Fai ꕤ

The late afternoon sun of 1978 hung heavy and golden over Encino, bleeding amber and pale violet through the tall palm trees that lined Hayvenhurst.

Inside the Jackson house, the air was already warm and thick with the unmistakable, rich aroma of simmered chili peppers, toasted cumin, garlic, and melting cheese. It was a Sunday, but it wasn’t the usual Sunday routine where Katherine reigned supreme in the kitchen while the house buzzed around her.

Today, the apron belonged to Jermaine.

He stood by the long tile counter, wearing a high-waisted pair of dark denim jeans, a soft yellow fitted polo shirt with the top few buttons undone, and a beige cotton apron tied neatly around his waist. His pick was tucked neatly into the back pocket of his jeans, his iconic, glossy afro perfectly shaped, catching the golden light pouring through the wide kitchen window.

He was humming soft, low notes—a melodic fragment of an unreleased track—as he carefully layered corn tortillas, shredded chicken, and a rich, dark red sauce into a pair of massive glass baking dishes.

When the heavy wooden front door creaked open, followed by the soft click of your heels against the entryway floor, Jermaine immediately stopped humming. 

“In here, baby,” he called out. His voice was smooth as velvet, carrying that gentle, quiet warmth that always seemed to quiet the rest of the world down a notch.

You walked into the kitchen, taking in the sight. You were wearing a breezy, late-70s wrap dress—patterned in warm earth tones of rust and mustard—with your hair styled in a plush, gorgeous halo of soft curls that framed your face. You held a small tote bag over your shoulder, looking around the fragrant kitchen with a wide, bright smile.

“Look at you,” you teased, leaning against the counter as you watched him lower another dish into the preheated oven. “Cheffing it up for real. Should I be intimidated?”

Jermaine wiped his hands on a kitchen towel and walked around the island toward you. A slow, dimpled smile spread across his smooth face, his dark eyes glowing with pure affection. He didn't hesitate—he reached out, wrapped his large, warm hands around your waist, and pulled you against his chest, tucking you neatly into his frame.

"Intimidated? Nah," he murmured, his voice low as he leaned down to press a warm, lingering kiss to your temple, then your cheek, and finally a soft, tender press against your lips. "Just hungry. You look fine as wine tonight, by the way. That color on you? Out of sight."

You felt the warmth rush to your cheeks, giggling softly as your hands rested against his broad shoulders. "Thank you. I was nervous about coming over today, Jermaine. You sure your family’s ready for me?"

"Are you kidding me?" Jermaine chuckled, his thumbs gently rubbing small circles through the thin fabric at your waist. "Mother’s been asking about you for three weeks straight. Ever since I told her about us going out to the roller rink last month, she’s been on my back. 'When are we meeting her, Jermaine? Bring that lovely girl over.' And you know how the rest of them are. If there's food, they're coming."

He stepped back just enough to grab a small wooden spoon from the counter, dipping it into a small pot of simmering red sauce on the stovetop. He blew on it gently, his dark eyes locking onto yours with a playful, heavy-lidded gaze.

"Here," he said, holding the spoon out to you, placing one hand beneath it to catch any strays. "Taste this. Tell me if the spices are right."

You leaned in, closing your lips over the spoon. The sauce was incredible—smoky, rich, with just enough of a kick to linger on the back of your tongue without burning. Your eyes widened in genuine delight.

"Mmm! Jermaine, wait a minute..." You tapped his arm. "This is incredible! Where did you learn how to make enchiladas like this?"

He puffed out his chest a little, a proud, goofy grin breaking out across his face. "Told you I had skills, didn't I? Everybody thinks I just play the bass, but I got flavor, baby. I’ve been working on this sauce recipe for months. I wanted it to be perfect for you."

"Well, consider me thoroughly impressed, Chef Jackson," you laughed, resting your hands back on his hips.

Jermaine leaned down, catching your chin lightly between his thumb and forefinger, kissing you again—sweeter this time, taking his time, savoring the quiet moment before the house inevitably exploded with energy.

“I’m really glad you’re here,” he whispered against your mouth, his eyes soft and entirely sincere. “I wanted you in my space. With my people.”

Before you could answer, the faint sound of heavy footfalls bounced down the hallway, followed by the energetic beat of someone tapping out a rhythm on the wall frame.

"Man, what is that smell? Jermaine, did you burn the—oh, snap!"

Michael slid around the corner into the kitchen, wearing an oversized striped sweater, flared cords, and a wide, bright grin. He froze for a fraction of a second when he saw you two standing close, then a huge, teasing smirk spread across his face.

"Well, well, well," Michael chimed in, leaning against the doorframe, crossing his arms with a playful shake of his head. "So this is why he’s been in the kitchen since noon. He usually doesn't even wash a dish, and today he's acting like he's running a five-star restaurant!"

Jermaine rolled his eyes, though a small, fond smile stayed on his face. He didn't drop his arm from around your waist, keeping you comfortably tucked against his side. "Ignore him," Jermaine said softly to you, before flashing a sharp look at his younger brother. "Mike, don't you have a record to listen to or something? Go bring Mother down."

"Oh, Mother's coming," Michael laughed, stepping fully into the kitchen and extending a slender, welcoming hand toward you. "Hi, I'm Michael. It's really nice to finally meet you. Jermaine hasn't shut up about you for a month."

"Michael!" Jermaine snapped, his cheeks flushing a faint copper tone, though he couldn't hide his embarrassment.

You laughed, taking Michael’s hand warmly. "It's so great to meet you, Michael. I've heard so much about you."

"Don't let him fool you, he’s a pest," a warm, gentle voice interrupted from the doorway.

Katherine Jackson walked into the kitchen, looking elegant and comforting in a soft blue knitted dress, her hair neatly set. The warmth radiating from her instantly filled the room. Behind her, Joseph walked in slowly, wearing his classic button-down and trousers, looking calm and observant, followed closely by Randy and La Toya, who were already bickering good-naturedly over who was getting the first plate.

"Mother, look at this," Michael pointed at the counter. "He made the enchiladas. And the handmade tacos."

Katherine smiled brightly, walking straight past the food to approach you. She took both of your hands in hers, her hold gentle and motherly. “Welcome to our home, sweetheart. It is so wonderful to finally have you here. Jermaine has been talking about this dinner all week.”

“Thank you so much for having me, Mrs. Jackson,” you said softly, feeling the lingering nerves completely melt away under her kind gaze. “Your home is beautiful.”

“Call me Katherine, child,” she insisted softly, squeezing your hands before looking over at Jermaine with an approving smile. “You look radiant. And it seems my boy actually put some hard work into this kitchen for once.”

“Hey now, I always work hard,” Jermaine protested smoothly, wrapping his arm around your shoulder once more, drawing you close to his side. He looked down at you, his eyes shining with a mix of relief and deep pride. “I just wanted to make sure everything was right for my girl.”

"Alright, alright, less sweet-talking, more eating!" Randy called out from the dining room archway, setting down a stack of cloth napkins. "Jermaine, is the food ready or what? My stomach is sticking to my ribs!"

"Hold your horses, Randy," Jermaine barked back with a grin, though he immediately moved to grab oven mitts.

For the next ten minutes, the kitchen was a whirlwind of rhythmic, joyful movement. Jermaine pulled the bubbling, golden-brown pans of enchiladas out of the oven, the melted cheese sizzling along the edges. He set out bowls of fresh guacamole, warm crispy tortilla shells, diced tomatoes, shredded lettuce, and rich sour cream.

You tried to step in to help carry plates, but Jermaine gently intercepted you every time.

"Uh-uh, baby," he murmured in your ear, taking a heavy ceramic platter out of your hands and replacing it with a light glass of sweet iced tea. "You're the guest of honor today. You sit down. I got you."

The dining table was long, set with simple white china and tall glasses. You were seated right at Jermaine's right hand, with Katherine at the head and Michael sat across from you. The room echoed with the warm, chaotic chorus of a big family—laughter bouncing off the wood-paneled walls, forks clinking against plates, and gentle teasing flying across the table.

"Man, Jermaine," Randy muttered around a mouthful of a freshly made taco, shaking his head in disbelief. "I gotta hand it to you. This is heavy. You put your foot in these tacos!"

"Language at the table, Randy," Katherine corrected gently, though she too was enjoying her plate with a small, pleased smile. "He's right, though. Jermaine, this sauce is lovely."

"Told you," Jermaine said smoothly, resting his elbow on the table and winking at you. "Secret technique. Can't give away the recipe to just anybody."

"Secret recipe, my eye," Michael teased, wiping his mouth with a napkin and grinning at you across the table. "He probably called up the restaurant down on Sunset and asked for instructions! I saw him reading a cookbook yesterday!"

"Man, sit down, Mike!" Jermaine laughed, throwing a balled-up paper napkin playfully across the table at his brother. "You're just mad because you can't cook nothing but cereal!"

The whole table burst into laughter, the energy light, groovy, and entirely natural. You found yourself laughing along, feeling completely integrated into the warmth of the room. Every few minutes, under the cover of the tablecloth, you would feel Jermaine’s long fingers slide into yours, squeezing your hand softly, checking in on you without uttering a single word.

Whenever you looked over at him, he was already looking at you—not at his plate, not at his brothers, but at you. His dark, soulful eyes held a look of quiet fascination, an intoxicating blend of cool 70s suave and deep, genuine affection.

After dinner was cleared away—with Michael and Randy finally being dragged into doing the dishes—the energy in the house settled into a soft, cozy groove. The sun had completely dipped below the horizon, leaving Encino wrapped in a cool, starry California evening.

Jermaine gently took your hand and led you out through the sliding glass doors toward the patio near the back yard. The night air was pleasant, carrying the sweet scent of jasmine blossoms and the faint hum of crickets. Soft ambient light radiated from the pool, rippling in shades of quiet turquoise against the stone patio.

From inside the house, the faint sound of a soul record echoed through the open doors—a slow, smooth track by Minnie Riperton, her dreamy vocals floating out into the night air.

Jermaine led you over to a wide padded lounge chair near the edge of the garden, sitting down and pulling you right along with him so that you were leaning back against his chest, your head resting comfortably on his shoulder. His arms wrapped securely around your waist, resting over your hands.

"You doing alright?" he asked quietly, his chest rising and falling beneath your shoulder. His voice was soft, stripped of the playful bravado he’d used with his brothers earlier.

"I'm more than alright, Jermaine," you murmured, relaxing into his heat, turning your face slightly to look up at his sharp, handsome jawline. "Tonight was wonderful. Your family is so sweet. And the food... honestly, you really blew me away."

He let out a low, smooth laugh that vibrated against your back. "I mean what I say, baby. When I care about somebody, I want to take care of them. I want to feed you good, make you laugh, make sure you feel like a queen every time you're around me."

He unclasped his hands from your waist, his large, warm hand moving up to gently cup the side of your neck, his thumb caressing your cheekbone with incredible tenderness.

"I was a little worried, to be real with you," he admitted softly, his eyes searching yours in the dim patio light. "My world can get kind of loud. Busy. Crazy, even. Bringing you into the middle of all this... I just wanted to make sure it wasn't too much."

You turned around in his lap, facing him fully now, placing your hands on his chest, feeling the steady, calm beat of his heart under the yellow polo.

"It wasn't too much at all, Jermaine," you said earnestly, looking straight into his dark, expressive eyes. "It was beautiful. You made me feel so special tonight. From the moment I walked into that kitchen."

A soft, breathtaking smile slowly lit up his face—the kind of smile he rarely showed the flashing cameras or the loud crowds, reserved entirely for moments like this.

"Yeah?" he whispered, his hands settling warm and heavy on the small of your back, bringing your hips closer to his.

"Yeah," you whispered back.

Jermaine leaned down, his forehead resting gently against yours for a brief, heavy heartbeat. The air between you felt warm, charged with a sweet, romantic tension that belonged entirely to the two of you. When his lips finally met yours, the kiss was slow, deep, and impossibly tender. He kissed you like he had all the time in the world, his thumb lightly stroking your jawline as his lips moved against yours with a practiced, romantic rhythm.

When he finally pulled back, just an inch or two away, his breath brushed softly against your lips.

"Good," he murmured, his voice dripping with smooth charm. "Because this is just the beginning, sweet thang. Next time, it's just gonna be you and me. I'll make you that Italian lasagna I was telling you about."

You giggled, resting your hand against his cheek, leaning up to kiss the corner of his lips. "Is that a promise, Mr. Jackson?"

"That’s a guarantee, baby," Jermaine whispered softly, pulling you back tight against his chest as the cool night breeze swept through the palm trees above, keeping you warm in his arms under the stars.

© 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐥𝐲𝐩𝐲𝐭𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐛𝐱 ; 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒔 𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒗𝒆𝒅. 𝒏𝒐 𝒓𝒆𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒅𝒖𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒐𝒓 𝒂𝒊 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒎𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒅.

The summer heat of 1978 rolled off the Encino asphalt in shimmering waves, but inside the sprawling sanctuary of Hayvenhurst, the afternoon felt frozen, quiet, and heavy.

In Michael’s wing, the velvet curtains were drawn tight against the harsh California sun, casting the room in a dim, amber glow. The air was thick with the scent of eucalyptus, mint tea, and the faint, sweet trace of Michael’s favorite orange-blossom cologne.

You were buried beneath a fortress of thick quilts and a heavy chenille bedspread, shivering despite the room’s warmth. Your body felt like it had been hit by a freight train. Every muscle throbbed, your throat felt like sandpaper, and your head pounded to the rhythmic beat of a fever that just wouldn't break.

You heard the soft, familiar click of the heavy wooden bedroom door swinging open.

Through half-lidded eyes, you watched Michael glide into the room. He had dropped his usual vibrant energy at the threshold, moving with a quiet, careful grace so as not to startle you. He was dressed down in his home attire—a cozy, oversized faded yellow sweatshirt, dark bell-bottom jeans, and thick white socks that slid silently across the carpet. His soft, dark curls were tied back loosely with a band, a few stray ringlets framing his face.

In his hands, he carried a wooden tray balanced with meticulous care. On it sat a steaming mug, a fresh box of tissues, a small glass of ice water, and a damp white washcloth.

You squeezed your eyes shut, letting out a soft sigh, and tried to scramble up into a sitting position. You hated feeling like a burden, especially when you knew how exhausted he was from hours of choreography rehearsals for the upcoming Jackson 5 variety preparations and record label meetings.

"Hey..." you choked out, your voice a raspy, pathetic whisper. You forced a tight, shaky smile onto your lips, desperately trying to look like you had it all together. "You didn't have to bring all that up... I was just about to get up and fix myself something. I'm feeling way better, honestly."

Michael set the tray down on the nightstand with a soft clink. He didn't say a word at first. He just stood over the side of the bed, his large, warm brown eyes studying your face with an intense, quiet laser-focus. He noticed the fever-flush on your high cheekbones, the slight tremble in your hands as you gripped the sheets, and the glossiness in your tired eyes.

He sat down on the edge of the mattress, the bed dipping under his weight. He reached out, his long, slender fingers gently brushing a stray coil of your hair back behind your ear, his knuckles resting against your burning cheek.

His eyes softened, filled with a mixture of gentle scolding and pure, unadulterated devotion.

"Don't lie to me," he whispered, his voice low, velvety, and smooth as honey. "I can tell when you're not feeling well."

You opened your mouth to protest, to offer up another weak excuse, but Michael just shook his head, a faint, tender smile playing on his lips.

"You don't gotta pretend with me, baby." he added softly, his tone rich with that warm, Midwestern warmth. "You look like a little wilted flower. You're burning up."

He leaned over and picked up the damp washcloth from the tray, folding it neatly. "Now stop trying to sit up so fast. Just lay back down for me, okay?"

You let out a defeated, needy sigh, letting your head sink back into the soft pile of pillows. "I just... I didn't want you worrying about me, Mike. You've been working so hard all day."

"Shh, don't worry about none of that," Michael said gently. He pressed the cool, damp cloth against your forehead, letting out a soft, sympathetic murmur as you closed your eyes and relaxed into the relief. "My job is right here taking care of my girl. The music can wait."

He reached for the mug on the nightstand, blowing softly over the rising steam before handing it to you. "Here... I made you some lemon tea with extra honey. Just like Joseph’s mother used to make when we were little kids back in Gary. It'll soothe your throat real nice."

He helped you prop yourself up just enough to take a few small sips. The sweet, warm liquid felt like heaven on your raw throat. Michael watched you intently, his hand resting supportively against the small of your back, making sure you didn't drop the cup.

"Good, huh?" he asked, his eyes crinkling at the corners with genuine pride.

"It's amazing, baby. Thank you," you murmured, handing the mug back to him.

"Anything for you, baby," he whispered.

Once the tea was set aside, Michael kicked off his socks and crawled onto the top of the bed, sliding under the heavy covers right next to you. You instinctively tried to pull away, croaking out, "Michael, no—you’re gonna catch this! You have to record this week!"

"I don't care about none of that right now," he said stubbornly, his voice full of playful defiance. He reached out, wrapping his long arms around your waist and pulling your back firmly against his chest. He adjusted the heavy quilts, tucking them snugly around your shoulders like a cocoon.

His chest felt broad and warm against your back, his steady, rhythmic heartbeat thumping softly against your ear. He rested his chin lightly on the top of your head, pressing a soft, lingering kiss into your hair.

"You just rest," Michael murmured into your hair, his hands gently stroking your arms over the blanket. "I'm gonna stay right here until that fever drops. I got you."

The warmth of his body, mixed with the soothing scent of his skin and the gentle rhythm of his breathing, began to pull you under a heavy blanket of sleep. The throbbing in your head faded into a dull hum, replaced by a deep sense of safety.

As your eyelids grew too heavy to keep open, you felt Michael shift slightly, his thumb softly stroking the side of your hip. In the dim amber light of the quiet Hayvenhurst bedroom, he began to hum—a low, sweet, wordless melody, soft and tender as a lullaby, soothing you straight into a peaceful sleep.

© 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐥𝐲𝐩𝐲𝐭𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐛𝐱 ; 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒔 𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒗𝒆𝒅. 𝒏𝒐 𝒓𝒆𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒅𝒖𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒐𝒓 𝒂𝒊 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒎𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒅.

At first, they had reasons. Michael would call to give her updates on filming, while Camille absolutely had to tell him about her neighbor's ugly Christmas wreath. After enough time, though, they stopped needing reasons. Sometimes they'd talk for hours, and others only long enough to say goodnight.

Yet, between both of their schedules, and multiple "soon"s between both of them, they hadn't seen each other in person since the soundstage.

One night, before another day of Michael's hectic filming schedule, Camille had mentioned an actors' benefit she was attending that Friday. She didn't sound particularly excited until Michael had mentioned Quincy might be there.

"At least I'll know someone there," she laughed over a sip of wine.

The next afternoon, Michael found Quincy in one of the rehearsal offices beside one of the soundstages after filming. He was supposed to look over some new writing for song ideas for Michael's album. He sat behind a cherrywood desk, his dark-brown-framed glasses slipping off his nose as he read through Michael's notebook.

"It's not bad," Quincy said, pulling out a pen to scratch something on the page. "These two lines," Quincy pointed with the tip of his pen, "don't really rhyme. You could fix it up a bit, but it's pretty good for a brainstorm."

Michael was hardly listening, watching him write something in the margin of the page. "Are you going to the benefit on Friday?"

"At the Plaza?"

"Yeah," Michael mumbled, now embarrassed by how far his mind had wandered.

"I'm supposed to," he looked up. "Why?"

"Don't know."

Quincy breathily laughed. "You came here to show me these lyrics, right?"

"Yeah?"

"Then why are you asking about an actor charity event?"

"Just curious," Michael said, barely above a whisper, scanning around the room. "Are you allowed to bring a plus-one?"

"You wanna go?"

Michael shrugged. "Maybe."

"Maybe," Quincy repeated back, laughing at Michael's quick change in demeanor.

"What?" Michael asked, starting to laugh himself.

"Oh nothing... just wondering why you're suddenly interested in benefits."

Michael looked down at his hands. "Camille mentioned she was going."

"Camille Beaumont?"

"Yeah," he answered hesitantly, testing the waters.

"You two still talk?"

"Yeah."

"Well then," Quincy said, adjusting in his chair. "I guess I can bring you as a plus one."

Michael beamed a smile, trying to hide his excitement by clearing his throat. "Okay, sounds good," he started, adjusting back into the lyric sheet. "So it's these two I'll rewrite?"

Quincy smiled, watching Michael pretend he wasn't literally buzzing. "Mhm. Those ones."

Michael smiled to himself. "What are you doing here?" He could practically hear her voice in his head. She'd laugh first, punch his arm. The rest of the world would melt away.

"So?" Quincy asked, snapping him back.

"Sorry... what?"

"What was the next lyric on this one? You stopped writing."

Quincy had pulled up a whole other lyric sheet, pointing at the middle of the page where his handwriting cut out. Quincy was always good at not asking questions, but instead just watching it unfold. He didn't need to ask about him and Camille, because he'd see on Friday.

"Oh, uhm," Michael said, grabbing his pen and leaning over the counter. "It was supposed to be," he continued, writing the lyric out before announcing it, "if I'm always out of sight."

By Friday evening, Michael had changed his shirt three times. The first one was too plain, the second didn't match his jacket, and he finally landed on a cream-colored button-up, one that was still slightly wrinkled around the collar.

Michael had continued to talk to Camille each day, but made it a priority not to reveal to her that he was attending the benefit. When she asked what his plan was for the weekend, he deliberately told her his schedule was jam-packed. He wanted it to be a surprise.

He hadn't noticed his sister La Toya standing in the doorway, watching him smooth out the collar with his fingertips while breathing a little too heavily.

"Where are you going?" she asked, leaning on the frame.

"To a benefit," Michael said, finally watching her in the mirror.

"What benefit?"

"The Actors Fund."

La Toya walked over and sank onto the edge of his bed. "Since when do you go to acting benefits?"

Michael shrugged, throwing half his tie over his shoulder. "Quincy invited me."

"Is Camille going?"

Michael shot around to meet her eyes. He had first mentioned Camille to her several weeks back. La Toya had asked about his day, and he, very hesitantly, revealed that he had become friends with Camille Beaumont. La Toya wasn't new to her or her movies, and had been begging him to introduce them. This was after Richard's party, though, and Michael wasn't sure if she even wanted to see him again.

"I think so," Michael mumbled.

"She is!" La Toya shot up. "Can I come?"

"I already asked Quincy to bring me as a plus-one. I think a plus-two might be pushing it."

"Awww," La Toya said, sinking back into the mattress.

Michael shot an apologetic smile back, lightly running his fingers through the stubborn section of his afro, finally sighing and looking at La Toya.

"Do I look okay?"

La Toya stood, smoothing out the fabric over his shoulders, meeting his eyes again. "You look handsome."

"Really?"

"She'll think so." La Toya brought her hand up to move a stray piece of hair.

In perfect timing, a knock sounded at the front door, Bill ready to take him and Quincy to the event.

"Well," Michael sighed. "Sounds like Quincy's ready." He took one last look in the mirror before slipping into his shoes.

"Have fun," La Toya called out, watching him scramble out of the door.

Michael called out one last goodbye before meeting Bill beyond the door. The lock of the door clicked behind him, suddenly making the hallway feel much quieter than before.

"Ready, Joker?"

"We'll see," Michael smiled.

Downstairs, the doorman greeted the two of them before letting the door swing open, the sharp December air stinging at Michael's skin.

Michael had never celebrated Christmas, but only two days from the holiday, New York had never looked more alive. Each store had its own decorations; department stores glowing under yellow string lights, plastic reindeer and Santa decor in the displays of shops, and wreaths hanging on metal lampposts. Each store looked like it was trying to outdo the ones next to it.

Pedestrians crowded each sidewalk, bundled beneath wool scarves, walking hand in hand with their significant other over their fabric mittens. A propped-open door of a shop down the street played old Brenda Lee and even the old Jackson 5 Christmas album.

Michael smiled to himself, hearing the song before it got lost in the noise of NYC. Despite how freezing it was, it had never looked so warm. He always loved seeing the city change during the holidays, even if he could only admire from afar.

Bill opened the backseat door of the car, Michael slipping in beside Quincy. The leather seat was cool behind Michael's hands as Bill started it up and pulled off the curb.

"There he is," Quincy smiled, bringing a hand up to brush imaginary dust off his shoulder.

Michael scanned Quincy, dressed nicely in a full suit, obviously carefully pressed beforehand. "Sorry, La Toya was helping me with my hair."

Quincy sucked through his teeth, eyeing up at Michael's hair with a look of fake dissatisfaction.

"What?" Michael asked, quickly bringing his hand up to fix it. "Does it look bad?"

"Nah, I'm just teasing," Quincy rumbled, nudging him with his elbow. "You look fine..." he paused for a moment. "You're really nervous, huh?"

Michael laughed under his breath, fiddling with his sleeve. "A little."

"A little?" Quincy laughed. "Jeez, man. You're making me anxious over here."

Michael smiled, finally leaning his arm on the door to look out the window. The car stopped at a red light beside a mall, a large sign pointing to Santa and his elves inside for kids to sit on his lap.

"So, what's the plan?"

Michael looked back at Quincy. "For what?"

"For when you see her."

Michael blinked. "I don't have a plan," he scoffed.

"No?"

"No, I was... just gonna say hi."

"That's the plan?" Quincy laughed.

Michael shrugged. "I didn't think about it that much."

"Mhm..." Quincy smiled, watching the city pass by beyond the window. "Just remember to breathe."

Michael laughed, shaking his head. "I am breathing."

"Barely."

The car rounded one more corner before finally pulling up to the valet section of the hotel. A bright yellow bulb shined at the top of the awning, celebrities stepping out of the black SUVs in front of them, and an entire entourage of paparazzi stationed beside the hotel doors.

Bill eased to a stop, stepping out of the driver's side to walk around and open their door.

"Ready?" Quincy asked.

Michael looked at the routine of camera flashes and people slipping beyond the doors. He thought about the twelve days, the soundstage, that first night. He smiled to himself. She had no idea he was beyond these doors.

"...Yeah."

The inside of the hotel ballroom was warmer than Michael expected. Not just because of the actual temperature, but because everything inside seemed to glow under the iridescent lights. The ballroom was equally as decorated as the rest of New York, but instead everything was carefully put together, in shades of gold, with intricate crystal glasses and metal platters.

The overlapping conversations immediately swallowed them both. People walked through these kinds of events like they were busier and more important than they actually were.

Michael smiled when people came up to greet him, and an older producer he vaguely remembered grabbed Quincy.

"I'll catch up with you," Quincy told him, already following the man somewhere else.

Michael nodded back. "Yeah."

And just like that, he was alone in an event he was not directly invited to, surrounded by actors he barely recognized.

He chose to enjoy himself regardless, even though he found himself scanning around the room for her. He found himself next to the bar, ordering some kind of mixed drink, something just so he could hold it. He didn't even really drink.

He took one cautious sip before deciding it was too bitter. He left the glass by the bar, moving deeper into the crowd.

He heard her before he saw her. Someone across the room called out. "Camille!"

His eyes followed quickly, peering over heads to find her tucked in a corner beside other people.

She looked absolutely beautiful; a red velvet dress falling just below her mid-thighs, accentuating the soft curve of her hips. Her hair was styled into a careful curve that framed her jawline. Her smile shined as she waved at the other person, ushering them over.

But the smile never met her eyes. Michael made sure to note that. She looked exactly like the version of Camille everyone knew, but even from across the room, Michael could see it was a performance.

He couldn't believe people liked this version of her better. The version that had to hold her breath just to zip up the tiny dress, that had to sit in a chair to get ready for hours, the version that had probably been practicing that very smile all day.

Michael liked her best without all of it. How she would get groggy after 10 pm, how she would slip into big, soft t-shirts after these kinds of events, how she would tell him over the phone about her opinions, complaints, and things she loved.

Everyone loved Camille when she was quiet and smiling. Michael knew she was actually a very opinionated woman under it all.

Michael barely had time to look away before her eyes swept around the room, directly landing on him. She froze, like she was trying to figure out if it was actually him. Then, her smile changed. It became softer as she excused herself from the group, now walking over to him.

Michael couldn't stop himself from smiling either.

Camille weaved through the crowd before finally standing in front of him.

"Hi," Michael giggled.

"Michael?" Camille asked, brushing his arm like she was trying to see if she was hallucinating. "What are you doing here?"

Michael smiled to himself. Just as I imagined, he thought. He shrugged, trying to look more casual than he was acting. "I told you I had plans."

Camille slapped his arm, laughing. "You liar!"

"Hey! I didn't lie. I told you I was super busy this weekend."

"Uh-huh. Busy stalking me at my own events."

"I wouldn't say stalking, just going off what you told me."

Camille smiled back as a silence settled between them. Not awkward, just easy.

"You honestly did save me back there."

"Yeah?"

"I thought seeing you was me hallucinating an escape route. I can't believe Evelyn forced me to come here."

"I don't think that's a great thing to say about a charity event," Michael sarcastically laughed.

"Most of these people don't even care about what the Fund is actually fundraising for anyway. It's all bullshit."

Michael laughed, looking around to make sure no one had overheard. "You're gonna get us in trouble saying things like that so loud."

"Whatever. Most of them are too busy talking about themselves to notice."

He scanned around, finally landing on a man who had been talking for five minutes already without a stop in sight. "You're probably right."

"I know I am."

A server passed by them, holding a silver platter that reflected almost blue under the golden chandeliers. Camille immediately reached for one of the hors d'oeuvres: a small bread bite with different spreads and appetizers on top.

"My mom used to have these at her little cocktail parties at our house when I was younger," Camille said through a bite.

"What even is it?"

"It's a crostini— a little bread, and you can change what you put on top," she said, examining the top. "This one only has cream cheese and jam. It's a Christmas one."

"Can I try?" Michael asked reluctantly.

"Yeah," Camille said, handing it out to him. "It's just bread."

Michael took a bite of the other side, covering his mouth and nodding in approval. "Fancy bread."

Camille laughed. "Sure. Fancy bread."

Michael took another bite, officially claiming it as his. Camille started to move through the room, Michael following beside her without much thought behind it.

For the next hour, Camille was dedicated to giving a tour of each person in the room to Michael. Not introducing them, though— giving her full opinions on everyone.

"See him?" Camille pointed with her chin.

"Yeah?"

"Literally never let him tell you a story unless you have half an hour to spare."

"Really? How do you know?"

Camille looked back at Michael, unamused. "I made the mistake once. It was something about his son genuinely believing he was a pirate."

Michael laughed a little harder than he anticipated. "That's a very normal kid thing!"

"Trust me, that's what I thought. So why it had to become a 45-minute conversation, no one knows."

Then, an older actor passed by their table, smiling with open arms. "Michael!"

Michael stood, shining a smile back, falling into the familiar routine of these conversations. He answered about filming, his family, and living in New York.

Camille remained seated beside him, sipping from her glass, before finally rising and excusing herself to the bathroom.

When she got back, the person had left, and he could smell the cigarette on her clothes.

"Do you always smoke?" Michael asked, not rudely, just curious.

"Only at these kinds of things," Camille answered honestly. "It's an excuse for me to just breathe."

She took another sip of her drink, looking around the room before looking at him again. "I don't do it as much when you're here, though."

Michael stopped and looked at her for a second longer than needed.

"Why?"

"I guess I just don't need as many reasons to leave."

Michael smiled softly. "That's good."

Camille broke the moment, leaning back in the velvet booth. "Don't get so ahead of yourself."

"I'm trying not to," Michael laughed.

Quincy appeared sometime later, holding a full drink and walking beside someone neither of them recognized.

"Michael, Camille," he said, looking between the two of them.

"Quincy!" Camille smiled, standing to hug him.

"I've been looking all over for your friend here," Quincy said, looking past her at Michael, smirking.

"Well, you'll be pleased to know he has not moved an inch in about an hour," Camille laughed.

Michael smiled back, giving Quincy that look he knew all too well. Don't ruin this, man.

Quincy nodded to Michael, understanding, but not listening. "Just abandoning the person who invited you, huh?" he said jokingly.

Camille looked between the two of them, finally landing on Michael. "You weren't directly invited?"

"No, I was. Quincy's just had too much to drink," he laughed, standing and bringing a hand up to Quincy's shoulder. "He was just going, right?"

Quincy laughed, shaking his head. "Yup, just passing by," he shot Michael another look. I'm just teasing, have fun. "I'll see you two later."

Michael waited till he was safely out of earshot before sinking back into the booth.

Camille was staring at him, trying to hide a smirk.

"What?"

"You asked him to bring you."

"Camille—"

"You did!" she laughed, leaning forward. "You actually went out of your way to come here?"

Michael looked down at the table, messing with the cracking finish on the wood. "I wanted to see you."

Camille softened her teasing into a smile. "That's... really sweet."

Michael squirmed. "Oh please, it was practically open invite... Don't make it weird."

"Mhm," Camille nodded, unconvinced.

Another half hour passed by, both of them still sitting and talking, until Camille finally noticed people grabbing their coats and servers collecting empty glasses off tables.

Both of them noticed it was ending, but still chose not to move towards the coat check.

Camille rested her hand against her chin. "So," she said, scanning around the room. "What are you doing after this?"

Michael laughed. "I was just about to ask you the same thing."

Camille smiled at him. "Good."

"Good?"

"Now I don't need an excuse."

"You usually need an excuse to hang out with me?"

"Well, not anymore," she said, finally standing and making her way over to the exit.

Michael smiled. "You hungry?" he said, following behind her.

"I could eat," Camille said, peering over her shoulder, already expecting him to follow.

✶ ݁ ˖

read the rest of afterhours!

“What’s got you all chipper this morning, Maine?" Tito questioned making everyone turn their heads towards him.

“This is the smile of a man who got some love last night.” He replied with a self-satisfied smirk.

Janet groaned fake gagging whilst his brothers erupted into loud laughter and whistles, knowing grins plastered their faces as they patted him on the back. 

Michael gave a small smile watching the scene unfold, but he refocused his attention on Janet—–he never was one to be interested in sex talk and his brother's manly habits. He believed sex and intimacy was something to be cherished—something to be kept privately between a male and female.

Which is why no matter how many times his brothers tried to pry or be nosey about his and yours relationship, Michael always shooed them off before enjoying you all to himself behind closed doors. He really was the black sheep of his brothers. 

Whilst explaining the cross word to Janet, he felt Jermaine’s hands clap his shoulders as he took a seat beside him. “Hey Mike.”

“Hey maine, how you been?”

“Good. How about you and mrs lover girl?”

Michael felt his face grow warm at the mention of you, he always grew shy whenever you were brought up—his brothers never failed to tease him over it. 

“She’s good, we’re good– she’s comin over tonight actually.” He replied before adding “How’s you and Hazel?” 

“Extremely good as you can tell” Jermaine replied mischievously whilst gesturing to himself with his hands—Michael rolled his eyes with a smile at his brother's cockiness.

“Yeah i can see that maine, whats that?” He asked curiously whilst he nodded his head towards a purplish coloured bruising resting just above Jermaine’s collarbone. 

His brother’s grin only grew cockier before he responded. “That, my innocent lil brother, is a hickey.”

Michael blinked confused—completely unaware of the term whilst his two older brothers Jackie and Tito turned around after the conversation caught their attention.

“A hickey?” Mike repeated, testing out the words still not understanding whilst his three older brothers bursted into laughter—he shrank into his seat feeling embarrassed.

“C’mon mike, you know what a hickey is man.” Jackie said expecting Michael to have been joking but when he saw his younger brother avoiding eye contact he stopped laughing “Oh you serious.” 

“Mike you mean to tell me you and her still ain’t done nun yet?” Tito inquired.

Even though he didn’t like having his brother's noses in his love life—Michael wasn’t a virgin, but he was still relatively new to it all—only having done anything with you maybe once or twice, which is why the concept of hickeys was still something that was foreign to him. 

“I’ve told you guys before, its nun of your business.” He replied, growing irritated by their questioning. 

“He still ain’t done nun yet that's why he avoiding the question.” Tito said, making the brothers laugh uncontrollably again whilst Michael sighed shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

“Don’t worry Mike, when you finally get one of these you’ll become a man.” Jermained laughed whilst he pointed to the hickey on his neck.

Feeling offended by his words his brows furrowed “I am a man Jermaine.”

“Whatever you say Michael.” Jackie responded between laughter.

“Go get a hickey from her and we might take you seriously.” Jermaine remarked sarcastically, trying to stifle his amusement. 

“Oh you think i can’t?” Michael retorted, sitting up more straight—starting to feel slightly competitive by their doubt.

The three brothers exchanged amused glances—their reactions speaking for them before Michael scoffed standing up to walk out of the kitchen.

“Watch me.”

𓂃⋆.˚  

The sound of lips smacking filled Michael's bedroom. His family were fast asleep in their rooms whilst he was up against his headboard holding onto your waist where you straddled his lap, exploring his mouth with your tongue. 

You arrived at Hayvenhurst for a sleepover a couple hours ago when you had dinner with the family. Michael had been quiet the entire time, barely talking to his brothers the way he usually would, when dinner was over and the two of you headed up to his bedroom—you barely made it across the room before he started kissing you hungrily.

“Baby– keep it down we can’t be too– loud.” He said between the kisses whilst your fingers caressed his fro, tipping his head back to kiss him deeper.

“You started this Mike, you shouldn’t have started kissing me like that.” You whispered against his lips grinding onto his growing erection through his pajama trousers.

“Angel–” kiss “Angel wait– i-i need to ask you somethin.” 

You paused, pulling your head back to look at him. “What's wrong Mikey?”

His eyes flickered away from yours. “Nothing i just…”

“Tell me mike.” You cupped his face forcing him to make eye contact as he exhaled softly.

“What's a hickey?” He asked nervously.

Your eyes widened slightly—expecting anything but that. “A hickey?” You repeated.

“Yeah…a hickey….Jermaine had one when he came home this mornin n they were all teasin me about not knowing.” 

He began to explain the comments they made, the way they laughed, and how Jermaine doubted he could ever get one. 

Understanding flashed across your face as you started to piece everything together—his silence towards his brothers during dinner and the heated kiss he gave you. 

“Well for starters i’m gonna kick their asses for teasing you.” 

He cracked a smile, chuckling slightly at your words.

“Don’t worry baby, I'll tell you all there is to know, okay?” You said softly, caressing his cheek with love whilst he nodded looking up at you with those big doe eyes you fell in love with. 

“Okay so, a hickey is when a person places their mouth on someones skin, and sucks real hard till it bruises—dont worry though, it feels really good, especially if it's on the neck in a sensitive area of the skin.” You explained whilst Michael listened intently, visualising it whilst you spoke.

“Have you…ever received one?” He asked suddenly feeling shy.

“Yeah baby i have.” You responded.

“Oh..” His tone was mixed with slight jealousy—a rare appearance that always made you turned on whenever it happened.

“Wanna give me one mikey?”

His dick slightly twitched in his pants—which you felt because you were still straddling him—at the seductiveness of your voice.

“I-i…i wouldn’t know how–”

“I can teach you. You want me to teach you baby?”

As if hypnotised by your words he nodded turning into complete jelly at the sound your voice. You smirked before adjusting yourself on his lap, getting yourself comfy again before you placed his hands on your waist to hold.

“Good, now lean into my neck and just start off with soft kisses mikey.” You murmured softly as he hesitantly leaned in but started pressing gentle kisses onto the skin of the right side of your neck.

The sweet smell of your natural skin mixed with Cocoa butter made his tense muscles relax completely as he spread the warm kisses around the area feeling the way your own body melted onto him.

“Mmh that feels good baby, okay now make the kisses a little wetter, add your tongue into it.”

He does as told gently placing his tongue flat before smooching onto the skin, he repeated this about five times as your eyes closed and your bottom lip was folded between your teeth trying not to release a moan that was starting to form in your throat.

Growing slightly confident, he trailed the tongue filled kisses across your neck moving to your left side which had you finally release the small moan you were trying to hold back.

“Does it feel good angel?” Michael muttered against your neck seeking reassurance as you nodded rubbing his back urging him to continue.

“Mhm y-yes baby it does…okay now i want you to suck onto the skin, still making it wet but this time suction your mouth baby.” You instructed softly.

He listened, you felt him readjust his mouth before his lips closed over the area in a sucking motion—instantly, he sucked onto your sweet spot that was just where your pulse was and you moaned again, tipping your head back more for him.

“Oh yes…yes baby you’re doing so well, m’so proud of you.” You spoke lowly, slightly feeling breathless.

Hearing the way your responses start to become breathy, Michael sucked onto your neck with more confidence, his tongue swiping all the areas that triggered more moans from you as you started to grind your hips onto his now completely hard crotch.

Feeling your hips move—it was Michael’s turn to release pleasure filled sounds which he released onto the area he was sucking, his hips bucking upwards as the grip he had on your waist became tighter. 

“I love you baby– love making you feel good, I love being good for you.” His hot breath tickling your wet bruised skin as he panted softly against it at the way your clothed core was grinding onto his pajama pants where he was now leaking precum through his boxers.

“I love you too, such a good boy for me Mike, doing so well marking me up—you like marking up your girl hm?”

Michael nodded whilst he groaned against your neck painfully and possessively as he continued to suck on your skin like there was no tomorrow. 

“Aht aht, i need your words Mikey.”

“I do! I love marking you up baby—love marking up my pretty girl.” He responded frantically.

Just as he was about to suck on the other side again, you pulled back slightly, lifting his head up—he whined about to protest before you silenced him with a hungry kiss to his lips the he returned gratefully, his tongue wrapped around yours passionately, neither of you caring how loud your kisses were as you deepened it before pulling away with a playful tug at his bottom lip with your teeth.

“How do you like your work, Picasso?” You teased as you tilted your head back allowing Michael to get a full view of the fresh dark prominent hickeys on your brown skin.

His eyes darkened seeing the outcome of his work, once again you felt him twitch beneath you as you pulled your head back forward meeting his gaze with your lustful one. 

“You liked that mikey? Like seein me all marked up because of you?” You whispered against his lips with a smirk as he nodded rapidly still staring up at you as if he was in a trance. “y-yes i do.”

You pulled back and he leaned in not wanting to escape your warmth but you rested your palm on his chest creating distance. “Now that I've taught you the principles of a hickey, and how it works….its my turn.”

The excitement that filled your boyfriends wide eyes caused you to chuckle gently as he eagerly gripped your waist again pulling you impossibly closer till you were chest to chest.

“Looks like someone's eager.” You ribbed 

“Please, please I need to prove Jermaine wrong—needa wipe that smug grin off his face, all of em.”

Fueled by your own desperation to help your boyfriend succeed, you leaned into his neck—the warm scent of clean skin and faint cologne filled your nostrils before you pressed soft kisses on the area doing the same exact process you taught him—licking his skin gently you smiled against him hearing the way his breath hitched. 

“Just relax baby, gonna make you feel so good.” You whispered before you started sucking on the area.

Michael’s eyes flickered shut as he released a soft shaky moan—so this is what a hickey felt like.

He bit on his bottom lip trying not to moan too loudly but when you started to roll your hips again—resuming your actions from earlier, he buried his face onto your shoulder whilst you moved against him and continued to work your mouth on his skin. You licked it, feeling his pulse quicken against your tongue.

“O-oh that feels so good.” He whimpered, moving his hands to your ass and squeezing a handful—his sudden confidence made you release a surprised sound onto his skin before you continued sucking.

“That’s it baby, grip my ass while i mark you.”

He continued to dry hump with you, neither of you losing the momentum as you panted into his skin grinding your now completely drenched clothed core onto his erect Pajama pants pushing your clit forward and back until you were a moaning mess. You sucked hard onto the skin making sure you left your mark on the very visible area before you released his skin with a pop and switched to the other side. 

Just like he did earlier, your mouth immediately found his sweet spot when you moved to his right side—Michael released a quivering moan tipping his head back to give you more access to the skin as you continued to abuse it, slurping and sucking on it whilst your hips moved on their own accord.

"F-fuck mikey you feel so good against me, so perfect and hard for me baby." You praised.

The two of you were now moaning in unison—completely losing yourselves, Michael’s head was thrown back with drool escaping his lips at how good your mouth felt on his neck and how good your pussy felt dry humping him, your spit trickled down his neck as you sucked hungrily over his adams apple.

“Ngh– oh God— oh baby—” Michael was an incoherent mess his words scrambling over each other as he pushed your hips down on him—harder, faster whilst you were your own disaster still latched onto his neck with tears of pleasure rolling down your face. 

“A-angel, angel im coming— im com— aghh!”

Michael came hard into his boxers his grip on you deliciously painful as he held you tighter, moving your head you bit onto his shoulder just as your own orgasm crashed through you as well whilst you continued to relentlessly rub your overstimulated clit through your panties onto his crotch before releasing his skin from your mouth with a whiny moan. 

After it became too sensitive and too much to handle, your hips gradually slowed down, the two of you panted heavily—both of your eyelids heavy as Michael rubbed your back soothingly with his palm. 

“You okay?” His voice low and soft.

“Yeah, you?” You replied as he nodded with a tired smile formed on his lips, his eyes sleepy but filled with love as they stared at you.

You stared back with matched tiredness and infatuation, brushing your thumb against his wet hickeys—a wide smile of pride painted your pretty face.

“Lets get some rest angel face, you got some showing off to do in the morning.”

𓂃⋆.˚  

The family's loud breakfast morning routine took place as usual, this time Latoya and Rebbie were there to make sure the pancakes weren’t burnt this time, whilst the brothers—marlon, Jermaine, Tito and Jackie sat at the table playing cards above their cereal bowls.

The loud chatter and bickering filled the atmosphere as the late morning sun shone through the sheer floral curtains of the kitchen. 

Janet was sat up on the counter completing the crossword Michael had taught her how to do yesterday whilst Randy got on her nerves trying to distract her. 

After finishing up the pancakes—Rebbie took the motherly role like always and fixed everyone a plate before she raised her finger and counted everyone in the kitchen then asked. “Where’s Michael?”

As if on cue, the third to last sibling strolled in, his face wearing the same exact expression that his brother had on yesterday. 

He took a seat at the table completely ignoring the extremely loud silence that had filled the air along with the heavy weight of eight eyes being directed at him as he took his plate from Rebbie, thanking her.

“Mike…” Latoya trailed off her lips parted in shock at the sight of him.

Ignoring what was on Michael’s skin, was like trying to ignore the elephant in the room—his entire neck was decorated with massive deep purple—almost black, bruises. They covered almost the whole neck skin, around five to six on each side, each one being larger than the other. 

Michael finally looked up meeting the shocked eyes of everyone before shrugging. “What?”

His brothers looked between themselves before wide massive smiles plastered their faces and they jumped up rushing to Michael with cheers and laughter, playfully slapping him on the back and jostling him whilst his sisters rolled their eyes resuming what they were doing.

“My man!” Jackie exclaimed proudly, ruffling his afro.

“Ain’t no way.” Marlon’s jaw dropped.

“Mike– you out done me. You actually out done me.” Jermaine said, still shocked but filled with excitement.

“Let me see! Let me see!” Randy tried to pull his head back.

For the next five minutes, his brothers continued to joyfully shove him around, demanding answers to their millions of questions that were being thrown at the speed of light whilst Michael tried to hold in his laugh giving them short responses.

Their game of twenty one questions was interrupted when you’d finally come down from his room, you cleared your throat and leaned against the kitchen’s door frame with your arms crossed wearing one of Michael’s old t-shirts—your brown skinned neck mirroring his own, your curls in a high ponytail to proudly show it off.  

Latoya and Rebbie turned to you with knowing grins before his brothers immediately left Michael and rushed to you, they swarmed you with their own shocked questions whilst Michael smiled and watched with a fuzzy feeling inside. 

“Yup, and don’t make fun of my man again.”

𑣲⋆｡˚

Thank you so much for reading <𝟑 .ᐟ

The gates of the Montagu Manor didn’t creak; they groaned, a heavy iron lament against the howling autumn wind. To the superstitious folk down in Normal Valley, that sound was the herald of doom—a warning that a shadowy, eccentric Maestro of the estate was stirring.

To you, it was practically a velvet rope inviting you inside. 

You had always possessed an absurdly high tolerance for the strange. Ghost stories didn’t give you nightmares; they gave you itinerary ideas. While the townspeople whispered about flickering green lights in the grand turrets and phantom organ music echoing in the valley, you simply grabbed your coat, slipped past the rusted iron gates, and strolled up the winding stone path as if attending an evening gala.

The mahogany front doors groaned open the moment your foot hit the top step.

“Predictable, but nice flair,” you hummed aloud, stepping into the cavernous, vaulted foyer.

The air inside tasted of dried lavender, old leather, and a faint electric ozone—like the atmosphere just before a lightning strike. Towering sconces sparked to life one by one down the grand corridor, casting long, golden shadows across the gilded mirrors and velvet-draped walls. 

“You know,” a smooth, melodious voice purred from the rafters, "uninvited guests usually have the decency to tremble.” 

You looked up, unfazed, catching a blur of dark velvet and silver-embroidered silk descending lazily through the air. The Maestro landed without a sound, floating the last few inches before his polished leather boots touched the marble floor. He wore a sharp, Victorian-style tailcoat, his dark locks framing a face that was stunningly handsome, impossibly pale, and currently wearing a look of deep, theatrical offense.

"I left the door unlocked," he continued, taking a slow, predatory step toward you, his dark eyes gleaming with mischievous magic. "I didn't invite you to a promenade."

"If you wanted people to stay out, Maestro," you replied, leaning back against the grand arched entryway and crossing your arms, "you shouldn't make your haunt look so inviting. The gothic aesthetic really suits the place."

He paused, a slow, brilliant smile breaking across his features. His dark eyes glittered. "A connoisseur of the macabre. How refreshing."

That had been three weeks ago.

Now, your midnight visits were an unspoken ritual. You brought him stories from the outside world—a world he chose to keep at arm's length—and he offered you a sanctuary of whimsical enchantments, velvet couches, and banter that grew bolder with every passing night.

Tonight, the storm outside raged with a vengeance, but inside the manor’s private parlor, a roaring fire bathed the room in amber light.

You were lounged on a plush crimson settee, sipping tea that had magically poured itself from a silver pot twenty minutes ago. Maestro was pacing the perimeters of the room, his long fingers trailing over antique instruments, pretending to adjust a bust of Shakespeare while casting deliberate, lingering glances in your direction.

“You’re terribly quiet tonight,” you teased, setting your teacup down with a soft clink. “Plotting my demise, or sulking because your shadow lost at chess earlier?”

He gasped dramatically, clutching a gloved hand to his chest. "I never sulk. I brood. There is an art to it." He turned, his coat tail snapping around him as he stepped into the firelight. "And as for your demise... I haven't decided if you're more useful alive or as a permanent fixture of my spectral choir."

"Try to turn me into a ghost and I’ll haunt your wardrobe," you shot back smoothly. "You’d never wear silk again."

A low, rich laugh bubbled from his throat—a sound that vibrated right through the floorboards and settled somewhere warm in your chest.

"A cruel punishment," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave as he drifted closer. He leaned over the back of your settee, his face suddenly inches from yours. The scent of vanilla and night-blooming jasmine washed over you. "You have a dangerous tongue, little trespasser."

"And you have a habit of invading personal space," you replied, your breath hitching slightly despite your cool tone.

"Space is a human construct," he whispered, a sly tilt to his lips. "I am merely... expanding my territory."

Before you could offer a witty retort, he vanished. A soft puff of shimmering, dark mist was all that remained where he had been standing.

You rolled your eyes, sitting up. "Oh, very mature, Maestro."

Silence stretched over the room, save for the crackle of the fireplace. You stood up, walking toward the grand archway that led into the ballroom. "If you think popping out of a shadow is going to scare me tonight, you're going to be terribly disappointed."

You turned the corner into the darkened hall, turning your head left—

Slam.

You backed right into a solid, velvet-clad chest that definitely hadn't been there a millisecond ago.

"Looking for me?" his voice rumbled, dangerously close to your ear.

Startled for the first time all evening, you gasped and spun around, your heel catching on the edge of your hem. You began to tilt backward, but before you could fall, two long, steady arms wrapped securely around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest to catch you.

The impact knocked the breath right out of you.

The playfulness evaporated instantly, replaced by a thick, heavy silence. His hands were firm against the small of your back, holding you captive. You looked up, your chest rising and falling against his, and found his gaze locked onto yours. The dark depth in his eyes had turned stormy, heated, and utterly intense.

Up close, the power he usually kept cloaked beneath theatrical theatricality was palpable. It radiated off him like heat from a furnace. His gaze flicked down to your lips, his knuckles tightening slightly against your waist, sending a sudden, electric shiver straight down your spine.

"Careful," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that felt like velvet against bare skin. "You might actually hurt yourself. And then who would I have to torment?"

"You... you caught me," you managed, your voice dropping to a breathless whisper. You didn't move away. In fact, your hands had instinctively rested against his chest, feeling the steady, magical thrum of his pulse beneath the fine fabric of his vest.

"I always catch what enters my lair," he purred, his head dipping lower, his lips hovering mere inches from the curve of your jaw. The heat of his breath flickered over your skin, making your pulse race. "The question is whether I ever let it go."

The air between you pulsed with an unbearable tension, a magnetic pull so tight it felt as though a single spark would set the whole manor ablaze.

Then, with a suave, wicked smirk, he subtly shifted his grip, sliding his hand down to take yours with practiced elegance. He took a step back, breaking the heavy contact, though his eyes never left yours.

"Come," he said softly, leading you toward the center of the vast, moonlit ballroom. "I believe I owe you a proper performance for your brave endurance tonight."

With a simple, careless flick of his free wrist, the grand piano in the corner began to play itself. A haunting, breathtaking waltz filled the air, the keys depressing under the touch of invisible, ghostly fingers.

Maestro drew you in, placing one hand gently at the small of your back and raising your linked hands high.

The Midnight Waltz began.

He moved like smoke—effortless, fluid, and intoxicating. He spun you across the polished marble floor, the shadows dancing in rhythm with your steps. Every turn brought you brushing against his length; every dip felt like a silent proposition. He was playing with you, leading you through a choreography of subtle touches, lingering gazes, and breathless pauses.

As the music swelled to its dramatic peak, he guided you toward a massive, ornate mirror framing the far wall—an antique piece encased in swirling silver serpents.

“Look,” he whispered in your ear, standing directly behind you, his hands resting lightly on your shoulders, his chin almost brushing your neck.

You looked into the glass. At first, it reflected only the two of you—a stunning contrast of your warm, glowing skin against his dramatic, dark elegance. But then, the glass shimmered like disturbed water.

The magical illusion shifted. In the reflection, the space between you dissolved entirely. The mirror didn't show where you were—it showed what the air between you was trying to do. Shadows wrapped around the two of you like a dark silk shroud, pulling your reflection back into his chest, his ghostly hands threading through your hair, his lips pressed intimately against the pulse of your neck while you leaned back into him, completely undone.

You let out a soft, sharp breath, your cheeks flushing deep crimson as the explicit desire portrayed in the mirror hung naked between you.

"The mirror doesn't tell lies, my sweet trespasser," Maestro murmured into your hair, his voice dripping with dark amusement and a hunger he was no longer bothering to hide. His real hands slid slowly down your arms, his fingers tracing a burning path down to your wrists. "It merely reflects... possibilities."

You turned around in his hold, stepping directly into his personal space, looking up into those intense, intoxicating eyes.

"And what if I like those possibilities?" you asked, your voice steady despite the hammer of your heart.

A dark, dangerously handsome smile spread across his face. He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as his hands slid around your waist once more, pulling you impossibly close.

"Then I suggest," he whispered, his voice a sultry promise that guaranteed you wouldn't be leaving the manor anytime soon, "you stop teasing the monster... before he decides to consume you whole."

© 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐥𝐲𝐩𝐲𝐭𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐛𝐱 ; 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒔 𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒗𝒆𝒅. 𝒏𝒐 𝒓𝒆𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒅𝒖𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒐𝒓 𝒂𝒊 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒎𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒅.

The world knew you as the muse of a generation. You weren't just a fashion icon; you were the catalyst for a cultural shift. It had started almost by accident… your curves were simply too lush for the standard cuts of the early 2000s. Girl, you had an ass that didn't just fill out clothes; it challenged them. When you started wearing those super low-rise trousers, the ones that sat precariously on the very edge of your curvy hips, the "whale tail" became your signature. The sight of two thin straps peeking over the waistband had become a symbol of unapologetic confidence.

The media called it scandalous, the haters called it a plea for attention, but you just called it being a fine ass bitch. You moved through the world with a rhythmic grace, knowing that every head turned when you walked away. But while the world stared from a distance, Michael lived in the orbit of your gravity.

Being married to the Michael Jackson meant living in a whirlwind of flashing lights and screaming fans, but inside the walls of your home, the world slowed down. Michael was your sanctuary. He was a man of soft whispers, gentle touches, and a heart that beat with a purity that often left you breathless. He adored you. Not just for the body that the world obsessed over, but for the soul that grounded him. Yet, even after years of marriage, he remained completely undone by your style.

It was a rainy thursday afternoon, and the two of you were lounging in the expansive living area of the estate. The room was filled with the scent of vanilla candles and the soft sound of a jazz record spinning in the background. You were scrolling through a magazine, draped across a velvet chaise lounge. You were wearing a pair of super low-rise denim trousers that hugged your hips like a second skin, sitting so low they barely clung to your pelvic bone. Because of the way you were arched, the shimmering gold straps of your thong, the one with the charms that spelled out Michael, were pulled high and proud, framing the swell of your hips.

Michael had been trying to read a lyric sheet, but he hadn't turned the page in ten minutes. He was staring. He always stared.

"Baby," he murmured, his voice a soft, melodic vibration. He set the papers aside and slid closer to you, his eyes tracing the line where the denim met the gold lace. "You know you're tryin' to make it real hard for me to focus, right?"

You looked over your shoulder, a playful, knowing glint in your eyes. "I don't know what you're talking about, Mike. I'm just relaxing."

He let out a small, breathy laugh, his cheeks tinting a light shade of pink. Even now, he had that bashful quality, that sweetness that made your heart ache. He reached out, his long, slender fingers grazing the skin of your hip, just beside the gold strap. "You just too fine. I mean, look at you. You got the whole world wanting a piece, and I'm the lucky one who gets to keep you. But that thong... it's just a tease, baby. A beautiful, cruel tease."

"You still get shy about it?" you teased, shifting your weight so the trousers dipped even lower, exposing more of the lace.

"I ain't shy," he whispered, though the way he bit his lip suggested otherwise. "I'm just... appreciative. I love how you carry yourself. I love that you know exactly how good you look. It just makes me want to keep you all to myself."

He leaned in, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. "I don't think I can handle another minute of just looking."

He didn't rush you. Michael never did. He began by kissing you with a slow, reverent passion, his tongue dancing with yours in a way that felt like a prayer. His hands wandered, sliding beneath the waistband of those super low-rise trousers, his palms warm against your skin. He groaned softly into your mouth, the sound vibrating through your chest.

"You're just a miracle," he breathed, his voice thick with emotion. "My beautiful, perfect girl."

He gently guided you toward the bedroom, the walk a slow torture of anticipation. Once the door clicked shut, the atmosphere shifted from sweet to starving. He stripped you slowly, his eyes never leaving yours, treating your body like a piece of priceless art. When the trousers finally hit the floor and the gold thong was all that remained, he let out a shaky breath.

"I love this on you," he whispered, hooking his thumbs into the straps and pulling you flush against him. "I love knowing you wore this just for me."

He didn't lay you flat on your back. Instead, he guided you to the edge of the bed, urging you to lean forward, pressing your chest against the silk sheets and arching your back. The position put your assets on full display, your hips tilted high, the thong cutting a provocative line across your skin. Michael stood behind you, his breath hitching as he looked at the view. He spent a moment just worshipping you from behind, his hands kneading your cheeks, his lips kissing the small of your back.

"You're so breathtaking," he whispered, his voice trembling with desire. "I can't get over how perfect you are."

When he finally rid himself of his clothes, he positioned his dick at your entrance, the heat between you electric. With one steady, powerful thrust, he slid deep inside you from behind. He let out a long, shuddering moan, his chest pressing against your back.

"Oh, baby... you feel so good," he groaned, his voice a sweet caress even as he hammered into you. "Just stay right there for me. Just like that. You're so tight... so perfect."

He gripped your hips tightly, his fingers digging into your skin to anchor you as he pushed himself deeper, hitting that spot that made your back arch and your breath hitch. He was breathless, his chest heaving, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the quiet room.

"I love you so much," he whispered, his voice melodic and full of devotion. "You're mine... all mine, baby."

The tension built until it was unbearable, a coil of heat tightening in your gut. As you reached your peak, Michael let out a guttural sound, his body shaking as he came inside you in long, pulsing waves. He collapsed onto you, his heart racing like a drum against your back, his breath hot and ragged.

For a long time, neither of you spoke. He just held you, kissing your shoulder, his voice returning to that patient, melodic hum.

“You can almost see the steam coming out her ears,” your son chimed in, plopping back down in the armchair, the tv blaring amidst the loud talking.

You'd just come home early from your Pilates class, your mat in hand, as you walked into your home. The first thing you could make out was the chatter that came from the living room, three familiar voices echoing through the hall, yet they were too busy talking about you to notice the fact that you'd come home earlier than expected.

“I love the woman, but man does she have a temper,” Michael laughed, recreating one of your signature looks.

Now you could've ruined their fun right then and there, but you wanted to hear what else they had to say about your so-called temper, which if they were to ask you, you'd say it was absolutely not a temper.

“And you better not be in my kitchen when I'm cooking,” your son muttered in what was supposed to sound like your voice.

“Ion even care what Mom has to say, I'd be ready to eat,” he smacked his lips absentmindedly, swatting his hand in the air.

Michael let out a laugh that was short-lived when he caught you peeking around the corner, arms crossed, that all too familiar annoyed look plastered over your face.

“C'mon, don't say that, you should listen to your mother,” Michael scolded, a complete shift from his earlier tone.

“Oh, don't act like you're scolding him now,” you stepped into the living room, your mat still pressed tightly in your crossed arms.

“Ooh, she's going to chew you out,” Marlon's eyes glanced between the three of you, eager to see how the scene in front of him was going to play out.

“Baby, I've been scoldin' him this whole time,” he stood up in attempts to cool the tone he was sure was brewing.

“That's interesting because I've been standing here the whole time, don't lie now,” you shook your head, your acrylic nail pointing at him.

“Oh yeah, I see the steam,” Marlon let out a laugh, pointing to his ears.

“Oh, shut the hell up, Marlon, go on to your own damn house,” rolling your eyes before pointing at both your boys. “And I'll deal with you two later,” you'd finally walked off, ready for a nice bath after the intense Pilates session you'd had.

“Mom, we were just playing.”

“Well, let me get out of here before she kicks my ass too.”

©angelfacediary

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