, don't be cheesy."

“What? I thought I was being romantic or somethin”

“Yeah, no."

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