fia ✰

A leader has three obligations. Learn, Marry, and Lead with righteousness. You had trained your whole life within the walls in the palace for this very season. You walked around your room trying to find a way to avoid the destiny of being married to one you didn't love just because it was the duty of one to claim the throne. You were conflicted. You wanted to be a leader, a good one but you didn't want to be forced into something as serious as a lifetime marriage to be deemed a leader worth following.

A week. A week is all you had before you had to marry. It was time to decide. Freedom in an unknown world or imprisonment in a familiar one. You paced around to pick up random things that would fit into "things I need to survive outside" and tossed them on the bed. You went to find a bag to put the objects in. Your mind raced as you forced things into the bag before slinging it over your shoulder.

You slowly walked to your balcony trying to think if this is the right thing to do, go against everything you were raised to do. You stood on your balcony trying to slow your heartbeat from the adrenaline rush you had. You looked down at your feet and took a deep breath. Before you could throw your leg over the ledge a ship crashed into the same woods you had scoped out weeks before hand.

A smile spread across your face. A ship wasn't supposed to fly in this area without permission, and there were no ships meant to fly through this area for another two weeks due to the wedding preparations. If this was something, threat or not, it could hold off the wedding. You could see guards running towards the direction of the smoke rising from the woods.

You slowly stepped back into your room and put your bag down. You walked over to your bed and sat down, your head leaning against the wooden canopy post. You hoped that something big would happen, something that would change your future, even if it was temporary.

Hours passed. You stared at your ceiling for what felt like hours. Your mind raced about what could possibly happen when you get a knock on your door, since you weren't immediately called down that means it was something serious and that made you sink into a deeper thought. When you finally got a knock on your door you jumped up with a quickness, fixing your posture and hair.

"Come in please." You called out.

A servant slowly walked into your room and handed you a scroll that had a ribbon that immediately made you realize who it was from, your mothers signature sign covering the ribbon. You looked up at the servant while holding onto the scroll.

"Do you know anything about what happened?" You questioned.

The servant slightly leaned forward in a bow, avoiding your eye contact before replying.

"No, your highness..My apologizes."

You looked back down at the scroll in your hand and slowly opened it. The scroll had information about an intruder who is being kept in the palace cells until they can be transported out. " Not native to this planet and intentions are unknown." stuck out like a sore thumb. You continued to read before getting to a certain part.

"Wearing odd clothes yet wears a bracelet that seems native."

This made you curious. You wanted to see for yourself. What did this stranger look like. Did they look like you or any of the species you've read about in books. You stood up with the scroll still in your hand and walked over to your dresser. You looked at the scroll one more time before looking at yourself in the mirror.

You placed the paper down before reaching over to your crown that you had roughly dashed onto the dresser earlier while contemplating your life decisions. Your hands trembled as you picked up your crown and placed it on your head. You took a deep breath before looking in the mirror once again. Your posture and face changed, switching from a girl in a crisis to someone who carried themselves with dignity.

"Can you escort me to our locked chambers?" you turned to the servant. "I need to see something, but it must stay between us."

As you walked down towards the chambers you could feel your heart beating out of your chest. When you were greeted by guards you used some excuse of being sent by your mother to interview the one not native to test your negotiation and interviewing abilities, hoping that your mother didn't make this an off-limit place for you.

To your surprise they let you in with no problem, leading you to the very cell he was being kept in. The walk was long, the guard trying to engage in small talk that was one-sided as you never said a word back to him due to your brain being in overload from the slight excitement and fear of what could possible be behind those doors.

As you walked closer to where he was held you could see other species you had seen in story books also being held in cells, it could only make you wonder if they there before him or came with him. The guard banged on the cell door and spoke one word in a language you didn't understand before opening the door.

When he opened the door, your eyes widened.

It was a younger man. He looked to be of the same species as you. Just a regular human or humanoid. His hands were shackled together while his ankle was attached to a chain. He didn't seem like a threat and since his chains weren't too big you figured that he didn't act deranged during his capture. It would be a shame if someone that attractive was out of their mind. You walked into the cell to get a closer look. The man stood up and tried to speak to you, but you couldn't understand a word. As he spoke you noticed the bracelet on his wrist. Your Bracelet.

"Excuse me." You turned around to face the guard who was practically hovering over you. "Can I be alone with him. He doesn't seem to post a threat. I want to question him privately." You softly spoke.

During this the man stopped speaking, finally realizing you spoke a whole different language. He sat still and watched the guard walked out of the cell, closing the door behind him. You turned back around to face the strange man who was wearing your bracelet.

"What's your name..?" You tried to slowly question, hoping he would understand at least basics. "Name..?" You repeated yourself.

He said something, yet the only thing you could understand was the sounds of EO, but you didn't know if that was a name or another word that sounded similar to letters in your native alphabet. You softly repeated it back to him while looking him in the eyes. He nodded, pointing at himself and repeated it slowly.

You could solve this. It was really easy if you wanted to understand him, but you didn't want to put yourself in a situation you couldn't get out of. You regretted not studying languages over studying different art forms so you didn't have to rely on the odd way of gaining language knowledge. At least not yet, not until you checked something.

You pointed at your bracelet he wore, causing him to look down at his wrist. He shook his head and pointed in a random direction as if it would tell you where he had found it. This made you think, maybe he found your bracelet because he was sent by the heavens. He crashed and found it to save you from your situation. He seemed calm and non threatening, maybe you could use this to your advantage. It's not like you were going to completely use him, he was attractive, and hopefully nice.

You put your finger up, trying to tell him one minute. He stood still waiting for whatever was to come. You stepped closer to him, closing the space between the two of you. Your hands found his shackled ones, grazing the cuffs before holding his hands. You gently placed one kiss on his forehead, then another on his lips. You could feel his hand twitch in response but he didn't dare move or try to pull away from you.

You finally pulled away from him and took a step back. One of your hands found your throat, fingers softly rubbing against your neck. The man stared in silence as you cleared your throat. The sound filling the room. It was very awkward, the random kiss and now you trying to clear your mind and throat as he watched your every movement.

"Odd man…what's name?" You finally spoke with grammar that would embarrass your ancestors who had spent lifetimes studying.

"What is your name?" He replied, trying to correct you in the nicest way.

"Sorry. Yes, what is your name." You asked once again.

"EO. Captain EO." He spoke clearly. "And you are?" A small flush appearing on his cheeks.

You told him your name and status. It seemed he truly didn't pay attention to a word that came out your mouth. Well—he surely was paying attention to your mouth. His face becoming more and more flushed as you talked. It's not like this was his first kiss, but it sure was the first with a gorgeous stranger or a person of your stature all together. Your accent was something he'd never heard before, yet it hit his ears in all the right ways.

You may have picked up his language from a kiss, but it didn't mean you knew everything, commonly using pronoun terms in parts of the sentence where it wasn't supposed to be. Yet something about the mistakes were so charming.

"Can help—" you took a moment to think before saying something else. "I can help you get out." You softly said.

"Yeah? How so." He sassily replied.

You could tell he was doubting your ability to help, maybe being too used to a disgusting Patriarchy. Where your voice may not be that important when it came to political or those considered criminals. You looked down at the bracelet one more time before looking into his eyes.

It took hours and debates on why a meeting couldn't be held off until the next morning, but you insisted on a meeting this late at night, stating that the future of your leadership depended on it. You didn't explain anything, you didn't explain why your leadership was at stake, leaving them desperate and curious enough to agree to such a late meeting.

Your mother didn't attend—mostly because she could care less about your affairs after you agreed to marry someone she chose—allowing you to have full control of the situation without any type of protest. After the council poured in you followed suit. You sat uncomfortable in your mother's throne, a throne that foreshadowed your future.

It was cold and uncomfortable for someone with such wealth and a nation to carry the seat wasn't a bit comfy, maybe that's something you'd change when it's finally yours. Why would you want to lead in such a grueling position.

"I have called this meeting for a very important reason. As I've said the future of this throne is at stake." You spoke with a commanding tone, pausing to look around before continuing. "I have found something very important with someone that you've chosen to hold within our chambers."

You stood up from your seat; your hands held in front of you as a small smile spread across your face. The doors of the council room opened, and EO and his team slowly walked in. When he reached the center of the room you walked down to meet him. In this room no man should ever look you in the eye unless they were of a certain status, most men keeping their heads down as you talked to them. Yet EO kept eye contact with you the whole time, earning distasteful whispers from those that surrounded the two of you.

EO then bowed. You raised your arm searching for a response. He took no time to look back up and grab ahold of your hand before placing a kiss on it, holding eye contact. A small sound left your mouth, you may have just talked about him doing this very action, but you didn't expect him to do right away. You could feel your face warming up, it was embarrassing how something planned could make you react that way. EO looked over to his wrist before reading—very poorly even after practice— a sentence that was engraved on the bracelet.

You didn't tell him what he was saying nor what it meant. You didn't want to mention the words that he just spoke was a love confession that is an equivalent to a proposal. You ignored all the chatter and protest that filled the room. You turned around and walked back to your future throne. You stood in front of the throne and proudly announced what was on your mind.

"I've accepted this man to be my groom, over the next week there will be wedding changes. The last groom was not fit. A man should be musically inclined and have aspirations for our nation's children and future." You paused. Your mind thinking of what to say next. "Our last option in no way shared those ideas. If a man is not fit for children, we should get rid of them..yes?" You questioned with no intent of being debated.

The crowd couldn't protest, even if they wanted to, they couldn't do anything. All they could do was wait until your mother found out the next morning.

"Will you show my friends to a comfortable setting." You said pointing at his team. "Meeting adjourned" You announced.

You pointed at EO and pointed at the ground in front of you. You were telling him to come to you in such a doggish way, yet he didn't protest, speedily walking over to you. You grabbed his wrist when he reached you, not giving him any time to say anything before you dragged him out with you.

When you would walk back to your room a group of servants would usually follow you closely behind, yet this time they were feet behind as if you were carrying a disease. It was unbelievably awkward. You unconsciously gripped EO's wrist super tight. He didn't say anything to you though, maybe realizing something huge had happened. He may have not understood but he had his ideas.

When you finally made it back to your room you shoved him in before slamming the door behind the two of you. You threw yourself against the door and sighed, it felt like you had been holding your breath that whole walk. You began to complain in your native language, taking off your heels and throwing them on the ground. You began to pace and talk about how scared you were about what was to come tomorrow.

EO didn't understand a thing but didn't interrupt you. He silently moved and picked up your heels that you had carelessly dashed. It took you five minutes to realize the reason he wasn't replying was because he didn't understand.

"I'm sorry." You softly spoke in a language he could understand, finally looking at him.

You finally got another good look at him. This time he wasn't in chains and stood straight up. His limbs were long, hands looked nice, and his face was perfect. You walked over and stood directly in front of him, grabbing his face and pulling him down closer to yours so you could get a closer look. In the process he dropped your shoes.

"You're very handsome odd man." You spoke as you turned his face with your hands. "You don't have a persons do you?"

EO was completely taken off guard by how blunt your words were and touchy you were to someone you just met.

"Pers— no? I don't think so." He replied. His face getting warm underneath your hands.

"Ok. Good. You're mine now. I've chosen you for groom. Blessings." You smiled in his face.

"Pardon?" He quickly pulled back from you, backing himself into a wall.

Was this a good thing or a bad thing? A gorgeous woman who's literally a princess saying your her groom. Yet it was iffy due to the fact you barely knew each other. Hell, the two of you met in a cell. How did that make EO marriage material especially without him technically saying yes.

"I said I could get you out. Yes? I'm also trying to get out. Marriage is easy way out." You stated. You shrugged your shoulders as if what was just said wasn't a big deal.

"Marriage isn't a joke— I mean this is serious." His eyebrows pushed together in confusion. "I don't think marrying a stranger is a good idea..especially for you princess." His tone soft yet blunt.

"You're not a stranger. Not anymore." You walked up to him and placed your hands on the wall beside him, trapping him where he stood. "Am I not pretty?" You pouted.

EO tried to reply but he started stuttering. You were practically playing in his face, and he couldn't argue at all. He turned his head away from you, looking at anything.

"Yeah—yeah but what does tha—uh…I just want to know why you think this is a good idea." he replied. "How would—how could this help you." He finally looked back at you.

You finally backed away from him. "I guess I should be honest to my groom." you whispered to yourself before looking him in the eyes. "It takes a lot to explain."

"A lot of time?" He questioned, once again correcting you. It seemed like every time you made a mistake he was going to correct you unconsciously.

"Yes ! too much time to explain."

"I'll listen." He spoke gently, backing off the wall. "Even if it takes all night, I'll listen."

You smiled at his response. You wanted to tell him the eye contact was rude, but you were enjoying it. Your fiancé never looked your direction out of "respect". Who knew eye contact could be such a nerve-wracking thing. You turned away from EO and walked over to your room door before opening it.

"Can you fetch my guest some clothes..." You turned back to look EO up and down. "Something large maybe…?" You spoke to one of the servants outside of the door.

You shut your door and used your open palm to point him towards your bed. He hesitated to move before you used your eyes to direct him out of impatience, causing him to move.

He sat down at the edge of your bed, looking uncomfortable as he tried to not take up too much space. You smiled at him finding his words and actions not aligning cute. He spoke sweetly yet his actions were one of a scary man. You sat next to him and didn't leave any space between the two of you, testing the waters.

EO's face was flushed. The way both of you were acting with each other wasn't the norm or what you were used to when first meeting someone. You were overly blunt and touchy, while he was being what was seen as rude in your culture. He may have been looking in your face, but he was still being extremely respectful and polite. The two of you sat in silence for a minute, trying to figure out what topic to speak about first.

"I'm not against it." EO finally spoke, breaking the silence. "You have your reasons, so I won't judge you. You don't have to be scared to tell me. Just speak freely." He softly said, his knee bumping against yours.

"Scared? Never me. Don't be silly." You tilted your head to the side and made a face that read "are you serious". "Where should I start..." you spoke to yourself.

"The beginning. Tell me everything. Anything about you, your situation, or your land" EO butted in. He wanted to know everything. If he was going to marry you it's only right to learn about you.

You laid back against the bed and put your hands on your stomach. You were already way too comfortable with him. You began to talk about your status and land. You quickly brushed over that before speaking about your engagement. As a future leader your future was already decided for you, you've never had a problem with things being set up or handed to you, expect till now. Your next task was to marry some wealthy boy who had connections to your family.

A man of your culture had to have certain ideals and standards to be considered a perfect groom. He wasn't a bad man, but you couldn't stand the idea of not at least being able to marry someone you could truly grow to love and lead with. Marrying a man with no proper morals or care for fine arts or children is not where you saw yourself.

"Can you sing?" You looked over at EO

"I—yeah? I think so." He replied, scratching the back of his head in confusion.

"Would you breed with me?" you playfully asked to mess with him. His stance on children wasn't important to you right now. You just wanted to make sure he was paying attention.

"PARDON?" EO jumped from the question. He tried to rephrase the question for you, even if you truly meant to ask that. "You mean would I have kids? I would." He once again looked around the room trying to find a random object to focus his gaze on.

You pointed at him with another smile on your face. "Good answer. I knew it." You ignored his flushed face to continue talking about yourself.

You continued on and on, eventually sitting up to talk about yourself more. You talked about your future, your plans for the throne, and a small vision of your short marriage. You tried to not speak much on the marriage; it wasn't a real one so why spend time speaking on it. The night wind drifted into your room. It had to be past three in the morning, yet you were still speaking.

Your eyes were getting heavy, but your mouth still moved. Your head eventually found EO's shoulder unknowingly. You had always leaned against your canopy pole but now that it was blocked your usual lean landed you against EO. Your talking slowed before you fell fully asleep. He didn't move, not yet. He wanted to make sure you were actually asleep before moving.

The room door finally opened and a servant ran in. "YOUR HIGHN—" The servant was cut off by EO putting his finger over his lips and softly shushing the servant.

The servant had taken too long to fetch the clothing, if you were awake, you would probably chastise them. Thankfully you were out cold. An early morning, ruined runaway plan, your odd way of learning a language, and fake proposal had tired you out. The world around you feeling like a void of nothingness. The servant bowed and put the clothing on the chair before speedily leaving the room. EO looked over at you to see if there was any sign of you waking up.

He waited a few minutes before he put his hand on the back of your head and used his other to hold you as he laid you back on the bed. He got up and went over to where the servant put the clothes. He wanted to properly lay you in bed but there was no way he was going to do so by getting on your bed with clothes that have touched the unknowns in cell. Sitting on the edge of your bed was already enough.

He looked around your room for a place to get changed. There wasn't even a clothing divider. You didn't own one, people dressed you in the mornings so there wasn't anything to hide. He looked over to your balcony and was thankful it didn't look like it showcased your room. EO took a gander. You were sleep and nobody would be able to see him from the balcony. He looked over at you one more time before attempting to quickly change as quietly as he could.

He took off his jacket and draped it across the arm of your mini couch. He held up what the servant had brought and tried to hold back a laugh. It was a night gown. It looked like a dress, but that was something commonly worn to bed in your culture regardless of gender. He went to take off his shirt and that's when you finally decided to jump up. The sound of your gasp and arm and feet hitting the ground startled EO.

"A woman bust—musrt—" Your speech slurring, mixing up bust with must, then going on the mispronounce must. Your eyes were slightly half open, looking uneven. One eye open while the other couldn't decide if it wanted to show itself or not. EO froze. Shirt in hand.

Both of your eyes finally opened, just for a little before returning to the uneven look. "Very nice." you spoke in your native before slowly laying yourself back down. He felt like he had been holding his breath the whole time, only breathing out when you had laid back down before quickly scrambling to put on the night gown.

After he put on the gown, he folded up his clothes and placed them neatly on your couch. EO looked over to you. You were sprawled about. Your legs dangling off of the bed as your arms were above your head. Your mouth was slightly open, showcasing the fact you kept running your mouth even in your sleep. He smiled at the sight of you in the state before crawling onto the bed. He wanted to make sure you were comfortable. The position you were in would probably cause you pain in the morning.

He wrapped his arms underneath your knees, and another hand found your back. He tried to slowly lift you so he wouldn't awaken you, Moving you higher onto the bed. When he laid you down on your pillow he realized he should've pulled the blanket back to put you under them. He tried to pull the cover from under you carefully.

"Lay down." you whispered in your native. Lifting your hand to reach for EO.

"Mhm.." EO hummed sarcastically. "Get under the blanket Princess." he softly directed you, his hand slowly sliding under your legs to lift them up slightly to get the blanket from under you. He gently put your legs back down before covering you up.

He tried to move from beside you without realizing your hand was holding onto him. He wasn't trying to lay next to you, he thought it would be disrespectful. You may have fallen asleep on him but that wasn't permission for him to sleep in the same bed as you, let alone right beside you.

At least he thought. He wanted to get up but for someone who was half asleep you sure had a tight grip. EO was caught between his moral compass and the situation he found himself in. You kept whispering things he couldn't understand, causing him to give up. He slowly laid down beside you, your hand still holding onto him.

By the morning you had shuffled closer to EO. Your face was in his chest, the hand that had previously held onto him finally limped up, being balled into a fist against his chest. EO's arm wrapped around you at one point of the morning as if inviting you into a hug. For people that only had a few hours to bond and share backgrounds—at least on your side—you were way too comfortable. You would be lying if you said you didn't find him attractive.

Maybe that's why you were so comfy, hell if he wasn't even going to stay long what's the harm in having fun? Maybe it was because you were mixing the last thing you saw with your dreams, dreams full of the odd man you had just met. Dreams that would cause you to shift and smile in your sleep.

It wasn't perverted, just normal dreams. Odd dreams. You had never dreamed about someone before. It's funny how you've could've had so many options yet a random man you picked without knowing shit about him other than him being attractive would be the one who would peaking your interest this much.

The room was large and bright with lighting equipment. Rows and rows of chairs and the monotonous hum of camera equipment and its crew bustling about filled the room. Journalists murmured to each other quietly, discussing Michael Jackson’s newest project. 

You were seated off to the left side in a small press section. Eyes roaming the room as you tapped your pen on your notepad, legs crossed one over the other. The room smelled of coffee and faint cigarette smoke, and something sickly sweet like hairspray. 

Patiently, you waited for your turn to interview Michael. He was in the process of completing his previous one, and then you’d be next. Your eyes wandered over his physique. He was dressed down more than usual today. But in a way that only Michael Jackson could manage to make look polished. A cobalt blue overshirt hung open over a soft white V-neck t-shirt. The bright color made his complexion glow under the studio lights. His sleeves were rolled up just enough to expose the veins in his forearms. Loose black slacks draped cleanly over his long legs, cutting neatly above his signature loafers.

No matter how hard you tried to ignore it, you kept feeling the thrumming heat of his gaze fall on you. He was trying to focus on the interviewer in front of him. He really was. But he couldn’t help the way his wandering eyes kept gravitating in your direction.

“So, Michael,” The interviewer started, leaning in close as if he was about to share a scandalous secret.” “A young woman says to you, “Come over, I’m gonna make love to you,”

Instantly, Michael visibly cringed, shoulders drawing in slightly. He was a bashful man. Then— a look so quick that almost anyone would have missed it. Michael’s eyes flickered over to you, and a faint knowing smile ghosted over his lips. Just as quickly as you saw it, it vanished. 

He was about to start his shit. You shifted in your seat, preparing for the show. 

In a dead pan tone, Michael responded “Yes, I’m scared”. Immediately, the interviewer was roped in. His eyes lit up as he leaned in even further.

“Really? That’s fascinating. Tell me more—” the interviewer continued to prod at Michael’s answer.

He was such a smug asshole. He knows that isn’t true. And he looked right at you while he said it, because you knew better than anyone in the room just how untrue it was. 

Your eyes fell to his fingers that were tapping against idly his knee. A nervous habit you’d observed a hundred times before. Intrusively, an unwanted memory slammed into you.

“Just like that—p-please don’t stop”

Michael’s hand was fisted in your hair, gaze holding yours intensely in the mirror as he stroked into you deep and deliberate, cock stroking your overstimulated walls and making you see stars. A sharp crack of his palm came down on your ass.

A sharp voice startled you from your daydream.

“You’re on in 5, ready?” 

“Always” You stood smoothly, shoulders back and radiating unshakeable confidence that had come from years of practice. You made your way to the powder room, praying that it wasn’t obvious you were flustered. Inside, you brushed your hair away from your face before touching up your lip combo, studying your reflection. You took a deep breath. Showtime.

Michael’s amusement was evident from the time you came back in the room. Hips swaying to an invisible rhythm as you made your way to the seat across from him. He stood up, adjusting his collar. He extended his hand outward to you. He didn’t offer a standard, business-like grip. Instead, his large hand closed gently over your fingers. Thumb tracing a slow, agonizing circle over your knuckles before he allowed your fingers to slide away.

He said your name softly, teasing the syllables. It rolled off his tongue like a familiar melody he’d been humming in the dark. His doe eyes were bright, studying you.

“Good to see you again. It’s been a while”

Pulling your hand away, you sat down as if unphased by the soothing gesture. You settled into the seat before replying,

“Mhm, what’s it been? 3 or 4 months?” You pretended not to remember the last time you had crossed paths with the popstar. Truthfully, you remembered the exact date. Michael continued observing you with quiet curiosity.

“Something like that.” He sat back down; eyes fixated on you. He glazed over your features with warm scrutiny. Your eyes, your hair, your lips. Like an art collector confirming every detail of a priceless painting is exactly as he remembered. He lingered on your lips for a moment. A grin made its way across his features as he realized you’d worn it. A specific lip combo you only wore for him. Michael was certain. He’d watched plenty of your interviews, and this specific combo was a rarity for you. However, you always seemed to adorn the look when he encountered you. 

The scent of Michael’s cologne enveloped you as you tried to gather your question cards. It was warm and smelled expensive. He waited patiently, seemingly enjoying how you seemed to be fumbling with them, nearly dropping them at one point.

Aw. She’s flustered. Michael thought to himself.

After a final sound check, cameras started rolling. And instantly, you stepped into your persona.

“Michael, it’s good to be here with you today. We’re celebrating the start of the second leg of your Bad world tour for those who don’t know. Congratulations.”

Michael nodded humbly, “Thank you”. His hand rested against his knees, long fingers relaxed. His shirt fell open at the collar, exposing the smooth skin of his chest. You hated that you noticed.

“The album has been doing excellent, five hit singles from one album is an incredible feat. I have to ask. When you’re creating a visual piece for an album like this, do you hear the music first or see the details of the visual?”

There it was. The reason Michael always picked you to do his interviews whenever he did a press run. His face lit up and he began explaining his creative process, talking with his hands and making expressive faces. You tried to ignore the flutter you felt in your tummy as the passion continued to build in his tone.

“Sometimes it’s a sound I’ll hear. Other times it may be a color. Sometimes… it’s a face I can’t stop seeing.” The words settled between you two, crossing an unspoken barrier. 

You had been scribbling notes down for the article you planned to write until that last sentence. Recovering quickly like the professional you were, you cleared your throat and moved to the next question. A little too quickly, and unfortunately for you Michael noticed. 

“You’ve often said you think of your music videos as short films. How much creative control do you have over the final product?”

Questions about his craftsmanship. That was your angle. While other interviewers focused on salacious, invasive details, you focused on what was important. 

Michael pondered the question for a moment before answering. 

“Usually, the idea comes to me and immediately I can see it playing out in my head. That’s why I say they’re short films. The music comes to me, and I see it come to life, it’s a gift really. I usually have say so over the final product.”

Foreplay. That’s what this was for you and Michael.  

As the interview continued, Michael became more detailed with his answers. His posture became more relaxed, and the flow of the conversation became a tennis match of sorts. Not competitive. But steady in rhythm. You were picking his brain, and he loved it. 

Behind the scenes, a producer leaned over to an executive.

“He never usually gives this much. This girl’s really lucky.”

Michael found his gaze wandering down to your lips as you spoke, flowing effortlessly from question to question. They were lined with a chocolate brown and filled in with a blush-colored gloss. So pretty. And distracting. 

“Sometimes,” he said, “the smallest thing changes the whole picture.” His eyes dropped to your lips again. Your cheeks warmed. You hated that your next question came out a fraction softer than you intended.

“That sounds like a lot of control,” you said. “Do you ever get tired of paying attention to everything?”

Michael’s smile turned up slowly.

“No,” he said. “Not when it’s worth looking at.”

He’s doing this on purpose, reading me in front of everyone. you thought. 

After your last question, you’d stood to shake Michael’s hand. This time, he pulled you in for a hug by the small of your waist, lips brushing your cheek as a departure greeting. Despite the heat you felt creeping up your neck, you allowed the gesture. Gotta be professional, right?

When it was all over, you packed your things. Quickly. Usually, you were in control of your interviews. No one phased you. And you did not like being out of your element. Your get away was made clean by Michael’s manager pulling him aside as soon as the two of you had finished your polite departure.

Making your way through the rows of chairs and still cramming your things into your purse, you tried to tune out your assistant editor.

“That was amazing. How did you get him to open up to you like that? I know you’ve interviewed him before, but wow.” The editor continued bumbling about the best parts of the interview as you made your way to an empty lounge area.

“Thanks. Did you make sure to get extra candids at the end? I need a cover for the article.” The editor nodded eagerly, chirping about how natural the chemistry between you and Michael had been. Her rambling was interrupted by the door of the lounge opening slowly. 

Michael’s eyes had trailed you from the moment the interview ended. He heard his manger talking, but every word went in one ear and out the other. There was no chance he was letting you get away that clean. And that was why he knew exactly where you’d gone in an effort to escape him. 

“Hi…” He spoke softly, hoping he wasn’t intruding on your conversation. The editor squeaked in response, literally. She glanced between the two of you, and sensing the change in air in the room, quickly dismissed herself. 

The lighting in the room was dim, and it was silent, with the exception of the hum of the press suite which was only a few feet away. 

“Why you runnin’ from me?” He teased, stepping closer and working to close the gap between the two of you. “You know I can’t let you get away that easy.”

“I’m not running. Just got a busy day, that’s all.” Your fingers fidgeted at your sides, having nothing to do.

Michael tutted, a smirk gracing his lips. “Don’t tell me you got plans more important than me”

His smugness both irritated you and stirred something in the pool of your stomach. You rolled your eyes, arms crossing over your chest.

“Don’t you have another interviewer to play with? Scared when you get a booty call? Really? You know damn well you’ve been gettin’ panties thrown at you since you were 17.” You were all too aware of the enjoyment Michael got out of toying with journalists. Most were leeches who would latch on to the most salacious detail they could find to make a dollar. And Michael knew it. Honestly, he thought it was funny to troll them.

Michael’s lips shifted to one side, trying and failing to hide a laugh. 

“You didn’t like that one, huh?” He stepped closer again, further decreasing the gap. “I had to find some way to keep myself entertained 'til I could get to you. The only reason I agree to do these things is so I have an excuse to see you. You’re hard to get a hold of, girl.”

Another step.

“What do I gotta do? Drop another album for you to agree to see me?” His eyes stayed on you, tender and containing something else you couldn’t pinpoint. Maybe yearning. Maybe lust.

Michael was no fool. You were about your business. Initially, you despised interviewing him. But no journalist in their right mind would ever turn down the opportunity to interview Michael Jackson. Besides that, Michael genuinely enjoyed your interviewing style. Before he had ever met you, he’d watched a plethora of your interviews. You were truly a credible journalist. A rarity in your field. And this— was why you were his top pick whenever he decided to give the press the time of day.

“I haven’t seen you since that awards show out in Vegas. And you barely gave me the time of day.”

“Michael, you said you wouldn’t do this.” Bottom lip caught between your teeth, you continued to keep your arms crossed tightly. “Last press run was just that. Last press run.”

Something dark flickered in Michael’s eyes that resembled disappointment. 

“Don’t tell me that baby, you quittin’ me already?” He was right in front of you now. One hand rose to rest on the wall on the side of your head. “Is there somebody else? You can tell me” He eyes wandered over your features, lingering on your lips before flickering back up to your eyes.

With a pointed finger at his chest, you began your tirade. “I’m not the one traveling the world and disappearing for months at a time, Mr. Fishes. What do you want me to do? Sit around waiting until you call? I have a career and a life too, Michael.”

Michael’s eyebrows rose at your directness, still maintaining closeness. Enough that the sweet scent of your perfume could invade his sense, taking him back to his last encounter with you.

“Hey, I write you. You never write me back. And tour has been non-stop lately...” You rolled your eyes again, this time looking away from his intense stare. Then, softer, “You’re the one who told me you didn’t want anything serious. You basically avoided me for weeks when I asked you to go steady. I thought this was what you wanted. Space.”

That, you couldn’t deny. You had outwardly rejected the idea of anything legitimate with Michael. Mostly due to a desire to protect your career. You worried about what the title of "Michael Jackson’s girlfriend" would do to your credibility, especially amongst your peers. Most of whom were men. Who you definitely didn't want to say you got the best gigs because of your relationship with him. For that reason, you’d refused Michael.

Stubbornly, you held his stare. Refusing to admit, and refusing to secede. God, you were so stubborn. Michael didn’t know if it was just your professional training or a trait you’d honed over the years, but he just couldn’t get you to give in to him. For anything. 

“Okay how about this. You’re here. I’m here. Come see me tonight. Spend some time with me. My chef’s making dinner. It’ll be quiet, just us.” His doe eyes searched yours, hope dancing in them. You continued to stare, raising an eyebrow. Still unimpressed. Michael rolled his eyes. Shaking his head at your refusal to submit, even when he was putting his best foot forward. “Please, come see me tonight? I miss you.” The hand next to your head came down to your face, backs of his fingers caressing your cheek. At this, your lips turned upward.

“That’s right papa, talk to me nice” And with that, you slipped out of his grasp, hips sashaying as you exited, a sweet trail of perfume following you. 

Michael felt a stir in his pants as he watched you leave. He loved to watch you coming, but damn, he really loved to watch you leave. Michael swallowed thickly, adjusting himself subtly before taking a deep breath.

That was good, right?

That night, Michael changed his outfit three times. He was standing in front of the mirror in a burgundy silk button up he wasn’t sure about. Catching the time on a nearby clock, Michael mumbled a curse under his breath. He ran his hands over the material, and looked in the mirror, fixing his curls one last time. He sprayed the lightest touch of cologne at his throat just as the knock came at the door.

Everything was perfect. His private chef had made your favorite cuisine, and he made sure someone picked up your favorite candles. He was wise not to make a fuss. He knew the more extravagant he went, the more he would inadvertently push you away. So, this was good.

When he opened the door and saw you standing there, his whole face lit up like a Christmas tree. A rare, unguarded smile. 

“You came” He breathed, voice soft with relief. “I wasn’t sure you would… after the letters. And with how we left things on tour, I thought maybe you’d change your mind”.

You stepped inside, allowing him to close the door behind you. The suite smelled like garlic and herbs, and something rich and buttery from the chef. A small table by the window was set for two, candles flickering and two glasses of red wine. Your fingers trailed gently over the tablecloth as you noticed what type of candles were lit.

“Honestly, I wasn’t sure if I was gonna come either….” a small smile touched your lips at his thoughtfulness. Cashmere and vanilla candles were one of the small comforts you always tried to bring with you on the road. “Told myself I was only coming to clear the air. Not because you asked.”

There it is. That unrelenting stubbornness. Michael shook his head, laughing to himself at your refusal to soften. His hand hovered near the small of your back as he pulled your chair out for you. “Still glad you’re here”.

Dinner started off easy. The chef had gone all out; seared salmon, roasted vegetables, and a dish of pasta that tasted suspiciously like the one you’d mentioned once in passing. Michael watched you take the first bite, something quietly pleased in his eyes. 

“You remembered my favorite pasta too?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I remember the important things” He admitted shyly.

You nodded, deep in thought. You took another bite and then set your fork down.

“Michael, this is nice. The dinner, the suite. All of it. But I meant what I said on tour. I’m not looking to go steady. Not when it could mess with my job. I’m a woman and I’m one of the top earners in my field. I don’t need people saying I only get the good assignments because I’m sleeping with Michael Jackson.”

Michael set his fork down too now. He nodded slowly, eyes not leaving yours. “I know,” he said softly. “I hate that you felt like you had to choose. That’s why I wrote you instead of pushing. I was scared you’d leave, but you did that anyway…” he trailed off, thumb tracing the stem of his wine glass. 

You felt your guard lowering for half a second from the guilt. Recovering quickly, you responded,

“Distance was safer. For both of us. I’m not some girl who’s gonna drop everything because you’re looking at me like…”

Michael’s eyes raised to yours, mischief twinkling in them. “Like what?” his tongue trailed his bottom lip lightly. Eyes trailing from your rose petal lips up to your eyes.

“Like that, Michael.” You give him an agitated look, but your lips twitched. “Don’t push it.”

The conversation stayed charged after that. Both of you had relaxed into it, flowing from topic to topic naturally. He asked about the cities you’d done stories in since the first leg of tour ended. You asked him about his new songs from Bad that were added to his setlist for the second leg. Every time his fingers brushed yours reaching for the wine, the air got a little heavier. Every time he licked a drop from his lower lip, your eyes followed.

By the time the plates were mostly cleared, the tension had become a living thing between you two. 

Michael leaned forward slightly, lacing his fingers through yours. “I missed this. Missed you. The way you argue with me even when your eyes are telling me something else”. 

You met his gaze, allowing him to stroke his thumb over the hand that was currently laced with yours.

“I’m not giving in just because you made my favorite pasta and wore that shirt.”

At this, Michael was genuinely tickled. You hated how your tummy flipped when he tilted his head back and covered his face, erupting into giggles. He stood and came around the table, still laughing. He pulled your chair out and held his hand out to you. Reluctantly, you stood. His hands settled at your waist and drew you in until your bodies were flush against each other. 

“Tell me to stop” he murmured. Voice low and raspy. “And I will. But if you don’t, I’m not letting you walk out of here tonight without reminding you how good we are together. How good I am for you.”

You opened your mouth, trying to think of something to say to push back. Some type of quip about boundaries and your career. But then, his lips were against yours before words could form. It started slow and deep, almost like he was testing to see if you’d pull away. You didn’t. You kissed back harder, tongue sliding against his. 

He walked you backwards into the next room. The backs of your calves made contact with the bed, and that’s when your palms raised to his chest, fingers curling in the silky marerial.

“Michael— we shouldn’t. This is what I was afraid—” He kissed you again, swallowing the protest. One of his hands slid under your dress to grip your thigh, thumb brushing it gently. 

“Then tell me to stop” He whispered against your mouth. His fingers found the edge of your panties, gently pushing them aside. The pads of his fingers slid through your folds, already slick with your arousal. Your head tipped back with a gasp,

“I—fuck — I’m not giving in to you Michael. This doesn’t mean I’m giving in.” But your hips rolled toward his hand anyway. Michael groaned softly, fingers finding the bundle of nerves between your legs that made your thighs shake.

“There she is,” he cooed, voice warm. He brushed his lips over your cheek near your ear as his fingers continued to toy with the bundle of nerves. “My stubborn girl. Still fighting me even when you’re this soaked.” You tried to glare at him, but it melted into a moan when his fingers began teasing your entrance.

“Michael—I’m serious. My job—”

“I know baby,” he breathed. “Let me have you tonight. Just tonight. Please?” His kisses grew needy and desperate, trailing from your jaw to your lips. His opposite hand cradled the back of your neck.

“Just tonight.” You gasped and his fingers continued their torment.

The bedroom was bathed in soft, amber light. A tall mirror rested against the wall, catching your every movement. A soul record hummed lowly from the corner of the room as Michael guided you onto the bed. He stripped you completely bare with slow, deliberate hands until there was nothing left between his skin and yours. 

He turned you gently, kissed down your spine, and murmured against the back of your neck, “On your knees, baby. Face down. Arch that pretty back for me… right here where we can both see everything.” You moved into position without hesitation — cheek and breasts pressed to the cool sheets, knees spread wide, back arched deep so your ass lifted high and presented. The mirror gave you both the perfect view: your body open and vulnerable, glistening already from how badly you wanted him.

Michael knelt behind you, large hands smoothing over your hips before gently spreading you apart so he could see every glistening inch of you. He leaned in without warning and buried his face right between your thighs from behind. His tongue dragged flat and slow through your slick folds, from your clit to your entrance. He tasted you deep before he sealed his mouth over your clit and sucked. 

A low, cracked groan tore from his throat as he buried his face deeper, nose pressing against you, tongue working your swollen clit in relentless circles while he sucked like he was starving for you.

The sounds were obscene in the quiet room — the wetness of his tongue against your sopping folds, his muffled groans vibrating straight through your clit. The slick noises every time his tongue fucked shallowly into you. 

Your pussy drooled fresh arousal onto his tongue and he lapped it up greedily, sucking your clit back into his mouth with another hungry moan that made your thighs shake. You couldn’t keep yourself from pushing your hips backward against him. His hands roamed over your ass, squeezing gently.

He rasped against you, voice wrecked and muffled. “Taste so good like this… I missed you so much.”

Only after he had you shaking and leaking did he finally pull away, lips shiny and chin wet. He dragged two fingers through your soaked folds first, spreading you open, then gently pushed just his thumb inside. A soft moan, almost a whimper escaped his throat the second your walls fluttered around the digit, immediately suckling and clenching like they were trying to pull him deeper. “Oh baby…” he breathed, thumb stroking slow and shallow, feeling every tiny ripple and squeeze. “Already so needy for me, princess.”

He withdrew his thumb slowly, watching the way it glistened, then lined up the thick head of his cock with your entrance, pushing inside you with one long, steady glide that stretched you open around him. Your walls welcomed him with the same fluttering, rippling grip that he remembered, and a helpless whimper slipped from your lips as you stared into the mirror.

Michael’s hand wrapped around your ankle, thumb brushing the heel of your foot. The delicate gold anklet you wore caught the light with every movement. He held you steady as he started to stroke. Long, deep strokes that dragged every inch of him along your sensitive walls. His eyebrows furrowed in concentration, jaw tight, eyes flicking between the mirror and where you were joined.

You couldn’t look away. In the reflection you watched everything: the way his cock disappeared into your soaked pussy over and over, the sticky strings of your essence mixed with his pre-cum stretching and snapping between your bodies every time he pulled back. Filthy and glistening. Your pussy looked puffy and greedy around him, clenching visibly with every thrust.

He kept stroking, rolling his hips smoothly with immense control from years of dancing, making every grind deep and precise. Then he looked up in the mirror, dark eyes heavy-lidded, and found your gaze already locked intensely on him.

He continued rocking his hips into you, drawing the prettiest moans from you. The cockiest grin slowly spreading across his lips as the thought hit him. 

She’s enjoying watching herself like this — all submissive and spread open for me in the mirror. 

He kissed his lips at you in the reflection, slow and sensual, and winked, never breaking the rhythm of his hips. Then he brought his hand down in a sharp smack to your ass, the sound cracking through the room as pleasure jolted straight through your cunt.

Your tummy fluttered hard at the way he looked at you — that slow, heated stare like he could devour you whole, and your pussy creamed around him in response. You were hypnotized by the way he rolled his body into you, sinking deep with a smooth, wave-like grind that made every inch of him fill you up in a way that made your eyes flutter and roll back.

“Look at you, baby,” he rasped, voice low and rough as he kept those long, deep strokes going. “Watching yourself get fucked like this. So pretty, mama.” 

"T-thank you. J-just like that" You squeaked through your moans.

He glanced down at where you were connected in the mirror, admiring the mess. The way your pussy clenched and leaked around his cock, creamy and slick, painting his abdomen with your arousal. He was stroking you so deep your walls were milking him, a glossy white ring formed at the base of his cock with every thrust.

“Fuck, baby… look at how deep I’m buried in this pretty pussy,” he groaned, eyes coming back up to meet yours in the mirror. “Filling you up so good... making you cream all over me. You getting off on watching yourself give in to me like this? Watching me fuck you open… good girl.”

You couldn’t talk if you wanted to. Non-sensical babble fell from your lips as he continued to dig deeper into your walls.

The filthy words and the sight of him, eyebrows furrowed, bottom lip caught between his teeth now as he watched himself stroke your arched body in the reflection — pushed you right to the edge. 

Your eyes rolled back in the mirror as the first orgasm crashed over you. Your cunt clamped down hard, gushing around him while you sobbed into the sheets, drool soaking the fabric under your cheek. Your thighs shook violently, walls fluttering and milking him through every wave.

Michael didn’t stop. One hand stayed wrapped around your ankle while the other slid under your belly, palm pressing firm and steady against the lower swell where he was buried so deep. He kept stroking, long, deep, relentless. Even as you came.

“Please— Michael, you’re gonna make me squirt,” you whimpered, voice broken and desperate, thighs already quaking.

His mouth fell open at your vulgarity, eyes darkening with raw hunger in the mirror. For a split second he just stared at you, lips parted, like the words had short-circuited something in him. Then he pressed his palm a little firmer against your belly and kept stroking. He ignored your pleas, grinding his thick cock so deep the head kissed your cervix and brushed over the sensitive ridge of nerves deep inside you. 

The combination was intoxicating. Your second release hit like a wave breaking. You squirted hard around him, a hot, messy rush that soaked his thighs and the sheets beneath you. Your whole body jerked, thighs shaking involuntarily as you gushed and clenched. 

Overstimulation crashed into you hard and you tried to bury your face in the sheets to hide from it. But of course, Michael’s hand left your belly and slid up, wrapping firmly around your throat just under your chin. He held your head up, forcing you to keep your eyes on the mirror.

“Be a good girl and watch yourself cum for me,” he growled, voice thick with lust as he watched the way your face melted into raw, helpless ecstasy. Your features softened and twisted in pure overwhelming pleasure, eyes fluttering and rolling back as it completely took you. 

“That’s it. Give it to me. Good girl, baby. Don’t you dare look away. Look at how pretty you are when you’re taking it— mouth fallin’ open every time I hit that spot. I want you to see exactly how needy you look when I’m buried this deep inside you... How pretty you are with that fucked out look on your face”

You whimpered helplessly, voice stuttering, “M-Michael— I-I can’t— oh fuck, I’m— please—”

“I know, baby,” he rasped, never loosening his grip under your chin, still rolling his hips deep and steady while you squirted and clenched around him. “Watch yourself. Watch how perfect you look cumming like this for me. Say thank you, baby.”

Your voice came out wrecked and stuttering as another wave hit, “T-Thank you— fuck, thank you, Michael— thank you for fucking me like this—”

The sound of you thanking him while he held your throat and forced you to watch yourself come undone pushed him over the edge. Michael groaned deep and filthy, hips stuttering as he started pumping thick ropes of cum inside you, still holding your throat and forcing you to watch both of you come undone together in the reflection. His cum mixed with your squirt in messy, creamy pulses that leaked out around his cock with every thrust while he kept stroking through it.

You were completely overstimulated — thighs quaking violently, body twitching, broken little pleas spilling from your lips as another weak, shattering wave hit you while he filled you. Only when the last pulses faded did he finally ease his hand from your throat, both palms smoothing over your trembling hips and lower back as he slowed to lazy, shallow grinds.

When he pulled out, a thick, messy flood of cum and your squirt poured from you onto the sheets. He cooed contently at the sight, turning you carefully onto your side and pulling you into his chest. Immediately he wrapped both arms around you. One big hand found your lower back again, rubbing slow, soothing circles while he pressed soft kisses to your temple, your jaw, the corner of your drool-slicked mouth.

“I got you, princess,” he whispered, voice hoarse and full of awe, nose nuzzling against your cheek. “My good girl… You were so perfect. Looked so pretty squirting all over me like that.”

You were still floaty and twitching with aftershocks, voice small and wrecked. “Maybe I need to reconsider this "just one time" thing…”

He smiled against your skin, pulling the sheet over both of you and keeping that steady hand on your lower back. Mission accomplished. Make you cum so hard for him that you wouldn’t wanna leave him.

“Just rest, baby. We’ll talk about it later. I’m right here.”

The drought had settled into the Los Angeles area around nineteen long days ago. The air tasted of hot asphalt and exhaust from passing cars; it clung to the back of your throat. 

Your face felt tight, sun-scoured, a dull throb behind your eyes that the fluorescent lights of the café only sharpened. You were desperate for water. Wildly dehydrated.

The espresso machine at your 2nd job had been shrieking since five a.m. An unwelcome, piercing shrill in your ears.

You tried to focus on the forgotten sociology homework spread beside the register, the words swimming in the steam. 

Social constructs of intimacy in the digital age. 

The irony was so silly to you. 

A line of customers tapped impatient fingers on the counter, their eyes glazed with heat and caffeine-need, waiting for you to notice them. You really were a bad barista.

Outside, the hills were the color of rusted tin, looking so brittle and skeletal. The news droned on the small TV mounted in the corner: Conserve, conserve. Do your part for your city. It felt like a cruel joke that they were asking US to do our part.

The AC in your apartment was a joke too; a wet, rattling gasp that just pushed the soupy heat from one corner to another. And you were paying entirely too much for the shitty space, just so you could walk to work and college comfortably.

Your life was a triptych of exhaustion: college in the bleary morning, the café till you dropped, and then… 

nocturncamz.com

The name alone felt like a secret. 

The site loaded with a plum-colored login page, a carousel of girls on the landing; plump lips wrapped around lollipops, collarbones glittering with sweat or sparkle, eyes heavy-lidded and looking somewhere past the camera. Obscene, but prettily framed. A curated gallery speaking to the lonely modern man.

Saturdays were when you sat at your desk after dark and made rent, one anonymous stranger at a time. It wasn’t what you had in mind for senior year, nor was it glamorous. It was a cheap headset, a webcam angled carefully to exclude most of your sad box bedroom and the peeling Justin Bieber poster left by some previous tenant. 

The setup was crude, sometimes degrading, but it was fifty to a hundred bucks you didn’t have. Sometimes more. The tips were always better later on in the evening, when the loneliness in other time zones grew teeth.

It was late now. The fan on your desk chittered like insect wings, fighting a losing war against the heatwave bleeding through your single window. 

Sweat prickled at the small of your back, your tank top sticking to the faux-leather chair. You took a sip of flat Diet Coke that was sat stale in a take away cup, the fizz long dead, just a chemical sweetness coating your teeth.

A new username blinked in your private chat log: king777tut. Unfamiliar. 

Most men arrived already fired up, demanding the private room link and password, the transaction beginning with heavy breathing and blunt, miserable need. They'd usually be naked when the camera turned on - and that was usually a jumpscare. But this one… his typing was slow. 

Each message appeared with a weight, a pause between sentences you could feel in the silence of your room.

You leaned back, the chair groaning. The ellipsis danced. Disappeared. Danced again.

king777tut: good evening, do you have time to talk?

You almost laughed. Someone being respectful? You started the thirty-minute timer he’d paid for.

SweetViolet: Timer’s on. So talk to me. What do you like? What do you want to do?

A long pause. The fan whirred. Your foot tapped a frantic, nervous rhythm against the desk leg.

king777tut: I like your voice. From your preview. It’s soft. It sounds like… honey.

The breath left your lungs in a quiet, surprised rush. A laugh, mostly air. You pulled your knees to your chest, the chair protesting, your toes curling against the seat’s edge. 

SweetViolet: Honey, huh? That’s new. Most guys say its sultry like whiskey. Or something more… dumb or just crude.

king777tut: Whiskey is for forgetting. Honey is for… savoring. For whispering sweet nothings that stick.

Your stomach flipped. You pressed your forehead to your knees. The stubble on your legs was rough against your skin. Older, you thought. The cadence of his words, the spaces between them….they felt considered. Heavy. You typed before the hesitation could crystallize.

SweetViolet: So whisper to me then, King Tut. Tell me what you need.

Another pause. Longer. You could hear the old analog clock on your wall, its second hand scraping a path around the dial. Then, his message came in two parts.

king777tut: I am in my room. It is very late. The house is quiet. I can hear the coyotes howling in the hills beyond my window.

king777tut: I am thinking about what you might be wearing.

Your breath hitched, a tiny catch in your throat. You uncurled, planted your feet on the cool floor. He wanted to sext rather than request photos? Wow. you thought about how unsexy your clothes were right now. 

Just a pink tank top and old cotton shorts, the hem frayed from too many washes.

SweetViolet: A tank top. Pink. And shorts. They’re soft.

king777tut: Is the tank top… loose?

You looked down. The thin cotton did drape, hanging away from your body in the still heat, away from your bra-less chest. A slow heat began to bloom outward from your core; lazy, languid, inevitable. Your hand drifted over your stomach, fingers tracing the pronounced ridge of your hipbone through the fabric.

SweetViolet: Kinda. It hangs. I dont have a bra on.

king777tut: I am picturing it. The way it would fall if you moved… whether the shift would be revealing, or still so innocent.

king777tut: I am in my bed. I am wearing linen pyjamas. The sheets are silk. They feel cool, but I am growing warm. Warm with want.

You swallowed, your mouth parchment-dry. The Diet Coke was useless; you tried taking a gulp to quench your thirst. Your other hand drifted down, palm resting on your thigh, your thumb making absent, tiny circles on the sensitive skin of your inner leg. Goosebumps rose in its wake.

SweetViolet: What are you doing? Are you touching yourself in your bed?

The ellipsis pulsed. Once. Twice. A slow, tantalizing heartbeat.

king777tut: not right at this moment. My free hand is on my stomach. Just resting. I can feel my heart beating so hard right now It is beating… for you, I think.

The run-on sentence, the odd comma, the raw, unvarnished admission, it unspooled something deep inside you. You let your head fall back against the chair, staring at the water-stain shaped like a ghost ship on your ceiling. you still hadn’t let your landlord know about that. It was getting worse by the day. black mould wasn’t going to do you any good.

your mind drifted back to the situation;

Silk sheets. Still fully dressed. It was a universe away from the grunted demands you usually fielded. This was pure attention. attraction.

SweetViolet: Why is your heart beating so fast?

SweetViolet: You should move your hand lower. Tell me more.

king777tut: I feel… an ache. A good ache in the pit of my stomach. Maybe its want? Ive wanted you for several weeks now. I have… pleasured myself to your content

King777tut: my head feels fuzzy, like im struggling to form sentences from nerves. 

king777tut: and my heart is beating fast because I am talking to a beautiful girl and I cannot quite believe it is real.

Oh. Oh, fuck.

He wasn’t just dirty. He was sweet. He was painting a scene and you were being woven into its canvas. Your hand slid up, under the hem of your tank top, palm flattening against the warm skin of your ribs. Your breathing shallowed. you found the tight peak of your nipple already hardened by the cool draft of the dying fan, and you rolled it slowly between your fingers.

SweetViolet: I moved my hand too. Under my shirt. My skin is hot. I can feel my own heartbeat under my palm. It’s racing. At the thought of you watching me. 

king777tut: Yes. Yes. Do you… do you touch yourself? oftne? Thinking of strangers?

The question was blunt, misspelled, and it sent a jolt straight to your core. Despite him being logged onto this lewd site, there was an innocence to his curiosity, an eloquence laced with hunger. Your back arched slightly off the chair, a silent, delicious answer to you playing with your nipple. There was a sticky wet heat growing in your underwear.

SweetViolet: Sometimes. Not all the time i will admit; i have to fake it, if the person is into something i am just… not into. Right now I am. My hand is in my shorts. Just feeling how wet I already am.

You hit send and closed your eyes. The darkness swam with bursts of color. Now you had to follow through. You braced, then let your fingers slip past the elastic waistband, through the soft thatch of hair on your pubic bone. You were already slick, swollen, the sensation so immediately intense you bit your lower lip hard enough to sting. No lying tonight, you were actually going to touch yourself along with your customer. 

king777tut: I have my hand on my cock now. I pushed my pyjamas down. I am thinking of your hand. How it must look, small and pretty, wrapped around me. Moving for me.

King777tut: it feels so dirty to do this with a stranger but i cant meet people the normal way. And it feels like from your videos before, i already know uoy. And i want you.

His typing deteriorated, and the spelling was getting significantly lazy and it was the most erotic thing you’d ever witnessed. 

This broken, earnest confession from a man whose words were failing but whose intent was crystal clear. You let one finger slide inside yourself, a slow, testing penetration, and a gasp tore from your throat, loud in the silent room.

SweetViolet: I’m touching myself. For you. I’m so wet. Thinking about your hand on yourself. Picturing it. You all alone in your room. Being so dirty telling me about it.

king777tut: Tell me. Tell me how you touch yourself.

So you did. You narrated the slow, circling pressure of your fingertips, the building heat low in your belly, the short, panting breaths that fogged the windowpane beside you. 

You described the ache, the needy, empty feeling you had, and the sharp sound you made when you finally curled two fingers deep inside—a choked, shuddering ah-ah-ah that you typed out letter by trembling letter. To try give him a picture.

He told you about his rhythm, starting slow, then faster, the grip of his own hand, how he was biting his lip to stay silent, how he was picturing your mouth, your eyes, your honey-whisper voice saying a name he hadn’t given you yet. How he was having to stay quiet as he had guests.

It built. A shared, silent symphony conducted through misspelled text and raw desperate need. 

Your thighs began to shake. Your toes curled until they cramped. Your eyes were struggling to stay open as you reached your peak. But you had to look and see what he was saying back to you

Then, his final, fragmented plea:

king777tut: im almost there thinking of you at the edge.  are you there?  please cum with me

And so you did.  You shattered with a silent, violent convulsion, your body seizing in the cheap chair, vision bleaching into white static. Your fingers, slippery, fumbled the keys.

SweetViolet: yes. god. yes. i’m here. i came to the thought of you. what you look like. who you could be.

The fan chose that moment to choke, rattle violently, and die with a pathetic click. You kicked it over with your bare foot. Your brain couldnt even explore how catastrophic that was for your health in the heatwave and a god damn drought - you were too wrapped up in this unreal man.

It didn’t matter though. No machine could cool the furnace now glowing in your chest and belly. 

This hadn’t been a normal transaction on here.. This had been… more real. And on top of that, you’d managed to feel pleasure out of it.

king777tut: I have been lurking on your page for a month. Wondering if I should pay for a session.

SweetViolet: Well? Was it good? Will you come back?

king777tut: If I could have you all the time, I believe I would. You have such angelic features. I want to kiss those lips.

king777tut: In short, you are incredible. And I am… utterly undone by you.

A stupid, wide, giddy smile broke across your face. A post-coital glow with no right to be this potent from pixels and text. 

SweetViolet: You’re pretty incredible yourself. Want to take this to a private cam? I can turn mine on. We still have five minutes.

The ellipsis appeared.

Then vanished.

A full minute of dead, empty space. The glowing timer ticked down. The warmth inside you began to curdle into anxiety.

king777tut: I cannot.

SweetViolet: Why not?

king777tut: My face. I cannot show it. For security. It is not safe.

Of course. Married. A father. A catfish. The old, familiar disappointment, sharp and acidic. The connection which was fragile and electric before, totally diminished for you. Of course it had been too good to be true. 

SweetViolet: Right. Security. Okay…

king777tut: No, please. It is not like that. I wish I could. You have no idea how much I wish I could see you. To have your eyes looking into mine. But I am… known. In certain circles. It would cause… problems.

Known. The word sat in the chat box, strange and heavy.. You wiped your damp hand on your shorts, feeling suddenly exposed, foolish for the vulnerability you’d offered.

SweetViolet: Known how?

king777tut: It is better I do not say. It is better for you, this way. You can just be Sweet Violet. And I can just be… me. Talking to you.

The sadness in the text was palpable, a loneliness that seeped through the grammar. The knot in your gut softened. It was dangerous that you were so interested.

SweetViolet: Are you famous or something? A singer?

A pause. Then:

king777tut: Perhaps. Does it matter?

You chewed your thumbnail, thinking. Your survival instinct, usually a shrill alarm, was quiet. There was no screaming danger. Just lingering arousal and a curiosity now grown ravenous.

SweetViolet: I guess not. It’s just… you talk different. This whole interaction is different to my others.

king777tut: I am different. And I want to talk to you more. Not just like this. I mean… really talk.

SweetViolet: How?

king777tut: In person.

You laughed—a short, sharp bark of disbelief that echoed in the hot room. The rule was absolute, scrawled on a neon sticky note beside your monitor: NO MEET-UPS. EVER.

SweetViolet: I don’t do that. That’s not what this is.

king777tut: I know. I know what this is. And this… what we just did… that was not what I usually do. It was my first time.

king777tut: I am obsessed with you. In the best way. I just need more.

king777tut: I feel a connection to you. I would like to explore it.

Hooked. He had you completely. No one had ever been this plain, this disarmingly honest. It was the opposite of 

talk dirty to me, slut. 

This was intimacy, sexually charged yet serene. It felt terrifyingly real.

Your heart pounded with a new, volatile adrenaline. This was insanity. This was ditch-in-the-desert behavior. And yet… your gut wasn’t sounding the alarm. It was a low, thrilling feeling. What if?

SweetViolet: No. Not in person. Not yet.

king777tut: Oh.

The single syllable hung there, weighted with a disappointment that physically tugged at you. You typed quickly, before the silence could solidify.

SweetViolet: Hear me out. I’m not saying no forever. I’m saying let’s do this right. A cam call. You and me, live. I want to hear your voice. Not just read you.

king777tut: But my face. I told you—

SweetViolet: So wear a mask. Cover it. I don’t care about your face, not yet. I want your voice. I want to see if this… this little thing here… works when it’s real. On camera. When it’s live. 

SweetViolet: When you can’t sit there and craft every perfect sentence for five minutes before you send it.

The ellipsis stuttered, hesitant.

SweetViolet: If we’ve got chemistry on cam, then maybe. Maybe I think about the rest. You have to earn my trust. Show me something real. Tell me about yourself in your own voice. What you like. What you don’t. Your age. Anything.

A long pause. You chewed your thumbnail raw.

king777tut: I could wear a mask. I have many.

SweetViolet: Any mask you want. I’ll never see your face until you’re ready. But I’ll hear you. That’s the deal.

The ellipsis again. An eternity in three blinking dots. You wondered if you’d finally spooked him, if he’d vanish into the digital ether, becoming just another ghost—

king777tut: Yes. king777tut: Yes. I can do that. I want to. Tomorrow? This time? I can try to make myself available.

And your heart, that stupid traitorous organ, did a full, soaring flip.

SweetViolet: Tomorrow. This time. Don’t be late, tut.

king777tut: I will not be. Goodbye, Sweet Violet.

king777tut has left the private chat.

The screen reverted to your lobby where another 16 users were waiting for their turn.

You sat for a long time in the suffocating, silent heat, your skin still on fire, every nerve ending alive. Staring at the blank chat window on internet explorer. You couldn’t after that interaction ruin it by speaking to a dumb asshole on here asking to see your feet.

A soft cha-ching notification sounded from your payment portal totally disarming your weird thoughts. You glanced over.

$700.00 deposited from user: king777tut.

A memo line below: For you, honey. Until tomorrow.

Your breath froze. Seven hundred dollars. For half an hour of text. Jesus christ. Thats going to cover half of your rent.

You leaned back, the leather sticking to your skin. The dead fan lay on its side. 

Shit, you thought, a slow smile touching your lips despite the tremor in your hands. You had absolutely no idea what you’d just agreed to. You had no idea who he was.

-

The heat, for the first time all day, relented slightly

There was an orange-y soupy darkness in the sky from the sunset and the city lights looked like supernovas in comparison; that sharp unforgiving LED light against the warmth. It was 9pm on the dot.

Your own room felt like the inside hell—warm, damp, close. 

You’d showered, the water tepid and insufficient, and now sat before your webcam in a simple black lace bralette and matching panties. The fan was dead, so the only sound was the frantic beat of your own pulse in your ears.

Your dashboard showed king777tut was online. Waiting. 

The private room link glowed on your screen. You took a deep breath that did nothing to steady you, clicked it, and your own face appeared in a small preview window—eyes wide, lips parted. 

You hit ‘Start Broadcast.’

For a moment, there was only your image, and the black rectangle where his feed would be. 

Then, with a soft digital blink, his video connected.

The breath caught in your throat.

His camera quality was poor, grainy, washed with a faint greenish tint from low light. But you could see enough. He was propped against a massive, ornate headboard, dark wood carved with intricate, swirling patterns. 

The bed itself seemed enormous, a sea of rumpled white linens around him that stretched into the shadows behind. The room beyond was vast, hints of high ceilings and dark furniture just at the edges of the fuzzy resolution.

And his face… was hidden.

It was a mask, but not some cheap plastic thing. It was elaborate, antique-looking, made of what appeared to be pale porcelain and very finely painted. 

It covered his entire face, a stylized, androgynous visage with faintly rouged cheeks, arched eyebrows, and full, solemn lips. It reminded you of a Venetian carnival mask, or something from a masquerade ball in a gothic novel. Eccentric and beautiful and… deeply, profoundly strange. 

Who the hell has exquisite enough taste that this kind of mask is just laying around?

He wore a simple, loose white t-shirt, the neckline broad, the sleeves covering his shoulders. His hair was dark and long, hitting his collarbones; all curly. It hid his chest, his frame. 

The laptop was propped to his right, on the bed, giving this angled, intimate view. You couldn't see below his waist. The sheets were pulled up, and most of his bottom half out of the frame. You had no idea what he was or wasn't wearing.

“Hello,” a voice said, and your entire body went still.

It was his voice. The one you’d imagined from the delicate words from the chat log. It was airy, almost breathy, but underpinned by a sensual, rustic grain. It was a voice that had known singing, or perhaps shouting and late nights. There was a soft rasp at the edges, like worn velvet. It was shy, hesitant, yet it filled your headphones with an intimate, undeniable presence.

“Hi,” you managed, your own voice a whisper. You shifted, and your cheap office chair let out a loud, protesting squeak. You winced. “Sorry. The chair’s a piece of junk.”

The mask tilted slightly. “Don’t apologize,” he said, his tone softening. “I’m only payin’ attention to you.”

The simple sentence, delivered in that unique, raspy-shy cadence, made your stomach flip again. The nerves were killing you and the awkwardness was there, palpable in the digital space between you, but it was charged, not uncomfortable. 

It was the tension of two people standing at the edge of something unknown.

“Your room is… huge,” you said, glancing at the shadowy expanse behind him.

A slight movement—a shrug? “It can feel too large, sometimes. Empty.” He paused. “Yours seems more homely. better.”

You swallowed during the awkward beat. “What do you want to do tonight? Just… talk?”

“I would like that,” he said. “To talk first. May I… ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“What do you like?” The question was quiet, sincere but very broad. He sensed your awe and then corrected. 

“When you are with someone. What makes you feel good?”

The directness, devoid of the usual crude packaging, threw you. You took a moment, tracing the lace edge of your bralette. 

“I like… anticipation. The build-up. When someone takes their time.” You felt a blush creep up your neck. “I like feeling… overwhelmed. In a good way. Like I’m not completely in control.”

“How so?” His voice was a low murmur, utterly focused.

You took a deeper breath, committing. “Like… being tied up. Gently. With something soft. Or being blindfolded. Not knowing what’s coming next, just… feeling it. It makes every touch louder, you know?”

A long silence. You could see the faint reflection of your own feed in the dark lenses of his mask. Then, a soft, wondering exhale.

“Wow,” he breathed, the word full of genuine surprise. “I didn’t… I didn’t really think a young girl like you would be into all that. That’s… sophisticated.”

There was a note in his voice then, a wistful, almost sad quality. “It makes me feel old,” he confessed, the rasp more pronounced. “And simple. I’ve never tried any of those things. My experiences have been… straightforward. Traditional, I suppose.”

His vulnerability was disarming. “Traditional isn’t bad,” you offered. “How old are you?”

He let go of some breath; “I’m 45. Is that bad?”

You laughed a bit, your eyes twinkling, the computer light was reflecting off of them. “No.. its not. I like older men,”

“hmm,” he agreed softly. 

“well hearing you describe your desires from before… the trust it requires… the artistry of it…” He trailed off. “I think… its beautiful. I think I could make you feel good. Even being my simple self. If you let me.”

The promise, so humbly stated, sent a bolt of pure heat straight to your core. “Oh yeah?” you challenged gently, your voice dropping. “How would you go about that?”

The mask seemed to gaze right through the screen, into you. His voice, when it came, was a low, deliberate whisper, painting pictures in the dark.

“I would start by washing your hair,” he said, and the domestic intimacy of it shocked you. “In a deep, lavish bathtub. I would massage your scalp and then your shoulders, and wherever you needed it for an hour, until every knot in your body was gone. Then I would dry you with the softest towel I own. I would carry you to a bed much softer than that chair you’re on. And I would just… admire you. For a long time. memorise every curve, every freckle, the way your breathing changes when you’re nervous.”

You were motionless, captivated.

“Then,” he continued, the words flowing now, “I would kiss the inside of your wrist.” You instinctively looked at your own wrist. 

“Where your pulse beats. I would kiss my way up your arm, to your shoulder, to your throat. Learning what makes you sigh, what makes you shiver. I would use my mouth… everywhere… but so slowly you’d think you were dreaming. I wouldn’t touch you between your legs until you were begging me for it, until you were arching up off the sheets, offering yourself. And even then… I might just tease you with my breath. To hear the sound you’d make.”

A small, helpless whimper escaped you. Your hand had drifted to your own thigh, squeezing lightly.

On screen, you saw his own hand move. It slid from where it had been resting on his stomach, down, out of the frame. The laptop, perched on the bed, gave a subtle but distinct wobble. A shaky, unstable movement.

A soft, stifled sound; a sharp intake of breath, almost a whimper, came through your headphones. He was touching himself. You were sure of it. 

The laptop jittered on the rumpled silk; one, two, three frantic stutters that mapped perfectly in your mind to the stroke of his fist around his cock

“Would you…” you gasped, your own fingers creeping under the edge of your panties, finding wet heat. “Would you fuck me then?”

A low groan. 

“Yes,” he hissed, the word strained. “But not like you’re thinking. Not fast. I would lay you on your side and curl myself around you, behind you. I’d wrap my arm around your waist, hold you tight against me… and I’d push into you like that, so slowly you’d feel every single inch. And I’d whisper in your ear the whole time. Tell you how beautiful you are. How perfect you feel. I wouldn’t stop until you came around me, crying from how full you were.”

“Fuck,” you moaned, your head falling back. Then you refocused, you had to know more.

“And then what? When I'm crying and full of you, would you fuck me harder? Would you tell me how much you needed this? How long you've been waiting for my body?”

He didn’t even answer, totally undertaken by the sentiment you’d shared.

You couldn’t take it anymore. You hooked your thumbs into your panties and dragged them down, kicking them away. You plunged two fingers inside yourself, already slick and throbbing. The sound was obscene. “I’m touching myself,” you panted. “Thinking about that. About you filling me up.”

“Let me see,” he begged, his voice cracking. “Please. Show me.” You moved the webcam so he could see you play with yourself - he was paying for it after all.

You brought your glistening fingers up to the camera, then, holding his gaze, slowly sucked them into your mouth, cleaning them with a long, languid stroke of your tongue.

A raw, guttural sound ripped from him. The laptop shook more violently. “Again. Do it again. For me.”

You were lost in it now, a feedback loop of his whispered, detailed fantasy and your own frantic touch. 

You fucked yourself with your fingers, imagining the slow, inexorable push he described, then brought them, dripping, back to your mouth.

“Mm good girl” he whispered behind the mask. You then grabbed your panties and shook them down to your mid thigh so you had unobstructed access. You fingered yourself with your two middle fingers, imaginingg it was his instead. Despite the weird mask, you could tell that he was attractive, his voice alone could probably bring you over the edge. 

“I’m close… I’m so close,” you chanted, breathlessly.

“You look so good like that, all hungry for it,” he whispered back, his voice unsteady from the repeated strain of stroking his cock.

“Come for me” he commanded, his own breath a ragged series of gasps. “Come for me, Sweet Violet. Let me hear you.”

Then it was serene convulsions. Muscles locking. Air stolen. White static behind your eyes. Then a keening sound, high and thin, tearing itself from your throat as the waves battered you, receding and then battering harder again. You were drowning in the thoughts of him.

Through the haze, you heard his finish. It wasn’t loud. It was a crescendo of those same shaky, whimpering breaths,  followed by a long, shuddering sigh that seemed to hold a lot of loneliness. 

The laptop on his end gave one final, definitive jerk and then was still.

The timer in the corner of the screen glowed: 08:47. The post-climax haze was a physical thing, a warm, heavy blanket of lassitude that made your limbs feel like lead.

On his screen, he hadn't moved. The porcelain mask stared blankly at the ceiling of his cavernous room. His chest rose and fell in a slow, deep rhythm beneath the rumpled white cotton of his shirt. The fabric had ridden up, revealing a tantalizing slice of his lower abdomen;

a taut plane of skin that, even in the grainy resolution, you could see was mottled with patches of darker pigment against a lighter one. The contrast was stark, intimate, laid bare by accident. You wondered what the rest of his chest looked like.

“That was…” you started, voice wrecked.

The mask tilted slowly toward the camera. A soft, almost inaudible sound of affirmation escaped him.  "Mmm-hmm." It was a vulnerable, boyish sound, utterly at odds with the grandeur of his surroundings and the intensity of what had just transpired. 

But then he was moving. Sitting up abruptly, as if electrocuted. The shyness flooded back, laced with panic. “I have to go,” he blurted out.

“Wait—”

“Thank you,” he rushed, his voice small and flustered. “That was… more than I… Thank you.”

And before you could say another word, his video feed winked to black.

king777tut has left the private broadcast.

The sudden disconnect was a physical slap. You sat in the buzzing silence, the afterglow cooling into a confused, hollow ache. You checked your payment portal. Another deposit. $1,500.

An hour passed. You were lying in your own bed, staring at the ceiling, when the chat pinged.

king777tut: I am sorry. I became… overwhelmed. Shy. It was so intense.

SweetViolet: It’s okay. It was for me too.

king777tut: I cannot get the image of you out of my head. The way you tasted your fingers. The sound you made.

SweetViolet: Your voice… I can’t get your voice out of my head.

A long, long pause. The ellipsis blinked for nearly a full minute.

king777tut: I need to see you. Not on line. In real life.

king777tut: 5225 Figueroa Mountain Road, Los Olivos, California 93441.

king777tut: Will you come meet me?

Your heart stopped. Then slammed against your ribs. 

SweetViolet: Who are you? Why are you giving out your address so easily?

king777tut: Come and find out. I will explain everything. I will keep you safe. Please.

You stare at the address in the chat log. 5225 Figueroa Mountain Road.

Every survival instinct you’ve honed in this job screams at you. This is how it happens. This is the first chapter of every true crime documentary about girls like you. You meet a sweet, lonely guy online, he pays well, he seems harmless, and then you get in a car and vanish. 

NO MEET-UPS. The rule is there for a reason.

But… the money. The absurd money. $2,200 in total from him for less than an hours work. That’s next semester’s books. That’s three months of your shitty rent. That’s breathing room and less panicked nights wondering where the fuck youll get the cash from to pay the landlord, or to even buy food.

And the curiosity. It’s an unscratchable itch. The mask. The voice. The way he talked to you like you were a person, not a fantasy dispenser or some ‘slut.’

Who is he? What kind of person shares their address that blazenly if they weren’t desperate?

The fear and the curiosity are having a fistfight in your chest. The fear is logical and well, the curiosity is a deep, hungry pull.

Screw it. You open Google Earth. You type the address.

The satellite view loads and your breath catches. It’s an estate, not just a house on a street. Its a huge, sprawling property in the middle of wine country. 

You zoom in. You see a massive main house, guest cottages, what looks like a… is that a Ferris wheel?

A cold, nervous laugh escapes you. What the actual hell?

You open a new tab. You search the address and “owner.”

The results are a mess of weird articles and reviews.

But one link catches your eye: a gossip blog from years ago. The headline makes your blood run cold for a second, then hot with pure, disbelieving shock.

The headline reads: “Neverland Valley Ranch Listed: Owner Seeking Private Buyer.”

You click it. The article is old. It says the property has been on and off the market for years. That the owner was motivated to sell after a brutal, public trial, but that no buyer had ever been deemed suitable or serious enough to finalise the deal. That the place sat in a kind of purgatory.

That place… it belongs to…. 

The pieces click together with a soundless, chilling thud.

All the fear doesn’t vanish, but it transforms. This isn’t a random creep. This is… something else entirely. The risk is astronomically different. You need to go. You MUST go see this through.

You look back at the chat.

Will you come meet me?

Your fingers are steady but sweaty as you type your reply. 

SweetViolet: Yes. I’ll come. 

pt 2?

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

You were playing in his face at this point.

Michael had taken you on two dates now—to restaurants that someone in your tax bracket had no business stepping into—and he had been a perfect gentleman both times.

It was infuriating.

After all that big talk about “giving the people something to post about,” he hadn’t laid one single (stupidly big, stupidly hot) finger on you.

So you decided to do something about it.

All week, you had ignored his calls, knowing good and well that you were going to see him at an awards show Friday night.

You’d thought he might ask you to be his date, but since he hadn’t, you went right on ahead and found yourself another one. 

That was mistake number one.

Your choice had been methodical. You’d asked another musician that you knew would be accepting an award at the event, someone much younger than him that all the magazines were calling the “nation’s newest heartthrob.”

That was mistake number two.

Finally, you’d had a dress custom-made for the occasion, something that left very little to the imagination and would make your mother clutch her pearls when she saw it on TV. You wanted to make sure that your tattoo was as visible as possible.

…and that was mistake number three.

All night, you hung on your date’s arm, bound and determined not to even glance Michael’s way. 

You could feel him staring at you on the red carpet, even though you weren’t anywhere near him in line. Then, by some miraculous stroke of good luck, he was seated on the same row as you in the auditorium. 

Not right next to you, but a few seats down, which was exactly where you wanted him. Too far to talk to you, but close enough to get a really good look.

Incidentally, he was also close enough to hear you flirting with your date. And when he went on stage to accept his award and you were the loudest voice cheering him on? Yeah. Michael definitely heard that.

Afterwards, you were enjoying a glass of champagne at the afterparty when a low voice whispered so close to your ear that it made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.

“What d’you think you’re wearin’?”

You didn’t jump or freeze this time. You simply turned around and gave him your sweetest, most innocent smile.

“Michael. I didn’t know you were here tonight.”

He glowered at you.

“You’ve been ignorin’ my calls for days.”

“Have I? They must not have gone through.”

He bit his bottom lip—hard—and you could tell that he was trying to maintain the calm composure that he always projected in public.

Good. He deserved it.

“I don’t believe that.”

“Are you calling me a liar? That’s not very nice.” You took a sip of your drink, glancing over to where your date was standing just a few feet away. He was in the middle of a conversation with someone else, completely oblivious to what was happening with you—not that Michael would have cared.

“Last time I ignored you, y’pitched a fit about it.”

“I don’t remember that. All I remember from that night is you feeling me up in the club. Which was wildly inappropriate, now that I think about it. You barely even knew me.” 

 His jaw twitched.

“An’ how well do you know the guy that you’re here with tonight? Hm? Y’didn’t have a problem with him bein’ all over you.”

“We’re getting acquainted.”

“What’s his favorite color?”

“Excuse me?”

“Y’knew mine. What’s his?”

There it was. The first tiny crack in your facade.

“I… don’t know. I’ll have to ask him when he takes me home.” You said pointedly, hoping he hadn’t noticed you hesitate.

But he did. Of course he did. Michael was annoyingly observant, and you watched in real time as he clocked your bluff. He didn’t call you out on it, though.

“Now you’re makin’ me mad.”

“Mad? I didn’t know Michael Jackson got mad.”

For the first time ever, you wished he’d pull out his sunglasses and put them on. Anything to get his eyes off you. You’d wanted him to look at you all evening, but now that you were actually face-to-face, it was like he could see right through you.

“I get mad when my girl is flauntin’ some other guy right in front of my face.”

Crack number two.

“I’m sorry. Do you think I’m your girlfriend because you’ve taken me out on two dates? If you can even call them that. They might as well have been business dinners.”

His eyes sparkled like he had suddenly started to enjoy this game, and you knew you’d fucked up. Big time.

“Go tell him you’re not goin’ home with him.”

“Excuse me?” You sputtered, putting your glass down before you dropped it like you’d dropped your phone the first night he’d asked you out.

Or… He’d told you he was going to take you out. He had a way of telling you what you were going to do like it was a fact, not a question. 

Right now was a case in point.

“Tell him you’re not goin’ home with him, or I’ll do it for you.” He repeated, his gaze shifting to your date for approximately two seconds before it flickered back to you.

“I am not going to do that.”

“Suit yourself.” He shrugged, taking a step forward like he was actually about to interrupt their conversation. You grabbed his sleeve and yanked him back.

“You’re not going to do it, either! Who do you think you are?”

“Michael Jackson.”

Crack three. Game over. You lost.

“Why do you want me to tell him that?” Your cheeks flamed his favorite color.

“‘cause you’re goin’ home with me.”

“What if I don’t want to go home with you?”

“I think you do.”

“I do not!”

Actually, yes please. Date who? Let’s get out of here right fucking now.

“Look me in the face and tell me you didn’t wear this to get my attention.” His eyes were on your face, not your dress, but his thumb brushed over the tattoo on your thigh like he didn’t need to look to know exactly where it was.

You quickly looked away, staring at his chest like you’d just become very interested in his shirt. “I didn’t wear this to get your attention.”

“You’re not lookin’ at me, honey.”

Before you could raise your chin, he put a knuckle underneath it and raised it for you.

“C’mon. Tell me y’weren’t thinkin’ about me when you picked this out.”

“I wasn’t thinking about you.” 

You couldn’t have sounded less convincing if you tried.

“Not even a little bit?” He clicked his tongue like he was disappointed. “What a waste. It woulda looked so pretty on my arm tonight.”

Was he serious right now? You felt like you were going crazy. 

“But you… you didn’t ask me to be your date.” 

“You ignored my calls.”

“And the dates we did go on, you didn’t even act interested.”

He raised a single dark eyebrow—an unspoken question. Pardon?

“You didn’t even kiss me after!” Your lower lip wobbled, and you hated yourself for it.

“You’re an impatient girl, aren’t you?”

He was still touching your face. People were surely starting to notice. Your date was going to notice any second. 

“I just want you.” You mumbled so quietly, so pathetically, that you almost didn’t recognize the voice as your own.

“Say that again. I couldn’t hear you.” 

Smug. Smug. Smug.

“I want you.” Asshole. “But you’ve been acting like the feeling is not mutual.”

“Oh, honey.” 

He dropped his hand and put a respectable amount of distance between the two of you again. “Here’s what you’re about t’do.  You’re gonna go get in my car. And I’m gonna go over there and tell your little friend that you weren’t feelin’ well. Then when he starts lookin’ for you, I’m gonna tell him I called you a ride, like a gentleman.”

“...and then?”

He shrugged again, taking his sunglasses out of his jacket pocket and sliding them over his eyes.

“Then I’m gonna show you how mutual the feelin’ is.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.