d3qrlyb3lov3d

and for months, you had been left with nothing but long-distance phone calls. 

you had lost count of how many nights you spent curled up in bed with the receiver pressed tightly against your ear, listening to his soft, rhythmic breathing long after the conversation had run out of words.

you missed him with a desperation that physically ached – and unfortunately, he had found out exactly how much a few nights ago.

it had happened sometime after midnight.

you were exhausted, half-asleep, and michael had been teasing you in that low, sleepy murmur of his.

before your defenses could catch up, you had admitted it.

you confessed that you’d tried getting yourself off while he was away, but it never worked.

it didn't feel the way his hands did.

without him there, you couldn't get yourself over the edge, and every single attempt while he was away had left you burning and frustrated.

michael let out a soft, breathless laugh.

"yeah?" he had murmured, his voice dropping lower, sending a shiver straight down your spine. "poor thing..." his voice softened. "i miss you so much. i hate bein' away from you."

you could hear the smile in his voice when he spoke again.

“tell you what… i’ll just have to teach you when i get home.”

by the time the call ended, the tone for his return had been set.

which was exactly how you ended up here.

you were sitting on the floor right between his legs, positioned directly in front of the full-length mirror across from his bed. your shorts and panties were gone, leaving you completely exposed to the reflective glass.

your back rested flush against his chest while his long legs stretched around either side of you, keeping your thighs spread wide so you couldn't close them if you tried. one of his arms was looped loosely around your waist, keeping you tucked securely against the heavy, throbbing hardness straining against his pants. 

with only a skimpy pink tank top on, michael had you blushing and writhing in front of the mirror without even laying a finger on you yet. 

you felt so exposed, so vulnerable, your chest rising and falling rapidly under the thin cotton of your top.

"mm, look at you." he caught his lower lip between his teeth, shaking his head slightly. "so pretty f’me," he murmured, his head tilted down so he could speak right against your ear.

heat rushed to your face. you turned your head away from the mirror, burying the side of your face against his chest instead.

you couldn't bear to look at your own reflection while michael sat behind you, whispering things like that into your ear. 

"c'mon, be a good girl 'n look for me." one of the hands around your waist slid up your chest to grab ahold of your chin, turning it gently to bring your eyes back to the mirror. his other hand tickled at the skin below your navel, sending waves of goosebumps.

"'s embarrassing," you whined, your gaze drifting down to the plush carpet below you.

michael pressed a gentle, lingering kiss to your hair. "no 's not, sweet girl. 's to help teach you." his fingers trailed lower, the heat of his palm brushing your bare thighs.

"that's all y'gotta do. just watch."

in the reflection of the glass, your eyes were drawn to the sight of his hand against your body.

michael’s hands alone stirred something inside of you.

the sheer size of them made your stomach flip with a heavy, restless ache. his palms were broad, and his fingers were long and slender.

as his hand hovered over your center, you could see the faint lines of his knuckles and the subtle swell of the veins tracing down the back of his hand.

they were large enough to completely span your hip, yet precise enough to know exactly how to ruin you.

the hand against your stomach slid a little lower, teasing just above your clit. "'m not always gonna be here to do it for you."

you knew that. you knew that michael wouldn't always be around to take care of you like this. not with the second leg of the tour right around the corner. 

so, you let your eyes skim over the floor, slowly inching up the glass of the mirror.

"that's my girl," he whispered, his voice soft against your ear. "if you take your eyes off yourself... i'll stop."

you were both aching with anticipation.

every nerve in your body felt wound tight. the promise hanging between you, the warmth of his body at your back, the sound of his voice against your ear – it all left you so worked up.

you wanted him to finger you the way you needed until you were cumming around his fingers. 

you needed that release from him so badly. 

and michael was desperate to have you squirming in his grasp, choking out moans for him as you gushed all over his fingers.

his fingers brushed over your clit softly, circling it slowly.

he could hear your breath hitch, your much smaller hands coming to the forearm that still had a hold on your chin.

you were so sensitive, all fidgety in front of him, your body growing even hotter at his touch.

"mikey–" you spoke no louder than a whisper, just enough for him to hear you.

he let his hand slip from your chin, his fingers sliding smoothly down to the bottom hem of your pink top, his palm cupping the soft underside of your right breast. you jerked a little at the sensation, your nipple instantly hardening under his palm.

"this okay, sweet girl?" he murmured. his low voice brushing so close that you can feel the slight curve of a smirk against your ear.

you nodded quickly, your chest heaving as you bit your bottom lip between your teeth to stifle a desperate whine.

but with his hand off your chin, your head dropped forward, your eyes instantly darting downward to watch his other hand hovering over your thighs.

"head, baby," he said softly, his tone was gentle but left no room for argument.

you lifted your head, your cheek brushing against his jaw as you rested back on his shoulder. his hair tickled your cheek as you settled against him.

in the reflection, you watched his fingers slide down past your navel, dipping right into the slick arousal gathered between your thighs.

"look how wet you are,” he chuckled, sliding the tips of his fingers through your heat, spreading the slick moisture. his bottom lip caught briefly between his teeth before a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "this all for me?”

his words made your face and neck grow warm, crinkling your nose, your legs attempting to close. but his own legs were in the way, keeping them pinned wide open.

"michael, this is humiliating," you muttered, pressing yourself farther back against his chest like you were trying to escape.

you weren’t.

and you knew that.

you were too riled up.

too desperate for him to fill you.

"take a lick, sweetheart," he teased, bringing his hand away from your heat and up to your face.

you tucked your head into the crook of his neck, your eyes flicking toward his hand for just a second. in the dim light, you could see the creamy, glistening slick coating his fingertips. 

when you finally forced your eyes upward to meet his in the mirror, your eyes were wide and dazed.

"be a good girl 'n get my fingers nice 'n wet for you," he mumbled, a tender smile playing on his lips as he looked down at you with heavy, dark eyes.

wrapping both of your hands around his wrist, you guided his fingers toward your mouth. your tongue brushed against them before you drew them in, tasting the faint trace of yourself still lingering on his skin.

you let them rest there for a moment, coating them with your saliva while his gaze stayed fixed on you. when he finally told you to open your mouth, you obeyed without hesitation. he carefully pulled his fingers free, a thin strand of saliva stretched between them and your tongue before finally breaking. 

the spit dripped off his fingers, trailing down your stomach before his hand found its way back between your thighs. his fingertips were still warm from your mouth, damp as they brushed teasingly against your entrance.

michael felt your pussy flutter against his fingertips.

"god, baby–" he muttered, beginning to tease his middle finger inside, "look at that."

"see how pretty she is? squeezin' me like that?"

your hands returned to his forearm, digging your blunt nails into the skin as his hand palmed heavily at your breast.

"please, please," you mewled, your breath catching sharply in your throat as the slick tips of his fingers parted your entrance. 

your voice was all shaky as he nudged his way inside. he eased in just a little more, letting you feel the stretch until he was two full knuckles deep. 

you were so tight around him, your walls clamping down on his fingers like a vice. every shift of his hand sent a jolt straight through you, causing your body to pulse helplessly around his fingers. 

"shit, 'can feel you, sweetheart," he gasped out, his breath stuttering against your ear. 

once he slid his finger all the way to the hilt, he kept his hand still for a moment, letting your body adjust to the thick stretch of him. 

with agonizingly gentle precision, he hooked his finger upward, curling it slightly against your gummy walls and pressing it right against your sweet spot. 

the sudden pressure hit you like a wave, making you let out a high, broken whimper as your head shook back and forth against his shoulder. 

"michael," you whimpered, your legs beginning to tremble where they were hooked over his own.

it was pathetic.

he was only a finger deep inside you, yet you were falling apart, crumbling into a shaking mess right in his arms.

the hand cupping your breast glided upwards, his fingers grazing lightly over your raised nipple right through the thin fabric of your top.

the hit of pleasure sent your head falling back against his collarbone. your back arched off the floor into his touch, your ass grinding back ruthlessly against the rigid length of his hard cock.

"need more, please," you begged with a breathy moan.

any lingering thought of watching the mirror or trying to memorize his movements for later completely evaporated from your mind.

it didn’t matter anymore.

you knew that never, ever, would you be able to replicate the pleasure he was making you feel right now.

he slowly drew his finger out of you, making you cry out from the friction, before sliding it right back in easily.

you were sucking him back in, begging for more.

he started with languid pumps of a single finger, murmuring dirty, breathless praises against your ear as you trembled and shook in his arms. 

a delicious heat coiled in your stomach at an intensity you’d never felt before.

every moment had you wound up so tight. he had you on such an edge that you truly thought you would explode.

and as he pulled back out once more, he returned with another finger.

"oh my god." you gasped, your legs clamping tightly around his own.

michael could feel your stomach tense up as he filled you even more. he could feel your breathing grow ragged and the volume of your cries become careless.

every push of his knuckles against you was sloppy and loud. you were gushing around him, slick running down his long fingers to coat his knuckles and wrist.

"makin' such a mess," he teased. "you’re close, aren’t you, sweet thing?" his lips brushed against the damp skin of your neck, his breath warm against you.

"michael! i–i’m–" your mouth fell open as your legs kicked helplessly over his thighs.

his fingers pressed deeper, curling into a spot that made you gasp out a frantic, “y-yeah–”

he adjusted his angle, pressing harder into your sweet spot until it drew a sudden burst of wetness right out of you. your walls clamped down around his fingers, his cock pulsing against you in response. he kept working that exact spot, pumping another burst out of you as he groaned against your neck.

"right there?" he murmured. "right there makes you squirt? i know it feels good right there, baby." he didn't let up, his voice soft against your ear as your thighs shook.

"uh huh...yeah?" he coaxed. "yeah, that's it. cum f’me," he murmured.

the hand on your breast slid higher beneath the hem of your top to grab your chin, gently turning your face toward him.

before you could think, he was kissing you, deep and sloppy, swallowing every sound that escaped you.

it was overwhelming.

the coil inside you finally gave way, crashing through you all at once as you gushed all over his fingers and hand.

the sudden rush of fluid soaked his fingers and stained the carpet beneath you. you moaned into his mouth as he kissed you. your body spasmed in his arms, your ass grinding up against him helplessly as he rode through his own orgasm.

just from watching you, watching how your pretty little pussy squeezed his fingers and leaked all over his hand, michael let out a deep, strangled groan into the kiss. his body locked up behind yours as he came in thick, hot spurts, soaking through his underwear as his own climax hit him.

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his hands r just ugh

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

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

A sex tape.

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

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

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

Thus your current get up of black latex.

Your eyes then flicked down- it was crotchless.

And there you go feeling lightheaded again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“All for you, honey.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Use your words.”

“I need your fingers—“

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

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

“Michael, I feel… what—“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You feel so good, baby.”

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

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

“Fuck! Do that again, please, oh my-”

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

There was suddenly a knock on the door.

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

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

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

“Do you want your mom to come help?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Michael had never finished inside of you before.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Baby? Did I wake you?”

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

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

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

Your brows furrowed. “No? Why?”

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

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

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

“…No.”

“I’m really sorry.”

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

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

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

“Michael, do not finish that sentence.”

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

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

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

“Yeah, baby?”

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

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michael jackson masterlist

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The ride home was a cocoon of tense silence. The streetlights shimmered in the night a silent parade past the tinted windows.

Michael sat in the far corner of the plush limousine seat, a beautiful statue carved from desire and anxiety. 

He’d been radiant at the 1980 American Music Award presentation, his neat afro, a soft light-brown cloud, his smile shy but genuine as he spoke to peers about Off the Wall.

And for the entire three-hour affair—from the first sip of prosecco to the final standing ovation, he’d been visibly, achingly hard.

You had whooped and cheered for him as he won in three separate categories. He made sure to point and thank ‘his girl’ for being the perfect muse. You couldn’t even comprehend the wins, as you were pointedly looking at his crotch, how he was trying to hide himself. 

You’d borne witness to it all. 

The subtle, tortured shifts in his wide-legged trousers. The way his elegant hands would flutter to his lap, pressing down, trying to angle the thick, insistent line of his erection against the lean plane of his stomach, or try to keep it in the waistband of his pants.

It was a futile, beautiful struggle. A faint sheen of perspiration had highlighted his forehead, and every time he leaned in to whisper a thank you, his breath was hot and unsteady. When he spoke with you, his eyes were alert, fervent, and his breath carried the scent of mint and sweet juice. He was coming apart at the seams.

Last night had been his first time. The loss of his innocence. A decision arrived at with trembling anticipation. Three whole years of held hands, of kisses that never deepened, of him whispering, "Let's do it when it’s perfect, baby. When it’s right.”

He’d finally decided it was right. “I love you,” he’d breathed into the darkness, his body taut above you. “I know I’m going to marry you—so why should I wait any longer?”

It had been a burst of frantic, bewildered sensation, over almost before it began, leaving him curled around you afterwards, whispering “thank you” over and over like a sacred vow into your skin.

You’d thought it a one-time gift, at least for a while, while he grappled with the guilt of stepping outside the bounds of his religious past.

The limo purred to a stop on the familiar Hayvenhurst driveway. He was out before the engine died, opening your door with a hand that trembled violently.

“Night, Mike. I’ll pick you up again tomorrow morning at nine sharp—you’ve got that radio show interview–” Bill called after him.

Michael wasn’t listening. He didn’t even take your hand up the path like he usually did.

He walked ahead, as if on a warpath, his posture rigid, his stride a careful, stiff thing meant to disguise the persistent, telling bulge in his trousers.

The house was a sleeping giant. You both climbed the grand staircase at speed. You struggled slightly in your heels, your long silk dress pooling at your feet. He led you away from the guest room you used to frequent, down a quieter hall lined with framed gold records and awkward school portraits. He stopped at a familiar door and pushed it open.

His childhood bedroom.

It was a sanctuary of preserved innocence. A smaller double bed with a faded blue comforter. 

Shelves bowed under the weight of countless Disney figurines: Cinderella’s castle, a parade of Seven Dwarfs, a lonely-looking Dumbo. A mobile of the solar system, coated in a fine layer of dust, hung motionless from the ceiling. The air was a blend of old paper, the faint sweet smell of vinyl, and the crisp, clean scent that was uniquely, essentially him.

You smiled as you took it in; it looked exactly as you remembered from when you first started dating. He had insisted you both use the guest room because he didn’t want to face moving any of his memorabilia. It just so happened his childhood bedroom was furthest from his family, his parents in the opposite wing, Randy down the stairs and Janet three doors down.

He went to the bed and sat down, his back to you. With a concentration that was borderline funny, he bent and began untying the laces of his polished dress shoes.

The act was so simple, so boyish; a child in his refuge, shedding the costume of the outside world, that it made your heart ache. 

In public, he was poised, adult, a persona he wore like a tailored suit. But here, he was the boy who believed in magic, who trusted too easily, whose curiosity was your favorite thing, the way he’d absorb everything about a subject, a time period, a movie, just as he did with music.

You stood by his old wooden desk, your fingers brushing the cool plastic of a model rocket. A ceramic figurine of Bambi watched with wide, glassy eyes.

“I saw it all night,” you said, your voice a soft intrusion in the quiet.

His hands froze on the second lace. He didn’t turn. “Saw what?”

“How hard you were. During the speeches. While you were eating. You kept trying to hide it, but you couldn’t. It was all I could think about.”

A visible tremor ran through him. He straightened slowly, but kept his back to you, head bowed as if in prayer. “It wouldn’t go away,” he confessed, his voice thick. “My body… it wouldn’t listen to me. The more I remembered last night, the harder it got. It was getting… painful.”

“I noticed your frustration,” you whispered, taking a step closer. The floorboard sighed beneath your weight. “And it made me wet. Drenched. Every time you adjusted yourself, every time you got that look in your eye… I could feel myself getting slick for you.”

He turned then.

His face was flushed, his beautiful lips parted. The need in his eyes had taken over; the shyness was a thin veneer over a bedrock of hunger.

“Wet?” he breathed, as if deciphering a complex lyric. His gaze dropped to the front of your gown. “Tell me what that’s like.”

You closed the final distance.

You took his right hand and lifted it. You placed his palm firmly against the damp silk covering your mound.

He gasped—a sharp, startled sound.

“Feel,” you instructed, your voice low.

His fingers trembled against you. You guided his hand down, under the heavy fabric of your gown, past the delicate lace of your stockings, until his cool fingertips met the soaked, feverish silk of your panties.

A choked, ragged sound escaped him.

“I can make you feel this way?” he stammered, his voice full of awe. “So warm… so… wet…”

“That’s for you,” you said, holding his wrist, making him feel the undeniable truth. “All night. That’s what the thought of you did to me.”

He was shaking now.

You hooked your fingers into the lace at your hip, drawing the fabric aside. Then you guided two of his long, elegant fingers inside of you. He was good with his hands; he had a rhythm like no other, skilled and precise. It was ironic that he knew how to play instruments so well, and now you wanted him to learn to play your body like one.

He went perfectly still. His eyes widened, the dark pools swallowing the light from the nightlight.

He was still feeling the intimate, velvet clutch of your body.

“Ohh…,” he whimpered, the sound pulled from his soul.

“Curve them,” you breathed, your own composure fraying. “Like you’re reaching for something.”

He obeyed; a slow, deliberate flexion. The pad of his middle finger found a spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids. A low, throaty moan tore from you.

“Mmmhh—!”

The sound shattered his last restraint. A deep, guttural groan echoed in his chest. He began to move his fingers, it wasn’t really with skill, just a frantic curiosity. In and out, curling, exploring. The tops of his fingers were softly pressing against your G-spot. 

He watched your face, utterly captivated, as his hand worked beneath your gown, his expression one of rapt, hungry devotion.

“This… this tight, soft, warm feeling… is what I was thinking about at dinner,” he panted, his breath coming fast. “This is what I wanted… right there and then, but couldn’t have.”

He withdrew his fingers, staring at the glistening evidence. Driven by an instinct deeper than reason, he brought them to his lips and… tasted.

His eyes fluttered closed.

“Y’taste so good,” he mumbled, his voice thick and sweet. “You taste like heaven.” 

He pulled his fingers from his mouth with a soft, slick pop. The look he gave you then was one of pure, pussy-drunk awe. The shy boy was submerged, replaced by a devoted lover.

“I need to feel you,” he said, the words rushing out. “I need to be surrounded by you. I need to have all of you.”

He fumbled with the buttons of his sparkly silver shirt and yanked off his bow tie, his usual grace abandoned. He shed it, let it fall onto a stack of comic books. The black trousers were shoved down, kicked away. He stood before you, naked in a room crowded with childhood dreams, fully, magnificently erect. You inwardly rolled your eyes at the fact he hadn’t worn briefs to the ceremony.

The juxtaposition in front of you, though, was devastatingly intimate. Him stood in this room, bearing himself, when a month prior he still struggled to get dressed in front of you.

He didn’t ask before diving in at you.

He gathered you in his strong, lean arms and laid you back on the blue comforter, pushing the skirts of your gown up to your waist, not even bothering to undress you fully because his need was too crazed, too immediate.

He settled between your thighs, his cock; thick, proud, flushed with wanting—pressing against your dripping heat. He looked down, his expression one of solemn, hungry wonder.

“I love you,” he whispered, but it sounded like a truth that made all this not only permissible, but necessary. 

“I need to feel this. Every part of it. I didn’t feel you fall apart last night. It was too fast. This time… I want to feel you come apart around me. I want to be inside you when you lose yourself.”

He pushed in.

It was a slow, inexorable claiming that made the breath hitch in his throat. He sank to his base, a long sigh escaping him. He was so deep it felt like he was pressing on your heart.

“Perfect,” he breathed, his eyes closing. “You are… so good, laying there all pretty for me.”

He began to move, a deep, rolling rhythm that was less about thrusting and more about communion.

“You take me so completely… like you were made for me…”

But then his movements changed. His hands, which had been braced gently beside your head, slid down to your thighs. His touch, usually so tentative, became firm, purposeful. 

He pushed your legs apart wider, then hooked them, bending them sharply to the side, opening you to him utterly. The new angle was deeper, more exposing. A soft cry left your lips.

“Yes,” he murmured, his voice taking on a darker, more resonant timbre. “Like this. I need to feel all of you like this.”

He began to move again, and this time, there was a new roughness to his rhythm. It wasn’t violent, but it was relentless, deeply possessive. Each stroke was a full, powerful drive, his hips meeting yours with a solid, wet slap-slap-slap that filled the quiet room. The bedframe began a steady, rhythmic protest against the wall.

He was lost in it. His eyes were open, watching your face, but they were glazed, seeing only the sensation.

“You’re so beautiful like this, how have i gone so long without this sight?,” he groaned, his words coming between panting breaths. 

“Surrendered to me. Letting me feel you. You’re my good girl, right?”

His dirty talk wasn’t crude; it was sensual, almost poetic, ripped from the core of his overwhelmed being. 

He drove into you, harder, his control slipping into something more primal. It became messy, clumsy—the way he gripped your thighs, the way he shoved into you—the want of his release overtaking his rationale. 

You knew there’d be bruises where he held you tomorrow.

He pulled out briefly, flipped both your legs to his right, then entered you with your legs together—the sensation for him even more distinct, squeezing his cock even tighter. 

His hands were on your sides now as he drilled into you. He leaned over as he pounded, his face so close to yours. 

You couldn’t look away, totally entranced by the primal look in his eyes. He’d been taken over by the sensation, totally overthrown.

“I want to drown in you… I want this feeling…” He thrust fast and deep now, as if he was fucking the sensual words into you. “Forever, let me have it forever—God—”

You could feel your climax coming in, a slow, tectonic pressure from the deep, relentless pounding. You moaned loudly, your fingers tangling in the blanket.

“Ah—ah—!”

“I feel it,” he gasped, his rhythm becoming more urgent, though no less deep. “I want to make you feel good… I want to see the pleasure blown out in your eyes.” He was muttering now between gasps of pleasure. 

“I’m going to write about how filthy and utterly ethereal you look in this moment,” he moaned, cupping your breasts with his hands.

His words; the romantic filth of them, spoken in that breathy, wrecked tenor were your undoing.

Your orgasm erupted, a deep, feeling within you; your whole body convulsed mercillisly.

You clenched around him in rhythmicly, uncontrollably. 

A broken cry was torn from your throat—“Michael—!”

you could feel how wet you had become from your orgasm, and by the slick, slapping sound of his slow, deep thrusting, it was driving him wild.

He cried out with you, a sound of pure, triumphant awe.

“Yes! that’s my girl. I have waited so long to see you so dirty like this, to see your face in agonizing heat…”

But he didn’t stop after your come down. 

He couldn’t. 

The feeling of your climax around him seemed to fuel a deeper, more desperate hunger. 

His thrusts became harder, faster, losing their measured pace, becoming a frantic, driving rhythm. The bed shook. A figurine of Mickey Mouse toppled from the shelf with a soft clatter.

“I can’t… I can’t stop,” he sobbed, his voice breaking. He was fucking you now with a pure, unadulterated need, the romantic poet consumed by the primal animal. “It’s too good… you’re too good… I need more… I need to be deeper…”

He was overstimulated, lost, chasing a feeling that kept escalating. He hooked your legs higher, over his shoulders, bending you nearly in half, and plunged into you with a force that stole the air from your lungs. His words dissolved into a litany of your name, interspersed with gasped, sensual fragments. 

His eyes roamed frantically, but then settled on the sight of his own motion, biting his lip as he watched the remnants of your undoing pool at the base of his cock.

“My heart… is in your skin… your taste is in my mouth…” he moaned, breathlessly inbetween pumps.

He flipped you over with ease, onto your stomach. You had a brief moment to prepare yourself before he settled over you, pressing you into the mattress, and drove back into your from behind.

“You’re mine, all mine, this is just for me, always—”

His own end took him by storm.

His body locked, every muscle straining. A raw, ragged shout was torn from him—“Fuuuu--GOD-- Y/N–” a sound that held no artifice, only pure, shattering release.

You felt his hot seed, pulsing into you, flooding deep within, a claiming that felt endless.

He trembled violently through it, his hips jerking with involuntary aftershocks, still buried to the hilt.

When the last tremor passed, he collapsed forward, but caught himself on his elbows, still sheathed inside you. He was panting, sweat dripping from his nose and afro onto your back. He looked down at you as you glanced back, his eyes wide, dazed, full of a wonder that bordered on fear. You both just started grinning at each other crazily.

“I think I got carried away,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and ruined. “In you. I completely… got lost.”

"mhmm," you noted back, "ya think?"

He slowly, carefully, withdrew, and rolled to the side, pulling you instantly against him. His arms wrapped around you, tight, possessive. His heart hammered against your back.

He was silent for a long time, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your stomach.

“I don’t know how I held off for so long,” he murmured finally, his lips against your shoulder blade. 

The scent of sex; musky, sweet, and profoundly intimate hung thick in the air of Michael’s old bedroom, a new perfume overlaying the old smell of books and toys. 

Minutes bled by, measured only in the gradual slowing of breath. You felt spent, hollowed out and filled up, drifting away on the aftershocks. 

Then, a shift in the energy beside you.

He lowered his arm.

In the soft gloom of the late evening, you saw his profile. His eyes were open, staring at the dusty mobile of the solar system behind your head. His lips, swollen and damp, parted. He looked so young like this, but he was grown now. The change you felt in him, even in the last few days was ludicrous. You fondly remembered how Michael would struggle to even hold your hand longer than 30 seconds, or he’d start madly blushing.

"Can I…" he started, his voice a ruined, raspy thing. 

He stopped, swallowed and then started again, the words tumbling out in a hushed, guilty rush. 

"Can I put my mouth on you? Right now?"

The question hung in the air, inappropriate, vulnerable, filthy in its innocent hunger.

You turned your head on the pillow. "Michael… you just… you finished in me. It's… it's mixed."

He turned his head too. 

His eyes found yours, and there was no shyness there, only a dark clarity. 

"I don't care," he whispered, the declaration simple and absolute. "I want to taste you for real. I want to taste where I was. Please."

He didn't wait for a final answer. The "please" was a formality. 

The decision was made.

He moved with a sudden, fluid grace that belied his exhaustion, sliding down your body like a man descending to an altar. He pushed your thighs apart with a firm insistence, his gaze locked on the glistening, spent evidence of your joining.

He hovered, his gaze fixed so intensely.

“So beautiful,” he breathed, the words barely a whisper, soaked in awe. “Like a rose that’s just… bloomed for me.”

His hands, which had been resting on your hips, slid inward. His touch was a little demanding, but still just as tender. His fingers came to rest on your outer lips, applying the gentlest pressure.

He began to part you.

It was a slow unveiling. The soft, swollen flesh, glistening with the combined evidence of your passion, yielded to his patient hands. He opened you like the pages of a cherished, secret book he was terrified to damage.

A soft, shuddering sigh escaped him. “Oh… wow.”

He was looking at the heart of you, fully exposed to him in the dim light. The intimate, intricate folds, flushed a deep, needy pink, the glimmering wetness that coated everything, the tight, hidden entrance that still pulsed gently from his recent possession.

"Look at you,” he murmured, his voice sounding almost deliriously drunk with pleasure.

“All pretty and pink and wet for me. Just for me.” He leaned closer, his nose almost touching you, inhaling deeply. The sound he made was one of a man tasting water in a desert; a low, guttural groan of pure, starving need.

"Oh, God…" he mumbled, his voice muffled against your flesh. "S'sweet… and salty…"

He was lost instantly. Any hesitation, any remnant of fastidiousness, was incinerated by the addictive, complex flavor. He ate at you with starving intensity. His tongue was blunt and demanding, lapping up every trace, diving deep to clean his own release from inside you with thick, curling strokes. 

The sounds were obscenely wet, sloppy, loud in the quiet room. He moaned continuously, a low, pleasured hum that you felt in your bones.

You writhed, oversensitive, a confusing mix of shock and overwhelming arousal knotting in your belly. "Michael… ah! Too… im so sensitive…"

He lifted his head, his chin dripping. His eyes were black pools of delerium. "No," he breathed, the word a gentle command. "I haven’t had enough. Sit on my face."

It was a desperate, worshipful plea.

He lay back flat, his hands coming to your hips, guiding you, pulling you up and over him. You braced your hands on the headboard, above his scattered pillows and plush toys, and lowered yourself, trembling, onto the waiting heat of his mouth.

Your world and everything in it, narrowed to sensation.

His mouth was a godsend; it was devoted hunger. As you settled your weight onto him, he let out a choked, blissful sound underneath you and his arms wrapped around your thighs, locking you in place. 

There was no escape, and in seconds, you didn't want any.

He feasted. His tongue speared into you, fucking into the tender, well-used channel with a rhythm that was all his own. He alternated between deep, penetrating licks and frantic, fluttering sucks on your clit, his nose buried against you, breathing you in like oxygen. His hips began to move in tiny, abortive thrusts against the empty air, the blanket beneath him.

You were in disbelief at what had gotten into him – the boy you once knew had well and truly been replaced by a man. A handsome, steadfast partner, who clearly didn’t have any thoughts of leaving you for anyone else; even in his fame.

You looked down at him from where you were perched over his face. And the sight… unwound you completely.

His eyes were squeezed shut in ecstasy, his beautiful face a mask of utter surrender. 

Your eyes roamed away, and then you saw against his stomach, his cock was already fully, achingly hard again, thick and flushed and leaking a fresh pearl of pre-come onto the skin just below his belly button. 

The sheer, wanton need of it and the fact that tasting you, servicing you, had him rock-hard and throbbing in seconds sent a violent, possessive thrill through you.

The power dynamic shifted on a dizzying axis.

You rose off his mouth, ignoring his grunt of protest. You moved backwards, straddling his hips instead of his face. His eyes flew open, confused, desperate.

"Wha—?"

You didn't let him finish. You wanted to show him that other positions were just as good. You remembered something you’d read, a way to take control…

You reached between your legs, took his hard, slick cock in your hand, and guided it to your entrance, still wet and open from his mouth and his seed. 

You sank down onto him slowly, sheathing him completely inside your sore, sensitive heat.

A dual cry tore through the room—his a sharp, shattered gasp of "God Damn–!", yours a long, low moan of exquisite, overwhelming fullness.

For a second, you both froze, impaled, connected. 

You saw the shock in his eyes, then the dawning, wild comprehension. You were in control. You were taking what you needed from him.

Then you began to move.

You rode him slowly at first, a deep, rolling grind, using the muscles inside you to clench his length. 

His head fell back, a string of broken, sensual praises falling from his lips. 

"Yess… ride me… use me… you feel so good taking your pleasure from me… only me baby"

But Michael was not a passive lover. He was jealous, stubborn and petty at times and this had to manifest in your sex life too.

The submission was a feint, a precursor to a different kind of power.

His hands, which had been gripping the sheets, flew to your hips. His grip was iron, his long fingers digging into your flesh. The gentle, curious boy was gone. In his place was a man consumed, only you on his mind and in his sightline.

"Harder," he growled, his voice darker than usual. 

He thrust his hips up to meet your downward stroke, a sharp, punishing impact that stole your breath. 

" harder. Take what you want. Use me."

He began to dictate the rhythm from below. He bucked his hips, meeting each of your descents with a powerful, upward drive, controlling the depth, the angle, the force. He was fucking himself into you from the bottom, his strength surprising, his need an inferno.

"Yes! Like that!" he chanted, his eyes blazing up at you, watching your breasts bounce, your face contort in pleasure. 

"Good. keep going. I wanna feel you tighten around me again whilst you come for me"

His physical domination from beneath you was the spark that lit the fuse. 

You cried out, your rhythm breaking into frantic, shallow bounces as the orgasm ripped through you, violently, your nerve endings completely shattered from what was going on.

He felt it. He saw it. And it unleashed the final, raw animal in him.

With a roar that was half-sob, half-triumph, he gripped your hips and lifted you off of him. In one violent, graceful motion, he flipped you onto your back and was surging over you before the cry could leave your throat. He slammed back into you to the hilt, hooking your legs over the crooks of his arms, folding you nearly in half.

"Mine," he said, the word a primal, guttural claim against your lips. 

His rhythm was brutal, perfectly aimed despite his inexperience, a relentless, piston-drive fucking that had the bed slamming into the wall with a frantic, wooden THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD.

He was everywhere, his sweat dripping onto your chest, his groans hot in your ear, his hands gripping your legs like vices. 

He was a beautiful, desperate machine, chasing his own end with fury, using your body to get there, giving you everything he had in the process.

"I think…m-gonna fill you up… again…" he panted, his rhythm fracturing into erratic, deep jabs. 

"Mark you… inside and out… so you never forget… whose girl you are… Ah—! Ah, God—!"

His release was silent. His body locked, every muscle corded and straining. His mouth opened but nothing came out, his eyes wide and unseeing as he emptied himself into you in hot, pulsing jets, deeper than seemed possible. 

He collapsed forward, but caught himself on trembling arms, still buried inside you, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath sobbing into your mouth.

Slowly, he softened and slipped out. He didn't roll away. He collapsed onto you, a dead weight of satiated obsession, his face buried in the crook of your neck. His arms slid under you, binding you to him completely.

His lips moved against your damp skin, the words slurred, thick with exhaustion and a profound, drunken awe.

“They are gonna have to lock me up in a padded room to stay away from you now”

fin.. ;)

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It started on your first day — an old blouse too tight around your chest, fighting back as you attempted to pull it looser against your obvious bust, and a tartan midi-skirt that your Mother forced you to wear. You looked like a house wife out of the 40’s. You hated it.

You were nervous, oh so nervous. Rightfully so — this job was a big deal. Being a Personal Assistant was an important role in a successful person’s life — you made sure everything in their world ran smoothly. No fuck up’s — not even one to test the waters. And it didn’t help your nervous system that whom you were personally assisting was the King of Pop, global superstar, Michael Jackson.

The thought of him had your heart hammering in your chest — you had never even seen a celebrity up close, let alone worked for them. You had no idea how you even managed to land this job with how little experience you had — but clearly your street-smart book-smart combination pushed you to the top of the list of applicants.

Walking swiftly through the hallways of Westlake Recording Studio, your heels clicked so loud that you cringed — suddenly feeling so out of place in such an important building. This was where a superstar made magic with his voice — certainly somewhere you thought you didn’t deserve to be.

The reception area of the studio took you by surprise — oh so this place was serious about not letting just anyone in. You forced your saliva down as you approached the mahogany desk where an older lady resided.

"Hello there." You greeted, the woman peering up at sound of your presence, "I’m Mr Jackson’s new Personal Assistant. I-It’s my first day."

The lady smiled, "Oh, yes, I’ve heard all about you. Come with me, sweetie, I’ll show you around."

She introduced herself as Susanna, 65 years-old, who should be retired but revealed she just loved the job too much. As she guided you through each hallway, she told you she’d been working in and around the music industry since she was a little girl in the late 20’s and had never seen a performer and musician quite like Michael Jackson.

"Now, Michael isn’t the only performer we have here, but he’s the most frequent, probably why Frank wanted you to come here first." She said, referring to Michael’s manager, Frank DiLeo, "Over there’s the lunch-room, and to the right of it is the ladies room." She stared, your eyes following her manicured fingers as they pointed in the direction of the rooms, "And up ahead is Michael’s studio."

Your heart thumped wildly in your chest with anxiety — you’d always pictured yourself with a simpler, less demanding job. Something where people didn’t rely on you too much as to not embarrass yourself or get into trouble. But, being the Personal Assistant of the world’s most well-known man was far from that. Which, rightfully, had your stomach churning.

"Now, as you probably know, he’s a little shy." Susanna chuckled, the cigarette smoke puffed from her thin lips left a stench in the air that crinkled your nose, "But, he’s a sweetheart, honestly. I’m sure you’ll get along just fine. Don’t worry too much — he’s not as daunting as he seems."

Her words provided little comfort as she stopped in front of a door labelled ‘Jackson’, with a blurred glass window in its middle. You knew from the way she came to an abrupt stop and smiled at you wishfully that you were on your own now.

"Thank you." You managed to squeak out, ignoring the way your voice wavered, your nerves peaking as you reached for the door handle.

"Have a good day, honey." Susanna smiled. With a soft squeeze to your shoulder and a wink of good luck — she walked away.

Fuck.

A shaky breath left your lips as the door knob burned into your retinas — the power it had over you taking over your body as you stared, your hand hovering over the metallic surface.

If it wasn’t for the money, you’d have run for hills right now. Part of your future self wished you did — but instead, with a soft knock and a push of the door, you walked into what you’d soon regret in 3 years time.

The inside of the recording studio was nicer than you’d pictured — warm lighting, cosy interior with quiet laughter and soft voices filling the air, a relaxing environment evident in its walls. Two familiar faces met your awkward frame, confused expressions smeared across them.

"Hi there, little lady. You lost?" You could tell from the sweet-talking slickness of his voice and familiar laid-back persona that you were talking with famous producer Quincy Jones.

"No, actually, Mr Jones, I’m Mr Jackson’s new assistant." You started, a bead of anxious sweat crawling down your back, "It’s my first day."

"Oh, yeah, Frank mentioned you were getting a new PA." Quincy nodded, wagging his finger in the air, "Thank god, the last one was a complete bust."

You gulped, silently wishing your fate didn’t end up like hers.

"What’s your name, baby?" Quincy questioned, bringing a pen between his lips as you revealed it, "Hm, cute." He smirked, eyes trailing up and down your frame, "Well, you’ll be listening to Frank while you’re not here, but when you’re here with us, you can answer to me, honey, okay?" You nodded quickly, eyes never leaving his own, "And we don’t bite, so don’t worry. But, I suppose for your first task, you can grab us some drinks from the coffee house down the road?"

"S-Sure, anything, what do you like?"

"Michael here, will have an orange soda," He started, "And I’ll have a black coffee with a couple sugar’s — but I suppose you can just stick your finger in there, huh?"

"Quincy. That’s no way to talk to a lady."

Michael was even more beautiful in person — the soft and gentleness of his tone had you repressing a relaxed sigh that threatened to escape your lips. He sounded so calm and collected, more so than any of his gorgeous songs. And by God was he handsome — the ringlet curls that framed his face and the contagious smile that adorned his lips had you blushing more than you cared to admit.

Quincy laughed as Michael stood up, approaching you quickly, "I’m sorry about him. I’m Michael." He extended his hand out to you, a small smile on his face as he towered over you.

"I-I know." You blurted out, flustered, grasping onto his hand. Your words hit you like a brick to the face, suddenly flushing your cheeks pink, "I’m sorry, that sounded better in my head. I’m just nervous."

Michael laughed, a slight chuckle that left his smiling lips, "You’re okay. Everyone’s nervous on their first day of a job, no matter what it is." He reassured, "I promise there’s nothing to be worried about. We’re all great friends here. Like one big family."

You nodded, listening intently — absorbing in every word he spoke like a sponge in the ocean. You didn’t notice the way Michael glanced down at your connected hands, his smile wavering slightly.

"When’s the wedding?"

His voice baffled you at first, the question hitting your ears in confusion as you held your gaze with one another still, "Sorry?"

Michael glanced down to your hands once more, his own in contact with your engagement ring that clad your ring finger. You connected the dots as you laughed awkwardly, "Oh. It’s so recent, I’m still not used to that question." You admitted, tucking a stand of hair behind your ears as your hands slipped apart, coming down to toy with the gold ring, "November 8th."

"Ah, soon." Michael grinned, "What’s his name?"

"D-Daniel."

"Well, congratulations. Daniel is a very lucky man."

"Thank you." You whispered, peering up at him, noticing the flicker in his eyes at your words, as if there was nothing threatening to be seen. Envy? Disappointment? You couldn’t put your finger on it, but you could sense Michael knew you’d seen too, "A-Are you married?"

"Yes. Only recent, much like your engagement."

A similar, questionable feeling crept up your spine at his words — something you also couldn’t place as you nodded. This clearly wasn’t in the press yet as you hadn’t heard about it, either way, you definitely felt something about it, but you weren’t sure what. Yet.

"How about those drinks, sweetie?"

Michael rolled his eyes with a smile at Quincy’s words from behind him as he lit a cigarette, "Ignore him. Classic 80’s Producers." You giggled softly at his joke, "I know you’re more than that." Your heart throbbed, "Come and talk to me anytime if you’re nervous or upset or don’t know where to go. I’ll always be here to help. Just say the word."

Your nods of agreement grew increasingly more rapid as Michael went on, your eyes, bulging with adoration, peered up at him once more before leaving him with a smile.

And as you pushed the door open, glancing back to observe Michael joining Quincy in the swivelled chairs, scolding him for not being a gentlemen, you couldn’t help but smile — a burst of sensation in your chest swelling at the sight, one you weren’t used to. You left, grinning ear to ear, like a little girl with a crush.

And that’s how it stayed for the rest of your career at Westlake.

Every morning, you’d bring Michael and Quincy a drink — either a warm tea with a spoonful of honey or a freshly squeezed orange juice for Michael, and always a black coffee, accompanied with a ‘dip your finger in it, sweetie’ sugar joke, for Quincy, everytime without fail.

You began to adore your job working for Michael — running errands for him, refilling his tea, sorting out scattered papers in the studio, scheduling meetings with managers and potential features with other artists’ for his new album. Everything, as simple as bringing him his lunch, made your day.

But soon, as all professional male and female relationships do, things became not so simple.

Brushes of hands as you passed over a drink, a buzz of electricity shooting through your veins and an overly thankful smile back from him, accompanied with comforting hands atop one another when times got hard, or a gentle kiss on the cheek when he was nominated for his new album in congratulations, had you questioning everything.

Your relationship was purely flirtatious, subtle and under-wraps — something to toy with at the comfort of your employment, and never to take home with you.

But, in the immaturity of your heart, you let yourself get personal. You let the professionalism slip. You began to feel things you shouldn’t. Anyone unwed would call it a crush — something juvenile and invalid longterm. However, the way your heart fluttered as he looked at you, or how your cheeks flushed red as he touched the small of your back — you knew were more far gone than you cared to admit.

And fail to admit your feelings, you did. Every night you lay beside your now husband, every interaction between yourself and Michael replayed in your head, drowning out the man beside you’s snoring. You knew deep down it was wrong to think of another man as your husband slumbered next to you — but, he was your friend, your boss, someone you spent everyday out of the week with. You saw him more than your own husband — leading you to secretly often referring to Michael as your work husband.

But no marriage was perfect — your own was far from it. In the darkness of the night, when your mind would graze over your boss, it would also land on the evident feeling of numbness when you looked at your husband. You were practically forced into marriage by your Mother — Daniel being someone familiar from childhood, simple, reliable, and intelligent, someone easy. Someone to sign the leases, fix the pipes, file the taxes — all the mainstream, traditional marital aspects of a man. And every time he’d rock into you unprotected, hoping for a baby, you’d lay there, faking every noise and every orgasm — wishing and hoping for something more. Convincing yourself that when your mind slipped to Michael as your husband lazily thrust into you from behind, that it was simply platonic with no underlying intention, and just a way to escape from the sheer displeasure your husband brought you.

Your husband, clearly butt-hurt that he wasn’t the breadwinner, hated your job. He would often badmouth every aspect of your job, the outfits you wore, how late you worked, how many date nights you missed to attend to a request made by Frank. But, what he hated most was Michael. He hated how infatuated and dedicated you were to him — pulling a face of disgust every time you mentioned his name or answered a phone call about him. This lead to relentless arguments — him claiming you cared too much about another man, and you persisting that it was your job and he was being controlling.

Just like today.

"Daniel. For the last time - it’s my job." You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose as your knuckles flexed around the phone handle that was held up to your ear, "No, God—Daniel, are you serious? Cheating? For Christ’s sake, get a hold of yourself!"

The noise of his incessant rambling on at you had you zoning out, shaking your head as his voice drowned out in your head. You were so tired of this — the moment you took this job you knew he’d have something to say about it. He knew exactly what he was getting himself into when he proposed to you, but still decides to fight you about it every chance he gets.

"Daniel. I’m sick of this. I’m at work, I’m busy. Stop calling here because you’re bored at home with nothing better to do — go do something, okay? Get a hobby, find something to fix or clean — just leave me alone for once."

You slammed the phone down harder than intended — a wave of annoyance washing over you as his words repeated in your head. Accusations of unfaithfulness and infidelity once again — you were growing tired of it. And him for that matter.

You were ready to leave the studio for the night — now wanting nothing less than to leave and head home for the day. You couldn’t be bothered to continue the argument when you arrived home, something that you knew your bored husband would want to do. Instead, you took your time closing down the studio for the night. Deliberating taking longer to stroll the halls — switching off each light, locking each door, checking each room for stragglers. At last, you reached the familiar blurred glass door — one you’d come to grow fond of.

Knock, knock!

"Michael?"

In your many months spent growing closer to the popstar, you began to feel comfortable to address him by his first name. Pushing open the door, you peered your head around it, your eyes meeting the man you called for, all alone, his hunched over frame meeting your gaze.

"Hey, come in. Everything okay?" He spoke, glancing over at you briefly with a smile, before returning his focus onto the sound board.

"Yep, just wanted to let you know I’m heading out for night." You informed him, jingling your keys, "Shall I leave these out for you?"

"Actually." Michael started, "Would you mind staying for a little while? I would love your help with something."

Your eyebrows furrowed, ignoring the way your stomach flipped at the thought of the one-on-one interaction, "Oh, uh, sure." You let the door slide shut as you entered the room, "What’s up?"

Michael shuffled, pushing stray pieces of paper out the way of all the various buttons you weren’t familiar with, "Take a seat."

You swallowed, your throat suddenly dry and tight as you did as he asked — sitting comfortably in the chair next to him.

"Listen to this and tell me what you think."

Without allowing your words of protest to exit your lips — Michael pressed a few buttons before sliding one upwards to increase the noise of a demo that began sounding throughout the room.

It was his voice — his angelic, magical voice that hit your ears. You smiled softly as you looked down at your hands, ignoring the flash of your wedding ring as you admired the beautiful work that flowed around the room. He sounded amazing.

It ended abruptly, silence filling the space once more. He turned to you, "So?"

"Wow." You breathed, "Michael, you’re so talented. That sounds incredible."

Michael smiled bashfully, bowing his head at your kind words, "Oh, thank you. I really appreciate it." He started, "But, I just feel like something is missing."

You scoffed out a laugh, "Boy, do I know how you feel." You shook your head, eyes fluttering shut briefly at the thought of your controlling husband.

Michael peered over at you, eyebrows knitted together in confusion, "What do you mean?"

"Oh, hah, nothing. Just my husband."

Michael’s attention was fully on you now — his chair swivelled to face you as you spoke, "Why? What’s missing?"

"Nothing, nothing." You brushed off, fearing you said too much, "Just a joke."

"Didn’t feel like a joke." He spoke softly, pursing his lips together, "Hey," His hand came to fold over yours delicately, igniting flames over your skin, "You know you can talk to me about anything."

Michael missed the way your breath hitched in your throat. The touch and the closeness bringing heat to your body like a furnace as your breathing became irregular.

Your mouth opened as you went to speak, ready to vent about all your marital issues — complain about his lack of respect for your job, his boring attitude and his profound sexual incompetence, but words failed you.

Michael noticed this.

"It’s okay." He spoke, giving your hand a squeeze, "I understand how you feel."

Your heart lurched up at his words — your despaired expression meeting his own, "You do?"

"Yes." Michael breathed, "Marriage isn’t easy."

You despised the way your heart throbbed with hope.

"Are you having problems with your wife too?"

Michael peered up at you, revelling in the way your doe-eyes, fluttering through your lashes, gazed at him with more love and attention he’d seen from a female in years. He, too, hated himself for the way he looked at you sometimes with such captivation — longing to reach out and touch you further after a brush of a finger, or to lean down and capture your lips in a kiss after you laughed at one of his jokes.

And he, like you, despised the way he felt a sliver of optimism at the depleting description of your partner.

Michael nodded, a saddened expression present on his face — mismatching the twinge of anticipatory excitement that bubbled in his chest.

"Oh, Michael." You breathed, your voice soft and attending — playing with his damaged heart strings, "It’s going to be okay. We always have each other."

God, you were so sweet. It physically hurt him to look at you when you had that irresistibly spellbinding look on your face — like a single tug of your plump lips into a smile could send a man to Heaven and back. He thought you were utterly gorgeous — something he’d believed in since the moment he locked eyes on you.

Michael’s hand twitched above your own, knocking your attention down to your enclosed hands. With one small, calculated move — you managed to manoeuvre your hands upwards, now palm to palm with Michael. You noticed the intense silence that flooded the room, both your fixated stares latched into your hands — touching so subtly, yet fuelling the desire in both of your souls. Michael shuffled ever so slightly, forcing your hands to slide against one another — now connecting fingertips.

"Your hands are so soft." You whispered, breathing out a soft laugh, your voice hushed and tender — both of your gaze still on your touching fingers.

"So are yours."

The honesty in his voice paired with the feather-light touches had your head spinning — the potent smell of his cologne fogging your senses, rendering you brainless as all you could focus on was him. Him, and his beautiful eyes, beautiful smile, beautiful lips, hands, fingers, body—

You gasped in a quiet breath as your mind ran a mile a minute. Michael peered up at you momentarily, sliding his fingers in-between yours — interlocking your fingers so slowly, if he were anyone else, you wouldn’t have noticed. But, that simple gesture had your legs tightening as they crossed.

"Talk to me, doll."

The nickname had your mouth hanging agape ever so slightly — the sheer volume of desire that burst inside of you, oozing out of you like molten lava as your eyes fixated onto your interlocked hands.

"Michael, please." You whispered — the neediness in your voice so visible, Michael could’ve passed out.

"‘Please’ what, angel? Tell me what you need." His voice was so sincere, so full of warmth with an undertone you so desperately wanted to uncover, that it had you trembling against him.

Your eyes flicked upwards — landing on his pretty lips, the way they glistened in the light from his previous wetting of them, before sliding up his face to his eyes. He was staring down at your hands, the way they connected so perfectly, so intimately, something so dangerously beautiful about the way you slotted together.

When his eyes fluttered up to meet your gaze was when the mask slipped.

You lurched forward — your once connected hands now flying to his face, cradling his burning hot cheeks in your hands as you connected your lips in a ferocious kiss. Your body lunged at him — legs straddling his hips, forcing the wheeled chair backwards as the intensity of your jolt pushed you both in a dazzling smoulder flying across the room. Michael, kissing your eager lips back, slid his hands up your back in an attempt to drag you closer. The chair slammed against the wall, making no attempt to slow you both down as you attacked each others lips — whines and breaths of pure desperation exiting your needy mouth.

Your hand clutched at the wall behind you, nails scraping down the plaster as Michael’s swollen lips latched at your neck, licking and sucking your warm skin.

"No marks." You breathed, a hand snaking into his hair, clutching at his curls, "We’re married, remember?"

Michael hated the way his body had no reaction to your words — right now, he didn’t care.

"Happily?"

The one word rhetorical question he asked, huffed against your neck, before returning to grazing his teeth along your collarbone, had your back arching into his chest, a breathless moan leaving your mouth.

You hated that you didn’t need to give him an answer — he already knew it.

No, you weren’t happily married.

Your hips involuntarily ground down into his crotch, skirt bunched around your waist, a gasping whine leaving you as your throbbing nub nudged against him. Hard, thick and prominent — a proud statement of his arousal. From then on your hips didn’t stop — the roll back and forth on his hardened length had him whining into your neck, stopping every so often to regain his breath from the way you humped his clothed cock.

"Michael, please, need to feel you."

That was enough for him.

Michael was a gentlemen — and had been from the very moment you met him. But, right now, he had to fuck you like a greedy slut.

Michael picked you up quickly, wrapping your clothed legs around his waist and flailing you both to the floor, with a handle cradling your head to brace the fall.

He sat up on his knees, freeing himself quickly from his slacks and boxers, forcing them down his thighs swiftly. While doing so, you worked your way on the buttons of your blouse, fingers fumbling on each one as you shook in lust.

"Fuck this."

The profanity that left his gentle mouth had you gasping as he leant down to rip your blouse apart, buttons spraying across the room as your bouncing tits sprung free.

He didn’t stop there.

His hands, shoving your shirt further up your stomach, reached the crotch of your dark tights, before ripping a hole as wide as a basketball, revealing your soaked panties.

"Michael!—“ "Shut up — Need you, now. Can’t wait."

His bold, harsh words stung pathetically pleasureful in your chest as his nimble fingers pushed your panties to the side. They slid between your folds, gathering your slick on his digits, nudging your clit with each slide. You whined beneath him, a manicured hand reaching up to grasp his flexed biceps as he slid two fast working fingers inside your eager hole. Your back arched off the floor, head pounding as he worked you open.

"That’s it — give it to me."

His words only egged you on as they abused the spongy, sweet spot inside you, his thumb rubbing tight circles on your throbbing nub.

For the first time in years, or maybe even in your life, you were about to cum around a man’s hand.

"M-Micha—Michael, I’m gonna—I’m gon—"

"Cum for me, doll. Show me how much you need me."

The next twenty-three seconds had you reeling. You saw stars, your nails digging into his tensed arm as he worked you open — your first-time flowing juices oozing down his fingers as you squirmed and cried beneath him, sobbing into the air as your first real orgasm hit you full force.

Michael wasted no time lining his cock up to your quivering entrance after you came down — sucking your essence off his fingers before pressing the tip of his throbbing manhood into you.

You whined — the feeling of his cock forcing you open so perfectly had you huffing and whinging around him, your head falling back against the wooden floors.

"Lord — so fucking wet for me." Michael huffed, stuffing you full, inch by inch, too caught up in his own arousal to ease you open.

He bottomed out with a groan — head lolling forward into your neck, his hot breath against your chest perforated goosebumps over your skin. You were so full it rendered you speechless — his cock was much bigger than your husband’s, length and girth, forcing you further open than you’d ever been before.

His name left your lips like a chant as he moved with swiftness beyond belief — his hips snapping flush against you as he fucked into you like a slut on his Studio floor, which creaked and groaned beneath you. Michael lips remained hot and heavy on your skin, pressing kisses from your tensed collarbone to the sweetness of your mouth, as he pulled your legs around his waist, further up in the air so his cock angled deeper inside you.

With a cry he’d only ever imagined in his late night pleasures — Michael knew he was fucking you like you’d never felt before. The way you dragged your nails down his shoulders, ground your heels into his lower back to force him further into your tight cunt, and the way your noises refused to quieten — he was certain he was going to be the best you’d ever had.

His wife was nothing compared to you.

The way your pussy clenched and squelched around his twitching dick had him tightening his grip on your hair — his fingers tangling in the locks, tugging ever so slightly to make you whimper into his mouth.

"So close." You whined — mumbling against his lips, voice muffled from the feverish kiss he held you in, tongue swiping your lower lip to gain access to your filthy mouth.

You let him in — the hot muscle exploring your mouth, savouring the way you taste like spearmint gum and how you moaned even louder when muffled against him.

"You wanna cum for me again, baby?" Michael pressed, his pelvis rubbing so sweetly against your pulsating clit, "Let me feel it — let me feel you. Give me what you won’t give him — what he can’t make you do. Cum for me. Harder than he’s ever made you."

"He never has." You panted, eyes locking on his as your private confession hit his ears.

"O-Oh, Lord."

Michael’s broken prayer left his lips as his hips snapped into you a few more times — revelling in the way you admitted he’d made you feel better in one night than your husband ever has in two years. Whining as you came around him perfectly, legs tightening around his waist, before he spilled inside you himself. You both finished together — lips clattering together messily as you panted against one another.

As the climax fluttered to a stop — reality set in.

You, married, had just fucked your boss, also married.

Panic flooded your system. Instant, unwavering, unstoppable panic.

"Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God — what the fuck? What the fuck, Michael!" You exclaimed, instantly shimming him from inside you, your breath hitching at the loss of fullness as he sat upright on his knees, panting, "We just had sex."

Michael furrowed his eyebrows, catching his breath, "Baby, calm down—“

"Don’t call me that! I’m not your wife! Oh my God, you have a wife. And I have a husband."

You were rambling — blabbering panicked nonsense as you scrambled to grab your clothes, forcing your unusable blouse around your breasts spilling from your bra. You shoved your skirt down your front, covering the gaping hole in your tights and Michael’s cum dribbling down your thighs, as you slipped into your heels.

"Angel, wait!"

You didn’t stop for a second after half dressing yourself before flying out the Studio door — racing down the quiet, darkened hallway before he could catch you. Michael stood in the doorway, chest heaving, guilt threatened to creep up his spine as he watched you sprint away.

Guilt never came.

For either of you.

It bugged you.

The way you got home, tears streaming down your face as you crept up to bed, after tossing all of your besmerched clothes into the trashcan outside, and slithering into bed with your husband, who only turned the other way as you weighed down the bed, and the only thing you could feel was ecstasy.

Sure, you panicked at first — but even in your frantic rant, not one bone in your body felt guilt or remorse for your actions. Just pure shock at what you’d done after waiting so long for it.

You hated the way you slept next to your husband that night — clit throbbing lovingly after getting the attention it so desperately needed as Michael’s seed drooled out of you, soaking your panties.

That was where your affair with Michael Jackson started.

The next day, after your late-night rendezvous, Michael sought you out at work. You’d been hiding from him all day — trying to do as much as Quincy asked you before actually having to speak to Michael. But, he found you and cornered you.

"Michael, please, not here." You pleaded, eyes darting behind him as he backed you into the small corner of a hallway, "We can’t talk about this at work."

"So, we can have sex here, but not talk here?"

Your eyes shot open at his words, "Michael." You hissed, sending a shove to his chest which moved him nowhere.

Michael grabbed your hand that thumped his chest, eliciting a surprised gasp from your throat at the sudden contact, "I’m telling you now, I don’t feel sorry about what we did last night." Your mouth fell open at his words, eyes meeting his meaningful, but serious ones, "My marriage is…ruined beyond repair." He admitted, "I needed you. I still need you. And I think you need me. Please. Don’t give up on me just yet."

Words failed you initially, the seriousness and vulnerability of his words setting in, "M-Michael, I-I do need you, but.."

"But, what? Can’t we just be what we are?”

"We’re married, Michael. That won’t go away."

"I know, I know. Things like that take time — I know." He spoke, reaching up encase both of his hand around your own, "But, I also know you’re not happy." He admitted, "And after all these years, I make you happy, don’t I, sweetheart?"

Your aching heart throbbed lovingly at his words and glint of adoration in his eyes as he gazed down at you — your lips parted slowly, before you nodded your head.

Michael leant down, pressing a long, tender kiss to the back of your hand, then another to your fingers — missing the shaken breath that slipped past your lips.

"Let me continue to make you happy."

In that moment, words failed you. You swallowed thickly at his promise — nodding meekly, blushing at the way he pressed another affectionate kiss to your knuckles.

From that moment on, Michael was no longer your boss. To you, he felt like the husband you were deserved but never got. Expensive gifts would show up at your door for your birthday —Flowers before he took you to a private, secluded dinner — Late-night talking as you nestled against his chest after an evening of love-making. He truly felt like your man.

Until you went home — where you were met with your legal husband, who had never felt less connected to you in your whole marriage. You were distant, cold, snappy — wanting absolutely nothing to do with him. And, every night when you trudged home, sheathed in Michael’s cologne, hair a mess, clothes battered and a soreness between your legs — your husband knew what was going on.

"You’re fucking him, aren’t you?"

You jumped — you thought he was asleep. His gruff, exhausted voice hit your ears like a horn as you froze. You knew you weren’t even trying to hide your affair anymore — but, you didn’t expect him to confront you.

"No."

"Don’t lie to me."

You gulped, not daring to move a muscle as your back faced him — not brave enough to look him in the eye. Silence filled the room as you failed to answer him — that speaking more words than you ever could.

"Do you love him?" Yes.

The word hit your brain faster than you anticipated— feeling surprised by your own inner dialogue as you tensed again, sleep suddenly feeling like a foreign concept as you glared at the darkened wall.

"Go back to sleep, Daniel."

Your dismissive response gave him every answer you failed to give — Yes and yes. You both didn’t sleep that night, just listening to the silence and the occasional shuffle of the sheets as the ever reminding final factor swirled your brain.

Your marriage was over.

He knew it and you certainly knew it.

By the time your husband woke up that morning — you were gone. Clothes packed and divorce papers you’d had saved for months on the countertop.

You were finally saying goodbye to this chapter of your life.

Walking into work that day, giddy with excitement, finger free of a ring, you couldn’t hide the smile on your face. You knew the secrets and the lies would come to an end now you had decided to take the leap of faith and end things with your husband. You’re only reasoning? Michael had promised you that whenever you decided to leave him — he assured you, he would leave his wife.

So, when you called Michael late last night, shoving clothes into boxes and whispering your plan to be gone by the morning, with nothing but a sticky note attached to the divorce papers demanding he sign, he promised you he’d leave her that coming morning.

You heard Michael before you saw him — his sweet laughter filling your ears before you turned a corner, clutching your clipboard of To Do list’s to your chest, your heart fluttering at the sound of his voice.

This was the moment you wished you never took the job as a naive, money-hungry, selfish young adult.

Your heart, once skipping beats at the sound of Michael’s laughter, was now threatening to stop at the sight before you.

Michael stood, arms wrapped around his wife, a genuine smile on his face as he pressed kisses to her face — revelling as she giggled into him, hands sliding around his back, pulling him closer.

"Oh, honey, I love you." His words forced bile into your throat as he connected their lips — fluttering her eyes closed.

Michael, pressing his lips into hers, opened his eyes for a split second. His heart stopped, too, once he caught sight of you. Tears streaming down your face, a distraught expression plastered across it as you watched in horror. He knew you knew he had lied — he was never planning to leave his wife.

His giggling spouse pulled away from the kiss, looking up at catch his eyes, fixated on a figure behind her. You turned away before she could see your tear-streaked face, your hand coming up to wipe away the tears.

Michael caught sight of your bare finger — his chest on the verge of collapse as the realisation of his actions hit him.

"Who’s that?" His wife asked, furrowing her eyebrows.

He stared at you, your eyes meeting for the last time, speaking a thousand words, before you turned on your feet, back the way you came.

Guilt had finally set in.

"No one."

Steve clamps his jaw shut, looking over at you from the corner of his eyes.

“I agree.” Nancy nods. “I’ll go check with Mrs. Byers.”

“I’ll go,” Jonathan says. “I know where they are—she’s busy with Will.” He pauses, then sighs out the word, “Probably.”

He turns on his heel and leaves the four of you standing in a square, Robin’s shoulder pressed against Steve’s, while you look from them to Nancy, concern etched over your face. 

“This just feels,” you say, “I dunno. Bad.”

“Yeah, because it is,” Robin says. “This is like, the worst bad it could possibly be. Like, Defcon level 5 bad.”

“That’s the least bad one,” Steve says.

“What?” Robin asks, absently, almost like she forgot what she’d just said.

“Defcon 5,” Steve repeats. “That’s the lowest one. Defcon 1 is the really bad one.”

“Ok, then it’s Defcon 1,” Robin echoes him. “Whatever. Any Defcon sucks!”

The group lulls into an introspective silence until the front door to Jonathan’s house opens and he returns, clutching a handful of straws. He returns to the circle, fidgeting with the straws until he’s back between Nancy and Robin, and then just holds out his fist so you can all pull a straw from his hand.

“Three long,” he specifies, “two short.”

He offers them to Nancy first, who takes a breath, chooses a straw, and—admittedly—looks a little bit miffed that it’s not a short one.

Robin reaches out next, plucking a straw from Jonathan’s hand before you can. She tugs it free. 

Long.

Jonathan moves his hand over to you and Steve, and Steve gestures to you to pick first—there’s only one safe straw left, and he’ll suffer Jonathan if he has to, to make sure that none of the women in the little quintet you’ve cobbled together are in danger.

Taking a breath, you pinch the straw on your right between your thumb and index finger, before changing to the one on your left. You ease it out of Jonathan’s hand, and just swallow thickly when you see you’ve pulled a short straw. 

A slight tension settles over the group as you huff a short laugh through your nose, because of course that’s your luck. 

“Great,” you say, wanting to flick the plastic away but instead you hang onto it, watching as Steve and Jonathan stare each other down.

“You’ll be fine,” Nancy says. “Steve or Jonathan will be with you.” She steps closer. “Do you want to trade?” she adds surreptitiously. She’s more capable than you, she’d be the obvious choice—but you were screwed over by your own idea, so your integrity feels like it’s forcing your hand.

“No, it’s—you need to stay here with Mike. And…Will. If Jonathan ends up going with me. I’ll be ok,” you reply, glancing over at her. “Thanks, though.”

“Just pick one,” Jonathan is saying to Steve, and you watch as Steve reaches for the straw you almost chose first, taking it with no hesitation from Jonathan’s closed fist.

It almost pains you to see that it’s also short, so you’d have been going no matter which you chose. Typical.

Jonathan opens his hand to show his straw is long, just for the fairness of the game, and you turn to Steve, ignoring the way Robin is bouncing a little in place, hands curled into the hem of her sweater before she releases it and just crosses to you, putting her hands on your shoulders.

“You’ll be so fine,” she says. “Steve won a fight against a, like, Russian soldier.”

“He what?” you ask, but before you can get an answer, Steve just steps between you and Robin and meets your eyes.

“Let’s go,” he says. “We’re gonna need to gear up before we head down there again.”

&&

You end up with an old canvas jacket over a tank top, one that Mrs. Byers found for you in the back of the hall closet, the sleeves a little too long. Nancy approached you, shoving her own boots into your hands, and said you’d be better in those, as opposed to the tennis shoes you had on. Steve is still in his jeans too, now wearing an old t-shirt that Jonathan provided. It looks a little too small for Steve, his shoulders a little broader, but it’s hidden beneath his bomber jacket. He only shrugs his shoulders, stretching the fabric out over them before he leads you outside, Jonathan trailing behind, the designated driver to get you to the crossover point.

“You’ll be fine,” he says, mostly to you, because Steve looks a hell of a lot more composed than you do, your breath a little thin, your eyes unblinking as you fixate on nighttime scenery as it passes by. “It一shouldn’t be like, you know, before.”

“No bats?” you ask, almost laughing, because even though you saw the evidence of their story firsthand, even though you’ve been around long enough to know every detail they provided is true, it still sounds crazy to speak it aloud.

“No bats,” Jonathan promises, even though there’s no way he could realistically know.

“Ok,” you say, looking at Steve in the backseat. His jaw is set, and when he feels your eyes on him, he looks over at you.

“You can still sit this one out,” Steve says, and to his credit, Jonathan doesn’t speak for you.

“What do you mean?” you ask, frowning. “I一got a short straw.”

“Yeah, I know,” Steve says, “but you shouldn’t一have to. You’ve never gone down there, and you should keep it that way.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Jonathan glance up to look at Steve in the rearview, undoubtedly wondering if the fucking Hair is gonna try to pull him along and leave you with the car.

“It was my idea,” you say. “I pulled a short straw fair and square.”

“Having to go down there isn’t fair,” Steve says.

“Well, you went last time, so having to go again is what’s not fair, isn’t it?” you counter.

“That’s not what I said一” Steve tries to protest, but again, you speak over him.

“I’m going,” you say. “End of story. The quicker you accept that, the easier this will be. Stop一thinking about me and focus.”

Steve huffs a little noise of disbelief, but quietens down and the rest of the drive passes with just the sound of the engine and the tires speeding over the asphalt, potholes and cracks in the road making him slow the car to a stop.

“This is as far as we can drive,” Jonathan says, holding his foot on the brakes as you and Steve both hesitate, looking at the red glow of the rift a bit further up the street, the entire area abandoned and desolate, destroyed by the X-shaped fissure quadrisecting Hawkins’ downtown.

What look like ashes or fiery motes dance above the broken earth, and you force yourself to move so Steve has no choice but to follow.

You feel for the door handle, not taking your eyes off of the red glow ahead of you, and push open the squeaky door, stepping out of the car. The gravel crunches underfoot as you stand and move back a step, slamming the door. Behind you, you hear the rear driver side door creak and slam too, and you look back to meet Steve’s eyes over the roof of the car. Neither of you speaks, but neither of you has to.

“I’ll be here waiting,” Jonathan says, to Steve一he’s rolled down the window on his side. “As long as it takes. But don’t take too long.”

“No sweat,” Steve says, clapping his hand onto the roof, displacing some of the dust that’s already settled onto the car, just by virtue of idling in one place. “We got this.”

You wait for Steve to start walking forward, joining him as you traverse the rocky, destroyed street, the headlights from the Byers’ car illuminating you from behind as you go.

“What’s it like down there?” you ask, carefully stepping over a large chunk of blacktop.

“It’s…” Steve says, his voice trailing off. “Not great.”

“That helps,” you snip, because you’d like maybe a little preparation before you dive in.

“I’ll go first,” Steve says. “it’s一a little trippy. Just… give me a sec after I go through, and then I’ll catch you.”

“Catch me?” you ask, but Steve’s already adjusting his jacket, fiddling with the flashlight he’s holding, running a hand back through his hair, dusted with whatever the fine granules are that have been falling over Hawkins constantly for the last day.

“It’s一I mean, it’s called the Upside Down for a reas一you’ll see. Just. The dizziness will pass quick, promise.”

You open your mouth to say something else, but even as you do, you realize you have no idea what to say or to ask. So instead, you just watch as he crouches down beside the rift, fingers curling over the edge, and as he leans forward, you look back to Jonathan, who’s standing outside the car now, leaning against the hood, watching you both.

When you turn back to look at Steve, he’s gone.

You startle, because yes, you expected it, and yes, you knew this was all real, but for some reason his there-one-second-gone-the-next disappearing act throws you.

“You can go,” Jonathan says, encouraging. “He’ll一be ready by now.”

“Have you gone down there?” you ask.

He pauses, then shakes his head. “Not yet.”

You swallow the lump in your throat, then snicker. “I’ll send you a postcard.”

He hesitates, then smirks. “Bon voyage.”

You hold his gaze for another moment, like he’ll stop you一of course he won’t, you wouldn’t if you were him一and then replicate Steve’s movements as closely as you can remember. Crouching down. Gripping the edge. That was all you’d seen, but you close your eyes and tip yourself forward, expecting一actually, you have no fucking idea what to expect, and as your own body weight propels you forward through the rift, you feel strong hands grip your upper arms, pulling you through the rest of the way until you’re in an environment that feels colder, inherently. Like there’s no warmth here, no sun, nothing living, only death and decay and rot.

You stumble, because like Steve told you, there is a moment when your equilibrium is so completely off it’s almost like you have vertigo. He does catch you, as promised and your hands grip his arms back for a moment until your body reorients itself and you can stand without holding onto him.

“Thanks,” you say, looking around. It’s uncanny一you’re in Hawkins, downtown. It looks the same but still so drastically different that you feel as though you’ve just stepped into a nightmare.

“Come on,” Steve says, gently, and you can tell he doesn’t want to linger in one place too long. His hand is still on your arm, even though you’ve turned enough that you can walk beside him.

All of the air is stale down here, and as you walk through the inverse version of your hometown, you start to become attuned to the strange sounds of this place, the一odd clicks off to the side, a rushing roar occasionally from behind or above you, but you never see anything, never feel anything other than Steve’s fingers pressing into your arm through the jacket.

You don’t know how long you walk for, and you lose your bearings in the dimness of the Upside Down, but Steve is confidently striding forward like he knows exactly where you are and where you’re going. Between you, it’s silent, which you don’t mind一just the sound of your breathing and a few short exclamations when your foot twists on a rock, or Steve drops the flashlight, his quiet little “Oops” actually making you smile a little as he ducks down to pick it up, wiping the dirt from the lens.

You walk further, Nancy’s boots clomping alongside Steve’s quieter hiking shoes, and when you reach the base of a hill, you both stop.

“Up?” you ask, and Steve finally releases your arm. You feel the absence like a presence, because you hadn’t realized how much it was comforting you until it was gone, but he glances over at you, nods, and then gestures for you to head up first.

“I’ll follow you,” he says, “make sure you don’t slip.”

Making sure you don’t fall一It’s thoughtful in the way you expect from Steve, even though you don’t know him that well. You’re only wrapped up in this insanity because you know一no. Knew…Eddie. You knew Eddie. He was your neighbor, a couple doors over, and you were friends in that way where you waved to each other when you were grabbing the mail, or said hi if you happened to pass at the store, or noticed when a girl died in his trailer while he was screaming bloody murder and had to go on the lam. It was hard not to get involved when you’d rushed outside to see what the fuck was going on with all the noise only to watch him split seconds later, peeling out of the lot. 

Your first mistake had been even stepping out your front door that evening. Your second mistake had been peeking inside his trailer, your third had been finding that Henderson kid he had mentioned to you a few times in passing…and probably your fiftieth fucking mistake had been suggesting drawing fucking straws to see who got to pay a fucking visit to this scenic fucking shithole.

“Over there,” Steve says, as you crest the hill, pointing vaguely in the direction of a thick copse of trees. “Pretty, uh, dusty.”

He’s right: The trees are surrounded by what looks like a hazy cloud of dust, dense enough to look like fog from afar. It’s practically shimmering even in the darkness, and as Steve shines the flashlight toward it, even though you’re a good distance away, it looks like you’ve agitated it, almost like being illuminated caused the fine particles to move faster. Like observing them made them, somehow, aware of your presence.

You dig the toe of your boot into the ground below you. “So that’s where it’s coming from then,” you say, eager to leave. “Let’s go tell Hopper and Dustin and everyone.”

You start to turn, ready to head back the way you came, but Steve’s arm hooks around your elbow again. You try to suppress how having him back in contact with you does make you feel a little bit better once again.

“No, come on. We need to see if something’s…doing that.”

“It’s just us, Steve,” you argue. “We don’t know enough about anything down here to just go walking into…whatever that is. It looks like…someone cast cloudkill or something.”

Steve quirks an eyebrow at you. “Please tell me you didn’t just bring D&D into this.”

“That’s what it looks like!”

“Dustin would be so proud.” He smirks a little to himself. “Ok,” he says. “I’m gonna go take a closer look. They’ll want to know more and I’d like to be able to answer whatever questions we can when we’re back topside. Just wait here.” He takes off down the hill, minding his steps as he goes. 

“Wait,” you try to call after him, not wanting to be too loud. You watch as his flashlight beam moves over the dust again, the swirling almost appearing to move faster as he approaches it, like it wants him to reach it. “Steve!”

You hiss the word as loud as you dare, and he pauses, stopping at the bottom of the slanted ground. 

“It’s ok,” he calls back up to you. “I’ll be right back.”

“Let’s just go back!” you say, glancing around behind you as something一somewhere back the way you came from一makes a noise that disrupts the otherwise quiet landscape. That clicking sound again.

“I promise it’s fine,” he says. “I won’t be long.”

“No, Steve—” you say, and he pauses, watching with pursed lips as you start forward.

“Come on, then,” he says, resigned, waiting for you as you also make your way down, the ground uneven and the dirt sliding beneath your feet as you descend.

He’s still in the same spot when you reach him, and he holds out a hand for you to take if you need it. Your gut wants you to reach for it, for him, but you ignore the impulse; you’re back on (mostly) flat ground now, you can walk without assistance. Besides… you both might need both hands readily available if shit goes sideways. Or, uh. Upside down.

You flinch at yourself for even thinking it, because that was stupid. So stupid.

“Hold on,” Steve says, holding his arm out horizontally so you stop walking, because while you were in your own little world lamenting your dumb joke, you’d gotten even closer to the treeline and the dust is very, very much thicker here.

“Oh,” you say, because the way it’s clouded there, it reminds you of when freshwater and saltwater meet but can’t mix, different viscosities preventing them from commingling. “That’s…”

“Weird,” Steve says, and before you can suggest that this is definitely enough information to bring back to the group, he steps forward, approaching the trees.

“Steve!” you hiss. “What the hell, why are you like this?”

He looks back at you, a faint smile quirking up one side of his mouth. “I wish I knew.”

You stand outside of the range of the… dust, or whatever the hell it is, until he reaches the trees. Even from where you’re standing, you can see when he shines the flashlight over them, they look diseased, dead, the bark crumbling, the trunks covered in thick vines. They shine a little in the light, covered in sap or… something far more vile.

“Come back,” you implore him, but he doesn’t listen, and you’re not sure if he can’t hear you or if he just ignored your request. “Steve!”

“It’s fine,” he says. “Come here, it looks like… just come here.”

You don’t want to, but you do, because the entire reason you’re even here is so Steve didn’t come down into this place alone. The air doesn’t smell or taste different when you take a step forward, but it feels softer almost, brushing against your skin like baby powder, and by the time you reach Steve, you feel like you’ve been wrapped in silk, or velvet maybe, like the very air itself is cradling you.

“Look at this,” he says, moving the flashlight closer to the vines. “Do you see that?”

You look closer, not sure what he means at first, until you do see it. It looks like a stem broken off of the vine, like a flower had been there and was now gone. You can see a scattering of them all up and down the vine, and the vines beside it; the entire tree is covered in the same stems. Like it had sprouted blooms once, but they’d shriveled, losing their petals but the central disc where the pollen collected remained.

“Flowers?” you asked.

“I don’t know…” Steve said, reaching out toward one of the stems.

“Hey!” you said, grabbing his wrist with both hands, stopping him before he can touch it. “We’re not touching them. No way.”

“It’s fine,” Steve said. “Just… back up a little.”

“Please don’t,” you say, not moving. Steve extends his arm again, using it to guide you back, and then presses one of the un-petaled flower stems down. You hold your breath, but nothing happens, and when Steve moves his hand back, the stem just rises back to its previous position, unremarkably.

“See?” Steve says, looking back at you. “It’s fine.”

You exhale heavily, nervous still, even though you now have the empirical evidence that yes一it was fine.

“I guess,” you admit, and before you can react, Steve is walking past the treeline, between the old, creaking trunks, twigs snapping beneath his feet. “I swear to god, Harrington…” You mumble it mostly to yourself, and then follow him, because you don’t want to have to explain to anyone that you lost Steve because you were too scared to follow him into some trees.

Even though you’re fairly certain, like, anyone would understand.

He’s stopping at random trees, shining the flashlight on them, but every flowered vine you find looks the same as the first one一flowers, no petals, the center bare of any pollen or residue.

“Maybe we can just一take one of the stems and bring it back. And leave. Now.”

“We don’t know that’s what’s causing the dust,” Steve says, and you actually grab him, spin him around, and stare him down with your hands on your hips.

“I think,” you say, lifting your hands exasperatedly into the air, “we can extrapolate that they are what’s causing it.”

But he’s not listening. You can tell because he’s looking behind you, the flashlight just a little bit off to your left. You turn to see what’s caught his interest, and find it immediately. It’s one of the flowers, but not barren. The petals are a sickly green-blue, the same as the rest of the vines, and the disc is very clearly covered in a thin layer of pollen. Steve shuts the flashlight off and you see how he noticed it一it’s bioluminescent.

“Oh,” you say again, looking back at him. “That’s…even weirder.”

“We should bring that one back,” he says.

“I still don’t think we should touch it,” you say.

“Yeah,” he agrees, surprising you. “Probably not, but一I mean…if we can learn anything about anything it’ll be from that one, right?”

“I…” you start to say, then sigh. “I guess.”

“All right, just,” he says, handing you the flashlight. “Hold this.”

“Do you need the light?” you ask, running your thumb over the button to turn it back on.

“No,” he says, stepping past you and reaching up toward the flower. “I got it一”

As soon as his fingers touch the stem, the flower reacts一actually reacts. It appears to contract, the way you’d expect a Venus fly trap to close when its prey triggers it, and then the petals fall away, down over Steve’s hands, his face, and the pollen follows, the glimmering particles landing on him, on you, wisping away through the trees to settle, no longer glowing, wherever they fell through the stagnant air.

“Steve!” you scold him, but even as you do, you start to feel… off.

“You ok?” Steve asks, turning to you. His eyes meet yours and you feel a pull, you feel the same vertigo you felt when you first arrived here.

“Yeah,” you say, before the world slides sideways. “Wait. No.” You move to brace yourself against the tree, pressing the side of your forearm against it, letting your forehead rest there for a moment as you try to compose yourself.

“No,” Steve echoes you. “Yeah, me… me neither.”

“What the hell was that?” you ask, turning the flashlight on. With the beam lit up again, you can see how shaky your hands are, because you angle it up and despite your best effort, you simply cannot keep the stem of the flower that exploded centered in the light. “Jesus Christ,” you mumble to yourself, dropping the lit flashlight because seeing yourself so obviously affected by whatever you just inhaled is making you feel even more scared than you already are.

You register Steve moving away from you, walking around in the tight space, shaking his hands out like he’s trying to rid them of something.

You suck in a breath.

“Are you like. Hot?” you ask, pulling off the heavy jacket and draping it over your shoulder, just to have something to do with your shaking hands.

“What?” Steve asks in return, but you can hear the tightness in his voice.

You swallow, stepping away from the tree, and because whatever the fuck is happening to the two of you is happening, you bump into him just as he nears you with his pacing, neither paying any mind to the other. Where his hand brushes your arm, your skin tingles, tightens—feels like it’s going to blister. And then it happens to the rest of your body.

But just as quickly as it does, it dissolves away, leaving you feeling cold, wanting.

“Are you ok?” Steve asks again, in a way that you can tell he felt whatever that was too. But also in the way that you can tell he’s, maybe, handling it a little better.

“Still no,” you say. 

“Right,” Steve says. “Yeah. ‘Cause you just…” he trails off, and as soon as he mentions it you realize, belatedly, that the searing feeling of his bare skin against yours—your arms mind you—made you loose a moan from deep in your chest, low and unbidden, soft but heavy.

The moment hangs between you for a second, your heart hammering in your chest, an uncomfortable pressure starting to build between your legs.

“Hey,” Steve says, and you look up at him, and when you do you realize he’s much closer than he was moments ago, and he was already right beside you. “Hey, do you, um…” he trails off, and in the ambient light emanating from the flashlight on the ground beside you, you can see his gaze drop down to your lips.

Instinctually一because all of a sudden you feel like every single impulse and sense you have has been reduced to its basest level一you let your eyes lower to his mouth too, and when you see them, when you watch as his teeth worry his lower lip between them, when you see his cheeks hollow for a moment, when you catch a brief glimpse of his tongue, the same question that you’re certain he was about to ask you pops into your mind, and you answer what he didn’t even ask.

“Yes,” you say, and without further hesitation, without any thought at all, you take his face in your hands and press your lips to his.

Simultaneously you feel both immense relief and immeasurable desire, your stomach churning, your lips parting as Steve groans into your mouth. You can’t help but press your hips to his, parting your lips to let his tongue lick against yours, and your hands curl into his hair as you kiss him wildly, tongues and teeth and absolutely no reticence, the desperation clear on your part and his.

“Fuck,” you mutter as his hands tug your tank top up, pushing it over your tits, not bothering to unclasp your bra but just shoving that up and over your chest too, and you don’t even care that he’s undressing you in the middle of the weird ass woods in some alternate dimension. You don’t care that you’ve been stricken with the urge to fuck some guy you barely know, and only know because of some of the direst circumstances in history. You don’t care that he’s caging you in against the tree, the vines and bark scraping against your back as he leans down to bypass your neck completely and latch onto one of your tits, his mouth working at you in a way that you could tell on an ordinary night in an ordinary bed in ordinary Hawkins would feel wonderful, but now is only making the ache between your legs worsen, because you need part of him in contact with part of you and it’s not his mouth on your nipple.

“Steve,” you gasp, tone high, thready. “I need一oh my god, I can’t一” you stop yourself, because you know what it is that you want but you can’t very well tell him that you need his cock. You do not know each other like that, but as soon as the thought crosses your mind, he pulls back from you, shrugging off his jacket as well, letting it fall to the ground behind him as he undoes his jeans and shoves them down.

You’re on him before he even pulls his hands away from the waistband一both hands wrapping around his shaft, coaxing him to hardness even though he’s already most of the way there. Your entire being shudders with relief as soon as you feel his hot, girthy cock in your hands, and he rushes you back against the tree, mouth taking yours again as you stroke him with both hands, smearing the copious amount of precome he’s leaking all down his length. He’s so wet it coats your hands, your wrists even, as you accidentally let them brush against him as you jerk him off.

“This is”一you gasp out as he breaks away to move his lips down to your neck一“weird, right?”

“Yes,” Steve answers, but even as he says it, he’s moving his hands from your waist to your front, fingers curling into the waistband of your jeans and slipping the button. He undoes the zipper and doesn’t even bother trying to lower your pants down to your thighs like his are一he just shoves his hand into your underwear, palm skimming below your belly button until he reaches your mound, his middle finger sliding between your lips to touch your clit, the pad of his finger rubbing over it, not gently, but hard, harsh, immediate pressure that should feel good, but does absolutely nothing for you.

Strangely, you realize一you’re getting more enjoyment out of touching him, than you are from him touching you.

“God, that’s good,” Steve breathes against your mouth, and you realize he must be feeling the same一only getting any relief when he got his hands on you.

“What’s happening?” you ask, lips on the corner of his, breath warm on his cheek.

“I don’t know, I一” Steve says, licking into your mouth before pressing his forehead against yours, looking into your eyes as he thrusts his hand down further into your jeans, the force of it moving them down your hips without any help, and then his fingers are sliding through your folds. “You’re一so wet一I, I never felt anyone like, like this一”

“This is fucking,” you stammer, but the thought of exactly what it is leaves you as he curls two fingers inside of you, and he shudders in relief. You pull him closer by his cock, letting one hand move over it as you reach lower, cupping his heavy balls in your hand, massaging them and tipping your head back, eyes fluttering closed as you do.

“We should一stop,” Steve says, but you shake your head, then nod, then shake your head again.

“No, we can’t… Don’t want to,” you admit.

Steve’s voice is thick like honey, dripping with arousal as he speaks to you, tucking his cheek against yours so he can whisper directly into your ear. “Take一take everything off. Turn around.” It’s dark and deep and you reluctantly release his cock, let him slide his fingers out of you, and then the two of you strip the rest of your clothes off, denim landing on the dirt and leaves, his shirt landing in a heap as he helps you with your bra, and then you’re both naked in the cursed forest, and he’s pressing himself against your back, hands roaming your front. It feels nice but does nothing to assuage the arousal still coiling in your belly, and you push yourself into him, the heated skin of his cock smearing precome over your ass as his hips slide against you. 

“Steve,” you whine, and your tone spurs him into action, his hands landing on your hips, pushing you down, down to your knees and then all fours, and then one of his hands is sliding down your spine to stop between your shoulder blades, and then the next thing you know, your shoulders and tits are being pressed into the dirt, your ass up in the air, presenting yourself to him. You turn your head as much as you can to look back at him, straining as he holds you down.

He’s kneeling behind you, and you watch as his eyes meet yours, hazy with lust, with desperation, and he only nods once at you before you see him reach for his cock with his free hand and press the head against your weeping slit.

Your whole body quivers, and you would have pushed back if he wasn’t keeping you firmly in place, your arms trapped beneath you, hands scrabbling for purchase on your own thighs, holding onto yourself as you feel the pressure on your pussy increase when Steve leans into you with purpose.

He enters you in one deep, thick stroke, and as soon as you engulf him, as soon as you feel him splitting your walls open on his cock, you shudder and come instantly with a loud cry, sobbing from momentary relief, pleasure raining down over you as the sheen of sweat on your skin worsens. Your entire body is aflame like you’ve got a fever, and you clench around Steve's cock when you feel his hips grinding against your ass as you realize that he came too, suddenly, with a harsh gasp. 

But then he’s moving again, back out of you and then pushing in, pushing desperately, chasing the feeling again. Because your first orgasm wasn’t satisfying, barely any of the edge siphoning off despite how much it affected you, and the way he’s digging his fingertips into your hips as he pounds at you tells you his wasn’t either. He’s fucking his come back into your pussy, easing the slide, your thighs dripping with it already as flecks of his release land on your skin. 

“Steve,” you say, voice watery, because you haven’t even come down from your first orgasm and you can already feel another one cresting on the horizon.

“Do you一does this一feel good for you, t-too?” he asks, and you know he’s asking because he must feel the same as you一unsatisfied, wanting more, chasing another and another and another.

“Yeah, it一” you say, gasping as he leans over you, drilling his cock into you even deeper, reaching places inside of you you’ve never felt on your own. “You feel so一so good, Steve, please just一” You falter again, but unless you say it how will he know? How will he know how badly you want this, want him, unless you tell him? “Just keep一going, keep, keep coming in一in me, oh, god, I…” 

You’d feel embarrassed to sound so wanton and lewd if not for the way he answers you, pressing his hand more firmly against your back, sliding it up to your neck, and then finally, relenting for a brief moment so he can tangle his fist into your hair and use it to press your face down into the dirt.

“You have no一idea,” he replies, his hips snapping against your ass, his cock coated with his own spunk, your fluids, dripping down onto his balls, onto the forest floor. “How good you一you feel, around一fuck, you’re so一so一” He fucks into you again, and you feel his cock twitch deep within you, coming again, his release flooding you, his rigid cock not softening and not leaving your cunt, not fully anyway.

His voice sounds slightly more even when he speaks, but still frenzied.

“You feel that?” he asks, and you nod, sliding one of your hands up your stained thigh, sticky with your arousal. “Feel me inside you, right? Feel how一what you’re doing to me?”

“Steve,” you whimper, as he starts moving again, the wet sounds coming from between your bodies obscene, the sound of him fucking his own come loud, filthy, and it ensnares you, your lips parting of their own accord as you feel the saliva dribbling out of your mouth, but you can’t do much to stop it, not with him holding you down, with your arms tucked beneath you, with the way you’re now rubbing at your own clit because you feel so full with two loads in you that you need to come, need to feel it leak out of your hole around his cock, need the force of your orgasm to empty you so he can do it all over again on a clean slate.

“I can feel you,” Steve says, voice choked as he slams into you and stops, straightening up, releasing your head and your hair and clamping his hands down on your hips, rolling his front shallowly against yours, letting his cock just barely move out before it dips right back in, and the stretch of your slit around him, the feeling of your own hand working at your clit, finally sends you over the edge and you turn your face into the ground, hiding your shame as you realize he just came a third time, your pussy milking the orgasm from him as it spasmed and clenched down, begging it from him. The dirt sticks to your face, your lips and chin and you squeeze your eyes closed as you feel him pull out一again, not fully, only partly because you chase him, leaning back into him, wanting him to stay rooted deep within you一but even as you do, you still feel the thick drops of his come ooze out of you around him, rolling down your thighs, collecting in the crease of your knees.

“Do you feel any一better?” Steve asks, and in spite of the question, he pushes back into you, displacing more of his semen, forcing more of it out around him, staining your front along with his this time.

“Yes,” you answer, “no一can you fuck me a-again?”

Steve’s hands smooth over your back一you feel a little less heady, a little less one-track minded, but the burn is still there, the one that needs him moving into you again, pounding his front against your back, giving it to you over and over.

“I still need it too,” he says, and that makes you feel marginally better until he leans over you, letting his back rest against your front, letting your legs support his weight on top of you as he circles both arms beneath you, one hand pressing against up against your stomach, the other moving between your come-covered thighs to nudge your hand away and let his fingers work at your clit this time.

“Fuck一Steve,” you sob, because he’s not moving this time, just letting his cock sit inside you, heavy, slick with his own spunk, and his breath is heavy in your ear as he just rubs your clit, letting you squeeze down on him, unmoving inside you. Your walls flutter around him, gripping him tight, and Steve’s hand on your clit feels worlds different than your own did一your orgasm takes you over by surprise, hitting you out of nowhere so strongly that you buck back against him, wanting to feel him deeper even though he’s fully seated in you, riding out your orgasm with you until you sigh, eyes closed, cheek pressing to the dirty ground, smearing your own drool against the detritus below you.

His fingers slip away from your clit and he starts moving again, and even though you want it, you whine, the noise in your throat crackly and petulant, and without pulling out of you, needing to stay joined the exact same way you do, he holds you tight against him and rolls the both of you onto your side. He’s still inside you, and with the same arm that he’d just had looped around your stomach, he hooks your leg on his wrist, pulling your leg up to the side and holds it there, out of his way, exposing your cunt as he fucks you from behind this time, the new position just as intense but so, so much better, your back resting against his front, his skin slick with sweat as he clings to you, almost as desperate as you feel. 

“Almost一almost there,” he says, and you’re not sure what he means, because you’re still bleary with arousal, still want to come on his cock countless more times, still want to feel him lingering inside you for days.

“Please touch me,” you beg, “need you一need it to be you, it doesn’t一work when it’s me, Steve, please一”

“Sh,” he hushes you, his voice soft as he leans a little further into you, rising to prop himself up on his elbow. He doesn’t release your leg一to the contrary, he leans forward, pushing your leg further up to the crook of his elbow, holding your legs open at an even wider angle, and lets his now free hand slip between your folds to find your clit.

You sob when he does, because you come again the moment he touches it, the swollen bead throbbing beneath the pads of his fingers, kicking under his ministrations as he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, and you rise to your peak again, barely even coming down from the first一or maybe you just didn’t stop coming. You don’t know, you don’t care, because after this many, you’re starting to feel like yourself again, but the feeling is still there, you still need more.

“It’s一so much,” you mumble, and Steve presses a short kiss to the sensitive spot behind your ear.

“You feel so good, though,” he says, his hips still curling into yours, his cock not as deep now, both of you contorted around each other, back to front, limbs entangled, his fingers on your clit, the head of his cock in the perfect position to rub repeatedly against your g-spot, and you shudder a sigh as you feel yourself come again, weaker this time, your cunt sopping and sore.

“Come in me again,” you ask weakly, because each time he did, each time he filled you to the brim and it spilled out of you, a little bit of the haze lifted, the feverish impulse lessening.

“Almost,” he replies, thrusting into you, the head of his cock nudging your g-spot and you feel another orgasm beginning to rise, but not strong enough to overtake you yet.

“Please,” you beg, desperate now that you can feel the end might be in sight. You taste dirt in your mouth and feel itchy, skin irritated from twigs and leaves on the ground below you, but they’re the first sensations you’ve felt other than all-consuming arousal since the flower disintegrated onto you both, and you welcome them.

“Just一hold on another一another一” Steve says, and you feel him circle your clit quicker as he fucks into you, his cock dragging against your walls as you tighten up around him, and when he snaps them forward, up into you, shot after shot of his come spurting from the tip of his dick, your whole body tightens, loosens, releases after another orgasm一weak, feeble, and final, you hope一and then you still. Both of you, still, filthy, sweaty messes on the ground, dirty and sticky, skin slick between your thighs, his chest sticking to your back as you pull away from him. You stay on your side, wiping your face with the cleaner of your two hands, scraping away the dirt and spit stuck to your chin. You hear Steve behind you shuffle to his feet, and then his bomber jacket is draped over your shoulders, just to give you some modicum of modesty until you can stand and dress yourself.

“What the fuck happened?” you ask, wiping at the rest of your face now, adjusting the jacket to cover yourself as you feel his spend slowly trickle out of you. You twist, looking up at Steve where he’s standing, pulling his jeans back on. He uses his shirt to wipe his dick clean, his thighs, and then looks over to you.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” he says, and zips his fly before kneeling beside you, making to lift the jacket to wipe you clean with his shirt too, but you bat his hand away. You wanted him so desperately, had him, even, the two of you unable to control yourselves, and now you don’t even want him to look at you.

“Can you get me my一shirt,” you ask, pointing to where your tank top landed.

Wordlessly, Steve gets you your clothes, handing them to you and looking away as you shift yourself to your knees. You suppress the whimper as you feel yourself gaping, the sticky mess of his come falling from your pussy lips, and you try to clean yourself up as best you can, dressing yourself in your jeans and snapping the jacket closed to hide the fact that you’re now shirtless. You both leave the other soiled garments in the woods.

The first half of the walk back is silent, your stoic expression unchanging even as Steve continues acting exactly as he had before: Letting you walk ahead of him, keeping an eye on you to make sure you don’t trip, illuminating your path with the flashlight rather than his own.

“Um,” he says, once you start to see the reddish glow indicating that you’re nearing the rift. “Can we talk?”

You sigh. Heavily. “About what.”

“About一what just happened.”

“What happened?” you ask.

His eyes widen, like he’s not sure whether you’re really asking. “We…had一”

“I know what happened, Steve,” you snap. “I mean, why? What was that stuff?”

He closes his mouth, then his eyes, lifting his hand to cover his face for a moment before letting it fall to his side again.

“I don’t know. But I just一I wanted to check whether you’re ok now.”

“I’m fine,” you say, a little sarcastic, but biting it back because he got the same faceful of fuck pollen as you did. “Don’t worry, you won’t catch me begging for your dick again any time soon.”

He blanches, then takes a step toward you. “Hey, that’s not what I meant.”

“Can we not一talk about it?” you ask.

Steve hesitates, frowns. Then nods. “Yeah. Whatever you want.”

&&

The drive back to the Byers house is awkward. You let Steve sit in front next to Jonathan, let Steve answer the questions, let Steve tell Jonathan no一don’t drop you at home. You end up in the driveway of Jonathan’s house, waiting inside Steve’s BMW as he goes in and gives all the details to Nancy this time. He returns the jacket to Mrs. Byers.

He’d been careful with what he said to Jonathan. Some trees, weird flowers, some kind of pollen. It knocked you out for a little while, he explains, some kind of fever or something, that’s why you’re both filthy and sweaty. But you both feel fine now.

Sure.

Steve emerges from the house in another shirt, a polo he’d changed out of before this whole mess, and rounds the hood of the Bimmer. You watch him, wondering why you didn’t interrupt when Jonathan offered to drop you at your place. It would have been easier. You could have shut yourself up inside and never looked twice at Steve again. You only just got involved in this bullshit. You could extricate yourself just as easily.

But you didn’t.

You’d stayed with Steve even when you had the chance for an out.

You’d allowed him to insist that he drive you home, because he wanted more time to talk to you. Which you didn’t want to do but, admittedly, was probably a good idea.

The driver’s side door slams shut as Steve climbs in. You don’t move, legs pressed together, arms crossed over your chest, and Steve fiddles with the keys, not putting them in the ignition.

“So一” he starts, but you cut him off.

“I don’t want to talk outside Jonathan’s house,” you say.

“Right,” he says, starting the car and shifting into gear, heading out back onto the road. He clears his throat. “So.”

“Yeah?” you ask, and he just clears his throat again.

“Are you ok?”

It’s the question you expected but weren’t sure if he would actually ask. Because you’re not, and he’s probably not either.

“I mean, physically,” you say. “Sure.”

“I’m sorry. Obviously I didn’t一know,” he says, drumming his thumb on the steering wheel.

“I’m not blaming you, Steve.”

“It’s my fault.”

“Oh, I’m aware,” you say. “But I said I’m not blaming you. How could you have known, really.”

He glances over at you to find you already looking at him. You shrug as if to impart the age-old adage, c’est la vie. Even though it’s really, really not.

There’s another few minutes of silence, the car humming quietly in the night, and it’s almost peaceful except for the mess still between your legs, your body reminding you of it every time he hits a bump in the road and you feel sore all over again.

“That place… I shouldn’t have let you go down there. It changes you.”

“I’ll say,” you snarked, and Steve looked over at you, a little shocked at how blasé you were in that moment, then huffed an unamused laugh.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Yeah, I know. It’s一”

“No, for一bringing you. Jonathan should have一”

“I’d love to hear what would have happened if it had been you and Jonathan down there,” you say, keeping your face turned toward the window.

“Ok, well一that’s一” Steve stammers, and you can’t help but laugh a little.

It feels nice, actually, laughing after needing to use Steve’s body in the most perverse, insane way ever, and letting him do the same to yours.

“You didn’t have to drive me,” you say, as Steve turns into the lot where you still live, both of you averting your eyes from Eddie’s residence. Or… what used to be.

“I wanted to,” he says, simply, and when he pulls up outside of your door, he puts the car into park and turns it off, pulling the key from the ignition.

“What are you doing?” you ask, eyeing him as he reaches for the door handle and pockets his keys.

“Walking you to your door,” he says, like it’s obvious.

You want to question him, but you don’t. You just get out of the car, slam the door behind you, and wait for him to move next to you. You lead him, and when he follows you up the steps, holds the door for you when you open it, and enters behind you, you don’t question that either.

Nor does he wait for you to. “I don’t… sleep that great anymore, after… you know, going down there. Figured you might want. I dunno. A friendly face nearby. Just in case.”

You undo the jacket’s fastenings, but hold it closed, your bra shoved into the pocket, your upper half bare beneath the canvas.

“Ok,” you say, not fighting him on it, and just point at the couch behind him. “You can stay there. My mom works an overnight shift so if you can be out by 7:00, I’d appreciate it.”

Steve looks behind himself, then nods. “Sounds good.”

You wait for him to turn and settle down onto it before padding down the hall to the bathroom. The door sticks when you close it, so you never do, just leaving it barely ajar as you strip off the jacket and your jeans, the crotch still wet with Steve’s come. You leave the clothes in a pile on the floor and start the shower, waiting for the water to warm before stepping in; in the meantime, you examine yourself in the mirror. There’s still some dirt scuffed on your cheek; you try to wipe it away with the heel of your hand but it isn’t budging, so you just check yourself out otherwise instead. Your lips are still swollen from where you’d bitten them. You’ve got some bruises and scrapes on your shoulders and chest, your arms and elbows, but there’s no pallor to your skin so you figure you’re fucking fine. Just peachy.

You pull the shower curtain and step in, scrubbing your body hard, your arms and legs, focusing on the marred areas of skin, the places you know need some extra care. You wash thoroughly, your face, your thighs, everything in between them, and when you emerge wrapped in a towel, you see Steve dozing off on your couch. 

You pull the towel tighter around you, watch him for a moment longer, then call out to him.

“Hey.”

His eyes flutter open, taking in the sight of you in the hall, squinting a little like he might have missed something in the interim of sitting down and waking up.

“You ok?” he asks.

You don’t answer一at least, not what he asked you. “My bed’s more comfortable than the couch.”

He studies you一you can feel the force of his look even with how far away he is. He hesitates.

“I’m only offering once,” you say, and that, at least, gets him to move, shifting his weight to the edge of the sofa cushion.

“You sure?”

“I’m sure,” you say, unwavering, and he makes his way from the couch to the hall, looking down at you as he steps past you into your room. You follow him inside and close the door behind you with a low click.

You were in your apartment getting ready when the phone rang. You were halfway through your makeup, focused on getting your eyeliner just right, and you let it ring out. Whoever it was could call back. Lay All of Your Love on Me by ABBA blasting out from your turntable speakers, loud enough to shake the vanity beneath your hands.

It went to the answering machine.

His voice came through on the speaker phone, over your noisy room, a little rushed, like he'd called without thinking it through first:

"Hey, um, it's Michael. Jackson. Michael Jackson– umm. I know we were supposed to meet up later but I—"

There was a pause. You could hear him breathing.

"Can you just come over? To the house, to Hayvenhurst? Like, this afternoon? I don't want to meet you somewhere public. If we go out they'll mob us and I can't— put you through that. I just need to see you without all of the annoyances. Without people watching. Just come straight to the gate and I'll—I'll meet you there, okay? I couldn't stop thinking about you all week and I don't want to wait any longer. Please? Ok. Goodbye."

There was the sound of him hanging up, then the mechanical beep of the machine.

You stood there in your half-done makeup and stared at the phone, music still blasting in the background.

You grinned almost manically as the crescendo built on the last chorus of the ABBA song, the entire apartment suddenly feeling too small to contain the electricity buzzing beneath your skin.

“Don’t go wasting your emotion…”

The words crashed through the room like they were meant specifically for you, like the universe itself was laughing at how impossible it would be to stay calm after that phone call. Your pulse was hammering so hard you could feel it in your fingertips. Michael Jackson had just called sounding desperate; he didn’t sound like the untouchable megastar the world saw on television. Just Michael. Breathless. Impatient. Wanting you there now.

You looked at yourself in the mirror, one eye lined perfectly, the other unfinished, lipstick still uncapped on the vanity. The song swelled louder. Dramatic. Hungry. Urgent. You did one finally layer of eyeliner to even it out.

“Lay all your love on me…”

God. The way he’d said I couldn’t stop thinking about you all week. The way his voice caught slightly on please.

Your stomach flipped violently.

Every second you stayed in the apartment started to feel unbearable, like wasted time. Like he was pacing somewhere inside Hayvenhurst waiting for you already. Maybe looking out the windows. Maybe replaying the call in his head wondering if he sounded too eager. Maybe counting the minutes until you arrived.

You snatched up your keys so fast they nearly slid from your hand. The eyeliner pencil rolled forgotten across the vanity. ABBA kept roaring through the speakers behind you as you rushed for the door, heart racing faster and faster with every thought of him waiting there alone, hidden away from the world, wanting you before anyone else could take another piece of him first.

₊˚°⊹˚

The taxi pulled up to Hayvenhurst Avenue around four o'clock. The gates were impressive even from the street, black and imposing, and there were people standing outside them. Not a huge crowd, but enough to be weird; three or four girls in their twenties, one older woman with a camera around her neck, all of them just... waiting.

Watching.

When you stepped out of the taxi they all turned to look at you at once. Their expressions shifted from hopeful to dismissive in about half a second — you weren't anyone they recognized, so you were nobody. One of them actually rolled her eyes.

You felt a bit small under their gaze, and wrong, like you didn't have the right to be here. But you straightened yourself, your 60s shift dress flowing in the wind slightly, and you shrugged it off.

You walked toward the gates despite the numerous eyes on you. Toward the buzzer.

You buzzed and waited. Then, all of a sudden, rapid footsteps. 

Michael appeared almost running down the drive, but you could tell he was still trying to act casual. You bit your lip to stop yourself from giggling - what a sight. The butter yellow shirt and bright orange wooly jumper against his skin made him look almost otherworldly — like he'd stepped out of a dream. His hair dark was shorter than you thought it'd be, but still very curly. His skin was gorgeous, like smooth caramel in the California sun. He looked pretty enough to devour.

He was moving fast, purposeful, and when he saw you through the bars of the gate his whole face did something that made the fans' heads whip around in aching unison.

He unlocked the gate from inside and let you step through it, closing it behind you so the other girls couldn't follow, and then he was standing in front of you and you couldn't breathe properly.

He was real. In front of you. Not a voice on the phone or a picture in the newspaper or in a music video on the television screen. He was tall and he smelled like powdery cologne and something sweet, his hair was falling into his face perfectly and he was looking at you with a worshiping, adoring look.

"Hi," he said softly, a great big wide grin on his face. His teeth were impossibly white and straight.

"Hi."

"Now…Your dad showed me your picture," he said, almost immediately, like he'd been holding it in. "The one on his desk at Epic. But you're so much more beautiful in person."

Heat bloomed across your chest. You didn't know what to say to that and before you could even think to reply, he’d moved on from it.

"I'm sorry about them." He glanced at the fans behind him, at the way they were staring. "They're always here. I don't usually—" He stopped himself from explaining their stares. "Can I hold your hand?"

"Yeah. Yeah, of course."

He reached out and took your hand, and his palm was warm and his grip was gentle and he looked at your joined hands like he couldn't quite believe they were connected. He brought you closer to him. 

"I couldn't stop thinking about you," he said quietly. "All week. I needed to see you."

"Michael, I—" You didn't know what to say. 

"Come on." He pulled you gently away from the gates and prying eyes. "Let's get inside."

He turned and gave a brief nod to the security guard stationed at the small entrance building on the estate. The wealth that this family had, genuinely was incomprehensible to you. Michael didn’t have that air about him, he seemed like he was down on earth in some ways, and high in the sky in others.

He kept your hand the entire walk up the drive. You could see the house getting bigger as you approached, could see details you'd only ever glimpsed in photos, and it was surreal — this whole thing was surreal. You were here. You were actually here.

It was crazy, you didn’t even know what compelled you to call him that night. Boredom mostly, and the thought that it would ring a few times and he’d not answer. 

Your father had told you all about Michael, his charisma, the spectre of his talent. How he could command a room when he was singing, but also the hushed conversations over the console when Michael was laying down vocal in the studio. The producers and executives at Epic were always fed information on the young star. He seemed lonely in a room of people; someone who needed direction, away from all the ‘yes’ men, merely in his orbit for his money. Your father always stuck up for Michael, you felt a strange longing to do the same.

You felt a need to make him feel something other than adoration from fans, you wanted him to have some sense of normality - you were, for the most part, living a normal life in LA. You could bring him up to speed, let him see that his fame doesn’t need to hold him back from absolutely everything.

He squeezed your hand, like he was checking you were real to him. 

₊˚°⊹˚

Michael guided you through the doors of Hayvenhurst, through the hallowed halls of the infamous Jackson family. It smelled oddly sweet, like cookies and flowers. You ogled in awe at the entryway and the hallways until you started hearing chatter and television static down the luscious, pristine hall.

The living room was chaos.

"—I'm telling you, he was out of bounds, the whole play was—"

"Randy, you can't just make up rules—"

"I'm not making up rules, those ARE the rules you moron—"

The petite girl on the sofa with big hair, you assumed after seeing pictures, was Janet. She sat on the couch with her legs tucked under her, half-watching the basketball game and half-reading a magazine.

When you and Michael came through the door she looked up and her eyes went straight to your joined hands, to the way Michael looked at you like you might disappear if he let go.

She didn't say anything, but Marlon, who was leaning against the doorframe of the opposite door that led to another hallway, caught it too.

He and Janet exchanged a look that was loaded with information.

"Oh, heyyyyy," Marlon said, drawing it out like he was tasting the word. Like he hadn't been expecting you. 

Like he hadn't heard Michael practically vibrating with nervous energy all afternoon.

"This is Y/N," Michael said quickly. "Her dad's part of my team at Epic."

"Right," Marlon said slowly. He was looking at your hand in Michael's hand. "The producer's daughter."

"Oh, THIS is the girl Mikey was drooling over at the receiver earlier," Randy said, finally sitting up from where he'd been sprawled on the floor with a pillow. "Wait, isn't this your first time meeting her in person?"

Michael's grip on your hand tightened slightly. "Yes. It is. And we're going to use the studio, so please do not disturb us. Or you'll get clapped around the head, you schmucks."

"So this is like a first date situation," Randy continued, totally ignoring what Michael said, his grin spreading. "That's bold, Mikey. Bringing a girl back here on the first try — she'll probably run away screaming when she meets Joseph."

"Don't joke about that," Michael said, but there was an edge to his voice now. You felt him tense up, felt his hand grow slightly sweaty in yours.

Marlon slowly made his way from the threshold of the room and plopped himself down beside Janet, who'd gone back to her magazine with a smirk plastered across her face.

"Y'all better be sneaky if you don't want caught by the parentals," Janet piped, her voice muffled behind the magazine. "They'll have ALL sorts of smothering questions. Mother will want to know your entire family history, Y/N."

"And Father will want to know your intentions with her, Mikey." Marlon added with mock seriousness. “That man is gonna be setting up lawyers; locked and loaded with a prenup, just like he did with good ol’ horny boy, Jermaine”

"Dad is gonna freak when he realises half of his fortune is at stake," Randy said, cackling at his own joke.

"Randy, shut up," Michael said, but there was no heat in it. He was already flustered enough.

Randy jumped up from watching the game and darted over to Michael, clearly trying to dap him up. Michael let go of your hand to shove him away, but Randy just grinned wider.

"My big bro FINALLY got some game," Randy announced to the room like he'd just made a major scientific discovery.

"Man, you guys are the worst," Michael said, shaking his head and nervously running his hands through his hair. "I was trying to play it cool and you all start acting like complete idiots."

"JANET," came a painfully loud, high-pitched voice from the echo-y hallway. "Mother wants your opinion on new patio furniture from the catalogu—"

LaToya walked into the living room, stopping dead when she saw everyone standing there. She looked at you, then at Michael, her eyes wide with shock.

"Oh," she said, her eyebrows raising in an exaggerated arc. "I'm interrupting something, aren't I?"

"No," Michael supplied almost immediately. "We are going to the studio so I can let her hear the song that I’ve been working on, for the new album."

"Mmm-hm," LaToya said, and it was the most loaded 'mmm-hm' you'd ever heard. "Of course. Working on the song."

Michael grabbed your hand again and started dragging you toward the hallway. "C'mon, Y/N, let's leave these Neanderthals behind before they say anything else mortifying."

"Too late," Janet called after you both,

You followed along, your arm outstretched in front of you as he pulled you through the house and then out another door onto the driveway. The evening was cooling down, the sun starting to dip lower in the sky.

"Our studio is just across here," he said, turning back to look at you as he walked, his excitement finally breaking through the embarrassment. "Fully kitted out. State of the art."

He was already pulling you toward a separate building, this sleek modern structure that looked like it had been added on recently. When he pushed the door open you stepped into controlled chaos; equipment everywhere, soundproofing on the walls, a mixing board that looked like it cost more than a car. 

Interestingly, there were post-it notes covering most of the felt walls. Sketched drawings, yellow paper scrawled with black or red sharpie. You realised you were seeing a map of Michael’s internal monologue whilst he worked. It was just as chaotic as you imagined.

But Michael went straight to the tape machine, his entire demeanor shifting. The nervousness fell away. This was his space. This was where he was in control.

"Okay, so—" He was already threading a tape in, his hands moving with an understanding not many people have of that apparatus. " I have been working on this for about three weeks.” He grinned back at you.

“All thanks to your Dad for helping green light this new project” He supplied after. 

“Jackie, my older brother, has been helping me hone in on the tone of the lyrics I was writing for a concept song I am working on. I wanted to lean into something a bit more synthesized. Much darker than Off The Wall”.

You chewed your lip in anticipation of being able to be one of the first people to hear this demo. 

The tape finally stopped rewinding with a short ‘Click’ and it was ready to go. You got a bit of fright when the demo started playing, a sharp creak of a door opening and shutting, and then all of a sudden, Michael howling like a wolf in the background. It was clearly a rough cut up of his vision.

You side eyed him after hearing this, not fully trusting his process on this one, and he was already staring at you, his eyes large, hopeful, saying ‘give it a chance.’

Then the beat kicked in, strong horns in staccato, blaring over the track, and then finally the Michael you had listened to over and over again on his first separately produced solo album. His tenor was smooth, he was an expert in being, not only a soulful singer, but also able to be the rhythm as well through his adlibs, and his beatboxing. The song was almost fully realised just with him making sounds with his mouth. Good with his mouth, you thought.

He played the rest of the song, and bopped and beat boxed along to it, whilst holding eye contact with you. It was really intense. You could not believe the change in him — the way his whole body moved with the rhythm, the way his voice could shift from vulnerable to commanding in a single breath. 

This wasn't the boy who'd been mortified by his siblings upstairs. This was someone else entirely. Someone creatively dangerous in the best way possible.

When it ended, the tape spooled to silence and Michael turned to you, breathless, his chest still moving with the energy of what he'd just performed along to.

"That's called 'Thriller,'" he said quietly, straight back to his airy speaking voice.

"Thriller," you repeated. It fit. Everything about it; the wolf howls, the darkness underneath the pop production, the way his voice became almost predatory in places… it all made sense now. "Michael, that's..."

"Tell me honestly."

"Honestly?" You shook your head. "I think that's its the most sophisticated thing you've ever done. The production, the concept — it's not like anything on the radio right now and that’s a fact."

He smiled, but it wasn't his shy smile. It was something more confident, more sure of itself. He reached over and rewound the tape again.

"I want to play you something else," he said. "There's a bridge section that I wanted to take out, as it felt a bit too sexual, the innuendo. Jackie suggested I just let lose and try it, and I wasn't sure but now I think—" He stopped himself, looking at you. 

"Actually, before I do that, I need to ask you something."

"What?"

"Do you feel it? What I'm trying to do here?"

"What do you mean?"

"Like, do you understand what I'm going for? Because most people don't get it. They hear the pop hooks and they think it's just a dance record. But it's not. It's supposed to be scary. It's supposed to make you uncomfortable but also, elated, make you feel thrilled." 

He was animated now, his hands moving as he talked. "I want people to feel hunted when they listen to it. I want them to feel like something's chasing them and they can't escape it and whether that's a zombie or a crazed crush in the night… that’s up to who’s interpreting."

You thought about the phone call. About how vulnerable he'd been, how exposed. And then you thought about this — him in his element, confident and commanding, talking about his art with you like you’d always been in the room with you. He had no ego though, completely stripped of one, he spoke as if he knew that you would be able to understand everything he was talking about. 

You couldn’t, but with the way he looked and spoke at you - you might just be able to figure it out. His vulnerability was what gave that little bit of darkness in him,  its teeth.

"Yeah," you said. "I feel it."

He looked at you like you'd just given him the most important compliment of his life. Then he turned back to the mixing board and started adjusting levels, his fingers moving over the knobs with practiced ease.

"Tell me honestly if the innuendo was too much, because I don’t really have a reader on these things, if I am completely honest," Michael said, not looking away from what he was doing. "But it's said that the best artists are the ones who aren't afraid to show people the parts of themselves that scare them or that they have not tried to utilize yet. The parts they usually hide."

"It’s hard to hide from your inner monologue, it's why I journal." You supplied, feeling nervous that you weren’t getting it.

He smiled at you. 

The tape that changed and rewound started playing, a muffled static and hum of the mic and then his isolated vocal - “all through the night” his strong vibrato lingering in the otherwise empty and quiet studio, “I’ll save you from the terror on the screen, I’ll make you see, that this is thriller, thriller night.” 

Then he grabbed your arm, and signalled to listen to the next line, ‘cause I can thrill you more than any ghoul would ever dare try”.

The line hung in the charged silence. 

His eyes were wide, vulnerable, waiting for your judgment on the lyric, on the boldness of it. You didn't answer with words. You stepped forward, closing the distance, and kissed him. It was a soft, firm press of your lips to his, an answer in itself.

He froze, a startled little "Mmph!" caught in his throat. Then he melted, his hands coming up to hover near your shoulders before finally settling, trembling, on your upper arms. The kiss was achingly chaste, closed-mouthed, lasting only a few seconds before he broke it, pulling back just enough to look at you, his breath coming in quick, shallow puffs.

“I really am glad you decided to call me, because this is what I have been needing… what I have been missing” He said, quietly.

This time, he pulled you in with confidence. His lips moved tentatively against yours, and when you gently coaxed them apart, he sighed—a surrendering, warm sound—and let you in. The kiss deepened slowly, becoming wetter, hotter. His hands slid down your arms to your waist, clutching the fabric of your dress.

You walked him backward until his legs hit the low, wide leather listening couch. He sank down, pulling you with him so you were straddling his lap. The position made him gasp into your mouth. 

He broke the kiss, resting his forehead against yours, his eyes closed.

"I want to..." he started, then stopped, swallowing hard. 

"I want to touch you. So much. But I can't... you know, I can't go all the way. It's not right. Not yet. Maybe not ever, I don't know, it's all so confusing..." He sounded genuinely distressed, torn between desire and deep-seated doctrine.

"Shhh," you soothed, running your hands through his soft curls. "We don't have to do anything you're not comfortable with. We can just... fool around."

He looked up at you, his eyes liquid with gratitude and pent-up want. 

"Can I... can I see you?"

You nodded, reaching back for the zipper of your dress. His hands were there first, fumbling clumsily. 

"Let me, please," he murmured, his fingers shaking. He managed it after a few tries, and helped you shimmy out of the simple 60s style shift dress. It pooled around your hips on the couch.

He stared, his lips parted. You were in just your bra and underwear now. His gaze was one of pure, reverent awe. "You're so beautiful," he breathed, almost to himself. "Like a little painting."

He leaned forward, burying his face in the valley between your breasts, nuzzling the soft skin there with a soft, desperate sound. His arms came around you, holding you tightly. 

You could feel the hard length of him, trapped in his trousers, pressing against you. You rocked your hips against him, a slow, deliberate grind.

He moaned, a long, low, helpless "Oooohhh..." and his own hips jerked up to meet the motion. 

"Oh, wow," he gasped, his voice strained. "That feels... that's okay, right? Just... just like this?" He jerked his hips again, and rolled, like the motion of a dance he was familiar with.

"Just like this," you affirmed, continuing the slow, rocking rhythm. 

It was dry, and a bit frantic at times, though still incredibly intimate through the layers of fabric. 

His hands clutched at your back, his fingers pressing into your skin. He was panting, little hot breaths against your chest.

"Can I... take this off?" he asked, his fingers hooking under the strap of your bra.

"Yes."

He undid the clasp with surprising dexterity, and when the garment fell away, he made a small, choked sound. He didn't touch at first, just stared, his eyes dark. 

Then, hesitantly, he reached out and cupped your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple. 

A full-body shiver wracked you.

"You're so soft," he whispered. He leaned in and took the peak into his mouth, suckling gently, then with more pressure when you arched into him with a soft cry. His hips were moving in a frantic, grinding counter-rhythm to yours now, the friction maddening for you both.

After a few minutes of this, he pulled his mouth away with a wet pop, his face flushed. "I'm... I'm gonna… go too far… I can't stop myself like this," he confessed, his voice thick with shame and arousal. "It's too much, to feel you up this way. I’m so tempted."

You stilled your movements. "What do you want to do, Michael?” You whispered. “I don’t want you to feel pressure to actually go through with this if it will hurt you mentally or have…reprecussions"

He wouldn't meet your eyes. His brain ran off for a minute, clearly trying to brainstorm ways to keep this going.

"I've... I've thought about it. What it might be like. If you... if you used your mouth." The words came out in a rushed, guilty whisper. 

"But that's probably worse, isn't it? And you wouldn't want to, we aren’t going steady, and it's dirty, I'm—"

"Michael," you interrupted softly, tipping his chin up so he had to look at you. "I want to. Very much. I don’t really care that we aren’t going ‘steady’."

His eyes searched yours, looking for any hint of deception or pity. Finding none, he bit his lip, a war playing out on his face. "Really? You... you want to?"

"Oh, yes."

A tremor went through him. He nodded, a quick, jerky motion. "Okay. Okay. But... can we... not all the way? I mean, I'm still dressed, you're... you're mostly dressed. It's less... it's less like that."

You understood where he was going with that statement. A slight barrier to his fervent sexual intention. His religion was stepping in the way of the raw desire he had burning up through him, it was clear to see. 

You could see it, raw and held back in the way he danced on stage, even in the way he sang. This strain…a fight against the odds. 

The layers were a psychological barrier as much as a physical one. 

"Of course." You said.

You slid off his lap and knelt on the plush carpet between his knees. He watched you, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Your babydoll shift dress was still sitting just above your hips, so your whole chest was on show to him.

You reached for his belt, and he flinched, then forced himself to be still. You undid the buckle, the button of his trousers, the zipper. He lifted his hips to help you push them down just enough, along with his underwear, to free him.

He was fully erect, beautiful and flushed. He was quite big - a bit bigger than you initially expected, from his wiry frame. 

The sight of him though, combined with his utterly vulnerable expression, sent a jolt of pure heat through you. You wanted to make him feel good. Inform his art, his craft and allow him to draw on real life desire.

You leaned forward, but he suddenly put his hands over his face, peeking through his fingers.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, his voice muffled. 

"I'm so embarrassed. I shouldn't be letting you do this. You must think I'm not strong, for being so easily swayed."

"I think you're beautiful, and very normal" you said firmly. You reached up and gently, but insistently, pulled his hands away from his face. He resisted for a second, then let you, exposing his blush-red cheeks and worried eyes. 

"And I want to do this. Look at me, Michael. See that I want to."

He held your gaze, his own wide and trusting. Slowly, you lowered your head and took him into your mouth.

The sound he made was unlike anything you'd ever heard—a high, shattered gasp that broke into a choked-off sob. "Ah! Oh—gosh... Y/N..."

His hands flew to your head, not to guide, but to simply hold on, his fingers tangling in your hair. 

You started slow, using your tongue, your lips, finding a rhythm. He was vocal, helplessly so, filling the studio with a stream of breathy, broken praise and disbelief.

"It feels... oh, it feels so good... how does it feel so good? You're so warm... your mouth is so soft... I shouldn't... I shouldn't like it this much..."

His hips began to move in tiny, aborted thrusts, a subconscious seeking of more depth. You took him deeper, relaxing your throat. He moaned, long and loud.

"God, I am so close... How can I be so close, I can't... I've never felt anything like this..." His voice was taut with panic and pleasure. 

His grip in your hair tightened unconsciously as you took him deeper and deeper, teetering on the edge of hitting your gag flex he was so big. "Please... don't stop... I'm gonna..."

His rhythm became more urgent, his thrusts into your mouth less controlled. He was losing himself, the conflict drowned out by sheer sensation. "Oh, I'm gonna cum... where... where should I...?"

You didn't pull away. You looked up at him with only your eyes, meeting his desperate gaze, and took him as deep as you could, your message clear.

That was his undoing. 

With a cry that was half-anguish, half-ecstasy; his hips snapped upward, his hands on your head holding you firmly in place as he spilled himself down your throat. 

He wasn't rough per se, but there was a surprising, instinctive strength in his grip, a complete surrender to the climax that forced you to take every last pulse. He shuddered violently, his whole body bowing off the couch.

When it was over, he went limp, his hands falling from your hair to hang uselessly at his sides. 

He was panting, staring at the ceiling with a dazed, shell-shocked expression. You pulled back, swallowing, and rested your cheek on his inner thigh.

For a full minute, there was only the sound of his ragged breathing. Then, slowly, he looked down at you. 

His expression shifted from a somewhat post-coital blankness to dawning horror. He saw your lips, your chin, the evidence of what he'd done.

"Oh, no," he whispered, his voice small and shattered. 

"Oh, no, no, no." He scrambled back on the couch, pulling his trousers up with frantic, clumsy movements, covering himself. He covered his face with those big hands again.

"I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I made you do that. I lost control, I hurt you, I— just wanted you so badly. It felt so much better than just using my hand."

"Michael," you said softly, climbing onto the couch beside him. You reached out and touched his arm. He flinched. "You didn't hurt me. I wanted to. Every second of it."

He peeked out from behind his hands again.  His eyes were so honest - this was not an act. He really felt this internal battle, of what his body wanted, what it called for and what his religion told him was right. 

"Really?"

"Really. It was beautiful. You are beautiful. I don’t mind being slow, as long as I get to spend more time with you" You said, now tracing circles on top of his thigh.

The tension slowly bled out of him. He uncurled slightly, letting his legs drop from where they had tense. 

He looked at you, his boyish vulnerability returning in full force, replacing the tortured guilt. He reached out a trembling hand and brushed his thumb over your bottom lip, wiping away a stray drop.

"Your mouth," he said, wonder in his voice. "It was… so… addicting." A faint, disbelieving smile touched his lips. It was gone in a second, replaced by shyness. He couldn't hold your gaze. 

"I... I liked it. A lot. More than I've ever liked anything. Does that make me terrible?"

"It makes you human," you said, leaning in to kiss him, a soft, chaste press of lips. 

He tasted himself on you, and he sighed into the kiss, a sound of pure, sweet surrender.

He pulled you up to lie beside him on the wide couch, arranging you so your back was to his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around you. He nuzzled his face into your hair.

"Thank you," he whispered.

"For what?"

"For being patient with me. For being so sweet. For... for letting me feel normal for a little while." He paused. 

You smiled in the dim light. "It was thrilling." You let your dirty sense of humour come out to play again, as he didn’t seem as vulnerable.

He giggled then, a soft, silly, boyish sound, and squeezed you tighter. "Good." He was quiet for a long moment. 

"Jackie is going to freak when I confirm I added that little line to the song." Michael said. “He’ll want to know why I changed my mind.”

"Maybe it can be our secret," you suggested. “Just be friends, but fool around like this?”

He pressed a grateful kiss to your shoulder. "Yeah. Our secret." He yawned, a huge, unguarded yawn, and snuggled closer. 

"Don't go yet, okay? Just stay for a little while longer, I don’t want you to go back to being a voice on the phone or an image in my head.” 

You smiled with genuine excitement in your heart.

The phone rang at an odd hour, the shrill sound cutting through the quiet of his bedroom. Michael picked up the receiver, his voice soft and uncertain. "Hello?"

"Hi... is this Michael?" Your voice came through the line, slightly breathless, like you'd been working up the courage to make this call for hours.

He blinked, sitting up straighter against the headboard. "Yes. Who is this?"

"Hi Yes, well, I'm sorry, I know this is strange. My name is Y/N. My father—he's a producer at Epic—he gave me your number. I promise I'm not some fan who broke into his office or anything." You let out a nervous little laugh, and something about it made the corner of his mouth twitch upward.

"Oh.. Well hi. And yes, I know your father quite well. He’s a great man." His tone was cautious but curious, not angry, his voice airy and highly pitched. Even more so than you had heard before in interviews.

"I know, he’s great, and he’s crazy about working with you," you admitted. "I just—I told him I felt like I needed to talk to you. He probably thought I was crazy. Maybe I am. But yeah. You know my dad, so don’t worry about me being a stranger, I guess."

There was a pause like he was mulling over putting the phone down, and then Michael asked, "Why… did you need to talk to me?"

You swallowed. "Because I saw that interview you did last month. The one where you talked about growing up in the industry and how it felt like you never got to just... be a kid… or a young adult. I feel the same, my dad moved us around a lot for his job, so i never got the childhood i deserved."

Silence on his end. Not quite the uncomfortable kind—the kind that said you'd struck something true in his heart. You had heard he had quite an old fashioned soul, really spoke from deep within.

"I've never had anyone say that to me so plainly before," he finally said, his voice even quieter than before. "Not someone who actually understood what I was talking about when I said i missed out on my childhood. Its odd to hear someone agreeing, actually."

"Then I'm glad I called." You smiled, curling the phone wire giddily in your hand.

The conversation flowed like water finding its natural course. You talked about childhoods that weren't really childhoods—yours spent hovering at the edges of your father's world, his spent at the center of a spotlight so bright it cast shadows everywhere else. 

You discovered you both loved old Cary Grant films, that neither of you could sleep before midnight, that loneliness felt like a second skin, a skin, you both needlessly tried to shed but couldn’t.

"You know what I think?" you said, curled up on your bed with the phone pressed to your ear. 

"I think the universe put us in each other's path. Too many coincidences for it to be random."

Michael laughed—his real laugh, breathy and bright, and you’d never heard it before. "You believe in fate?"

"Don't you?"

A pause. "I think I'm starting to. If I have my producer's cute daughter calling me this late. I’ve seen your pictures..." He said. “Your dad is proud of you, Miss training-to-be-a-nurse”

Your chest warmed at that. It was strange to think your father had sat across from this person — this boy who'd just spent twenty minutes debating the correct order to experience Fantasyland — and watched him become someone else entirely in a recording studio. A beast, your dad had called him. The kind who walked into a room and knew immediately when the string quartet had played their last note, who could hear a synth line once and tell you exactly why it was wrong. Someone who agitated his own vocal until it sat right, not because he was told to but because he simply knew.

You'd turned that over in your head for weeks after your father told you. The contradiction of it. Because nothing about Michael Jackson suggested beast. Everything suggested careful, considered, a little fragile around the edges; and tonight had confirmed it. 

He'd been so clipped at first, his answers arriving in small careful portions like he was rationing himself. You'd talked about The Shining, which he'd been watching alone in the big quiet house while his family were out, and somewhere in that conversation something had loosened. 

Then Disneyland, and he'd come fully alive, telling you about a replica Walt Disney World train set he kept, his voice losing every last trace of caution as he described it. He'd sounded like a kid. Like someone who'd never had to perform for a train set.

That was the contradiction your father hadn't mentioned. That the beast in the studio and the boy on the phone were the same person, separated by something you couldn't quite name.

By now his guard had come all the way down. You could hear it, the way he'd settled deeper into his pillows, the quiet rustle of silk against sheets, his voice sitting lower and easier than it had two hours ago.

"What are you doing right now?" you asked.

"Lying in bed. You?"

"Same." You smiled to yourself. "What are you wearing?"

A surprised little huff. "My pajamas. Why?"

"Hmm. What do they look like?"

"They're... blue. Silk."

"Sounds nice." You let your voice drop, just slightly—enough to shift the air between you. "I bet you look nice in them."

Michael's breath caught audibly. "That's—you don't have to—"

"I want to. Can I tell you something?"

"Yes. You may."

"I've been thinking about what you might look like up close and in person. What your hands might look like. The way your voice sounds right now, how low it's gotten." 

You rolled onto your back, staring at your ceiling. "Is that okay that I am thinking along those lines?"

The silence stretched. Then, so quietly you almost missed it: "Yes." he almost whispered.

Your pulse kicked. "Good. Can you do something for me, Michael?"

"Maybe."

"Make yourself feel good, in this moment"

You heard the sharp intake of breath. "I—I don't—"

“You’ve never touched yourself?” you asked, shocked and incredulous. You found it hard to believe someone so sensual on stage and in recording had never been intimate with himself.

“No, I absolutely have, a lot - I mean, I can’t find a girlfriend the normal way so its hard.” He said back, almost stuttering over his words nervously.

“Well, I am a girl and I want to make you feel good. Even if it is over the phone. I feel compelled to” you said, a blush starting to form on your face.

Michael never replied, but you could hear his breathing quicken

"Okay, move your hand for me. Just put it on your chest. Over your heart. Can you feel how fast it's beating?"

A rustle of fabric, then a soft exhale. "Yes."

"That's because of me. Because I'm talking to you in this way. Which I doubt any other woman has yet?." You let your own hand drift down, fingertips tracing your collarbone.

 "Does it feel good? Having someone tell you what to do in a sexual way?"

Another long pause, but this one was weighted differently. He was thinking, not retreating. "I... no one's ever asked me that before or spoke to me so plainly"

"Ask yourself. Right now. Does it?"

His answer came out barely above a whisper: "Yes."

"Okay. I want you to slide your hand down. Slowly. Over your stomach."

Fabric rustled. His breathing changed, became shallower. You could picture him—long, beautiful fingers tracing his own skin, that honey skin tone and his beautiful face flushed in the dim light of his bedroom.

"Are you doing it?"

"I am." The word was almost a sigh.

"Keep going. Until you're touching yourself over your pajamas. Don't go underneath yet."

A strangled sound escaped him—half protest, half something else entirely. You heard him shift, the creak of his mattress, then the distinct rhythm of his breath turning ragged.

"There you go," you murmured. "Feel that? That's for me. You’re doing this for me."

"Y/N—" His voice cracked on the syllables. "This is—I shouldn't—"

"You can stop whenever you want. But you don't want to stop, do you?"

Quiet. A shaky exhale. "No."

"Tell me."

"I don't want to stop."

The admission hung between you, electric and trembling. You slid your own hand lower, fingers dipping beneath your waistband, finding the heat that had been building for the past hour.

"I want you to go under now," you said, your voice steadier than you felt. "Take yourself in your hand. Don't stroke yet—just hold. Feel how hard you are for me”

The whimper he let out sent a jolt straight through you. You heard him obey—the subtle sound of silk being pushed aside, his breath hitching as he wrapped his fingers around himself.

"Good," you breathed. "Now I want you to stroke. Slowly. Just the way you like when you're alone in bed, when no one can hear you."

He groaned, and the sound was exquisite—raw and unguarded, nothing like the polished performer the world knew. This was him, stripped bare. "Ahh—"

"Does it feel good?"

"Yes— It feels more dirty doing it with someone on the line" His hand started moving faster, and you could hear it now—the slick, rhythmic sound of him pleasuring himself, punctuated by those desperate little gasps he couldn't seem to control.

"Slower," you commanded. "I didn't say you could go fast."

A frustrated noise, but he obeyed. You could picture his hand moving in long, deliberate strokes—him biting his lip to keep from crying out.

"Y/N, please—" The word was ragged, almost pleading.

"Please what?"

"Tell me—tell me what you're doing. I want to imagine it.”

Your fingers moved inside yourself, your slick warmth clenching around your slim fingers, and your voice came out shakier than you intended. 

"I'm touching myself too. Thinking about your hands on me instead of my own."

"Gods—" The profanity startled you both, spilling from his lips like he couldn't hold it back. 

"Are you—inside?"

"Mmhm. Two fingers. Wishing it was you, filling me up"

The sound he made was somewhere between a moan and a whine, his restraint crumbling audibly. "Want to feel you—want to be inside you so badly— I’d fill you up"

"Then earn it. Keep stroking. Faster now." you said, your hands moving faster on your heat. “And don’t be quiet, Michael. I want to hear that voice of yours.”

His rhythm picked up immediately, desperate and uneven. You could hear the wet sound of his fist sliding over himself, the slap of it, his breath coming in sharp bursts. "Hahh—ngh—I'm—gonna come on myself if you keep talking to me like that. So- so dirty and honest"

"Not yet," you whined, even though your own body was trembling on the edge. 

"Y-you don't come until I say so, Michael."

A full-body shudder seemed to pass through him, audible even over the phone. "Ugh, Please, I can't—you're making me—"

"You can. You will." You pressed deeper, your thumb finding that spot that made your vision white out. "Tell me how badly you want it."

"I want to be inside you so deep—want to hear you say my name when you come—I- god, I—want to fill you up and watch you fall apart for me—" The words tumbled out like he'd been holding them behind a dam, dirty and raw and so at odds with the shy man who'd answered the phone two hours ago.

Your back arched, your fingers working furiously. "Michael—oh—"

"That's it, say my name—let me hear you—"

"Michael—oh—" The orgasm ripped through you without warning, your walls clenching hard around your fingers, your thighs snapping shut as you rode out the waves. You couldn't hold back the moan that spilled from your lips—guttural and uncontrolled and so, so loud in the quiet of your bedroom.

You heard him make a sound like he'd been punched—broken and desperate. "Oh god—d-did you just—did you come? Did you actually just—"

"Mmhm," you managed, still trembling, your voice wrecked. "So hard, Michael. Came so hard for you."

"Oh f-fuck—" The word came out stuttered, reverent, like he'd never said it before in this context and wasn't sure he was allowed. "I've never—no one's ever—that was the most intense thing I've ever heard in my entire life, I—"

He was still stroking, you could hear it—the slick, obscene sound of his fist working his shaft, faster now, more urgent. His breathing had gone completely ragged, punctuated by these tiny whimpering moans he seemed to be trying to swallow.

"Don't stop," you breathed, coming down slowly, your body still pulsing with aftershocks. "Keep touching yourself. I want to hear you finish."

"I've never had anyone listen to me before," he admitted, his voice thin and strained. "When I'm alone I have to be so quiet, my brothers are always in the next room and I—ngh—I always imagine someone wanting to hear me, wanting to know what I sound like when I lose control and I—"

"And what do you sound like, Michael?" You rolled onto your side, pressing the phone tight against your ear. "Let me hear the real you."

A broken gasp. His hand sped up, the wet sounds growing louder, more rhythmic. 

"I sound like—hahh—like this. Like I can't breathe. Like I'm losing my mind over someone I've never even met and it's—it's driving me insane—"

"Tell me what you're thinking about. Right now. What's making you so turned on?"

"I'm thinking about—" He broke off with a whine, and you could hear him struggling, his shyness warring with the pleasure coiling tight in his belly. "I'm thinking about your fingers inside you. How wet you must be. That you are a complete stranger. That I am unraveling for.” You could hear him gasping for breath, the phone was so close to his mouth. 

“I want to—I want to taste it. I want to put my mouth on you and lick you until you're screaming my name again and again—"

"Michael—"

"No one's ever let me—" His voice cracked, raw and exposed. "I've thought about it so much. Going down on a woman. Having her grab my hair and use my face and I just—oh god, I'm so close, Y/N, I'm so close—"

"Then tell me what else you'd do to me." You slipped your fingers back inside yourself, still slick and sensitive, and the sensation made you gasp. 

"Tell me everything. Don't be shy anymore."

A shuddering exhale. "I want to—I want to push into you so slowly. Make you feel every inch." 

He was babbling now, the words tumbling out faster than he could filter them. "I want to watch your face when I first enter you, when you feel how hard I am for you. I've never—I've never been inside anyone before and I want it to be you, I want you to be the first pussy I ever feel clenching around my cock and I—"

He stopped abruptly, and you could practically hear him blushing through the phone. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said—that word—I—"

"Don't apologize. We’re in the moment" You were grinding against your own hand now, impossibly turned on again. "Say it again."

"I want to—" He swallowed hard. 

"I want to feel your pussy around me. Is that—is that okay to say? It feels so dirty when I say it out loud. Dirtier than when I think it alone in my bed. It makes me even harder, knowing you're hearing me say these words."

"Good. Keep going. What else would you do?"

"I'd—I'd flip you over." His voice dropped lower, gaining confidence even as it shook with need. "Pin you down. Take you from behind so I could watch you—watch your body move every time I thrust into you. Would you like that? Would you let me be a little rough with you?"

"Yes," you moaned. "God, yes."

"I've never been rough before. I've never even had the chance to find out what I like but I think—I think I'd like that. Holding you down. Making you take it. Feeling you get wetter and wetter every time I—every time my hips snap against your ass and I can hear the sound of our skin slapping together—"

"Fuck, Michael—"

"Am I doing this right?" he asked suddenly, his voice turning vulnerable again, that sweet uncertainty creeping back in. 

"Am I—am I being sexy enough? I don't know what I'm doing, I've never talked to anyone like this and I—"

"You're perfect," you gasped. "You're so fucking perfect, don't you dare stop."

"Really?" The word came out like a prayer, awed and disbelieving. 

"You really think—no one's ever told me I was—I'm always too quiet, too soft, too weird but when you say it like that I almost believe I could be—"

"You could be what? Tell me."

"Good at this." His rhythm faltered, growing erratic. 

"Good at making you feel good. I've imagined it so many times, practiced in my head what I'd say if I ever had a woman who wanted me to talk to her while I touched her and ahh—hahh—now that I'm actually doing it I can't stop, the words just keep coming out and they're so filthy but it feels so right when you're listening—"

"Because you were made for this." You pressed your palm against your mound, grinding in tight circles. 

"The shy boy who says the filthiest things when the lights go out."

"Oh god—oh god oh god—" His breathing had reached a pitch of desperation, each exhale a miniature moan he couldn't seem to contain. 

"I'm gonna—I can't hold it anymore, please, Y/N, please let me come, I'll do anything, I'll say anything you want, just please—"

"Tell me something you've never told anyone."

"I think about—ngh—I think about someone watching me. While I touch myself. I want them to see how desperate I get, how pathetic I look when I'm chasing my release and I can't find it and I'm whimpering and begging and—I want them to see what you've done to me. I want you to see what you've done to me."

"Michael, come for me."

The sound he made, this raw, transcendent keen that seemed to tear itself from somewhere deep in his chest, would stay with you forever. You heard the rhythm of his hand stutter, then seize, then stop entirely as he let out a strangled series of moans, each one higher than the last.

"Oh—oh fuck, I'm—Y/N, I'm coming, a-all all over my stomach, it's so much, you made me come so much, I—ahhh—mmph—" It sounded like the receiver dropped for a moment

"Michael," you whispered, and you came again too, your second orgasm rolling through you softer but no less devastating than the first.

For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of two people trying to remember how to breathe. 

His gasps were ragged and uneven, yours shaky and light, and the silence between you felt sacred somehow.

Then, so quietly you almost missed it: "That was... that was my first time. Doing that with someone."

"Really?"

"I've never trusted anyone enough to let them hear me like that." You could hear him shifting, probably reaching for something to clean himself with. "I can't believe some of the things I said. It felt good to do it though.  Did I really call it my—my cock?"

You laughed, warm and genuine. "You did."

"Oh god." A soft thump, like he'd dropped his head back against the pillow. "I've never even said that word out loud before. Not in that context. I’ve heard it in porn films. And… I said I wanted to feel your—your—"

"Pussy," you supplied helpfully.

He made a noise like he was dying. "Please don't say it again. I am going to die of embarrassment when I wake up in the morning and realise how vulnerable I have been with you on the phone tonight.”

"Don't you dare be embarrassed." You rolled onto your stomach, pressing the phone against your ear like you could somehow get closer to him through it. 

"Michael, that was beautiful."

"Beautiful?" You heard the skepticism in his voice, the way he couldn't quite believe you meant it. "I sounded like... I don't know. Some kind of animal."

"You sounded like someone who felt good. Someone who let himself feel good for maybe the first time." You traced idle patterns on your sheets, your body still humming. "That's not embarrassing. It's normal to want release Sometimes you just need a good excuse to get it."

He was quiet for a moment, and you could hear him moving—probably pulling his pajamas back into place, wiping his stomach with whatever he'd grabbed. The domestic reality of the aftermath, the part they never showed in movies.

"I can't believe my father's BIGGEST artist just came while thinking about me," you said, a smile in your voice. "The Epic and CBS executives would have a heart attack if they were somehow to know."

"Oh, stop." But you could hear him smiling too now, that shy little laugh escaping him. "You're going to give me a complex. I'm never going to be able to look your father in the eye again."

"He'll just think you're being your usual quiet self. Little does he know his star performer has quite the mouth on him when he wants to."

"Y/N!" The indignation in his voice was undercut entirely by the laugh he couldn't suppress. "You're terrible. You're absolutely terrible and I—"

He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice had softened. "I really liked talking to you. Before the... you know. And after. I like your voice."

"I like yours." You hugged your pillow closer. "Even more now that I know what it sounds like when you fall apart."

A soft groan. "You're not going to let me live this down, are you?"

"Not ever."

You heard him shift again, settling back into his pillows, and the intimacy of the sound struck you—how domestic this was, how comfortable, for two people who had never even seen each other in person.

"When can I see you?" The question slipped out before you could second-guess it.

Michael went still. "You want to see me? After... I mean, you've heard me now. You know I'm not exactly—"

"Michael." You cut him off firmly. "I want to see you. I want to sit across from you and watch your face when you talk. I want to know if you gesture with your hands when you get excited about something. I want to see your Walt Disney World toy train set in person. I want to feel what its like to cuddle up next to you on the couch whilst we watch a scary movie. I want to see what you look like when you blush, because I have a feeling you're blushing right now."

"I am not," he lied, his voice pitching higher in that way that told you he absolutely was.

"Liar."

"Maybe a little." A pause. "I'm free this Saturday. If you wanted to—maybe we could get coffee? Or tea? I don't really drink coffee. It makes me jittery."

"Tea sounds perfect." Your heart was pounding again, but this time with anticipation, not nerves. He’d finally see you in the flesh and not just in picture, or your voice on the other end of the receiver.

"There's a little place in Studio City. Very quiet, very private. No one would bother us." You spoke up after a brief moment of silent thought.

"How do you know I don't want people to bother us?" His tone was teasing now, surprising you both. "I'm a superstar, you know. I have an image to maintain."

"Is that right? Because from what I just heard, superstar, you—"

"If you finish that sentence, I'm hanging up this phone and changing my number and telling your father you're delusional."

You laughed, bright and real and full of something that felt dangerously close to hope. "Fine, fine. I'll be good."

"I sincerely doubt that."

Saturday felt impossibly far away. You had three days to get through, three days of classes and shifts at the hospital and pretending you were a normal person when all you could think about was the boy with the honey voice who'd whispered filthy things in your ear like he'd been waiting his whole life for someone to listen.

"Y/N?" His voice pulled you back to the present.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. For calling. For removing me from my mundane and lonely reality. It isn’t all its cracked up to be… being famous." He said it so earnestly, so sweetly, that your chest ached with it. 

"I've never felt this comfortable with someone. Usually I'm so worried about saying the wrong thing, or being too weird, or making people feel awkward—"

"You could never make me feel awkward, Michael."

"No?" You could hear the smile in his voice, that tentative hope blooming again. "Not even when I said I wanted to—"

"Okay, goodnight, Michael!" you half yelled, feeling embarrassment gurgle in your belly once more. You didn’t want to rehash just how dirty you had both been.

His laugh was your favorite sound now—bright and breathy and completely unguarded. You wanted to bottle it. You wanted to fall asleep to it every single night.

"Goodnight, Y/N." A pause, weighted with everything neither of you knew how to say yet. 

"Dream of me?"

"Only if you dream of me."

"I already know I will." And then, softer: "I think I started the moment you said hello."

New York, Y/N had decided on the third day of her visit, was a city best consumed through glass.

Preferably someone else's glass.

A television screen, perhaps, where everything glittered with a kind of orchestrated loneliness that still managed to appear beautiful beneath studio lighting. Or a movie theater screen, where women in long wool coats wandered down glowing sidewalks carrying baguettes and existential crises, where steam curled romantically from manhole covers and yellow taxicabs moved through the streets like schools of goldfish through dark water. 

Even photographs lied beautifully. Photographs flattened the smell. They could not capture the sourness of old snow melting into gutters, nor the thick ribbon of urine-scented steam unfurling from subway grates, nor the oily grit that settled invisibly against your skin after only an hour outside.

The city in winter was not cinematic, either. The streets were crowded even when they appeared empty. There was always movement somewhere. Men shouting through clouds of breath. Women with their shoulders drawn up tightly against the cold. Newspaper pages skidding violently along the sidewalks before collapsing into gray slush at the curbside. The traffic never seemed to cease entirely. It groaned and hissed through the avenues endlessly, taxicabs spraying dirty snow onto pedestrians who were too exhausted to react with anything stronger than resignation.

And everything smelled faintly burnt. Burnt coffee. Burnt chestnuts from street vendors standing beside rusted carts. Burnt engine oil. Burnt cigarettes crushed beneath boots outside bars glowing amber in the night. Even the air inside her tiny hotel room carried the stale scent of overheated pipes and ancient carpet dampened long ago by countless winters.

Still, everywhere she looked, the city seemed already occupied by people who knew how to belong to it. Men in long overcoats descending subway stairs without hesitation. Women laughing loudly inside crowded diners at midnight. Artists smoking cigarettes outside clubs in SoHo as though they had been born knowing exactly where to stand. Even the miserable people here appeared practiced.

Meanwhile, she spent half her time hopelessly lost.

The trip itself had been impulsive in the ugliest sense of the word, purchased less from courage than humiliation. Two weeks earlier, she had sat across from a literary editor whose face reminded her vaguely of an underfed bloodhound, all mournful folds and nicotine-yellowed fingers, while he flipped disinterestedly through her short stories.

"Technically proficient," he had called them.

The phrase had landed like a slap.

As though her writing were a machine functioning correctly despite lacking electricity.

He had leaned back afterward, studying her over the rims of his glasses with the exhausted expression of a man perpetually disappointed by the world.

"You write like someone who watches life through a window," he told her. "Everything's observed beautifully, but it feels untouched by life." She remembered smiling then, because she had not known what else to do. She remembered nodding politely while her chest hollowed itself out molecule by molecule beneath her sweater. "Go somewhere," he had said finally, tossing her manuscript onto the desk. "Do something regrettable. Fall in love with the wrong person. Drive down the wrong road. Get stranded. I don't care. But for God's sake, live a little before you write another word."

She hated him for it immediately. And she hated him even more now because part of her feared he might have been correct.

The stories she wrote were beautiful, yes. People always said so. Beautiful sentences. Beautiful atmosphere. Beautiful restraint. 

And so, in what she had briefly mistaken for spontaneity, she had travelled to New York the next day with one suitcase, a notebook, and the embarrassingly naïve belief that the city would rearrange her somehow.

Instead, the city ignored her completely.

She had wandered through museums feeling nothing except sore feet. Sat in cafés pretending to write while secretly eavesdropping on strangers she found infinitely more compelling than herself. Walked through Greenwich Village in the snow trying desperately to manufacture profundity from ordinary sights. She filled pages and pages in her notebook regardless, though rereading them later only deepened her irritation.

Y/N sighed and glanced toward the clock on the bedside table.

If she left now, she could still make the train. But she would return home exactly as she had arrived: observant but untouched. A spectator in her own life. 

With a groan, she pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes until color burst violently behind them.

Maybe she simply was not meant for this kind of life. Maybe certain people were born possessing whatever internal compass allowed them to move through cities gracefully, absorbing experience naturally, transforming existence into art without dissecting it to death first.

Y/N exhaled slowly and glanced again toward the window where snow drifted steadily through the electric blue glow of the neon sign across the street. The storm had calmed into soft flurries now, though enough snow had already accumulated to powder the sidewalks and soften the rooftops into pale uneven shapes.

Maybe she had judged the city too quickly.

Or maybe she simply owed herself one final attempt before admitting defeat.

Within minutes she was pulling on tights beneath her skirt and fastening the buttons of her wool coat while mentally flipping through the tourist brochures stuffed inside her bag. Most of the places listed had already disappointed her in person, but one remained unchecked. Some little attraction downtown she vaguely remembered seeing advertised repeatedly beneath phrases like hidden gem and quintessential New York experience, though now she could not entirely remember what the place actually was.

Ten minutes later she stepped out onto the street and immediately regretted not wearing thicker gloves.

The cold struck with violent immediacy, sharp enough to sting the inside of her nose when she inhaled. Snow crunched beneath her boots while gusts of wind funneled between the buildings hard enough to send powdered snow skittering along the sidewalks in silver ribbons. Around her, the city glowed.

Storefronts cast warm amber rectangles across the pavement. Christmas lights still clung stubbornly to certain windows despite the holidays having passed. Somewhere nearby a saxophone played faintly above the traffic noise, the melody warped occasionally by the wind until it sounded lonely enough to ache.

And God help her, but the city really was beautiful like this.

Its beauty existed in fragments, in overheard laughter drifting from diners. In the reflection of headlights across black ice. In strangers hurrying through snowfall with collars pulled high against their faces. Even the steam rising from subway grates looked strangely dreamlike beneath the streetlights.

Y/N tucked her chin deeper into her scarf and headed toward the subway entrance with renewed determination.

She nearly convinced herself, descending the cracked concrete stairs into the station below, that perhaps this had been what the editor meant all along. Not grand life-altering experiences necessarily, but participation. Existing somewhere fully enough to let it affect you.

A musician sat near the far wall playing guitar for an audience consisting primarily of exhausted commuters refusing eye contact. Somewhere farther down the tunnel, a train screeched loudly enough to rattle the tiled walls. Advertisements lined the station in faded rows: cigarettes, Broadway shows, department stores dressed festively for Christmas sales.

Y/N hurried toward the platform just as headlights appeared down the tunnel and almost immediately, everyone around her began moving faster in a terrifying collective instinct of people who understood the city's rhythm intimately. She found herself swept along automatically, clutching her bag against her side as wind from the approaching train rushed violently through the station.

The subway roared into place. Doors slid open. People spilled outward while others surged inward with barely controlled aggression.

Y/N hesitated half a second too long.

That was all New York required to punish indecision.

The doors shut directly in front of her face.

One moment there remained space enough to enter; the next there did not.

Y/N stood frozen inches from the closed subway doors while the train remained motionless for one horrible suspended second, long enough for her own reflection to stare back at her faintly through the smeared glass.

Then the train pulled away.

The platform quieted almost immediately afterward, the departing cars dragging a rush of stale wind through the station that lifted strands of hair loose from beneath her scarf.

For one catastrophic moment, Y/N genuinely believed she might burst into tears right there underground.

Her throat tightened painfully while heat rushed behind her eyes despite the cold station air. She became acutely aware of how alone she was underground among strangers who barely registered her existence. Somewhere nearby, the guitarist continued playing softly as though nothing significant had happened at all.

Embarrassment expanded inside her disproportionately until it felt enormous enough to swallow reason entirely. She imagined telling the story later and hearing how absurd it sounded aloud. Girl visits New York in hopes of becoming more interesting, nearly emotionally collapses because subway doors closed too quickly.

Y/N inhaled slowly through her nose and forced herself to laugh under her breath instead. Because honestly, if she could not survive one missed train without spiraling into existential despair, perhaps the editor had been right to criticize her.

Around her, the station continued existing with complete indifference. Another train would come eventually. People moved past carrying grocery bags and briefcases and exhaustion. Somewhere overhead, the city pulsed onward through snowfall whether she managed to keep pace with it or not.

And unexpectedly, the realization comforted her.

Maybe nothing meaningful had happened because meaning did not need to be extracted from every inconvenience like marrow from bone. Maybe a missed train could simply be a missed train.

Or perhaps, she thought suddenly as another gust of cold air swept through the tunnel, maybe she could walk.

Y/N adjusted the strap of her bag against her shoulder and turned toward the station stairs.

Michael had begun to suspect exhaustion possessed its own distinct sound.

It sounded like a particular flattening of the world. Conversations losing dimension around the edges until every voice blended into the same endless murmur of expectation. Recording equipment humming softly beneath fluorescent studio lights. Producers speaking in circles about sales projections and crossover appeal while cigarette smoke thickened the air molecule by molecule. The scratch of pencils against paper as schedules were rewritten again and again until entire weeks ceased resembling time at all and became instead a sequence of obligations arranged beside precise hours.

Lately his life sounded like that constantly.

Noise without rest.

By the time Michael arrived in New York, exhaustion had settled so deeply into his body he no longer experienced it as a feeling so much as an atmosphere surrounding him permanently. The city itself only intensified everything. The city moved with the same relentless momentum as the people managing his career, all sharp corners and constant urgency and voices speaking too quickly over one another. Everywhere he went, somebody wanted something. 

Success, Michael was learning slowly, did not create satisfaction nearly as often as it created appetite.

Everyone around him seemed hungry lately. Hungry for bigger numbers. Bigger audiences, headlines, records. Executives spoke constantly about "the next level" as though his career were some staircase without visible ending. Quincy talked about possibilities with the feverish intensity of a man who could already hear the future before anyone else. Executives discussed demographics and radio markets and mainstream crossover success using his music like currency spread across conference tables. Even praise had begun exhausting him because praise always arrived carrying expectation inside it.

Still, New York at least offered distance.

Distance from Hayvenhurst, from rehearsals with his brothers. Distance from Joseph pacing the edges of every room carrying disappointment like weather around him.

Michael had not entirely understood why his father agreed to let him come east in the first place. Perhaps Joseph believed the sessions important enough financially to justify the temporary loss of control. Perhaps he trusted the endless entourage surrounding Michael to keep him occupied and visible at all times.

Regardless, permission arrived eventually attached to conditions severe enough to drain the relief from receiving it.

"You come back and train twice as hard," Joseph told him before the trip. Then, after studying Michael's expression carefully, corrected himself. "No. Five times harder."

Michael remembered nodding automatically.

Arguing with Joseph required energy he no longer possessed.

So instead he accepted the conditions quietly and boarded the plane carrying exhaustion inside him like another piece of luggage.

And now here he was in New York during winter, moving endlessly between hotel rooms and recording studios while snow gathered against windows outside. Some nights he forgot entirely what part of the city he occupied because everything indoors looked identical after enough hours awake. Beige walls. Coffee growing cold beside soundboards. Men discussing music in increasingly abstract language.

Tonight had been particularly unbearable.

Three consecutive sessions stretched late into the evening beneath fluorescent lights harsh enough to make everyone appear vaguely ill. Somebody kept replaying the same section of music repeatedly while two producers argued about percussion levels in voices sharpened by exhaustion. Michael sat quietly through most of it with headphones hanging around his neck, rubbing absently at his eyes while conversation swelled and receded around him like static.

At some point somebody mentioned sales forecasts again.

Michael stopped listening after that.

Outside the studio windows, snow fell steadily through the dark. He found himself watching it instead.

The snowfall softened the city completely. Buildings blurred at the edges. Streetlights glowed hazily beneath drifting white flurries. The city's endless movement seemed briefly muted under weather like this.

Something inside him ached suddenly for air.

Before he fully considered the consequences, Michael stood quietly and slipped off the headphones resting around his neck.

"I'll be back," he murmured to no one specific.

Nobody paid much attention.

That was the strange thing about fame. People watched you constantly until eventually they stopped seeing you altogether. Everyone inside the studio remained too consumed by technical arguments to notice him moving toward the hallway.

A man glanced toward him briefly before looking away, likely assuming the bundled figure in the dark wool coat and scarf was merely another exhausted guest venturing outside for cigarettes or air.

Michael stepped into the night before anyone could stop him.

Immediately the cold struck hard enough to steal breath from his lungs.

And God, it felt wonderful.

He thought of the snow as a gift. Bad weather made people selfishly observant. Nobody studied strangers closely while hurrying home through freezing wind. Everyone kept their heads lowered, shoulders hunched inward against the cold. In Los Angeles anonymity barely existed anymore. Here, beneath layers of wool and snowfall and darkness, he could disappear almost completely.

No one notices celebrities in bad weather and the thought amused him enough to smile into his scarf.

At first Y/N moved without direction, guided primarily by the instinctive desire to place distance between herself and the subway station before the embarrassment could fully settle inside her. But the cold slowly worked its way through her gloves.

That, she thought irritably, seemed perfectly in character for the evening. Of course her gloves were inadequate. Of course her boots leaked slightly around the soles whenever she stepped too deeply into slush gathered near the curb. Of course New York, even while beautiful, insisted upon remaining physically uncomfortable at all times. 

Still, the walk steadied her.

Eventually, after several blocks and at least three wrong turns she stopped bothering to mentally correct, exhaustion began settling heavily into her legs. The cold had stiffened her fingers despite her gloves, and each inhale burned sharply inside her chest. Ahead, beneath the flickering glow of a streetlamp, stood a nearly empty bus stop enclosed partially by scratched plexiglass walls fogged faintly at the corners from old condensation.

Y/N crossed toward it without much thought.

The bench beneath the shelter was freezing. Even through layers of wool she could feel the cold radiating upward immediately, sharp enough to make her wince as she sat down while snow drifted lazily beyond the scratched glass walls.

She rubbed her gloved hands together vigorously and exhaled warm breath against her knuckles in a failed attempt at heat.

Y/N tilted her head backward briefly against the cold plexiglass behind her and closed her eyes and with a sigh, she reached into her bag and pulled out her notebook.

The pages had already swollen slightly from moisture over the past few days, the paper warped softly at the edges from melted snow and damp gloves and being carried endlessly through winter weather. Even the notebook itself looked exhausted now. Y/N flipped toward a blank page while outside the shelter the snowfall thickened again beneath the streetlamp.

This, she thought suddenly, was exactly the kind of moment she should write down.

Sitting alone at a bus stop after missing a train. Cold fingers. Wet boots. The strange aching beauty of the city at night when viewed through exhaustion rather than expectation. This at least felt real. Unpolished. Unimpressive in a way she could not romanticize fast enough to ruin.

She lowered the pen against the paper.

Nothing happened.

Y/N frowned immediately and scribbled harder across the page. The tip scratched faintly against damp paper without leaving more than a ghost of ink behind. "No, no, no —"

Her voice emerged sharper than intended before being swallowed almost instantly by the snow-muted night around her.

She shook the pen violently beside her ear and tried again. Still nothing. Tiny flecks of snow drifted sideways through the partially open shelter and melted instantly against the page beneath her hand, softening the paper visibly under the moisture.

"Oh, come on." Frustration surged through her disproportionately fast. She scribbled again furiously until the paper began tearing slightly beneath the pressure but the pen remained stubbornly dead in her hand.

Y/N groaned aloud and dropped her forehead briefly against the edge of the notebook while snow hissed softly against the shelter outside. For one deeply embarrassing second, she genuinely contemplated crying over the situation. 

Then suddenly, quietly, a hand entered her line of vision. Black leather dusted faintly with snow.

And within it, held carefully between long fingers, another pen.

Y/N blinked in surprise and for a moment she simply stared at it stupidly, too emotionally exhausted to process what was happening. Then slowly she lifted her gaze upward toward the stranger standing beside the shelter.

He was bundled heavily against the weather. Dark wool coat. Scarf wrapped high across the lower half of his face. Snow gathered lightly along his shoulders and in the dark curls escaping from beneath his hat. Under ordinary circumstances she might have found the outfit vaguely suspicious. Instead he looked oddly soft standing there beneath the streetlamp while snow drifted steadily around him.

But it was his eyes that caught her. Not merely pretty, though they were undeniably beautiful in a startling almost delicate way, framed by impossibly long lashes now dampened slightly by snow. It was the expression inside them that unsettled her momentarily. Something quietly amused and observant, as though he had witnessed the entire battle between her and the pen and found it endearing rather than pathetic.

Y/N became suddenly and painfully aware of how ridiculous she probably looked curled miserably on a freezing bus bench with damp notebook pages and visible frustration radiating from every inch of her posture.

Heat crept instantly into her face despite the cold. "Oh," she murmured softly, startled enough that the word escaped before thought could shape it properly.

The man extended the pen slightly farther toward her.

For some reason the gesture felt strangely intimate in its simplicity. As though he had noticed a problem and decided, without turning it into performance, to solve it.

Y/N reached forward quickly and accepted the pen from his gloved hand. Their fingers brushed briefly. Even through the gloves she registered warmth.

"Thanks," she whispered, her voice worn thin by exhaustion but entirely genuine.

The stranger nodded once after she thanked him, a small movement nearly lost beneath the layers of scarf and snowfall, before gesturing quietly toward the empty space beside her on the bench.

Y/N looked at him for half a second too long, momentarily startled by the fact that he was asking permission at all.

New York did not strike her as a city where people asked permission for space.

The bench itself was long enough for several more people comfortably, yet she instinctively shifted slightly toward the left anyway, making room for him despite the unnecessary gesture. Perhaps because he was a stranger. Perhaps because something about him felt unexpectedly gentle, and gentleness from strangers always made her suddenly aware of herself in uncomfortable ways.

He sat carefully beside her. The distance between them remained polite and deliberate, though the small bus shelter suddenly felt warmer occupied by another person. Snow drifted steadily beyond the scratched plexiglass walls while headlights slid intermittently through the storm, illuminating the shelter in passing bands of pale gold before disappearing again into darkness.

Y/N had expected awkwardness. Most silences between strangers required maintenance, some mutual effort to prevent the atmosphere from curdling into discomfort. This silence simply existed. Calm and oddly companionable beneath the weather. The stranger rested his gloved hands loosely together while snow melted slowly along the shoulders of his dark coat.

Beside her, her notebook remained open uselessly across her lap. The new pen sat untouched between her fingers. She realized belatedly she still had not actually written anything.

Instead, against her better judgment, she found herself glancing sideways at him.

Only briefly at first.

A quick observational flicker of attention born more from habit than curiosity. She was an observer after all. The editor had made that painfully clear. Y/N noticed things compulsively. The shape of people's hands while they talked. The cadence of strangers' footsteps. The way exhaustion altered posture. Observation happened instinctively for her now, so automatic she often forgot she was doing it until caught.

And this stranger was... difficult not to observe.

Not because he looked dangerous or unusual. If anything, he seemed intentionally unremarkable beneath the heavy coat and scarf and hat. But something about him resisted blending fully into the background regardless of effort. The way he sat perhaps. There was a strange carefulness to his movements, almost delicate but not fragile. Or maybe it was his eyes again. Large, dark, impossibly expressive eyes that seemed to absorb everything around them with quiet alertness.

And beneath all that bundled anonymity, he felt oddly familiar.

The sensation nagged at her immediately. It wasn't familiar in the personal sense, of course. She had never met this man before in her life. Yet something about him tugged persistently at recognition. A voice remembered faintly through another room. A face glimpsed once in passing. The feeling intensified the more she studied him discreetly from the corner of her eye.

Apparently not discreetly enough.

Because after her third or fourth glance, the stranger shifted slightly beside her and tugged the scarf higher across the lower half of his face, even though it already concealed nearly everything except his eyes.

Y/N instantly felt heat crawl into her cheeks.

Great, she was staring.

Embarrassment rushed through her so quickly she looked away at once, pretending sudden intense interest in the wet pages of her notebook while internally scolding herself with genuine severity. Wonderful. Now she looked deranged. Some strange woman at a bus stop openly studying strangers in the middle of the night.

For several seconds she considered apologizing.

Then, before she could decide whether apologizing would somehow make the situation even worse, the thought surfaced fully formed in her mind with startling clarity.

The realization arrived strangely gradual and immediate at the same time, like a photograph developing beneath darkroom chemicals. Certain pieces aligned suddenly in ways impossible to ignore afterward. The eyes. The posture. The carefulness. And beneath the scarf, barely visible now in profile beneath the streetlamp, the unmistakable shape of his mouth whenever he moved.

Y/N blinked.

That was ridiculous.

What would Michael Jackson be doing alone at a bus stop at night?

Then again, what was anyone doing anywhere in New York at night? The city itself seemed composed entirely of improbable moments stitched together by exhaustion.

Beside her, the stranger shifted slightly again.

Y/N stared at her notebook intensely for another few seconds while internally debating whether saying anything at all would be humiliating beyond recovery.

Finally curiosity won.

She glanced sideways toward him once more, careful this time not to stare openly. "Has anyone ever told you," she began slowly, her voice softened automatically by the snow-muted quiet around them, "that you look exactly like Michael Jackson?"

The stranger turned toward her fully then, and though the scarf concealed most of his expression, she saw it anyway.

The smile. Not visibly, exactly, but unmistakably present in the way his cheeks lifted slightly beneath the wool and how warmth entered his eyes all at once like light switched suddenly behind dark windows.

He shrugged one shoulder lightly. "Sometimes," he murmured. His voice was soft and musical and unmistakably familiar in a way no disguise could fully conceal. Recognition slid through her instantly afterward, absolute and surreal enough to momentarily hollow the air from her lungs.

She did not gasp or lurch forward or begin babbling frantically the way she imagined most people might. Instead she simply stared at him for one startled second longer before something warm and disbelieving unfolded slowly inside her chest.

For a while after the realization settled between them, neither of them spoke.

Y/N sat very still beside him, notebook forgotten entirely in her lap. The quiet stretched long enough that eventually Y/N became aware she was still clutching his pen uselessly in her hand. "Oh," she murmured softly, startled by the realization. "Sorry." She held it back toward him.

Michael glanced at the pen, then at her notebook still spread open across her lap. "You can keep it," he said gently.

"Thanks," she said again, this time with a small laugh tucked awkwardly into the words. "Mine apparently decided it couldn't survive New York."

Michael's eyes warmed slightly above the scarf. "A city like this can do that."

Y/N looked down at the notebook in her lap for a second before gathering courage carefully inside herself. She could feel opportunity hovering nearby now, fragile and strange. 

"Can I ask you something?" she said finally.

Beside her, Michael stilled almost imperceptibly.

The question itself was ordinary enough, but years in the spotlight had trained anticipation into him automatically. Internally, he prepared himself with practiced speed. An autograph perhaps. A question about his family or fame. People often asked things they believed intimate while forgetting entirely they spoke to a stranger.

Still, he nodded politely. "Sure."

Y/N hesitated briefly, suddenly worried the question in her head might sound ridiculous aloud. Yet the curiosity had already rooted itself too deeply to ignore now that he sat beside her in actual reach.

"How," she asked slowly, "do you write songs the way you do?"

Michael blinked once.

Y/N continued before nervousness could stop her.

"I mean..." She frowned slightly, struggling toward precision. "How do you make people feel when they listen to your music." Her voice softened unconsciously then, growing more earnest the farther she moved into the question.

Michael stared at her because for the first time in what felt like months, maybe longer, he found himself genuinely caught off guard. He lowered his gaze briefly toward his gloved hands, shaking his head once as though buying himself time.

"That's..." He laughed softly again. "That's a hard question."

"Oh God," she muttered, glancing down toward her notebook. "Sorry. You probably get weird questions constantly —"

"No," Michael interrupted gently.

She looked back up. And something in her expression made him pause. Because she looked genuinely hopeful. Hopeful in the painfully earnest way artists looked when asking questions they secretly believed might change their lives.

Michael felt something tighten unexpectedly in his chest. So he tried to answer honestly. "Well," he began slowly, "it's not really just me."

Even saying it felt vaguely disappointing.

"There are producers. Musicians. Writers." He shrugged lightly beneath the heavy coat. "Quincy helps a lot. Songs get rewritten all the time. Arrangements change. Lyrics change. Sometimes a song sounds completely different after enough people touch it."

As he spoke, his voice settled automatically into practicality. Years of interviews had taught him how to redirect attention away from mythologizing himself. Music was collaboration. Work. Revision. Endless revision.

"You don't really make records alone," he said quietly. "There's always a whole team behind it."

Beside him, Y/N visibly deflated. The slight fall of her shoulders and her gaze dropped toward the notebook again. Something dimmed briefly across her face, disappointment flickering there before she could fully hide it.

Michael noticed immediately.

He had spent most of his life studying expressions carefully for danger, approval, anger, expectation. He noticed small emotional shifts instinctively now.

Y/N nodded politely after his explanation finished, because it was not that his answer had been bad.

It simply was not the answer she had been searching for. Some irrational part of her had hoped for something else entirely.

Some hidden mechanism she herself had failed to discover. A particular way of seeing the world that explained why his music could crawl beneath people's skin so effortlessly. Why his songs felt alive in ways her own writing never quite managed no matter how carefully she assembled sentences.

And sitting beside Michael Jackson in the middle of a snowstorm while he explained producers and rewrites and studio arrangements somehow made artistry sound disappointingly ordinary.

"Oh," she murmured softly after a moment. "Right."

Snow drifted steadily beyond the shelter while traffic hissed through slush-covered streets nearby. A bus passed several blocks away, its brakes screeching sharply before fading again into the city's endless nighttime murmur.

Michael glanced sideways at her.

She was staring down at her notebook now, fingers resting against damp warped pages while the pen sat loosely between her hands. Her expression had folded inward subtly, thoughtful in a way that looked almost embarrassed.

He slowly pulled one glove from his hand, the motion caught Y/N's attention immediately.

She looked up just as he flexed his bare fingers briefly against the cold before lifting his hand slightly between them.

"Listen," he said quietly.

Y/N blinked once.

At first she assumed he meant listen to him. She shifted instinctively, expecting him to continue speaking.

Instead, Michael tilted his head slightly toward the street beyond the shelter.

His fingers snapped softly once in the cold air. Then he pointed lightly toward the street where taxis moved through wet slush with a rhythmic hiss.

"Hear that?" 

Y/N frowned slightly. Before she could answer, he pointed elsewhere.

A crossing signal clicking steadily at the corner. A burst of distant laughter somewhere farther down the block. Wind rushing briefly between buildings hard enough to rattle the plastic advertisement panel beside the bench. The squeal of bus brakes. Footsteps compressing snow. A car horn. Another horn answering farther away.

Michael nodded softly to it all. Like he was following something invisible moving beneath the surface of the noise.

The scarf had slipped lower now while he talked, exposing more of his face without him seeming to notice. Snowflakes gathered briefly against his curls before melting there. In the pale streetlight, his expression looked transformed somehow, animated suddenly with quiet intensity.

He hummed under his breath, like he was tracing the city's sounds back to some hidden structure underneath them. His fingers began drumming lightly against the bench beside him in time with something only he fully understood.

"The city already has music," he murmured, almost to himself. Michael glanced toward her briefly before looking back out toward the street again. "People think songs start with words," he continued quietly. "But usually they don't. Usually it's rhythm first."

His fingers tapped again against the bench. "Sometimes I hear something and it stays." He pointed lightly toward the crossing signal clicking in the distance. "Or a train. Or somebody talking." Another nod toward the street where tires dragged through slush in long wet bursts. "And your brain starts putting things together."

As he spoke, Y/N realized with growing astonishment that he was not hearing the city the way she heard it at all.

To her, New York had always sounded crowded. Chaotic. An avalanche of disconnected noise constantly competing for attention.

To him, it sounded layered.

Michael leaned forward slightly, elbows resting against his knees while his fingers continued tapping absent rhythms against the bench.

"It's everywhere," he said softly. "Feeling too." The words settled heavily into the cold air between them. "You just..." He paused, searching. "Have to notice where it's hiding."

Something inside Y/N shifted painfully then. Because suddenly she understood what separated artists from everyone else. 

Michael looked at the world differently. Or perhaps more accurately, he allowed the world to remain alive instead of flattening it into background noise the way most people did.

The crossing signal clicked steadily. Snow whispered against wool coats outside the shelter. A couple hurried past laughing breathlessly beneath one umbrella.

And beside her, Michael Jackson quietly nodded along to the rhythm of the city like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"You can feel rhythm before you understand it," he murmured. "That's why babies dance before they can talk." Michael glanced toward her again then, suddenly almost shy as though realizing how much he'd started rambling. "I probably sound crazy," he said with a quiet laugh.

But Y/N was staring at him with such naked astonishment he actually faltered slightly beneath it. "No," she whispered immediately.

After that, conversation came easily.

Naturally, as though something subtle inside the rhythm of the night had shifted into alignment. The pauses between them shortened. Questions stopped feeling carefully constructed and became instinctive instead. Words flowed forward without either of them seeming entirely responsible for directing them.

At some point, neither of them acknowledged exactly when, the bus stop stopped making sense as a place to remain.

Perhaps it was the cold finally settling too deeply through the bench. Perhaps it was simply that the city beyond the shelter kept glowing invitingly through snowfall, enormous and alive around them. Whatever the reason, Michael stood first, tugging his glove back over his bare hand while snow drifted steadily against the streetlights.

A few moments later they were walking side-by-side through Manhattan beneath the snow.

The city had changed again while they sat talking. Midnight had pushed deeper into morning territory now, thinning the crowds slightly without ever fully emptying the streets. Storefront lights glowed warmly against the dark while steam curled upward from subway grates in thick silver ribbons. Snow softened the sidewalks into blurred white edges where footprints overlapped endlessly atop one another.

Beside her, Michael moved with increasing ease the farther they walked.

At the bus stop he had carried tension visibly in his posture, shoulders drawn slightly inward beneath the heavy coat as though instinctively attempting to occupy less space than his fame allowed him. Now that tension loosened little by little beneath conversation. His scarf slipped lower occasionally when he laughed before he remembered himself and tugged it back upward again.

Still, almost no one recognized him.

The weather protected him exactly the way he'd hoped.

People hurried through snow selfishly, too cold and exhausted to study strangers closely. Everyone kept their heads lowered against the wind. To the city around them, they were simply another pair of people wandering the city at night.

The anonymity transformed him. Or perhaps revealed him more accurately.

Because the farther they walked, the less Michael Jackson he became and the more simply Michael. Curious and observant. Funny in unexpectedly dry little ways that caught her off guard repeatedly. He asked questions carefully and listened to answers with startling sincerity, as though conversation itself interested him more than performance ever could.

And Y/N, despite herself, began rambling and she told him everything. About the editor. About the humiliating criticism that had lodged itself inside her ribs like splintered glass. About traveling to New York in a burst of stubborn recklessness disguised poorly as artistic ambition.

"The worst part," she confessed while they waited for traffic at an intersection glowing red through snowfall, "is that he wasn't wrong."

Michael glanced sideways toward her beneath the streetlight. "How?"

Y/N shoved her hands deeper into her coat pockets. "I think I spend too much time trying to understand life instead of participating in it." She laughed softly, though there was embarrassment folded into the sound. "I narrate things while they're happening. Constantly."

Michael smiled slightly at that. "That's not a bad thing."

"It is a bad."

"No," he said gently. "It sounds like writing."

Around them, New York shimmered beneath snowfall with such aggressive cinematic beauty that eventually even Y/N herself had to acknowledge the absurdity of it all.

A struggling writer wandering after midnight with a celebrity that felt startlingly normal.

It sounded fake.

Every time conversation lulled naturally, something appeared to restart it. A saxophonist beneath an awning playing against the snow. A bookstore window glowing warmly enough to pull them toward it. A diner filled with exhausted strangers and fogged windows that looked stolen directly from a film set.

The night kept escalating itself structurally.

Y/N found herself smiling at the thought before she could stop it.

Beside her, Michael noticed immediately. "What?"

She laughed softly and shook her head.

"No, it's just..." She glanced around at the city glowing beneath snowfall. "This is ridiculous."

Michael's eyes warmed with amusement. "Ridiculous good or ridiculous bad?"

"Ridiculous fiction."

He frowned slightly. "What's the difference?"

Y/N looked at him for a second, delighted suddenly by the question. "In real life," she explained, "things usually lose momentum. The longer something goes on, the more ordinary it becomes." Michael nodded thoughtfully beside her. "But stories escalate," she continued. "They build. And every time this night should logically become less interesting, it somehow gets more interesting instead."

Every writer secretly waited for moments that felt narratively alive while living them, moments possessing their own internal momentum and symbolism and impossible timing. Most of life refused structure entirely. Most conversations dissolved into forgettable static afterward.

And suddenly Y/N found herself treating it less like reality and more like an unfolding experiment in storytelling.

Because structurally speaking, things could not possibly keep improving from here.

The impulse arrived so abruptly she barely processed it before acting. One moment she and Michael were walking side-by-side beneath the snow, and the next Y/N abruptly veered away from him down a side street without explanation.

Michael blinked in surprise behind her.

"Hey —"

But she kept walking. Faster now.

Snow crunched sharply beneath her boots while the wind swept loose strands of hair across her face. Behind her she heard Michael laugh once in startled confusion before his footsteps quickened too.

"Where are you going?"

Y/N turned halfway around while still walking backward briefly through the snowfall.

Streetlight illuminated her face in flashes between drifting white flurries. Her cheeks were flushed pink from the cold and from excitement now building visibly beneath her skin.

"I'm testing the narrative!" she called brightly.

For one deeply amusing second his expression went completely blank with bewilderment.

But Y/N only laughed and turned another corner before he could properly catch up.

Michael hurried after her through the snow, genuinely laughing now despite himself.

She was insane.

The kind of person who experienced life and immediately began interrogating its symbolic structure for entertainment. And somehow, instead of exhausting him, her energy felt contagious. The city itself seemed brighter around her.

Ahead of him, Y/N moved quickly through the storm with visible delight, boots slipping slightly against packed snow as she crossed another intersection. She glanced behind herself once, spotted him still following, and laughed again beneath her breath.

Ahead, at the far end of the block, headlights glowed through the snowfall.

A bus stopped directly at the curb with its doors still open.

Y/N slowed immediately, then smiled.

The sight felt almost hilariously perfect.

This was how the story naturally ended. Two strangers wandered New York for one magical night before circumstance separated them again. Public transportation. Timing. Near misses. That was the language of serendipitous stories. The bus arriving now felt almost aggressively narratively appropriate.

And before Michael could even fully reach the corner —

Y/N ran for it.

Her boots splashed through slush while the driver glanced up in mild surprise as she bounded breathlessly onto the nearly empty bus. The doors remained open just long enough for her to step inside and turn immediately toward the window.

Outside, Michael finally rounded the corner.

Snow drifted around him while he stared at the bus with open disbelief, chest rising sharply from hurrying after her through the cold. For one utterly priceless second he looked genuinely flabbergasted, standing there beneath the streetlights in his dark coat while the city hissed quietly around him.

Y/N pressed herself lightly against the window from inside the bus, grinning so brightly she could barely contain it.

Michael pointed toward her through the glass in exaggerated disbelief, laughing now despite the obvious confusion written across his face. Y/N laughed harder watching him react, warmth flooding through her chest so intensely she nearly forgot about the cold entirely.

The bus doors finally hissed shut between them.

And still she looked thrilled.

The bus lurched forward slowly through the snow while Michael remained standing at the curb watching it pull away, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and complete bewilderment.

As the bus pulled away from the curb, Y/N remained pressed lightly against the window, smiling so hard her cheeks ached from it.

Outside, Michael grew smaller through the snowfall. Still standing there and visibly stunned.

If the night truly possessed the kind of impossible momentum she suspected it did, then they would meet again. Somehow. Ridiculously. The city would fold back in on itself and return him to her through coincidence so absurd it bordered on divine intervention.

Yet another possibility lingered beneath the excitement now too, colder and quieter.

Maybe she had ruined it.

Maybe she had stepped off the natural path of the evening and broken the fragile magic holding everything together. Stories required tension, yes, but they also required timing. What if she had pushed too hard? What if Michael simply laughed about the strange girl who abandoned him for narrative experimentation and went back to his hotel afterward?

What if she had just sabotaged the best thing she would ever write?

The thought tightened unexpectedly around her ribs.

Y/N stared out at the blurred city sliding past beyond the fogged glass while snow continued drifting steadily downward through the dark. Somewhere farther downtown, lights shimmered against the river like scattered gold. The bus groaned around corners and lurched unevenly through slush-covered streets.

She had absolutely no idea where she was going.

Which, oddly enough, felt appropriate.

Several stops passed in thoughtful silence before the bus finally hissed to another halt beside a nearly empty stretch of street lined with darkened storefronts and construction fencing.

Without fully thinking it through, Y/N stood abruptly and stepped off and the bus pulled away behind her with a low mechanical groan, disappearing slowly into the snowfall while she remained standing alone beneath the streetlights with her scarf pulled high against the wind.

Around her, the city had thinned into near stillness.

New York no longer felt bustling at this hour. Instead it resembled some enormous sleeping animal breathing quietly beneath layers of snow and neon and steam. The streets stretched emptier here. Buildings loomed dark and silent above her while traffic moved only occasionally through distant intersections.

Y/N wandered aimlessly down the block and then she saw it.

An ice rink.

Or rather, the beginning of one.

Construction fencing surrounded most of it, though portions remained unfinished beneath the snow. Temporary floodlights cast pale bluish light across the frozen surface while metal scaffolding rose skeletal against the dark. It looked abandoned for the night, suspended halfway between creation and completion.

Completely empty.

Y/N slowed instinctively. Something about the sight struck her immediately as almost offensively cinematic.

Laughing softly beneath her breath, she stepped closer until her gloved hands rested lightly against the cold metal barricade surrounding the rink.

For a moment she simply stood there breathing. Then slowly, unexpectedly, she closed her eyes.

Y/N inhaled deeply through the cold. At first she heard almost nothing. The city had quieted too much at this hour.

No crossing signals. No laughter. No crowded sidewalks humming with layered rhythm. Just distant traffic moving somewhere far enough away to sound almost oceanic beneath the snowfall.

She smiled without opening her eyes.

"There you are."

The voice behind her arrived warm with breathlessness and amusement.

Y/N's eyes flew open instantly.

She turned so fast snow slipped beneath her boots slightly, catching herself against the railing before staring toward the figure emerging through the snowfall behind her.

Dark coat dusted white again. Scarf loosened now around his neck. Breath visible in soft clouds around him from clearly hurrying through the cold.

For one suspended second, Y/N could only stare. Then delight exploded visibly across her face.

"You found me."

The words came out almost reverent with disbelief.

Michael laughed quietly, bending slightly at the waist while catching his breath.

"You disappeared onto a moving vehicle," he said. "I asked the taxi driver to drop me off bus stops until I decided on one."

Y/N grinned so brightly it physically hurt, "and you still found me."

Michael straightened slowly beneath the falling snow while looking at her with an expression hovering somewhere between exasperation and fascination.

"You're very strange," he informed her gently.

"I know."

"You left me standing in the street."

"That was important for the narrative."

He laughed again despite himself, shaking his head. "The narrative."

"Yes."

Y/N stepped backward slightly toward the rink, eyes glowing now with delighted triumph.

"See?" she continued breathlessly. "This is exactly what I meant. Realistically, we should not be here right now."

Michael folded his arms loosely against the cold. "And yet."

"And yet," she echoed softly.

Then Michael glanced past her toward the unfinished ice rink glowing pale beneath the floodlights. "You came here on purpose?"

Y/N followed his gaze before smiling sheepishly. "No," she admitted. "I got off the bus because I had no idea where it was taking me."

"You got onto a random bus with no plan?" That startled another laugh out of him.

"I was testing fate."

Michael looked at her for a long second beneath the snowfall. Then, quieter now: "And what's the verdict so far?"

She shrugged. "Do you know what serendipity is?" she asked suddenly.

Michael frowned thoughtfully. "I've heard the word."

"But?"

"But I don't think I could define it."

"It's basically a fortunate accident," she explained. "Like finding something wonderful while looking for something else entirely." Michael listened quietly. "I think it's a connection to fate," she continued, "but softer than fate. Less controlling."

His brows lifted slightly. "There are levels of fate?"

"I think so."

"Have you thought about this a lot.?"

"I'm a writer," she said as though that explained everything. "Thinking too much is the entire job."

The corner of his mouth lifted. "So serendipity is... what? Destiny?"

Y/N groaned immediately. "A little more complicated," she admitted.

"How?"

"I don't think life is fully predestined," she said slowly. "I don't think people are trapped on rails moving toward unavoidable endings or anything like that."

Michael nodded once, watching her carefully.

"But I do think..." She hesitated briefly before continuing. "I think life offers signs sometimes."

"What kind of signs?"

She gestured vaguely toward the city around them.

"Coincidences. Timing. Moments that feel unusually aligned." Her eyes brightened slightly as she spoke, the ideas clearly becoming more alive the farther she moved into them. "Like missing a train and meeting someone because of it. Or getting onto a random bus and somehow ending up exactly where you're supposed to."

Michael's gaze softened faintly.

"And you think that means something?"

"I think people decide whether it means something," Y/N corrected immediately.

That intrigued him visibly. "How's that different?"

"Because fate isn't forcing anyone." She pushed away gently from the railing now, pacing a few slow steps through the snow while talking. "That's the important part. People still make their own choices. Fate just..." She searched for the word. "Offers little openings." She turned back toward him. "Tiny moments where life nudges you toward something. But whether you follow the nudge or ignore it is still entirely up to you."

Snowflakes caught briefly in her eyelashes while she spoke.

"So if someone misses the sign," Michael asked quietly, "then what?"

Y/N smiled. "Then they miss it."

"That's sad."

Instead of answering, Y/N stepped forward abruptly and grabbed his arm through the heavy wool of his coat.

"Come with me."

Before he could properly react, she was already pulling him away from the rink and back toward the street.

Michael laughed immediately in startled confusion, nearly slipping slightly on packed snow as she tugged him along through the storm.

"Where are we going?"

"You'll see."

"Just tell me!"

"It's a surprise."

The city blurred past in glowing streaks of gold and silver beneath the weather. Y/N still held loosely onto his sleeve as though worried he might vanish if she let go, her excitement practically radiating into the freezing air around them.

Michael found himself laughing despite having absolutely no idea what was happening anymore.

Eventually she slowed suddenly at the corner of another block.

"There," she announced triumphantly.

Michael followed her gaze.

Across the street stood a hotel wrapped almost obscenely in Christmas decorations. Warm white lights cascaded from the awning in glowing strands while enormous wreaths framed the revolving entrance doors. Red ribbons fluttered faintly in the wind beside polished brass railings already dusted in snow. The lobby beyond the glass windows glowed amber and warm against the freezing blue darkness outside.

The entire building looked like something invented by a screenwriter.

Michael looked sideways toward her slowly. "You've gotta be kidding me."

"I'm absolutely not kidding." Y/N grinned.

Then promptly darted across the street toward the hotel entrance.

Heat rushed around them in soft waves carrying the scent of polished wood and old carpet and faint pine from the enormous Christmas tree dominating the center of the lobby. Gold garlands curled around stair railings while soft jazz drifted lazily through hidden speakers overhead. Compared to the frozen city outside, the hotel felt almost dreamlike.

Y/N laughed breathlessly as she pushed damp snow from her coat sleeves.

Across the lobby, the night receptionist glanced up from behind the desk with mild curiosity. His eyes moved briefly between the snow-covered pair standing in the entrance at nearly three in the morning before settling back toward the magazine spread open in front of him with the deeply perfected indifference unique to hotel employees.

Michael lowered his voice immediately. "You brought me into a hotel?"

Y/N ignored him entirely. Instead she grabbed his sleeve again and pointed dramatically toward the elevators at the far end of the lobby.

Two identical golden elevator doors stood side-by-side beneath warm chandelier light.

Michael stared at them. Then at her. Then back at the elevators.

"Oh no."

"Oh yes."

"You have a plan."

"Think of it as an experiment."

"That's worse."

Y/N practically glowed now with excitement.

"Okay," she said quickly, pulling him toward the elevators. "If fate really keeps trying to force this ridiculous narrative together —"

"You mean the narrative you keep sabotaging?"

"Testing," she corrected immediately. "I'm testing it."

Michael laughed softly under his breath. "Right. Sorry. Testing."

Y/N immediately positioned herself in front of the left one while Michael, already smiling helplessly now, moved toward the right.

The polished brass doors reflected them faintly beneath the warm lobby lighting. Snow still melted slowly from their coats onto the marble floor beneath their feet.

"So here's the rule," Y/N explained, pointing between them. "We each pick a random floor."

"And?"

"And if fate's actually with us tonight," she said, eyes bright with delight, "we'll choose the same one."

Michael stared at her for a long moment then slowly shook his head in disbelief. "You really think the universe has this much free time?"

"I think the universe loves drama."

"That sounds exhausting for the universe."

The elevator beside Y/N dinged softly.

The doors slid open.

At nearly the exact same moment, Michael's elevator opened too.

Y/N gasped theatrically. The symmetry of it nearly made her dizzy.

The elevator doors slid shut between them with a soft mechanical whisper. And suddenly Y/N was alone again.

The elevator remained still while she stared at the glowing panel of numbered buttons beside the door. Floors stretched upward in neat illuminated rows, each one suddenly carrying absurd emotional significance despite being nothing more than architecture.

Y/N inhaled slowly. Then reached out, clicking her lucky number.

The button lit amber beneath her fingertip. Soft jazz music drifted faintly through hidden speakers while the floors climbed steadily upward one by one. Y/N leaned back lightly against the mirrored wall, arms folded loosely around herself now as anticipation fluttered embarrassingly through her chest.

What if he picked the same number too? The possibility made her grin instantly.

Meanwhile, several floors away inside the other elevator, Michael stared at the buttons with increasing distress. Because suddenly he realized he had absolutely no idea what number to choose.

The doors had barely closed before his brain immediately betrayed him by trying to strategize fate.

Which presumably defeated the entire point.

Michael rubbed one gloved hand anxiously against the back of his neck while the elevator remained waiting patiently for instruction. The mirrored walls reflected his exhausted expression back at him endlessly from every angle.

His first instinct said lower floors. Something simple. Seven maybe. Or three. Numbers people picked instinctively in games and stories.

But immediately another part of his brain objected. No, she'd expect that. Which somehow made the twenties feel more logical. Except now he was overthinking it entirely.

Michael laughed once under his breath, genuinely exasperated with himself.

"You're losing your mind," he muttered softly. Finally, impulsively, he hit twenty-eight.

The farther the elevator climbed, the more convinced he became that somewhere below him Y/N was probably standing on a much smaller floor laughing about how fate apparently hated them after all.

The thought unsettled him more than it should have. By the time the doors opened onto the twenty-eighth floor, Michael barely glanced outward before hitting another button immediately.

He stared out at the empty hallway for barely two seconds. No Y/N. The doors slid shut again. He hit another button. Then immediately afterward: another.

Meanwhile, on her floor, Y/N stepped out into a silent hallway lined with ornate carpet and dim golden sconces and waited.

The opposite elevator remained closed. She stared at it hopefully at first, then patiently, then with growing disappointment.

The hallway remained perfectly still around her. Somewhere farther down the corridor an ice machine hummed softly in the quiet, but otherwise there was only silence.

Y/N folded her arms loosely against herself. "Hm," she murmured softly. A strange ache settled unexpectedly beneath her ribs with the quiet sadness of momentum ending.

Because perhaps this was the point where reality finally reclaimed the night from fiction. The test had failed. The narrative had stretched as far as coincidence allowed before collapsing back into ordinary randomness.

Y/N looked once more toward the unopened elevator doors before sighing softly and stepping back inside her own elevator.

As the elevator descended, she leaned back tiredly against the mirrored wall while exhaustion finally began creeping fully into her bones. It was really late now. Her feet hurt. Her hair was damp from snow. Somewhere beneath the thrill of the night, reality slowly waited to reclaim her entirely.

The elevator dinged softly upon reaching the lobby.

And at the exact same moment —

The other elevator opened too.

Across the marble floor, Michael stood inside the opposite elevator looking utterly disheveled.

His curls were messier now from repeatedly tugging gloves through his hair in frustration. His scarf hung half undone around his neck. There was visible anxiety still lingering across his expression from whatever chaotic journey he had apparently just endured through the hotel.

For one stunned second they simply stared at each other.

Then Y/N's eyes widened so dramatically it almost hurt. Laughter burst out of her immediately afterward, loud and uncontrollable and bright enough to echo across the nearly empty lobby. She clapped both hands over her mouth in complete astonishment while staring at him across the marble floor like she could barely process what she was seeing.

Michael just stood there smiling, profoundly, visibly relieved.

"You look guilty." Y/N accused breathlessly through laughter.

"I may have panicked." That only made her laugh harder. "I figured," he said softly, "there's only one entrance and exit to this hotel." Michael looked at her for another second before laughing softly to himself, exhaustion finally catching up visibly now that the adrenaline had worn off. "Thank God I picked the lobby eventually," he admitted. "Or I probably would've lost you forever."

By the time they stepped back outside the hotel, the city had softened into that strange fragile hour belonging neither to night nor morning.

Four in the morning approached invisibly now beneath the snowfall.

The hotel elevator moment had shifted something invisible. now there existed undeniable awareness humming quietly beneath every conversation afterward. The realization that neither of them had wanted the night to end. That both of them had, in their own embarrassing ways, searched for the other.

The knowledge settled warmly between them now like a shared secret neither seemed eager to expose directly.

So instead they kept walking. And talking.

Conversation unfurled endlessly through the snowy streets with almost unnatural momentum. One story led effortlessly into another until entire blocks disappeared beneath laughter and questions and tangents. Y/N spoke with her hands when excited, Michael noticed. Especially when talking about books. Her fingers moved constantly through the cold air as though physically arranging thoughts in front of herself while she spoke.

Meanwhile, Michael told stories quietly, which had surprised her. She had expected someone raised inside fame to speak like an entertainer even casually, shaping anecdotes toward reaction automatically. Instead Michael told stories almost shyly at first, eyes lowering occasionally while he laughed at his own memories midway through recounting them.

He told her about recording sessions that lasted until sunrise. About learning choreography until his legs physically gave out beneath him. About sneaking candy into places he technically wasn't supposed to. About childhood pranks with his brothers during tours.

And Y/N listened greedily to all of it because he was fascinating.

At one point while crossing an intersection, Michael abruptly stopped mid-conversation because a shop window displayed elaborate wind-up toys moving mechanically beneath fake snow.

Y/N turned around after realizing he'd vanished beside her.

His face practically illuminated beneath the glow of the display window while tiny mechanical ballerinas spun endlessly behind the glass.

Michael glanced at her sheepishly without moving away from the window.

Eventually, after several more blocks of wandering through snow and conversation, they stumbled across a diner glowing warmly at the corner of a nearly empty street.

The neon sign buzzed faintly overhead in pink and blue.

Inside, chrome fixtures gleamed beneath fluorescent lights while sleepy jazz hummed softly from a jukebox near the counter. A tired waitress looked up briefly as they entered before returning to refilling coffee for a truck driver sitting alone near the window.

They slid into a booth near the back beneath fogged windows streaked with melting snow. The vinyl seats squeaked quietly beneath their coats while laminated menus spread open between them across the table.

Y/N immediately became invested in the menu with alarming seriousness. "I never order the same thing twice," she informed him proudly.

"What if you hate it?"

"Then I hate it."

The waitress arrived sleepily beside the table not long afterward, pencil poised above her notepad.

Y/N ordered an absurd milkshake flavor immediately simply because she had never tried it before.

He shook his head, smiling helplessly before ordering a chocolate milkshake himself.

The waitress returned several minutes later balancing the tray carefully through the nearly empty diner, one hand steady against the underside while the tiny silver bracelets on her wrist jingled softly with each step. The overhead fluorescent lights reflected against the chrome milkshake glasses so brightly they almost looked theatrical by the time she reached their booth.

Y/N straightened immediately in anticipation.

The old woman placed Michael's milkshake down first.

It looked comfortingly traditional. Thick chocolate ice cream blended smooth beneath a generous swirl of whipped cream, the cherry on top glossy and impossibly red beneath the diner lights. Condensation already gathered along the metal cup beside it while cold mist curled faintly from the surface. It looked like the kind of milkshake advertised in old magazines from the fifties.

Then the waitress set Y/N's down.

Michael blinked. Because hers looked absolutely insane.

The glass practically disappeared beneath chaos. Rainbow sprinkles coated the whipped cream in glittering layers while bright syrup dripped extravagantly down the sides. Tiny crushed candies clung stubbornly to the rim. And sticking proudly from the very top was a miniature sparkling sprinkler actively crackling and fizzing golden sparks into the air like a tiny firework display.

Her entire face lit up with such sincere delight that Michael immediately started laughing because the joy radiating from her expression looked almost childlike in its honesty. She leaned toward the glass with both hands pressed lightly together beneath her chin while the sparks reflected brightly in her eyes.

"This is the greatest thing I've ever seen."

Michael shook his head slowly, grinning helplessly while glancing between her and the aggressively decorated drink. "It looks like a parade float," he informed her. 

The old waitress looked between them with visible amusement softening her tired features. She had probably spent decades watching people pass through this diner at impossible hours of the night, yet something about the two snow-soaked strangers tucked into the back booth clearly entertained her.

"You two complement each other's spark," she remarked casually.

The sentence settled warmly into the space between them.

Y/N blinked in surprise before laughing softly beneath her breath, embarrassed suddenly by how intimate the comment sounded coming from a stranger.

But Michael  smiled so widely at the remark it physically transformed his entire face.

Before Y/N could properly process that expression, she leaned forward and blew gently toward the tiny sprinkler atop her milkshake. The sparks fizzled dramatically into smoke while she laughed quietly to herself at the ridiculousness of it all.

The waitress chuckled. "Well," she murmured while collecting empty coffee mugs from a neighboring table, "you two enjoy yourselves."

Then she wandered back toward the counter beneath the low hum of fluorescent lights and sleepy jazz music.

Y/N reached across the table and stole a sip from his milkshake entirely on instinct. And Michael let her, he had too many siblings so this was familiar. 

The straw made a quiet sound against the thick chocolate as she tasted it, and almost immediately her eyebrows lifted.

Michael watched her reaction with visible amusement. "Well?"

She swallowed. "So good."

His grin widened immediately and before she could say anything else, Michael leaned forward and took a sip from hers in return.

He froze almost instantly afterward. "What?"

"This is way better."

She looked genuinely horrified. "No, it's not."

"It is."

"It's radioactive."

"No, it's good I swear."

The sincerity of the answer startled a laugh out of her.

Michael took another sip before sliding the glass reluctantly back toward her. "I should've ordered this."

"You absolutely should not have."

"I'm serious."

"You don't mean that."

"I do."

"You're having a temporary lapse in judgment because of the sprinkles."

Michael shook his head once, still smiling faintly. "I'm getting this from now on."

"No," she decided. "You can't."

Michael tilted his head slightly. "Why not?"

"Because if we ever come back here —" The words slipped out naturally. Neither acknowledged it directly. Still, something soft flickered briefly through Michael's expression afterward. "— then I need you to order the reliable milkshake while I try new things without risking complete disappointment because I'll still have yours."

Michael stared at her in mild disbelief.

"So your plan was stealing my milkshake from the beginning."

"Our milkshake," she corrected absentmindedly.

By the time they left the diner, the night had begun unraveling around the edges.

Cold morning air greeted them immediately upon stepping outside, sharper now than it had been hours earlier. Snow still blanketed the sidewalks in soft uneven layers, though the sky above had begun changing almost imperceptibly from black into deep bruised blue. The darkness no longer felt endless. Somewhere far beyond the buildings, dawn waited patiently beneath the horizon.

Y/N pulled her coat tighter around herself while the diner door swung shut behind them with a muted little bell chime. For a second she simply stood there breathing in the freezing air again, her cheeks still warm from the diner heat and sugar and laughter.

Beside her, Michael looked upward toward the sky.

The expression crossing his face afterward was subtle enough most people would have missed it entirely.

Night had protected them somehow. Snow and darkness and empty streets had blurred the impossible parts of their encounter into something private and suspended outside ordinary life. But morning would return structure to everything. People would wake up. Traffic would swell. Sidewalks would crowd. Michael Jackson would stop being simply Michael again.

The city would recognize him eventually.

Michael shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets while cold wind curled visibly around them. Internally, something restless had begun clawing quietly beneath his ribs.

He did not want to go back yet.

He did not want handlers or schedules or recording sessions or meetings about sales projections and market expectations. He did not want people watching him again. He especially did not want the strange bright version of himself that had emerged tonight to disappear the second daylight touched the city.

Because somewhere between the bus stop and the diner booth, he had become simply a boy wandering New York with a girl who listened to the world like music.

And now morning threatened to take that away.

"So," he murmured beside her, "what act are we in now?"

Y/N looked toward him immediately. "What?"

"In the narrative," he clarified. "You're the expert."

She smiled faintly. "Oh." Their breath curled pale into the cold air while dawn stretched slowly across the skyline behind them. "Hm," she murmured thoughtfully. "Definitely late second act."

Michael looked ahead toward the slowly waking streets. "And what happens after that?"

Y/N shoved her hands deeper into her coat pockets before answering. "Usually?" she said carefully. "The characters have to decide whether the story was important enough to change them."

Michael fell quiet after that. "And if they don't change?" he asked eventually.

Y/N glanced toward him. "Then the story wasn't very good."

A small smile touched his mouth at that, though it faded quickly afterward into something more thoughtful.

"You really see life like this?"

"Like what?"

"Like moments are chapters."

"No," she admitted. "I think moments are moments."

"Then why turn them into stories?"

"I think..." She hesitated briefly. "I think stories are the only way people know how to keep things from disappearing."

"You're scared of forgetting?" he asked softly.

Y/N laughed once beneath her breath, though no humor reached it. "I'm terrified of it." She kept walking while speaking now, eyes fixed ahead on the pale horizon beginning to bloom gold behind Manhattan's buildings. "People think writing is about creating things," she continued quietly. "But most of it's really just trying to hold onto moments before they vanish."

His mouth parted slightly. His brows pulled together in that thoughtful way they always did whenever she said something that unsettled him emotionally. She could practically see the question forming behind his eyes before he even spoke it.

But before either of them could continue — A sharp car horn split through the morning air.

The sound shattered the fragile stillness instantly.

A dark car sat idling near the curb half a block away, exhaust curling pale into the freezing dawn. The passenger door had already swung open before the vehicle even fully stopped, and a tall man hurried out immediately afterward wearing an expression balanced somewhere between fury and overwhelming relief.

"Michael!" The name echoed loudly through the waking street.

Michael visibly froze.

Y/N felt it happen beside her physically, like watching someone pulled suddenly backward into themselves after hours spent forgetting who they were required to be.

The man strode toward them quickly through the snow. The entire atmosphere changed around him instantly. The playfulness dissolved. The wandering-night softness evaporated beneath something sharper and more structured. Morning sunlight touched the city fully now, illuminating everything too clearly.

Bill finally reached them, breathing hard from obvious panic and frustration both.

"Jesus Christ, Mike," he said, dragging one gloved hand down his face. "Do you have any idea how long we've been looking for you?"

Michael immediately looked guilty. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" Bill repeated incredulously. "Man, everybody's been losing their minds since midnight. We checked the studio, the hotel, the streets —" He stopped abruptly, exhaling hard through his nose before looking upward briefly like he was physically trying to lower his blood pressure. 

Bill finally looked toward her then for the first time properly. His expression softened almost immediately afterward. Because suddenly the situation became painfully obvious to him in ways neither Michael nor Y/N fully realized themselves yet.

Two young people standing together beneath the pale light of morning looking at one another like they had accidentally wandered too far into something neither was ready to lose.

Bill sighed quietly. "I'm just glad you're okay," he muttered more gently this time, mostly to Michael. "Been chasing you across Manhattan all night."

Michael rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "I didn't mean to disappear that long."

"I know."

Michael turned toward her then and suddenly all the playful ease from earlier vanished beneath something far more vulnerable.

"I'm sorry," he said softly.

The apology hurt more than she expected.

Y/N smiled gently anyway. "You don't have to apologize."

Michael looked like he wanted to argue with that.

Before he could, Bill stepped slightly forward and extended one hand politely toward her. "Bill Bray," he introduced quietly. "I'm the poor guy responsible for making sure he stays alive."

That startled a soft laugh out of her. Y/N shook his hand warmly despite the ache beginning to spread slowly through her chest. "Y/N."

The moment the name left her mouth, Michael's eyes lifted sharply toward her.

And suddenly she realized.

Not once all night had she exchanged her name.

After everything — the bus stop and the diner and the elevators and the endless wandering streets beneath the snow — they had somehow remained strangers in the simplest possible way.

Michael repeated her name softly beneath his breath like he was trying to memorize its shape immediately. The way he said it made her heart twist painfully.

The older man glanced briefly away afterward, giving them both a small mercy of privacy before sighing heavily. "I'm gonna give you two a minute," he said quietly to Michael. Then, gentler: "Say your goodbyes and get in the car."

Bill stepped back toward the curb afterward, leaving them standing alone together again beneath the pale morning light.

Y/N swallowed softly against the ache beginning to settle inside her chest. Then smiled anyway. "Well," she murmured quietly, "may we meet again." Y/N tucked her hands deeper into her coat pockets before continuing, her breath curling pale around the edges of her voice. "One final test for fate," she said softly.

Michael laughed quietly beneath his breath. But the sound carried sadness through it now. "I think," he said slowly, carefully, "I believe in it a little now." Michael glanced back up toward her afterward, almost sheepish suddenly. "Just a little," he clarified quietly. "I'm not completely convinced yet."

Y/N smiled faintly. "That's probably healthier."

"I mean it," he continued, voice softer now. "Before tonight I thought people just... met each other. Randomly. But this..." He laughed once under his breath, shaking his head slightly. "This didn't feel random."

Something painful and warm twisted simultaneously through her chest.

Y/N looked at him carefully. Then finally, honestly: "I had a really good time with you."

The sentence sounded heartbreakingly small compared to what the night had actually become.

His expression softened almost immediately into something quieter. "So did I." Then Michael laughed softly beneath his breath again, though this time the sound carried embarrassment through it. "You know what's strange?"

"What?"

"When I was with you..." He hesitated briefly like he was trying to find the exact shape of the thought before continuing. "It was nice not having to talk so much."

Michael shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets while speaking, eyes lowering briefly toward the snow beneath his shoes. "Usually I feel like I have to keep people entertained all the time," he admitted quietly. "Like if I stop performing for even a second, everything gets awkward."

"But with you..." He smiled faintly. "It was nice to just listen."

Y/N felt her throat tighten unexpectedly. Then, despite herself, she laughed softly. "That's funny."

"Why?"

"Because I think it was the opposite for me."

His brows lifted slightly. 

She smiled down toward the snow briefly before continuing.

"I usually stay quiet around people," she admitted. "I spend most of my time observing instead of talking. I like listening better." Michael watched her carefully. "But with you," she said softly, "I kept wanting to tell you everything."

Y/N swallowed hard against the ache rising into her throat.

Then slowly, gently, she stepped closer toward him.

Without saying anything, Y/N began pulling her gloves off finger by finger, the cold air striking instantly against her skin. Her fingers had gone pink from the weather, slightly numb now from wandering Manhattan for hours beneath the snow.

Michael watched her carefully, confused at first.

Then she reached for his hands.

The movement startled him enough that he almost pulled back instinctively before realizing what she meant. Y/N smiled softly at the hesitation and tugged lightly at his gloves until he finally let her remove those too.

Cold air rushed against both their bare hands immediately.

And then finally — Skin against skin.

After an entire night spent beside one another, this was somehow the first time they had touched.

Then gently, almost ceremonially, Y/N folded both his hands together between her own until they rested like something fragile she was trying very carefully not to break.

Her thumbs brushed lightly over his knuckles once. Twice. Then softly, beneath the pale winter morning:

"To our one and only night together."

Y/N tapped lightly against one side of his clasped hands with her finger. Then the other.

The tiny movement felt unbearably intimate somehow. Childlike. Sacred. Like creating a ritual for something too beautiful to survive ordinary language.

Michael stared down at their hands silently, then up at her.

And suddenly the sadness inside his smile became almost impossible to bear. His throat moved slightly before he spoke again, voice rougher now than before. "I didn't ask you enough questions."

Michael laughed once beneath his breath afterward, though the sound broke halfway through.

"I spent the whole night talking about myself."

"That's not true." The vulnerability in his voice cracked straight through her chest. Michael looked at her like he was trying desperately to memorize what little time remained. "I never asked you what's your favorite time of day." he said suddenly. Michael continued before she could answer. "Or your favorite flower." His voice softened further. "Or what's your favorite cloud shape."

Snow drifted quietly around them.

"I don't know what kind of books made you wanna start writing," he continued, words tumbling faster now like he was afraid time itself might interrupt him. "Or what your room looks like. Or if you like thunderstorms or if they scare you."

Y/N felt emotion rise so sharply inside her she physically could not speak for a moment.

Michael looked down briefly before laughing softly again through the ache. "I don't even know your favorite color."

She stepped forward fast enough that Michael barely had time to react before her arms wrapped tightly around him.

Michael inhaled sharply the second she touched him.

Then immediately, impossibly, held her even tighter.

His arms wrapped around her completely while the city disappeared around them both. Y/N buried her face against the cold wool of his coat, breathing in winter air and faint traces of diner sugar and snow and something heartbreakingly him beneath it all.

Y/N closed her eyes tightly. The ache inside her chest had grown too large now for language alone. So instead she whispered softly against him: "When we meet again..." Michael's grip tightened almost imperceptibly. "I promise I'll answer those questions."

A tear slipping warm against the side of her face where his cheek rested briefly against her hair.

Michael exhaled shakily. And very quietly, like the words themselves frightened him with how much he meant them: "Let's meet again."

The separation happened slowly, reluctantly, like untangling something fragile thread by thread. Michael's hands lingered at her waist for half a second longer than necessary while Y/N's fingers remained curled lightly into the fabric of his coat as though her body had not yet accepted the goodbye her mind understood perfectly.

Y/N covered her mouth immediately, shaking her head in disbelief while tears still clung embarrassingly to her lashes.

She breathed through laughter. "Look at us."

Michael laughed too, softer than hers but equally overwhelmed, one hand dragging through his curls while he tried recovering from the emotional whiplash of the last several minutes.

"We're a mess."

"Completely."

"We've known each other one night."

The laughter faded slowly afterward into something quieter.

Michael looked at her carefully again. Then, very softly, "What if I look for you?"

Y/N felt her heartbeat stumble painfully against her ribs.

For one dangerous second part of her wanted to say yes.

Please do.

Please ruin the ending.

Please find me anyway.

But instead Y/N smiled through the ache gathering thickly in her throat. "Well," she whispered gently, "then it wouldn't be fate anymore."

Michael looked at her like the answer simultaneously hurt and healed him. Then slowly, almost reverently, he lifted one bare hand toward her face. His fingertips brushed gently against her cheek, catching a tear she hadn't realized had fallen again. The touch was impossibly careful, like he feared she might disappear beneath it.

"Will you," he said quietly, thumb lingering briefly against her cheekbone, "at least write about me?"

Y/N looked at him for a long moment afterward then slowly shook her head. "No," she whispered. Michael's brows lifted slightly and Y/N looked at him like she was trying to memorize every detail at once. "The truth is," she admitted softly, "I think I'd rather remember you."

Michael's eyes flickered briefly toward the street where Bill still sat inside the idling car pretending very hard not to witness the ending of something fragile. Exhaust curled slowly upward into the pale morning air while sunlight spread steadily brighter across the snow-covered city.

The moment had finally run out of places to hide.

Michael exhaled slowly through his nose before his hand finally slipped away from her cheek.

For a second longer they simply stood there facing one another beneath the winter morning sky, both looking like people who had accidentally wandered too deeply into a story neither was ready to leave behind.

Then Y/N reached quietly into her coat pocket. Michael frowned slightly at the movement until she pulled out a pair of gloves.

"You'll freeze," she murmured softly.

Michael accepted them carefully from her hands, fingers brushing briefly against hers in the exchange. Something about the small domestic tenderness of it — the simplicity of giving someone their gloves back after surviving a night together — hurt infinitely more than dramatic goodbye speeches ever could.

He opened his mouth slightly like he wanted to say something else. But no words arrived. What could possibly follow a night like this? Nothing large enough.

So instead Michael just looked at her one last time. Then finally, reluctantly, he stepped backward.

The distance between them widened slowly, painfully, until cold morning air settled fully back into the space where they had stood together.

Michael turned finally toward the waiting car and just before climbing into the car, he looked back.

Y/N still stood exactly where he'd left her.

Small against the enormous winter city, and lifted one hand gently in goodbye.

Michael felt his chest tighten so sharply it almost physically hurt.

Inside the vehicle, warmth wrapped around him immediately while the world outside blurred faintly through fogged windows. Bill glanced once toward him from the driver's seat but wisely said nothing. The older man simply pulled quietly away from the curb, giving Michael the mercy of silence.

As the car moved through the streets, Michael kept his eyes fixed on the window.

Y/N remained standing there longer than necessary.

He watched her slowly disappear behind distance and snowfall and morning traffic until finally she vanished entirely into the waking city.

Only then did he look away.

Bill drove carefully through the slush-covered streets while radio static hummed quietly beneath the heater vents. Every so often Michael caught him glancing over briefly like he wanted to ask questions, but thankfully he never did.

Because Michael wouldn't have known how to explain any of it anyway. How do you explain one night becoming important enough to rearrange something permanently inside you?

Eventually, absentmindedly, Michael glanced down toward the gloves resting loosely in his lap.

Then paused. A small crease formed between his brows.

These weren't his.

Slowly, he turned them over in his hands again. The realization hit him instantly enough that he nearly spoke aloud without thinking. "Bill, turn around —"

But the words died halfway out of him because something white caught against the inside lining of one glove.

Carefully, almost reverently now, he reached inside and pulled out a folded piece of paper.

The note had clearly been tucked there intentionally. The paper itself was slightly wrinkled from warmth and movement, edges softened from being hidden inside the glove.

He unfolded it gently. And there, written in hurried elegant handwriting, were the words:

If this night was only borrowed from the universe for a little while, then I think we spent it beautifully.

You once asked me what happens when stories end. I think they don't.

I think they simply become part of the people who lived them.

So wherever life carries you after this — through music, through cities, through every beautiful impossible thing waiting for you — I hope the world is gentle when it holds your heart.

And if fate is kind enough to let our paths cross again someday, I promise I'll stay.

Until then, thank you for letting me be young beside you for one night.

Live beautifully, Michael.

For several seconds he simply stared at the note. Then slowly, painfully, his face folded inward around emotion again. And then finally the tear came.

It slipped silently down his cheek before falling onto the paper itself, staining the ink slightly near the edge of her handwriting.

Michael laughed softly beneath his breath at the sight of it, shaking his head once while pressing trembling fingers briefly against his mouth.

What an utterly, unforgettable goodbye from a beautiful stranger.

“Oh— honey, I love this part,” your boyfriend points out. The glass bowl of strawberry ice cream is slowly melting into a pink puddle of sweetness, colourful dots of sprinkles floating around in the gooey substance. His other hand rubs between his cat’s — Mandy’s — ears, right over her adorable, fluffy head.

You’re curled up next to him, savouring the sentimental feeling of being with him, right here, right now. You want to keep him beside you forever. “You say that about every part,” you giggle. “And your ice cream’s melting, Mikey.”

You watch how the movie’s plot progresses: Sam goes to the dance. Her panties get stolen. Caroline starts a wild party at Jake’s house. With every scene, you melt further into Michael’s side, his body heat comfortable on your skin through your thin tank top, as you slurp on spoonfuls of strawberry ice cream.

Occasional mewls from Michael’s cat have you two giggling from time to time as the feline settles herself between you. You look like cat parents, you think. Other than that, Michael and you watch the movie in silence, apart from some breathy laughs and smart comments from you.

The last scene is playing when you start to shiver. Jake finally visits Sam in church, and surprises her with a birthday cake. Just when Jake tells Sam to make a wish, Michael’s big hands settles over your waist, warmth radiating off his skin like he’s the sun. “Is my baby cold?” He mumbles, doe eyes still glued to the television screen.

“A little.” You admit softly, resting your head in the crook of his neck. Your boyfriend chuckles, a hint of gentleness in the melody, even when he laughs.

“I know something that could warm you right up,” Michael stands up from the sofa, extending his hands out for you to take. He looks excited. “C’mon, honey girl.”

The mat with colourful circles is spread across Michael’s bedroom floor.

When Michael suggested a simple game of Twister, you almost couldn’t believe him. You haven’t touched the family game in almost a decade, and you’re pretty sure the box is rotting away in your family’s junk closet.

But the hopeful stare in Michael’s eyes— you couldn’t tell him no. And who knows, maybe it’d instigate a Twister obsession within you.

You’ve also brought reinforcements: Mandy paws at the clock-like board like it’s her favourite pastime, while Michael is folded open like a table, arms and legs keeping him up while he breathes heavily from shifting his arms in the right position without falling down.

You hate to admit it, but even in a crazy position like that, he looks delicious.

You’d pounce if you weren’t folded like an origami-crane yourself. Both of your legs are so far apart, your left arm extended all the way to Michael’s, while your right arm is planted right between your legs.

“Your turn.” Michael grunts out. Oh boy.

He gives Mandy a small nod, and the cat attacks the hand of the little cardboard board. In a way, it looks like your boyfriend can speak with his pets. It’s weird, how they fully understand him.

“Right hand to yellow.” Michael speaks, and you let out an embarrassing sigh. Your right arm was starting to get all sorts of tingles and cramps in this position.

Your right hand crawls to the nearest yellow dot, unknowingly hovering over Michael in the process. When you finally find your footing, you realise you’re literally hanging over him.

It’s embarrassing. But sweet. How his eyes look up to you from beneath you. Treading lightly. His jean-clad thigh scrapes the inside of your knee. A flush of redness blooms across Michael’s cheekbones from the close proximity. Thinking slightly.

Both of you still. The depth of the situation you’re in is dawning around you. Your breath feels heavy in your heart when a shy smile graces your mouth.

“Hi, Mikey.”

“Hi, honey girl,” the noiret answers. His eyes scan your face slowly. “You look sexy from down here.” His admission is honest yet sweet, but his words seem to be your great undoing.

Your arms quiver beneath you. “Shut up. You’re making me lose!” His words always have this effect on you, and you can never be normal about it.

“How can I shut up when the prettiest girl in the world ‘s so close to me?” Michael says, craning his neck up just slightly. His breath ghosts over your lips. The fruity, sweet smell of the strawberry ice cream still lingers on his breath.

“You’re such a sap,” you reply, but a part of you still feels flattered. Your eyes flick over to Mandy the cat, signalling her to give the hand a spin again. “Okay, Mikey, your tu—”

Before you can even finish your sentence, Michael settles his mouth over yours. An explosion of strawberry and mint swirls through you. You let out a muffled gasp in surprise when you hear a dull thud of Michael’s body collapsing to the floor.

“Michael, what are you doing—”

“Just, kiss me.” He breathes, pulling you in by the back of your knee to pull your body flush to his on the ground. His touch feels deliberate, tender.

You separate yourself from him again. “But Mandy’s watching.”

“Don’t care.” Michael grits out, pulling your face closer to his in a desperate attempt to kiss you again. “Just want to feel you.”

And this time you let him. What started as an innocent, fun game of Twister ended up in a heated make out session. His strong hands travel to your thighs, over your hips, pulling up your top with the lightest touch.

“Mike— just take it off,” you whisper frantically between kisses. You can’t contain yourself anymore, tugging at the hem of his white tee.

Michael grins at your desperate ministrations. “Patience, baby,” his hands are fidgety on your hips. With ease, he attaches his lips to the spot under your ear, right where you’re always sensitive to his touch. “Gonna take my time with you.”

Because everything Michael does, he does in earnest. With full attention on you only. Kissing you. Touching you. He wants to feel every fibre of skin, the swell of your cheeks when you smile whenever his lips touch yours.

You feel like you’re going insane. You’re pretty sure you are insane. “Don’t be like that, please.” You whisper, voice cracked.

“Like what? I just wanna enjoy you—” He uses his weight to roll you over. You, on your back on the Twister mat, and him scattering butterfly kisses over your collarbones. His free hand pulls up your top, his head immediately lowering to your stomach. The wet kisses he places there feel sacred, fluttery on your skin.

You release a couple of breathy giggles as you peer down at your boyfriend between your legs, your fingers gently finding purchase in his messy hair. The two of you are lost in the moment.

Then, a booming knock on the door interrupts your little moment. The bedroom door creaks open, and then—

Joe’s impending presence of doom looms over the two of you. The look in his eyes is stony as he scans over the careless position Michael has thrown you in. If you weren’t embarrassed before, you definitely are now.

“Michael, get the hell off that girl. I need you in my office. Now.”