D E S I R E

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

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

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

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

Social constructs of intimacy in the digital age. 

The irony was so silly to you. 

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

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

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

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

nocturncamz.com

The name alone felt like a secret. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

king777tut: Is the tank top… loose?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

your mind drifted back to the situation;

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

SweetViolet: Why is your heart beating so fast?

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

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

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

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

Oh. Oh, fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, his final, fragmented plea:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The ellipsis appeared.

Then vanished.

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

king777tut: I cannot.

SweetViolet: Why not?

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

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

SweetViolet: Right. Security. Okay…

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

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

SweetViolet: Known how?

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

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

SweetViolet: Are you famous or something? A singer?

A pause. Then:

king777tut: Perhaps. Does it matter?

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

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

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

SweetViolet: How?

king777tut: In person.

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

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

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

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

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

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

talk dirty to me, slut. 

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

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

SweetViolet: No. Not in person. Not yet.

king777tut: Oh.

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

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

king777tut: But my face. I told you—

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

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

The ellipsis stuttered, hesitant.

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

A long pause. You chewed your thumbnail raw.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

king777tut has left the private chat.

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

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

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

$700.00 deposited from user: king777tut.

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

Your dashboard showed king777tut was online. Waiting. 

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

You hit ‘Start Broadcast.’

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

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

The breath caught in your throat.

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

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

And his face… was hidden.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Anything.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“hmm,” he agreed softly. 

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

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

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

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

You were motionless, captivated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A low groan. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That was…” you started, voice wrecked.

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

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

“Wait—”

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

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

king777tut has left the private broadcast.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

king777tut: Will you come meet me?

Your heart stopped. Then slammed against your ribs. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The results are a mess of weird articles and reviews.

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

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

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

That place… it belongs to…. 

The pieces click together with a soundless, chilling thud.

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

You look back at the chat.

Will you come meet me?

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

SweetViolet: Yes. I’ll come. 

pt 2?

back to masterlist

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."

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

It was always someplace different.

It didn’t matter how far away it was, he’d drive the distance— deciding not to pay it any mind the way Bill was looking at him in the rear view mirror.

It didn’t matter how late it was, he’d be knocking on your hotel room door. Holding his breath as he waited for the seconds to tick by, matching the thrum of his heart before hearing the lock click and then there you were.

The warm light from the hotel room glowing behind you, making you appear ethereal. Your smile gentle, knowing, as you opened the door wider to let him in.

Wearing the blue velvet robe like always.

Your battle armor, he would tease.

Because Michael knew it had to be hell dealing with him. His erratic schedule, the short phone calls, the last minute flights, the way he’d be gone by morning without a word with a cab ready to take you back to the airport.

You never complained, though he could see exhaustion pulling at the threads that held your composure together. He felt guilty about it, really he did.

But you never told him no, so he’d slot an apology into the back of his mind. Letting it marinate so it’d be ready for the day you eventually snapped.

The two of you easily— no, efficiently began the dance.

He’d lock the door behind him, watching as you silently padded through the room towards the counter that already had two glasses of white wine resting on the surface. Then his jacket would drop off his shoulders, finding asylum on a chair somewhere as he followed you through the room, fingers brushing yours as he took the wine.

Your robe would slip off your left shoulder, always always the left. He never knew if you did it on purpose or if it was just the universe signaling what was about to occur.

There were never any questions, you were just there for him in every way he needed when the hour ran late.

He didn’t bother asking you how your day was or the flight, knew there wasn’t any point.

You always gave him the same answer.

It was fine.

When this first started, he thought that the lack of talking would bother him. But as the visits went on, he found a comfort in the notion there were no expectations. No promises to be made, kept and broken.

He could live with that, is what he told himself.

Because he knew he wouldn’t ever be able to have the alternative.

God had gifted him many things in life, but he would never be gifted that.

Michael told himself he made peace with it.

And then you stepped forward, hands dancing up his neck to pull him close, lips meeting his and effectively silencing his mind.

You were the best at that, perhaps that’s why he became so dependent on these moments he had with you.

For just a few hours you helped make the world go quiet.

His arms wrapped around you, nearly desperate like he was a man grasping a lifeline in the middle of the ocean. Dipping low and melting into your touch, tasting like cinnamon as his tongue slipped past yours.

Your bodies caught in a pas de deux as you navigated blindly towards the bedroom. The layout of the hotel still foreign since you’d only been here an hour or so.

Sheets met your back and he lowered you, his mouth dancing down your neck as his fingers played with the string of your robe, the blue fabric unraveling beneath and he was met with your body.

You never wore anything underneath and he loved it.

Your own nails dragged along his shirt, searching for skin until your fingers hooked under the hem and started to lift.

Michael only left you alone for a moment so he could take it off before he drew back towards you. A sinner being reeled in desperately towards an alter.

You were always so warm and wore the perfume he had complimented all those years ago. The scent swirling around him and making his mind slip into a haze as he moved further down your body, hands taking hold of your thighs to push them up and out.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Michael’s mouth latched onto you and although you had tried not to, really you did, your hips bucked up at the heat of his mouth.

It was dizzying. And a bit embarrassing if you were honest, given the noises that were leaving your mouth— you thought you’d be used to him by now but you should’ve known better, your body felt like it was being scorched as he laughed lightly into your pussy before sinking two fingers in.

You clenched around him, desperate for anything. More. Hands tugging on the sheets and your back arching off the bed.

Michael leaned up on one hand, the other still dragging in and out of you, smiling like a lost saint who had finally set eyes on the pearl gates.

“Look at you,” he said quietly, mostly to himself. He was watching you so carefully, cataloging each minute expression in your features as he fucked you with his fingers. His voice dropped into a tone you only ever got to hear on nights like these— “You’re dripping.”

A whine left you involuntarily and he shut his eyes briefly at the sound.

“Fuck,” he muttered, but still he lowered himself, nose dusting along the inside of your thighs. You shivered at both the feeling and sight.

“Please,” you managed to get out, breathless as you watched him.

“I love it when you say that.” And he dove in like a man starved, fingers picking up their pace, another added, his mouth latching onto your clit.

You were shamelessly grinding into your friends face.

Michael was fucking you with his fingers and tongue, making you see stars. That small voice in the back of your head mumbled why do I keep saying yes to this? But it was quickly snuffed out as you came. Hard. All over his face and his name was a shout ripped from your lungs.

He was climbing over you again but the world was still flickering in and out of focus as you came down from your high. His face buried in your neck and you gasped, nails digging crescents into his arms as he sank into you, pushing you that much closer to the edge of oblivion.

You cried out and felt him smile into your neck as he slowly pulled out before slamming into you again. The thrust was brutal and unforgiving. Delicious and painful. Electric.

Too much. He was always too much and you’d never get tired of it.

He leaned back, one hand on your waist to yank you down onto his cock as the other rubbed circles into your clit.

His hips rolled in that languid manner that always entranced you when he was on stage and by God was it something else entirely to experience in bed.

He hit every spot, going too deep and you felt the room spinning as you started to come again, his own thrusts lapsing into something more erratic and borderline violent.

The sound of your name dripping off his tongue on the outskirts of a moan made you completely crash and that was enough to finally send him spiraling. His hips slamming into yours, desperate to hold you there as he came, the muscles in his stomach tightening and his head falling into the crook of your neck, teeth finding purchase in the soft skin that resided there.

After a heated moment, feeling like the first second of eternity had passed, Michael practically melted on top of you. Your heavy breaths matched his own as you tried to get your nerves to calm down.

There were words dancing on the tip of your tongue but you held them back with such desperate conviction you nearly started to cry.

You didn’t want to ruin it, this, this little haven he had found with you in hotels strewn across southern California. Hopelessly trying to hold onto the parts of him he still let you have.

He felt safer that way. Like this. You knew that and you understood, that didn’t mean it didn’t make it any less difficult.

When you woke up to the feeling of soft sunlight kissing your eyelids, you didn’t have to look around the room to know he was already gone.

Sitting up, you rubbed at your eyes in an attempt to wade off the sickly feeling you knew was starting to claw at the edges of your vision. Your heart.

Your eyes slated to the side, catching sight of the flight details Michael had scribbled on some notebook paper.

You stared at his handwriting. At his note. How impersonal it was.

No It was nice seeing you. No thank you. No Get home safely, I’ll call you.

Nothing.

Of course you knew he would call you, eventually at least. When it was nearing sunset and he wanted you in California before he lost his mind.

You never said no even though it hurt.

He needed this. Not you, but this.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

A few weeks went by before he dialed your number, his knee bouncing up and down so hard he started to shake the table.

“Hello?”

“It’s Michael.”

Silence ticked by for a second and he bit into his bottom lip. He always dreaded the day you might tell him no.

You sigh.

He still had you, he couldn’t help but smile.

“Can you be ready to leave by nine?”

He didn’t ask you if you already had plans.

Michael could hear your nails thrumming on the counter.

“Okay.” And you hung up.

He sat back, still holding the phone to his ear for a moment as it hit him. Maybe the fissures were getting too big. Too deep. Maybe you were finally cracking. One more ask from him and that was it.

Clearing his throat, he stood up and found Bill out in the dining room. “Can you make a reservation at the Four Seasons for tonight? And call for a cab to pick her up at her place.”

Bill slowly lowered his book, looking at Michael over the edge of it with a deep set to his brow.

Michael bit the inside of his cheek. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“I know you wanna say something.”

The older man shook his head as he set down his book. “You’re playing with fire.”

Michael laughed lightly, waving him off as he leaned against the doorframe. “Please, I’ve known her for years, she’d never—“

“That’s not what I meant and you know that.”

A breath of silence passed between them.

“Just make the reservation, please.”

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

It was News Years Eve, the wind in Chicago brutal but you welcomed the needle-like sensation tearing into your cheeks as you stood on the balcony with a cigarette in hand.

Michael hadn't called in a while. He usually did less during the holidays.

You both hated and loved the clarity time away from him provided. Seeing what your life had become for what it was. Appreciative that you got to have those small moments with him and forever feeling the greed worthy of the fourth circle of Hell for wanting more— all of him.

He’d never give that to you and you knew it. Honest to God, you did.

He had tried the relationship thing in the past and each time it went up in flames no matter how hard he tried to keep the embers going. The world letting him have everything but that.

And God, he had been inconsolable after his divorce.

You two had been friends for years, meeting at one of his nephews birthday parties. Hitting it off in such a natural way that easily blended into companionship. Simple. Elementary.

Friends.

Then he called you on a random afternoon saying his wife had filed for divorce and you had wondered why he had come to you— only not really, because you had also gone through a divorce.

Only you were the one who left.

He wanted insight on why, you supposed.

You knew you were no help. Absolutely abhorrent at comforting people. Anything you tried to say to him to make it better just made it that much worse.

Then he asked you to come to California the very first time, though for very different reasons.

That first time, you had been dropped off directly at the front door of his house and when you knocked, Bill answered. His smile solemn as he let you inside, telling you Michael had been glued to the couch all night watching old Charlie Chaplin movies.

You stood in the doorway, watching him just be for a moment. A blank look in his eyes as he tried and failed to distract himself.

“Hey, Michael.”

He turned, smiled, clearly exhausted. “You made it.”

And then he was standing, crossing the room— hugging you.

You stood there perplexed, blinking at the movie over his shoulder before eventually hugging him back.

“What do you need from me?” You asked, because you knew asking him if he was okay was pointless.

“Your company.” He pulled back, eyes a little red.

Your brows furrowed as you looked at him. “Why me?”

“Because I knew you’d be the only one who wouldn’t look at me like I’m a wounded animal.”

Then he grabbed your hand and led you to the couch, watching movies till your head rolled off into slumber and you woke up the next morning with your head in his lap, his own resting against the back of the couch as he slept, one hand lightly tangled in your hair.

You flicked the ash into the tray, telling yourself the wetness in your eyes was from the cold.

The whole situation felt so juvenile yet light years beyond what anyone should have to experience. A level of heartache you thought only possible in movies.

But every time that phone rang your heart rotted with dread and anticipation. That small voice that spoke on behalf of your soul saying maybe it’ll be different this time.

It never was.

The role you had decided to play when he first asked you to fly out for a warmer kind of company, sealed your fate.

You were exactly what he needed. The right amount of available and the perfect amount of detached. Never asking him for a thing because about a million other people were.

When you genuinely started to feel numb, you finally stepped back inside. Eyeing the bottle of champagne that was about to be opened in the next half hour.

It was almost midnight.

You felt no need to celebrate the passage of time.

It was just another year marked by you feeling hollowed out inside just to give some grace to the man you had stupidly fallen in love with.

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Michael watched you as you slept.

He tried not to, knowing it would only make him want to stay but there was something in the air that rooted him to the spot as he sat there in the sheets next to you.

Your chest fell and rose softly and it was in moments like these where he felt he was actually getting to see you. The real you. The one you kept hidden away so he wouldn’t feel the weight of what he was asking of you.

You looked sad.

He knew better every time he dialed your number. But he was a selfish man, something he didn’t care to admit but when the hour was late like this, he couldn’t run away from his shadow anymore.

Gently moving some hair away from your face, he sighed. Part of you had to hate him. If he were in your shoes he would’ve gone insane by now.

But he just didn’t have the time.

It would be more cruel to promise you more when he knew those red eye flights were all he could sufficiently offer.

Breaking one of his rules, he leaned down to kiss your shoulder before standing up. He picked up your robe of blue velvet and folded it neatly, placing it on the edge of the bed before then picking up his own clothes as he went.

When the car door shut and engine started, he could feel Bill looking at him.

“I know what you’re gonna say.”

“I don’t think you do.”

“We’re just a casual thing, there’s no need to look heartbroken on my behalf.”

Bill shook his head as he peeled away from the curb. “Nothing about the two of you is casual.”

michael jackson masterlist

taglist: @solarrandom @mjssluttyfish

Yeah, this boy went and lost his damn mind.

Michael had been pushing your buttons that whole day. It’s not like you didn’t enjoy his presence or crave his affection, but seriously?

First, came him interrupting your sleep.

He woke you up at 5:42am on Saturday morning. His curly head was in between your legs and he was eating you like you were his long awaited breakfast. Any other day? Fine. Even exceptional, but you had a long week behind you, and a busy one ahead of you. He knew that. You wanted to sleep, and being awoken only two hours into it was not helping. You firmly, but gently, shoved his head away and gave him a stern “Enough.”

Then, came his sulking.

When you finally woke up at 9:08am, groggy and irritated, you decided to try and wind down by cooking for the two of you. He still hadn’t built up the courage to touch you again. He always came up and gave you soft kisses to your neck while you flipped pancakes. He was in his head though, after laying in your shared bed feeling rejected when you sharply ordered him to leave you alone. All he wanted to do was make his favorite girl feel happy and give you some kind of reward for working so hard this week. He didn’t mean to get so lost in the maze of your core that he’d wake you up.

So, because of his own embarrassment, he’d been sighing dramatically and setting things down on tables and counters just slightly too loud. To anyone else, it’d seem normal, but you knew Michael. He was begging for your attention. After he decided not to accompany you while you cooked like he usually did, though, you weren’t gonna cave in and give it him.

The last straw, though? The phone calls.

Long after eating together in suffocating silence – both of you too stubborn to break it – the two of you drifted off to your separate workspaces in your shared home. You were getting things in order for the upcoming Tuesday. Michael was being awarded the Guinness World Record for the best-selling album of all time for Thriller. That meant you needed to make sure you were caught up with work and that you had time to relax before accompanying your star-studded boyfriend to the highly publicized event.

Michael, on the other hand, was doing a whole bunch of nothing. Not because he didn’t need to, but because he couldn’t. He tried writing, he tried finishing up painted portraits for some of his industry peers, he even popped Peter Pan into the room’s tiny VCR, but even that couldn’t catch his attention.

Surely she’ll say somethin’ to me, right? He thought to himself after the movie was about halfway through.

But, you hadn’t. You didn’t even say anything to him for not joining you in the kitchen; something he stubbornly did just to get you to finally acknowledge him. So, he decided to a phone call. He didn’t have much to talk about, he just wanted to be petty.

“Hey, Q!” he said obnoxiously loud, loud enough for you to hear through your closed office door.

You were elbows deep into your work when you heard your boyfriend’s laughter drift through the vents of your office. You couldn’t tell what exactly what he was talking about, but you were sure it was his producer, Quincy Jones, on the other line. He would be joining the two of you to the ceremony, and he must’ve been ironing out details like you were.

Cute, you thought to yourself.

Then, it got ugly real, real fast. At some point, you finally had to walk down the hallway into his room and ask him to lower his voice.

“I’m makin’ some business calls. Could you just be a bit quieter please?” you’d asked him politely.

“Mmm, she speaks!” he joked, and you heard Quincy laugh over the phone’s receiver as well. Had he told him about your mood today? You shrugged it off as he covered the phone and responded, “Yeah, I’ll tone it down some,” and went back to his conversation like your interruption was as unimportant as an infomercial. The interaction left you a bit unnerved, but you’d check him about it later.

You were only able to make it to your second phone call when you heard the hooting and hollering from his office yet again. You tried to ignore it, you really did, but you were sleep deprived, annoyed, and embarrassed because you knew he’d been talking about you. You mumbled out a quick goodbye to your coworker and slammed your phone down, already halfway through your door. You started storming down the hallway once more.

“I thought I asked you to be quiet,” you said as his door flew open, hands on your hips. Michael ignored you and kept speaking on the phone.

“Yeah, and I was thinkin’ of changin’ some of our plans for that event…No- yeah, Tuesday’s,” he continued on.

“Hello?” you questioned him, waving your hands in his face. He covered the receiver and looked up to you briefly.

“One sec,” he responded shortly.

“Yeah. So, I was thinkin’ we invite Brooke. Yeah, she was my date-” he annoyingly emphasized this, “to the last event as well, before I went public with my girl.”

“Michael, hang up,” you spat out, any patience you had left long gone. He still ignored you.

“Yeah, not sure if she’ll like that. Brooke will be a good time, though. I’ll let her know…Mhm, yeah I’ll call you up later.” He finally hung up that stupid phone.

“What’s goin’ on?” he asked you innocently. You were heated.

“Are you actually serious? You can be a lil pissy about me not wanting you to eat me out, that’s fine. I’ll let it slide for the first couple of hours. It’s been damn near twelve, Michael. I have important shit to handle, for you and your important event. I asked you politely to be quiet and I even let it slide when you continued not to be.” You stared at him wildly, gasping for air after saying everything in one breath.

“I’m off the phone now. You can continue,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders and he started dialing another number.

“Not even an apology? Yeah, forget it. I’ll sleep in my office tonight, too,” you said in a fit of anger as you stormed back to your workspace.

Who the hell did this boy think he was? You spent at least 10 minutes pacing back and forth enough to wear a hole into your carpet. You couldn’t even concentrate on your work anymore, unspoken words settled on the tip of your tongue. You wanted to tell him to grow up, to kiss you, to fuck himself.

Without thinking, your legs started down that short but treacherous path of your hallway. You were about to knock when you realized he’d actually gotten quiet this time. Curious, you touched your hand to the doorknob before freezing. You heard him giggling at some feminine voice coming in through his phone.

“Yeah, and if anything, we can just say that you’re my date. Y’know, to soften the blow. ‘M sure she’ll be fine with-” You flew into the room once more, seething.

“Oh, so you’re fine with pretending to date another girl? All over some head, Michael? You done lost your damn mind. Hang up, now. Or I will.”

“Wai-” he started.

You yanked the phone from his grip by its cord and hung up his call.

“You gon’ explain yourself?” you asked him impatiently.

“You’re bein’ mean, Brooke’s a safe date. Nothin’ to it,” he said, too nonchalantly.

“I’m being mea- Michael. Do you know how fucking exhausted I am? I’m sitting here wrapping shit up for you, to show up for you, for an award you’re winning, and you can’t keep your needy ass hands off of me to sleep for more than two fucking hours. I’ve been patient and calm with you and you decided to start acting like a fucking neglected puppy by pouting and being annoyingly loud and calling up a random ass model to be your ‘backup date.’ What the fuck is your goal, here? Because I can promise you I wasn’t you to touch me even less than I did earlier,” you ranted.

“She’s not a random model, she’s my close friend,” he responded calmly.

You just about lost it.

“That’s all you fuckin’ took from that? You know what? She so close to you, gon’ head and have her come along! Let her take all the important pictures with you too! And leave me the fuck alone for the night.”

The rest of the night, neither of you spoke to each other, save for him coming into your office quietly to say goodnight and check to see if you were actually set on sleeping on the sofa in there. You were. He gave you a kiss to your forehead as you pretended to be asleep, and softly closed its door.

The next day was super tense. You accompanied him to his childhood home in Encino for a get together his family was having. The two of you tried to appear as though everything was fine, holding onto each other, choosing the other as your teammate for board games, and even sharing the core of washing dishes. At one point, though, La Toya, his older sister, pulled you to the side and questioned you.

“Why are the two of you actin’ so weird? Y’all have your first fight?” she asked in soft voice.

“We’re fine, Toya. He’s still just nervous with me around the family, I guess,” you lied. You’d been together for over three years by now, so the fib made no sense, but she believed you anyway.

The night at home was spent identically to the previous one. Your back was in pain from sleeping on the small office couch, though, so you slept in bed this time.

“I love you,” he whispered as you settled into bed next to him.

“I love you too,” you responded hastily.

“Can we cuddle?” he asked hesitantly.

“Do you think you deserve a cuddle?” you asked him back. He sat in silence as you got your answer and drifted off to sleep.

Monday morning rolled along, and you were sick of the tension. After you finished showering and getting dressed for work, you headed to the kitchen to make Michael and yourself some breakfast as an olive branch. You expected to see him lazing in his favorite chair at the kitchen island, reading the paper. What you weren’t expecting was the handwritten note sitting in his place.

At a fitting with Q. See you when you’re home. — Applehead

Your stomach sunk and you decided to miss the most important meal of the day.

Michael knew he was wrong. He knew he was wrong to be loud when you were working. He knew he was wrong to offer another girl to be his date while his girl was standing right front of him. He knew it was wrong to write a note and not end it with an I love you. But, he couldn’t stop something deep in him for loving the tension this was creating, and for that, he knew he was even more wrong.

His fitting went by in what seemed like a blur, due to his brain being preoccupied. He would start feeling guilty for his then immediately get butterflies in his stomach the thought you open up and angry with him. Every officer ring he heard in dressing room would send some into knots, hoping it was you, but it wasn’t, and then he’d be ashamed again.

Brooke, his model friend, had turned up near the end for her own dress fitting for tomorrow night, and her presence distracted him just enough to appear normal again. They chatted about nonsense, and he stayed outside her door until she finished her fitting, offering to grab lunch with her at yours and his favorite lunch spot near home afterwards.

What a stupid idea.

You’d gotten off of work early because your duties at work weren’t needed. Your employees picked up extra work to keep ahead while you were taking time off for your boyfriend, and although you were grateful, you were upset because you had next to nothing to do. You stayed longer than you should’ve, and once you realized you were just wasting time, you headed out and decided to comfort yourself with lunch from your favorite place.

As soon as you walked into the restaurant, though, your heart flipped. Because standing in line in front of you was one of Michael’s security guards, ordering two meals. One of them was your boyfriend’s usual, and the other was unknown.

“Hi, Maurice! Is he here?” you asked him almost cheerily, he referring to Michael. You figured it was for Michael and Bill, and considered riding home with them and having Maurice take your car for you so you could catch up with Michael.

“Yep, he’s in the car out back. I can place your order too, if you’d like?” he offered politely.

“Yes, thank you! I’ll take my usual as well. Can you drive my car home for me, too?” you asked him, handing him your keys.

“No worries, hun. I’ll see you later.”

You snuck around the building and walked over to the car’s usual hiding place with an extra bounce in your step. You were ready to put the petty distance behind you and cuddle with your boyfriend again.

You opened the door without warning, and were met with a sourness so potent, you nearly hurled over and puked. She was there. And your boyfriend was sitting a little too close to her looking a little too comfortable.

“The fuck?” was all you could say.

“H-hi, baby. She’s just-”

“Brooke. Maurice will be here in a few minutes with my car. Tell him I said he could drive you home. Have a lovely day,” you interrupted him calmly. There was a pause. You raised your brow ever so slightly, and she exited this car with a quick apology. You slid in and took her place–your place– next to him, without a word.

“It’s not what you think. She just had her fitting after mine a-and I offered her lunch-”

“At our favorite spot,” you interrupted again, still too calmly.

“…Yes, but it’s just cuz I was cravin’ it-”

“And you didn’t leave a message to let me know she’d be with you. Nor did you think to let me know you were getting it so you could get some for me for later. Interesting.”

You could hear him stop breathing.

“And what was the fitting for, Michael? So she could be your date for tomorrow?”

“Wait. No, no you said-”

“You’re clueless. Bill, drive us home, please,” you asked evenly as you rolled the SUV’s partition halfway down. The fact that it was even up in the first place…You didn’t want to get into this in front of Bill, the situation already leaving you embarrassed. Fuck the food.

Unfortunately for Michael, your demeanor only egged him on. Because, yes. He knew that taking Brooke to your place wasn’t okay, and he knew offering her a ride home in his private car was disrespectful. He hadn’t expected you to be there, but that made it worse. You were so close to snapping, and he was so close to begging for it.

The car hadn’t even been fully brought to a stop before you were opening the door and yelling out a quick, “Thanks, Bill!” You intentionally let the door close in Michael’s face.

Michael couldn’t fight the shit-eating smirk that plastered across his face as he bid Bill a goodbye, the older man looking at him in pure confusion.

When he slowly slugged through the front door and walked the timid path to the dining room, savoring the tension, his breath was nearly taken away at the sight of you. You were fuming, your posture was unforgiving, hands clasped on the table like you were preparing to reprimand him, and you were beautiful.

“Sit down.”

His feet reacted before his mind could, and he sat in the chair directly across from you, waiting.

“Do you think this is a game to me?” you asked him in a tone so cool, his bones chilled.

“I’m not playin’ any game. I just thought it would be alright with you.”

Lie.

“Why would I be okay with knowing you’re still gettin’ her fitted for dresses and takin’ her to our favorite spot. Or with seein’ her in our car?”

“She’s my friend. I didn’t wanna uninvite her last minute.”

Lie.

“But you can invite her last minute? M’kay. And what exactly is she gonna be there for? To make me look like some side piece? To stroke your ego?”

To make you jealous, he wanted to say.

“To keep up appearances. She’s always been my date to these sorta things. I don’t wanna discard her,” he responded instead.

“You’re okay with discarding me in the process though? Do you see how fucked up that is? I’m your girlfriend. Or is this your way of getting rid of me?” you asked him, your anger cracking through your calm facade.

“She’s still coming. The press is expecting her. They’re expecting both of you. Q’s gonna be with us too, so it’ll look like a group thing,” he tried to amend.

“Then I guess I’ll be Q’s date, and you can prance around with the pretty white model all night,” you added with a shrug, pushing your chair out and walking away.

“You’re being a little excessive, don’t you think?” he asked with panic laced into each word. He hadn’t expected you to turn it onto him, and you could tell. If he’d be petty, so would you.

“I’m just doing what you’re doing. I’ll be in my office on the phone planning my date with Quincy. Make sure to give us some privacy,” you said with a wink.

He was livid.

If there was anything about Michael that he kept pretty well hidden, it was his jealousy. He was insecure, especially with all the eyes on him constantly, so jealousy was a given. He was constantly comparing himself to the greatest of the greats, trying his hardest to live up to or even surpass them. He had self-esteem issues that stemmed from his first moment of sentience. But this? You proudly announcing that you were going to take his producer, someone he considered a close friend as your date to his event? It wrecked him. And maybe he deserved it, but that didn’t mean he was taking this lying down.

So, he decided to take it up a notch.

The day of the event was hectic. The two of you had taken your flight from LA to New York ona red eye and were completely exhausted. You had only two hours to check in to your hotel and get some sleep before tending to your busy schedules . You were expected to meet at his stylists’ studio to get your hair and makeup done before they put you into your outfits for the evening.

Immediately upon arrival, Brooke was sitting in a chair getting her hair primped and curled, much to your own annoyance.

“Hey, you two! Me being Michael’s date won’t be awkward, right? He told me you were okay with it, but I promise I can back out if it makes things weird,” she asked with an anticipation that read that she wanted you to say it was all good.

“Well, he said I was okay with it!” you replied, trying to conceal the sarcasm. “Besides, I’m Quincy’s date tonight. It’s all good.”

She beamed a little too excitedly for your liking.

You didn’t really have the time nor energy to pay her mind, so you tried to allow the chaos of the dressing room to consume your attention. You tried.

Michael, on the other hand, took it upon himself to make you as jealous as he felt. He spent the entire time allowing the model to occupy his personal space. He laughed loudly at jokes that weren’t funny at all, brushed invisible hair out of her eyes, and drank iced coffee from her straw. He didn’t even like coffee. Yet, you still wouldn’t pay him any mind.

You were too busy actually reveling in seeing the bustling inner workings of the entertainment industry. You were successful, sure, but you would never in a million years get to this status on your own. You managed to even start enjoying yourself when Quincy came along and started giving you advice on show business. At one point, he took you to the side to give you a deeper talk not meant for all those ears.

“I understand he can be a lil’…stubborn. But you have to understand, he don’t know how to handle bein’ the most famous person in the world at only 25 years old. And imagine trying to navigate your first real relationship through it all. Now, I’m not sayin’ what he’s doin’ is okay, but give him some grace,” Quincy lectured.

“Q, I am. But it’s like he’s testin’ me. Like he’s testin’ my love, our relationship. He’s doin’ all this affectionate shi- stuff with her like i’m not sitting right there, I don’t understand why.” You almost sounded defeated.

“Listen, he’s used to everyone listenin’ to what he says. He’s around yes men more than he’s ever been around people who will tell it to him straight. You’re the one true person who doesn’t tiptoe around what you need to say to him. And he’s obviously sensitive. He didn’t tell me much, he really only wrote things out on notes for some lyrics, but being told no by you confused him. He was grateful for it, but a part of him felt rejected.” He sighed, realizing the conversation went a little too deep for the time.

“But that’s a conversation the two of you need to have. Now, I’m entertainin’ y’all’s game tonight, but don’t bring me in the middle of this type of stuff no more. Or Brooke. I’ma get on him about that too.”

You embraced his larger torso, your posture filled with gratitude for the words he offered you. The two of you returned to the busier area hand in hand, and you gave him a peck to his glistening forehead as you made your way to the snack table. You felt a few sets of eyes on you.

Michael and the model had seen the whole thing. His mood visibly shifted from playful, to full on anger, to unreadable within seconds. Those were his lips.

In that moment, he fought with himself to not use the ones attached to his own face disrespectfully as well.

Maybe she’d finally put me in my place, a voice in the very back of his mind croaked into his cranium.

The energy inside the black SUV the 7 of you — Michael, Quincy, Brooke, 3 security guards, and yourself — rode together was noticeably stiff.

Quincy and the model kept up most of the conversation, trying to get you and Michael to chime in here and there. You felt guilty for how awkward the two of you were making things seem, so you tried ribbing with your boyfriend. He basically iced you out.

The flashes upon arrival were enough to allow yourself to tune out the noise in your head. Your small group was ushered in quickly, accompanied by your security, and the secret backstage pathway gave you something to focus on.

Michael gave a heartfelt and beautiful speech to commemorate his record win, and he actually saved a piece in it to honor you. Your entirely being visibly relaxed and filled with unadulterated adoration.

As he finished up his message, he called for Quincy to join him on the stage as well. You gave Q a hug and tried to kiss him on the cheek— the quick and awkward action ended in the peck landing in between his jaw and neck— and applauded cheerfully. As Quincy hugged Michael, you could see his face flash with a fleeting expression of discomfort that he quickly covered up.

When you all converged backstage, floating on the high of seeing a loved one be honored with such a notable prize, the room buzzed with a glittery noise of excited chatter. You kept trying to break away from conversations so that you could be by your boyfriend’s side, but he was engrossed in conversations left and right.

People were asking you about why he’d brought Brooke as his date if you were there, why her outfit matched his more than your own did, why you were letting him take photos with her kissing him. The last question snapped you out of your dissociation, as you followed the questioner’s eyes and saw the scene a few feet away from you.

He was gripping her by the waist and kissing her a little too closely to her jaw, throwing you a smirk as he caught your eyes. You swore you turned physically green with jealousy.

There was something you used to do whenever Michael would cross lines early on in your relationship. He was new to dating seriously, and you were new to being taken seriously, so you had to explain to him what was or wasn’t right to do in them, especially since he was used to taking whatever affection came his way as a star.

After one of his more particularly excessive displays of insecurity and jealousy, you came up with a method to keep Michael and yourself…grounded. You’d hold fingers up on your hand— or hands—, depending on how many seconds of leeway you were giving him before your mood soured, and you would put one down every second, essentially counting down how much time he had left.

In the beginning, you’d give him ten, allowing him time to get used to the action. Your default after the familiarity was five. You hadn’t needed to go lower than that, ever. He’d usually get the hint at the mets sight of your hand raised.

Right now, discreetly to everyone else’s eyes, but very visibly to his, you raised three fingers. He smirked and hugged her closer to him. You put one down. He briefly parted from your gaze as your second finger went down, to make eye contact with a camera. He faced you again, pointed to his cheek, and she gave him a kiss there. You put your last finger down, and watched with burning fury as he laughed heartily.

You politely trudged through the group of onlookers and perched your lips to Michael’s ear.

“It’s time to go.” The decisiveness in your low whisper sent a shiver down his spine that he covered up with a fake cough.

“All right, guys! Thank you again so much for being apart of my success, but I must leave now. I have a long flight ahead of me tomorrow!” he announced with enthusiasm. True enthusiasm. And with a lie — your flight wasn’t until Thursday.

He gave out hugs and handshakes, told Brooke to hold onto Quincy’s arm, and the four of you, protected by security, left the venue. You rode in separate vehicles this time; you with Michael, Brooke with two security guards, and Q with his own personal driver.

You said not a word to Michael as your vehicle trekked through large crowds and traffic. His arm was caged between one of your hands with a tight grip, and he shifted uncomfortable in his seat 22 times thoughout the ride.

As the two of you made your way to your room— walking through the vacant hotel that his team made sure would be completely unoccupied for your stay— you could hear nothing but the aggressive clunk of your chunky heels against the pristine marble floor.

You entered your suite first, already having your keycard prepared for entry, and sat down on one of the lounge chairs. Michael approached you hesitantly, but still very much excited.

“Explain yourself.”

Your voice was so direct, it even scared you a bit.

“I have nothin’ to explain. Why’d you wanna go?” he asked, feigning confusion.

“I’m not asking. Explain yourself,” you repeated. Your patience was wearing thin, and your body was already getting hot. You decided to remove your shoes, jewelry, and dress, ignoring the way Michael’s eyes shamelessly trailed over the way your tight boyshorts and camisole hugged your body.

“I don’t need to explain myself to anyone.” He invaded your personal space, and the scent of his cologne made you dizzy.

“Who do you think you’re talkin’ to like that? And who the hell do you think you are? Kissin’ up on some girl for photos when I’m right there, neglected. Ignoring me when I give you my warning count. What, you don’t respect me no more?” you spewed at him, pushing your pointed, manicured finger into his chest with every word.

“She’s not some girl,” he replied with defiance laced into his tone.

You wanted him out.

“Oh, I forgot! Your date. Your real girlfriend. Go head ‘n call her up then! Go stay with her at her hotel! I’m done with the fucking games. Was this your goal? You wanted me to snap? Well, there you go. I’m DONE.” you yelled in a fit of anger.

“Me? You kissed Quincy! Multiple times! You were holdin’ his hand and you kissed him on the neck in front of everyone!” he yelled back.

“First of all, you were the one acting like a damn crybaby all weekend. You started the bullshit with the loud phone calls and asking a supermodel to be your date instead of me! Then you took her to our lunch place! On top of that, you had the girl nearly in your lap in our car, without even knowing I’d see, and then you continued to bring her as a date! I was giving Q a platonic kiss on the cheek, as I’d do to anyone I see as super close to me. And the ‘neck kiss’ was a fuckin’ accident! We moved too quick, and I missed his cheek! But thanks for letting me know you considered the ones you gave Brooke as more than platonic,” you said as you got more up in his face.

“Don’t start shit and not know how to finish it, Michael. It’s pathetic.”

He looked at you in a mix of bewilderment and lust. Pathetic, he echoed in his mind and clasped his hands in front of his groin very conspicuously.

“This is fuckin’ turnin’ you on? Seriously? ‘N you have nothin’ to say? I’m hurt and you’re tryna cover up a boner. Wow.” You pushed past him and picked your belongings off the floor.

His eyes followed your body as you retreated from him, and he licked his lips at the sight of you bent over.

Facing him once more, you crossed your arms against your chest, and his gaze eyed the way your breasts visibly at the contact.

“Go.” He blinked at you, his brain seemingly unable to comprehend the command.

“Michael. Leave. Now. Go be with your dream girl,” you said as you grabbed onto his slender arm, needing him to your suite’s door.

His feet followed yours until his brain caught up, and then he planted them harshly onto the floor. You yanked and he didn’t budge.

“No.” His voice came out with such intensity, you nearly doubled over.

“I’m not asking you. Get the fuck out, Michael. I don’t want you near me right now.” You were shoving him out now, having dropped his arm and stomping behind him before you could stop yourself. “You don’t respect me.” Push. “You don’t take me seriously.” Push. “You probably fucking hate me.” Push.

Michael started to feel guilty. Had he really made you feel like that? He just wanted to work you up a bit, but this wasn’t what he meant.

“No, what?” His voice shook with regret.

You stopped and leaned your forehead against his back, taking in a huge breath.

“Then fucking explain yourself!” you demanded, lifting your head up to look at him as he turned around to face you.

“I don’t- I…” He took a deep breath. “Everyone looks to me for answers. They see me as a leader, as their authority, as a deity of sorts. As flattering as it is, I don’t want that! I want to be led sometimes. I want someone to take control of me. ‘N I love when you do! But I want more. I’m selfish. I’m greedy. I want to push your buttons and test your control with me. I dream about you making me do things for your pleasure. I crave for you to put me in my place and make me beg for you because I want to feel like I don’t deserve you. I don’t deserve you.”

He grabbed onto your hands in an act of surrender and continued.

“Everything I did was wrong, I know that. That was the point. I felt rejected that mornin’ because you told me to stop. Then I wanted to make you feel bad because I felt bad. And I kept goin’ because-” He audibly gulped. “B-because…” He let go of your hands and slid them down your bare thighs, cupping the backs of them as he drooped down to his knees. His fingers left goosebumps on your legs in their wake.

“Punish me. Please. I deserve it. ‘N I’m so sorry. Please forgive me. I do respect you, and I do take you seriously.” He pressed a kiss to your left knee. “‘N I could never, ever hate you. You mean more to me than anything, by light years.” He was looking up at you from his position at your feet, eyes full of sorrow, sensuality, and pure love. You finally spoke.

“Get up.”

“N-no. Please, I don’t wanna go. *mwah*” He started kissing any skin he could reach; the tops of your feet, your shins, your thighs.

“I’m sorry. I don’t love her. I don’t love anyone that way but you!”

“I said get up.” Your voice was still surprisingly even, considering how many emotions were flooding through you in the moment.

“Baby-” You grabbed him by his sequined collar and yanked him with more strength than you meant to.

“Don’t make me say it again,” you nearly whispered.

He was on his feet in an instant, his head nearly colliding with yours at the swift movement. You let go of his collar and walked over to your suitcase, searching for something. You found the item and walked over to him with a leather belt in your hands.

Setting it down on the trunk at the end of one of the two beds in the room, you climbed onto the furniture, feeling the mattress sink beneath you. Your legs dangled over the side of the bed and you kicked them back and forth menacingly.

“You’re sorry? Show me, then. ‘Cause I don’t see it. All I see in front of me is a boy so selfish that he’d rather be a brat and hurt his own girlfriend’s feelings than say he wanted to be used.” Your tone was harsh, but you didn’t care. He wanted a punishment? He was getting it your way.

“Yes, I’m a selfish brat. H-how should I apologize? What do you want me to do?” he asked cautiously, eyeing the belt in front of you.

“Figure it out.” Your voice came out flat.

His face contorted into one of panic and need. He didn’t know what to do, but he needed this. He needed you. For the second time that night, he sunk to his knees, but this time, he started crawling towards you like a dehydrated man in the desert seeking water.

The absolute hunger in his eyes very slightly chipped at your resolve. You’d never felt more wanted in your life, and it was just by the unfiltered look in his eyes, which never left yours.

You could see him plan out his next move before he acted. He removed his shoes, socks, and stood up and took off his jeans, looking at you silently for permission before he even unzipped them. He then removed the sequined coat, and he was left in a plain t-shirt and boxers.

He met you back on his knees, and resumed kissing you from the feet up, like before. Every peck that met your hot skin was followed by an, “I’m sorry” or, “You’re perfect” or, “I adore you.”

His actions quickly became frantic. You weren’t responding at all, and he was getting nervous.

“Am I doing good?” he asked, basically begging you to say yes.

“Eh,” was your quick witted response. You were riding the high of the once cocky superstar now begging you to take control of him and accept his apology for being bad.

“‘M sorry. Please, can you spread your legs a bit? Wanna show you…”

You obliged, secretly craving for some sort of relief. You were pent up.

“Thank you.” He continued kissing up and between your thighs, licking them and whimpering like a wounded animal. He was getting closer and closer to your now pulsing heat, and an idea you had earlier sprinted to the direction of your mind as soon as his tongue darted to your clothed core.

“No. Take off your boxers ‘n get on the bed.”

Dazed, he followed your command and stripped himself of his undergarments, feeling slightly embarrassed by how visibly hard he was now.

“Get close to the top of it, take off your shirt, and put your arms up.”

He looked at you shocked, hesitating.

“Do I need to repeat myself?” you challenged with a raise of your brow.

“No, ma’am. ‘M sorry,” was his response as he obliged.

“That’s what I thought.”

You retrieved the belt from the trunk and slapped it intimidatingly against your palm as you paced in front of the bed. Michael’s arms were suspended above him on a myriad of pillows.

With steps as light as a ballerina’s, you walked up to the side of the bed he was on and leaned over his slender frame.

“Do you wanna touch me?” you asked lightly, a coyness drizzling from the question.

“Yes, of course. Th-that’s all I wanna do right now,” he responded immediately, like he wanted to give you the right answer. He did. You straddled his torso, making sure not to let your lower body touch his burning one at all, and began wrapping the belt around his wrists.

“Good. You can’t.” The disappointment that flooded his face was only more encouragement for you. You were on a power trip now.

“Please? Pretty please, I’ll do anythin’,” he pleaded.

“I know you will. You’re gonna do everything I say, understand? Then I’ll decide if you even deserve to touch me,” you quipped, tilting his face up to meet your eyes with your index finger. He was pouting.

“Okay.” His eyes trailed straight down to the inside of your tank top, and his eyes practically bulged out of their sockets.

“You look very pretty, by the way. Love this top on you,” he complimented in the most seductive tone you’d ever heard him use. You ignored how his voice made your heart skip two beats and mumbled out a “Hmm, thank you.”

You took your manicured nails and scratched down his chest just enough to welt them temporarily.

“A-ahh!” he yelped in pain— you felt his dick twitch —and pleasure.

“Aww, what’s the matter baby?” you fake coddled him.

“That…it hurt,” Michael responded in a way that sounded like he was trying to convince himself of the fact.

“But you liked it though.” You looked at him pretending to be dumbfounded.

“Yes,” he breathed out, as if you’d asked him a question.

Leaning towards his face, you tilted your head in a way that signaled you were going to kiss him. He tilted his own head and closed his eyes in anticipation, only to be met with a sharp nibble to his neck.

“P-please!” He had no idea what he was pleading for.

His wavering tone concerned you just a bit.

“What’s your color?” you asked him seriously.

“Green. Bright green. Really, really green..” He was having the time of his life, believe it or not.

“‘Kay. Lemme know if it’s too much. I care about you, even when I can’t fuckin’ stand you,” you reassured him.

Placing your hand on his neck, you began administering bites to his collarbones, feeling egged on every time he cried out.

“Mmm. I-i’m sorry. Please, I need you,” he began chanting over and over. You ignored him each time.

You noticed his eyes close in pleasure, and that just simply would not do for you. You choked him hard.

“Pay attention to me. I never gave you permission to look away,” you nearly yelled at him. You loosened your grip when his eyes started to unfocus.

Fighting down a fit of coughs, he apologized with a strained and weak, “I’m sorry, angel.”

As you started crawling down his body, you felt something wet and hard graze your ass cheek, and Michael genuinely screeched.

“Ahhh! M-my god…” Michael whined desperately.

You reached down and grabbed his neglected dick, and wiped the precum from the slit on his tip, bringing it up to your mouth and tasting it.

“Mmm, is that for me?” you teased.

“Y-es. All for you.” He was visibly trying his hardest to obey you and wait for your commands, but at the feeling of your warm finger in his flesh, and the sight of you tasting him just because you could, he wanted nothing more than for you to fuck him into oblivion.

“It better be.” You reached down to his erect shaft and gripped him very slightly, your palm almost ghosting over it. You decided on a tortuously slow stroke, from balls to tip, as you looked him deep in the eyes.

“Aww, you look so needy, baby. You want me to move faster, huh? Stroke you harder? Bet you can’t even form a coherent thought. Poor thing,” you said condescendingly.

“‘M not needy, a-and I can think- ahh,” he protested.

“Yes you are. Look how hard you’re trying to not move into my hand. I’m barely even touching you, baby. Why you sweatin’?”

You knew he pretended to hate it, but he grew attached to how it sounded coming from you in particular.

You groped harder and stroked just a bit faster.

“Unless you don’t like this? Which is it?” you demanded. You loved playing this mind game.

“U-um. I do li- ah!- like it..” he whined.

Stroking even faster, you demanded once again,

“So you’re needy. Say it.”

“I’m needy!” he wailed when you slowed down for his delayed response.

You squeezed his dick harshly.

“And don’t you fucking lie about it again,” you ordered.

You wanted to do more, you really did, but the sight of him completely naked and surrendered to your will while he looked at you as if your existence was the answer to his life… You needed him, bad. But he still hadn’t earned your forgiveness.

Letting go of his leaking boner and straddling his thigh, you quietly pleaded with yourself to not give off just how horny you were, as well.

“Sit up and watch me,” you instructed, grateful that your tone didn’t expose the desire growing between your legs.

He immediately obliged, and whined as soon as you began grinding.

“Y-yes, please use me. Oh, God!” he cried out, breathless. “You’re so pretty, oh my- I love you.”

“F-fuck, baby. You like when I use you this much, hmm? You look so good like this.” You could feel his thigh flex and its tendon hit your clit in just the right way. “A-aah! Fuuuuuck. Y-you’re so pathetic, just laying under me fully naked w-while I have clothes on. Just watching me and not even being able to t-touch me.”

“Yes. I’m so pathetic,” he mewled.

You gripped onto his neck to steady yourself better and rode his thigh faster and harder, the pent-up tension making your orgasm approach faster than you were ready for.

“And you’re f-fucking clueless. Can’t see when a supermodel is so openly hitting on you in front of your own girlfriend.” You choked him briefly at the memory.

“S-so clueless. Just stupid. I only exist for…I only exist for your pleasure.” He’s always wanted to say that, but feared it would’ve been too much of a turn off. You seemed to enjoy it though, since you started humping his leg so hard that he was sure you’d be bruised.

“The fuck you do,” was the last coherent thing you said for the next few moments.

You mumbled something that didn’t make sense, and crushed your lips to his. He nearly cried at the contact.

Your moans were spilling into his mouth much faster now, his sign that you were going to come undone on his thigh…after using him. He could cum with you at the thought.

“F-me…have to…” tumbled from your mouth. You were losing yourself.

“Baby? What do you need from me? I’ll do anything for you,” he responded, concerned.

“Wanna fuck, Mikey. F-fuck.” You showed yourself to a stop. Your thighs were trembling while you balanced yourself on the mattress on your knees as you took your top and boyshorts off.

“‘M so wet. Need you so bad,” you whined. You missed him. You wasted no time stalking him and sinking down into his shaft. He stretched you wide, even more so since it’d been a bit since you were intimate.

“Ohmygod ohmygod plea- Want you closer please!” Michael nearly sobbed. You laid flat against his chest, your breasts swished between your bodies.

“P-put your arms around me. Hug me close,” you instructed. The gangly man lowered his arms, still bound by the wrists, and squeezed you close like you were a piece of coal that could turn into a diamond. You guys would share skin in this moment, if you could. You looked up at him, your anger long subsided.

“I love you so much,” you declared passionately. He looked like he was going to cry.

“I love you, too. Can I please kiss you?” he inquired. You puckered your lips and he met them with fervor.

You began riding his dick at a controlled pace. Every grind brought him straight to your g-spot from this angle, and you wanted to last long enough to let him cum with you. You weren’t going to let him cum if he didn’t in time with you, but you wanted to forgive him.

Getting lost in the pleasure of the kiss and the friction to your cervix, he began meeting your grinds with gentle thrusts. Michael picked up the aggression once you’d dropped your head back onto his chest and ground him harder than before, a pool of drool sliding toward his nipple.

The room sounded like a porn studio. It was a mess of slapping skin and moans and cries out to higher powers. The bed was creaking beneath you so loudly, you both internally feared that it break. If the hotel was occupied by anybody one floor above or below you, they’d have heard it all.

“Michael. God. You’re s-so deep. Could ride your perfect dick forever… And you moan like a- song. Your voice is so pretty. You’re so pretty…” you cooed. You could feel that ball of tension build up inside of you again, and every push to your g-spot felt like it would be the one to unravel it.

“You’re pretty. Mmm, if you keep t-talking like that I’m gonna cum, angel,” he warned.

“I want you to, baby. You did so good for me. So good. F-fuck. I…My god, I can feel you everywhere. Wanna feel you cum in me. I’m yours, claim me. Please, I need it.” You’ve never said please like that to him a day in your life, but you were desperate. You wanted the proof of your mutual connection and relationship in any part of your body it could reach.

“I’ll give it to you. Gon-na cum inside because you’re mine. Please, cum with- ahh! I’m gonna…” he rambled.

Your hand was sandwiched between your bodies as you rubbed your clit and rocked your hips into his, chasing your high. Your vision was getting spotty, and you could hear his heart pounding hard enough to break his ribs through his chest. He was fully fucking up into you from below, but you didn’t even have half a mind to stop him.

“Baby, please…” he whined. The sheer yearning in his voice completely undid you. Squeezing his torso with all of your strength, you ground your clit against his pelvis and let his dick slide in and out of you as your orgasm suffocated you. You moaned and drooled and cried all over Michael’s chest, and you felt a warm, sticky substance paint the inside of your walls just moments after. He screamed out your name like it was a magical spell.

You maneuvered his sex out of you, and both of you watched as your shared cum mingled onto the hotel blanket below you. He bit his lip.

You were holding onto each other for dear life. The orgasms meant much more than just getting one off, they were shared apologies and washed away regrets. It took a moment for you to realize he was sniffling, too.

“I love you. I adore and cherish you. I’ll never do that again. You mean more than everything to me. Nothin’ I did was warranted, and I know now to be less selfish,” he apologized, his voice hoarse.

“I forgive you. I apologize for my part as well. Thank you for…taking all of that. Even though I was goin’ easy, still.”

“That was you goin’ easy? I’m terrified for your enemies,” he joked.

“Oh, yes. My cold shoulder is very threatening,” you ribbed. “Oh! Lift your arms up, baby. Lemme untie you.” You’d completely forgotten about his restraint. “And you didn’t complain once. Good job.”

“Thank you…” he replied shyly as you freed his wrists. “Honestly? I thought you were gonna hit me with it- the belt. That would be very…Can we try that one time?” he questioned.

Your body reacted almost immediately to the idea.

“Michael, don’t tempt me. I’ll make you go for a round two right now.”

“You can make me do whatever you want…You own me,” he challenged.

You never backed down from a challenge. Regaining your strength, you prepared yourselves to explore each others’ limits for the second time that night.

The harsh words, petty actions, and hurt feelings from the past weekend were all amended. You were each others’ only and true loves, just fighting to stay together in a world that was actively trying to turn everyone against him and tear you down. But, Michael never wanted anything more but for his entire being to be consumed by you.

To think this all started because Michael wanted to eat you like the last supper.

the marble beneath your bare feet is cool against your skin, a welcome break from the thick summer heat pressing against the city outside your floor to ceiling windows. it’s well past midnight. the apartment is quiet, the only light coming from the skyline beyond the glass and the glow of your phone resting on the coffee table. a text lights up the screen.

from your new boyfriend. he’s three time zones away on a business trip, but somehow still making time to check in before bed. “goodnight love you.❤️”

you take a slow sip from your wine glass, thumbs hovering as you begin to type, when an incoming phone call appears on the top of your screen.

Jaafar Jackson.

you always know how this starts and how it ends. you press the red button to decline before returning to the text message from your boyfriend.

you tap out a quick, hollow “goodnight🙂, love you too,” and hit send, letting the screen go dark a second later.

you place your phone back on the coffee table with a quiet clink, your hand staying there for a moment. your fingers trace the cool glass as your eyes remain fixed on the screen.

five seconds. ten.

the silence of your apartment feels almost mocking. you take your last sip of wine, the liquid doing nothing to soothe the unease in your stomach. you know he’s not gonna stop at one call, he never does.

the phone lights up again, cutting through the dark hue of the living room. 

Jaafar Jackson.

each ring feels heavier than the last, the sound echoing through the apartment until it’s impossible to ignore. your heart stutters, a painful jump in your chest. 

you stare at the name, you think about the gala last week. the way his eyes never left you even with his girlfriend conversing next to him. how his hand lingered on your back for just a second longer after helping you out the car.

the way his mouth unraveled you, taking his time with your body the very second the doors to your public lives were closed for the night.

your phone vibrates again for the third time. one, two, then a text.

why are you ignoring me?

the audacity of it pulls a shaky, breathless laugh from your throat. you’re the one who does everything right, the one who keeps the family image pristine. but looking at that screen, the image feels like a costume you’re desperate to peel off.

you don’t reach for the phone. Instead, you turn toward the sound of the elevator chime echoing faintly from the foyer. a private, floor access ping that shouldn’t be happening at 2:00 AM.

your breath hitches. you haven’t even moved, but you know the elevator doors are sliding open. you know he’s here. you walk toward the foyer, the floor of your penthouse apartment cold beneath your bare feet, your silk robe flowing behind you like a shadow. 

you don't have to look through the peephole to know who is standing on the other side. you reach for the handle, your knuckles turning white around it as guilt and adrenaline fight for control of your next move. you click the locks open. the door swings wide, and there he is—Jaafar, looking exactly as he did in your thoughts, his dark jacket rumpled, his eyes dark and hungry.

“Jaafar,” your eyes drag up and down his tall frame. “why are you here?” 

"You didn't answer," he says, his voice low, rough that vibrates right through you. 

He doesn't wait for an invitation–he just steps inside, closing the door behind him and locking it with a sharp, final click. "Stop pretending you don't want this."

his hands meet both sides of your face, forcing you to look at him. you remove his hands from your face. “no, no, we said we were done with this,” you whined.

your voice trembling as you stepped back, trying to put space between your body and his overwhelming presence.

Jaafar didn’t move. he stood right where he was, his hands dropping to his sides, but his dark eyes never left yours. “we did say that,” Jaafar murmured, his voice incredibly calm, yet entirely laced with a quiet type of certainty. 

he took a single step forward, easily cutting the distance you had just tried to make. “we said it last month, too. and the month before that. But here we are.”

“J, please,” you whispered, your hands pressing against his chest to stop his advance. 

through the thin material of his shirt, you could feel the frantic, heavy thud of his heartbeat, matching the uneven rhythm in your own chest. 

“my boyfriend... he just–he’s coming back in two days. and your girl, Jaafar. she’s going to start wondering where you are.” at the mention of your partners, his jaw clenched, a flash of pure possessiveness darkened his eyes. 

he didn’t back down. instead, his long fingers wrapped around your wrists, gently but firmly pulling your hands away from his chest, only to pin them flat against the cool wall behind you.

“I swear on everything I love,” he leans down to whisper in your ear. “I’m not leaving you alone. ever.”

 he leaned in closer, his warmth completely erasing the chill of the marble floors beneath your bare feet. 

the scent of outside and his expensive cologne filled your senses, making your head spin. “let them wonder,” he whispered, his breath hot against your lips. “I tried to stay away.”

“fuck, I tried. But watching you sit next to him at that gala, watching him touch you like you belong to him when I know exactly how you taste... it’s driving me insane.” A soft, defeated gasp escaped you.

you wanted to keep the ‘princess’ demeanor  your family raised you to have. you wanted to do everything right, to keep the pristine name on the company clean. 

but the moment Jaafar tilted his head, his gaze dropping to the loose silk of your robe where it had parted slightly at your collarbone, your body tension completely dissolved.

“We’re terrible,” you breathed, your eyes fluttering shut as his lips brushed against the sensitive skin of your jawline.

“I know baby,” he muttered against your skin, his hands sliding down from your wrists to grip your waist, his touch heavy and demanding. “but you don't want anyone else. say it to me.”

he pressed his body fully against yours, the contrast of his leather jacket against your soft silk robe making you shiver. he trailed a path of slow, agonizing hot kisses down the column of your neck, finding the exact spot that made your toes curl against the cold floor.

“say it,” he whispered again, his voice a commanding growl that vibrated straight through your core.

 “I don’t,” you confessed, your fingers finally tangling into his dark hair, pulling him closer as the last shred of your guilt was swallowed by the dark. 

“I don’t want anyone else.” 

Jaafar didn't waste another second. his mouth crashed onto yours, hungry, capturing your lips with a desperate intensity that told you exactly how much he had been starving for you. 

a quiet whine caught in your throat, but he swallowed it right down, his hands sliding beneath the silk of your robe to press his warm palms flat against your plump ass, lifting you effortlessly as the rest of the world completely faded away.

he lifted you so easily it made your head spin, your legs naturally wrapping around his waist to keep your balance. 

the silk of your robe bunched up around your hips, leaving nothing but the heat of his bare palms pressing into your skin. you buried your face in the crook of his neck, breathing in the scent of him, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his chest.

Jaafar didn't move toward the bedroom immediately. he didn't have the patience for it, and neither did you. instead, he carried you the few steps back toward the wide expanse of the living room, backing you up until the edge of the large kitchen island hit the back of your thighs. 

he set you down on the cool dark colored quartz countertop, the sudden chill of the stone making you gasp against his mouth.

he pulled back just an inch, his breathing heavy, his eyes scanning your face in the dim light of the city skyline. his hands slid up from your thighs, tracing the curves of your waist before slowly parting your silk robe. 

he pushed the fabric off your shoulders, letting it pool around your elbows, exposing you completely to his gaze. 

"beautiful," he muttered, his voice lower than you’d ever heard it. "so damn beautiful."

"Jaafar, the blinds," you whispered breathlessly, your eyes darting toward the massive floor to ceiling windows. 

the entire city was laid out before you, a million glowing lights, and even though you were stories above the world, the vulnerability of the open glass made your skin crawl.

"nobody can see you," he murmured, his thumbs wiping the faint smear of your lipgloss from the corner of his mouth before trailing down to your chin. "only me pretty.”

he stepped closer, fitting himself perfectly between your thighs. the heavy fabric of his jacket brushed against your bare skin. 

he reached down, unbuttoning his coat with impatient fingers and tossing it onto the floor behind him, followed quickly by his shirt, until he was just as bare as you were.

when his chest pressed against yours, the heat was immediate. you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him back down to you. the kiss this time wasn't just desperate, it was necessary. 

his tongue tangled with yours, deep and demanding, claiming you in a way your boyfriend never could. 

his hand slid down your stomach, his long fingers tracing lower, past the dip of your hip until he found the center of your heat. you whimpered into his mouth. his fingers slow and deliberate, breaking down the very last of your defense. 

he knew exactly what you liked, exactly how to make you forget your own name, your relationship, and the image you wore during the day.

"look at me," Jaafar whispered, pulling his mouth away, his breath coming in sharp gasps.

you opened your eyes, your vision slightly blurred, locking onto his dark, intense gaze. 

his hand never stopped moving, driving you closer and closer to the edge. suddenly he stops, “get on your knees.” with that he carries you off the counter and you obey his orders.

the cool marble floor met your knees, a shock to your system that did absolutely nothing to fuel the fire burning through your veins. 

your silk robe pooled around you, completely discarded as you looked up at him. Jaafar stood over you, towering in the dim, amber glow of the city skyline. his chest was heaving, abs flexed, his gaze dark and entirely consuming as he watched you look up at him from the floor. 

 "princess" of the company, the golden girl, boss to everyone around her, was completely unraveled at his feet. just for him.

"Good girl," he rasped, the low vibration of his voice sending a violent shiver straight down your spine.

his long fingers tangled into your hair, with a firm, possessive grip that tilted your head back, forcing you to keep your eyes locked onto his. he unbuttoned his jeans with a slow, calculation, the metallic click of his belt hitting the ground, echoing like a sin in the quiet penthouse. 

when he freed himself, your breath hitched, the reality of what you were doing crashing over you all over again. 

but there was no turning back. especially when he was looking at you like this.

"take it, love," he commanded softly, his voice dropping into a whisper. "show me how much you missed me."

you didn't hesitate. you leaned forward, your hands gripping his toned thighs for balance as your lips parted. 

the moment your mouth slid over his length, a deep groan tore from the back of Jaafar's throat. 

his fingers tightened in your hair, his hips giving a subtle, involuntary push forward as he let his eyes flutter shut for a fraction of a second.

you worked your mouth down his length, your tongue swirling over the tip, learning the shape of him all over again. every stroke of your tongue had him breathing heavier, his grip in your hair turning rougher as he began to guide your pace.

"fuck," he growled, his hips starting to roll in a slow, demanding rhythm against your lips. "you're perfect. so damn perfect." you moan as you graze your tongue over his slit. 

he pushed deeper, testing the limits of your throat, making a choked whine catch in your chest. the sound only seemed to drive him crazier. he began to pace himself against you, his breathing turning into harsh gasps that filled the empty kitchen. 

you looked up through your lashes, seeing the pleasure etched into his sharp jawline, his veins projecting against his neck as he fought to keep his control.

you paused for a fraction of a second, drawing in a shaky breath against his heat before your tongue began tracing tight circles around his tip, all while your hands slid down to firmly stroke the rest of his shaft. 

you then lower your tongue down his length to wrap your mouth around his balls, pulling a deep, ragged moan from his chest. 

you were sure he was done for. but Jaafar was never one to let you do all the work. tonight, he wanted to feel every single bit of you.

suddenly, his hands moved your head back. then, he effortlessly moved your body back up off the floor. 

your knees scraped slightly against the marble, but before you could even register the movement, he turned you around, pressing your stomach flat against the cool kitchen island.

the transition was so fast it made your head spin. your hands scrambled for something to hold on the smooth stone, your back arching automatically as Jaafar stepped up directly behind you, his heat pressing against your bare backside.

"J—" you gasped, the word cut short as he gripped your hip with one hand, his fingers digging into your skin hard enough that you knew it would leave a mark. 

a mark your boyfriend wouldn't see for two days, but one that belonged entirely to the man standing behind you right now. he reached down, his fingers sliding between your thighs to find you completely slick and ruined for him. 

he teased the sensitive bundle of nerves for just a second, pulling a loud, breathless sob from your lips. you're so wet for me, pretty," he whispered against your ear, his teeth grazing your earlobe, making your whole body tremble. 

"look at the windows. look at the city while you take all of me." your eyes flew open, staring out at the glass windows. the city lights blurred into a haze of gold and white. 

you felt the head of his length press against your entrance, and before you could even catch a breath, Jaafar drove his hips forward, burying himself inside you in one deep, relentless stroke. 

a loud, shattered cry broke from your lips, echoing off the high ceilings of the penthouse. it was too much, too deep, filling you so completely that your fingers clawed at the edge of the countertop.

"oh, g-god... J, please," you whimpered, your head dropping onto your arms. 

"I got you," he growled, his pace instantly picking up. he didn't even give you time to adjust. he locked his hand onto your hip, using it as leverage as he began to drive into you with a punishing rhythm.

slap. the raw friction filled sound of his skin hitting yours filled the room, competing with the desperate sound of your joint breathing. every time he slammed into you, your body shifted forward against the quartz, the cold stone against your front half and the liquid fire spreading through your lower half. 

he was relentless, his chest pressing into your back with every stroke, his sweat dripping onto your bare shoulders. his hand meets your ass in a harsh strike.

“Jaafarrr,” you dragged out his name in a desperate sob. you wrapped one arm back, your fingers desperately finding his thigh, trying to anchor yourself as the pleasure began to build into something unfamiliar. 

Jaafar felt the tight, rhythmic flexing of your walls around him, and it broke whatever restraint he had left. His growls turned feral, his movements losing all their smooth cadence, turning rough and frantic.

"look at me," he demanded, his voice a strained and broken rasp. “he fuck you like this?” 

you could barely force your head up, attempting to twist your neck to look back at him. his face was a mask of pure, unadulterated lust, his eyes locked onto yours as he delivered three hard, deep thrusts that had you screaming into the empty apartment.

“baby ohmygoodness,” you moan. "you're mine," he choked out, his fingers bruising your hip as your joining escalated to that breaking point. "tell me... tell me you're mine."

"i'm yours! Jaafar, i'm yours!" you cried as a heavy rush of wetness spilled between your thighs, your vision completely blurring into stars as your body clamped down around him, the climax crashing over you in violent waves.

“shit!” Jaafar shouted, feeling the sudden trickle on his skin. hearing your undone cries was the final trigger. with a loud, roar against your neck, Jaafar buried himself as deep as he could go, his entire frame shuddering violently as he released himself inside you. 

he held you tightly against the counter, his chest heaving against your back, pinning you down until the very last drop of his cum filled you up. the only sound was the heavy, synchronized gasps of air filtering through your lungs.

slowly, Jaafar pulled out, a soft gasp escaping you at the sudden loss of his warmth. your legs felt like absolute water, buckling the moment he let go of your waist.

 he caught you before you could fall, gently turning you around and leaning you back against the island. he drops down onto his knees, lifting your left leg on his shoulder.

without warning, he licks a strip up your inner thigh, the sudden heat of his tongue making your entire body jerk.

you let out a sharp gasp, your fingers instantly clawing into his dark hair for balance as he held your leg securely over his broad shoulder. Jaafar didn't give you a single second to recover. He leaned in closer, his hot breath fanning against your skin before his mouth pressed directly against the center of your ache, his tongue invoking a deep, wet stroke that had your hips tilting helplessly into his face.

"Jaaf—Jaafar I can’t," you whimpered, your head tossing back as your vision already began to blur.

he didn't answer, entirely focused on unraveling you. his long fingers dug into the flesh of your left thigh, holding you open and steady as his mouth completely worshipped you, his tongue moving with a relentless rhythm that drove you straight to the edge. again.

every flick of his tongue was intentional, tracing over your sensitive skin and lapping up the slick wetness that was pooling for him. you tried to swallow your moans. a string of high pitched whimpers broke from your lips, your thighs trembling violently against his chest.

"J, stop... plea–" you begged, your knuckles turning white as you yanked at his hair, trying to pull him away before you completely lost it.

instead of stopping, Jaafar let out a muffled growl against your skin, his hands gripping your hips even tighter to lock you in place.

 he increased the pace, his tongue flattening out to deliver those deep and heavy strokes right where you needed it most, while his thumb found your hip bone, pressing down hard.

a coiled spring in your chest that suddenly snapped.

you cried out as a heavy rush of wetness spilled between your thighs, for the second time. your leg shook on his shoulder, your entire frame locked in the paralyzing aftershocks of the release.

Jaafar didn't miss a beat. he drank down every drop of your release, his tongue lingering to clean you up with a smug, heavy satisfaction before he finally let your leg slide down from his shoulder.

you collapsed back against the dark quartz of the kitchen island, your breath coming in ragged gasps, your chest heaving. your body felt completely spent and overly sensitive. 

he didn't say a word as he reached down, picking up your discarded silk robe from the floor. he shook it out, draping it over your trembling shoulders and pulling the straps closed over your flushed, marked skin. 

without a word, he turned, gathering his shirt and leather jacket from the floor. He slipped them on, completely transforming back into the untouchable public figure the world knew, leaving no trace of the beast he had been just moments ago.

his fingers lingered on your collarbone, his thumb gently wiping away a stray tear from your cheek. he picks you up bridal style, bringing you to your bedroom. he gently places you on your king size bed, he looked down at you, his dark eyes still intense, but the chaotic hunger was quickly replaced by a sudden tenderness. Jaafar give you a soft kiss, it was deeper–more warmer than the ones you shared before. almost like he wanted to tell you something. “call me in the morning?”

“you’re not staying?” you look up at him, trying to catch his hands to pull him back to you. Jaafar shakes his head no, a feeling of disappointment creeps over you. he places another quick kiss on your forehead.

he steps back and shuts your light off. “goodnight pretty,” he whispered as he shut your room door.

he walked back into the living room, his boots clicking quietly against the floor, his eyes automatically drifting to the coffee table where your phone still rested. 

the screen was dark, but you both knew what was waiting underneath, the innocent text from your boyfriend, a completely different reality. Jaafar stopped at the edge of the room, his leather jacket slung over his shoulder. he didn't look at the phone. a slow, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

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."

There was a stillness in the house tonight that wasn't the usual Tuesday vibe. Streetcar Named Desire always pulled a quieter audience than the musicals next door; people came to listen, and to fall deeply in love with Blanche and her unwinding madness.

It was your 108th show. Eighteen months on and off as Blanche Dubois in the infamous St James Theatre, performing rigidly through illness, mental anguish, family drama, and public scrutiny. Being a popular theatre actress had been a dream since childhood and you had gone on to achieve what you wanted. It was divine timing.

But as you finished Scene 8 in Act 3, something niggled in your stomach. You had a sickly feeling someone of enormous fame was watching, somewhere out there in the stalls.

You pushed it away. You owed Blanche every drop of yourself, eight times a week, regardless of who was sitting in the dark.

When the lights went down for the final time and you came off into the wings, Sandra was already there with the wet cloth for the back of your neck.

"Oh you little darling," you said. "I'm so peaky tonight."

"I wasn't going to say a thing. But I had briefly assumed it had something to do with our star-studded audience member sitting out there."

You froze.

"Who?"

She bit the inside of her cheek, holding back a smile. "Michael Jackson. Third row, centre. And it's his third night."

You stared at her. Heart thundering.

"Third night?"

"Third night, baby."

You let her walk you back to the dressing room without saying anything else, because you didn't want her to know how hard your hands had started shaking. You sat down in front of the mirror — the old, dirty NYC theatre mirror with the bulbs around it and lipstick stains from starlets long gone and pictures of your family tucked into the edges — and you tried to look unbothered.

You were a fan of his. He had just released Dangerous. He was at the crux of his fame, and you'd read his book in your twenties and looked up to him for years.

There was a knock at the door. James, the front-of-house manager, burst in.

"Y/N. A dashing performance, as per usual." He held out an envelope. Heavy cream paper, your full name on the front in beautiful handwriting. "Secret admirer. He said if you agree to the arrangement, you're to call his assistant."

You took it with shaking hands.

Sandra ushered James out. Then she ushered herself out too, with a knowing look over her shoulder.

You broke the wax seal.

Y/N,

Forgive me for writing to you like this. I am a very shy person off stage — quite the departure from the onstage persona, but I'm sure you can understand, being a performer yourself.

I have seen your show three nights in a row. The first night I came because I'd read about you in the NY Times. The second night I came because I didn't believe what I'd seen and needed to know if you could do it again. Tonight I came because I've realised you do it every night, and I haven't been able to stop thinking about you in between.

I would like to take you to dinner. Anywhere you want to go, whatever night you have free. If your answer is no, I won't write again and I won't come back to the theatre. The work is yours and I would never want to be the reason you were uncomfortable.

If your answer is yes, please call the number below.

With great care, Michael Jackson

You called the next morning, still in your pyjamas, coffee going cold beside the phone.

You'd rehearsed three opening lines and abandoned all of them by the time the line picked up. You just gave your name and said you were returning a call about a dinner. The assistant was warm and easy. He didn't make it weird. He asked what night you had free and whether you'd eaten at La Grenouille. You said Thursday. You said no. He said a car would come for you at the stage door at half past eleven. He said the driver's name was Frank.

You hung up and sat at the table for a long time, looking at the letter still folded on the kitchen counter where you'd read it again over breakfast. Twice.

₊˚°⊹˚

Thursday came around faster than you could prepare for.

You did the show in a strange, light-headed state. Blanche came out of you anyway, because muscle memory wouldn't be shaken by one dinner regardless of who was on the other side of it, but you walked off the stage feeling like you'd performed through gauze.

Sandra had your dark green silk dress laid out before you got there. She zipped you up and smoothed the back of your hair.

"You look beautiful, sweetheart."

"Sandra, I am really nervous."

"He'll love you. And if he doesn't, you have a really cool story for those fancy cocktail nights you go to."

She squeezed your shoulders once and pushed you toward the door.

₊˚°⊹˚

La Grenouille was on East 52nd. Frank had you there in twelve minutes.

You stepped out onto the pavement, into the kind of restaurant where Jackie Onassis used to lunch — low light, white tablecloths, an absurd quantity of fresh flowers. You knew the place by reputation. Only the rich rich dined here.

You stepped inside.

It was empty.

He had bought it out for the night.

Your stomach turned over once, slowly. What kind of mad person buys out a whole restaurant?

The maître d' walked you the length of the room to a table at the back, beneath an arrangement of roses you could have hidden behind. And sitting at the table, already standing as you approached —

Michael.

Dark trousers. White shirt, open at the collar. A black jacket cut close to his shoulders, a sparkly brooch on the lapel. His hair was tied back loosely, dark curly strands framing his face. He looked expensive but matter of fact. He looked nervous.

He looked at you like you'd walked into a room he had been waiting in for a long time.

"Hi," he said softly, with a cheeky grin.

"Hi."

He pulled your chair out himself. You sat. He sat opposite. He folded his hands on the white tablecloth and looked at you and didn't say anything for a beat too long.

Then —

"I wasn't sure you'd come."

"I wasn't sure I would either."

He laughed; small, sudden, more relieved than amused. It was a wonderful sound — soft and slightly cracked, like he hadn't laughed in a few days and his throat had to remember how.

You stayed at the restaurant until almost two in the morning.

He asked you about Blanche — he actually wanted to know. He told you the one moment in the second act, after the line "I don't want realism. I want magic," when your smile faded before the sentence was over. He said it genuinely moved him, the nuance in the performance. He said he'd been thinking about you for three days.

You stared at him.

"You're not like other men," you said.

He didn't do anything performative with the line. He didn't deflect. He just looked at you across the table with that quiet attention, like he already knew it.

"Good."

When Frank appeared at the door at quarter to two, Michael stood first, came around the table to pull your chair out, walked you to the car. He helped you into your coat. His hands lingered very briefly on your shoulders.

Outside, on the dark pavement, you turned to face him.

"Will you let me write to you again?" he asked quietly.

"Yes."

"Will you let me call you?"

"Yes, Michael." You laughed.

He nodded. He looked down at his shoes. Looked back up. He was nervous again, properly nervous, the calm of the dinner falling away now that the night was nearly over.

"Can I —" he started.

You didn't let him finish.

You stepped forward, reached up, and put your hand on the side of his jaw.

He stilled completely under your touch. His eyes went huge.

Then you kissed him.

It was meant to be a soft thing. A thank you for the evening thing. A see you soon thing.

It became something else within about two seconds.

His mouth was warm and he made a small sound against you — somewhere between a sigh and something raw — and then his hand was at the small of your back, gentle but very present, and he was kissing you back like he had been thinking about kissing you for the last three hours and could not quite believe he was being allowed to.

He broke the kiss first. Slowly. Like he didn't actually want to.

His forehead came to rest against yours. His breathing was uneven. So was yours.

"Get in the car," he said. "Before I ask you to come home with me."

So you got in the car.

You touched your lips with the back of your fingers as Frank pulled away from the kerb. You looked back through the rear window and saw him standing on the pavement outside La Grenouille with his hands in his jacket pockets, watching the car go.

You barely slept that night.

₊˚°⊹˚

That was three months ago.

Three months of him in your life now, properly. Three months of his handwriting on the envelopes that arrived at the stage door every 2 show day, without fail, never anything elaborate, just a card, a few lines, sometimes a pressed flower from wherever he was that week.

Three months of long phone calls at strange hours, because he was on the road and the time zones rarely lined up, and you would pick up the phone at one in the morning to hear his voice on the other end saying he was sorry, he was sorry, he should have called yesterday and the day got away from him.

You always told him to stop apologising. He always apologised anyway.

He came to New York whenever he could. He sent a car. The car always took you to somewhere thoughtful; a private dining room at a restaurant he'd remembered you mentioning, a quiet table at a hotel bar after your show, once to a small jazz club in Harlem where the owner had cleared the back room for the two of you and the band had played until three in the morning and Michael had held your hand under the table for the whole set.

He kissed you a great deal. He said he loved to kiss.

He kissed you in the back of cars and in the corridor outside your dressing room and once, memorably, on a fire escape in the Village at four in the morning when neither of you had wanted the night to end. His hands had been at the small of your back and in your hair and skimming the edge of your waist over your coat, and you had been pressed against the brick wall behind you with his mouth at the side of your throat, and you had genuinely thought — yes, tonight, here, in this freezing alley if it has to be —

And then he had pulled back. Pressed his forehead to yours. Breathed out slowly.

He had said not like this.

You hadn't known what to do with that, so you'd nodded, and he had walked you to your front door and kissed the back of your hand like a man from another century and gone home alone.

He had never once brought you back to his place. Wherever his place was in the city; a hotel suite, a friend's townhouse, you weren't entirely sure — he kept it separate. He took you out. He held you close in perfectly picked out places. He left you at your door.

You had asked him about it once, gently, you didn't want him to think it was a complaint. He had looked at you for a long time and then said — I've done this wrong before. I don't want to do it wrong with you.

You had not pushed the subject after that.

He was smarter than you had expected, and that was the thing that had made you fall for him more than anything else.

You'd known he was talented. Everyone knew that. You'd known he was an adorer of all things theatrical, — three nights at Streetcar had told you that before you'd ever spoken to him.

What you hadn't been ready for was how widely he read, how carefully he thought, how much he knew about your world specifically.

He knew theatre. Properly. Not the surface of it, not the famous productions and the names everyone could recognise; he knew Stanislavski and the Group Theatre and what Lee Strasberg had been doing in the basement of Carnegie Hall in 1948. He could tell you which production of Long Day's Journey Into Night he thought was the best one ever staged and why. He had opinions on Stoppard. He had read Mamet.

You had asked him, once, where he had learned all of this.

He had shrugged, a small private shrug, and said — I had a lot of time on tour buses when I was young. I read everything I could find.

You had been smitten before then. After that you had been quietly, comprehensively gone.

In April he flew you out to LA for a long weekend.

He was working on a short film for his new album. A piece for the History record — something elaborate, something cinematic, with a proper script and proper scenes that needed acting rather than performing. He told you over the phone that he was nervous about it. He told you he didn't quite trust his own ear for the dialogue. He asked you, very tentatively, if you would mind sitting with him for a few hours and helping him run the lines.

You had said yes before he had even finished asking.

He sent a car for you at JFK and you flew first class and Frank; Frank was apparently a permanent fixture in your life now, kind, quiet and secretly very funny. He picked you up at LAX and drove you to a house in the hills you had never been to before, and you understood, by the way he stopped the car a respectful distance from the front door, that this was where Michael lived.

He came out of the front door before you had got out of the car.

You had not seen him in three weeks. He was in a soft white t-shirt and dark trousers and his hair was loose and he looked, in the late afternoon California light, like a slightly different version of the man you had been spending time with in the cold city. More relaxed. More at home in his own skin.

He held you on the gravel drive for a long minute without saying anything, cradling your head in his hands.

You spent two days running his lines for him.

You sat on the floor of a sun-filled living room, grand piano and all with the script between you. You ran scenes. You pushed back on line readings. You asked him what his director had said about a particular beat and then told him gently that you disagreed. He listened. He took notes.

He made you cups of tea and brought them over without spilling a drop. He asked you, at one point, what your second year movement teacher at Juilliard would have said about the way he was holding his shoulders in a particular scene, and you laughed so hard you had to put the script down. He was filming some sort of horror short and he was taking it entirely too seriously.

He kissed you on the sofa in the late afternoon of the first day and you spent an hour there together, just kissing, his hand under the back of your shirt, hovering on your bra clasp, the script forgotten on the coffee table. He stopped before it could go anywhere. He always stopped. You were starting to understand it as a kind of devotion; a careful patience — even though you privately wished, more and more, that he would stop being so careful with you.

He drove you back to the airport on Monday morning himself. No Frank. Just him in a car he kept in the garage, with the windows down and the radio low and massive sunglasses on his face, so he wouldn't be recognised.

At the curb of the airport drop off, he kissed you politely on the side of your face and told you he would call you that night.

He did. And the night after. And the night after that.

You came back to New York and back to Blanche and back to the eight shows a week.

You felt — for the first time in a long time; like a person whose life had a bit of excitement outside work in it. A private part. A warm element.

Your relationship with michael was like a room with the door closed that nobody else got to see inside.

You had no idea you were about to walk into the worst of it.

₊˚°⊹˚

You had been nominated.

You had received the call on a Tuesday morning from your agent and you had sat down on the floor of your kitchen and cried, properly, the way you had not cried in a long time. Best Actress in a Play. A Streetcar Named Desire. Your second Broadway nomination and your first in a lead role.

Michael had been the third person you'd called. He had gotten very emotional on the phone. You couldn't really tell if he was crying or not. He had said I knew it, I knew it, I knew it about six times in a row.

The luncheon was at the Rainbow Room. Three weeks after the nomination. The whole industry would be there. He was flying in from LA the night before to come with you. He had asked you, very seriously, if you were sure you wanted him there. He had said he didn't want to be the story and would be very happy to wait at the hotel and meet you afterward if you would prefer.

You had told him you wanted him with you. You wanted to become public and let the world know that you were fully, incomprehensibly in love with him. But you had to tell him this first, and you had no clue how to say it out loud.

You had also told him, more carefully, that Daniel was going to be there and would be a large fixture within the day.

Daniel.

Your co-star. Your Stanley. The man who had been pawing at you and breaking you down and dragging you across a stage for fourteen weeks of the run, eight shows a week. A wonderful actor and a carefree socialite with a great career ahead of him, who had never, in all the time you had worked together, ever made you feel uncomfortable for a single second.

He had been nominated too. Best Actor. The two of you had done press together for the nominations. You had hugged him on stage at the press call and the photograph had gone everywhere — Streetcar leads embrace after Tony nods.

You never really brought up Daniel to Michael, because you assumed he knew: it was all business.

He had been excited about the event and he had been excited for you. The morning of the luncheon you had got ready in your apartment and he had arrived to collect you in a dark suit with a flower in his pocket and he had told you, quietly, that you looked extraordinary.

₊˚°⊹˚

The Rainbow Room was at the top of 30 Rock and it was a beautiful, slightly absurd venue for a lunch.

You had been there once before, briefly, for some industry thing. You had not been there as a nominee. You had not been there with a date, never mind an international heart throb.

Everything had been fine on the lead up, until your agency in collaboration with the production team of Streetcar, threw a hefty stick of dynamite your way that changed the tone of what would play out.

The call was quick, snappy, almost 2 days before the event.

It had been Greg, your producer. Greg who you trusted. Greg who said the words darling, listen, this is a wonderful opportunity in a tone of voice that made your stomach drop.

"The studio had a thought"

You rolled your eyes, you already knew. Daniel was single. You were nominated together.

"The press already loved the photograph of the two of you embracing. The buzz around the production was good but it could be great — and the Tonys were only 3 weeks away, and a little bit of fanfare around the two leads going into the awards could move the needle on a Best Revival nod for the production itself.

Would you consider going to the luncheon together?

Just as professional dates. Just for the photographs."

You had stared at your kitchen wall for a long moment.

You had said "Greg, I'm seeing someone."

He had said "I know, darling, and I would never ask you to do anything you weren't comfortable with. But it's one event. It's a few hours. The story writes itself for the morning papers and then it's done."

You had said you would think about it.

You had thought about it.

You had said yes, eventually, because Greg had been good to you and because the production deserved the boost and because Daniel had been a generous co-star for fourteen weeks and you wanted him to win Best Actor.

And because — and this was the part you hadn't quite admitted to yourself — you and Michael had not yet had the conversation about what you were to each other. Not properly. He had not asked you to be anything specific. He had kissed you on fire escapes and held you on his sofa in LA and told you he didn't want to do it wrong with you, and that had been wonderful and patient and lovely, but it had also left a great deal in the room undefined.

You did not have a boyfriend.

You had Michael, and Michael had you, and neither of you had said the word yet.

So you said yes to Greg.

And you called Michael that night.

You told him on the phone.

You told him exactly what Greg had said, exactly, and what it was and exactly what it wasn't. You told him it was for the production. You told him it was photographs and a luncheon and two hours and then it was done. You thought he'd know these things, coming from the industry himself.

You said "Michael, I would still very much like you to come. I want you there. I want you there with me. We can arrive separately and you can sit at the table with my agent and I think Sandra is going, and it will all be fine. People can finally see us in public together"

There was a very long silence on the other end of the line.

Then he said very quietly, evenly — "of course. Whatever you need."

"are you sure?"

"I'm sure. I want to be there for you."

"Michael."

"Honestly. I am fine with it. Get some sleep."

He hung up before you could say anything else.

You sat on your bedroom floor for a long time with the phone in your lap.

You had known him for three months. You had been on enough phone calls with him to know what every register of his voice meant. The voice he had used to say I'm fine had not been fine.

You wanted to call him back. You knew that calling him back would make it worse.

So you didn't.

He arrived at your apartment in a dark suit with a flower in his pocket and he kissed your temple and told you you looked extraordinary, and you held onto him for a beat longer than you meant to in the hallway, and he stroked the back of your hair and didn't say anything further about it. One of his spare drivers would take you, separately and you'd meet up.

You hoped deep down that you'd be able to juggle responsibility and still introduce Michael to your industry friends and just… have a good time.

₊˚°⊹˚

Daniel was waiting at the entrance to the Rainbow Room.

He looked good. He always looked good. He was thirty six years old and had perfect bone structure, and that was basically what had got him cast as Stanley in the first place. Broad through the shoulders, slightly rough at the edges, the kind of handsome that worked better in person on stage, rather than in the movies.

He was wearing a navy suit and his hair was pushed back from his forehead and he was grinning at you, wiggling his eyebrows at the presence of a man; of Michael, as you came across the marble floor toward him.

You felt Michael's hand drop from the small of your back about three feet before you reached the door.

He had peeled off to find his seat. You had not seen him do it. You realised it in the second after it had happened and your stomach churned with anxiety.

Daniel reached for you.

You let him. He kissed your cheek and held both of your hands and looked at you the way Daniel always looked at you when there was a camera nearby — a little too warm, a little too proud, a little too here she is — and the photographers on the press line started flashing immediately.

"There she is," Daniel said, loud enough for them to hear. "There's my Blanche."

You inwardly grimaced at the use of that statement.

"There's my Stanley," you said, because the script of these things wrote itself.

He kept hold of one of your hands. He drew you in toward the press line. The flashes started in earnest now — the proper, blinding, sustained kind that you only got at events like this, when you were the photograph the photographers had been told to get.

Daniel was wonderful at it. He had grown up on a soap opera, multi camera, before he had moved to the theatre. He knew exactly how to angle his body, exactly when to laugh, exactly when to lean in toward you and say something private into your ear that the cameras would read as intimacy. His hand was at the small of your back now, creeping toward your backside, where Michael's had been not ten minutes ago. It was lower than it needed to be, and you knew; you just knew, professionally, that this was the kind of touch that sold a photograph. The only kind, really.

You forced a smiled at the photographers.

You let him put his arm around your shoulders for a posed shot. You let him kiss the side of your head for another. When one of the photographers called out give her a proper one, Danny, come on, Daniel laughed and ducked his head and kissed you on the cheek, very close to the corner of your mouth, and held it for a beat too long, and the flashes went off so brightly you saw spots for thirty seconds afterward.

When you finally got past the press line, when Daniel finally released you to go and stand with his own publicist, you turned around to look for Michael.

He was at the table. He was already sitting down. His back was to you.

You crossed the room.

You made your way to the table with your stage smile on, greeting the people who stopped you, accepting congratulations on the nomination, kissing cheeks. You had done this a hundred times. You could do it on autopilot.

Michael stood up to pull your chair out for you. He did it without even thinking, a true gentleman. Courteous attention; that had been one of the first things you had ever loved about him. He smiled at you; small, warm, a little bit out of control — and helped you into your chair.

He didn't say anything.

You knew, by the angle of his jaw and the jittery mess of his hands, and the way he had not yet looked at you since you had sat down, that something was really wrong.

"Michael," you said quietly.

"Mm."

"Are you alright?"

He turned to look at you. He smiled. It did not reach his eyes.

"I'm fine, these things make me really anxious."

He turned back to the table, and politely asked Bill to hand him the salt.

You felt your stomach drop as you saw Daniel approach the table.

He was being a good sport about the whole scenario, was the thing. However, he had no idea what was happening, he had no idea Michael was anything other than a friend who had come with you for moral support, because the production had not told him anything different and you certainly hadn't. He was laying on the charm; and thick.

He shook Michael's hand.

He said it was an honour.

He said

"thank you for coming to support my girl " — and he meant it warmly, he meant it in the goofy way, the way an older brother might tease; but you watched Michael's hand tighten very briefly on his napkin under the table.

Michael smiled at him.

"My pleasure," Michael said. "She's spoken highly of you. I've been looking forward to meet the man behind the Stanley."

Daniel laughed. Clapped Michael on the shoulder.

You saw Michael flinch very faintly under the contact.

Daniel went back to his own table.

You turned to Michael.

"Michael —"

"I said I don't really want to talk about it. Let's just eat lunch and get through this."

His voice was perfectly even. He still wasn't looking at you.

You started to overthink; maybe it was a mistake to bring him here? Maybe he wasn't ready to commit to someone? Show the world that you were his?

You chewed the inside of your lip, totally catastrophising the situation. When your eyes flickered up, Sandra gave you a woeful look.

Everyone could sense the tense energy.

It got worse during the speeches.

The production's publicist had clearly briefed Daniel. He truly was a sweet man with no malice in him at all, but he was also an actor, and when he was given a brief he ran with it.

During the cocktail portion of the afternoon, while you were trying to talk to Greg, Daniel kept appearing at your elbow. He kept putting his hand on the small of your back. He kept laughing at things you said and tipping his head back the way the photographs liked.

The photographers loved it. They were getting their story. You could see the headlines already Streetcar leads electric at Tonys luncheon, sources say more than chemistry between the stars than even the characters themselves.

You simply could not get back to the table. Back to him.

Every time you tried, somebody stopped you. A nominator. A producer. An old friend. They wanted to congratulate you. They wanted a photograph. They wanted to introduce you to someone.

You looked over at the table.

He had not moved. He was talking politely to Sandra, who had been seated next to him as a buffer and a familiar face, and Sandra was watching you across the room with a look on her face you knew very well. The Sandra look that said I see what is happening and I am keeping him calm but you need to get over here.

His security detail was intimidating enough that no other guests approached the table. He must have been jealous, and feeling rather left out. Regret started rushing through your body.

You tried.

You really did.

You were two feet from the table when Daniel caught your elbow.

"Photographer wants one more by the window," he said cheerfully. "Light's perfect. Five minutes, darling."

He looped his arm through yours.

You looked toward the table. Michael was watching now. He had turned his head slightly. He was looking at Daniel's arm through yours.

His face was completely blank.

You felt sick.

"Daniel," you said quietly. "I really need to —"

"Five minutes, darling. Greg's orders."

He was already steering you away.

You looked back over your shoulder. Michael was standing up. He was buttoning his jacket with those gorgeous hands. He was saying something to Sandra. Sandra was reaching for his arm. He was shaking his head, gently, and stepping past her. His security entourage followed.

He walked toward the door at the back of the room.

He did not look at you on his way out.

You stood frozen by the window with Daniel's arm through yours and a photographer asking you to look this way please, miss, just one more, and you felt every part of your heart slowly shatter. How could you have let this get so screwed up?

You don't remember making the decision to run, your brain was in complete overdrive.

And then you were moving.

You pulled your arm out of Daniel's so abruptly that he stumbled half a step.

"Darling, wait —"

"I'll be back."

"Greg said —"

"Tell Greg I'll be back."

You were already walking. Half walking. Mostly running, by the time you got to the door — and you did not care, in that moment, that you were a Tony nominee in a designer dress and heels who had just abandoned her co-star in front of half the New York theatre press. You did not care about a single one of them.

You shoved the door open.

You were in a service corridor. White walls, fluorescent strip lights, a janitor's trolley parked against one wall. The sound of the luncheon dimmed behind you the second the door swung shut.

You ran.

You did not know where he had gone. You followed the corridor on instinct — the instinct that came from years of touring theatres and knowing how back of house corridors worked. Service routes always led to service exits. Famous people who didn't want to be seen always went out the back.

You took a left.

Then a right.

You came down a flight of metal stairs in your heels too fast and almost went over, caught yourself on the railing, kept going.

You burst out of a fire door onto a loading dock and the rain hit you like someone had thrown a bucket.

It was coming down hard. It had not been raining when you'd arrived — the sky had been overcast but holding — and apparently in the last hour the weather had broken properly and now it was the kind of New York summer downpour that turned the city's gutters into rivers.

You saw him immediately.

He was at the bottom of the loading dock ramp, in the alley. Bill was beside him. There was a black car pulling up at the kerb. Michael was already moving toward it.

"Michael!"

He stopped.

He didn't turn around. Not at first. He stopped in the middle of the alley with the rain coming down on him, and his shoulders went up slightly, and then very slowly he turned to face you.

He looked at you across the alley.

You came down the loading dock ramp. Your shoes had no grip. The rain was already in your eyes. You could feel your hair flattening against your scalp and your makeup running and you did not care. Heart hammering in your chest.

You crossed the alley.

Bill stepped back slightly, gave the two of you a space, and then slid into the back of the black car.

You stopped in front of Michael.

He was soaked through already. His suit was ruined. His hair had come loose where he had been pulling at it and was sticking to the side of his face. He was looking at you with an expression you had never seen on him — not anger exactly, but something much rougher than anything he had shown you in three months.

"Michael —"

"Go back inside Y/N."

"What?"

"Go back inside. They're going to be looking for you."

"I don't care."

"Yes you do."

"Michael, I don't —"

"You should." His voice cracked very slightly.

He looked away from you, down the alley. "You should care. That's the whole point of today. That's the whole point of life, to care. You've worked your butt off for this and you should be in there right now with your co star, smiling for the cameras, and not out here in the rain ruining your dress."

"I'd rather be out here with you."

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't say things like that." He was still not looking at you. His jaw was working. "Don't make this harder than it has to be."

You felt something shift very coldly in your chest.

"Make what harder?"

He looked at you.

The rain was running down his face. His eyes were wet and you could not tell, in that downpour, whether any of it was tears or whether it was all just water, and you understood, in a slow terrible way, that it didn't matter.

"I shouldn't be here," he said.

"What?"

"Today. This. I shouldn't be here. I knew it when you called me on Tuesday and I came anyway because I'm — " he stopped, gathered himself. "Because I'm selfish. Because I wanted to be near you. But I should not be here."

"Michael, what are you talking about?"

"You're at the start of something." He gestured vaguely toward the building behind you. The rain was coming off his sleeve in a sheet. "You're at the beginning. You've built this on your own. You've done everything right. You've got reviews and a nomination and a co star who looks like that; touches you hungrily, and a publicist who knows exactly how to position you. And I am — "

His voice cracked properly this time.

"I am not a good thing to attach yourself to right now."

You stared at him.

"What are you saying?"

"You know what they say about me."

"Michael. You can't seriously be doing this to me right now."

"You know what they print. You know what the papers do. You know what they were doing last summer. They are not done with me. They are not going to be done with me for a long time, and you do not deserve to be standing next to that. You do not deserve the questions. You do not deserve some journalist asking you in the middle of an interview what you think about — " he stopped dead, pressing the heel of his hand to his eye.

"You don't deserve any of it. You deserve someone better. You deserve someone proud to be with you in public, and I don't know if that can be me right now."

The last few words were like a butcher knife carefully plunged straight through your heart.

"I knew this was too good to be true. That you'd be like every other celebrity - underneath all the exquisite fame and fortune - cold and unbothered." You seethed.

"I don't even know why I trusted you. I fell for you Michael, invite you out here to show you off because I was proud and you pull this?"

You pushed the wet hair from your face, the rain still pouring down heavy. "How very cliche of you."

He didn't flinch.

He looked at you for a long moment with the rain coming off his face, and you watched something in him settle into a shape you had not seen before. Not anger. Not defensiveness. Something more depressing. Something that had been sitting in him for a long time, maybe his whole life, and had just been waiting for the right night to come out.

"Y/N."

He said your name like it was the last time he was going to.

"Look at me."

You were looking at him. You did not understand what he meant.

"No," he said softly. "Look at me. Look at me."

You looked.

You looked at his ruined suit and his soaked hair and the rain running off his jaw, and you looked at his eyes, and you looked at the way he was holding himself — slightly hunched, slightly small, like a man who was trying to take up less space than his body actually took up.

"You see me. Right?"

"Michael —"

"You see what I am. The papers tear me apart. The hair. My face. The —" he gestured at himself, vaguely, the whole of him — "everything. You see it."

"I see you. the real you."

"Yeah." A small, sad smile. "But you see all that too. You have to. Everybody does."

"Michael, what are you doing."

"I'm trying to be honest with you. For once. I've been — I have been pretending for three months that this could work, and I came here today and I sat at that table and I watched you walk around with him and I watched the way the room moved for the two of you, and I understood something I should have understood a long time ago."

"Don't."

"You're going to leave me eventually."

"Michael —"

"You are. You're going to. Maybe not this year. Maybe not the year after that. But you are going to wake up one morning next to me and you are going to look at me and you are going to realise that you could have had — " he stopped. Swallowed. "I want you to have the easy version. You could have had the man who walks into a room with you and the room doesn't make up a crazy tabloid rumour about you. You could have had the man who can take you to your own award show without ducking out the back."

"Michael — stop —"

"I'd rather you leave now."

You felt the bottom drop out of your stomach.

"What?"

"I can't do this again. I can't be the thing that gets left."

"Michael, please look at me — "

"Go back inside."

"Michael — "

"Go back inside. Please."

You reached for him.

He stepped back.

It was the worst thing he had done to you yet. He stepped back from you, further out of the alley, and you watched his hands come up between you like a barrier. You understood that he had decided this and that you were not going to be able to talk him out of it.

"I am asking you," he said quietly. "I am asking you please to let me go"

You could not speak.

"Please."

You could not speak.

you stood in front of him with your mouth open and nothing coming out — he nodded once, very slowly, like you had answered him.

"Take care of yourself."

He turned around.

He walked to the car. Bill was holding the door. Michael got in without looking back at you. The door slammed shut, the rain still plummeting down, bouncing off the black sidewalk.

The car pulled away and turned left at the end of the alley and disappeared into the wet smear of traffic on the avenue.

₊˚°⊹˚

You don't remember the cab ride home.

You don't remember Sandra getting you into your building or up the stairs or through your front door. You don't remember her running you a bath or peeling the ruined dress off you or wrapping you in your dressing gown. You remember pieces of it. You remember her hands at the zip and her voice somewhere above you saying baby, baby, baby in the soft repetitive way she said it when she didn't know what else to say.

You'd asked her to leave eventually.

She had not wanted to. She had stood in your doorway in her own coat with her own hair still damp and looked at you for a long time, and you had told her, quietly, that you needed to be by yourself. You had told her you would call her in the morning.

That had been an hour ago. Or two. Or six. You weren't sure.

You were sitting on the floor of your bedroom.

You did not know why you were on the floor. You had walked in here to find a hairbrush and you had sat down with your back against the foot of the bed and you had not got up again. Your body could not manage any task, for the thought of him completely disabled you.

Your dressing gown was loose at the front and your hair was still wet and there was a small dark patch on the rug where your hair was dripping, and you watched the patch grow without doing anything about it.

You kept replaying it.

The alley. The rain. The way he had stepped back from you when you reached for him. The red brake lights at the end of the alley.

You kept replaying the wrong parts of it.

You should have grabbed him. You should have grabbed him by the lapels of his ruined jacket and pulled him into you and told him every single thing you had been too composed to say for three months. You should have told him, in the alley, in the rain, in front of Bill — you should have told him that you were in love with him. You should have told him you had known it since the night on the fire escape in the Village. You should have told him that you didn't care about the papers. You should have told him you would walk into any room in the world with him as long as he was the one walking in with you.

You had stood there with your mouth open like an idiot and you had let him decide for both of you, and now he was somewhere in the city — a hotel, a friend's apartment, a car going to the airport, you had no idea — and you had no way of reaching him because you had never been to his place and you didn't even have a number for him that wasn't Wayne's, and Wayne was not going to put you through tonight, you knew that, Wayne was going to be polite and protective and very firm, just as an assistant should be.

You had let him go.

You had let him go and you had not even fought for him properly, and now he was alone and he thought he was right and he thought he had done you a favour.

The worst part was that he had been wrong about everything.

You did not want the easy version. You had never wanted the easy version. You had spent fourteen weeks playing a woman who had been destroyed by the easy version, by the man who looked right on paper, by the brother in law who fit into the family photograph — and you had walked off that stage every night and gone home to phone calls with a man who blissfully did not fit anywhere, who was complicated and strange and famous and shy and clever and gentle and could not eat lunch in a restaurant without buying it out first, and that was the man you had wanted. That was the man you had been falling in love with. The complication had never been the problem. The complication had been the point.

He didn't know because you had never told him. You had spent three months letting him think he was a luxury you were graciously accommodating in your otherwise clean and uncomplicated career, and now he had decided to remove himself from your life as a kindness, and you were sitting on the floor of your bedroom realising you had loved him for at least eight weeks of those three months and had not said a single word.

You had been so careful. You had been so good and so professional and so grown up about the whole thing. You had not wanted to scare him. You had not wanted to push. You had wanted to be the woman who held back, who let him set the pace, who was patient and understanding about his patience.

You wished, now, that you had been someone completely different.

You wished you had been the kind of woman who, on the fire escape in the Village at four in the morning, had said yes, like this, exactly like this, please don't stop. Take me right here and now.

You wished you had told him, on the sofa in his house in the hills that you would burn your career to the ground for him if he asked you to. You wished you had said it like that, exactly, in those words. You wished you had been melodramatic and naked and unreasonable and thirty three years old, the way you had every right to be. You wished you had been less of a professional.

You wished you had told him you were in love with him.

You wished —

There was a knock at the door.

You froze.

You looked toward the bedroom doorway. The apartment was dark beyond it — you had not bothered to turn any lamps on after Sandra had left — and the only light was the spill from your bedside lamp pooling at your feet on the rug.

It was past midnight.

It might be Sandra. She might have come back. She might have decided not to leave you alone tonight after all.

The knock came again.

Not Sandra's knock. Hers — three quick taps, businesslike, the same knock she used at your dressing room door. This was different. This was harder. This was the knock of a person who had been standing on the other side of a door for a long time trying to work up to it.

You got off the floor.

You did not breathe properly. You walked through your dark apartment in your bare feet with your damp hair sticking to your neck and your dressing gown loose around you, and you reached the door, and you put your hand on the latch.

You did not look through the peephole.

You opened the door.

Michael was standing in the corridor.

He didn't speak. For a long moment, he just stood there in the dim light of the corridor, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths, rainwater still gleaming on his skin. The silence between you was a live wire, humming with everything that had been said and everything that hadn't.

Then he moved.

It wasn't a slow movement. It wasn't gentle or hesitant. It was a sudden, decisive lunge, as if he'd been holding himself back by a thread and the thread had snapped. His hands came up, not to push you away this time, but to seize you.

One hand clamped around your upper arm, the other went to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your damp hair. He pulled you into him with a force that knocked the air from your lungs.

His mouth came down on yours.

He kissed you like a man trying to undo his own decision. There was no softness, no exploration. It was hard and desperate and wet with rain and something saltier—tears, maybe his, maybe yours, you couldn't tell.

He kissed you like he was drowning and your mouth was air. He kissed you like he was trying to erase the alley, the last hour, the last three months of careful distance. His tongue pushed past your lips, rough and demanding, and you gasped into him, your hands flying up to clutch at his soaked shirt.

He broke the kiss only to breathe, his forehead pressed to yours, his eyes screwed shut.

"We drove eight blocks," he rasped, the words torn from somewhere deep in his chest. "and then I told Frank to turn around. I told him to bring me back here. I sat in the car downstairs for hours mulling over what I said to you. How unfair and jealous I was..."

You tried to speak, but he shook his head, a sharp, frantic motion.

"Don't," he said. "Don't say anything. If you say anything reasonable, if you tell me to go, I will. I'll go. So don't."

He kissed you again, swallowing any response you might have made. This time, his hands began to move. The hand on your arm slid down, over the slippery silk of your dressing gown, finding the tie at your waist.

He fumbled with it, his fingers clumsy with urgency, and when the knot gave way, he shoved the fabric apart. The gown fell open. The cool air of the corridor hit your bare skin underneath—you had nothing on but your panties.

A low, guttural sound vibrated from his throat into your mouth.

He pushed you backward, into your apartment, kicking the door shut behind him with a heavy thud that echoed in the dark space. He didn't turn on a light. He just walked you back, his mouth still devouring yours, until your shoulders hit the wall beside the entryway table. The impact made a frame rattle.

He tore his mouth from yours, his breath scorching hot against your cheek. "I tried," he whispered, almost to himself. "I tried to be the good one. I tried to let you go. I can't. I can't do it. Even if this life is complicated"

His hands were everywhere. One palm slid up your ribcage, rough and warm, and closed over your breast, his thumb sweeping over your nipple in a circle that made you arch off the wall with a sharp cry.

He bent his head, his mouth leaving a trail of wet, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw, your throat, the hollow of your collarbone. When he took your nipple into his mouth, biting it slightly, you cried out again, your fingers digging into his shoulders.

"Michael—"

"You said my name in the alley like that," he muttered against your skin, his teeth grazing the peak. "I like the way it sounds coming out of your mouth."

He straightened, his eyes blazing in the near-darkness. With a sudden, shocking strength, he turned you around, pressing your front against the wall. His body covered yours from behind, lean and hard and trembling. You felt the rigid line of his erection through his trousers, pressed against the curve of your ass. He groaned, a raw, pained sound, and ground himself against you once, twice, a slow, deliberate friction that had you pushing back against him, seeking more.

One of his hands splayed across your stomach, holding you to him. The other went to your hip, his fingers hooking into the lace of your panties. He didn't peel them down. He ripped them.

The sound of tearing lace was obscenely loud, and then the scrap of fabric was gone, falling to the floor at your feet. The cool air hit your exposed skin, followed immediately by the scorching heat of his palm cupping you from behind, his fingers sliding through your wetness with a rough, exploring stroke.

"Fuck," he breathed into your ear, his voice shattered. "You're so wet. You're so wet for me. Even after— even after what I said."

You were beyond words. You could only press your forehead against the cool plaster of the wall and whimper as his fingers found your clit, circling it with a pressure that was just shy of painful, perfect, maddening. He worked you like that for a minute, his breath coming in harsh gusts against your neck, his body a tense, vibrating line against your back. Then his fingers slid lower, pushing inside you, two of them, curling upward. You cried out, your knees buckling. He held you up easily, his arm like an iron band around your waist.

"I thought about this," he whispered, his lips moving against the shell of your ear. "In the car. I thought about having you like this. Against a wall. On the floor. In my bed. I thought about how you'd feel. How you'd sound."

He added a third finger, stretching you, and you moaned, long and low, the sound torn from somewhere deep in your belly. He fucked you with his hand, his pace relentless. You were climbing fast, too fast, the sensation in your abdomen tightening to a breaking point.

"Not yet," he commanded, his voice rough. He withdrew his fingers suddenly, leaving you empty and gasping. He turned you around again to face him. In the faint light from the streetlamp filtering through the blinds, you could see his face clearly for the first time.

His eyes were wild, dark pools of hunger and anguish.

His lips were swollen from kissing. Rain and sweat had plastered his dark hair to his forehead. He looked at you, his gaze dropping to your bare body, to where his own hand had just been. His expression was one of ravenous, almost frightening need.

"I need to taste you," he said, the words simple and devastating.

He sank to his knees on your hallway floor. You swayed, your hands coming to rest on his shoulders for balance. He didn't give you time to process it. His hands gripped the backs of your thighs, pulling you toward him, and then his mouth was on you.

The first flat stroke of his tongue made you seethe. How could he have kept this side of himself from you?

It was hot and wet and impossibly intimate. He didn't start slow. He dove in as if he'd been starving for it, his tongue laving broad, firm stripes through your folds before zeroing in on your clit. He sucked it into his mouth, applying a steady, rhythmic pressure that had your legs shaking.

His nose bumped against you, his breath hot. One of his hands left your thigh to slide back inside you, his fingers pumping in time with the suck of his mouth.

The dual sensation was overwhelming. Pleasure, sharp and bright, ripped through you, building with terrifying speed.

You looked down. In the dim light, you could see the pale, beautiful patterns on his neck and chest, the patches of vitiligo stark against his skin where his shirt had come open — a constellation of light on dark that made him seem otherworldly, a creature of myth on his knees for you.

The sight of it, the sheer vulnerability of him in this position combined with the aggressive, consuming way he was devouring you, sent a fresh, violent wave of heat through your core.

"Michael, I'm— I'm going to—" you choked out.

He hummed against you, the vibration tipping you over the edge. Your orgasm crashed into you, a silent, seizing wave that tore a ragged scream from your throat. You bucked against his mouth, but he held you firm, his tongue working you through the convulsions until you were limp and shuddering, your fingers clenched in his hair.

He didn't stop. As the last pulses faded, he gentled his mouth, licking you softly, cleaning you with a tenderness that was at odds with the frenzy of moments before. Then he rose, his movements fluid. His face was glistening with you. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes never leaving yours.

"Why the hell did you not do this to me that night in the village?" You asked, completely out of breath.

He was breathing hard. His hands went to his own clothes.

"Honestly, I didn't know if I had it in me or that you were the one for me. Clearly I do and you are" He said darkly. "So I am doing this now, because I know I need you. Be mine. Properly. No more hiding."

He ripped his tie off and tossed it aside. Your breath caught at his words, at the weight of them, at the way he said them like a man who had spent the entire car ride back here deciding.

His fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, and in his impatience, a few popped off, pinging against the floor.

He shoved the shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall. Then his belt buckle clanged, his zipper hissed, and he pushed his trousers and boxers down in one rough shove.

You saw his body fully for the first time.

He was wiry, all lean muscle and long lines, just as you'd imagined. His shoulders were narrow but defined, his chest smooth, his stomach flat. A dark trail of hair leading down the way. The vitiligo you had glimpsed earlier extended further than you had realised, sprawling across his ribs and down one hip, the contrast making him look pieced together from moonlight and shadow.

He was painfully erect, his cock standing thick and hard, the tip flushed and wet.

He was the most breathtaking thing you had ever seen.

He closed the distance between you in one stride. "I need to be inside you," he said, the words a raw scrape of sound. "Now. I can't wait. I can't be gentle."

"I don't want gentle," you breathed.

A shudder ran through him. He lifted you as if you weighed nothing, his hands under your thighs, and you wrapped your legs around his narrow waist.

He carried you like that, through the dark living room, into your bedroom. He didn't lay you on the bed. He laid you on the rug, the same rug you'd been sitting on earlier, the one with the damp patch from your hair. He came down over you, bracing himself on his arms, his body caged between your legs.

He positioned himself at your entrance, the broad head of his cock nudging against you, and he paused, his eyes searching yours in the lamplight. For a second, the shy, hesitant man was there, flickering in the depths of his gaze.

"Tell me to stop," he whispered, agony in his voice. "If you want me to stop, tell me now." You reached up, cupping his jaw, your thumb stroking over the patch of pale skin on his cheekbone.

"Don't you dare stop."

He drove into you in one deep, relentless thrust.

The stretch was immense, a burning fullness that stole your breath. He was big, and he didn't give you time to adjust. He buried himself to the hilt, his hips flush against yours, and let out a broken groan that sounded like it was ripped from his soul. He held there for a moment, trembling, his forehead dropping to your shoulder.

"Oh, God," he choked. "Oh, God, you feel— I can't—"

He began to move.

There was no rhythm at first, just a frantic, driving pace, as if he was trying to fuse himself to you. Each thrust was deep, punishing, hitting a spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids. The rough material of the rug scraped against your back, his body was a heavy, delicious weight on top of you, and the smell of rain and sex and his skin filled the air.

"Look at me," he demanded, his voice rough.

You forced your eyes open. His face was above you, strained with pleasure, his lips parted.

"You're not settling," he gritted out, punctuating each word with a thrust. "Do you understand me? You are not. Settling."

"I know," you gasped.

“I love you.”

He said it like it hurt.

“I love you so much.”

"Fuck, Michael. I love you too--"

"I can’t do another almost.”

His hand tightened around yours. The thrusts ragged.

“If this is happening, then it has to really happen.”

"I'm yours. I'm yours, Michael —"

He kissed you again, swallowing your cries.

His pace became more controlled, deeper, each stroke a deliberate claiming.

He shifted, hooking one of your legs over his arm, opening you wider, changing the angle. The new position made him go even deeper, the head of his cock rubbing directly over that sweet, sensitive spot with every plunge.

You were coming undone again, a second orgasm building greatly. Your nails scored down his back, feeling the ridges of his spine, the smooth expanse of his warm skin. He hissed at the sensation, his movements growing more ragged.

"I'm close," he warned, his voice thick. "I'm not going to last. Come with me. Please. Come with me."

It was the "please" that did it. That same shattered, vulnerable "please" from the alley, but now drenched in desire instead of despair.

Your orgasm detonated, a silent, shattering explosion that clenched around him, milking his length. He shouted, a raw, unfiltered sound, and drove into you one final, brutal time, his body locking as he emptied himself deep inside you in hot, pulsing waves.

He collapsed on top of you, his full weight pressing you into the rug, his face buried in your neck. His breaths were great, heaving gasps against your skin. You could feel his heart hammering against your own, a frantic, syncopated rhythm slowly calming.

For a long time, neither of you moved. The only sounds were your slowing breaths and the distant hum of the city at night.

Slowly, carefully, he rolled off you, taking his weight but keeping an arm around your waist, pulling you with him so you lay on your sides facing each other on the rug. His skin was slick with sweat, his hair a mess. He looked wrecked. Beautifully, completely wrecked.

He reached out a trembling hand and brushed a strand of damp hair from your forehead. His eyes, now soft and exhausted, traced your face.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

"For which part?"

A faint, shattered smile touched his lips. "The part where I ripped your underwear. And possibly the part where I was… rough."

You shook your head, your own hand coming up to trace the pale pattern on his shoulder. "Don't be sorry for any of it."

He caught your hand, brought it to his mouth, and pressed a kiss to your palm. It was a gesture from another century, infinitely gentle, a stark contrast to the animal hunger of minutes before.

"I meant what I said today," he said quietly, his eyes serious. "I am… a lot. It's not going to be easy."

"I don't care."

"I know you don't. I believe you now." He sighed, a deep, weary sound. "I think I just needed… proof. Not from you. From me. That I could want something this much and not run from it. And seeing you with another man just wrecked me. I didn't know what to do"

You shifted closer, until your foreheads were touching. "So I'm yours now?" You said.

He was silent for a moment. You felt his breath against your lips. "Mine. Properly. No more hiding."

He caught your mouth in a deep, hard kiss.

Outside, the rain began to fall again, a soft patter against your window. You lay there together on the floor, in the pool of lamplight, skin to skin, his wiry, marked body curled around yours, and for the first time all night, you felt the terrible, hollow ache in your chest begin to mend.

Michael Jackson lived just like he died: on the margins, despite having every spotlight on himself. Biggest star of the world—resplendent, untouchable—someone to look at in a museum display with awe instead of knowing. Of learning.

Of loving.

Michael Jackson came into your life still breathing, cheeks full of warmth, alive. So, so alive it hurts to think about. He’d just broken the Grammys in half, forever splitting himself apart from any other artist that’s walked the same halls and earned the same awards.

They weren’t him. No one would or ever could be.

The year was 1984. At the beginning of spring, the time when earth wakes up and stirs people into living again. But it stirs hunger, too. Blood-red and sopping with a never-ending repetition that rarely gives and only takes.

You didn’t know it then and neither did he, but the spring of ‘84 would be the last spring Michael ever saw as mortal. Where he could wake in the morning and tiptoe outside, glimpse at the birds perched on his balcony and watch the sunrise without it being suicidal.

You were nervous back then, still green while the industry was blooming all in technicolor around you, trying to carve a space for yourself in metaphorically unmoving stone.

You’d just gotten out of a hellish job waiting tables near Berkeley Marina. Ready to take the world by storm, carrying your clip-book full of articles everywhere like ID. It was your baby, fully yours, born from three years’ worth of endless nights and cramped fingers and all the sweat going into that.

UC Berkeley’s Mass Communications alumna. Magna Cum Laude, although you had to fight for it because, well… Life gets hard sometimes, right? But you got it in the end, and it felt good as shit.

That waitress job was temporary, you’d swore to yourself it would be. Your dreams were much bigger than a sleazy diner only serving those small enough to fit in it. It got you through school though, so there’s not much to pine about. You lose some, you win some.

And you won big.

Worked your ass off for that win, too. Written a banging thesis on the rise of MTV, built a portfolio of music reviews for The Daily Cal, co-hosted a weekly pop culture slash entertainment show on KALX with some campus friends.

‘90.7 FM every Wednesday, baby!’

You miss it, what can you say? You just can’t help yourself. Life flowed easier back then. Before the inevitability of success, of that gnawing feeling something’s going to go terribly wrong any minute now.

Before Michael.

Everything is categorized as either before or after him. Sometimes you can’t even tell the difference; the feeling of his teeth is like it’s always been there.

A phantom pain you’d feel when changing mixtapes for an article that was due, or those times you’d get goosebumps when tidying up the vinyls—late at the radio station, after a show—and his face would show up.

White suit over a black shirt; piercing eyes, soft face and even softer disposition; gold handwritten cursive reading Thriller.

You’d think, again and again, ‘Fuck, he’s gorgeous.’ The vinyl would sit tucked pretty between The Police’s Synchronicity and Bowie’s Let’s Dance, and that’d be it. Just another record on the shelf, another artist that floated above the common man not because of money or arrogance, or even success.

Simply because he was meant to be there. It was the rest of the world that was just catching up with him.

That’s what you thought then, at least. Before you met him and got to know him. Before falling for him rather than the idol plastered on every entertainment article (written by you, or otherwise). It simultaneously took you by surprise while also not being surprising at all. Everyone falls in love with Michael one way or another, you just didn’t think you would.

At least, more than a fan or an admirer of his art, professionally. Of course you were a fan. Your mom used to blast Jackson 5 records every Saturday morning, and you’d be peeling potatoes or sweeping the living room with Michael’s voice as an underscore.

You grew up with him. And, isn’t that sad? You were a kid, a real kid; crying over boys and homework and skinned knees while he was pumping out show after show and interview after interview. Even at eight, you remember feeling sad for him.

Your mother used to tell you you’re being silly. That the Jacksons loved to perform, and they got handsomely compensated for their artistry. That they wouldn’t have to work a real job a day in their life the way you or your dad were expected to. And, she was right. But the sadness was there, you could feel it.

When he released his first solo album, Got To Be There, you bought it with the weekly allowance you’d been saving up and surprised your mom. That weekend, the only thing echoing through the house was Rockin’ Robin. And when he put out his first proper solo album, Off The Wall, you were first in line at your local records store.

You loved him for a long time before you laid eyes on him, but that childish almost-affection quickly got eclipsed by something far stronger.

The date was February 28th of 1984, the Shrine Auditorium bursting like ripe citrus against a setting sun, palm trees swaying by the sheer size of the crowd. A heavy laminated card dangled from your neck, reading:

26th ANNUAL GRAMMY AWARDS, National Academy of Recording Arts & Sciences, Inc., PRESS.

You were with Rolling Stone, or with whatever crumbs of a presence they maintained in the West Coast after moving all their offices to New York years ago. Your editor, Ben, was a washed-up Rock-N-Roll purist who thought anything other than Elvis was ‘a fad,’ including the ever-rising pop scene.

Including Michael. 

Which is precisely why he sent you—the bright-eyed and bushy-tailed girl from Berkeley—to cover the Grammys instead of going himself. Thought it was a waste of time, and who were you to disagree with the man?

Ben could live in his past-and-gone glory days all he wanted; it was a new decade halfway on its way out already, with something in the air that felt historic. Primordial. You needed to be in that room, and if playing into Ben’s refusal to get with the times was your way in, fuck would you do it.

Of course, it did end up being historic. Michael had—has—that quality about him.

The backstage press room was pure pandemonium that night. Hot and stifling, reeking of hairspray and cigarette smoke, packed with aggressive reporters from Time, Newsweek, and television affiliates you couldn’t even begin naming. 

You think they saw you just like Ben did. Scratch that: you know they did. A kid without her big-girl pants on, thrust into the deep end for the sharks to feed on and scatter the scraps.

You’d earned your place there, as much as their stares did nothing to help the sweat on your back or the twitching of your lips. Watching from the designated press room, you bit through your lipstick as the nearly 7K-seat theater blew up with each win Michael brought home, growing louder the more the night progressed. 

You were not surprised at all. Thriller was a masterpiece, you knew it from the very first listen. And if anybody asked, you’d just point them to Page 30 of your portfolio: your best article. Your magnum opus. October of 1982, a thousand words typed on a clunky typewriter in the basement of Eshleman Hall, coffee stains on the margins. Written by a girl who saved up her waitress tips just to buy the record on release day; the same girl who’d saved up for Got To Be There all those years ago.

When Michael finally entered the press room, it erupted even louder than the theater had.

Much closer in proximity, shoulders and elbows pushing against ribs, a clunky brick-sized cassette recorder clutched so tight in your hand your knuckles shook. Someone kept thrashing against your back to get closer, but all they managed to do was push you right to the front. Right into Michael’s eyesight.

He was surrounded by publicists, security, and Quincy Jones, who was positively glowing. Somewhere to the side stood his date for the night, Brooke Shields, and Michael was holding a literal armful of golden gramophones. He was in a gold-embroidered blue-black military jacket, a single white glove, aviator sunglasses.

He looked otherworldly.

(Michael Jackson is not of this earth, that much was clear long before he died in sanguine ecstasy.)

A sea of camera flashes clicked with inhuman speed, swirling into a dizzying staccato reflecting off of him. And being with Rolling Stone—their dwindling influence in California notwithstanding—still meant you were with Rolling-fucking-Stone. You knew you had one sought-after chance at a question before security whisked him away, and you knew you had to make it count.

Asking anything along the lines of ‘how does it feel to have won’ or ‘broken the record’ were out of the question entirely. His answer would be tight and rehearsed, and you didn’t grind this hard just to waste something so monumental on a local-channel-news question at best.

Your hand shot up so many times you might’ve gotten whiplash, questions flying around the room in tandem with the trickling clock. Your heart dropped and kept dropping as publicists looked you over in favor of the men squeezing you from all sides. Until one publicist—female, older, a mirrored image—made eye contact and your world stuttered in place.

“Alright, alright, quiet down,” she commanded over the clamor. “We have time for just a couple more. Yes, you in the front.”

This was it. Your heart was hammering so deeply you felt it in your stomach, seeping down your legs and numbing them in the process. Your Berkeley instincts kicked in like fight-or-flight, forcing your voice to even out and raise. Holding up the recorder, you smiled through the sweat dripping down your face. 

“Mr. Jackson, congratulations on a historic night. I’m with Rolling Stone. On Billie Jean, you and your team famously spent weeks just mixing the bassline. Tonight, the world is celebrating the commercial success of Thriller. But as an artist, do you feel the industry finally understands the actual technical craftsmanship you put into this record?”

The room got quiet. Not truly silent, but just enough to hear your own heartbeat again, listen at just how loud you were breathing. A man coughed beside your ear, and you fought the urge to flinch.

Michael paused. He wordlessly handed a few gramophones to Quincy by his side, tilted his head just so, lowered the aviator glasses down his nose, and gave you a gentle smile.

Cameras click-click-clicked away.

You’d heard his speaking voice before that night, obviously. But hearing it from five feet apart had nothing on the shitty TV box in your apartment or the screens you’d watched the awards from backstage.

“That’s a beautiful question,” he breathed, and you pushed on your tiptoes to nudge the recorder closer. He sounded like soft velvet, making you shiver. “Yes. Yes, I do. People often just want to talk about the dancing or the charts, you know? But Quincy and I, we lived in that studio, and Bruce sweated over every single frequency. Billie Jean… that bassline is the heartbeat of the song. If the heartbeat isn’t perfect, the body doesn’t move. To have the Academy recognize that tonight… It’s a sign God is good, and that the hard work is understood. That means a lot to me. Thank you.”

That was it. Your one question, your headline, the article you were waiting to write ever since you heard his voice on vinyl that first Saturday morning. But you were never one to be satisfied, were you? No. You always wanted more, pushed harder, chased things quicker than your feet could keep up with.

The publicist was about to call one last question, but Michael hadn’t taken his eyes off you, so you did the one thing you’d been busting your ass three years off for.

You asked another.

Briefly meeting the publicist’s line of sight, you jumped back into Michael’s gaze. “Is that the standard for pop music now? Perfection or nothing?”

He pushed his aviators up again, chuckled something soft, smile so wide and blinding it bordered on catastrophic. He said: “Perfection is a nice goal, but it’s really about the magic. You can’t mix magic, you just have to catch it when it falls from heaven. Thank you, bless you.”

Bedazzled hand over his heart, hell broke loose with all its demons as Michael was led away. 

And that was how the new girl from Berkeley managed to snag a spot on the front-page cover of issue #419, right beside the pose of Eddie Murphy.

(You’d written for #417 too, but that issue hit the streets right before the Grammys. You’ll always mourn that cover; the lighting on Michael’s face made him look beautifully melancholic. Having your article plastered next to him might’ve actually killed you, so, yeah. Like you said: you lose some, you win some.)

You wouldn’t see Michael again for a couple of months. In reality, you didn’t think you’d see him again, period. Speaking to him once was already a utopic dream come true. A comet that only flies by once and you remember it forever, because there isn’t a chance you’ll see it again.

But the Rolling Stone higher-ups loved you. Okay, ‘love’ is a strong word. Though, being the only journalist to squeeze out a genuine answer from Michael on arguably the biggest night in pop-culture history? That made people do a double take when your name showed up. That’s all the love you needed.

Ben was weirdly jealous. It didn’t help when you asked him how many Grammys Elvis won in one night. Really dug a hole for yourself when you added, “Or, like, ever?”

He could do nothing when you were chosen to cover the preparations for the Victory Tour; granted exclusive access to Zoetrope Studios to attend the rehearsals. You’re surprised you didn’t pass out when Ben broke the news, with as much enthusiasm in his face as reading his monthly bill charges.

April of 1984. A boulevard packed with the busy fumes only a city as big as Los Angeles could produce, that same cassette recorder tucked inside your bag as you paid the cab driver and stood in the front doors of Zoetrope. The sun was slowly setting in the background when a production assistant came to grab you. Huffing and puffing while breezing through his notes, he hardly even looked back to see if you were following.

When he slipped you inside the auditorium, you chose a seat near the middle, the lights dimmed and the stage alight. You pulled out your notepad and got to work, words flying off the paper with hardly the need to look down at them.

You were mesmerized.

All of them were great, but they weren’t Michael.

When they started practising a Jackson 5 medley and you heard I’ll Be There echoing right in front of you, tears almost fell. You thought of your mom and how insane this was, sniffled, and continued jotting on your notepad.

The rehearsal ended, stage lights dimming until fluorescence zipped to life above the theater seats, and you had to squint against the onslaught. Your notes were a mess and your shirt sported a new ink smudge near the breast pocket, yet Michael recognized you anyway.

He was sweaty and tired, wearing a soaked white shirt, curls stuck on his forehead and cheeks. He had just downed an entire Evian water bottle, and some of it trickled past his lips and down his neck. He looked entirely spent, and all you could think was how much you’d kill to be the one to make him feel better.

Your head shook at that. Jesus, girl.

His demeanor was so different from when he was onstage. It’s like he took another form entirely. But down there he was just a guy, squinting at you through the exhaustion. You exited the seats and when he came close enough, you told him: “Hi, Mr. Jackson. I’m from—”

He cut you off. “Hold on… Don’t I know you?”

His voice was as soft as you’d remembered. It washed over you. From the back, his brothers’ boisterous laughter could be heard, but you clung to the softness. Faltering a little, you looked at your shoes before meeting his eyes again. Your smile was tight but genuine. He remembered you.

“Backstage at the Grammys. I asked you about the Billie Jean bassline…?” you trailed off.

And, his whole face just lit up. You should’ve known right there he’d be the thing to kill you. 

Snapping a finger, he laughed: “Yes! The craftsmanship question. I remembered your voice.” His shoulders fell in relaxation, like he was lighter. His hand dropped, that enthusiastically bright smile melting into something softer. Mellower. Looking straight into your soul all the while. “You wrote that beautiful piece for Rolling Stone. You actually… listened to the track.”

You chuckled a bit, feeling your neck flush. This wasn’t the Grammys press room or an official interview studio, with cameras or mics or anything other than his eyes to scrutinize you. This was private. Genuine. You were a kickass professional, but you were also human. He flustered you; way more than pride would have you admit out loud.

He read your article. Called it beautiful. Holy shit.

“I try to make it a habit. You’d be surprised how many people I work with that couldn’t tell you the difference between a chorus and a bridge.”

Cough. Ben. Cough.

That made him laugh. Fuck. Fuck! Leaning a hip against a seat, he crossed his arms and shook a curl off his forehead. His smile was fucking devastating. “Not you, though. Right?”

 “I mean, I hope so?” You made a joking grimace, something between cringing and shrugging. “There’s always a margin for improval, though.”

“I think so, too. Staying stagnant is one of my biggest fears.”

“You’re anything but stagnant, trust me,” you laughed, swallowed hard when he levelled you with a look that urged you to continue. “I–I mean, Off The Wall might’ve been your first fully solo album, but you’d already separated yourself from your brothers creatively. Completely. And, Thriller… What can I even say? They’re like day and night. So, yeah. Trust me,” you took a breath for what felt like the first time after a dive, “Journalistic integrity and all.”

He was nodding along, smile brightening the longer you rambled. In truth, you actually wanted to kind of kill yourself, but once you started there was no shutting it off. So, there you were, giving Michael Jackson a review of his own damn life’s work! What even was your life?

“You’ll be covering this,” he looked back halfheartedly, sighing, “uh, tour?”

Your brows furrowed. “The preparations, yeah.” Call it plain curiosity or your journalistic instincts kicking in, but it took you over. “Why’d you say it like that? Are you not… feeling this?”

He levelled you with a smirk. His eyes were hooded; tired, but sly. Oh, he was a problem, alright. “Not now that you’re here.”

He said it all smooth and suave, yet squinted his eyes a second later, softly laughing at himself and making you stutter through a laugh too.

“That’s–uh… Thank you. I appreciate it, Mr. Jackson. More than you know.”

“Michael,” he grinned at you. “For you, off the record, just Michael. We’ll be sharing a space for some time ‘til the tour.”

You nodded like an idiot, completely caught off-guard. Because, yeah, what the fuck. Sure. “Michael,” you repeated. Like an idiot.

A camera flashed from the side, a metaphorical bucket of ice-cold water getting dumped on you. All levity evaporated off of him, spotting the promotional photographer almost instantly and raising a dismissive hand.

“C’mon, man. Go bother Jermaine or somethin’.”

“O–of course, Mr. Jackson. Sorry!”

He left with his tail tucked between his legs, and you looked at Michael with a sniff. “He doesn’t call you Michael.”

“He’s not you, is he?”

“Guess not.” You glanced at your watch, eyes widening. “Oh! I have to go. I’ll see you next time. Um,” you giggled awkwardly and shook your head. Maybe it could be seen as endearing. At least, you hoped. “Goodnight, Michael.”

“Do you live close? Want me to get someone to call a cab?”

“I’m good,” you nodded softly at the thoughtfulness. It made you feel warm. “See you.”

“Yeah,” he nodded, hips jutting off of the seat he was leaning against, hands closing around the towel hanging from his neck. “I’ll see you.”

That night, you closed your apartment door and screamed so loud the old lady next door had to check on you. You were so over the moon that you slapped a kiss on each of her cheeks and gave her a bunch of leftover cookies you’d made the day before.

You weren’t scheduled to attend another rehearsal until next week. What you weren’t expecting to find at work two days later was a courier at your desk, a nondescript white package shoved into your arms as he urged you to sign. Your heart began pitter-pattering like a hailstorm as you carefully opened it with a pair of scissors, and not even Ben’s curious gaze was enough to stop you.

It was from him.

A rare, early white-label promotional vinyl pressing of Thriller, ‘NOT FOR SALE’ plastered front and center. Your heart genuinely dropped to your ass, head swimming as you turned it around your grip with a hung jaw.

You think Ben might’ve made some sarcastic comment about the feral look in your eyes, but you didn’t even register his presence. He was such a small blotch of importance in your mind, he might as well have not existed at all.

Your head was in upheaval, little-you’s running around with everything on fire, because… This wasn’t happening, right? What the hell?

There was a handwritten note attached, on what looked like to be Michael’s personal stationary: a gold-trimmed and thick cream paper sporting his handwriting. Your heart galloped harder, like it wanted to burst free with every line you read.

It was a wonderful surprise to see you at rehearsals. It’s rare to find someone who understands the magic we try to capture in the studio. I would love to talk more about music with you… Without all the flashing cameras next time. 

If you have some time this weekend, please call Bill (my security) at this number (213)XXX-XXXX. He will arrange for us to have some quiet time to talk.

Keep writing beautifully.

—Blessings, Michael

You were gone, in every sense of the word. Completely and utterly wiped out.

You called the number right there in the office, nervously fidgeted with the cord as you spoke with a sweet-voiced man on the other line who identified himself as the aforementioned Bill, chewed halfway through your lip when you gave him your address and arranged for him to pick you up on 8PM that Saturday.

Arrangements for Encino, the Jackson residence. To somehow—in some inconceivably mind-numbing way—meet up with Michael Jackson and… talk about music? You. And him. Alone in a house larger than your apartment complex and probably your old house combined.

You and him, alone, with his beautifully doe-like eyes and that soft voice that hasn’t left your mind ever since you heard him in the flesh. Fuck.

When you got home that day, you dropped everything by the door and flew to your mom’s old record player she insisted you take during the move. Punching the white-label in, you spent nearly the entire time between coming home and sleeping just listening to Thriller on repeat.

It sounded so… crisp. Clearer than the record back at Berkeley’s radio station, or the one currently sitting on your stack near the wilting spider-plant. If absolutely nothing else, it was a collector’s wet dream, and the most thoughtful thing anyone had done for you in a long time. Worst of all? He didn’t have to.

The thought had you smiling like an idiot inside your small apartment, with the smoke-stained walls smelling of cheap perfume, forgotten takeout, and that certain kind of loneliness only the dust gathering could spread.

God, you were so easy. But he was who he was, so you figured you’d cut yourself some slack.

That’s exactly the thing, though… He owed you nothing. Anybody else in his place would’ve probably forgotten about you the moment they stepped out the press room, let alone remembering you worked for Rolling Stone and waiting for the article to hit the streets? Are you kidding?

You never asked him why. That week came and went like water in a forest creek, swifter than a breath. Before you knew it, it was Saturday and 8PM loomed dangerously. Your room was in a state of disarray, which meant your bathroom too, which might as well have meant the entire apartment looked like site zero of nuclear testing.

Bill arrived at 8PM on the dot, bent his hat for hello as you descended the stairs, and drove you to Encino like he’s driven you a million times before. Like he would a million times again.

Michael greeted you by the fountain. Your heart did the thing that makes you think you’re having a heart attack, but no. He’d just smiled at you. Cheeks full of warmth, eyes bright, asking with a soft voice if you liked his gift. He said he didn’t want to come off as pretentious, but the way you spoke about Thriller made him think you’d appreciate it. 

You don’t even remember what you said; the most you remember about that night is everything you’d lose—

“You’re thinking about him again, aren’t you?” Michael’s voice cuts through the low hum of the cassette recorder, dragging you out of the spring of ‘84 and dropping you right back into the suffocating luxury of 1988.

You blink, focusing on him again. That sweet face full of promise gives way to what he is now: undead and frozen, disastrously beautiful, the best and worst thing to ever happen to you.

What he also is, is inside your mind. Literally.

The tape reels of the Sony TC-D5M turn between you, small plastic wheels trapping secrets that could burn the music industry to ash if they ever left this room. When they leave this room.

“I’m the one doing the interviewing. Get out of my head,” you quip, arms and legs crossed, every ghost of his gaze making your hair stand in attention. Clearing your throat, you adjust your position as if a straight back could shield you against him. “Who’s he?”

 “Yeah, yeah you are. C’mon, girl,” he tsks, waving you off. “You know exactly who he is. I don’t have to read your mind to know where you go when you look at me like that.”

“And where is that?” You level him with shaky blinks, almost afraid to take the risk of not seeing him for that fraction of a second it takes for your lids to open again. He’d never hurt you, you know that.

At least, more than you want. More than you crave to be hurt by him.

“Hayvenhurst, Zoetrope, the studio in Encino, that hole-in-the-wall record store…” he counts off on one hand, long curls falling over his eyes from the half-up/half-down updo he’d tucked them in. “Before. Stuck on something that’d never last to begin with. I’m right here, baby. Can’t you see that?”

He looks so good it makes you want to cry. Why did you agree to this?

Because he’s Michael. Because you love him. You loved him in 1984, and ‘85, ‘86 and ‘87, and you love him now too. No matter the blood. No matter his nature. He’s still the Michael you met in that crowded press room, no matter how much he insists he isn’t.

“So. The him in question is you, Mr. Jackson. You, before you turned?” Journalistic, professional, curt. That’s what he asked for, isn’t it? One final interview by his favorite journalist, revealing what he is to the world.

His eyes drift down to the recorder. It whirs and whirs and keeps on whirring. The almost 13K square feet take the silence and project it all throughout, until the house is louder because of it.

“Yeah. It’s me.” He breaks into a blinding smile. His fangs glint. “I’m thirty years old. I was turned the summer of ‘84, so I’ve been dead for about four years.”

“By all accounts then, still a child.” He doesn’t like that. Clenches his jaw, but says nothing. “Who turned you? How? I imagine those reading are most curious about that.” And then, almost too quiet for the cassette to pick up on, “I know I was.”

“You know what I think about?” He ignores your prompt completely, elbows resting on his spread thighs, eyeing you with that look he gets only where you’re involved. “Remember Dodger Stadium?”

Of course you do.

(December 9th, 1984. A sea of fifty-five thousand people thrashing and screaming, all there for the final night of the Jackson 5 Victory Tour you’d been vigorously covering since April of the same year.

Somewhere along the way, it became something else. Michael had kissed you under the dim lights of his personal studio in Encino, and you’d kissed him back. One hand on his nape, the other clawing at the curve of his waist. His arms curled around you like they belonged there, and his tongue tasted as good as he sounded.

He asked you to be his girl two weeks later. You protested halfheartedly—thinking of your career and the ethics—but in the end didn’t give half a shit. He was yours, you were his, and you continued being a kickass entertainment journalist in the meantime. Your sources just became a tad more direct.

And then, he died.

It was early August, their next concerts being scheduled for NYC. He flew you out, ready to show you off to his brothers like they didn’t already know, and you were over the moon.

Ever since the tour started and long distance became an inevitability, the landline by your bedside got hot every night before bed. He’d call, and you’d fall asleep with his sleepy voice as a lullaby. It left you aching in the best of ways.

You missed him like you knew him all your life. You were so happy to see him again, but… He was different. 

He looked… sick. Lips dry, eyes unfocused, limbs uncoordinated like it was the first time he wore his skin. He refused to leave the hotel while the sun was out, and looked at your neck like it was calling to him.

Well… His nature became clear when you found him draining a busboy behind the hotel. The guy looked deliriously elated to be dying: smile wide as blood-spurts flew like a fountain, bathing Michael in red as he gulped it all down.

He was onto you before you could even take a breath deep enough to scream.

Blood-stained hand against your mouth, wet against your skin, hot as it accidentally slithered past your lips. Your pupils shrunk into pinpricks, the bricks cold on your back as Michael caged you between him and the wall. 

You couldn’t breathe. You screamed against his hand so loud your throat burned, but it didn’t matter. Nothing came out. Only the hot, sizzling tears that mixed with the blood.

“Shh, shhh, baby, calm down,” he whispered. He was so close, inches away, the fresh blood metallic in your nostrils. You saw his fangs and screamed again, thrashing against his hold. “Please, I love you. I love you, baby, be quiet—”

You sobbed against his hand, head shaking as you desperately tried to get away. He kept shushing you with soft and loving praise, calling you beautiful, caging you harder. Your eyes fell on the busboy still dying, milky white skin drained of color as his blood stopped flying, and you knew he was dead.

“It’s over,” Michael whispered, kissing your forehead, lips lingering as he spoke against you: “It’s over, see? Stop cryin’ baby, you’re breaking my heart.”

“You killed him,” you wailed against his hand that was slowly retreating. You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t think. You couldn’t move. “You killed him, Mike, he’s de–dead—” 

Your sobs were the only coherent thing that could come out of your mouth; the same mouth that now had the taste of that guy’s blood. You were going to be sick.

“Somethin’ happened in New Jersey… I changed. I changed, baby, and,” he pointed to the dead guy, “I asked his consent. He let me,” Michael laughed in disbelief. “I swear to you. Let’s just go back to the room, yeah?” He searched for your eyes.

You couldn’t look. You were petrified of what you’d find. Some monster, or the same sweet eyes he hid behind his hands when he shyly asked you to be his girl? You still don’t know what would’ve been worse.

“W–what…” you coughed, spit clogging your throat, tongue paralyzed because if you moved it too much you could taste the blood. “What are you?”

“I’m me, but different. I’m better.” That same soft voice, his characteristic lilt right in your ears.

“I want,” you heaved, “I–I want to go… I think. Michael, I just… Let me go.” You ducked your head down, one of your trembling hands ghosting over your jaw and the blood caked there. “Let me go, plea—”

“Can I kiss you?”

“What?” you cried, eyes finally meeting his. There the monster stood, with the same eyes you loved.

He slowly leaned on you, laying his delicious weight and grounding you despite being the reason for your turmoil. He closed his eyes, those soft curls tickling your cheeks, his hips completely flush against yours and making you gasp as he breathed you in. You were hot, boiling everywhere: neck, chest, hips, deep down your belly and spreading into every inch of your limbs.

He was everywhere. And, in spite of everything, you clutched him tight. One hand on his bicep, the other brushing on the curve of his waist, leg unconsciously lifting to curl around his. You exhaled into his open and waiting mouth, swallowing his lips when they crashed against you. You tasted the fresh blood in his mouth, and shivered as you accidentally licked his fangs.

All you could think was that you’d go to Hell. Not in some lighthearted, cursing-in-the-heat-of-the-moment way. The literal way. The biblical way. Damned for eternity, boiled alive and skinned with fire type of Hell. 

You moaned into him; half a whine, half a sob. He ate it all. He grinded his hips into you, hand buried in the meat of your thigh and bringing you even closer, closer to where he was hot too—

You were going to be sick.

And you did. Breaking the kiss for air, all that connected your mouths was a thin line of hot-red saliva mixed with blood.

And… Yep. There was your dinner: twisting in your stomach and up your esophagus, hitting you so viscerally you only had time to push Michael aside and hurl on the dirty concrete of some NYC back alley, trapped between a dead body and an undead one.

Fuck ‘a rock and a hard place’ and whoever made that shit up. Fuck them and their momma, too.

“What the fuck are you?” you rasped with a sore throat, wiping your red-crusted lips with the back of your hand. Half-kneeled over, you were gripping your knee with one palm so hard it hurt.

He smiled at you wide, fangs getting buried in his bottom lip. They glistened with your spit and that thick metallic tang you could still taste. His voice was still soft. Still his.

“Isn’t it obvious, girl? I’m a vampire.”

You just laughed.

Sudden, sharp, gut-deep. You don’t think you’ve ever laughed that hard in all your twenty-six years on this mortal coil. Twenty-two, then. You laughed and laughed until all you could do was inhale lungfuls of air that punched their way out of you seconds later.

You clapped two hands together and looked at Michael with a crazed beam, your mouth open and teeth showing, still laughing. He looked at you and started laughing too, that deep rumble you found so attractive. He returned the crazed look, hands moving to wrap around each of your shoulders as you ran out of breath.

When your laughter died out, you fainted into his arms, and that’s the last thing you remember about that night in the alley.

It’d been four months since August. Four long months of guilt and disbelief clouding your head every time you woke up, of haunting your nightmares in the form of that unnamed busboy each night you fell asleep.

Anyone normal would’ve turned Michael in to the cops. Would’ve called him psychotic over the vampire bullshit, and ran away to some corner of the world so obscure not even the CIA could’ve found them in.

You did none of that. You weren’t just anyone.

He showed you. That very same morning, with the hotel room blinds shut, he proved everything. Read your mind right back to you, extended and retracted his fangs on will, moved around the room in a dizzying rush of movement a million times faster than any normal human could run. He told you everything.

Your head hurt so much you couldn’t get out of bed for two days, thus ending up losing your flight back to LAX. He paid for another ticket without question.

It was a tough-as-shit pill to swallow, but swallow it you fucking did. Michael Jackson was a vampire. Because, yeah, sure! Vampires are real! That’s a totally normal thing to be aware of in the world.

Michael was a vampire, you loved him, he loved you. He called you his girl, you kissed him and ached for him the same way you did before. You just needed time.

Ben was hounding you about your pending article/review of Prince’s newly released Purple Rain, the ceiling in your bathroom began leaking while you were away and had to get fixed, and you just… needed time to get your head straight.

The four months flew by quicker than you could’ve anticipated. Even as Michael and his brothers touched down on LAX at 2AM on the penultimate Friday of November—just a week before their final six shows in LA—you had a hard time believing what really went down that night in August.

He called you during. Every night, just like before, the landline by your bed rang and you’d talk for so long that you’d wake up in the morning with the phone dangling off the side of your bed. Pretending everything was normal. Ignoring the elephant in the room probably big enough to get into the Guinness record.

He’d call, and all you could think about would be those late nights in his studio, laughing over nothing as you questioned what you were even doing. Of how insane it was to share such an intimate space with him. Of knowing him beyond that invisible wall between you and a person of such tremendous success.

Of how much more he was than anything a TV host or swooning fan could squeeze out of him.

You flew into his arms near the mini-bus that was scheduled to drive them home from the airport, chuckled over his shoulder when Bill made eye-contact with a smirk. Bill also knew. You and him were the only ones.

Well, if you exclude Michael’s maker. But you don’t like thinking about that, so you don’t.

“What does it taste like?” you asked him after the show on the 7th; the second to last. 

You were in his room in Encino, the lamps casting a warm glow over his endearing childhood clutter. Perched on top of his bed, naked and sweaty and spent, you rested your head on your wrist, arm bent at the elbow. Your other palm played with the dips of his chest, curling in indecipherable patterns.

He huffed a soft laugh. “You’ve already had a taste, baby.”

“Yeah, and I threw up,” you counter. “No, I mean, like… What’s it like to drink blood? Does it feel like drinking life itself?”

He chuckled, gave you a wet peck and pulled on your lip with his fangs. You sighed a moan. “Warm,” he whispered. “Thick, it’s… Well, it’s not the answer to life’s mystery, angel. It’s food. I need it.”

“And me? Right now?”

His pupils dilated. You saw it in real time, as he bit his lip and his gaze fell on your neck. Your heartbeat picked up, and he would’ve felt it anyway, vampire or not.

“I won’t lie to you. I sense it. Feel it,” he brushed a sharp nail softly against the skin on your carotid, “as it slides along your veins. I think about it, when we—”

He looked cute. Flushing at his own words, his own thoughts. Your thigh was draped over his naked lap, and he slid a hand across your skin to grip you tighter.

You didn’t think much when you said: “Take a sip, then.”

His head snapped at you, all of the flush gone and replaced by something of a different nature entirely. There you were, a lamb that’s survived the wolf and begging for it anyway. 

Th-thump, th-thump, th-th-thump, th-thump. You knew he felt it. Your skin was sizzling, and you wanted him to taste you.

“No,” he shook his head.

You raised a wrist near his face, waved it like a child, naked breasts brushing against him. Stupid fucking lamb. “Why not?” you asked, and you actually sounded hurt.

He kissed you, poured all his love into it. Palm cradling your head softly and shooing away your wrist from the danger-zone that was his mouth, he said: “Because,” a peck against your lips, “once I start,” on your cheeks, “I won’t stop.”

Deep down, even then, you know you wanted it—)

“That’s not what I asked,” you tell him now, eyes tight. The whirring recorder fills the silence.

His head drops for a moment with a quiet laugh, and when he speaks up, he looks at the recorder pointedly. As if to say, ‘Happy now?’

“It’s my story, isn’t it? My reckoning?”

You huff. “A story needs foundation. So far, all we’ve established is that Michael Jackson knocked his head sideways so hard while filming Thriller, he’s having delusions. You asked for this interview, didn’t you?”

“I did,” he smiles. He loves this. Of course he does.

“Then let me do my job. Now… When, how, and by whom were you turned?”

He sucks in a sharp breath, elbows on his knees, playing with his fingers. “I was turned in New Jersey, July 31st. My maker… is a patron of the arts. That’s what he told me, anyway. Why he did what he did. He said I should stay like this forever.”

You feel your heart bleeding. You know he can hear it, too. “And you will.”

“And I will.”

Michael should be alive right now. This shouldn’t be happening. He shouldn’t have so much blood on his hands, even though it’s so, so fucking hypocritical of you to think this way. The moment Michael died, he became something else. Something outside of human morality and comprehension.

He’s not human, but that image of his doe-eyes that first Saturday in Encino is engraved down to your bones. You just can’t let go.

You cough, clearing your throat, begging a higher power to stop the tears from pooling. You don’t fucking need this right now. “So, it wasn’t consensual?”

His smile changes, for just a fraction of a second. “No. It wasn’t. But I don’t think you’ll find many vampires to tell you it was.”

You look to your lap, at the notepad that’s still empty and the nervous tapping of your pen. “How does one turn? Please, walk us through the process.”

There it is, that smirk. Even when he gets like this, his smile is beautiful.

“Remember Dodger Stadium?” he repeats, a deeper timbre in his voice that lands right where you don’t need to be thinking right now. He doesn’t normally sound like this, to protect his voice.

Fuck.

The answer is yes, and he knows it is. He just wants you to say it. Wants to remind you, as if it could ever be erased.

December 9th, Dodger Stadium. Last night of the Victory Tour. The night Michael finally gave his piece-of-shit father a taste of his own goddamn medicine. The night Michael tasted you for the first time. The point of no return.

You were backstage, waiting for him and his brothers to be done, eardrums nearly bursting by the sheer excitement of the crowd. It should’ve overwhelmed you—and it nearly had—but he made it all okay. Had Bill standing by your side for the entirety of the concert, ensuring Michael would be the first person to see you after they got done. For good this time.

Joseph was there too, and you were fuming, but not as much as he’d be. The thought comforted you.

Michael looked high when he stormed towards you, sweat-soaked and iridescent, the throat-burning screams of an insatiable crowd echoing behind him like the croaks of vultures. He smiled at you, letting his fangs show as he took you by the hand, Joseph hot on his trail. Bill stopped him, and Michael didn’t look back once.

He crowded your every sense in some obscure corner of the stadium, nearly pitch-black. He kissed you like he hadn’t found your lips in days, like a thirsty man trekking the desert.

You welcomed it. You craved it. Arms thrown over his shoulders, one playing with the curls of his nape and the other burying itself in their thickness, you squeezed him like you wanted to be fused. Needed to.

“You did it,” you sighed with a big smile against his lips, moaning a soft exhale as his kisses trailed down and all over. “I’m so fucking proud of you, Mike, you did it—”

The first bite was soft. Just a nip, a barely-there graze of his fangs on your exposed neck. A slip-up, making him freeze in place as your heart echoed, pounding deeper and deeper against its boney cage.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. All color drained from his face. You panicked, clutched him tighter against you. He quivered: “Baby, no, I’m so sorr—”

“No,” you breathed. Th-thump, th-thump, th-th-thump, th-thump. You watched his eyes clouding, pupils blown as he zeroed in on your pulsing jugular. You felt the vein shifting your skin with its intensity. He damn-near drooled. “I want you to. I want you to have me, like this… I want you to taste me.” You licked into his open lips messily, tongue slipping on his fangs. “I trust you.”

He looked like he’d seen a ghost. 

“W–what?” he stuttered in that sweet voice, just like the boy he used to be. His pretty eyes drifted between your neck and eyes, lost and confused, like he hadn’t heard you right.

You smiled at him. With one finger, you traced his cheekbone, down his nose, across his lips. One of your legs was wrapped around his waist, and you tightened it. His hand instinctively buried itself in the meat of your thigh, thumb softly rubbing.

“I want you,” your hand pushed down your shirt collar, “to taste me, Michael. You deserve it.”

He morphed into something else; darkened eyes, something swirling inside them that surpassed lust by an absurd degree. You couldn’t understand it fully; you could only just revel in it.

He inhaled sharply, lips on your vein, voice blistering. He sounded breathless, air completely punched out of him. “I do, don’t I? You smell… so sweet, baby.” A kiss, sharp fangs prickling you, warning you of what’s to come. “My sweet thing, all mine… Are you sure?”

“Yes,” you begged, “yes, yes, ye–ah—!”

It was… euphoric.

To this day, there isn’t a more apt word for it. That first tasting felt better than any drug, any naturally produced hormone. And it was exactly that feeling of intimate carnage you’d been chasing ever since.

The truth is, Michael ruined you. You’ve come to terms with it.

How can you even put it into words? He’s in your head again, you can tell; reliving it from your perspective, letting the pain and pleasure of memory wash over him as he exhales. You exhale, too. You cross your legs, he adjusts his crotch, and neither of you says a thing.

The recorder whirs, tapes wasted over the silence.

Your brain shifts through the memories without your say. That hot prickling of his teeth into your neck—for just a second—to gently pierce the flesh and not cause too much damage. The way he licked over it as you moaned, something in his tongue that made the pain give way to ecstasy. 

You still haven’t figured that part out, but you doubt there’ll be any scientific studies done on the Dark Gift anytime soon. So, mystery it is.

The way he drank: lazily, his slender and strong arms wrapped around you like a vice, feeling him everywhere as your eyes swam. You turned boneless in his embrace, like putty. Completely at his mercy, and he drank every last drop you offered.

You were pulsing hot for him, and you are now too. Both times, he’s been able to feel it. That first time, though, he held back. Blood-drunk and greedy for more, he drew back with a sharp breath, two slim fingers finding the puncture wounds and pressing tight to stop the bleeding. Heaving as his tongue lapped over what was left still on his lips, completely gone.

You remember feeling hammered. Like you’d just downed a whole bottle of Hennessy and done three lines of coke. Fuck, that’s not something one can go through and just be normal afterwards, right? Well-adjusted and going on about their day?

Humans are vampire food, and that something in their saliva surely is to make your last moments on this earth somewhat enjoyable. That busboy looked so happy with his entire neck slashed in two. You’d been in ecstasy too, and just lived to tell about it.

He’s doing this on fucking purpose. Your thighs clench, eyes narrowing.

“I remember,” you hiss curtly. “But you knew that. You’re in my head right now, aren’t you?”

“What would I see?” he asks, breathless, leaning back on the cushions, hand on his crotch. Don’t look, don’t look. “If I was.”

Two can play that game. You force yourself to think of something insanely unsexy. Like that time you accidentally walked by Tito skinny-dipping in the pool in Hayvenhurst, one night you’d stayed over and wanted a glass of water in the middle of the night. You got an unforgettable view of his naked ass, and that’s exactly the image you project.

It takes merely a second for Michael to lose it. And, fuck. Fuck him and that stupidly deep laugh of his. Fuck him, and fuck you for finding it so disarming.

“You think my laugh’s disarming, sweet thing?”

Sweet thing. Just like he called you that night, drooling over the smell of your veins. It shouldn’t be as hot as it is.

“Mr. Jackson—”

“—Michael—”

“Michael—!” you give in and cut yourself off, his name a frustrated whisper. You clench your eyes tight, defeated. Then, because you’re you, you bite back. “Remember the AMAs? Or Rolling Stone’s 20th, remember that? Huh, Michael?”

(The American Music Awards of 1986. What can you even say about that shitshow of an awards night? The last time you’d been inside the Shrine Auditorium was as a young journalist, still unsure but certain to leave your mark.

And you clearly had, because the second time you stepped through those doors was while holding onto Michael’s arm. His date. His girl. Seated in the front row, wearing a pretty black dress to match his military jacket.

You don’t remember much about the ceremony or the afterparty, except for how much you wanted to strangle Diana Ross in that shiny red dress of hers. That old bitch.

Your and Michael’s relationship was kept mostly private from the public, but not from either of your circles. A badly-kept secret, so to speak. Of course Diana knew as she called him up the stage and held his arm, kissed him sloppily on both cheeks, danced tightly against him as all the artists involved sang We Are The World.

You fought with him about it afterward, really bad. Said some nasty shit you wish you could’ve phrased differently, because he just couldn’t see your point. He even defended her, right in your face! You remember saying something like: “She met you as a child, Michael! A grown woman! Called you sexy on national TV! What the fuck are you not seeing, exactly?”

He replied like: “Baby, it ain’t like that. Never was, never will. You’re overreacting. Please. Why are you bein’ like this?”

Bill drove you home ten minutes later, and you didn’t speak to Michael for over a week.

Your apartment got promptly filled with an apologetically handwritten card, some of your favorite pastries from Phoenix Bakery in Chinatown, and a brand new record of Kate Bush’s Hounds of Love.

It was a week too fucking soon.

Yeah. Well, ‘86 and ‘87 were a couple of bad years for the both of you. You don’t know if you can confidently say you actually broke up, because how do two people break up when one’s tasted your blood? When you’ve let them? Can that connection ever be severed, even momentarily?

You sure as hell acted like it had.

You’d barely spoken to him in months—close to a year, almost—and the cards didn’t once stop appearing every week, like clockwork.

He called you once, too. Late into the night, your apartment quiet as you twisted and turned. You picked up on the third ring, breath catching in your throat when you heard his soft whiny breaths.

Michael. Heavy and hot, almost scratching the receiver. You recalled his scent, the way his perfume would linger on the pillows even hours later. The way you’d bury your face in those pillows as he wrecked you.

The soppy-wet sounds of his hand working over himself travelled the distance, landing right between your legs as you rubbed them together in shock. 

“Mike?” you whined, bit back a moan as he exhaled.

“Talk to me, baby, jus’ keep talking… A–ah, please, plea… I need to hear your voice…”

It was so loud under the silence. Your heart pounding, the heat between your legs slipping past the point of tolerance, the way his soft moans slithered on your skin and made you shudder. Your hand buried in your panties, mouth huffing and drooling over the headset, shuddering with each of Michael’s groans and whines, each wet echo of his hand as he got off to your voice alone.

He came with a shuddering breath that was enough to send you over the edge too, fingers cramping as you chased the feeling with your hips, your moans only prolonging his own high.

The quiet stretched over you both like a blanket, just the faint scratches of the connection breaking it, your breaths mingling even miles apart. You imagined what he’d look like right then: fucked out, needy, spent, curls a wet mess against his forehead and cheeks. The way he’d clench his eyes in pleasure and the way his thighs would quiver from it. The way you’d kiss every inch of him, lips sliding over his sweaty skin as he flushed; because, despite everything, he still got shy.

Panting, you punched the landline shut, like it’d burned you. And that was it.

While that period of time felt like ages to you, it must’ve been meaningless for an immortal who’s got nothing but time in his hands. You think he would’ve waited years had you not pulled the stunt you had.

The scene was this: November of 1987 inside the Hollywood Palladium, dimly lit table areas punctuated by blinding white follow-spots cutting through a thick layer of haze, the stage dominated by a giant ‘Rolling Stone: 20 Years’ neon sign. The air was heavy with the scent of expensive French perfume worn by every A-lister, spilled champagne, hairspray, and an omnipresent cloud of cigarette and cigar smoke.

You wore that black dress Michael bought for you to match him in the AMAs, because you knew he would attend. He’d said as much in his most recent card that he’d sprayed with his perfume. You weren’t proud of it, but you’d clutched it tight against your nose, inhaled a deep gulp of his sweet and honeyed musk, sighed as frustration and pettiness sprouted inside you like weeds.

You wore his dress, to match with another man. Like the selfish bitch you were, apparently.

His name was David; a sweet post-graduate from USC who’d clung to you like a duckling since his first day in the office. It didn’t take long for him to ask you to be his date for the anniversary party, and you could see in his eyes he hoped it’d lead to something more. A sloppy makeout with champagne-soaked lips, maybe some second-base action in the back of his red BMW in the parking lot. A textbook office romance that’d end up being nothing but a short-lived disappointment, because after Michael that’s what every relationship was doomed to burn down into.

It’d never happen, of course. The plan wasn’t to get under somebody else, it was to get under Michael’s skin. That’s just about how far you’d thought it through. Hindsight’s a nasty bitch, though, because you really should’ve second-guessed yourself a bit harder. You wouldn’t have David’s blood on your hands had you done that.

But, you’re getting ahead of yourself.

David looked like the American Dream personified. Tall and muscular, pretty blue eyes and long brunette hair. He was the kind of man destined to marry his high school sweetheart and live in a nice two-story house in the suburbs, driving that same BMW until either he or the car gave out. You have no idea what happened and he somehow ended up as an entertainment-journalism intern in the heart of LA, but everyone’s got a story, you suppose.

Michael’s arrival signalled mayhem. He’d just released Bad three months ago and embarked on his very first solo world tour since September: first stop in Japan, then back to the states for the near-month gap until the Australian leg of the tour. Bad was another masterpiece, but you’d known that already. 

You were with him for almost the entire time he was making it. You’d sat curled on his couch in the studio as he re-recorded his ‘83 demo for Liberian Girl, shuddering at his beautiful harmonies, kissing him in-between breaks.

Outside, the sidewalk was a warzone of the paparazzi’s flashing Xenon flashbulbs. Inside, the instrumental intro of Dirty Diana began blasting as everyone became aware of Michael’s arrival, and you had to fight the urge to glower. 

He’d told you it was fictional, a gritty pop-rock anthem about groupies. You knew he was telling the truth. It still pissed you the fuck off.

David was pulling at your hand, wanting to introduce you to Jann Wenner, who he’d just met himself. You know you should’ve been enthusiastically jumping at the chance to get acquainted with Rolling Stone’s co-founder, but all you could think about was Michael.

His look. The longer hair you’d been threading your fingers through, now slick with gel and held up in a half-bun, falling to his shoulders. The metallic buckles, the heavy black leather, the studs. He looked like sex, even from fifty feet apart. Even in the dark. Maybe especially in the dark; right at home.

His eyes found yours in the crowd, irises glinting unnaturally when you made eye-contact. You’d missed those eyes so much. He smiled at that, reading your thoughts from the distance.

Amidst the clamor of his arrival and the party which was in full drunken swing, he made every sound but his projected voice fade away; as if your ears got stuffed with cotton. It disoriented you, and for a second before his voice rang in your head, you thought you’d been drugged.

‘Hi, baby,’ he echoed around your skull.

Fuck—

A chuckle, in unnatural surround sound. ‘I missed you too.’

But then David drew closer, still chatting with Jann Wenner, laughing over something you hadn’t bothered to pay attention to. Not that you could. Michael was watching. And when David’s palm inched down to your waist, gripping your skin with the confidence of a much different man than who you’d become accustomed with… You knew. You could taste it in the air.

David was already dead.

Does it really matter what exactly happened next? How Michael cut a line through the crowd and laughed at David’s jokes, looked at you only when he invited him somewhere quieter to talk, acted fascinated with his infant career? How you did nothing to stop the growling predator from catching up with sweet David into one of the countless unmarked backrooms of Hollywood Palladium?

“Stop!” you cried as Michael had him by the throat, red-hot and thick rivulets of crimson painting the floor in heaps. David’s neck was bent for Michael’s teeth to latch onto, dark leather glistening with blood, his pretty eyes sizzling with an anger so deep it bordered on divine. “Mike, he’s no one, h–he’s nothing! He’s a fucking nobody! Just let him go!”

“A nobody?” he echoed, voice slick as he swallowed around the words. “Touching you? A nobody you wore this dress for? Our dress? Are you serious, girl?”

David was gargling on his own spit and blood, completely out of it, limbs spread like a plush-toy on the discount aisle. Your hands were shaking, gooseflesh prickling every exposed inch of skin.

“We can just t–take him to a hospital. Please, Mike,” you wheezed out, a sudden sob breaking through your voice. “It’s my fault… It’s my fault, I didn’t thi—”

“Think what? That I’d do this?”

You shook your head, eyes clenched, arms crossed over your torso unsurely. “Just, let’s ju—”

“We can’t take him anywhere, sweet thing. Or let him live.” He rose, slowly, the predator approaching the deer because it loves it despite everything. He came to you and cradled you by the nape, searched for your eyes as your breathing steadied. You gripped him by the waist as he brought you closer, going to kiss your forehead and stopping short because of the blood still dripping. “What happens when he wakes up and tells the police Michael Jackson tried to kill him?”

Fuck. You’re so fucking stupid. Idiot. Idiot, idiot, id—)

“Of course I remember,” Michael tells you. “If you’d told me to stop, I would’ve. But you didn’t. Why?”

You drop the pen, ink smudging the unmarked notepad before you throw it to the side completely. “You never actually wanted this interview, did you?” He smiles. “What is this? Some sort of sick trip down memory lane? Why the hell did you have me agree to this, Mike?”

“It’s Mike, again? Good, good…” he breathes, smile elated. “I didn’t have you agree to anything, baby. You agreed… because you wanted to. Just like you wanted me to drain David dry.” You look away. “Admit it,” he urges, wild.

(—iot, idiot, idiot.

“Scratch me,” he told you, breath hot and metallic. You almost leaned forward. “Push me. Bite me. Do anything, and I’ll stop. I’ll let him go.” He unravelled his arms from you, took a step back, eyes locked onto yours like anchors the entire time. He moved backwards, one painstakingly slow step at a time. “Anything. Move a muscle, and I stop.” Another step. Two, three. “Anything, baby.” He leaned down, grabbed David by his blooming neck, oozing in-between his fingers. He shook his head: “No?”

You didn’t move an inch. Not a twitch, or a tremor, or a step. Nothing. Because he was right. If David woke up, Michael’s life would be over. Yours too. You’re not ashamed to admit it; you love Michael too much to care about a life snuffed out before its time. Hell, you might’ve killed David yourself.

So, you did… nothing. You stood there idle, breathless as the soppy slaps of Michael’s lips and tongue drained David dry. And when he swiftly came in front of you—spat the remaining blood on the ground next to your heels and fixed you with his hunger—you kissed him.

Open-mouthed, hot, eating him from the inside out. David’s blood smearing on your skin, you moaned against Michael’s sizzling lips, your waist and neck bending as he leaned into you harder. He whined something soft, voice electrifying, just like he sounded all those times before. Even under the leather and the death, he was still your Michael.)

“Why did you call me here, Mike?”

“You know why. You’ve known from the start.”

You shake your head, petulant. “No, n—”

“Oh, yeah. Yeah, you do.” He searches your eyes, an endless brown sea of stars, all trapped inside his irises. His brows furrow, and his voice suddenly loses its punch. “I need you with me. I… I can’t do this, not anymore.”

Your heart stutters. “What? What’re you talking about?”

He chuckles to himself a bit, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s something broken. “Eternity is lonely, and I love you s–so much…” He sucks in a sharp breath. “I don’t want to be alone anymore. I can’t.”

Oh… “Michael,” you breathe. Every human instinct in you screams to run, but every uneven beat of your heart screams the opposite. He can feel it. The way the blood surges through your veins, the way your breath catches somewhere in your throat, your eyes that trail down his figure you’ve memorized by heart.

Fuck. Fuck, f—

“What is it, baby?” he whispers. He might as well have yelled it. The way he’s looking at you makes the hairs on your nape stand tall, a shiver going through your shoulders you have no time to suppress.

You gulp. Eyes trailing down his arms, caressing his veins, falling into the trap of his slender hands. He’s beautiful everywhere. His pretty face and even prettier eyes, the long curls he’s grown out, his soft-spoken mouth with two fangs sharp enough to kill.

God. You love him so much. You need him. Not just for ten, twenty, thirty, forty years. Not to wilt away while he stays behind, watching you go with every sunset. No. You need to be… with him. Through all of it. You fucking need him.

“How… would you do it?” you whisper.

You don’t need to specify what ‘it’ is. His eyes are proof enough he understands exactly what you mean; holding you captive, like snares. You watch the way they darken, how his whole face shifts. It makes need pool deep down your belly. You twitch on the sofa, and he knows.

But you know, too. You can see the way he’s rubbing a hand on his thigh, adjusting in place, breathing a little heavier.

“I’d have to drain you first,” he punches out. One of his fingers traces his own throat in demonstration, sharp nail catching skin and leaving a trail. “I’d bite… here,” he stops at the carotid. “And,” his finger continues the trail, “here.” The jugular.

“Yeah?” You feel the vessels he’s pointing to galloping, pulsing harshly under your skin, like they’re getting ready for him. It’s like you can’t breathe properly anymore; the air gets stuck somewhere down your throat, your chest rising and falling in compensation. “And then?”

“Then…” He shifts, standing up, stalking towards you. “I’d stop, just before you die…”

Your neck needs to bend upwards to look him in the eye, eyebrows raising in performance. You’re eye-to-eye with his crotch, and you push down the urge to rub your cheek against it. You breathe: “Oh?”

“Mhm,” he hums, looming above you, all dark and handsome and yours. Fuck, you’d missed him. His palm comes up to cup your jaw, thumb softly tracing your bottom lip. “I’d slit my wrist… Right over this pretty mouth…” His thumb pushes in, and you take him gladly; tongue swirling around the digit as you huff a moan. It threatens to undo him. “I–I’d… Hm. I’d let you drink from me, as much as my baby needs… Yeah?” he asks, voice breaking into a high-pitched breath at the end.

“You will?” you ask when you release his spit-soaked thumb, giving the digit a kiss.

“Yes,” he exhales so hard his whole chest shudders. “I will, girl. I’ll give you every last drop.”

You don’t know who lunged first. All you know is that one second he’s looking down at you—mouth gaping as he pants, the heat between your legs spreading like tendrils over your nerves—and the next, you’re kissing.

Kissing is a kind term. You’re breathing each other in; licking and scraping teeth together like animals, whining against each other’s open mouths. His hold is bruising on your skin, his body an anchor as he turns you around in his hold.

Back against his lean chest, hips flush, his arm around you as his mouth comes down to your neck with a moan. He doesn’t bite, or even nip; he’s breathing you in. It makes you hotter, temperature rising dangerously.

“Sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted,” he sighs, words muffled on your skin. “My girl… All mine…”

“Do it,” you heave, bound in his arms. He freezes. “Make me. Right now. Do it, Mike—”

“Baby—”

His hold lightened, and you used it to turn around again, just as flush as before. You grab him by both cheeks, cradling him in equal parts softly and fiercely. You smile, and it widens when you realise how much the sight undoes him.

“You were right. I’ve wanted this… for a long time.” You lay a peck on his lips, moving back before he has a chance to return it. You remove your blouse with both hands, chest falling and rising deeper with each second more his gaze trails over you. Taking his palm in your hold, you bring it to your pulsing neck, letting his nails softly graze against it. “I trust you.”

Just like you’d told him in Dodger Stadium. The words cleave him in two, lids hooding over his eyes as he nods, leaning down to catch your lips in a wet kiss full of promise.

He lays you down on the big couch, your naked skin meeting the back cushions. He undresses, looming over you like a statue, something from another era entirely. Lean and catastrophically beautiful. The white shirt he wore lands somewhere near the still-whirring cassette recorder, and he’s on you in seconds. Careful hands cradling the back of your neck, kissing you all over as your breathing quickens.

He’s nervous. “I’ve never done this before.”

You giggle nervously. “Me neither.”

It lands just like you wanted it to; makes him chuckle. He meets your eyes, and you suddenly realise his eyes will be the last thing you see. What better a way to die? He breathes: “I love you. I love you so much.” You smile. “Say it back,” he begs.

With a shake of your head, you whisper: “After.”

What comes next can best be described as a… euphoric daydream. A split-screen montage of ache and pleasure, a film reel of your life the way people say it flashes in your eyes just before you step into the light. You never believed it when they said that. How can so many years fit into so few seconds? How can an entire life of mornings and afternoons and nights all fly by so quickly? How did you get here?

As Michael pierces your flesh—carotid and jugular throbbing together in thick, hot rivulets you faintly register bathing your skin—you feel no pain. The ceiling oozes and bends out of shape, your limbs grow numb, and your eyes swim. You moan, but it doesn’t sound right in your ears. Like you’re somewhere else, hearing it from a distance. And Michael keeps on drinking; gulping you down, your heart racing to make up for the loss, lips siphoning all of your nearly one-and-a-half gallon of blood out.

You’re not in Michael’s house anymore. You’re six, and your dad’s bought a brand new record player as a gift for your mom’s birthday; the one that’d later end up in your apartment. You jump excitedly as she punches in Abbey Road, and the three of you spend the entire morning dancing to Here Comes The Sun.

You’re fifteen, and a boy’s broken your heart for the first time. He’d asked you to the prom as a joke, making you come by his house only to find Donna Taylor dolled up and smushed against him, his parents snapping polaroids of their son and his real date. You were mortified, hardly got out of bed for a week.

Your first day at UC Berkeley. Your fresh start. Your passion. The new friends who didn’t give a shit about how you grew up or what you used to be. The endless caffeinated nights slaving away in Eshleman Hall. That small diner close to Sherry’s house you’d all spend your free nights at, gossiping and laughing and talking about the future with greasy fingers. Those Wednesday afternoons spent at the radio station hosting your show with Aisha and Susan, giggling over Michael Jackson’s vocals on the second verse of The Lady In My Life.

Michael. The Grammys of ‘84. His room in Hayvenhurst. The tiny mom-and-pop record store close to your apartment you’d both go incognito in and browse for records, even though the teenage girl behind the counter recognized him and swore to keep his secret with her life (as long as he promised to come back). Before he had the courage to kiss you. Before you had the courage to admit you wanted him to.

The memories are brighter now, images swirling and bleeding into one another, to the point where you don’t know where one ends and another begins. You see Michael’s younger face, before he turned, and he’s standing beside you as you were on your first day in Berkeley. You look good together.

You feel featherlight. Eyes drooping and—

Something warm drips on your lips. You didn’t realise before, but a breath was stuck in your throat, lethargic and slow. It punches you straight in the chest on its way out.

It’s so sweet. Hot and thick, better than anything you’ve ever tasted. Like a charged live-wire, you jump up. Things get less blurry, sanguine haze slipping into rhapsodic focus.

It’s Michael’s arm, his oozing wrist, his blood you’re gulping down. You’re so, so hungry. Starving. Like you haven’t eaten in years. Your hands wrap around his wrist like an animal, pushing it into your mouth, guzzling down his saccharine blood as it drips past your jaw and down your breasts. You hear him moan, deeply, erotic and charged. You gulp harder and harder—

He swipes his hand away, and you’re left whining.

“No,” you cry, whimpering, words slurred like you’re drunk. “Iwantmore, Michael, I need more—”

“I’ll give it to you, baby, I will,” he comforts. His hands cradle your face softly, wrist still bleeding, fingers trailing over your forehead and cheeks and lips in awe. “You’re here…”

“I love you,” you heave out. His blood is still thick on your tongue. With newfound strength, you overpower him, pushing him back down onto the couch and straddling his lap. He moans as you kiss him, making him taste himself, tongues swiping against each other. You want to eat him up. “Ineedit, M–mike…”

He’s hard against you, bulge pushing up against his pants, sensitive as your hips start rubbing against him. You feel drunk on it. You lick your own lips, chasing the last sweet remnants of his blood, gulping it down with his spit. It’s like every single sensation has been dialed up to a million.

He looks like a dream. Breathing heavily, his non-bleeding palm tight on your thigh as you move against him, head hanging back with an open mouth. He brings his wrist up lazily, blood seeping down his forearm, fangs biting his lip with a dangerous smirk.

“You want it?” he whispers, sharp. You nod feverishly. He hisses: “Take it then. Take what you want, girl—”

He moans so prettily when you take his wrist in your mouth again. A little calmer now, not like you’re starving but rather like you’re savouring. Every hot drop. You’re wet and aching, rubbing against his hardness, gulping him down as it all swirls into a fucked out bliss you never want to get out of.

You could listen to his sounds forever. You want to. He’s so breathy and soft, nothing like the men you’ve been with before who only grunt like brutes. You suck his wrist a little harder, drop your clothed center a bit firmer, his eyes rolling back as he lets out the most mouth-watering mewl.

He exhales an embarrassed breath a second later, feeling as you smile against his wrist, still drinking. He pulls his hand back, your lips smacking in its absence.

“How d’you feel?” he slurs, cupping your cheek.

Forgoing an answer, you drop a hand between your bodies, grinning when he shudders. You rub him over the cloth just like this, need growing stronger the more he falls into you.

You lean down and kiss him, blood and breaths mingling, gasping a small ‘oh!’ in his mouth when you feel those slender fingers sneaking past the hem of your skirt.

You’re shaking as his fingers make contact with your slick; so cold contrasted with the heat bubbling, exhaling into each other’s face as you rest your forehead against his. Your hand undoes his zipper, bypasses his underwear and closes around him.

Fuck. Fuck. You missed him so much.

You work him just the way he loves: fingers brushing over the tip, smearing the wetness, squeezing him just so as your grip glides up and down. In return, he works you too: thumb on your clit, rubbing tight circles without missing a single beat, not even when he slips two fingers inside and you falter, moaning in his mouth.

“It feels so good, Mike…” you hiccup.

“I know,” he whines, “I know, sweet thing… You’re so good f’me… Here,” he brings his wrist up, “drink. Dri–a–ah, mhh—”

He tastes so fucking good. Is all blood like this? Is it just Michael? You don’t know nor do you care, you just need to keep drinking. You hold his lean arm tight against your torso, veined forearm lodged right in-between your breasts, wrist bent as he continues working you to a climax.

He stops his ministrations on you and closes around the hand that’s sloppily working him, slips his hardness out, single-handedly ripping your underwear in two. Fuck. Fu—

You shudder when he slaps the tip against your sensitive clit. “Mike,” you cry through a full mouth, nearly choking on a gulp. You shove your wrist in his face, brows furrowed, begging: “Fuck me.”

The sounds he makes slides over you like hot molasses. And when he slips in, it feels right at home.

His fangs break the skin on your wrist, mirroring your greedy gulps and you move against each other, skin slapping against skin. He’s everywhere. Everything. Him feeding on you feels as euphoric as it had that very first time, when you were still alive and mortal, fragile in front of the beast. The sensations travel from the puncture wounds and up your arm, tingling and erotic. They mix with the feeling of his dick driving in and out of you until you can’t tell where one sensation ends and the other begins.

You make for a sinful sight. Damned. Fucking on his couch, blood dripping down the leather, drinking each other up as you’re steadily shoved towards your peak. You feel it coming suddenly, his arm still held tight between your tits, his wrist limp as you detach your lips from the wound because you’re—

“M–mike—” you sob, voice wrecked, “I’m, I–I’m—”

“Yeah?” he breathes. He kisses you, hand slipping to your clit, and you come harder—fiercer—than you’ve had in your entire life.

The feeling threatens to drown you all over again. It travels from your bud and up your belly, spreading like tendrils and meeting with the tingling of his mouth that’s latched to your wrist again. Not drinking now, just kissing. Tiny wet pecks as the skin tries to heal itself, veins throbbing.

It takes a few more desperate bumps of his hips and your fangs—fangs!—teasing his ear for him to cum inside you. He shudders whole, his moans the sweetest thing you’ve ever heard, his head falling back and chest rising arrhythmically.

He doesn’t pull out, and you don’t want him to. You’re content to lie like this, chest to chest, connected and aching in the best of ways. Still breathing hard, you kiss him on the cheek, and he smiles at you so brightly, tears gather on your lashes. Happy tears.

“My baby,” he whispers, pretty doe-eyes drifting across your features. He kisses you, just for a second longer than you had. “My girl…”

“Look!” you giggle, brushing the pad of one finger against a fang, mouth hanging open like an idiot. He laughs. “I’ave’angs now!”

“I love you so much,” he murmurs, “but you need to rest. You’re not gonna wake up so happy, trust me.” You hum, smirking, squeezing your walls around his sensitive and softening dick. His hand comes down your ass in a sharp slap, making you smirk wider. “C’mon now, girl,” he smiles, pecking your nose. “Don’t start.”

“Okay,” you smile against him.

You spend the rest of the afternoon in bed, resting just like he told you, listening to him explain how most things work now. It makes your head ring—and you have a million and one things you need to figure out and come to terms with—but none of it mattered for that small window of time you spent cuddled in his bed, all your problems and concerns unable to reach you past the warmth bubbling in your chest.

You died. Michael died. You were both on equal ground now, undead and damned, as you always suspected it was meant to be. Ever since you locked eyes beneath a sea of camera bulbs flashing.

(The night after your turn, you burned the forgotten Sony TC-D5M and the reels inside it. The interview was never going to see the light of day, anyway. He just needed to remind you of something you’d wanted from the start. He had to make you remember. He couldn’t stand your absence any longer. That you-shaped emptiness that threatened to stretch out for years while you’d force yourself to move on, leaving a void behind you that could’ve never been filled.

You loved him just as he loved you, and that was rare. Even before he died, he’d never felt it quite like he did with you. Every relationship of his scrutinized or twisted out of context, unable to exist with someone without offering explanations. He didn’t have that with you.

You’re a journalist, you know the ins and outs of the industry, and what you didn’t know you learned. Because you were good. With you, he was free to just exist.

So, yeah.

That’s the story of how Michael Jackson killed you, and that’s the end of it. There’s nothing else.)

3leni © 2026 — i do not consent to my work being republished on other platforms or put into ai. do not copy or plagiarize.

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."

the marble beneath your bare feet is cool against your skin, a welcome break from the thick summer heat pressing against the city outside your floor to ceiling windows. it’s well past midnight. the apartment is quiet, the only light coming from the skyline beyond the glass and the glow of your phone resting on the coffee table. a text lights up the screen.

from your new boyfriend. he’s three time zones away on a business trip, but somehow still making time to check in before bed. “goodnight love you.❤️”

you take a slow sip from your wine glass, thumbs hovering as you begin to type, when an incoming phone call appears on the top of your screen.

Jaafar Jackson.

you always know how this starts and how it ends. you press the red button to decline before returning to the text message from your boyfriend.

you tap out a quick, hollow “goodnight🙂, love you too,” and hit send, letting the screen go dark a second later.

you place your phone back on the coffee table with a quiet clink, your hand staying there for a moment. your fingers trace the cool glass as your eyes remain fixed on the screen.

five seconds. ten.

the silence of your apartment feels almost mocking. you take your last sip of wine, the liquid doing nothing to soothe the unease in your stomach. you know he’s not gonna stop at one call, he never does.

the phone lights up again, cutting through the dark hue of the living room. 

Jaafar Jackson.

each ring feels heavier than the last, the sound echoing through the apartment until it’s impossible to ignore. your heart stutters, a painful jump in your chest. 

you stare at the name, you think about the gala last week. the way his eyes never left you even with his girlfriend conversing next to him. how his hand lingered on your back for just a second longer after helping you out the car.

the way his mouth unraveled you, taking his time with your body the very second the doors to your public lives were closed for the night.

your phone vibrates again for the third time. one, two, then a text.

why are you ignoring me?

the audacity of it pulls a shaky, breathless laugh from your throat. you’re the one who does everything right, the one who keeps the family image pristine. but looking at that screen, the image feels like a costume you’re desperate to peel off.

you don’t reach for the phone. Instead, you turn toward the sound of the elevator chime echoing faintly from the foyer. a private, floor access ping that shouldn’t be happening at 2:00 AM.

your breath hitches. you haven’t even moved, but you know the elevator doors are sliding open. you know he’s here. you walk toward the foyer, the floor of your penthouse apartment cold beneath your bare feet, your silk robe flowing behind you like a shadow. 

you don't have to look through the peephole to know who is standing on the other side. you reach for the handle, your knuckles turning white around it as guilt and adrenaline fight for control of your next move. you click the locks open. the door swings wide, and there he is—Jaafar, looking exactly as he did in your thoughts, his dark jacket rumpled, his eyes dark and hungry.

“Jaafar,” your eyes drag up and down his tall frame. “why are you here?” 

"You didn't answer," he says, his voice low, rough that vibrates right through you. 

He doesn't wait for an invitation–he just steps inside, closing the door behind him and locking it with a sharp, final click. "Stop pretending you don't want this."

his hands meet both sides of your face, forcing you to look at him. you remove his hands from your face. “no, no, we said we were done with this,” you whined.

your voice trembling as you stepped back, trying to put space between your body and his overwhelming presence.

Jaafar didn’t move. he stood right where he was, his hands dropping to his sides, but his dark eyes never left yours. “we did say that,” Jaafar murmured, his voice incredibly calm, yet entirely laced with a quiet type of certainty. 

he took a single step forward, easily cutting the distance you had just tried to make. “we said it last month, too. and the month before that. But here we are.”

“J, please,” you whispered, your hands pressing against his chest to stop his advance. 

through the thin material of his shirt, you could feel the frantic, heavy thud of his heartbeat, matching the uneven rhythm in your own chest. 

“my boyfriend... he just–he’s coming back in two days. and your girl, Jaafar. she’s going to start wondering where you are.” at the mention of your partners, his jaw clenched, a flash of pure possessiveness darkened his eyes. 

he didn’t back down. instead, his long fingers wrapped around your wrists, gently but firmly pulling your hands away from his chest, only to pin them flat against the cool wall behind you.

“I swear on everything I love,” he leans down to whisper in your ear. “I’m not leaving you alone. ever.”

 he leaned in closer, his warmth completely erasing the chill of the marble floors beneath your bare feet. 

the scent of outside and his expensive cologne filled your senses, making your head spin. “let them wonder,” he whispered, his breath hot against your lips. “I tried to stay away.”

“fuck, I tried. But watching you sit next to him at that gala, watching him touch you like you belong to him when I know exactly how you taste... it’s driving me insane.” A soft, defeated gasp escaped you.

you wanted to keep the ‘princess’ demeanor  your family raised you to have. you wanted to do everything right, to keep the pristine name on the company clean. 

but the moment Jaafar tilted his head, his gaze dropping to the loose silk of your robe where it had parted slightly at your collarbone, your body tension completely dissolved.

“We’re terrible,” you breathed, your eyes fluttering shut as his lips brushed against the sensitive skin of your jawline.

“I know baby,” he muttered against your skin, his hands sliding down from your wrists to grip your waist, his touch heavy and demanding. “but you don't want anyone else. say it to me.”

he pressed his body fully against yours, the contrast of his leather jacket against your soft silk robe making you shiver. he trailed a path of slow, agonizing hot kisses down the column of your neck, finding the exact spot that made your toes curl against the cold floor.

“say it,” he whispered again, his voice a commanding growl that vibrated straight through your core.

 “I don’t,” you confessed, your fingers finally tangling into his dark hair, pulling him closer as the last shred of your guilt was swallowed by the dark. 

“I don’t want anyone else.” 

Jaafar didn't waste another second. his mouth crashed onto yours, hungry, capturing your lips with a desperate intensity that told you exactly how much he had been starving for you. 

a quiet whine caught in your throat, but he swallowed it right down, his hands sliding beneath the silk of your robe to press his warm palms flat against your plump ass, lifting you effortlessly as the rest of the world completely faded away.

he lifted you so easily it made your head spin, your legs naturally wrapping around his waist to keep your balance. 

the silk of your robe bunched up around your hips, leaving nothing but the heat of his bare palms pressing into your skin. you buried your face in the crook of his neck, breathing in the scent of him, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his chest.

Jaafar didn't move toward the bedroom immediately. he didn't have the patience for it, and neither did you. instead, he carried you the few steps back toward the wide expanse of the living room, backing you up until the edge of the large kitchen island hit the back of your thighs. 

he set you down on the cool dark colored quartz countertop, the sudden chill of the stone making you gasp against his mouth.

he pulled back just an inch, his breathing heavy, his eyes scanning your face in the dim light of the city skyline. his hands slid up from your thighs, tracing the curves of your waist before slowly parting your silk robe. 

he pushed the fabric off your shoulders, letting it pool around your elbows, exposing you completely to his gaze. 

"beautiful," he muttered, his voice lower than you’d ever heard it. "so damn beautiful."

"Jaafar, the blinds," you whispered breathlessly, your eyes darting toward the massive floor to ceiling windows. 

the entire city was laid out before you, a million glowing lights, and even though you were stories above the world, the vulnerability of the open glass made your skin crawl.

"nobody can see you," he murmured, his thumbs wiping the faint smear of your lipgloss from the corner of his mouth before trailing down to your chin. "only me pretty.”

he stepped closer, fitting himself perfectly between your thighs. the heavy fabric of his jacket brushed against your bare skin. 

he reached down, unbuttoning his coat with impatient fingers and tossing it onto the floor behind him, followed quickly by his shirt, until he was just as bare as you were.

when his chest pressed against yours, the heat was immediate. you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him back down to you. the kiss this time wasn't just desperate, it was necessary. 

his tongue tangled with yours, deep and demanding, claiming you in a way your boyfriend never could. 

his hand slid down your stomach, his long fingers tracing lower, past the dip of your hip until he found the center of your heat. you whimpered into his mouth. his fingers slow and deliberate, breaking down the very last of your defense. 

he knew exactly what you liked, exactly how to make you forget your own name, your relationship, and the image you wore during the day.

"look at me," Jaafar whispered, pulling his mouth away, his breath coming in sharp gasps.

you opened your eyes, your vision slightly blurred, locking onto his dark, intense gaze. 

his hand never stopped moving, driving you closer and closer to the edge. suddenly he stops, “get on your knees.” with that he carries you off the counter and you obey his orders.

the cool marble floor met your knees, a shock to your system that did absolutely nothing to fuel the fire burning through your veins. 

your silk robe pooled around you, completely discarded as you looked up at him. Jaafar stood over you, towering in the dim, amber glow of the city skyline. his chest was heaving, abs flexed, his gaze dark and entirely consuming as he watched you look up at him from the floor. 

 "princess" of the company, the golden girl, boss to everyone around her, was completely unraveled at his feet. just for him.

"Good girl," he rasped, the low vibration of his voice sending a violent shiver straight down your spine.

his long fingers tangled into your hair, with a firm, possessive grip that tilted your head back, forcing you to keep your eyes locked onto his. he unbuttoned his jeans with a slow, calculation, the metallic click of his belt hitting the ground, echoing like a sin in the quiet penthouse. 

when he freed himself, your breath hitched, the reality of what you were doing crashing over you all over again. 

but there was no turning back. especially when he was looking at you like this.

"take it, love," he commanded softly, his voice dropping into a whisper. "show me how much you missed me."

you didn't hesitate. you leaned forward, your hands gripping his toned thighs for balance as your lips parted. 

the moment your mouth slid over his length, a deep groan tore from the back of Jaafar's throat. 

his fingers tightened in your hair, his hips giving a subtle, involuntary push forward as he let his eyes flutter shut for a fraction of a second.

you worked your mouth down his length, your tongue swirling over the tip, learning the shape of him all over again. every stroke of your tongue had him breathing heavier, his grip in your hair turning rougher as he began to guide your pace.

"fuck," he growled, his hips starting to roll in a slow, demanding rhythm against your lips. "you're perfect. so damn perfect." you moan as you graze your tongue over his slit. 

he pushed deeper, testing the limits of your throat, making a choked whine catch in your chest. the sound only seemed to drive him crazier. he began to pace himself against you, his breathing turning into harsh gasps that filled the empty kitchen. 

you looked up through your lashes, seeing the pleasure etched into his sharp jawline, his veins projecting against his neck as he fought to keep his control.

you paused for a fraction of a second, drawing in a shaky breath against his heat before your tongue began tracing tight circles around his tip, all while your hands slid down to firmly stroke the rest of his shaft. 

you then lower your tongue down his length to wrap your mouth around his balls, pulling a deep, ragged moan from his chest. 

you were sure he was done for. but Jaafar was never one to let you do all the work. tonight, he wanted to feel every single bit of you.

suddenly, his hands moved your head back. then, he effortlessly moved your body back up off the floor. 

your knees scraped slightly against the marble, but before you could even register the movement, he turned you around, pressing your stomach flat against the cool kitchen island.

the transition was so fast it made your head spin. your hands scrambled for something to hold on the smooth stone, your back arching automatically as Jaafar stepped up directly behind you, his heat pressing against your bare backside.

"J—" you gasped, the word cut short as he gripped your hip with one hand, his fingers digging into your skin hard enough that you knew it would leave a mark. 

a mark your boyfriend wouldn't see for two days, but one that belonged entirely to the man standing behind you right now. he reached down, his fingers sliding between your thighs to find you completely slick and ruined for him. 

he teased the sensitive bundle of nerves for just a second, pulling a loud, breathless sob from your lips. you're so wet for me, pretty," he whispered against your ear, his teeth grazing your earlobe, making your whole body tremble. 

"look at the windows. look at the city while you take all of me." your eyes flew open, staring out at the glass windows. the city lights blurred into a haze of gold and white. 

you felt the head of his length press against your entrance, and before you could even catch a breath, Jaafar drove his hips forward, burying himself inside you in one deep, relentless stroke. 

a loud, shattered cry broke from your lips, echoing off the high ceilings of the penthouse. it was too much, too deep, filling you so completely that your fingers clawed at the edge of the countertop.

"oh, g-god... J, please," you whimpered, your head dropping onto your arms. 

"I got you," he growled, his pace instantly picking up. he didn't even give you time to adjust. he locked his hand onto your hip, using it as leverage as he began to drive into you with a punishing rhythm.

slap. the raw friction filled sound of his skin hitting yours filled the room, competing with the desperate sound of your joint breathing. every time he slammed into you, your body shifted forward against the quartz, the cold stone against your front half and the liquid fire spreading through your lower half. 

he was relentless, his chest pressing into your back with every stroke, his sweat dripping onto your bare shoulders. his hand meets your ass in a harsh strike.

“Jaafarrr,” you dragged out his name in a desperate sob. you wrapped one arm back, your fingers desperately finding his thigh, trying to anchor yourself as the pleasure began to build into something unfamiliar. 

Jaafar felt the tight, rhythmic flexing of your walls around him, and it broke whatever restraint he had left. His growls turned feral, his movements losing all their smooth cadence, turning rough and frantic.

"look at me," he demanded, his voice a strained and broken rasp. “he fuck you like this?” 

you could barely force your head up, attempting to twist your neck to look back at him. his face was a mask of pure, unadulterated lust, his eyes locked onto yours as he delivered three hard, deep thrusts that had you screaming into the empty apartment.

“baby ohmygoodness,” you moan. "you're mine," he choked out, his fingers bruising your hip as your joining escalated to that breaking point. "tell me... tell me you're mine."

"i'm yours! Jaafar, i'm yours!" you cried as a heavy rush of wetness spilled between your thighs, your vision completely blurring into stars as your body clamped down around him, the climax crashing over you in violent waves.

“shit!” Jaafar shouted, feeling the sudden trickle on his skin. hearing your undone cries was the final trigger. with a loud, roar against your neck, Jaafar buried himself as deep as he could go, his entire frame shuddering violently as he released himself inside you. 

he held you tightly against the counter, his chest heaving against your back, pinning you down until the very last drop of his cum filled you up. the only sound was the heavy, synchronized gasps of air filtering through your lungs.

slowly, Jaafar pulled out, a soft gasp escaping you at the sudden loss of his warmth. your legs felt like absolute water, buckling the moment he let go of your waist.

 he caught you before you could fall, gently turning you around and leaning you back against the island. he drops down onto his knees, lifting your left leg on his shoulder.

without warning, he licks a strip up your inner thigh, the sudden heat of his tongue making your entire body jerk.

you let out a sharp gasp, your fingers instantly clawing into his dark hair for balance as he held your leg securely over his broad shoulder. Jaafar didn't give you a single second to recover. He leaned in closer, his hot breath fanning against your skin before his mouth pressed directly against the center of your ache, his tongue invoking a deep, wet stroke that had your hips tilting helplessly into his face.

"Jaaf—Jaafar I can’t," you whimpered, your head tossing back as your vision already began to blur.

he didn't answer, entirely focused on unraveling you. his long fingers dug into the flesh of your left thigh, holding you open and steady as his mouth completely worshipped you, his tongue moving with a relentless rhythm that drove you straight to the edge. again.

every flick of his tongue was intentional, tracing over your sensitive skin and lapping up the slick wetness that was pooling for him. you tried to swallow your moans. a string of high pitched whimpers broke from your lips, your thighs trembling violently against his chest.

"J, stop... plea–" you begged, your knuckles turning white as you yanked at his hair, trying to pull him away before you completely lost it.

instead of stopping, Jaafar let out a muffled growl against your skin, his hands gripping your hips even tighter to lock you in place.

 he increased the pace, his tongue flattening out to deliver those deep and heavy strokes right where you needed it most, while his thumb found your hip bone, pressing down hard.

a coiled spring in your chest that suddenly snapped.

you cried out as a heavy rush of wetness spilled between your thighs, for the second time. your leg shook on his shoulder, your entire frame locked in the paralyzing aftershocks of the release.

Jaafar didn't miss a beat. he drank down every drop of your release, his tongue lingering to clean you up with a smug, heavy satisfaction before he finally let your leg slide down from his shoulder.

you collapsed back against the dark quartz of the kitchen island, your breath coming in ragged gasps, your chest heaving. your body felt completely spent and overly sensitive. 

he didn't say a word as he reached down, picking up your discarded silk robe from the floor. he shook it out, draping it over your trembling shoulders and pulling the straps closed over your flushed, marked skin. 

without a word, he turned, gathering his shirt and leather jacket from the floor. He slipped them on, completely transforming back into the untouchable public figure the world knew, leaving no trace of the beast he had been just moments ago.

his fingers lingered on your collarbone, his thumb gently wiping away a stray tear from your cheek. he picks you up bridal style, bringing you to your bedroom. he gently places you on your king size bed, he looked down at you, his dark eyes still intense, but the chaotic hunger was quickly replaced by a sudden tenderness. Jaafar give you a soft kiss, it was deeper–more warmer than the ones you shared before. almost like he wanted to tell you something. “call me in the morning?”

“you’re not staying?” you look up at him, trying to catch his hands to pull him back to you. Jaafar shakes his head no, a feeling of disappointment creeps over you. he places another quick kiss on your forehead.

he steps back and shuts your light off. “goodnight pretty,” he whispered as he shut your room door.

he walked back into the living room, his boots clicking quietly against the floor, his eyes automatically drifting to the coffee table where your phone still rested. 

the screen was dark, but you both knew what was waiting underneath, the innocent text from your boyfriend, a completely different reality. Jaafar stopped at the edge of the room, his leather jacket slung over his shoulder. he didn't look at the phone. a slow, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.