— jeonsa

you — lady of house lannister. the only daughter of the grey lion of casterly rock, younger sister to tybolt and gerold lannister. as a child, you often accompanied your father to king’s landing, where you inevitably crossed paths with aerion. two of you quarreled endlessly over the smallest things, neither willing to yield an inch to the other. raised to be dutiful yet prideful due to your lineage, you grew into a woman of sharp wit and tongue, carrying yourself with all the dignity worthy of a noble lady

aerion targaryen — a prince of the blood. the second son of prince maekar of summerhall. haughty, vain, and at times cruel, aerion thinks himself better than his brothers and cousins. styling himself aerion “brightflame”, he is a fearsome swordsman and skilled fighter, though not above resorting to underhanded tactics. at first, he despised the thought of you as his bride. yet as the days pass, aerion slowly comes to a startling realization: no other woman is capable of undoing him quite the way you do

May 1986 A little over a month had passed since Michael had appeared at your front door carrying a pet carrier and casually altered the entire rhythm of your life. The whirlwind surrounding your latest film had finally begun to settle, the premieres and interviews slowly giving way to a quieter stretch of time between projects, and although your agent continued flooding your apartment with scripts that seemed to arrive faster than you could read them, you found yourself in the unusual position of having enough breathing room to actually be selective about what came next. Several luxury brands had approached you about endorsement deals, fashion magazines had begun competing for exclusive photoshoots, and there was even talk of a long-term ambassador partnership with a designer label whose name would have made your younger self fall directly out of her chair. For the first time in years, your career felt stable enough that you could afford to be patient. Unfortunately, patience was considerably harder to maintain when it came to Michael. The phone balanced comfortably between your shoulder and ear while you sat cross-legged on your couch surrounded by a truly ridiculous amount of work, a stack of glossy photographs waiting for your signature occupying most of the coffee table while several scripts lay abandoned nearby, and throughout all of it Michael's voice drifted steadily through the receiver as though talking to him for hours at a time had somehow become the most natural thing in the world. "I'm telling you," you said while uncapping another marker and signing your name across yet another publicity photograph, "If I have to read one more script where the female lead exists exclusively to stare at the male lead with admiration while he solves every problem in the story, I'm going to start mailing them back with notes." A soft laugh sounded through the line, followed by the faint notes of a piano key.

"You could always write your own." "That sounds suspiciously like work." "It is work." "Then I definitely don't want to do it." The laugh came again, warmer this time, and you found yourself smiling despite having heard it hundreds of times by now. At Hayvenhurst, Michael sat in the studio surrounded by sheets of handwritten lyrics, cassette tapes, and several notebooks that had gradually become filled with ideas for the next album. Every so often a melody would appear in the middle of your conversation and he'd absent-mindedly reach toward the keyboard beside him, testing a handful of notes before scribbling something down and returning to whatever topic you'd been discussing without missing a beat. It had become strangely normal. Some nights you talked for ten minutes. Some nights you talked for two hours. Occasionally neither of you said much at all, simply continuing your respective work while enjoying the quiet comfort of another person's presence through the phone line. A sudden weight landed across your stomach. You looked down. Casper had apparently decided that your autograph session required supervision. The white cat stretched dramatically before rolling onto his back directly across your lap, his paws curling toward the ceiling while his nose searched for your hand with remarkable confidence. "Oh, there he is." "What?" Michael asked. "My son." "Your son?" "Yes, my son."

You set the marker aside and immediately abandoned your work in favor of rubbing Casper's furry belly, earning an enthusiastic purr that became audible even through the phone. "I could swear he's been living here his entire life." The confession escaped before you could stop it. Your hand continued moving through the soft white fur. "It doesn't even feel like I've only had him for a month anymore." For a moment Michael didn't respond. When he finally did, his voice sounded oddly pleased. "That's good." You smiled down at the cat. "He's completely taken over my home." "You sound upset." "I'm devastated." Michael laughed again. The sound settled somewhere uncomfortable beneath your ribs. These days that happened far too often. Your eyes drifted toward one of the magazines from last month resting on the coffee table, its cover displaying a photograph taken the day Michael had brought Casper home. The photographer had captured the exact moment you'd thrown yourself at him in the doorway. The article itself had practically written the relationship narrative for the press. MICHAEL JACKSON'S SURPRISE VISIT TO GIRLFRIEND'S HOME. INSIDE THEIR SWEETEST MOMENT YET.

The public had loved it. More importantly, they had believed it. The fact that your reaction hadn't contained a single ounce of acting probably helped. "You know that cat may have done more for the arrangement than that first gala." Michael laughed. "That's depressing." "I'm serious." You glanced toward the magazine again. "Nobody can fake that reaction." "No," he agreed. "You definitely couldn't." The teasing in his voice made your cheeks warm. Fortunately he couldn't see it. Since then, photographs of you carrying Casper to veterinary appointments had appeared in several magazines, often accompanied by unnecessarily dramatic captions about Michael's thoughtful gift and your devotion to the elderly rescue cat. The public seemed to adore the story almost as much as they adored the relationship itself, and every new photograph only strengthened the narrative Frank had been building for months. Not that either of you needed Frank's help anymore. At some point the act had stopped feeling like work. Not because the relationship had become real. But because the movements had become instinctive. The smiles, the touches, the comfort. None of it required effort anymore. – Several weeks later, another charity event brought the two of you together beneath a storm of flashing cameras, though by now the experience felt remarkably different from those first awkward outings where every touch required conscious thought and every photograph felt like a performance. The second Michael stepped out of the car and offered you his hand, your fingers found his automatically. No hesitation, no nerves, no awkwardness. Just familiarity. The cameras loved it.

You moved through the crowd together with the ease of people who had spent months existing in each other's orbit, pausing whenever photographers called your names while Michael's hand remained comfortably at your waist and your own settled against the front of his jacket. Neither of you had planned the pose. It simply happened. Yet judging by the rapid explosion of camera flashes, it was exactly the sort of photograph the press had been hoping for. "Over here!" "Michael!" "Y/N!" You turned toward another cluster of photographers, smiling instinctively as Michael shifted closer beside you. Then, without warning, you felt him lean down. A moment later soft lips brushed your cheek. The movement lasted barely a second. Just long enough for every camera in the vicinity to lose its collective mind. Your breath caught. The photographers erupted. Michael looked entirely satisfied with himself. "There," he said quietly as he straightened again. "Frank's going to frame that one." You hated how quickly warmth flooded your face. The worst part was that he hadn't done it to fluster you. He'd done it because it felt natural. Because somewhere along the way, neither of you seemed to be acting quite as much anymore. The difference, unfortunately, was that only one of you understood why. –

June 1986 By June, Michael had become almost impossible to keep up with. The deeper he moved into preparations for the new album, the more his entire world seemed to narrow until it consisted almost exclusively of music, unfinished lyrics, and whatever melody happened to be occupying his head at any given moment. Whenever you called Hayvenhurst these days, there was a decent chance someone would inform you that Michael was in the studio, had just left the studio, or was on his way back to the studio after claiming he was finished for the night several hours earlier. Not that you were complaining. If anything, watching him work had become one of your favorite things. Which was why, when he invited you over one afternoon to sit in on a recording session, you agreed almost immediately. This wasn't like the previous times you'd visited while he worked, however. Instead of finding him alone at a piano experimenting with melodies or pacing around the room while humming half-finished ideas into a tape recorder, the studio was bustling with activity by the time you arrived. Quincy Jones was there along with several engineers, assistants, and enough equipment to make the room feel considerably smaller than usual, everyone moving with the efficient rhythm of people who had spent years creating music together. You remembered Michael mentioning that he wanted to make the new album entirely from his home studio this time instead of spending months driving across Los Angeles to work at the recording studio he and Quincy usually used. You quickly learned that watching Michael record was an entirely different experience from watching Michael write. The playful, easygoing man who spent hours talking to you on the phone about books, movies, animals, and whatever bizarre thought happened to enter his head that day seemed to disappear the moment recording began, replaced by someone intensely focused and almost frighteningly dedicated to getting every detail exactly right. He repeated lines over and over without complaint, adjusted tiny inflections that nobody else would have noticed, and listened back to recordings with an attention to detail that bordered on obsession. Hours passed without either of you really noticing. Eventually the session came to an end, Quincy departed with promises to call the following morning, and one by one the remaining engineers gathered their things and left until only the two of you remained in the studio. You found yourself lingering near the mixing console while Michael organized several sheets of music and notes into a pile.

The room had fallen comfortably quiet. Then a familiar sound drifted through the speakers. A heartbeat. Slow, steady and rhythmic. Your attention immediately shifted toward the newly finished recording he had rewinded to listen from the start. "That's a nice touch." Michael looked up. "The heartbeat." You pointed toward the speakers. "I like it." A grin spread across his face almost immediately. "The song’s name is Smooth Criminal." The excitement in his voice was unmistakable, and you couldn't help smiling at it. "Really?" you asked dryly. "I never would've guessed from the twenty times you worked the title into the lyrics you sang today." Michael's grin only widened. "It's one of my favorites." Then, looking entirely too pleased with himself, he added: "That's my own heartbeat." For a moment you genuinely thought he was joking. "What?" "The heartbeat." His grin widened. "It's mine." You stared. Then laughed. "No way." "Yes." "You're lying." "I'm not." Still looking delighted by your disbelief, Michael crossed the room and rewound the tape before playing the opening section again. The heartbeat filled the studio once more. You looked from the speakers back to him. "You actually recorded your own heartbeat." Michael shrugged as though that was the most normal thing in the world. "I thought it sounded interesting."

The laugh escaped before you could stop it. "Michael, that's insane." "I prefer creative." "I prefer insane." He accepted the correction surprisingly easily. While the heartbeat continued playing through the speakers, you found yourself stepping closer to him, still shaking your head in disbelief. "You really can make music out of anything, can't you?" His shoulders lifted slightly. "Inspiration's everywhere." The answer sounded so genuine that it made you laugh again. Then, before really thinking about what you were doing, you placed your hand lightly against his chest. "Hold still." Michael blinked. "What are you doing?" "I want to compare." The heartbeat echoed softly through the speakers while your palm rested over his chest, feeling the steady rhythm beneath his shirt. For a moment neither of you spoke. Then you looked back toward the speakers. Then at him. Then back toward the speakers again. The comparison lasted perhaps five seconds. Six at most. Long enough for you to start laughing. "You're ridiculous." Michael looked offended. "I'm a visionary." "You're recording your own organs." "They make excellent music." You laughed so hard you nearly doubled over.

Eventually your hand slipped away from his chest and you returned to the mixing console, still smiling. Michael smiled too. Yet for reasons he couldn't quite explain, he remained aware of the exact spot where your hand had rested for several moments afterward. – A few weeks later, another rare evening found Michael arriving at your apartment carrying takeout containers and absolutely no intention of doing any work whatsoever. Well, unless inspiration struck him out of nowhere. At least that had been the plan. The movie playing on your television had been forgotten almost twenty minutes ago, largely because both of you had spent most of it making fun of increasingly questionable dialogue choices, but neither of you seemed particularly interested in changing it. The film continued playing in the background while you occupied opposite ends of the couch, trading observations about the plot and occasionally stealing food from each other's containers whenever neither person was paying attention. Eventually the takeout containers were abandoned on the coffee table, and the conversation gradually faded into one of those comfortable silences that only seemed to exist between people who had long since stopped feeling the need to fill every quiet moment. Michael stretched out across the length of the couch with a dramatic sigh as he rested his head on the edge of the couch, claiming he was merely "making himself comfortable" before promptly invading half your space anyway. Against your immediate objections, he somehow managed to wedge his feet beneath your thighs for warmth, completely ignoring your complaints while looking entirely too pleased with himself. "Stop invading my space." Michael grinned. "Don’t care." You rolled your eyes and tried again. "Why are your feet under me?" "They're cold,” he said and you could feel him wiggling his toes under your thighs. "You are impossible." Michael merely smiled without opening his eyes, apparently deciding that your irritation wasn't convincing enough to be taken seriously.

Despite yourself, you let him stay exactly where he was. For several minutes the only sounds in the room came from the television, the occasional rustle of Casper shifting somewhere nearby, and the faint hum of traffic outside your windows. The quiet wasn't awkward in the slightest. If anything, it felt strangely peaceful. Then, eventually, you found yourself commenting on the fact that the male lead was making what was quite possibly the worst decision of the entire movie. No response came. You waited, your eyes still fixed on the television screen. Still nothing. Frowning slightly, you looked toward Michael. Then immediately smiled. He had fallen asleep. Sometime during the last fifteen minutes his breathing had settled into the slow, even rhythm of someone completely exhausted. Considering how relentlessly he'd been working for months, the fact that he'd managed to stay awake this long was honestly impressive. What made the sight even worse, however, was Casper. The cat had apparently decided that a sleeping Michael made an excellent pillow. Curled against his shoulder with all the confidence of an animal who believed he owned your house, Casper had tucked himself directly beneath Michael's chin and appeared entirely content with the arrangement. Your chest tightened painfully. The sight was almost unfair. For a moment you simply sat there watching them. The man you loved. The cat he had given you. Both asleep. Both completely unaware of the effect they were having on you.

You thought briefly about taking your camera and snapping a Polaroid, like you always did with moments you wanted to keep, but ultimately decided against it. This was a moment you could keep in your heart without any physical evidence. A lock of dark hair had fallen across Michael's forehead. Before you could stop yourself, you leaned forward and carefully brushed it away. The movement was gentle enough not to wake him. Michael shifted slightly in his sleep but otherwise remained undisturbed. Your smile softened. Then, after quietly retrieving a blanket from the nearby armchair, you draped it over him and Casper before returning to your own corner of the couch. The movie continued playing, but you didn’t pay much attention. Instead your gaze kept drifting back toward him. Toward the way exhaustion had erased every trace of tension from his face. Toward the familiar comfort with which he now occupied your home. Toward the simple reality that he had become such a permanent part of your life that imagining your days without him felt increasingly difficult. For the first time in weeks, a dangerous thought slipped through your defenses. Maybe this could work. Maybe you could continue like this. You had managed to hide your feelings for months already, after all. Every photograph where you'd looked at him too fondly had been dismissed as good acting. Every smile had been explained away as part of the arrangement. Every lingering glance had been interpreted as commitment to the role. Even Michael himself seemed completely convinced that whatever emotions appeared on your face existed solely for the cameras. The irony would have been funny if it weren't so devastating. Still, sitting there in the dim light of your living room while Casper slept under his chin and the movie played forgotten in the background, you allowed yourself to believe for just a moment that perhaps things could stay this way indefinitely. That perhaps loving him quietly would be enough. That perhaps friendship, companionship, and stolen evenings like this might somehow satisfy the part of your heart that wanted more.

It was a comforting thought. A dangerous one. And unfortunately, it was also completely wrong. Eventually your eyes grew heavy as well. The television blurred. The room softened. And sometime later, without even realizing it, you drifted off to sleep too. – July 1986 By July, your life had settled into a strange rhythm that somehow managed to feel both busier and quieter than it had only a few months earlier. The frenzy surrounding your most recent film had largely died down by now, the premieres, interviews, and press obligations gradually fading into memory while Hollywood's attention inevitably drifted toward the next exciting thing. Yet despite no longer actively promoting a project, you found yourself busier than ever. Scripts continued arriving from your agent at a steady pace, accumulating into increasingly intimidating piles on your dining room table, while fashion houses, luxury brands, and magazine editors suddenly seemed determined to convince you that your face belonged on every billboard, cover, and advertisement in California. One such commitment found you seated in front of a makeup mirror on an unusually warm morning while an entire team of stylists worked around you with military precision. The photoshoot itself was for the cover of Vogue. Even now, the realization felt slightly absurd. The photographer spent most of the morning directing you across a series of increasingly elaborate sets, occasionally climbing onto furniture or crouching on the floor in pursuit of the perfect angle while assistants hurried around adjusting lights, smoothing fabric, and making sure every detail remained exactly as intended. By lunchtime you had already changed outfits five separate times and posed against three different backdrops. The final setup involved a dramatic evening gown that flowed elegantly around you as the photographer circled the set with growing enthusiasm. "Perfect," he called. "Tilt your chin slightly." You complied. "Beautiful." Another flash. "Hold that." Another. "Excellent."

The session continued for another twenty minutes before someone finally announced the end, at which point you got to change back into your own clothes and were escorted toward a quieter corner of the studio where a journalist waited with a notebook balanced across her lap and a tape recorder resting on the table between you. The interview began exactly the way you'd expected. Questions about your latest film. Questions about the response. Questions about fame. Questions about Hollywood. Safe territory. Comfortable territory. "What has surprised you most about the response to your latest project?" the interviewer asked. You smiled slightly before answering. "I think the thing that's surprised me most is how many people connected emotionally with it. Every actor hopes people will care about the characters they play, but you never really know if that connection will happen until the film is out in the world." The interviewer nodded while scribbling something down. "And now that you've had a major commercial success, what are you looking for next?" That question came easier. "I'd like to challenge myself more." You folded your hands comfortably in your lap. "I love the work I've done so far, but I've always been drawn toward more dramatic material. Characters that are complicated, flawed, difficult to understand. The kinds of roles that scare you a little when you first read them." The interviewer smiled. "So you're actively looking for more serious projects?" "Very much so." You laughed softly. "I think every actor reaches a point where they want to see how far they can push themselves creatively." The conversation continued in that vein for some time, drifting through discussions about filmmaking, acting techniques, directors you admired, projects you hoped to pursue one day, and your experiences navigating the industry. Then, inevitably, the interviewer arrived at the subject everyone seemed incapable of avoiding. "One personal question, if you don't mind." You immediately recognized the careful phrasing. The warning. The setup. "What kind of question?"

The interviewer smiled politely. "Michael Jackson." Of course. You should have known. To her credit, however, the question itself remained surprisingly respectful. "What has surprised you most about him?" That, at least, felt harmless enough. You considered the answer briefly. "Probably how creative he is." The response came honestly. "I think most people understand he's talented, but spending time around somebody who genuinely lives and breathes creativity is very different from seeing them perform on stage." The interviewer looked intrigued. "What do you mean?" You found yourself smiling. "He never really stops. Music is constantly happening somewhere in the background of his brain. He hears rhythms in ordinary sounds. He'll stop in the middle of a conversation because an idea occurred to him. It's fascinating to watch." The answer seemed to satisfy her. Fortunately, no additional questions about Michael followed. The rest of the interview remained firmly focused on your own career, your goals, your ambitions, and the future you hoped to build for yourself. Exactly the way you preferred it. – August 1986 A few weeks later, another suggestion from Frank found you standing outside a designer boutique in Los Angeles while photographers lingered across the street pretending not to watch. The suggestion itself had been simple enough. You had mentioned to Michael in passing that you wanted to go shopping with your friends, but that your schedules didn’t align. So Frank came up with an idea: Go shopping with Michael instead. ”Be seen. Look happy. Sell the relationship.”

Frank had made it sound remarkably straightforward. The reality was somewhat different. Particularly because Michael apparently believed his role in the outing involved making you wear everything he picked out for you. You followed him through the boutique while Bill and security remained discreetly nearby, watching as he moved from rack to rack with growing enthusiasm, occasionally stopping to pull out a dress, blouse, or jacket before immediately declaring that you should try it on. "This one." You eyed the garment skeptically. "Michael." "What?" "I would never wear this." "You haven't tried it on." "There's a reason for that," you said exasperatedly. “Also, you’re not here to pick outfits for me, I can do that myself, thank you.” He ignored you entirely and handed the item in his hand to a sales associate. You sighed. The sales associate looked delighted. Several outfits later, you found yourself standing in a changing room surrounded by enough clothing to open a small department store. The first dress wasn't terrible. The second was surprisingly nice. The third looked exactly as ridiculous as you'd predicted. Yet every time you stepped out of the changing room, Michael reacted as though you'd just emerged wearing the greatest piece of fashion ever created. "You look amazing." The first time. "Beautiful." The second.

"I love that one." The third. By the sixth outfit, you had completely lost patience. "No." Michael blinked. "No?" "There is absolutely no way all of these look good." His expression remained infuriatingly sincere. "They do." You pointed toward the dress currently hanging from your shoulders. "This one makes me look like somebody's curtains." "It does not." "It absolutely does." "It absolutely doesn't." You narrowed your eyes. Michael remained unmoved. The worst part was that he genuinely appeared to believe every word he was saying. Eventually you gave up entirely. "I wish my friends had been available. You are the least helpful shopping companion I've ever had." Michael looked offended. "I'm being honest." "No you're not." "I am." "You are physically incapable of criticizing anything." His grin widened. "That’s completely wrong. You just look good in everything." The answer earned another eye roll. Yet somewhere deep down, a small part of you found the whole thing embarrassingly endearing. By the time the shopping finally concluded, Michael had successfully talked you into purchasing far more than originally intended, though "talked" was perhaps the wrong word considering he'd quietly informed the cashier that he was paying before you'd even reached the register.

The checkout counter sat near the front windows of the boutique, where photographers had managed to position themselves strategically enough to capture occasional glimpses through the glass. You noticed them immediately. So did Michael. Years of experience had made both of you very aware of cameras. By now, however, the awareness no longer created nervousness. Instead it felt almost instinctive. As the final shopping bag was handed over and Michael turned toward you with a satisfied expression that suggested he'd somehow won a battle nobody else knew existed, an idea occurred to you. Before you could overthink it, your arms wrapped around his neck. The movement caught him completely off guard. You laughed. "Thank you." Michael instinctively placed his hands at your waist. For a moment you remained there, comfortably suspended in each other's space while flashes erupted outside the windows. Then, knowing it would make good photos, your fingers drifted toward the back of his neck. The gesture was absentminded. Thoughtless. A simple scratch through the hair resting at his nape. The reaction was immediate. Michael visibly shuddered as you kept hugging him. Then the moment passed. Photographers continued clicking furiously outside. The resulting pictures would later look like the portrait of a couple completely comfortable with one another. Neither of you realized quite how accurate that was becoming. A short while later, both of you emerged from the boutique carrying enough shopping bags to suggest questionable decision-making before climbing into Bill's waiting car. The ride home began quietly. Then Michael glanced over. "I like your improvisations." You looked up. "My improvisations?"

The corner of his mouth twitched. "The little things." He didn't elaborate. You didn't ask. Instead you shrugged. "Pure talent." The answer made him laugh. "You’re annoying." "That's not what the magazines say." "That's because the magazines don't know you." Bill listened to the conversation unfolding behind him and smiled to himself while keeping his attention firmly on the road. Neither of you noticed. You were far too busy arguing about whose fault it was that you now owned enough new clothing to fill an entirely separate closet. – The phone call arrived on an otherwise unremarkable afternoon while you sat cross-legged on the floor of your apartment, surrounded by enough scripts, notes, and half-finished cups of tea to suggest that you had every intention of being productive despite having spent the better part of the last hour rereading the same three pages. Casper, meanwhile, had decided that your attempts at organization were deeply offensive and was currently asleep across a stack of papers your agent had specifically told you not to lose, his white fur spread across the pages as though he personally owned every document in the room. You nearly let the phone ring itself out. Not because you were busy, but because most calls these days seemed to involve some variation of the same conversation, whether it was another photoshoot, another advertisement, another interview, or another script that sounded suspiciously similar to three others already sitting somewhere in your apartment. Fortunately, something made you answer. The moment you heard your agent's voice, however, you sat up straighter. He sounded excited. Genuinely excited. The kind of excited that usually accompanied major opportunities, significant contracts, or career developments substantial enough to justify interrupting somebody in the middle of their day.

"Please tell me you're sitting down." Your brow furrowed immediately. "I am." "Good." A pause followed, just long enough to make your curiosity grow. Then he said: "Robert Hastings wants to meet you." For several seconds, you genuinely thought you had misheard him. The name alone was enough to send a jolt through your entire body, because Robert Hastings wasn't simply another successful director whose work happened to receive good reviews and respectable box office numbers. He was the director whose films had shaped entire periods of your life, whose interviews you'd clipped out of magazines as a teenager and tucked between the pages of books, whose work had convinced you that acting could be more than simply standing in front of a camera and reciting lines written by somebody else. Long before you'd ever stepped onto a professional set yourself, Robert Hastings had been one of the people responsible for making you believe that storytelling mattered. Casper slid halfway off the papers as you sat up so quickly that he gave an annoyed ‘meow’. "What?!" Your agent laughed immediately. "Oh, good. That's exactly the reaction I was hoping for." The rest of the conversation blurred together so completely that you would struggle to remember most of it later. Robert Hastings was preparing a new dramatic feature, you had heard of this many months ago. He was currently searching for a female lead. He had seen your latest film. He had apparently asked your agency about you specifically. He wanted a meeting. He wanted to discuss the project. He wanted to see whether you might be interested in auditioning. By the time the call ended, your heart was still racing. The first person you called was Michael. He answered somewhere around the third ring, sounding distracted in the familiar way he always did whenever you caught him working. "What happened?" You blinked. "What makes you think something happened?" "Because you're breathing like you just ran a marathon." The observation was irritatingly accurate.

For the next several minutes, your explanation came out in fragments, excitement repeatedly interrupting your own thoughts as you attempted to explain the situation while simultaneously processing it yourself. Michael listened patiently throughout the entire thing, occasionally asking a question when he lost track of your increasingly chaotic storytelling, until eventually he managed to piece together enough information to understand what had happened. "Robert Hastings?" You nodded automatically despite the fact that he couldn't see you. "Robert Hastings." For a moment there was silence. Then Michael laughed. Not because the situation was funny, but because he sounded genuinely happy. "That's incredible!" The sincerity in his voice caught you off guard. For months you had watched the arrangement benefit him in ways both large and small, from the improvement in public opinion to the renewed confidence that seemed to accompany every new article about the upcoming album. You had watched him become happier, more focused, more excited about the future, and although you had never regretted helping him, there had always been a small part of you that wondered whether anything would ever come from it on your side. Apparently Michael had been wondering the same thing. "I knew somebody would notice eventually." You frowned. "What?" "Your work." His answer arrived so naturally that it took a moment to process. "I've watched enough of your movies by now to know how good you are, and if it took the rest of Hollywood this long to catch up, that's their problem." The warmth that suddenly settled in your chest had nothing to do with Robert Hastings. That was the truly unfortunate part. –

The meeting itself took place several days later in Robert Hastings' production offices, and by the time you arrived you had already spent the better part of the drive attempting to convince yourself that you weren't about to embarrass yourself in front of one of the most respected directors currently working in Hollywood. As it turned out, the nervousness had been unnecessary. Robert Hastings was exactly the sort of person you had hoped he would be after spending years admiring his work from afar, greeting you personally the moment you arrived and immediately putting you at ease with the kind of warmth that seemed entirely genuine rather than rehearsed. He offered you coffee before the meeting had even properly begun, asked thoughtful questions about your career, and spent nearly an hour discussing acting, storytelling, filmmaking, and the kinds of projects that interested you, treating you less like a celebrity and more like a fellow artist whose perspective he genuinely wanted to hear. He referenced specific scenes from your films, mentioned character choices you'd made that most viewers probably wouldn't have noticed, and even brought up one particular performance from a smaller project that had never received much attention, explaining in surprising detail why he thought the emotional restraint you'd shown in several scenes had been more effective than a more dramatic approach would have been. The entire conversation felt almost unreal. For years you had imagined what it would feel like to sit across from people like Robert Hastings and be taken seriously as an actress rather than a celebrity, and now it was actually happening. Every answer seemed to lead naturally into another discussion about filmmaking, every topic revolved around storytelling and performance, and by the time the meeting was drawing to a close, you found yourself forgetting entirely that you had walked into the room hoping to impress him. Then Robert smiled. "I'd like you to audition." The words were simple enough. The effect they had on you was not. For a moment you were genuinely afraid your excitement might become embarrassingly obvious. "I'd love to." – The audition took place several days later and somehow managed to go even better than you had expected. You would never have described yourself as someone who walked out of an audition feeling completely confident, because acting was far too subjective for that, but by the time you left the building that afternoon you couldn't deny that things had gone well. Robert seemed genuinely pleased with your performance, several members of the casting team complimented your reading afterward, and there had been enough encouraging smiles exchanged across the room to leave you cautiously optimistic. As you gathered your things and prepared to leave, Robert stopped you near the doorway. "A few of us are grabbing dinner afterward."

You looked up. He smiled. "You should join us." At the time, it seemed like a perfectly normal invitation. And for the first hour of the dinner, it really was. The restaurant Robert had chosen was upscale without being intimidating, the kind of place where producers discussed budgets over expensive wine and actors celebrated premieres in quiet corners while hoping nobody recognized them. By the time you arrived, several members of the production team were already seated around a long table near the back of the restaurant, and as introductions were exchanged, you quickly found yourself seated beside a screenwriter named Peter Calloway, who immediately struck you as the sort of person who spent more time observing people than talking about himself. Unlike most people you'd met recently, Peter seemed completely uninterested in discussing your relationship. Instead, he wanted to talk about movies. Actual movies. Within ten minutes the two of you were debating endings, arguing about which performances should have won awards they hadn't won, and exchanging recommendations for films the other hadn't seen. The conversation flowed so naturally that you almost forgot how nervous you'd been coming into the evening. At one point Peter mentioned that he'd worked on the short film for Thriller, and when your attention immediately sharpened, he laughed. "Not directly with him very often," he clarified. "Mostly with people around him. But I met him quite a lot of times." You smiled. "And?" Peter looked genuinely surprised by the question. "And what?" "And was he nice?" The answer came without hesitation. "He was one of the nicest people I've ever met in this industry." Something warm settled in your chest. Peter continued. "Most famous people spend ten seconds talking to you and make you feel like they're waiting for the conversation to end. Michael somehow manages to make five minutes feel like twenty." You laughed softly. "That sounds like him." Peter pointed at you. "Exactly." The conversation moved elsewhere after that, but the exchange stayed with you.

For the first hour, everything felt exactly the way you'd imagined these kinds of evenings were supposed to feel. People discussing films. Writers discussing scripts. Directors discussing projects. Actors discussing performances. The kind of conversation you'd spent years hoping to be included in. Then, gradually and almost imperceptibly, the subject began drifting elsewhere. Toward Michael. At first the questions felt harmless enough. Someone asked how he was doing. Another person wondered whether he was excited about the new album. Robert asked whether you had heard any of the songs he was currently working on. None of those questions felt particularly unusual. By now they were practically unavoidable, and you answered them the same way you always did, offering vague but polite responses before attempting to steer the conversation back toward the film. Unfortunately, Robert seemed increasingly determined to steer it in the opposite direction. "You know," he said casually while swirling the contents of his glass, "A Michael Jackson soundtrack would be incredible for a movie like this." You smiled politely. "I'm sure it would." His eyes immediately lit up. "You should ask him." The suggestion made something tighten inside your stomach. "I don't really make promises on Michael's behalf, especially when it comes to his music." Robert laughed. Not offensively. Not yet. "Oh, come on." You smiled politely. "I'm serious." "At least mention it to him." "His music is his business."

The answer should have ended the discussion. Instead it merely paused it. As the evening continued and more drinks appeared on the table, Robert seemed to become increasingly interested in a topic that had very little to do with the movie and increasingly more to do with the man you happened to be dating publicly. The questions kept returning. Did he ask for your opinions on his work? Did he trust your judgment? How involved were you in his creative process? The longer the conversation continued, the more uncomfortable you became, because the questions were no longer really about Michael as a person. They were about access. About influence. About how much control you might have over someone Robert had apparently been trying to get a soundtrack from for years, even though they were friendly acquaintances. You noticed Peter becoming quieter as the evening progressed. The easy smile he'd worn earlier had faded. The same thing that was bothering you seemed to be bothering him. Then Robert leaned back in his chair. "You know, I've been asking him to do a soundtrack for me for years. Getting you interested in the project might actually be the easiest way to get him interested too." The comment was delivered casually enough that several people barely reacted. You did. A small knot formed in your stomach. You laughed politely. "I don't think that's really how Michael works." "No?" Something about Robert's smile had changed. Only slightly. But enough. "I'm sure you have ways of persuading him… If you know what I mean." The implication landed immediately. You felt your jaw tighten. Across the table, Peter's expression darkened. For a moment you considered responding. Instead you reached for your glass and pretended not to understand what Robert meant. The image you had carried of him for years developed its first crack.

Then came the second. Robert took another sip of his drink before leaning slightly closer. "You know what I've always wondered?" You already disliked the tone. "What?" A smirk appeared. "Whether any of those rumors are actually true." The table grew noticeably quieter. You frowned. "What rumors?" Robert laughed. "The ones about him." Nobody spoke. Not even Peter. Robert seemed encouraged by the silence. "Come on. Half of Hollywood's been trying to figure it out for years." Your expression cooled immediately. "Figure what out?" His grin widened. "Whether he's actually interested in women." The words settled over the table like a bad smell. Several people looked uncomfortable. Peter looked outright annoyed. Robert either didn't notice or didn't care. "You're dating him," he continued. "You'd know better than the rest of us." You stared at him. The disappointment hit harder than the anger. Because this was Robert Hastings. The director you'd admired for years. The man whose work had inspired you. And somehow he suddenly sounded exactly like a tabloid reporter. Then he leaned even closer. "But between us..." Your stomach dropped. "...does he actually have sex with you, or were his exes right all along?" For several seconds nobody spoke. The noise of the restaurant seemed to disappear entirely.

Across the table, Peter looked horrified. Someone beside him muttered something under their breath. Robert simply waited. As though he'd asked a perfectly reasonable question. What disappointed you wasn't even the question itself. Hollywood was full of people like Robert. What hurt was realizing that someone you had admired for years apparently wasn't any different from the rest of them. Even now, sitting at a table that was supposed to be celebrating your audition, he seemed far more interested in gaining access to knowledge about Michael he could use against him to get his way than in the actress he had invited there. The realization left a bitter taste in your mouth. You forced a smile. A polite one. The kind of smile years in Hollywood had taught you to wear even when you wanted to walk away. Then you stood. "I should probably head home." For a brief moment confusion crossed Robert's face. Then disappointment. Then irritation. Peter stood as well. "I'll walk you out." You looked at him, surprised. He offered a small apologetic smile. And for the first time all evening, somebody's kindness felt genuine. – The drive home felt considerably longer than the drive there had, although logically you knew the distance hadn't changed. Los Angeles passed by outside your window in a blur of traffic lights, storefronts, and passing headlights, yet you barely registered any of it because your thoughts had become trapped in a loop that seemed determined to replay the evening over and over again no matter how many times you tried redirecting them elsewhere. Every time you thought you had finally moved on from the conversation, another comment surfaced. Another implication. Another moment that somehow managed to make your stomach twist all over again. The worst part wasn't even what Robert had said. It was how familiar it all felt.

Because somehow, no matter where Michael went or who entered his life, people always seemed to want something from him. Sometimes it was money. Sometimes it was access. Publicity. Influence. The details changed, but the pattern rarely did. People wanted pieces of him. They wanted connections, opportunities, introductions, favors, endorsements, headlines, stories, secrets, and occasionally things far more personal than any stranger had a right to ask for, and for years, before you became friends, you had watched him navigate a world full of people who viewed him less as a human being and more as a door that might open if they found the right key. Tonight had simply added another name to a list that already felt far too long. What made it hurt was that this particular name had mattered. Robert Hastings wasn't supposed to be one of those people. He wasn't supposed to be another executive, another opportunist, another industry figure hoping to benefit from Michael's fame. He was supposed to be someone whose love of filmmaking outweighed everything else, someone whose work had inspired you long before you ever imagined becoming an actress yourself, someone who understood storytelling and artistry deeply enough that he wouldn't reduce another person to what they could provide him professionally. And yet that was exactly what he had done. The realization left you with another uncomfortable thought, one that settled heavily somewhere beneath your ribs during the drive home and refused to leave. For months you had been telling yourself that your situation was different, that the arrangement Michael had proposed had been fair because both of you were receiving something from it, but sitting there alone in your car, you found yourself questioning whether that distinction really mattered as much as you'd once believed it did. After all, the entire foundation of the arrangement had been built on an exchange of benefits, and although neither of you had entered it with bad intentions, it suddenly felt impossible to ignore how closely that resembled the very thing that had always bothered you about Hollywood. Somewhere along the way, without even realizing when it had happened, you had stopped wanting opportunities because Michael Jackson introduced you to the right people and started wanting them because somebody had watched your work and believed you deserved them. More than that, you had stopped showing up to dinners, premieres, and events with him because of what they might do for your career and started showing up simply because spending time with Michael had become one of your favorite parts of the week. By the time you finally arrived home, you felt exhausted in a way that had very little to do with the length of the evening. Casper greeted you at the door almost immediately, as he always did when hearing the jingling of your keys, his paws carrying him confidently across the hallway despite his blindness, his nose twitching as he searched for you before gently bumping against your leg.

Normally the sight would have made you smile instantly, but tonight you simply bent down to stroke his fur for a few moments before moving through the rooms in a daze, unable to shake the lingering disappointment that seemed to follow you from room to room. – Several days later, the phone call finally arrived. Part of you had expected it. Part of you had hoped it wouldn't come. The moment your agent told you Robert Hastings was on the other line, a knot immediately formed in your stomach. You already knew what he was going to say. The audition had gone well. Too well. And sure enough, the moment you answered, Robert wasted very little time getting to the point. He told you that your audition had been the strongest one they'd seen, that the casting team had loved your performance, and that after considerable discussion they had decided to offer you the role. As he spoke, outlining potential schedules, production timelines, contracts, and the next steps required to move forward, you found yourself sitting completely still on your couch while Casper slept nearby in a patch of afternoon sunlight, listening to what should have been one of the happiest conversations of your entire career. For years you had dreamed about opportunities exactly like this one. Years. You had spent countless nights imagining what it would feel like to receive a phone call from a director you admired, offering you the chance to finally step into the kind of dramatic role you'd been chasing for most of your career. The dream had finally arrived. And somehow all you felt was disappointment. Eventually Robert paused, apparently expecting excitement. Instead, you took a slow breath. "I'm going to decline." The silence that followed was immediate. Not awkward. Not uncertain. Simply stunned.

"What?" The single word came out so quickly that it almost sounded involuntary. You closed your eyes briefly before continuing. "I appreciate the offer, and I'm genuinely grateful for the opportunity, but after our conversation at dinner, I don't think this project is the right fit for me." For several seconds, nothing came through the phone line at all. Then Robert laughed. The sound wasn't amused. It wasn't friendly. It wasn't even particularly surprised. It sounded dismissive. As though he genuinely couldn't understand why someone would walk away from something he considered valuable. "You're seriously throwing away a career opportunity because of one uncomfortable conversation?" You remained silent for a moment before answering. "No." The response seemed to irritate him more than if you had argued. His tone sharpened almost immediately. "You know, people don't get very far in this industry by being precious about everything." The words stung, though not for the reason he probably intended. They stung because they sounded exactly like the kind of justification people used when they knew they had crossed a line and didn't particularly care. Robert continued talking, telling you that success required compromise, that ambitious people took risks, that careers weren't built by turning down opportunities, and that nobody became a star by refusing to play the game. You listened quietly while he spoke. Not because you were considering changing your mind. But because there was nothing left to say. By the time he finished, the decision had somehow become even easier. Eventually, you simply thanked him for the offer, wished him well, and ended the call before the conversation could continue any further.

The apartment immediately fell silent. For a long time, you remained exactly where you were, the receiver still resting loosely in your hand while sunlight spilled through the windows and Casper slept peacefully nearby, completely unaware that you had just turned down the biggest opportunity of your career. The reality of what you had done settled over you slowly. You had spent years working toward a moment like this. Years hoping for it. Years imagining it. And when the opportunity had finally arrived, you had walked away from it. Not because you doubted your talent. Not because you were afraid. Not because you didn't want the role. But because accepting it would have meant rewarding someone whose behavior had made your skin crawl and whose interest in you had ultimately turned out to be little more than interest in the man standing beside you. A wonderful man he talked about so disgustingly that it made you sick. Slowly, you lowered your head into your hands. Part of you wondered whether you had just made the biggest mistake of your life. Another part wondered what Michael would say if he ever found out. You already knew the answer to that question, which was precisely why you had no intention of telling him. And the last thing you wanted was for him to carry yet another burden that had been created because of you. So you made a decision. You would keep this one to yourself. The role would disappear. The opportunity would disappear. Life would move on. And although the thought hurt more than you cared to admit, you knew with complete certainty that if you were somehow given the chance to make the choice again, you would still reach for the phone and say no. –

The drive to the awards ceremony should have felt glamorous. The event itself was one of the largest industry galas of the summer, attended by musicians, actors, executives, producers, and enough reporters to fill several newspapers the following morning. Michael had been invited as the guest of honor to receive a special achievement award recognizing the unprecedented success of Thriller and his continuing influence on the music industry, which meant that somewhere ahead of them waited a red carpet, a speech, and an exhausting number of photographs. Fortunately, the ride there was considerably more entertaining. "...and then he said no." You looked over from your seat. Michael was grinning. "Just no?" "Just no." A laugh escaped you despite yourself. For the first time in days, it felt surprisingly easy. "That's it?" Michael nodded. "That's it." You shook your head. "So you asked Prince to record a song called “Bad” with you, and he refused because of one lyric?" Michael looked deeply offended on behalf of his own songwriting. "It was the first lyric." "Which was?" He pointed at you. "Don't laugh." That warning alone guaranteed you were going to. Michael sighed dramatically. "The song starts with 'your butt is mine.'" The silence lasted perhaps half a second before you burst out laughing, leaning forward in your seat. Michael immediately started laughing too. "I told you." "You opened a song with 'your butt is mine'?" "It sounds better when it's sung." "I guarantee you it doesn’t." "I guarantee you it does." Michael pressed a hand against his chest. "I am being attacked." "You deserve it." Bill shook his head from the driver's seat.

The two of you continued arguing about the lyric for several more minutes before the conversation gradually drifted elsewhere, eventually settling into the kind of comfortable discussion that had become second nature over the past months. For a while Michael talked about the album. You talked about your Vogue photoshoot. Then, somewhere in the middle of the conversation, he glanced over. "So." His tone softened slightly. "How did it go with Robert Hastings?" The question hit harder than you expected. For a moment you looked out the window. The city lights blurred past. "It went well." Michael smiled immediately. "And the audition?" You forced yourself to return the smile. "The audition went well too." "Then what happened?" You hesitated. Only briefly. "They ended up going with somebody else." The lie settled heavily in your chest. Michael's eyebrows rose. "Oh." You quickly added, "It's alright." His expression remained thoughtful. "The role wasn't really what I wanted anyway." That part, at least, wasn't entirely untrue. You looked back toward him. "I admired Robert, but once I got deeper into the material I realized it wasn't really the direction I wanted to go." Michael seemed surprised by that. Not suspicious. Just surprised. Then, after a moment, he nodded. "Well." His voice carried that familiar certainty he always seemed to have whenever he spoke about other people's dreams. "Another one will come." You smiled weakly. Michael continued. "Actually, I think a lot of them will come." His hand moved across the seat between you until his fingers gently closed around yours. The gesture was simple. Instinctive. Comforting. "You got one director interested." He squeezed your hand softly. "Others are going to follow." You looked down at your joined hands.

Michael continued. "Give it a little time and you'll be turning projects down because there are too many of them." A small laugh escaped you. "I'd like that problem." "You'll have it." The confidence in his voice made something ache painfully inside your chest. Slowly, you placed your free hand over his. "Thank you." Michael smiled. Neither of you moved away. For several minutes the car continued through Los Angeles while your hands remained together on your lap. The silence wasn't awkward. If anything, it felt comforting. Eventually Michael squeezed your hand again. This time to get your attention. You looked over. "What?" For the first time all evening, he actually looked nervous. The sight alone was enough to catch you off guard. Michael glanced toward the window. Then back at you. "Can I ask you something?" "Of course." His thumb traced absentminded circles across the back of your hand before he spoke again. "Would you be comfortable with a kiss tonight?" For a moment you simply stared at him. "A what?" "A kiss." The answer arrived much faster than the question had, as though he had already spent several minutes debating whether or not to bring it up and wanted the actual words out of his mouth before he could change his mind. Immediately afterward he laughed softly and rubbed the back of his neck. "That sounds strange when I say it out loud. But Frank mentioned that tonight is probably the biggest event we've attended together so far, and there are supposedly going to be photographers everywhere."

He gestured vaguely toward the city outside. "The speech, the award, the press coverage, all of it." The explanation came easily to him. Comfortably and logically. Michael had always been good at that. He had an incredible ability to take complicated situations and reduce them to practical decisions, to focus on outcomes rather than emotions whenever something mattered professionally. So while your heart had already started beating faster, Michael still sounded almost entirely businesslike. "And we've been doing this for months now," he continued. "People already expect us to act like a real couple." A small smile appeared. "I figured eventually they'd probably expect us to kiss too." The words should have sounded ridiculous. Instead they made your stomach twist. Not because the reasoning was flawed. Because it wasn't. If anything, it was perfectly reasonable. The arrangement had progressed naturally over the past several months. The hand-holding, the hugs, the dinners, the appearances, the photographs. A kiss was arguably the next logical step. Which was exactly why Michael was suggesting it. Not because he wanted to kiss you. Not because he had spent nights thinking about it. Not because he felt what you felt. Simply because it made sense. "It feels weird to ask," he admitted. "It does." His laugh returned. "Good." You raised an eyebrow. "Good?" "I'm glad it's not just me." The sound of his laughter eased some of the tension sitting in your chest, though unfortunately not nearly enough. Michael shifted slightly in his seat. "I just thought if we're going to do it, tonight probably makes sense." His voice softened. "It'll help the relationship narrative."

Then, after a brief pause: "It'll help the album." Another pause followed. "And maybe it'll help people keep paying attention to your career too.” That part hurt. Not because Michael had done anything wrong. Not because his intentions weren't good. But because only a few weeks earlier you had finally admitted something to yourself that you had spent months trying not to acknowledge. You no longer wanted opportunities because of Michael. You wanted them because of you. Because somebody watched your films and believed in your talent. Because somebody saw your work and decided you deserved to be there. Somewhere over the past several months, the arrangement had begun to feel increasingly uncomfortable, not because Michael had ever asked too much of you, but because you had slowly started realizing how many people in his life wanted something from him, and how difficult it had become to ignore the fact that the arrangement itself had been built on the exact same principle. An exchange. A transaction. Something for something. The thought left a bitter taste in your mouth every time it surfaced. Yet despite that realization, despite the guilt that accompanied it, you still couldn't bring yourself to walk away. Not when walking away meant losing him. Not when the best parts of your week were still the phone calls that lasted too long, the evenings spent watching movies together, the hours sitting quietly in his studio while he worked, and the countless small moments in between that had somehow become the foundation of your happiness. Maybe it was selfish. Maybe it was unfair. But right now it was enough. So you nodded. "Okay." The relief that crossed Michael's face was immediate. "Okay?" You smiled. "Okay."

For a moment he simply looked at you. Then he squeezed your hand again. "Thank you." The rest of the drive passed in a blur. You heard pieces of conversation. Bits and fragments. Enough to respond when necessary. Not enough to actually remember any of it afterward. Because your mind remained hopelessly occupied by a single thought. A kiss. A kiss. A kiss. By the time Bill pulled up outside the venue, your nerves felt almost identical to the ones you'd experienced before the gala months earlier. Only worse. Much worse. Because back then you had still been pretending. Now you weren't. The moment the car doors opened, flashes exploded from every direction. Photographers crowded the barricades. Reporters shouted questions. Names echoed through the evening air from every angle. Michael stepped out first before turning back and offering you his hand. You accepted it automatically. The warmth of his fingers somehow made your heartbeat even worse. Together you stepped onto the carpet while cameras immediately began following your every movement. Neither of you acknowledged the questions. Neither of you slowed down. Then, somewhere in the crowd, a photographer suddenly shouted: "Can we get a kiss?" The timing of deciding to do it in the car and being asked to do it only moments later was so absurd that both of you immediately burst out laughing. For a moment neither of you could even respond. Michael looked down at you. You looked up at him. And suddenly the conversation from the car felt very real. "Well," he said softly. You laughed. "Might as well." His smile widened. "Might as well." Then he stepped closer. One hand settled naturally against your waist, familiar enough now that neither of you thought twice about it.

Your own hand found his chest while the other rested against his arm. The cameras erupted instantly. You barely heard them. Because Michael was already leaning down. And then he kissed you. The world didn't stop. The photographers didn't disappear. The noise didn't vanish completely. Yet somehow all of it became distant enough that it no longer mattered. The kiss itself wasn't dramatic. It wasn't rushed either. It simply lingered. Long enough for every photographer present to get the photograph they wanted. Long enough for the moment to stop feeling staged. Long enough for you to forget there were cameras at all. Your eyes remained closed. His did too. And despite everything you had spent months telling yourself, despite every reminder that this wasn't real and could never be real, some foolish part of your heart couldn't stop wishing it was. When Michael finally pulled away, you opened your eyes slowly. And immediately found him looking at you. The smile that appeared on your face happened before you could stop it. Soft, warm, unguarded. The same smile you'd given him a hundred times before. Yet something about it hit Michael differently. So differently that for a brief moment he forgot how to breathe. The feeling arrived without warning. Without explanation. One second he had been thinking about photographs and headlines and tomorrow's newspapers. The next, none of those things seemed remotely important. All he could see was you. The warmth in your eyes. The softness in your expression. The way your hand still rested against his chest. The way you were looking at him like he was the only person in the world.

Something tightened painfully beneath his ribs. Not physically. Emotionally. A sudden overwhelming pressure he couldn't identify quickly enough to make sense of. For a terrifying second, he forgot where he was. Forgot the crowd. Forgot the cameras. Forgot everything except the woman standing in front of him. And that frightened him far more than he cared to admit. "Michael?" The sound of his name snapped the spell instantly. He blinked. Reality rushed back as everything returned at once. Michael straightened almost immediately, instinctively retreating behind the polished confidence that had carried him through years of public appearances. A familiar, easy smile appeared. Controlled. "Come on." His voice sounded perfectly normal. At least to you. You accepted the arm he offered and allowed him to guide you toward the entrance. Naturally, you assumed he was simply nervous. After all, public kisses were a big deal, even for people who spent their lives in front of cameras. What you didn't realize was that Michael had walked into that moment thinking entirely about publicity and strategy, and walked out of it feeling as though something inside him had shifted in a way he couldn't explain. And for the first time since the arrangement began, that feeling followed him all the way into the night.

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

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

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

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

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

You’d borne witness to it all. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His childhood bedroom.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He turned then.

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

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

You closed the final distance.

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

He gasped—a sharp, startled sound.

“Feel,” you instructed, your voice low.

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

A choked, ragged sound escaped him.

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

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

He was shaking now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mmmhh—!”

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

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

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

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

His eyes fluttered closed.

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t ask before diving in at you.

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

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

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

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

He pushed in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ah—ah—!”

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

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

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

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

You clenched around him in rhythmicly, uncontrollably. 

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

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

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

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

But he didn’t stop after your come down. 

He couldn’t. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His own end took him by storm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, a shift in the energy beside you.

He lowered his arm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He turned his head too. 

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

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

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

The decision was made.

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

He hovered, his gaze fixed so intensely.

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

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

He began to part you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was a desperate, worshipful plea.

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

Your world and everything in it, narrowed to sensation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The power dynamic shifted on a dizzying axis.

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

"Wha—?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then you began to move.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

fin.. ;)

taglist:

@sheerios32 @shaymariee @holyfujjj @joliebossanova123 @cinnamon-girl01 @dearsirenita @sgecat @alittletrampyvampy @orbitmyworld @mikesangelface @veraberaxx @misfloras @ningizuo @ieatorangess @misscowboyhat @auriuex @angelicneon @honeybunn88 @giovannamarie12 @iamsosexy2 @sabbiabbydabbywabbie @shinebrightstar @blur-charmlessman2 @tic-tac-my-toes @apqlehead @laistrange @joliebossanova123 @blaiselaurent @michaelcomeback @bawdylanguageee @theasdfjklstuff @kottonkanditits @hollablkgrl @holyfujjj @vincrichc @thatprettyho @jurneeblogs @zanyana626 @michaeljacksonfanfictions

⤷ he keeps his talons trimmed. valarr does not want to add to his mental strain by worrying about hurting someone unknowingly with his sharp claws. he knows they could come in handy, as weapons and other things, but he would rather use his sword or dagger for that, as any knight would. the blessing of his ancient strength and features is pleasing, but he would be betraying himself if he relied on them too heavily. he wants to prove his own as fairly as he can. being feared for his distinguished features but not his prowess in battle leaves a sour taste in his mouth that he would rather do without.

⤷ scales look different depending on the lighting. greyish and darker when the moon is in full bloom, and glittering, sometimes molding to the color of the sun when valarr walks through the gardens or lounges with you on a chaise by the window in the morning light. he is proud of them. shows them off sometimes when he feels particularly peacockish. they resemble a map onto his body, from the nape of his neck, slowly littering the arch of his spine, sprouting into that powerful tail. down his temples and a bit haphazardly along his hairline, making his eyes pop. a generous amount frames the broadness of his shoulders, emphasizing his sturdiness. the ones only you get to see, drizzle along his navel and the V of his hips, as if emphasizing where the jut of them protrudes.

⤷ dragon hybrid!valarr has horns, but they are more of a cluster than a singular one. instead, smaller, harder membranes sit along the sides of his head, slightly obstructed by his hair. their tips are hard but not spiked; thus, they do not hurt when touched. (for reference, i am referring to how seasmoke's scales are positioned atop his head! very similar to that, but solely two rows.)

⤷ valarr's wings are mostly tucked against his back. he sees no use in them if it's not to protect you or shelter you from someone's view. in case they do make an appearance, they're rather large but with a thinner membrane; grey like his scales. in his mind, they are more an inconvenience than a blessing, since they can be in the way, especially when he jousts. remembering to keep them tucked tightly against his back so they do not slow down the gallop of his horse by dragging his backward is one more thing he has to worry about.

⤷ his eyes are slitted. they thin when he's irritated, but grown so, so big when he looks at you. the slim black iris enlarges to its full capacity, almost eclipsing the violet of his eyes for a moment, looking more man than beast. it's so easy to know when he's enamored; it's as clear as day.

⤷ keeps his tongue in his mouth unless he's in the privacy of your royal chambers. he's not necessarily ashamed of it, but he wants only you to know how it looks, feels, and tastes. it's slippery, long, and forked. sounds like a soft rattling when he's overjoyed or pleased.

✧ BEHAVIOUR ⤷ instilled in himself from a very young age that he cannot lose control of the ancient, primal instincts that lie just beneath his skin. he is a knight. he will one day be king. valarr cannot and will not let the feral beast prowling the depths of his mind and the cavity of his chest rule his judgment or feelings. he needs to be stronger than the primal instincts surfacing whenever his emotions are heightened. he can be stronger.

⤷ dragon hybrid!valarr's only true weakness, aside from his family, is you. will only ever be you. years of carefully constructed resolve and leash onto his impulses, tighten hard enough to snap whenever you are involved. he loves you most ardently, and all the warmth in his chest and heat in his veins are never quiet in your presence. if you are near, his senses sharpen—that overprotective instinct to always protect you—but they also melt like drizzled honey, leaving behind glimpses of the beast within, letting it claw its way out.

⤷ it always worsens when you are brazen enough to offer him your affection in public. your fingers tightening just so where they rest in the crook of his elbow, a few words whispered against the shell of his ear, low and syrupy, or a gentle hand brushing through the soft hairs at the nape of his neck, nails catching skin and scales. whatever it may be, it undoes him completely without fail, without preamble. makes his tail swish behind him, his wings twitch, the thin off his irises blow wide as his lips part enough for a peek of forked tongue to show through. it's delectable for you and a never-ending battle for him.

⤷ sometimes, he gives in to the urge; the constant animal instinct to be closer, to touch, to possess, even if surrounded by sycophants at a feast, seated at the high table next to you, all pretty and radiant. his tail sneaks under the table, slithering until it brushes against your silken-clad ankle, slowly coiling around it and just holding for a while. tightening his grip from time to time to remind you that he's there and he loves you; wants you, still, even surrounded by all these people. squeeze—squeeze—squeeze. three times. i love you. wordless but meaningful.

⤷ if some nameless lord dares to ask for a dance or stands too close to you, valarr's tail always slithers higher, making sure to caress the inside of your knee and the silken skin of your inner thigh, the rough scales doing more than just tickle. he knows what he's doing; knows he shouldn't do it, but the possesive beast prowling his chest and dictating his actions cannot stand watching anyone come near you like this, moreover with an audience. you are his mate. your place is at his side, not dancing with some old decrepit lord who barely knows where his feet are placed. his tail presses against where you are hottest, between your thighs, and stays there like a brand, like a statement, unmoving until the end of the night. flush against your small clothes, covering the entirety of your clothed pussy, lips twitching just so when he feels you squeeze the tip of his tail between silken skin and humping your hips against it. his lovely mate, so easily wound up. if scales turn wet and slick by the end of the feast, he will only have to bring them to his lips and lick them clean as he watches you.

⤷ dragon hybrid!valarr is territorial. watches, circles, prowls. around you, around people who think they can be close to you, around the places you frequent. if you are not under his sight, he will make sure that changes are made as rapidly as possible so you two can be in each other's line of sight again. even when he trains, attends council, or jousts, his mind is still on you. doesn't have to insist that you sit in the stands as he trades blows with other knights and unhorses them with precision and tact. valarr knows you love watching him joust. his armor on, your favor around his arm, and the warmth of your parting kiss still tingling on his lips.

⤷ but what he looks forward to is the moment when you two are alone after a joust. he's sweaty, dirty, and grimy. breathing hard still, full of adrenaline from trading blows and the praise from the crowd. but all of that pales in comparison when you straddle his lap and coo your own homage to his strength and performance. his pupils dilate, and his tail curls around your thigh, your waist, any part of you it reaches first, to press you closer and keep you there. your fingers run up his armored shoulders, skitter the sides of his neck, only to burrow into his hair and pet it tenderly, as one would do to a dog. his breath catches, tail coiling tigther, wings twitching behind him, willing to open. the moment you touch his horns and let your nails scrape against them as you whisper praises in his ear, he melts against the mattress like molten steel, putty under you. moans and whines and twitches, flushed and dizzy, hips twitching under you helplessly. when your tongue licks a slow stripe up one horn, he swears he almost soils his breeches like a green boy.

⤷ needs to have his scent on you. craves to smell it on you, even after you've been parted from each other for a while. of course, the most effective way to make sure his scent sticks is to leave his spend on and in you. he's always sweet about it, lovely in the way the action is not. makes sure to rut in deep and flood your womb with his cum, not pulling out until his knot subsides, whispering sweet nothings as you cock-warm him. afterward, his fingers are careful to scoop up the spend that slowly leaks out of your puffy hole and smear it against your skin. the inside of your wrist, the crook of your neck, between the valley of your breasts, anywhere visible. valarr always nuzzles the places he's marked, a growled, low purr vibrating in his chest, sated and pleased to have you reeking of him.

⤷ does not sleep well without you by his side. needs to be wrapped around you, from the tangle of your ankles to the way his chin hooks against your shoulder to press against the dewy skin of your throat. his long tail coils around your torso and keeps you close, the flat end of it slowly rubbing where you happen to ache that day: your stomach, the small of your back, the meat of your calves. he's careful and tender. nosing at your neck while murmuring how much he loves you, how much his dragon loves you. how he never wants to let you go, for you are his most prized treasure and he cannot help but hoard you to himself with every opportunity.

⤷ dragon hybrid!valarr likes to knot you in the mornings the most. presses your back to his chest as his hands roam sleep warm skin, his cock sliding between your folds until they part and welcome him inside your wet pussy. relishes the way his knot catches against your hole before nudging in, keeping you so full of him. knows you're going to feel the stretch and ache of him all day, until he can have you again before slumber takes you in the evening, ready to remind you what your sweet dragon can do to pleasure you. the thought of you walking the gardens, embroidering in the library, or reading in the solar, all the while feeling the ache of him, of his cock, of his knot between your legs makes him purr in satisfaction. even when he is away, he wants a part of him to be with you, no matter in what way.

⤷ hoards every single favour you have ever given him at jousts. they are tokens of your love for him. proof that you believed in him enough to bestow him with a piece of you. valarr keeps them all neatly in a wooden chest in his solar. when he misses you, which is frequently, he opens it and brushes his fingers through them, bringing the latest one to his nose to breathe in any lingering of your scent still on the fabric. his most prized possessions, after you.

cr: gifs @/barbieaemond, @/daenerys-stormborn, @/notalicent, @/baelcrtargaryen

Y/N stood barefoot in the middle of her kitchen holding a coffee mug between both hands, staring absently at the steam curling upward while her laptop remained open beside her, paused midway through a compilation video titled Jaafar Jackson becoming Michael Jackson for ten minutes straight. Someone online had uploaded it only two nights ago after the movie came out, and despite herself, she had watched it more than once since then, though she would sooner throw herself into the Hudson than admit that out loud.

It wasn’t even attraction. Not yet, anyway. At least that was what she kept telling herself.

She simply found him interesting.

There was something unusually restrained about him in every clip she had seen during the press rollout so far, especially compared to the rest of the cast. Most actors promoting major films eventually developed a rhythm during interviews, a sort of polished ease that came from repeating the same stories often enough for them to lose emotional weight. Y/N had spent years around celebrities and could recognize media training almost instantly: the calculated pauses, the rehearsed vulnerability, the charming anecdote strategically designed to go viral in thirty second clips on TikTok.

Jaafar did not seem polished in that way. Careful, yes. Guarded, definitely.

But not artificial.

And maybe that was what had unsettled her curiosity enough to keep thinking about him over the last two weeks. Every time a journalist asked him something personal, there was always this brief flicker across his face beforehand, as though he genuinely considered the answer instead of reaching automatically for something media-friendly. It made him feel strangely human inside a machine built specifically to flatten humanity into digestible soundbites.

Y/N hated that she had noticed that.

‘Oh God,’ she muttered quietly to herself, finally shutting the laptop. ‘Get a grip.’

The apartment remained silent around her except for distant rain tapping gently against the windows.

Normally, interview days never affected her like this. She had built an entire career on composure, on making famous people comfortable enough to forget cameras existed while simultaneously revealing almost nothing about herself in return. It was a balancing act she had mastered years ago, one that transformed her from another internet influencer with a microphone into someone respected by actors, musicians, directors, people who notoriously hated interviews but requested her specifically because she listened differently than others did.

That was the irony of her job.

Millions of people watched her every week, yet almost nobody actually knew her.

They knew the curated version: intelligent questions, effortless beauty, dry humor delivered with perfect timing. They knew the girl who sat across from Oscar winners looking impossibly calm beneath studio lighting. What they did not know was that she spent the night before every important interview overthinking every possible question until three in the morning. They did not know she replayed awkward moments in her head for weeks afterward or that she secretly worried her success depended entirely on people continuing to find her charming.

And lately, exhaustion had begun creeping beneath the polished exterior she wore so convincingly online.

Not burnout exactly. Just loneliness with expensive lighting.

She exhaled slowly before finally pulling herself away from the kitchen counter and walking toward her bedroom, where clothing options had already been laid neatly across the bed by her stylist earlier that morning. Most of them leaned predictably glamorous: structured blazers, fitted dresses, sharp silhouettes designed to photograph beautifully during press coverage.

Instead, her eyes drifted immediately toward something softer.

Cream silk blouse.

Dark tailored trousers.

Gold jewelry delicate enough not to distract on camera.

Professional without trying too hard and elegant without looking calculated.

As she changed, her mind wandered unwillingly back toward the interview packet sitting on her vanity table, filled with production notes and cast information she had already memorized days ago. Nia Long portraying Katherine Jackson. Colman Domingo portraying Joseph Jackson. Juliano Valdi as young Michael. And Jaafar carrying the impossible task of portraying one of the most scrutinized human beings to ever exist while simultaneously being emotionally connected to him in real life.

That alone fascinated her.

Actors disappeared into roles all the time. That was their job.

But what did it feel like to disappear into someone your family still loved personally?

The thought lingered unpleasantly in her chest while she adjusted the sleeves of her blouse in the mirror.

By the time her car arrived downstairs, the rain had slowed into a fine silver mist coating the city in reflective haze. Her driver greeted her warmly while she slid into the backseat, immediately greeted by another flood of notifications lighting up her phone screen. Instagram mentions. Fans posting excitedly about the upcoming interview. Speculation threads already dissecting the Michael press tour frame by frame like forensic investigators.

The studio lot buzzed with familiar chaos when she arrived an hour later, production assistants weaving rapidly between equipment while publicists hovered nearby clutching coffees and clipboards with equal desperation. The entire building carried that particular energy unique to major entertainment productions: expensive stress hidden beneath perfect lighting.

The second Y/N stepped inside, people began greeting her instantly.

‘Morning!’

‘You ready for the big one?’

‘My girlfriend is obsessed with your interviews, by the way.’

She smiled automatically through every interaction, slipping effortlessly into the public-facing version of herself that years of media training had perfected. Calm posture. Warm eye contact. Easy laughter at the appropriate moments. Nobody looking at her would have guessed she had spent part of the morning irrationally nervous about meeting a man she technically already knew plenty about through research alone.

A production assistant guided her toward the set while speaking rapidly. ‘Okay, so we’re doing group interview first, then maybe individual clips depending on timing. They’re running a little behind because another junket went over schedule, but everyone’s already here.’

Y/N nodded absentmindedly while stepping onto the soundstage.

The set itself looked stunning. Warm amber lighting spilled across cream-colored furniture arranged carefully beneath subtle gold accents, the atmosphere elegant enough to feel cinematic without becoming artificial. Cameras surrounded the seating area from multiple angles while crew members adjusted microphones and lighting levels with intense concentration.

And then she saw them.

The cast stood near the far side of the studio speaking quietly among themselves while makeup artists floated nearby making last-minute touch-ups. Nia Long looked graceful even in stillness, carrying herself with the kind of effortless confidence that made elegance appear instinctual. Colman Domingo, whom she had interviewed a couple of times before and befriended him, radiated charisma so naturally that people around him seemed brighter by association, one hand moving animatedly while he spoke.

Then there was Jaafar.

For a brief moment, Y/N simply observed him unnoticed.

He stood slightly apart from the others, not awkwardly, not isolated, just quieter somehow. One hand rested loosely against the back of a chair while someone from production spoke to him, and even from across the room, there was something remarkably restrained about his body language, as though he remained constantly aware of how visible he had become over the last year and still hadn’t fully adjusted to it.

He was taller than she expected.

Softer-looking, too.

Not soft physically. There was obvious structure beneath the sharp tailoring of his dark clothing, broad shoulders emphasized by the fitted jacket hugging his frame. But his face carried a kind of thoughtfulness cameras had not entirely captured in interviews she’d watched before. A stillness that felt genuine instead of performative.

As though sensing her attention somehow, Jaafar looked up.

And there it was.

The first moment.

Not dramatic enough for movies. No thunder cracking overhead, no instant orchestral swell. Just his eyes meeting hers across the studio floor and lingering long enough for something quiet and strange to settle low in her stomach before either of them could stop it.

Y/N had spent years being looked at professionally. By actors. By executives. By fans recognizing her in airports and restaurants. She knew the difference between attention and observation.

Jaafar observed.

It lasted maybe three seconds before Colman noticed her standing there and immediately broke the tension entirely.

‘Well,’ he announced warmly while opening his arms, ‘there she is. The only interviewer alive capable of making grown actors confess their childhood trauma on camera.’

The crew laughed.

The moment shattered.

Y/N smiled despite herself while stepping forward to hug him briefly. ‘Please. You people do that voluntarily.’

‘Not true,’ Colman replied dramatically. ‘You create a false sense of security first.’

Nia greeted her next with immediate warmth, touching her arm affectionately while complimenting her blouse. Juliano followed shyly afterward, visibly nervous in the way younger actors often became during major press tours.

Then Jaafar stepped closer.

Up close, he somehow seemed even quieter than before.

‘Hi,’ Y/N said softly.

'Hi, I’m Jaafar, nice to meet you.’ He said shaking her hand softly, as if she would break

His voice caught her off guard instantly. Lower than expected. Calm in a way that felt grounding rather than rehearsed.

‘Y/N, nice to meet you,’ you smiled warmly. 

Their handshake should have been ordinary.

Professional.

Forgettable.

Instead, Y/N became suddenly aware of ridiculous details she should not have noticed at all, like the faint silver rings resting against his fingers or the way his grip tightened slightly at the very end before letting go, hesitant somehow, like neither of them had intended for the contact to last even that extra second.

Which was absurd.

Completely absurd.

She pulled her hand back smoothly before her brain could embarrass her further.

Everyone settled into their seats soon afterward while crew members rushed around making final adjustments to lighting and microphones. Colman filled the room easily with conversation, teasing Juliano until the younger actor finally relaxed enough to laugh properly, while Nia answered questions from producers with patient elegance.

Meanwhile, Y/N found herself becoming increasingly aware of Jaafar sitting beside her.

Not because he demanded attention.

Because he didn’t.

Most rising actors during massive press tours compensated for nervousness by performing confidence loudly. Jaafar did the opposite. He listened carefully when others spoke. Looked directly at whoever was talking. Smiled quietly instead of trying to dominate conversations. There was something deeply unguarded about the effort he made to put other people at ease while visibly carrying pressure himself.

It intrigued her more than it should have.

‘Rolling in thirty seconds,’ someone called from behind the cameras.

The room shifted instantly into professional mode.

Crew members moved aside.

Conversations faded.

Studio lights brightened overhead.

Y/N crossed one leg neatly over the other while adjusting the cue cards resting in her lap, her posture settling automatically into practiced elegance as cameras prepared to roll. Beside her, Jaafar exhaled slowly enough that she almost missed it.

Almost.

Then the cameras started.

And like always, the transformation happened immediately.

Her voice became smoother. Warmer. Confident in that effortless way audiences loved dissecting online afterward.

‘Today,’ she began with an easy smile directed toward the cameras, ‘I’m sitting down with the incredible cast of Michael, one of the most anticipated films in recent years…’

The interview unfolded beautifully at first. Questions flowed naturally between the cast as they discussed preparation processes, emotional responsibility, favorite moments on set. Nia spoke with thoughtful grace about portraying Katherine Jackson’s strength beneath public scrutiny. Colman answered with magnetic storytelling instincts that made everyone around him laugh effortlessly. Juliano’s sincerity charmed the crew almost immediately.

And Jaafar? Y/N noticed him becoming more comfortable gradually throughout the conversation, though not in the way she expected.

He didn’t become louder.

He became more honest.

Every answer seemed carefully considered before spoken aloud, his fingers occasionally brushing against the rings on his hand while thinking through certain questions. At one point, while discussing the emotional intensity of filming, Y/N asked gently whether there had ever been a moment where the reality of portraying Michael stopped feeling like performance and started feeling personal.

The atmosphere shifted almost immediately afterward.

Not dramatically. Subtly.

Like everyone in the room sensed the question had landed somewhere deeper than expected.

Jaafar looked downward briefly before answering, his expression softening into something more introspective than media-trained.

‘Yeah,’ he admitted quietly. ‘More than once.’

The room remained completely silent around him.

‘There were days during filming where I’d suddenly stop thinking about the technical side of acting altogether,’ he continued slowly, gaze lifting toward her again. ‘And instead I’d think about who he actually was to my family. To people who loved him. To the world. To me.’ He paused briefly, almost searching for the right wording. ‘That responsibility never really leaves your mind.’

Y/N watched him carefully while he spoke.

Because there it was again.

That carefulness.

Not fear.

Love.

Love heavy enough to make someone handle every word gently.

The interview continued after that, though something delicate had shifted permanently beneath the surface of it. 

Y/N felt it every time she glanced in Jaafar’s direction afterward.

Not distraction exactly. She was far too experienced for that. Years of interviewing people beneath bright studio lights had trained her to maintain focus under almost any circumstance, and outwardly, nothing about her composure changed. Her smile remained easy. Her posture relaxed. Her questions continued flowing naturally from one topic to the next with the same thoughtful rhythm her audience loved her for.

But internally, awareness had settled itself somewhere beneath her ribs and refused to leave.

Because now she knew what his honesty sounded like.

And unfortunately, it was becoming difficult to stop listening for it.

The conversation gradually lightened after the heavier moments passed. Colman told an absurd behind the scenes story involving an accidentally broken prop and an assistant director nearly having a heart attack over it, earning laughter from the entire room, including Jaafar, whose smile arrived slower than the others but somehow lingered longer once it appeared. Nia spoke beautifully about the emotional atmosphere on set during certain family scenes, and Juliano relaxed enough by the end of the interview to joke shyly about how intimidating it had initially been stepping into such a legendary story.

Through all of it, Y/N remained hyperaware of tiny things she absolutely should not have been noticing.

The way Jaafar leaned forward slightly whenever someone else was speaking seriously, like listening itself required his full attention. The way his thumb absentmindedly brushed against the silver ring on his finger while thinking through answers. The fact his laugh was quieter off-camera than on it, less performative somehow, as though he still had not entirely adjusted to being observed this constantly.

And worst of all, the increasingly dangerous realization that he seemed just as aware of her.

Every time she redirected a question toward another cast member, she could feel his attention lingering anyway. Not invasive. Not arrogant. Just…steady. Careful in the same way the rest of him seemed careful.

Once or twice, she caught him looking at her before she had spoken at all, as though anticipating what she might ask next.

It unsettled her more than she wanted to admit.

Because interviews were supposed to feel controlled.

This no longer did.

By the time the producer finally called cut, the atmosphere on set had softened into something noticeably warmer than when they had first arrived. Crew members relaxed visibly behind the cameras while someone near the lighting equipment muttered, 'That was really good,’ under their breath to another producer.

The red recording lights switched off.

For a brief second, nobody moved.

Then the room exhaled all at once.

‘See?’ Colman announced dramatically while removing his microphone pack. ‘I told you she’d have us discussing our inner emotional landscapes by the end of this.’

Y/N laughed softly while gathering her cue cards together. ‘You were all easy to talk to. That’s not my fault.’

‘No, seriously,’ Nia added, turning toward her with genuine warmth. ‘Those were beautiful questions.’

Something about hearing that from her specifically made Y/N smile a little more sincerely than before. ‘Thank you. I feel like people are approaching this project very carefully, and I wanted the conversation to reflect that.’

‘It did,’ Nia said simply.

Nearby, Juliano nodded quickly in agreement. ‘Honestly, that was probably the least nervous I’ve been all week.’

‘That’s because she tricks people into feeling safe,’ Colman interrupted.

‘I’m starting to think you’re accusing me of crimes.’

‘I am.’

The crew laughed again.

The atmosphere afterward became pleasantly chaotic in the way sets often did once filming wrapped. Publicists stepped back in. Makeup artists hovered nearby with tissues and powder compacts. Producers congratulated each other quietly while assistants began reorganizing equipment around the studio.

Y/N stood from her chair slowly, smoothing her blouse instinctively while thanking different crew members around her. She was accustomed to this part of the job too, the gentle comedown after interviews ended, where everyone briefly returned from performance into ordinary humanity again.

Usually, this was the point where actors left quickly for their next press obligation.

Instead, the cast lingered.

Colman remained beside her for several minutes talking animatedly about an upcoming theater project while Nia complimented the atmosphere of the interview again, mentioning how refreshing it felt compared to more invasive press circuits lately. Even Juliano stayed long enough to thank her shyly once more before his publicist finally ushered him toward the exit.

And through all of it, Y/N could feel Jaafar nearby without directly looking at him.

The awareness was becoming ridiculous now.

She caught fragments of his voice occasionally while he spoke quietly with someone from production across the room, low and calm beneath the surrounding noise of the studio. Once, while laughing softly at something Colman said, she glanced up instinctively and found Jaafar already looking at her from several feet away.

Not intensely but attentively, like he was still listening.

Her chest tightened unexpectedly.

Professionalism, she reminded herself firmly.

This was professionalism.

Eventually, the room began emptying for real. One by one, people drifted toward the exits until only scattered crew members remained behind dismantling equipment beneath the warm studio lighting. Y/N finally crouched beside her chair to gather the rest of her belongings, slipping loose cue cards into her tote bag while her phone buzzed repeatedly with incoming notifications she ignored completely.

Her producer was probably already texting about engagement numbers.

She didn’t particularly care right now.

As she reached for her water bottle near the floor, the strange sensation of being watched settled over her again. Not unpleasantly. Not heavily. Just present.

Y/N straightened slowly.

Most of the cast had already left the set.

But Jaafar hadn’t. He had returned.

He stood several feet away near the edge of the stage, hands resting loosely in the pockets of his jacket while the last few crew members moved around behind him. Without the pressure of cameras actively recording him, he somehow looked younger. Less composed around the edges. The kind of exhaustion people carried after spending hours being perceived.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

The silence wasn’t awkward.

If anything, it felt oddly suspended, like the final few seconds of a song before the music completely fades out.

Then Jaafar took a step closer.

‘Hey,’ he said quietly.

Y/N looked up at him fully, smiling. ‘Hey.’

His expression softened slightly, though he still looked almost thoughtful about something.

‘I just wanted to say…’ He paused briefly, one hand leaving his pocket to adjust the rings against his fingers absentmindedly. 'That was probably one of the best interviews I’ve done.'

Something warm moved unexpectedly through her chest.

‘Oh,’ she said before she could stop herself. 'Thank you.'

'I mean it.' His voice remained calm, but there was something deeply sincere about the way he said it that made her stomach tighten faintly. 'Most people ask questions about Michael like they already decided what answers they want beforehand.' He held her gaze for a second longer. 'You didn’t.'

The studio suddenly felt too quiet.

Y/N swallowed carefully, suddenly very aware of how close he was standing now.

‘Well,' she said softly, 'I figured you’ve probably had enough of people trying to tell you what your own experience is supposed to feel like.'

For the briefest moment, something unreadable crossed his face.

Surprise maybe. Or recognition.

Whatever it was, it made the air between them feel strangely fragile.

‘Yeah,’ he admitted after a second, his voice quieter now. ‘Exactly.'

Neither of them looked away immediately afterward.

And Y/N hated how aware she became of every tiny detail in the silence that followed. The studio lights reflecting faintly against the silver rings on his fingers. The exhaustion resting subtly beneath his expression. The fact he smelled faintly like sandalwood, vanilla and clean laundry when he stood this close.

Dangerous details.

The kind people accidentally carried home with them.

Somewhere behind them, a crew member wheeled equipment loudly across the floor, breaking the moment apart just enough for reality to settle back in.

Jaafar stepped back slightly then, almost like he had only just remembered where they were.

‘I should probably go,' he said.

But neither of them moved right away.

Then finally, slowly, he smiled.

Not the practiced smile he had given cameras earlier.

Something smaller.

Realer.

'Hopefully I’ll see you again,' he said.

And maybe it was the exhaustion of the day, or the strange softness lingering in the nearly empty studio, or maybe it was simply the way he was looking at her like the answer mattered more than it should have, but Y/N felt her heartbeat stumble very slightly against her ribs before she answered.

'Yeah,” she said quietly. 'Maybe you will.'

Jaafar held her gaze for one final second before turning toward the exit at last, disappearing gradually beneath the warm gold lights of the studio corridor until she could no longer see him anymore.

But somehow, even after he was gone, the feeling of him remained.

"Blood and law are not the only considerations," Bloodraven had replied smoothly. "A king must be fit to rule. The realm must have confidence in his judgment."

"My judgment?" Aerion's eyes had glittered dangerously. "I fought beside my father at Starpike. I led men in the Third Blackfyre Rebellion. I have bled for this realm while others..." his gaze flicked meaningfully toward Aegon, "...played at being hedge knights among the smallfolk."

Aegon's jaw had tightened, but he had held his tongue. That had surprised Maeron at the time. He had expected his uncle to bristle, to snap back. But Aegon had simply stood there, his face unreadable, as if he were still deciding whether the throne was worth the cost of arguing for it.

"I do not dispute your courage, Prince Aerion," Bloodraven had said, his tone as mild as milk. "I question your temperament."

The silence that followed had been absolute.

"My temperament," Aerion had repeated softly. Too softly.

"The lords of the realm remember certain…incidents. The stories that followed you home."

"Stories," Aerion's mother had interjected, her voice calm but carrying, "are not evidence, Lord Bloodraven. And a man's youth should not be held against him forever. My lord husband has served the crown faithfully for two decades. He has led armies. He has advised his father. He has raised a son who commands the only living dragon in the known world."

Maeron remembered the ripple that had gone through the crowd at those words. The only living dragon. Aegarax had been circling above the city even then, her silver-gold wings catching the afternoon light, her shadow passing over the Red Keep like a promise.

His father had not wanted the beast inside the hall. "Let them wonder," Aerion had said that morning, his voice cold as steel. "Let them imagine her circling above the city. Imagination is cheaper than demonstration, and often more effective."

"The dragon," Bloodraven had acknowledged, inclining his head toward Maeron, "is a matter of great significance. But dragons do not rule kingdoms. Men do. And if we place a man of uncertain stability on the throne, with a dragon at his command…"

"Uncertain stability?" Aerion's voice had risen. "You dare..."

"I dare speak the truth that others whisper behind their hands," Bloodraven had cut in coldly. "The question is not whether you can fight, Prince Aerion. It is whether you can rule. And more importantly..." his single eye had shifted to Maeron's mother, "...whether you can rule without her."

Maeron remembered the way his father's hand had tightened on his sword. The way his mother's expression had flickered, just for an instant, before settling back into composure.

"What do you mean by that?" Aerion had demanded.

"I mean that Lady Tyrell is widely known to be your better counsel," Bloodraven had replied. "She tempers your excesses. She advises restraint where you would act on impulse. The lords of the realm trust her judgment. But if...gods forbid...something were to happen to her, what then? What man would we have on the throne?"

"I am not a child who needs a nursemaid," Aerion had snarled.

"No," Bloodraven had agreed. "You are something far more dangerous. You are a dragon who has learned to wear a leash, and everyone in this room knows who holds the other end."

The insult had been calculated. Maeron had seen that even then. Bloodraven had wanted Aerion to react, wanted him to prove the very instability he was being accused of. And for one terrible moment, Maeron had thought his father would oblige.

But then his mother had stepped forward, placing her hand on Aerion's arm.

"Lord Bloodraven raises a fair point," she had said, her voice cutting through the tension like a knife through silk. "If the lords require assurance, let us provide it. Name a condition: in the event of my death, Aerion will immediately abdicate in favour of our son, Maeron."

The silence that followed had been stunned.

Maeron remembered his own shock, not at the suggestion itself, but at the cold pragmatism with which his mother had offered it. She had spoken of her own death as if it were a Cyvasse piece to be moved, a variable to be accounted for. That was his mother: always three steps ahead, always planning for the worst while hoping for the best.

"And if the lords still object," she had continued, her gaze sweeping the room, "let them consider this: my husband has refused to sire more children. He has one heir. Aegon, by contrast, has several. If the council's concern is the stability of the succession, I would think a single clear line would be preferable to a tangle of competing claims. And, my son is still unmarried. Options for alliances remain open."

That had turned the tide. Maeron had watched the faces in the crowd shift as the lords absorbed her words, weighing the dangers of Aerion's temper against the dangers of a disputed succession. The Reach lords had murmured their approval. The Stormlands had followed. Even some of the Northmen had nodded grudgingly.

But Aegon had not conceded. Not yet.

Instead, he had stepped forward, his voice cutting through the murmuring.

"There is another matter," he had said. "One that must be addressed before any crown is placed on any head."

Bloodraven had turned, his single eye narrowing slightly.

"Lord Bloodraven," Aegon had continued, "offered safe conduct to Aenys Blackfyre to present his claim to the throne before this council. He gave his word as Hand of the King. But when Aenys arrived in King's Landing, trusting that word, Lord Bloodraven had him seized and executed."

Another ripple had gone through the crowd, this one darker.

"I do not mourn Aenys Blackfyre," Aegon had said firmly. "Another Blackfyre pretender dead is no tragedy. But the word of the Iron Throne cannot be worthless. If we promise safe conduct and then murder those who accept it, what are we? What trust can anyone place in our oaths? If we are to have a new king, let that king prove that the crown's word still means something."

Bloodraven's expression had remained utterly impassive. "I acted in the best interests of the realm."

"You acted as if the law did not apply to you," Aegon had replied. "That is the definition of tyranny."

For a long moment, the two men had stared at each other: the pale sorcerer and the plain-faced knight. Then Aerion had spoken.

"My brother is right."

Maeron remembered the surprise that had flickered across Aegon's face. The brothers had never been close. Their childhood had been a battlefield of petty cruelties and simmering resentments. But it had mellowed out in the years of fighting side by side: at the Third Blackfyre Rebellion, at the Peake Uprising, in the blood and mud of a dozen smaller conflicts. They were not friends. But they were no longer enemies either.

"Bloodraven has overreached," Aerion had continued, his voice hard. "He has done so repeatedly. He pushes Aegon's claim not out of loyalty to my brother, but because he believes Aegon will be easier to control. He wants a puppet, not a king."

"That is a grave accusation," Bloodraven had said softly.

"It is a true one," Aerion had replied. "And I will not have a man who thinks himself above the law standing at the right hand of any king."

The negotiations that followed had lasted for hours. Maeron remembered the heat of the throne room, the press of bodies, the rising and falling of voices as lords argued and counter-argued. His mother had moved through the crowd like a diplomat born, speaking quietly to this lord and that, offering reassurances, building consensus. Aegon had stood in conference with his own supporters, his expression increasingly weary. And Aerion had remained near the throne, watching Bloodraven with the focused intensity of a predator.

Maeron remembered another conversation, years earlier, when the Spring Sickness had swept through the Seven Kingdoms like a scythe through wheat. Aerion had looked at the death toll and made a decision with characteristic decisiveness: they were leaving. Lys. He would not risk his only son and the last dragon to a plague that did not care about bloodlines or destiny.

His mother had argued. Not against leaving, but against what Aerion might do once they arrived. "You cannot sit still," she had said, her voice tight with frustration. "You will find trouble. You will seek out fights. You will risk your life for no reason other than that you are bored."

Aerion had gathered her into his arms with a gentleness that still surprised those who thought they knew him. "I will return unharmed," he had promised against her hair. "I swear it."

"Your promises are reckless."

"My promises to you are iron."

She had looked at him then, and whatever she saw in his face had made her sigh and lean into his chest. "If you die in some Lysene gutter, I will have the maesters bring you back just so I can kill you myself."

Aerion had laughed at that, a rare sound, bright and surprised. "There is my rose."

He had won, in the end, and joined to fight with the Second Sons, though Maeron suspected he won that argument by introducing his wife to things he discovered were popular in Lyseni pleasure houses.

Aerion had retained contacts in Lys from back then, friends he had made, captains of sellswords and merchants and men who owed him favours, which he looked one more inconvenience away from calling them in. The Reach contingent pressed their advantage. But there were still objections. Aegon had more heirs. Maeron was an only child; Aerion had refused to sire any others, unwilling to risk his wife's life after the nightmare of Maeron's birth. What if something happened to the young dragonrider? What if his heirs' eggs did not hatch? What would a dynasty of dragonlords mean for Westeros if the dragons multiplied?

The final agreement had been a compromise born of exhaustion as much as wisdom.

Aerion would be crowned King of the Seven Kingdoms. His wife would be crowned beside him as Queen Consort. Maeron would be named Prince of Dragonstone and heir apparent. And in the event of the Queen's death, Aerion would immediately abdicate in favour of his son.

Aegon would serve on the small council as Master of Laws, a position that would allow him to ensure the very justice he had demanded for Bloodraven's crimes.

And Bloodraven himself would be sentenced to death, commuted to exile at the Wall, at Aegon's insistence. The same mercy that Aerys I had once shown to Bittersteel, though that had ended in disaster.

"Let him take the black," Aegon had said. "Let him serve the realm in darkness, since he could not serve it honestly in the light."

Bloodraven had accepted the sentence without protest. Maeron remembered the pale man's expression in that final moment, not defeated, not even surprised, simply watchful. As if even exile to the Wall were merely another move in a game that had not yet ended.

And so Aerion Brightflame of house Targaryen, First of His Name, had been crowned King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm. The High Septon had placed the crown upon his silver-gold head while the lords of the realm knelt and Aegarax wheeled overhead, her shadow passing over the windows of the throne room like the ghost of a greater age.

Maeron's mother had become Queen. Maeron himself had become the heir to the Iron Throne, the dragon prince whose destiny was written in fire and blood.

The fire in the solar had burned low. Maeron realized he had been speaking for longer than he intended, the words spilling out of him as if a dam had broken. Maester Aemon had not interrupted once.

"You were there for the whole of it," Aemon said quietly. "You saw what Kaeth's history cannot capture."

"I saw my father nearly start a war," Maeron replied. "I saw my mother prevent it. I saw my uncle sacrifice his own claim to the throne in exchange for justice." He paused. "And I saw Bloodraven ride north in chains, bound for this very castle. Did he ever arrive?"

Aemon was silent for a long moment. "He did. He served here, became lord Commander. And then he went beyond the Wall, and did not return."

"There are stories," Maeron said carefully, "about what he became."

"There always are."

Maeron studied his uncle's weathered face. The maester's expression gave nothing away, but there was a weight to his silence that suggested far more than he was willing to share.

"She was always underestimated, your mother. A Tyrell among dragons. Flowers among flames. And yet she never burned."

"She made sure my father didn't either." Maeron leaned back in his chair, the old wood creaking beneath him. "He would have burned the world for her, I would know. Still would. The lords who feared his temper never understood that she was the only thing that could truly set it off. Threaten the realm, and he would negotiate. Threaten her, and he would annihilate."

"That is not a comfortable truth for a king."

"No," Maeron agreed. "But the gods do not care for our comfort."

Outside, the wind had died to a low moan. Somewhere in the yard below, a horn sounded the changing of the watch. The Wall loomed beyond the window, a vast cliff of ice, pale and luminous even in the darkness.

"You did not come north only to read recent histories to an old man," Aemon said quietly. "Why are you here, Prince Maeron?"

Maeron was silent for a long moment. Then he rose and crossed to the window, looking out at the endless white expanse beyond the Wall.

"My mother sent me," he said. "She said the North has been too long ignored. Too long left to its own devices while the south plays its games of thrones. She said that if the Targaryen dynasty is to endure, we must remind the Starks that we have not forgotten them. That the dragon still flies, and the North is still part of the realm."

"Your thoughts on the matter?"

Maeron turned back, his expression difficult to read. "I came because I wanted to see the Wall. I wanted to meet you. And because…" He hesitated. "Because Aegarax has grown larger than Silverwing, and the maesters are saying she may yet rival Caraxes. The realm needs to see her. Needs to remember what it means to have a dragon in the world again."

"Fear," Aemon said softly. "You came to inspire fear."

"I came to inspire respect. Fear is a component of respect."

"Your father's words."

Maeron's lips curved slightly. "My mother's, actually. She always phrased it more diplomatically than he did."

Aemon nodded slowly. "And what do you hope to find among the Starks? Lord Willam is a proud man. The North remembers many things, but it does not bend easily."

"I don't need them to bend," Maeron said. "I need them to understand that we are not their enemies. The Iron Throne has bled the realm too often. My father knows that. My mother certainly knows it. If the Starks are willing to treat with us as equals, to renew the oaths that Torrhen Stark swore to Aegon the Conqueror, then there need be no conflict."

"And if they are not willing?"

Maeron's expression hardened, just slightly. "Then we shall have a problem on our hands. Although I doubt there will be. They are not the ambitious sort, as long as you leave them be with their ice and snow-barren land."

The fire crackled between them. Aemon reached out and placed his hand on the heavy volume of Kaeth's history, his fingers tracing the embossed leather of the cover.

"History is not kind to those who rely too heavily on dragons," he said quietly. "Your father knows that. The old Valyria fell not because it lacked power, but because it lacked wisdom. Power without wisdom is merely destruction waiting to happen."

"Spoken like a maester."

"Spoken like a Targaryen who has had many years to contemplate his family's mistakes." Aemon's eyes seemed to fix on Maeron's face with uncanny precision. "You are not your father, Prince Maeron. I can hear it in your voice. You have his fire, yes. But you also have your mother's temperance. That is a rare gift. Do not waste it."

Maeron stared at him for a long moment. Then he crossed back to the table and picked up the book.

"I should let you rest," he said. "It's late, and I've kept you too long with old memories."

"Old memories are all I have left." Aemon smiled faintly. "Besides, it is not every day that my nephew flies in on a dragon to visit. The Watch will be talking about it for years."

"Let them talk. A little awe is good for morale."

Aemon chuckled, a dry, papery sound. "You are definitely your father's son."

Maeron paused at the door. "Uncle?"

"Yes?"

"Do you ever regret it? Taking the black? Leaving it all behind?"

Aemon was quiet for a long moment. The firelight flickered across his face, deepening the lines around his mouth and eyes.

"Regret is a luxury that men in my position cannot afford," he said at last. "I made my choice. I chose to serve rather than to rule. I have never doubted that it was the right decision." He paused. "But there are nights when I dream of summer. Of the Red Keep in sunlight. Of my brothers and their laughter." His voice dropped almost to a whisper. "The past is a ghost that never quite stops haunting, Prince Maeron. Remember that, when you make your own choices."

Maeron bowed his head in acknowledgment. Then he slipped out into the cold corridor, leaving Maester Aemon alone with his memories and the dying fire.

Outside, the Wall gleamed in the moonlight, ancient and implacable. And high above, circling in the frozen air, a dragon's silhouette blotted out the stars.

a/n: I didn't expect to post the ending on a random Tuesday either but here we are. Thank you everyone for coming on this long journey! Your reactions in comments and reblogs mean a lot! <3

a/n: Liked the fic? You can donate on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3

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Maekar had heard once from the maesters who revel in philosophy that change is the gods’ favorite game to play, it brings them delight, both to the old and the new, when things twist in a way that they do not even expect. It was the way of all things, as it happens all around him, whether it is slow-moving in the process or incredibly fast in pacing. Either way, there are more times when Maekar would not know how to fix certain changes, nor where to begin.

He had thought about sending his son off to the Free Cities, to give him a taste of what it would be like to live without any assistance from the crown; to have him live a life away from his royal upbringing, strip him away from the glory that sticks with their House and their family name.

Aerion.

He had loved him, as he does all his sons; but Aerion might be the only one who where he had felt the most difficulty. Maekar did not know how to express it further, his words do not go through him, his actions were mostly ignored, or worst, forgotten. He tried to validate him, tried to defend him by any means, and then he tried to discipline, some in front of the council, most times when it’s just the two of them.

Within each and every moment he disciplines Aerion, his mind would already try to think of other ways to reach for him, he could not give up on his own son, not now—not ever. He must think of other more methods where he could finally meet him where he is, and when his son would do well, that would be the only time he could ever fully breathe.

“While that is a good plan, brother, I’m afraid there could be some disadvantages at present.” Baelor said to him, flipping a page on one of the books he picked up from the dusty shelves. They have arrived in King’s Landing four days ago, and they had already heard concerning reports of Aerion’s activities outside the gates.

Maekar exhaled, and Baelor thinks his own brother has been aging more rapidly now, “Every plan has its flaws, what the fuck would you have me do, then?” he retorted, with a clear sign of frustration painted on his face.

Baelor closed his book and regarded Maekar with his full, undivided attention, “It would be troublesome to have him over to the Free Cities, unattended—he had already been causing you headaches now, with you and I watching over him, yet he remained as he is.” He threaded carefully, mindful of the words and how he would describe his blood, not wanting to call Aerion as what he is: mad, violent, ruthless, and cruel—as he knew it would reflect poorly on Maekar, the weight of those words already carried such a burden that it would only trigger his brother to spiral even lower.

Maekar thinks he could join Aerion, but he could never disregard his other sons too, Daeron and Aegon. Daeron was never within his control even more so when Daeron had gotten a taste of alcohol and what it could do with the dreams he speaks of, but the worst thing he had seen on his eldest was passing out at every random place, completely drunk out of his wits. He was destructive, but never violent, the only chaos he could put was towards himself—Maekar thinks he could worry about him at a later time.

“You know I did all that I can, all that is within my capacities, Baelor.” Maekar started, sinking lower into his own chair as he looks ahead, he knew he had run out of resolutions but he couldn’t sit still and let the gods flip whatever fucking coin they have, nor leave the changes to the nature—his son would either be a good man, or Maekar would inevitably lose him to madness.

He did not sleep a wink that very same night, his thoughts about Aerion kept plaguing him that it never leaves his own head. In this point of time, his best course of action is to send him off to Lys.

So when a letter arrived from Dorne, containing a proposal of union, Maekar would immediately seek for Baelor’s advise. He had caught his brother slouched on the table, writing a letter to send with the raven, performing his duties as the Hand of the King even at the late hour.

“This could be good, for him.” He tossed the paper towards Baelor, and the brown-haired man could only stop writing, setting his quill aside as he reads through the paper from Maekar.

Baelor pondered, weighing a good number of possibilities and hundreds of consequences, after a while, he could only raised his eyebrows, “I certainly hope you do not think of passing the responsibility of bending Aerion into a kinder person to an innocent girl, Maekar.” He rolls the piece of paper before placing it before him, back on the table.

“We have had our fair shares of mishaps in our youth, brother.” He responds, taking a seat in front of Baelor, placing himself across from the Hand, “And when I met Dyanna..” he shook his head, remembering the good and love-filled days he had when his wife still resides by his side.

Baelor sighed, not completely against the idea of Aerion’s betrothal, as his heart and soul was once captured by a woman too, a Dornish woman at that, “This could either go right, or incredibly wrong, Maekar.” He stands, walking over to his brother to place a hand on his shoulder, “I trust your decisions, whichever you see is best for Aerion.”

Maekar’s heart settles on his throat, the air he has been holding in his lung felt even heavier as he dissects the repercussions of a wedding. It could do him good, it could make Aerion’s behavior be directed upwards, make him more honorable—or he could drag the woman down with him.

Aerion woke up with the glare of the sun sitting on his closed eyes, followed a loud banging of the windows as well as the abrupt pull on the blanket, tearing it off of him. There were noises, some loud gasps and then some hurried movements—most of which he cannot see, for he had mostly kept his eyes shut, sleep still lingers on his eyes when he had tried to prop them open.

It was Maekar who greeted him first thing in the morning, behind him were the whores he had taken home from the evening prior. He smiled at his father, unfazed with his permanent look of complete disappointment, he had forgotten what Maekar looked like on a good day at this point, “Good morrow, Father. Have you gotten confused? This is not the dining hall nor Uncle Baelor's chambers.” He murmured, before stuffing his face on the soft and pristine pillows laying next to his head.

Maekar cleared his throat, “We came here to make a good impression as visitors, Aerion. Do not put any more shame into our family.” He started his routine, and Aerion chose to close his eyes once again, already entertaining the idea of getting more sleep, undisturbed with how the sun sets too high, signifying it must have been close to noon. Still, he managed to push words out, “Rest assured I am anything but putting shame, Father. You can ask the pretty girls you scared off.” He smiled against the cushion as his voice came out muffled, not even daring to cover his nude body.

“Get dressed.” Maekar pulled on his shoulder, forcing Aerion to face his father, actively snatching him away and farther from getting more sleep. The younger boy grunts in response, yawning in front of Maekar’s face, making it sound as louder as he could, in hopes that his obvious hints could get through the older man.

“For?” he blinks, clearing his vision out from the immediate blur upon waking. He thinks his body felt heavier, or that the bed was egging him to lay down once again as he struggles to keep his body straight.

“We have a guest from Dorne. I need you in your best condition.” Maekar announced, taking his seat on the edge of Aerion’s mattress. A calm and prominently worried expression crossed his face.

Aerion could not fathom how it had anything to do with him, and why he had to know of it first thing in the morning. He knows his father cared about formalities, Baelor’s kind courtesies must have rubbed off on him, “You and Uncle would be plenty enough for a welcome, Father.” He rubbed his eyes this time, getting more and more awake by each second.

“You need to be there, son.” The last word rung on Aerion’s ear, it was his cue to take his father’s word seriously, for a couple of minutes at maximum, that is. He pulls the blanket towards him, now conscious enough to cover his body.

“A young woman from Dorne will be coming, and I need you to meet her.” Maekar spoke slowly, and in the surface, it felt like he had more to say, a finishing blow, a finality.

Aerion waits long enough before mustering a response, “And? Fetch some maids to tend to her then—”

“You will be wed to her.” Aerion’s mouth hangs loosely, before his eyebrows curled, creating a deep wrinkled line across his forehead.

He blinked for a few moments, unable to fully comprehend what was mentioned, “I beg your pardon?” he knew what the words meant, the weight it carried, and its implications, still, he thought he must have dozed off once more and this was nothing but a fragment of his dreams.

Maekar stood, brushing the hem of his clothes with his flat palms, “Baelor and I will be waiting in the common room. Do not disappoint me further, boy. I’ve already had my fucking fill from you.” Then he walked away, swinging the door shut behind him when he exits, the wood loudly banging.

Aerion sits completely still. The prospect of marriage was not entirely new to him, but he didn’t think it would come along this soon. He was not bothered, nor annoyed with the arrangement—more confused. He couldn’t exactly see himself to be a husband, though he assumes nothing would be entirely different, they only had to perform their duties in front of their families. At the end of the day, he could still fill his heart to its content with activities he finds endearing.

A Dornish woman, huh?

He raises an eyebrow in contemplation. He would be lying if he denies the developing anticipation and excitement that seeps from his bones, he had wondered what it would be like to face a woman from Dorne—as he had only been surrounded by the pale women near the King’s Landing, most of them from pleasure houses, all of them captivated by his silver-hair and Targaryen name, each would be all ready for a taste of him, eager to please, or to appease the dragon within.

Playing along will be the safest gamble, he thought. He could not care much for the politics and the marriage arrangements his father works on, could not care where the woman would come from, if Maekar and Baelor sees it positively, and is certain that it could help to strengthen the House across the realm, then it must be a good bargain.

When he recovers from the ultimate shock and the morning contemplation of getting betrothed, he felt thirsty, the wave of pain now washes over his head—a clear sign of his consumption from the evening that passed, he calls to the maid and ordered to be served water, before he wills himself to the sink, submerging his face to the cold water, rendering himself fully awake.

He had taken some time to scan his clothes, then he thinks it wouldn’t really matter—what he is, and who he is will not make much of a difference. This Dornish girl and her family must have arranged the union based on his lineage, on the power that comes with their name. She should be appearing in her best graces, not the other way around, because why the fuck would he care about this?

To wed an actual prince would be one of the happiest moments in a girl’s life. They are kind, chivalrous, handsome, honorable and crafted beyond perfection. Songs would say they would be saving a princess in every distress, and there would be love at first glance, eventually sharing a sweet kiss, a promised sealed within, the promise of living the rest of their days in complete bliss—locked away in their own castle with nothing but devotion and adoration to keep them bound, for life.

When you heard that Prince Maekar has answered to your Father’s letter sent by a raven, commending the union to be generous and exceptional, before confirming the decision to wed you to his second-born son, a man named Aerion—you almost leapt out of joy.

He would be the perfect prince! Prince Baelor was King Daeron’s hand and Prince Maekar was as honorable, and you could only picture yourself living in the quarters with your husband-to-be, and he will fetch you sweet cake, and the most ravishing cups of wine and marbled meat. His high status would tell you that he truly is one of a kind. You wanted to rush to your chambers and immediately gather all of your things, stuff them into boxes and take the earliest route to King’s Landing.

You learned that Aerion was well-versed in weaponry and swordsmanship, as he was said to join the lists for tourneys, winning against well-known knights, regardless of their previous matches and victories—Aerion would still win. You could already recall and envision the tales about handsome princes dressed as the knight in shining armor—he could fight for you, protect you with all his might and he wouldn’t be able to breathe well if you’re within any sight of danger.

You would giggle, imagining a faceless man with a silver hair tucking away the strands of your hair onto the back of your ear. He would sing you songs, he would show you his sheer power in fighting, he could tell you his adventures and recollections of tourneys, and you would listen to him talk until the sun sets and darkness breaks among the skies.

He would show you around the castle, carry you in his arms when the path is too wet, bring you flowers freshly gathered from the garden. He would adore you, and he would defend you and you could kiss him; you would see him in every waking hour and you will still see him before you close your eyes to dream before bed.

The wedding will be grand. Nothing short of drab and rushed, it will be the wedding of the history. A prince of his standing would never do something ordinary or nowhere near plain, you can see yourself wearing the most beautiful dress, beaded with gold and gemstones and all of it would glimmer when it stands against the light.

You would practice your smile, in front of the mirror, practicing giggles and laughs when he talks and shares a good memory. You wanted to be good for him, and you wanted to be beyond adequate, you wanted to be everything he could ever want.

Your mother would remind you to be calm and kind, above all things, and not to make haste of the arrangement, for there will be more than enough time before the wedding itself—you should get to know him, what he likes, what he doesn’t, what makes him happy, what makes him angry, what makes him sad.

There was already a long list of questions you wanted to ask him, all created in the purpose of getting to know him more, whilst revealing some pieces of yourself to him. You wanted him to see every goodness within you, so you curated a list of events you can recall from your younger days, in hopes he’d have something similar, and the conversation would extend from there.

When you arrived at King’s Landing, you were immediately met by a dark-haired man, with a few streaks of white hair that sits just above his ear, and you spared a glance at the man next to him, a spitting image of the man with the beard, only younger and smaller in stature, yet with the same streaks of white-colored hair, swaying among the darker locks of brown.

As if on cue, the knights to your left spoke loudly, “You stand in the presence of Prince Baelor Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, Hand of the King, Protector of the Realm and the Next in Line to the Iron Throne.” The man you had been eyeing offered a short nod. “His brother, Prince Maekar, Prince of Summerhall.” The older man with a stunning hair in all silver-white offered a grunt, his expression completely unreadable as he scans you from your head to your toe.

“Their sons: Prince Valarr Targaryen, and Prince Aerion Brightflame.” The knight continued, addressing the younger men now as they stood awkwardly, their gaze locked and pierced you.

The dark-haired one with kinder eyes threaded forward, “King’s Landing welcomes you,” he spoke, and you thought he held the gentlest voice and thoughtful words.

“Cousin.” Before you could greet Valar back, another man had already approached, cutting the simple exchange short, “We have been waiting, princess.” Prince Aerion, you figured, with his striking gaze and generous smile. He had a deeper voice than Valar, you noticed, and he had sounded more cheerful.

You smiled in response, offering the sweetest one that you had practiced in front of the mirror, “My prince,” you offered a curt bow, acknowledging the two of them who had welcomed your arrival in the warmest way.

His smile completely captivated you, he had an air of confidence in his strides yet he spoke kindly, and he never peeled his gaze away. You did great, it seems, the prince couldn’t move away from you, it was by then that you missed the worried glances between Baelor and Maekar.

Prince Baelor spoke, “Let’s leave the princess for now and allow her a personal time. Valarr, fetch the maids and the guards to tend to her things.” He sounded commanding, and you think he’s fitting to be the King’s hand, and one day he would rule all of the seven kingdoms.

“I shall take her to her room.” Aerion turned to face the older princes, who sits next to each other now, “The King’s Landing is a spectacle, I would not want her lost on her way.”

Maekar was quick to react, “Aerion, the guards can—”

“Let me, Father. She will be my wife soon, as you say. We must get more acquainted.” Aerion turned his back away from you as he answers to his father, and it was the only time you had to move your gaze away from his impressive eyes.

He had been wearing an attire fit for the royalty. The red coat further accentuates his paler complexion, and it blended well with the color of his hair. You had pictured him taller, yet the way he carried himself, with polite etiquette and mindful manners, you see him perfect, still.

Aerion turned to face you once more, “We must go, princess.” He uttered before leading the way, opening the door for you as he goes, revealing a hall that looked almost empty.

He had offered small talks, stories about King’s Landing, the preparations for the upcoming tourney, and how he would be joining. He mentioned having his own armor, and a personally crafted helm that fits him well, and how he holds it with pride and honor whenever he wears it in a joust.

You stared at the walls, some of the walls were sculpted deeper, most of which had holes and it allowed sunlight to crawl from outside, gently lighting the otherwise dim halls. There were metals on some of its foundation, meant to hold torches for nighttime and no other source of light would be accounted for. The castle was quiet, aside from the footsteps of both maids and guards, a penny would drop and everyone within the mile would be able to hear it.

The young prince stopped in front of the door, and he opened it, motioning for you to walk in first before him and you followed, walking over to the center of the chambers before you hear the door closing. The bed was large enough to warm at least two people, there were small tables, candle holders on the furniture next to the bed.

“The rest of your things shall be here before supper.” He spoke, and you feel him walking closer; you grew nervous and admittedly self-conscious. It was not entirely common for you to be inside a room, accompanied by a man—and this very same man will be your husband in the coming days.

You turned to face him, with the practiced smile and the sweetest voice you could ever make, “Thank you, Your Grace. I truly app—”

You were welcomed by a set of digits wrapped around your neck in a single breath, holding it tight. You struggled, eyes widening due to shock and the unexpected turn of events; he changed, everything about him simply did, or perhaps he had been playing pretend since then. The kind smile he had before you got into your room was long gone, switched by something sinister and dark, he kept an upward turn on his lips but it never really reaches his eyes. You choked, your own pair of hands surrounds him, wordlessly begging to him to let go.

“My betrothed,” he whispers, his hand remained firm and tight around your throat and he never loosened, not even when you were already fighting his hold with all of your might, “well, not quite there yet, I suppose.” You trashed before him, the air you inhale through your nose grows thinner in each passing moment, “soon enough, you and I will be wedded.”

You held onto his shoulder, digging your nails against his thick coat, wishing it could pierce through the material and sink into his skin in an instant, and he leans forward, taking a long sniff of your hair that dangled the closest on your face, “I won’t let my wife-to-be dishonoring me, not when you just set foot in here, hm?” he uttered, dangerously low while his words carried enough weight as each of them falls off from his mouth, “You had to look at Valarr first—do you want him, then? You want him more than me?” he places his cheek against yours, rubbing it gently, “Have you already decided to back away from our marriage, the moment you saw him?” he questioned, and you could only release harsh wheezes as he kept his hand locked on your neck, its grip unwavering and relentless.

When he sees the tears threatening to fall from the corner of your eyes, he finally lets go, his face now displays a plain worry and filled with so much care, like he had seen his most precious possession getting a small nip or scratch, “My beloved..” he was quick to envelope his arms around your weak form.

You ended up on the floor, collapsing, naturally, after breathing thin air and fighting off the strongest urge to fall limp and surrender to sleep; you were light-headed, and you held your head weakly. His arms were around your body but it was nowhere close the strong grip he had on your neck, and so you easily pushed him off, “What are you—”

He hushes you, calming you down as you still catch your breath, the tears already fell from your eyes as you looked at him with pure disdain, “It will be okay, my love. You will be good for me, I know you will be good for me.” Aerion places a palm on your head, caressing you as he comforts you still, but the single touch of his skin felt like it burns you.

You wanted to get away, you wanted to stray away to wherever it is that is the farthest from him. You can’t be with Aerion, this was no prince as he falsefully posed, he was a cruel.

“Leave me be!” you pushed him, garnering a small strength as you fight him off, he stumbled on the ground and lost balance on his footing, but Aerion only chuckled.

“I’m afraid I can’t, my love.” He whispered, “We will be wedded soon.” He takes his time in trying to approach you again, Aerion is at a great advantage as you still feel the color drained out of your body when he blocked your airway, “There will be no other way but to be together.” he continued, placing a chaste kiss on your forehead before standing on his feet.

“I shall see you in evening’s supper, princess.” Aerion casually mentions, his carefree mask once again sticks itself on his face, his dark expression was switched with that sweet smile you thought you liked about him, before he makes his way out of the door.

You felt caged. Alone and helpless.

It all happened too quickly, with a single turn, the honorable prince and formidable knight you’ve spent days thinking about was nowhere in sight. You felt foolish, for not catching it as immediately as you could. You recalled what happened when the Targaryens welcomed you, in search for a sign, for anything, that might have been so obvious if only you weren’t fantasizing about him. But it was clear, he was practiced, a performer of sorts, he couldn’t let himself go when he is among his father, nor when he’s in front of the Hand.

You didn’t know where else to go, who to speak with, you’ve grown feeling so isolated, despite being surrounded by their initial warmth. Everyone must have been the same. Each one of them must have been hiding a second skin, a well-crafted mask. You’re all alone and away from home, and your skin burned, where Aerion’s hand was previously on, you knew it would create a mark; he gripped on your neck like he had every intention to kill, to stop you from breathing.

There were footsteps from outside, pacing in the halls, and you rushed to the door to simply lock it, “Princess.. I have your belongings.” It was a maid, and there was a relief, but only for a brief moment, you thought Aerion would still be outside, waiting, seizing a chance where he could get ahold of you once more and you were terrified of him.

“Leave it by the door, please. I shall tend to it later.” You uttered, placing your mouth as close as you could towards the door, hoping the maids can hear you clearly, “Please let Prince Maekar and Prince Baelor know that I could not join on the evening’s supper.. I am not feeling quite well.” You faked a cough, and tried to sound sickly, “I only wish to have more rest, please send my apologies.”

“Of course, princess.” There were sounds of boxes being placed on the floor, and quickly followed by more footsteps walking away before disappearing completely.

You heaved a huge sigh of relief, you wanted to lock yourself in the room for as long as you can hold out; but you must think of your duties, of the name and honor you carry, you must think of the arrangement you accepted. You must not bring shame to your house and your family by refusing to see what’s beyond your chambers, perhaps there could be more ways where you could still enjoy your time and to gain Prince Maekar’s favor, but only if Aerion is nowhere to be found.

“What the fuck did you do?” Maekar slammed his fist against the oak table, rage already setting in and seething across his face while Aerion remains seated, cutting through the roasted duck with his knife.

He was in an exceptionally good mood, considerably, during supper; has not been misbehaving in all sorts and no concerning news ever made it to Maekar and Baelor’s ears—still the Dornish princess not being in attendance sent an undeniable irk to the older princes.

Aerion chewed slowly, meeting Maekar’s gaze with a casual shrug, “I merely showed her to her chambers, Father.” He answered, before turning back to his meal, the utensil scraping loudly against his plate while he stops himself from displaying any form of amusement.

The priceless look on your face when his hand latched on your neck lays vivid in his head, it was the pure look of horror and he had been coming up with more ways he could devise a plan in order to reform you. It was nothing personal, really, you walked into King’s Landing with such exquisite smile and good graces. You had the kind manners that his father had always wanted to impose on him, you spoke in polite words and you carry a light with you that could easily illuminate each room you get yourself into.

He felt himself annoyed at that.

Royalty breeds excellence, as they say. The castle has had enough people filling up to that spot, of people who’s highly regarded because of their leveled morals, sympathy and overall character. Aerion wanted to break you, make you obedient but only to his rules and his ways, he needs you pliant enough that he could easily command you whenever he pleases. King’s Landing did not need any more people who have been reduced to be an ordinary person just to cater the demands of the people—seemingly forgetting that they are dragons, that they are born from the fire and blood. While it is true that Baelor and Valarr are considerably good—

Ah, Valarr.

He remembers the way your eyes landed on Baelor first, of course, he is the Hand of the King and the heir to the Iron Throne. He must always be regarded first, but then you moved to Valarr. His cousin, said to be the gentlest one, cut from the same cloth where Baelor was made. He had been raised with such tenderness and care that people inevitably thinks his softness were his charms.

But did you had to look at him like that?

Your eyes were twinkling lightly, but surely you must have known that you have been delivered to the House Targaryen with the promise of a union in a form of marriage—surely, you must know what your arranged husband would look like. Did you think it was him? Did you think you are betrothed to this perfect picture of a prince charming when you faced Valarr?

He wanted to make an impression, greet you with the warmest welcome he could ever show, but reads shock from your face and then it was gone too quickly before it could even fully manifest, then it was changed by something he couldn’t distinguish. Was it disappointment? Were you expecting something else, something different? Did you not want him?

“The princess must have felt unwell from her travels, brother. Leave her be. Aerion was kind enough to show her the way to her room.” Aerion was pulled away from his train of thought when Baelor’s voice rung in the dining hall, looking across the table with a cup of wine on his hand, his face seemed to plead for more understanding from Maekar.

“I shall see her tonight, be more certain of her current condition and see to it that she gets the rest that she requires.” Aerion broke the silence that followed after Baelor, he brings his own cup to his mouth to cleanse his palate by swallowing a large swig of wine.

With one final look on each person among the dining table, Aerion brings himself up and traversed across the hall. His steps are careful and deliberate, while his mind burns with a newfound excitement. Aerion was already seeking with a plethora of excuses to see you once more when he parted with you earlier in the mid-afternoon, and it was both a blessing and a curse to have Maekar’s distrust served on the table.

His father was right to assume he had done something, but he’d rather spare him with the details.

Aerion knocked softly against your door, twice, before he pushed his body against the wood in hopes to prop it open. It was locked, but thankfully, he had learned a thing or two when it comes to barging into chambers unannounced, he had done it first with his brother, Aegon, and it ended swiftly with his knife aimed in between his legs and Aegon in tears and quiet sobs.

He successfully breaks in, with a calculated twist and turn of his knife on the gap he found at the door, then he seeks for you in an instant. Underneath the dimmed embers brought by a small candle that’s slowly withering, he finds your figure laying on the bed, fast asleep.

Considering the tribulations that you might have endured in order to come to King’s Landing, he wanted to grant you a little bit of his kindness by allowing you some sleep. He did approach your bed, however, to make sure for himself that you really were asleep and not cheating your way out of him by pretending to be deep in slumber.

But when he looked at your form, resting in complete tranquility, glancing at your chest to study your gentle and stable breaths, he was convinced. He instinctively reached his hand to caress your head, hoping it will lull you deeper into sleep. Aerion realizes he finds you pretty. Even prettier now that your guards are completely disarmed, no pretensions that concerns looking presentable and graceful. He likes you like this—raw, natural, you almost looked serene.

He lowered his gaze on your body, your garments must have slid lower, showing him more than necessary as the fabrics lay in disarray for when you were tossing yourself on the bed. Soft and smooth skin, and you looked so vulnerable and so careless in front of him. He bent his fingers, allowing it to touch your warm skin while his eyes could only watch for any shifts in your expressions.

The knife that he was holding onto had made its way into his belt, silently sheathing it before he moves to cup his own cock from his trousers. He had not expected this, he knew he prefers to ogle at you as you remain clueless but he did not anticipate the way his cock would twitch. Aerion pulled the blankets lower, eager to see more of what you had to offer. You jerked, and you crossed your eyebrows before pulling the blankets closer to your body.

He retreated his hand, but with that sudden movement, it only made the outline of your breast much more noticeable now. With a quick unbuckling of his belt, he easily willed his cock to spring free from his garments, locking his length within his fist.

It felt rough against his hand, or that he was holding it too firm. He brings his hand closer to his mouth and spat. He felt mad, thinking that you could wake up any minute now and it would be completely unprompted, and you’ll see him towering over your body while he fucks his own fist.

Then he felt shameless, and quite pathetic. He felt incredibly stupid with trying to pleasure himself when he could just take you, to disturb the slumber you have gotten yourself into. You will be wedded soon, and it should not be a problem to start with coupling now, rather than later, should it? Besides, he knows you would keep your mouth shut, you would let him do it and you will be obedient enough to do as he says. You will be good for him.

Aerion tried to steady his labored breathing, his wet spit smothered on his cock while the leaking tip glistened against the small amount of light source, he grunted, as quiet as he could do, but it eventually got to a point when he had nothing else to think about but to cum. He needs it, he needs to chase whatever high he was trying to get himself into now that he has started it.

His rough hand made its way on your leg, gripping firmly, uncaring of what you would feel when you see him in front, positioned just like this—and it jolted you awake, Aerion pumps his cock even faster now when he sees you were awake.

There were no other pleasantries, no other snide remarks he could come up with, and he garnered no reaction at all when your face twisted in a fright, “Aerion,” you stammered and your gaze flew immediately at his nudity.

He felt his head falling backwards on a whim, the sound of your voice was more than sufficient to push him closer towards the edge and Aerion directed his length closer to your face, “This will be easier if you would help, princess.” Even speaking felt too harsh and required a handful amount of effort from him as he breathes out.

Aerion never gave you the time to process the matters currently unfolding in front of you, since he started to unsheathe his own dagger only to point right at your pulse that lays under the skin of your neck, “Hold it, princess. You must serve your husband, after all. Make me feel good, hm?” he finds it adorable that you immediately retracted away from his knife, and even more captivating when he sees just how fast tears could form in your eyes.

Your careful hands hesitantly reached for his cock, mirroring just the way he was holding it moments ago, gripping on it softly as you start your pace. Aerion smirks, pleased with the display of obedience from you once more, “Do it fast, princess. You will be nice and make me cum, you hear me?” his tone remained calm and controlled, and you would immediately comply, not because you wanted to, but because the sharper end of his dragger was drilling deeper into your skin, and with just one movement, he would easily cut a wound open.

Aerion throws his dagger somewhere on your bed and resorted to holding onto your shoulder, holding on for dear life as he grunts unabashedly, he couldn’t care about what he looks like right now, nor what he sounds like as he could only think about your hand wrapped around him, with your movement gradually increasing in pace. He could tell you were nothing like the whores who usually kept matters involving his cock occupied, your hands are clearly shaky and the look on your face tells him that you could either be disgusted, ashamed and utterly confused.

“Fuck, hm,” he was bucking his hips lightly, leaning more towards your hand as he closes his eyes, he could feel it in his tongue—he was so, so close, until he hears you sobbing, Aerion spared you a glance and he could see tears falling from your eyes.

He did not feel any remorse, rather, he felt it was the ultimate push he could ever need as his cock starts spilling outward. Strings of white fluid shoots out from the tip and landing graciously on your chest, some of it were caught on your chin and Aerion chuckled, gods, if he could only have you painted with his cum dripping from your chin, he would do anything to preserve this memory.

The after-effect was as immediate as he imagined it would be, you moved away from him, willed yourself to sit on the other end of the bed—the farthest away from him. He sees you helpless, and he almost felt bad, almost, but he still burns from the high he just chased and there was no other feeling he could think about other than bliss.

Aerion quickly fixed himself, tucking his length within his breeches and tidying himself by wiping the beads of sweat that had been forming on his scalp, dripping towards either temples. He cleared his throat, a straight smile formed on hips before he licks the side of his mouth. You looked so terrified of him, and he never wanted that, but you’ll get used to it—he knows you’ll grow fond of him soon.

You were so far from his reach, and it was almost adorable how much you wanted to make yourself look smaller, bending your knees against your chest as you shiver with every move he makes. Aerion clears his throat, thinking of some time you can spend in solitude by leaving, or to savor the time he had you all to himself.

“You shall be at peace now,” He begins, eyeing your form more meticulously now that he had come down from his climax, his body and temperament returning to its base levels. “as I would never hurt you, my princess. You and I shall be one soon, and I cannot have my wife,” he gestured at you with his hand, “behaving as this.”

Aerion drags his leg over the bed, crawling closer to you as the sheets wrinkle more under his added weight, “Have I made myself plain?” he finally finishes his words with a simple question, and a grip on one of your knees.

There was no room for protests, not that he would even consider whatever it is you have to say, he expects you to be as you are now, quiet, submissive and dutiful. He sees you giving a quick glance at his dagger placed on the bed, exactly where he threw it, and there was a flash of horror setting in your pair of eyes. He clicks his tongue before retrieving his weapon, “Worry not, I have no need for this any further,” Aerion mutters, kneeling on top of the mattress now as he pushes the dagger into his pocket, “not tonight, to say the least.”

He stared at your face, then willing his hand towards you, gathering a small amount of cum on his thumb before he shoves it inside your mouth, “You shall know what I have to do if you breathe a word of this to another person,” Aerion heard you gagged lightly as you take his thumb further into your mouth, “I’ll have your fucking tongue for that, hm?”

The warmth of the sun greeted as you step out of the castle for a change of scenery. Horses neighed right outside the castle gates while the squires brushed on their hair and filling up their rations of food; the sweet scent of sun-baked hay and straw hung in the air, along with the earthy notes of the wet soil.

It was different, but preferable, on this moment alone, compared to the thick and suffocating air that seemed to choke you the more you stay within your chambers. You couldn’t hide in so long, cannot keep yourself locked up inside the walls and resting for what felt like eternity buried within your sheets.

Aerion did not come to visit, after what he had done two nights ago, stroking his cock right in front of your face and feeding his load when he finished. You couldn’t sleep well enough after those nights, terrified to have yet another visit from the young prince, and even more fearful of what else he could do while he resides within your room.

You had taken a hot bath when he departed, requested help from the maids to bring you water and to keep it at a highest temperature as you see fit. You wanted to erase his touch, you wanted to scrub your skin as hard as you could, especially on the parts he had touch—you felt disgusted. There was a certain point that you wanted to burn the insides of your mouth with the hot water, to get rid of his taste, but it will forever linger in your mind, and you cannot do much else with that.

A strong pair of arms grabbed your lithe body, and you have come to the realization that you have been walking mindlessly across the lot. The merchants and the ladies standing right outside their vibrant pavilions stared at you, with wonder and curiosity. You turned your head to see who was holding you, and it was Valarr—worry and concern splitting on his face.

“I dare not to conclude your capacities,” he uttered, and you felt painfully conscious of the close proximity, so you moved away and cleared your throat, “but you were about to block the horse’s path and it can seriously grant you immense pain and injuries. Are you feeling well?”

You were caught off guard, unaware that you have been diving deeply into your sentiments that you completely forgot to put any regards with your surroundings, “I am well. Thank you.” You stammered, giving him a polite smile as you answered, still mindful of putting a certain distance between the two of you.

“You were hauled up in your chambers a while, princess. Have you not taken a liking on King’s Landing?” Valarr sparks a conversation, the handiwork of his armor shines under the sun, its ridges were much more pronounced now that you see it at a closer glance, the three-headed dragon bled with a faint red carved into the metal.

A wave of panicked crossed your emotions, you worry he would mention such a thing to Prince Baelor. “King’s Landing has been lovely, my prince.” you smiled bright, because it was, though it was very different from the beauty of Dorne, it certainly has its charm, “I meant no offense with my absences, and I was merely pondering certain matters in private.”

“Ah..” he nods, squinting as he looks around, and you had a proper look of the white streaks of hair within the mid-section of his head, you had the very urge to hold it, to touch it with your fingertips, “Is it my cousin, Aerion? I had known that Uncle Maekar accepted the generous proposal of union.”

There was a pause as you come up with answer, torn between admitting your discomfort, or to start a lie that it has been the best thing—one thing is certain, you will never mentioned what Aerion did, “A bit.. simply because I could not read him.” It was a vague response, you thought, but hoping it would suffice.

He nods, locking his gaze on you, “Hm, Aerion can indeed be.. difficult.” He starts, a small smile crafted on his lips as he answered, “I suppose no one can fully comprehend the kind of thoughts that gets into his head. Both our fathers tried, then his brothers too—we all failed.” Valarr releases a dry laugh at that.

“I thought he would be kinder.” Your mouth was faster than your head, “What I meant was—”

“Fear not, I understand, and what you share now shall remain between us alone.” He motioned the path with his hand, offering a brisk walk as he encouraged you to talk some more.

Naturally, there is a hesitation. A growing distrust has flowered from within since the horror you’ve seen from Aerion, yet a small voice in your head also thinks it would not be fair to paint them all in the same hue; Maekar treats you in a civilized manner, though he is very curt when providing answers, he does not do anything else that would push you further, as well as Baelor, both of the older princes were nothing but kind.

Valarr exhales a gentle air, he speaks with utter politeness, and his eyes remained genuine ever since, not like Aerion’s unreadable pair, “I dreamed to be bonded by love through marriage, I yearned for a caring husband who would be both gentle and charming towards me. Aerion is, however,”

“Does not have much to offer?” he speaks, the pacing of your steps remained as leisurely as it could be, several patrons bowed to acknowledge Valarr when they come across him in his path, and he would always offer a short nod in return.

You were silent, refusing to look at anything else but your pair of feet threading on moist soil, you worry of the dirt that could get on your skin, and you also think of how vulnerable you felt upon speaking with the prince. It wasn’t that Aerion does not have much to offer, he acknowledges you and your mere existence, it was that his offers were completely different from what you asked for.

“I shall hope he could be more at ease, though my words would not carry much weight.” Valarr answered, stopping in front of a certain tent, “Here. Go inside, get your mind off of things for a little while.” He offered, and you were welcomed by a crowd of people enjoying themselves among the noise, several hands were carrying cups of wine.

You almost laughed at Valarr’s attempt at comfort, finding it both amusing and endearing. Although you don’t necessarily choose to drown in wine, you suppose it was a time to try it out.

Little did you know, Aerion watched as you and Valarr walked alongside each other. He was straddling his horse; his Draconic helm might have hidden the brewing rage but his eyes remains fixed on your smile as he looked through his visor.

“Get a good night sleep, princess.” Aerion had heard from outside before the door opened, the voice was undeniably Valarr’s, the smooth and gentle cadence of his voice were the most distinguishable—far from the commanding tones from both of their fathers.

He gets to his feet and paced towards the door to meet his cousin and of course, you, the only person he looks forward seeing. “Why must the night end so abruptly at that?” Aerion had opened the door, and your flustered face came into view, eyes slightly widened when Aerion swung the door open. Valarr’s cheeks were somewhat reddish too, but he appears to be much more composed than you are.

“Cousin.” The brown-haired prince uttered, somewhere between a greeting and an announcement. Aerion mouth stretch into a straight smile before nodding, taking a step backwards to allow them some room before they step in, “Why are you in her room?”

Aerion didn’t like the hint of accusation dripping from Valarr’s words, he had not been doing anything wrong as of late, not yet, that is—but him being inside your room should not be within any of his concern, you are to be Aerion’s wife, after all. “Inside my wife’s chambers, you ask?”

“There has not been any wedding yet, nor a plan for when it shall take place.” Valarr pushes himself forward, shielding you away from Aerion as he keeps you supported behind him, “Leave at once, Aerion. She should be in bed.” The swirling on Valarr’s head brought upon by multiple rounds of wine disappeared quickly, much to his delight, he could not just sit simply and let Aerion have his way.

“I am aware,” Aerion then reached for Valarr’s arm and dragged him towards the center of the room, “but the marriage shall happen anytime soon—I know it.” He proceeded to grab you by the arm, dragging you to the bed before roughly pushing you towards the mattress.

Aerion did consider that Valarr would eventually tell both Maekar and Baelor of how he treats the Dornish princess who was entrusted with House Targaryen to take on the role of a wife, but he had found a way to keep Valarr’s mouth shut, and to keep him from running his mouth. He thought his plan would work, that Valarr would eventually agree—he would like this, who would not?

It was not that he had been developing certain fantasies over the years, he had not enough room and time in the past years. Aerion mostly think of dragons even before, and even more so recently as he grows stronger—he was convinced he was a dragon. But when you arrived, that was when the thoughts have taken a complete and absolute turn. Whether it was for the good or for the worst—he was not sure yet.

Aerion then locked the door, itching to finally have the room for their privacy and without any knights or maids pacing outside on the halls.

“Of course, I only care about the princess’ safety—that is why you and I are here, Valarr.” Aerion continued, standing next to his cousin as they both stare at you. The silver-haired Targaryen proceeded to loosen his clothing, unclasping the first few locks of his attire as he heaves an exhale.

There was warmth settling into Valarr’s bones, deliberate and too great for him to ignore. He had not missed the implication on Aerion’s words, he knew it meant something else, something entirely different and something he figured he feels excited for. He swallowed, hoping the lump on his throat could disappear and take his urges away.

He should not be here, Valarr would think; he should not be engaging with this absurdity, and he should not be partaking in an activity with Aerion—among all people. But there was something helpless from your eyes, and you badly wanted to be saved, and it was more than enough reason for Valarr to stay. He could not leave you with Aerion alone, he will be here and he will make it certain that you will be well and taken care of.

To say you are feeling terrified is underplaying it, there were already a certain level of fear and hopelessness when the doors of your chambers opened and revealed Aerion waiting for you from inside. Valarr was quick to put you first, to protect you from his cousin and your husband-to-be, even though you did not ask for it, he already granted you the protection you certainly need.

Every movement was unfolding right before you, but it was all too sudden, all too fast, and you were taking it all in with hazy lenses. You could only blame the vibrant pavilion for that, and the laughing of the people, and the good evening they turned your night into, and of course, the cups of wines they graciously served, the cup you had all throughout the festivities never ran out empty, not even once.

They were speaking, as you heard; every word they exchanged and mention to one another was not meant for your ears it seemed, for all you heard were sounds, nothing coherent, until you decide they were speaking in High Valyrian. When your body made contact with the soft linens of your bed, exhaust inevitably enveloped you from within, and you do whatever it takes to keep your pair of eyes open.

Both Aerion  and Valarr are standing together now, side by side, and you can make a few movements from Aerion while Valarr remained eerily still. You made sure to look at him, wanting to make sure your certain message would make its way to him. Please, please, please, leave me be, make him go away.

“Do you even know how to do it, cousin?” Aerion’s voice echoed through the room, a faint smile glimmered on his mouth though you couldn’t see his face with the clearest view, couldn’t see the amusement that lingered across his face as he taps Valarr’s shoulder, “You ought to take these off now. You don’t want them hindering your every move.” He followed with a suggestion, walking towards the bed and allowing himself to be comfortable on the edge.

Valarr releases a shaky breath, every fiber in his body begged him to stop, to turn the other way, to will his feet to start running out the door, yet his mind seemed to stop, envisioning the look he witnessed on your face—he felt that you wanted him to be here, that you wanted his help, that you wanted him to make this easy. He followed, releasing his armors and placing It carefully on the floor until he was stripped into more comfortable fabrics.

“Go on, now. We could not let the princess wait.” Aerion watched you carefully, as you push yourself against the wooden headboard as if the material could swallow you whole and make you disappear, but no, you had no other place go get to, no other place you could be. You will only be here, with the two of them.

You closed your eyes, attempted to shake the dizziness away so you could hear what words were being passed over to one another, “Aerion,” you crawled towards your betrothed, “What the fuck is going on?” you uttered, and Aerion’s shock was almost physical upon hearing a curse word flowing out of your mouth.

“Shh,” he held your chin, “Valarr and I will take care of you, my love,” and he could not help himself but to lean in and close the distance between your faces, crashing his lips against you but only for a brief moment. He couldn’t let himself go just yet.

You flustered upon feeling Aerion’s soft lips on yours, blushing at the fact that it was the first time he ever got gentle, you wanted more, wanted to feel him against you, with all of his warmth. But Valarr came into view, standing at the edge of your bed and Aerion pushed you down against the mattress.

“My love,” Aerion spoke in a low tone, his lips were dangerously close to your ear and you couldn’t stop yourself to lean in closer to him, but he stops you almost immediately, and you jolted when he pulls your hair to keep your head from moving, placing you where he wants you to be, “Let Valarr move for you, hm? Let him touch you.” he asked, his serene voice in complete contrast with the harsh tug from your scalp.

When he asked, that was only when you could see Valarr slowly sinking into his knees right in front of your parted legs—you didn’t even know how you came to be positioned like this, laid on the bed and undeniably ready to take what is about to come towards your way.

Though hesitating initially, Valarr had seen the way you respond to Aerion’s touches. The way you exclaimed and whimpered when his hand sits on the back of your head to pull on your hair; he was bewildered and determined at the same time, how could you be so sensual and so, so alluring even with Aerion’s gruff advances? He couldn’t fully accept it, or that he refuses to contemplate further. You should be treated with softness, and so he strokes on your leg languidly.

Valarr’s calloused palm brushes against your thigh, it was electric, you felt your breath getting more ragged as their touches slowly grounds you—Aerion’s hand pulling on your hair and Valarr’s careful hands. You wanted to rub your thighs together, to relieve yourself a little by creating friction, but Valarr’s hold remained firm.

Aerion chuckled, it was almost laughable at how quickly your mood switched; you were scared not too long ago, frightened and clueless as two men preys on you, and seeing you now, with your legs spread apart and your chest moving at a faster speed to follow your breathing. He cups one of your breasts, kneading it lightly while Valar lifts the hem of your dress.

You were sure you have felt warm and sticky in between your legs, and then you felt embarrassed, having a prince leaning closer into your cunt was not something you could ever imagine, nor account for. Almost out of instinct, you pulled your legs together, abruptly stopping Valarr from getting closer.

“Let me, princess.” He spoke in a low tone, voice coming out breathy as air hits your skin right where you’re nearest from him. There was something in his eyes, the look of genuine sincerity and something else entirely, you thought it might be lust—you thought that whatever it is you are feeling from within must not be so different from what he feels.

Perhaps you and him are in the same page, you worry that he might only be doing this out of fear, from his cousin and the dagger sheathed into a small pocket on his belt—but his eyes says otherwise, he wanted to do this, it seemed, wanted to taste you raw and have your dripping filth to wash over his tongue.

Aerion shifts from beside your head, casting most of his weight to prop himself on his knees on top of the bed, “My dear cousin, always so, so kind and honorable.” Aerion snaps as he starts to pull the strings from his clothes and pull his breeches downward, his cock immediately sprang free from its constraints, rigid, pink, and clearly leaking.

Valarr could only ignore him, he knew his cousin would always run his mouth and speak of whatever matter it is that comes into his mind, he is a proud man, after all; but partly because he knew he had more pressing matters to tend to, how could he even bite back at the loose words rolling off from Aerion’s mouth when your cunt sits a breath away from his mouth patiently waiting?

“Respect, courtesy, you have always carried those with you.” Aerion starts once again, spitting on his hand before he wraps it on his cock, stroking gently. Valarr shook his head and proceeded with his ministrations, planting his palms on your thighs as he parts you wider.

You gasped when his tongue slides on your cunt, struggling to keep your eyes open as your head swirls—from the wine and of course, from these Targaryens. Once Valarr had his first taste, he was immediately insatiable next; pressing his face much deeper into your cunt while his tongue buries itself further into your folds.

“You see, this one,” Aerion pulls his hand away from his cock and into your lips, moving past your swollen pair until his fingertips could most reach the back of your throat. You choked out, the immediate urge to cough follows closely; “this little princess is far from deserving any of that.” he continued, his eyes were fixed on you and you only, darkened by his own arousal and needs, his gaze was laced with intent and focused on your pair, yet his words remained addressed to Valarr, “She is not so different from a common whore now, is she?”

There was a hint of scrutiny now as he allows himself to look at your entirety, with some of your locks tangled and overall messy, the small beads of perspiration forming from your hairline, some of it trickling on your skin and downward, and how the corner of your lips curved in satisfaction then opening for a good width while your face twist in response to Valarr.

“Do not say such things to her.” Valarr quipped, wiping his chin with the back of his hand when he comes up for a breath of air, “She’s delicate and she is to be your wife—she is unlike any wench, nor unlike any other woman.” He spoke rather quickly, ignoring Aerion’s smirk amidst his explanations.

“Hmm,” Aerion dismissed in return, turning his attention back towards you, the saliva that coats his fingers now lathers the length of his cock, giving it a few pumps. He felt warmer now, burning up both with desire and an inexplicable emotion he could not quite name yet, or he simply refuses to acknowledge it plainly, “I was not aware you see my lover as such.”

Your heart twitched at that, you have been called princess, even referred to as his wife though it won’t be happening any time soon—but to be called his lover, though the words don’t hold much meaning once you take how he treats you into consideration, still, it caused your breath to hitch.

“My point is, you do not know her at all, as it seems.” Aerion continued, displaying the kindest smile he had often used during his younger days, “She does not want that—that softness you speak of. I imagine she has become bored of it by now, to be treated with certain care, hmm, allow me to show you then, cousin.” His hand then flew too quickly and a loud slap was placed across your cheek. You whimpered, caught off guard while the sharp pain dulls slowly on your face.

You wanted to deny it, wanted to talk his ears off of just how wrong he was, but you found yourself wanting more, and Aerion must have recognized the plead that has manifested from within your eyes because he did it again, the loud snap of his palm once again getting in contact with your face was audible enough in the room. Valarr wanted to intervene, to stop his cousin from treating you rashly, but he sees your mouth moved, your lower lip caught in between your teeth and he wished he was wrong, he wished his mind was playing tricks. The girl who was mindlessly walking outside the gates with a longing gaze set towards something he’s not aware of was way too far from the girl he is seeing now.

He wished he imagined it, but you wriggled your hips and he feel your hand reaching to his head to push him back into your cunt; you wanted him to continue, you were simply laying on top of the sheets but Aerion’s words seemed to unlock something inside of you.

Aerion laughed at that, “You fucking whore,” he whispers, teasing your mouth with the tip of his cock and you were so ready to wrap your lips around it, even if you are not fully knowledgeable on how to do it exactly, “you wanted this, don’t you? Your pretty mouth so full of my cock, hmm? Did you imagine this, or prayed to gods your husband will fill you up nicely?”

You moved your head towards his cock and sucked on the tip, Aerion hissed at the contact, the sudden warmth that greets him when he enters your mouth was familiar; he didn’t think it’d be this easy to crack you, to make you surrender to your selfish desires, to forget about modesty and prudence.

The translucent fluid tasted salty in your mouth, but it was something you could handle, you held on his hips and pushed him more against you. The short sounds and profanities that comes from Aerion only urged you to continue, you wanted to be good enough for him, to make him feel as blissful as you are; yet in another note, you want him nearer his own edge, you wanted to see his face contorting due to the pressure and climax, you wanted to see him drained out of his wits and speechless, for once.

A sudden shift from Valarr knocked you out of your reverie, you felt his fingers on your cunt, spreading your folds apart just so he could reach into you on a newer and deeper sense, you collapsed on the bed, restless and painfully aware of the growing feeling of the knot slowly forming in your abdomen. Valarr was quiet, except for the times he would inhale a breath to supply his lungs before lapping once again.

You gripped the sheets as tight as you can, while your other hand wandered on top of Valarr’s head, clawing on his brown hair while you steady your own breath, there was a moment when you felt you almost crush his head when your legs threatened to close, but Aerion, thank gods, was quick to pull you back into the present.

“Did I give you permission to stop?”

His cock twitched on your hand and you were reminded of how badly you wanted to see Aerion falling apart, “Gods.. wait, please,” you wanted to pause, to not do anything else as you let Valarr’s tongue work inside of you; you squeezed your eyes shut and you attempted to slide your hand leisurely on Aerion’s cock but you feared you were wringing him too roughly.

You were anchored by the tight grip of Valarr’s hands on your thighs, the bed of his nails were pale white as he switch from using his tongue to sucking the small bud that’s most sensitive on your cunt, and you wanted to explode, you wanted to let go of the control and you wanted the knots to snap and to be finally freed from the heaviness that sits on your stomach.

A loud moan threatened to push past your lips but it was immediately tended by Aerion, he crouches forward and his body almost fell over to yours, but he supported his weight by placing his palm against the mattress, balancing himself. He then reaches for his cock and shoved it down on your mouth.

It was a moment of desperation, the second your wet mouth completely engulfed his cock was one of the rare times in which he ever forgot to breathe. Your tongue was unfamiliar, he figured, vividly feeling it swirling around its girth and your teeth scratched lightly on his skin, he ought to teach you on how to be better, he thought, but now is not the time for lessons, now is the time where he should make use of your heated mouth.

Aerion jerks his hips when he feels well enough to fit right inside your mouth, there was minimal resistance and the discomfort brought upon the by your teeth only felt odd but never painful. He started thrusting, finding his pace without losing his balance as it only hangs and depends on his hand and posture. He could hear you gagging, then he feels you tapping on his side, clearly running out of air as he buries his cock.

Valarr looks up from your cunt, landing at the exact moment Aerion pulls away for a fraction to allow some air to sneak inside your lungs, it was never enough, he only stopped for a blink before slamming himself against you. He was worried you would pass out, you were not in the best of condition before this whole ordeal even started; but he saw the hunger in your manner of taking Aerion’s cock. He saw the way you bobbed your head to it, determined enough to take him whole.

His mouth already craves the way you taste, but he wanted to try some things on his own; to make you feel good, despite being exploited for selfish and monstrous desires, he wanted you to feel some enjoyment of sorts, though he thinks you already see this as something pleasant. Valarr inserts a finger slowly and you whimpered, your body shoots up to check on Valarr, and finally, you paid him some attention.

He was quick to latch his tongue against the nub he had found earlier, his single digit could only make it halfway, in fear of causing you more pain, but it would do, for now. You wrapped around it perfectly, your narrow walls were not stretched enough and he thinks it would be the right time to prepare you, for what’s about to come later.

Aerion gets up on his knees once more, only thinking of his own release this time as he pulls your hair to create a better angle where he could ram his cock more flawlessly. He thinks you’re pretty this way, taking whatever it is that he’s giving and blatantly dismissing what you might need. You shall not need any other matter, he is here, he thinks, there’s no other thing that could ever satisfy you aside from him.

He sinks your head lower towards his cock, until your lips touches base of his length and he holds you there, the fabric of his breeches were wet with sweat, saliva, and some of your tears that had fallen since earlier that he never cared about. He worries, for a split second, that this would be too much, that you are in some kind of immense pain but you take his cock so well, you whimper and you choke on your own spit, you push him off but you immediately get back to it like a fond memory. You wanted this, you wanted him, and you wanted the feeling he flickered from you.

Somewhere between feeling a short pain from your cunt and the hurt you have inside your head from all the wobbling and maneuvering, your hips suddenly jolted upwards—a shot of something you could only describe as exhilarating flowed to all ends of your body. Time seemed to stop, including everything else around you. Your legs shivered as your whole body collapsed, and Valarr was still attached to your cunt, rendering you even more sensitive as he sucks all of your release, his mouth was the only thing you could recognize as the sound echoed around.

Valarr felt a pulsating sensation from within, though he could only feel it faint against his finger, he knew he had brought you to the climax, and he commends himself for holding on despite the aching pain he needs to take care of. He knew he must have soiled his garments, he knew there would be no point in denying that he wishes he could bury his own cock on your cunt instead of just his fingers.

Aerion quickly followed right after, shooting streaks of his release towards the velvety walls your mouth had offered. You were still recovering when he moans loudly, slowing his pace as he spurts out his own cum, some of it drips on your chin and he felt joyous on the simple sight of you, so full of him.

The two men halted for a moment, gathering a more stable pattern of breathing before Aerion moves again, drifting away from the bed as the weight on the mattress decrease; you had your eyes closed, understandably tired from all of the sensations you had felt—of Aerion toying with your mouth with his cock, and Valarr’s skillful tongue driving you towards your end.

You swing your eyelids open when you feel a sudden pull on both legs, bringing you closer to the edge of the bed and in front of you was Aerion, his cock positioned to your cunt.

“You should have your cock inside her mouth; she’s not practiced enough but she’ll do.” He speaks towards Valarr, who now sits beside you by the bed, unaware of where he should be, nor what he should do.

“I think the princess should rest now, Aerion.” Valarr protests, even with his hard cock inside his garments screamed at him to be freed, he could clearly see how sleep is slowly coming at you.

Aerion spreads your legs open once more, pleased with how wet you are from Valarr’s doing, “She sleeps when I say so. Now go, or ask her to do it—whatever the fuck gets you off.”

You snaked a hand against Valarr’s arm, caressing it gently, too ashamed to say something except to plead with your eyes. He turns his body towards you, “Are you well enough for another?” he asks, letting your hand drop to his groin to feel his arousal. If you are not sure enough to do this again, he swore he would fight Aerion and drag him towards the door to give you peace.

“Please,” you muttered, feeling an ounce of impatience and frustration mixed together as he kept waiting, “Use me.” You managed to insert a hand under the wool, eager to feel his bare cock on your hand.

the last few hours had been spent doing nothing of any real consequence: coffee, window shopping, treating your girls to whatever happened to catch their eye. somewhere in the middle of it all, a spirited debate had broken out over whether the diner around the corner had actually gotten worse, or if you'd all simply developed more discerning tastes as you'd gotten older. it was the kind of afternoon you would think back on when life got too loud again.

a constant smile plagued your lips as you revelled in the sun's kisses.

you were laughing at something — you’d forgotten what — when the first flashbulb sparked to life across the street like a bomb going off.

and just like that, you felt your mood sour.

right. the paparazzi.

you'd been naive to think you could make it back to the car without them. you always were. some stubborn optimistic part of you still believed, every single time, that today would be different — that you could just be a girl with a coffee cup and not a cover story waiting to happen.

they crossed toward you fast, cameras raised, questions flying before they'd even reached the curb.

"are the album rumors true?"

"are you touring next year?"

"who are you wearing?"

your friends — bless them — closed ranks instinctively around you, forming a tight barricade between your body and the ever-growing crowd. you lowered your sunglasses just enough for them to catch your eyes and the utter annoyance written across them. a small sigh slipped from your lips, followed by a muttered apology to your girls, which they waved off with a, "don't worry! i've been enjoying pissing these guys off."

you could've kissed them.

it was then that one voice managed to cut through the noise. maybe it was because they were louder than the others, or maybe it was simply the nature of the question itself, but somehow you heard it perfectly.

“how do you feel about michael jackson?”

in that instant — you stopped walking. your friends barrelled straight into your back, nearly falling over each other into one giant meat pile. they stared at you in confusion, before bracing into a familiar realisation of dread.

the thing was, you did have thoughts about michael jackson. you had a lot of thoughts about michael jackson, actually — thoughts you'd managed to keep more or less to yourself through roughly three years of being a public figure, which had been a not-insignificant personal achievement.

you’d suddenly become aware that all three of them had turned to look at you; their expressions reflective of people who had known you long enough to understand that whatever came out of your mouth in the next five seconds was about to become their problem too.

"ah, shit," one of them said beside your ear.

"for fuck's sake," another breathed — hissing your name through their teeth — amused but nonetheless exasperated, “don't do it. you'll regret it."

the corner of your mouth twitched upward.

you bit the edge of your manicured finger — not for show, just because it was what you did when you were trying not to smile too wide — and gazed at the nearest camera over the frame of your sunglasses. 

"oh," you said, already stepping backwards towards the car with all the confidence of someone who definitely hadn't thought this through:

"i think you know how i feel about michael jackson."

and just like that the once-quiet street corner erupted. camera flashes blazed everywhere. simple questions turned into shouts that were hurled through the crisp summer air. behind you, your friends made a variety of noises ranging from hysterical laughter to a soft, resigned despair. you laughed too, helplessly, ducking your head as you reached the car door — and then, drunk on the spontaneity of the moment, you turned back one last time.

you found the nearest lens. pointed directly at it. then, dumb and deliberate, you lifted your hand to your cheek — pinky and thumb extended in a tiny telephone gesture — and mouthed, with perfect clarity, the two words you would soon continue to regret for the next seventy-two hours:

“call me.”

⤹ ii. the imperial hotel — tokyo, japan

michael jackson was not paying attention to his manager.

this was not, in itself, unusual. frank had been managing michael long enough to know that his attention operated according to its own internal logic, orbiting whatever had caught it most recently with a concentration most people reserved for things like surgery or defusing explosives. generally, you just had to wait it out. stay in his eyeline. keep talking. eventually, whatever had him occupied would let go, and he'd surface again — slightly apologetic, entirely present — and you could pick up where you'd left off.

though tonight, frank was beginning to suspect they were entering whole new territory.

it had started innocuously enough. they'd been going over the next leg of the tour — tokyo, osaka, yokohama — working through the precise logistical minutiae that kept operations of this size from collapsing into complete chaos: interview schedules, press appearances. the yokohama venue had changed its staging dimensions, which meant choreography adjustments, which meant a conversation with the team that neither of them particularly wanted to have. security wanted to reroute the airport transfer after the crowd incident in rotterdam. there were wardrobe decisions for osaka that couldn't be put off much longer.

standard. manageable. things michael was normally at least nominally engaged with.

except that somewhere in the middle of frank's briefing, michael had reached sideways and picked up that morning's newspaper from the coffee table — the hotel staff had left it by the door a few hours earlier — and had gone somewhere else entirely.

frank had noticed but he'd assumed it was, as always, a momentary distraction. a photograph had caught his eye. he'd put it down in a minute.

but soon a minute passed; he did not put it down.

despite this, frank kept talking: tokyo. six o'clock rehearsal. two press junkets before noon. the security note about the airport.

“mhm,” michael said.

frank paused, put the planning folder down, and leaned over michael's shoulder at the newspaper — mostly to understand what he was currently losing to.

a singer.

he had heard of her. honestly, at this point, most of the industry had.

young, critically respected, she'd somehow managed to become attached to words like prodigy and generational within months of entering the public eye. she had arrived seemingly out of nowhere, released a number one single, collected enough glowing reviews to make veteran critics sound like infatuated fangirls, and then done something that was — from a publicity standpoint — completely unheard of:  become even more elusive after the success.

rare tours. rare interviews. a mystique that you couldn't quite manufacture, that came from someone who genuinely seemed to have no interest in being known.

she was a pretty girl. michael was hardly immune to the draw of a pretty girl. he just usually remembered when there was a conversation happening around them.

frank reached over and tilted the magazine to read the headline properly.

"CALL ME" — POP'S NEWEST SENSATION SENDS MESSAGE TO MICHAEL JACKSON

that made frank straighten up.

michael, having noticed the shift in the room's energy, looked up from the newspaper for the first time in several minutes. he wore the joyous astonishment of a child who had just discovered a secret.

"look — " he started.

"i can see it," frank said.

michael went back to reading.

the article had photographs, as most of them do. frank could only imagine the sheer frenzy on that street when they were taken. the sequence was stretched across a full spread: her laughing with her hand raised; that finger-to-mouth expression the caption described as coy, which — frank decided — was underselling it considerably; the backwards walk toward the car; and then the final shot.

her, pointed directly at the lens. that unmistakable little telephone gesture. wearing the grin of someone who had just pleased herself tremendously.

he watched michael linger on that last photograph for a long moment. he'd known, in a vague way, that michael had been following her career. it was hard to miss: the magazine clippings that appeared backstage, the way he'd pause in hallways when her songs came on the radio, the absurdly too casual mention of her name once or twice in conversation. frank had filed it away under professional admiration. michael admired a great many artists, and it rarely amounted to anything. 

in hindsight, the signs had been embarrassingly obvious.

"the catering people still need your menu choices." frank tried again.

"uhuh."

"there’s a signing event for thursday."

"mhm."

"i promised the press you'd wrestle a bear."

"yep, sounds good."

frank closed his eyes, a dim frustration slowly creeping into his soul. he moved to cover his face with both hands, pressing the heels of his palms against his forehead — physically trying to stop the headache before it arrived.

michael turned a page. then he started reading the thing aloud. frank couldn't help but laugh at that. "'sources close to the singer claim she has quietly admired jackson since his jackson 5 days. '"

he turned towards him immediately, smile bright. "she likes me."

"yes, michael," frank said, the last of his resistance gradually ebbing away. "it would appear so." 

michael went back to reading. "'the songwriter has reportedly attended multiple jackson fan events over the years under aliases — '"

he jolted up in his seat.

"she went to fan club meetings..."

"michael — "

"she went to fan club meetings." he repeated, sounding genuinely and helplessly delighted by the discovery. as if it was the best thing anyone had told him in some time.

frank pursed his lips together, an attempt to hold onto the last threads of his dwindling sanity. then, because this was his job and he was a professional, he picked up his previously abandoned folder in a final act of war.

"you have choreography revisions tomorrow. the staging for — "

"'friends describe the singer as having an encyclopaedic knowledge of jackson's back catalogue, extending well beyond his commercial singles — '"

michael pointed at the page.

"she. knows. the. b-sides." every word was punctuated with an almost comical emphasis.

conversation left the room soon after, frank finally relinquished the ever-losing battle for michael's attention and let him continue reading the newspaper. it left for barely a minute, though it felt much longer, the only sounds filling the expansive suite were the steady ticking of the overly grandiose grandfather clock in the corner and frank rapping his fingers against the leather sofa. waiting for the moment michael returned to the world around him for air.

then, very softly: "she thinks i'm attractive."

the folder was set aside, never to be picked up again that evening. frank looked at michael — who was still looking at the photograph of the girl — and found something in his face that he hadn't seen there in a long while, boyishly hopeful.

he sighed. it came from somewhere deep, that sigh. tired and fond and already resigned to the amount of work this was about to create for him.

michael finally set the paper down. and turned to face him properly.

and then he did that thing. frank privately thought of it as the please routine — somehow both the most earnest and the most unfair weapon in michael jackson's considerable repertoire.

"no," he said, out of principle.

michael blinked. "you didn’t even know what i was going to ask."

"you want her number."

his eyes drifted back to the photograph for just a second before returning to frank, carrying such transparent, optimistic guilt that frank genuinely wondered — not for the first time — how a man this famous had managed to stay this uncynical.

"…maybe."

frank couldn't even remember making the decision. one moment he was sitting there, determined to be sensible, and the next he was crossing the suite toward the desk, reaching for the telephone, and trying to track down the manager of a young singer who had made one very impulsive gesture on a new york street corner and was very certainly not expecting anyone to actually take her up on it.

⤹ iii. columbia records — new york city, usa

here was the thing about that paparazzi moment, in your defense: it had felt very different in the moment.

in the car, immediately afterwards, it had felt funny. a bit reckless, maybe, the way some things sometimes are when the afternoon was warm and your friends were there and the question caught you off guard and your mouth had simply — moved. faster than your brain. not the first time that’s happened, though usually the consequences were considerably more manageable than this.

you could still remember your friends playfully shoving your shoulders, telling you what a complete idiot you are. and, like the complete idiot you are, you'd simply giggled before taking another idle sip of your scalding hot caramel latte.

by that evening, when the first photograph had started circulating, it had felt approximately thirty percent less funny.

by the morning, when you'd seen the headline, it had dropped to around seventy percent less funny, helped along considerably by the barrage of phone calls consisting almost entirely of "i told you so"s.

but then three days had passed, and the news cycle had moved on to something else, and you'd started breathing normally again. it had been a moment. a funny moment. it would become a story you told at dinner parties. remember that time i told michael jackson to call me in the papers? and that would be that.

you had, in this way, entirely convinced yourself.

the columbia records conference room was the type of place that made you feel both pretentiously important and sleepy. floor-to-ceiling windows. expensive abstract paintings that you could guarantee nobody had ever actually looked at. a long table covered in the comfortable detritus of a working meeting: your demo tapes, legal pads, someone's abandoned coffee from an hour ago that nobody had bothered to remove, a fruit plate that had been picked over to the point of mostly just grapes.

the label's a&r team was in the middle of a fairly fervent conversation about the rollout strategy for your next album, which you were half-following while also doodling something shapeless in the margins of your notebook. it was either a landscape or a large dog. you hadn't decided.

sandra was on the other side of the table, flipping through papers with her phone tucked between her shoulder and her ear. she'd stepped into the call a minute ago without breaking stride, continuing to sort contracts and scribble notes as though multitasking at this level was simply her natural state.

you were starting to tune her out, too…

until a moment later, when sandra said, "...i'm sorry??" in a timbre that made you look up.

the room kept talking around you. you watched her face do something strange — the paperwork abruptly forgotten, her pen set down, her focus now fully redirected to the phone.

you mouthed noiselessly at her: what?

a shushing gesture was instantly sent your way. another pause.

she glanced across the table at you, and you knew, from twenty-two years of being alive and three years of working very closely with sandra, that whatever she was about to say had absolutely nothing to do with the album.

she pressed the receiver against her blazer, muffling the conversation. "the consequences of your own actions," she said discreetly, "are currently on the phone." 

your eyebrows drew together. "what does that even mean?"

around the table, the conversation had begun to trail off. people were listening now without looking like they were listening, a skill everyone in this industry had finely honed.

"this is the manager," sandra said. she stopped. you shrugged at her, still puzzled.

"...of michael jackson."

you felt the world freeze at that. the pigeons outside the window hung in the air. somebody halfway through reaching for a grape seemed to stay there indefinitely. even the old man currently suspended washing the windows seemed to pause halfway down the glass.

"he would like," sandra continued, watching the realisation crash through you in real time, "your phone number."

silence.

a total, comprehensive silence.

not from the room — the room still very much existed. people were still breathing. somebody's chair made a small noise as they shifted their weight. somewhere, a page turned. but from you, specifically.

 a silence that spread from the centre of your chest outward until it reached the tips of your fingers and your mouth, which had fallen open just enough to let flies in.

"what," you said. not actually a question. more like a stall for time.

several executives at the table were no longer pretending. one of them — david, from marketing, a man you'd always liked for his complete lack of subtlety — had set his pen down, eyebrows somewhere near his hairline (which was receding), watching you with an undisguised interest.

sandra released the phone from the confines of her blazer. on the other end of the line — and you were now acutely, horribly aware of the other end of the line — you could just about make out the voice of a man who sounded, even from where you were, profoundly unenthusiastic about the task he'd been assigned.

you almost felt sorry for him. almost.

you were slightly busy having your own internal, private crisis.

what you hadn't accounted for — what the warmth of the afternoon and your friends' laughter and the sheer improbable silliness of the moment had completely obscured — was that you were not actually like this.

the person on that street corner who bit her finger and said smooth things at cameras and made ditzy little telephone gestures at international superstars was a version of you that only really existed outdoors, in sunlight, when the adrenaline was high and the stakes seemed abstract.

the version of you sitting in this conference room right now was the one who got shy at parties. who rehearsed phone calls before making them. who had, on more than one occasion, refused to introduce herself to someone she admired because the embarrassment of a bad interaction seemed considerably more permanent than regret.

and that version of you had just been volunteered, by the other version of you, for a phone call with michael jackson.

"oh my god," you whinged in total incredulity.

"what do i tell them?" sandra hissed, shielding the receiver.

"why would he actually — " you started.

"you told him to."

"that was — " you stopped, both palms flying up, facing outward beside your head in immediate self-defence. "that was a joke."

"clearly,” she raised a brow at you, “he did not interpret it as one."

you dropped your head into your hands. the conference table was very solid and real under your elbows.

"what do i say?" sandra said again, urgent now, because the man on the other side was still waiting and his patience had clearly been thin to begin with.

a long moment.

you uncovered your face, only to find yourself clutching your cheeks, which were smoldering beneath your skin.

for a brief, deeply humiliating moment, you thought about being fifteen years old and spending all your allowance on bootleg concert tapes. about making your friends sit through lengthy arguments over why off the wall was the better album, regardless of thriller's overall commercial success. about hearing one of his songs on the radio and driving an extra three blocks just to hear the ending. 

you thought about that girl on the street corner — the one who had somehow managed to outrun your common sense.

you took a slow breath, smoothed your expression into something resembling composure, fixed your posture, and said, with as much dignity as you could salvage from the wreckage,

"...yeah. give him the number."

sandra stared at you for exactly one second, still somewhat unimpressed with your behaviour. then she turned back to the phone.

the room gradually resumed its normal rhythm, the a&r team once again descending into their argument, though a few suspiciously ill-timed coughs were now sprinkled throughout the discussion. in the corner of the office, the old man outside the window had resumed wiping the glass, blissfully unaware of the happenings going on inside.

you gathered your useless paper doodles into a neat pile, making a vague attempt at resembling someone who was doing something important and had her life under control.

it was, by any measure, an unconvincing performance. you pressed your fingers to your mouth.

"…oh my god."

across the room, sandra was already reading the number out, her voice perfectly steady, giving nothing away. she was a consummate professional and you were extraordinarily lucky to have her.

the man on the other end said something clipped and final.

the call ended.

sandra set the phone down and met your eyes across the table. the silence between you carried the particular weight of two people who had worked together long enough to communicate entire paragraphs without speaking.

"the album rollout," she said, picking her pen back up, "is still our most pressing concern."

"right," you said. "absolutely."

the meeting resumed.

you did not hear a single word of it.

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You arrive at Ashford the way you do everything: early, quiet, and already watching.

The Stark party is not large. Your father sent you with a maester who is already sweating through his robes, two guards whose names you know because you bothered to learn them, and a septa who has not stopped praying since you crossed into the Reach. The specific gods she is petitioning are left unnamed, and you’ve chosen not to ask.

The tourney grounds are a physical wall of sound. In Winterfell, noise travels and dies in the cold air, swallowed quickly by the expanse of the North. Here, it accumulates. It bounces off heavy canvas pavilions and limestone walls until the bright, blinding quality of Reach sunlight seems to physically press the chaos against your skin like a weight. You notice it all without judgment. You will acclimate. You always do.

The Targaryen pavilion is less a tent and more a declaration of violence. Crimson silk and cloth-of-gold trim flap aggressively in the warm wind, a sharp, bleeding contrast to the heavy, deep cobalt wool of your own Northern cloak. A personal sigil is worked into the canvas in thread so fine it shimmers when the fabric moves; a three-headed dragon rendered in a way that manages to be both heraldic and appetitive, as if the embroiderer had distinct opinions about the creature's hunger. Two guards in matched livery stand at the entrance with the heavy stillness of men paid to be ornamental. One is handsome enough; the other, not so much.

You are escorted to a holding position near the edge of the Targaryen enclosure. It is the only honest phrase for it. The maester hovers, the septa mutters her endless prayers, and you watch the pavilion.

He comes out before you expect him.

You haven't actually seen his type before, but you've heard enough descriptions to construct a version of him in your mind. The gap between your imagination and the physical reality of him is what you notice first. You expected the swagger of a spoiled prince. What he actually possesses is a contained, intentional grace. It is the fluid, unhurried movement of an apex predator who has never needed to run because everything waits for him to arrive. Silver hair catching the noon sun, crimson and gold layered over his broad frame, with heavy rings on nearly every finger. He seems eager to have some type of blunt weight on his hands, as if the dagger strapped to his belt simply isn’t enough.

He is clinically, objectively beautiful. You keep that strictly to yourself.

He's speaking to a lord who is trying very hard not to appear to be trying. Aerion Targaryen listens with his chin slightly lifted, wearing an expression of such highly polished courtesy that it takes a second to identify the absolute contempt beneath it. He isn't looking at the man he's speaking to. He watches the tourney field, tracking the movement of the horses, as though giving the lord his eyes would imply the man actually deserved them.

The lord finishes a sentence with an ingratiating laugh. Aerion smiles, a sharp curve of his mouth that doesn't come anywhere near his eyes. The lord's laugh immediately subsides, dying in his throat, and he finds somewhere else to be within the minute.

What a coward.

You watch Aerion turn back toward the pavilion. For one half-second, his violet gaze drags across the space between you. It doesn't stop. It doesn't quite register. But the air shifts, and you understand, abruptly, that you need to lock in.

A man in Targaryen colors materializes at your elbow and murmurs that Prince Aerion would like to receive you now. You arrange your face against the sheer entitlement of it all, and move.

Up close, the jeweler's attention is suffocating. He watches you approach. He isn’t aggressive, but he is entirely devoid of warmth, thoroughly turning you in the harsh light to check the gemstone for flaws. You've been looked at before by men from your father's bannermen who thought a girl of marriageable age in a great house must want something from them. You know how to hold your spine under a heavy gaze. You look back sternly.

He recovers the gap with the ease of someone who has been performing composure since before he could walk.

He hums, a low vibration in his chest, before speaking. "My lady Stark," he finally says.

The pause before my lady is deliberate. You hear it, noting the condescension alongside the heavy gold rings and the hollow, perfectly cordial smile he is currently wearing.

"Your Grace."

You do not add anything to it. You were not raised to fill empty air with useless noise, and you are not going to start now to manage his comfort.

Aerion's thumb catches against the heavy gold of his signet ring, the metal scraping faintly.

There are lords watching. A cluster to the east, two more near the Fossoway banners, and someone important standing twenty feet away, attempting to look casual. You are both performing for them. You are both performing for each other.

The formal business is brief. Words about honor and alliances are delivered by the maesters in the dry, practiced tones of men who drafted the language carefully. Aerion stands through it with a rigid patience that somehow communicates utter, mind-numbing boredom. You stand with your hands folded and your eyes forward, projecting an aura that indicates you find this entirely satisfactory.

When the droning ends, there is a heavy pause.

"I understand," Aerion says, "that you have not attended a southern tourney before."

His voice isn't the weapon you expected. You'd been told about the cruelty and the incident with the puppets, expecting something jagged and sharp. Instead, his elocution is so thorough, so perfectly measured, that the melody of it becomes its own kind of edge.

"You understand correctly."

"Then you'll find it a great deal to take in."

"I expect I'll manage," you say, matching his exact, unhurried register.

Aerion shifts his weight, the stiff silk of his doublet whispering. "Of course. The Stark constitution is famously resilient."

"The Targaryen constitution," you reply pleasantly, "is famously… exceptional."

The pause before exceptional is the exact length as his before my lady. You watch him hear it.

He does not smile. The assembled, flawless performance of him simply halts. Then, he tilts his head, violet eyes narrowing by a fraction, and offers his arm. "Shall we walk, my lady?"

The walk is staged with the transparency of a morality play for the lords gathered at the edge of the tourney field. His sleeve is heavy silk, the kind that costs more than your septa makes in a year. You rest your hand lightly against it, acutely aware of the rough calluses on your palms, hoping your axe hands won’t rip the delicate fabric apart by some miracle.

"You have brothers," he says. You are far enough from the cluster of lords to speak freely, but not far enough to be private. The tension of the audience remains. "I've heard things. They say the second one has your father's temperament."

"They're not wrong."

"And the third?"

"A different sort of temperament."

"How diplomatic," Aerion says, his gaze fixed straight ahead on the lists. "You answer questions about your family the way a maester answers questions about medicine. Technically accurate and completely uninformative."

You permit yourself the ghost of a smile, but absolutely nothing more. "What would you prefer, Your Grace?"

"Honesty would be a novelty."

"I'm honest frequently. I'm simply precise about what I'm honest about."

Aerion’s eyes flick from the dusty tourney field down to you. "A valuable quality in a Stark."

In a Stark.

This little asshole.

"And in a Targaryen," you reply. "I imagine."

He turns his head then, bringing the full, crushing weight of those purple eyes to bear directly on your face. Aerion lets the silence stretch. His expression is a carefully blank mask, but the air between you suddenly feels thick enough to choke on.

"You've been briefed about me," he says plainly. It is not a question.

"Of course," you say. "Have you not been briefed about me?"

"Extensively. The reports were incomplete."

"Reports always are."

You reach the end of the stretch they've set out for you, turning together in smooth choreography to begin the return walk. The ambient noise of the tourney, the sharp clang of practice armor, the shouts of the crowd, the whinny of a destrier, rumbles heavily beneath the murmur of the watching lords.

"May I ask you something, my lady?"

"You may."

His thumb brushes across the back of your hand where it rests on his heavy sleeve. It is a motion so brief and so agonizingly light it might have simply been the friction of walking.

"What did they tell you," he says, his voice carrying the same unhurried, dangerous music, "that you should expect from me?"

You consider the trap for three steady steps.

"They told me you were brilliant," you say. "They told me you were cruel. They told me you had no interest in being managed. They told me you believed yourself to be something other than human."

Silence hangs between you, suspended in the heat.

"And," you continue, using the exact, flat tone you would use to note a change in the weather, "they told me that you had hurt people. Badly."

Aerion says nothing for a long moment, letting the raw accusation bleed into the bright air.

"And you came anyway."

"My lord father asked it of me."

Aerion’s arm flexes subtly beneath your hand, the muscle hardening under the silk. "That is a coward's answer from a woman who doesn't appear to be one."

Somewhere down the line, a horse screams briefly and then cuts off. You look out at the dirt field.

"I came because it seemed interesting."

"Interesting," he repeats.

"Most things are, if you're looking at them correctly."

You are nearly back to the machinery of the formal introduction. The walk will end, the performance will conclude, and you will not be alone with him again today.

"My lady Stark," Aerion says. He places the syllables carefully, like setting broken glass on a table. "I find I am looking forward to knowing you better."

The lords are close enough to hear a Targaryen prince expressing genuine, courtly pleasure at a prospective match. The escort materializes at your elbow to separate you. Aerion releases your arm with a slight inclination of his head, his heavy rings catching the brutal sunlight as he withdraws his hand.

You do not watch him walk away, because you are not that careless. But you hear the deliberate, predatory crunch of his boots against the gravel until he disappears.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

The morning sun was pale as it slipped past the curtains, slowly warming up the hardwood floors as much as it could with winter approaching.

You sat on the edge of your bed, your cat brushing up against your legs, impatient to be fed. Leaning down, you picked him up, taking in the soft fur and his warmth as he purred. Trying to gather the courage to get out of bed.

A melancholy had taken hold of your heart the past few months. A weight resting on your shoulders. A presence.

Ever since that night.

Weakness. Loneliness. Desperation. Sin. Whatever it was to be called.

Your mind felt like it was in hell as you called out into the night, teary eyes gazing up at the moon. At an angel. At God. You didn't know, you just needed help. An out. Not knowing how to outrun your mind.

Come to me. You cried, hands clasped so tightly in prayer, your bones shifted beneath your skin. Come to me. Guardian angel. A spirit of comfort. Any celestial being, a sob racked your chest. Come to me. Hear my prayer.

Suddenly it felt as if your breath had been robbed. Stolen. Ripped right from your lungs. The moon too bright and air too still.

But your mind— it was so quiet. Calm.

Something was holding you. The presence greedy.

Your feet carried you across your room, acting on their own accord. Or perhaps someone else's. A string tied around each joint and tugging you along, coiling you up and closer to the puppeteer.

You were brought to the window, the moon so bright. Looking at you.

Oil slipped over you mind as something, someone, he spoke.

I've got you. A caress, enveloping you. Bliss.

You shook your head, begging the memory to go away before it finished.

You always woke up in a sweat despite the long dead fire. Feeling as though you’d been dragged through something. Some sort of unreachable plane.

He was haunting your dreams. Stalking you. You felt like a rabbit running from a wolf. Not a person. Feeling it, Him, crawl beneath your skin like a spider, spinning a web around every vein and heartstring.

The clock chimed and it startled your cat, causing him to leap off your lap and his claws dug into the flesh of your thighs through your nightgown, spotting it with crimson.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Late.

You pushed through the door with your hip, holding a crate of glass bottles filled with herbs and elixirs. Your spine felt stiff. Your bones not right. You could've sworn you felt Him on your walk to the apothecary that morning.

You were losing it. You knew you were. You couldn't have possibly… it wasn't possible.

But as you turned, the air on the back of your neck stood and it wasn't the cold.

The faintest voice. An echo rattling in your mind.

Come to me.

You blinked the thought away. The daylight was supposed to be safe.

Your boss called your name from somewhere in the back of the shop. Shortly after his head peaked over the shelves, his graying hair a mess. "Have you brought it?"

“Yes, sir." You set the crate down, urging the thoughts of Him, your shadow, to the back of your mind.

You dug the few bottles your boss asked you to order from the crate, the glass cold against your palms, bitter from the atmosphere.

He made his way between tables, his black coat heavy on his shoulders and his glasses perched down his nose as he took one of the bottles from you.

Observing it with scrutiny to see if you’d done a good job. Which you always did. You never messed up.

A slight crease formed between his brows and he set the glass back down into the crate. Barely a nod. That's all you ever got from him. All that you needed. He wasn't one to give thanks or praise. He took a chance on hiring you, you knew that. He didn't owe you anything else but your weekly wages.

He got back to work as you began organising bottles and mincing up ingredients, trying not to let your mind wander as the blade sliced through dried lilac. The sound of the knife hitting the cutting board in tune with your heart.

It began to rain on your walk home, the droplets bitter cold and feeling like bullets of ice. Other city dwellers used what they had as umbrellas if they had none.

You didn't see a point. Your skin was burning, your blood bubbling as if it were trying to claw its way out of your veins. You needed this. The cold.

You didn't mind it as rogue hair stuck to your forehead and neck, water dewing up so heavy on your lashes it was hard to keep your eyes open.

Come to me.

You flinched, turning to the sound, feet picking up pace and frantic to get away. Instincts kicking in as your eyes darted around the bodies rushing to find cover, feet splashing up water.

He was here. In the city. You knew it to be true.

Turning, your world suddenly upended as you collided with someone, black clouding your vision and you felt gloved hands grab hold of your arms to break your fall.

You blinked the rain away, your mind spinning, not understanding and your manners tried to quickly scramble their way forth.

“Apologies," tumbled out of your mouth and you tried to right yourself, but your dress was heavy with water and your skin was tight with the cold.

The hands slowly slid away from you, almost hesitant, and you finally allowed yourself to look up.

Your breath caught, heart skipped a beat, for a mere moment you thought…

“It’s okay."

The man looked down at you. Imposing. Face hidden half in shadow from his hat and the veil of rain.

Your mouth hung open slightly. Your nerves tangled in shock and what might've been trepidation.

The water pounded into the cobblestones beneath him. The rain soaking through his fine coat and hat, water beaded up on his own lashes. His eyes, they looked like the dark side of the moon that kept you company every night. Familiar.

He tilted his head to the side as he watched you, his eyes practically glowing with something you didn't think you’d ever be able to name.

Your heart was thudding in your ears. Or maybe that was just the rain.

Do something.

"I'll be–"

“Have we met–"

You both spoke at once and you couldn't help it as you felt yourself blush, but you blamed it on the cold.

He took his hat off for a moment to push his wet hair back, the locks nearly looked like spilled ink as a black-gloved hand ran through his curls. His eyes met yours again, his expression unreadable ans far too encompassing.

“Find a fire, I wouldn't want you to get sick." With that he bowed his head and stepped past you, the sharp click of his shoes fading in with the rest of the crowd.

You looked after him, watching the slight sway of his shoulders, his presence alone towering over everyone else. Men parted for him as he walked, not thinking twice, like he commanded the tides.

His voice...

A crack of thunder startled you and you kept moving, your skin prickling up again.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Those eyes flickered, blinding you, dancing in your mind. Intent. Obsessed.

You gasped, ripping yourself awake before your mind suddenly eased, like warm water was slowly consuming your body. You were slipping, your mind's chatter easing into quiet as you went under the surface.

You saw him again. That stranger. But not quite. His silhouette was flickering in the shadows but his eyes gleamed of moonlight.

Who are you? You asked, though the air remained still.

The shadows folded, swayed, his eyes tilting. You pulled me out of the dark. His voice was like oil, dripping over the room and staining it.

But who, you stretched your jaw, your common sense fighting its way up, trying to break the surface.

He stepped closer. Your breath hitched. Equal parts frightened and enamoured.

Dark curls suddenly caught the moonlight but it was still difficult to make him out. A shifting phantom. Restless. Crazed as you felt something rough yet soft slide down the side of your neck.

A hand. Possessive.

You are not for the living, your stranger said.

The sharp planes of his face morphed into something tangible as he leaned down. Cool breath hitting your face and you felt in a trance as you looked up at him.

His thumb dragged across your bottom lip. Eyes intent as he followed the action.

You knew you were in the presence of something beyond humanity but you couldn't look away. Couldn't back away. The strings all tangled and too tight.

When you woke up the next morning, your room was empty and your cat sat at the end of your bed, staring at the corner of your room.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Your mind was muddled as the week went on. He had never touched you before in your dreams. Never... he had never been someone. You wondered if your mind was playing tricks on you. Trying to slot a face into the voice and presence you always felt. Deciding to pick that man you had run into.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Your hand slipped and the knife tore into your hand, the pain quick and sharp but it was a mere echo.

Wrapping some cloth around the wound, you heard the bell above the door chime.

"One moment!" You called, pulling the cotton tight and weaving your way around the tables and boxes. You wished your boss would let you organize properly. But he had everything where he needed and wanted, peering down his hooked nose every time you asked and sneering, It is organised.

You rolled your eyes thinking about it.

Rounding the corner of some shelves, you stopped short at the sight of a man leaning down, hands in pockets as he looked at some of the medicinals the shop sold.

Dark eyes. Sharp cheekbones.

At your presence, his eyes flicked up, down to your hand, then back up again. Pupils blown a little wide.

"You," you breathed the word without realizing it.

He blinked a few times as he straightened, eyes dancing down to your cut hand again, the blood dotting on the fabric. "You're hurt." His tone held nothing. No worry. No concern. Though, he did sound ever so slightly breathless. Just a bit. Or maybe you were imagining things.

His eyes. He looked hungry.

"I'm fine," you managed to get out, walking behind the counter. For safety, perhaps. Some semblance of security. He was even more overwhelming in broad daylight. In person. Your dream now fading into an even more warped fantasy. Right now he was far too real.

His jaw clenched, the muscles working under his skin. Running his tongue along the inside of his cheek as he seemed to force himself to look away from you and to the wall of bottles and dried goods.

You gnawed at her lip, brows furrowing as you watched him. Taking a breath, you all but ground the words out. "Can I help you with something?"

He sighed, eyes slating towards you, nearly looking pained and it made you feel dizzy. Who was this man?

Your boss snapped your name, appearing from what seemed to be thin air and you flinched. The old man was looking at you like you had grown a second head. "Are you just going to stand there or help him? What do I pay you for?"

You opened your mouth to argue but he was already disappearing into the back of the store. Leaving you blushing and a bit embarrassed. But when you turned back around, the stranger was gone.

You let out a breath of air. Equally relieved but disappointed. In what, you weren’t sure. Curiosity, perhaps. Your eyes looked down at your hand but stopped short when you noticed the dried flowers laying on the table, a black ribbon tied around them with a small piece of parchment. Two letters were drawn in ebony ink.

M.J.

You gently picked them up. Red carnations and Fern.

Your eyes danced to where he had stood, wondering if you focused hard enough he'd materialize like he did the other night.

"Who are you?" You whispered.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Fresh air. You needed fresh air.

Yanking the sheets off of you, your skin was cold but covered in dew drops of sweat. You could feel it. Feel Him. Crawling over your bones and staining them. An insatiable itch you couldn't reach.

You blindly made your way down the stairs and out into the garden. Your feet silent as they padded across the frost crusted grass. Your body was burning up and you wanted to strip yourself from the cotton, desperate and feeling suffocated as the moon stared down at you.

You yanked at your hair. Strands sticking to your skin. Too much. Too sensitive.

Come to me.

You squeezed your eyes shut, a cry almost leaving you as you felt your feet start to move somewhere. North, maybe.

Your conscience took a step back, a door closing, looking at you with knowing eyes. Wait– you called, but the door locked and oil spilled over again.

Who are you? You asked. You’d always ask till you got an answer, your legs carrying you through the bushes and closer and closer to an unknown. The back of your mind whispered that your parents wouldn't like this. This behavior. Your father nearly sent you off after that first night. Nearly sent you off every night you woke the house with your ramblings of a shadow man.

His voice swirled around you, almost teasing in its lilt— You know.

I do not.

A hand wrapped around the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair. It sent chills down your spine, ravishing your skin.

I... you blinked against the dark, your feet suddenly hitting cobblestone. I know you, don't I?

The hand danced down, leash loosening only a bit and you heard that familiar click of expensive shoes as they walked.

You fell in step with the sound, not feeling the bite of snow on your bare feet. Darkness was folding around you, snuffing out the flames of street lamps. You could faintly make out the sway of his shoulders.

Your head was spinning. Spinning and spinning as you turned down an alley, feet faltering and so bitterly numb you fell to your knees, scuffing your shins and you looked down. Blood. So much. It felt like the earth was pulsing around you from an open artery.

There was a body. A man. Lying stiff a few feet away. Eyes blank and empty. Soulless. Blood poured from his neck.

You should scream.

He knelt at your side, head tilting, brushing your hair away. The blood was sticky and warm against the snow.

What is this insufferable darkness? You felt like you couldn't breathe.

His nose brushed yours. Your phantom. Yours. He belonged to you. His hands twined with your own. Fingers long and much larger than yours. Holding you.

Dream of me. Only me. You felt a chaste kiss against your forehead. Swear it.

The blood was getting stickier. Voices. Approaching steps.

The words left you in a puff of air.

"I swear."

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Your nightmare hadn't ended yet. You were sure of it.

You sat dazed in the chair. Your parents sitting nearby. Your mother clutching her rosary like a vice. Your father wouldn't look at you.

"Father," your father's voice shook with conviction. "Is there anything you can do? Anything we can do?"

You felt dizzy as you stared up at the multicoloured windows. Mother Mary gazed down at you, tears in her eyes.

"Someone has offered to take her in."

Your eyes snapped forward, staring at the priest and he averted his eyes. Right now you were the other. The secret. Fallen. Your mind had been tainted for years now. Your mother said so as she cried into her cross.

"Who?"

"A practitioner… a doctor, of sorts. He's known within a small community for handling rare cases such as these with his treatments." The priest paused, shifting in his chair and removing his spectacles. "However–"

"And what were the results?" Your father asked, inching forward in his chair.

The holy man sighed. "His methods are... are arcane, if any, and I can't–"

"Were they successful?"

The priest rolled his jaw at your father, seeing a lost battle in front of him. "To a degree, but I advise you to think on this, the Church can provide perfectly–"

All you did was stare as the whole... transaction unfolded. That's what it felt like. Being handed off in such a way. The priest's warnings fell on deaf ears. Your mother only bowed her head as the carriage door shut on you. Your father did not say a word.

Your eyes slid to the man sitting across from you. He worked for whoever you were being sent off to. This practitioner. You were hopeless. Damned. No one could possibly fix you. You weren’t sure if there even was anything to be fixed.

The man across from you was not phased at your stare. He returned it tenfold. Gray eyes sharp.

Insightful.

"Where am I going?" You eventually asked, watching the city fade as the wheels turned.

"Somewhere where you know how to be handled."

Your eyes narrowed slightly. "I don't need to be handled."

He settled himself in his seat, crossing an ankle over his knee and forcing you to lean back. "I'm the attendant."

You looked away out the window, your breath fogging up the glass. "I don't care."

"Your father said you could be a handful, he didn't say you were rude."

Clenching your jaw, you looked back at him. He was pale. Strikingly so. His greying hair hidden beneath a cap. "Where am I going?" You asked again.

He sighed as he lit a pipe. The fire from the match lit up his eyes and for a moment they gleamed red. He waited to answer you till he held the pipe between his teeth and smoke plummed out.

"The Jackson Estate."

You raised a brow. You’d never heard of it.

"It's the Practitioner's residence."

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Heels clicked against the polished flooring. It was dark. The only light being candles that flickered along the hall. Illuminating the portraits in a macabre sort of beauty.

You held your breath as the attendant— he still had yet to give you his name, escorted you inside. The estate felt heavy. Dense. The air a little suffocating. You felt Him here. Strongly. Concerned that without the bustle of the city to drown him out he'd be more... loud.

His tour was curt and to the point. Telling you what was off limits and what wasn't. Telling you your schedule, though it was vague. Treatment. He wouldn't elaborate.

Everything was very...elaborate. Elegant. Old.

Refined and styled with thought. Every stitch in the carpet intricate. You felt horribly out of place. And too hot. You had passed by numerous hearths, all of them roaring. Flames licking out onto the marble.

He came to a stop in front of a door on the third floor, turning its silver handle and it popped open with a click. "Your quarters."

You didn't know what you were expecting. A small bed with restraints, maybe. Isn't that what mad people get put through? Bars on the windows. Rats in the corners. Scratch marks on the walls.

But as the door creaked open, you were met with an elegant, albeit ordinary room. Your brows furrowed and looked at him. "What is this?"

"Your room." He said flatly, like you were stupid.

Your jaw clenched and you waved an arm out. "No, what is this? Everything. This house. What treatment? What practitioner?"

He bit the inside of his cheek, looking past you into the room. "You can ask all the questions you want at dinner."

He left before you could say anything else, mouth agape like an idiot as another servant brought in your single trunk. He only nodded briefly at you, not sparing you a glance before scuttling from the room.

You huffed. Confused. A little scared, but your curiosity was winning that battle.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You weren’t even sure where the dining room was.

Come to me.

The rug softened your foot fall as you walked. Your hand trailing along the wood paneling of the wall. Dizzy as you looked at some very old portraits. They looked like Him. Your stranger. Your ghost. He was haunting you, even here.

The practitioner didn't attend dinner that night.

The attendant said he had a mess to clean up.

Your questions went unanswered.

Jackson. The name was heavy on your tongue. Whispers in your sleep. Restless. Your stomach pooling. Melting. Those eyes. You clenched your thighs together and awoke with a start when there was a sharp knock on your door.

Your breath left you in heavy pants. A shadow could be seen beneath the door. Pulsating. Begging to be let in. Fighting against the moonlight that poured through the tall windows.

You bit your lip, fear crackling in your veins. It was Him. It had to be. You could feel it.

Your name was said lowly from the other side of the door.

You froze. Blinked. Hands moving the covers off of your body before you could think better of it.

You creaked the door open.

Dark brown eyes stared down at you, half swathed in shadow.

Your lips parted. You had a feeling, but lately you couldn't trust your own thoughts. You should've known.

His hands were clasped behind him. Still wearing a suit despite the late hour. He smelled faintly of iron and orchids.

"You." Your brows furrowed. A mixture of disbelief and anger. "How–"

"May I come in? I was told you had some questions."

Let me in.

You nearly fell backward with the force of it. Hands trembling as they opened the door further. He didn't spare you another glance as he walked into the room, shutting the door softly behind him.

"You're in my head," the words tumbled out and you pressed your back into the post of the bed.

His hands were in his pockets as he tilted his head at you. Moonlight glinting off his hair. Looking just like he had that first night you saw him in your room.

"It's... it's you." He was your melancholy. Your darkness. It was him.

"What on Earth are you talking about?"

"Don't deny it!" You bit out, your voice nearly a cry.

He sighed, as if you were being unreasonable. "I see treatment needs to start tomorrow–"

"What treatment? Who are you? You're the one who's been haunting me. I'm not mad, it's you."

All he did was stare at you. Patient.

Pupils wide in the dark.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You couldn't remember falling asleep. Just the heaviness. Dizziness. Your stranger, looking at you as if you were some sylph.

Your neck was sore and you winced as you moved but hands gently caressed your head.

You faintly heard your name.

You blinked. The world a blur and slowly coming into focus.

You were on the ground, someone kneeling over you, cool breath dusting your face. Thumbs swiping gently under your eyes. "Wake up." The voice. So soft. Smooth and like oil. His. A creature comfort.

You tried to take in the feeling of his calloused hands as he held your face. "What..." early morning light was pooling past the curtains. Your eyes finally found his. The closeness of him was more jarring than anything else had been.

Your brows furrowed. He was infuriatingly complicated.

"I'm not mad." Is all you could think to say.

He hummed, dark hair falling over his eyes as he observed you. This time more clinical. Less consuming than last night.

Had he stayed with you?

You became acutely aware you were sprawled out on the carpet in only your nightgown.

A blush reddened your cheeks and you tried to move but you winced again with the turn of your neck.

"Careful now." He helped ease you up. One hand on the back of your neck, the other around your waist. You were on fire again.

"What happened?"

"You fainted."

"I gathered that much, thank you."

His eyes twitched slightly. You weren’t sure if it was in amusement or not.

Before anything else could cross your mind, such as to push him away, his large hands found your elbows and he hauled you up.

"I'll see you after breakfast."

"What for?"

His hands dropped from you as he walked to the door.

"Our first session."

He left without saying anything else. And if you hadn't been so overwhelmed, you would've noticed the blood on his collar.

Would've noticed the blood on you.

You sat for some time after he'd gone, the faint imprint of his hands still warm against your skin. Your fingers brushed your neck again, wincing but you chalked it up to the faint, perhaps you’d twisted in the fall. That must be it. You told yourself so twice.

When you did rise, the room seemed too quiet, as if it had been holding its breath. You wrapped your arms around you and padded barefoot in circles around your room, the silence of the house only broken by the occasional tick of the grandfather clock below.

Your eyes then caught on a tray. Not sure when it had gotten there. Maybe he brought it. Though the gesture seemed too...kind.

Toast. A soft boiled egg. Tea that had already begun to cool. You sat, stared at it, then lifted the cup with trembling hands. The tea had a strange aftertaste to it. Iron, maybe? Or the remnants of your own unsettled stomach, but you drank it anyway. You needed something solid in you, or you feared you might float away altogether.

A light knock came at the door, too soft to startle.

The attendant’s voice called your name through the door.

"Yes," you replied, brushing some hair from your face.

He stood just beyond the threshold as he opened it, dressed in proper attire while you were still in your nightgown.

"Your first session," he said. "Mr. Jackson is ready, if you are."

You hesitated only for a moment before nodding.

The disquiet in your chest was not fear, it was something stranger. Curiosity. Longing. Like a moth pressing against a glass. You grabbed a robe hanging off a hook and tied it tightly around you, the softness of it only easing you slightly.

He led you through the house without speaking. The halls were long, lined with portraits you didn't recognize, faces that all seemed to follow you with their eyes. You tried not to stare too long.

The door to the study opened before you’d realized you arrived, the attendant excused himself while Mr. Jackson smiled at you.

The study was warm, fire lit though it was barely past dawn. Curtains drawn tight. A chaise lounge by the hearth and a high backed chair beside it. He gestured for you to lie down.

You obeyed. You didn't know why.

He took his seat, crossed one long leg over the other, folded his hands.

"Tell me about the voice."

So much for easing into things.

You stared at the ceiling, trying to get comfortable if even possible. "I don't remember much. Only that it was... kind. Gentle."

His head tilted. "And familiar?"

"Yes. I think so."

He said nothing. The fire cracked and hissed.

Your eyes fluttered closed for a moment. You could still feel his fingers against your face from earlier, the way he held you like you might vanish.

"It led me to the body, didn't it?"

"That depends. Do you think it did?"

You opened your eyes again. "I thought we were discussing memory, not madness."

He smiled at that, though not unkindly. "And what if they're the same?"

You looked away.

"I didn't hurt anyone," you whispered. "I couldn't have."

"No," he said softly. "You couldn't have."

It was the gentleness that undid you. That and the quiet assurance in his voice. A sudden ache pressed behind your ribs and your breath hitched, though you didn't know why. Not a person, you reminded yourself. A rabbit.

Perhaps you only wanted to believe him.

There was a rustle of paper shortly followed by his voice. "When did this start?"

Your mind wandered back. That night. Your loneliness had swallowed you whole. "Months ago. Dreams."

"Dreams?"

You nodded, twisting your fingers till they hurt. Not wanting him to ask but you knew he would.

"And what happened?"

You couldn't help the blush. The shame. How badly you had wanted comfort that night. "I don't know, it was..." you shut your eyes briefly. "They grew darker. My dreams. The first night felt like the first act. But the rest," you turned her head, neck still aching. "Tell me, does evil come from within us or beyond?"

There was a long pause. The kind that hung in the air like fog, wrapping cold fingers around your throat.

He didn't answer at once. He stood, slowly, the firelight casting long shadows across his face.

He moved toward the window, though the curtains remained drawn. One hand rested lightly on the sill, the other behind his back. He looked like a man waiting for something. Or someone.

"Tell me," he said at last, voice low, smooth as silk but sharp beneath it, "if a wolf kills a rabbit, is the wolf evil for wanting food?"

You blinked. The question struck you oddly, given the allusion he landed on was painfully familiar.

"No," you said carefully. "Of course not. It's the circle of life. The wolf survives. The rabbit... doesn't."

He turned his head, just enough for you to catch a glimpse of him over his shoulder. His eyes were unreadable, but there was a glint there. Not of mischief. Not quite of hunger. Something older. Deeper. You couldn't place it, and it unsettled you more than you liked.

"And what if the wolf enjoys it?" he asked.

You frowned. "Enjoys what?"

"The hunt."

Your mouth went dry. Your tongue felt too large for your mouth.

"I suppose that's natural too," you said, after a pause. "Isn't it?"

He smiled, slow and fleeting. "Natural," he echoed, as if tasting the word.

You drew the robe tighter around you. Your neck still ached, a dull throb now, pulsing with each beat of your heart.

He turned fully then, his expression polite once more, hands folded neatly before him.

"You've done very well," he said. "It takes courage to speak so openly. Especially when the truth feels... inconvenient."

You looked up at him, eyes narrowing slightly.

"Truth is only inconvenient when it frightens us."

A beat.

"Agreed.”

There was something in his tone, just for a moment, something that sounded oddly like admiration.

"I'll leave you to rest. You've earned it."

He moved toward the door, and again, you caught that strange sensation as he passed, like the air folded around him. Like the shadows themselves knew to step aside.

You waited until the door clicked shut before you exhaled.

You hadn't answered his question properly. Not really. Nor had he answered yours.

And you couldn't shake the feeling that he already knew exactly what you were going to say.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

It had been eleven days since your arrival.

Or perhaps twelve.

The house made time feel elastic, stretching and snapping without rhythm. Mornings bled into evenings. Meals arrived without clocks. Mr. Jackson, for all his precision, never gave you a fixed schedule.

You found yourself waiting for him anyway.

You stood now before the long mirror in your room, studying the hollowness beneath your eyes. You weren’t sleeping well. Or you were, but it was the wrong sort of sleep. You would wake with the taste of earth and copper on your tongue, your limbs heavy, tangled in sheets as though you’d been dancing with something in the dark.

He called it suggestion. A method of drawing the subconscious forward.

You called it dreams. Vivid, sickly sweet things that left your skin in a sweat and your mind fogged.

Still, you attended each session.

You told yourself it was part of the process. That the warmth in your chest when he looked at you was merely the result of trust. That the way your skin remembered his fingers long after they'd left was simply... psychological. A trick of the treatment.

Today, the parlour was darker than usual. Curtains half-drawn, the fire low. He waited, standing rather than seated, large hands clasped behind his back. His coat was red today. Velvet, or something like it. It made his eyes almost luminous.

He said your name with the faintest nod. “You're late."

"I wasn't told a time," you replied, chin lifting slightly.

"Even so." His eyes glinted. "You're slipping."

You opened your mouth to protest, then closed it again. He gestured to the chaise.

You lay down without being asked twice.

"You're tense," he murmured. He always knew.

"Let's begin."

He never touched you during these moments. Not really. Sometimes his voice alone felt like a hand resting lightly on your temple. Sometimes you swore you could feel his breath on your throat when he spoke low and close, but when you opened her eyes, he'd be across the room.

"Close your eyes," he said now. "Breathe in. Slowly. Hold it. Good. Again."

You obeyed.

The room dulled. Colours softened. His voice moved through you like music, smooth and lulling.

"You're walking through a garden," he murmured. "Stone underfoot. A chill in the air. You're not afraid. You are guided. Can you see it?"

"Yes," you whispered. And you could, wisteria hanging in curtains, fog coiling at your ankles. And a figure. Tall, blurred at the edges. Watching you.

"Describe him," he said.

"I... I can't."

"Try."

"He's... not a man. Not really. He's shaped like one. But..." Your brow furrowed. "There's something in his eyes. A hunger. He's—"

You jerked as though touched. Your eyes flew open.

The fire was brighter now. Your hands trembled.

Mr. Jackson regarded you with his usual calm. One eyebrow arched slightly. "Interesting."

"What was that?" you asked, breath catching in your throat.

"Your mind," he said softly. "It speaks, if you listen."

You sat up slowly, arms curling round yourself. "I don't like that garden."

"Few like the place where the truth begins."

You looked at him then, properly. The angle of his jaw, the stillness of him. Not a muscle twitched. Not even his breath.

"Do you ever sleep?" you asked suddenly.

He smiled without showing his teeth. "What would I dream of?"

You pondered it, rolling on your side and perching yourself up on one arm. Allowing yourself to really look at him. You knew absolutely nothing about him. He was poised. In control of himself. Calm. At least on the surface. But this estate... this house. It was far too big and too lonely. Daunting. Sometimes you felt like you could hear the portraits whisper at night. There was one in particular you always stopped by. So very old but better maintained than the rest. A woman with eyes like his but warmer. Fresh flowers were always underneath it. A loved one, you could only assume. The rest of the portraits were left to rot.

"The past, maybe."

His fingers tapped a rhythm into his thigh as he watched you. "You think of me as nostalgic?"

You laid back down again, eyes tracing the pattern in the carved ceiling. Thinking back to your childhood. How bright it all felt. The flowers smelled better and the sun shone more. You remembered laughing more, as a girl. Of running down side streets with your friends before they went off to university. Abandoning you.

"Aren't we all?"

It was quiet for a moment. The only sound was your beating heart and the crackle of the hearth before you heard him stand.

Your breath caught at his retreat. The sudden panic alarming but unavoidable.

"Mr. Jackson," you started. His footsteps paused. "Why is it they think you can... fix me. Find answers that others cannot?"

You didn't look at him. Couldn't. Waited for the sound of his shoes to click again with bated breath. A beat of your heart passed before you felt him shift closer to you.

"My reputation, perhaps."

You raised a brow, finally turning. Catching his eyes. Glowing. "Reputation?"

He observed you another moment before bowing his head slightly. "I'll see you tomorrow." And he left without another word.

More of your questions going unanswered.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You felt rigid that morning as you sat down for breakfast. A maid had come to grab you instead of leaving a tray like usual.

Your appetite was scarce and a trembling hand reached for your tea, the porcelain rattling against the saucer but you paused as soon as he entered the room.

Morning light made everything look hazy. Filtering in through the high windows and catching in the curtains that always remained half drawn.

In the time you had been there, you two had never eaten a meal together. Not even the attendant, technically. That first dinner he just sat there, drinking wine and being infuriatingly unhelpful.

Mr. Jackson sat, though he touched nothing laid out on the table.

"Good morning."

You clenched your trembling hand into a fist as you pulled it away from your tea, deciding it was best to clutch it beneath the table.

You dreamed about him last night. Again. Sinful and wrong. Wretched.

Lovely.

He didn't miss your silence and he looked at you with a brow barely raised.

Time ticked by. You could hear it on the clock.

He leaned back in his seat, adorning it like a throne.

"You don't seem to like practitioners very much."

Your jaw ticked and you looked down.

"Or do you just not like me?"

His question took you off guard and your usual attempt at being polite rushed forth. "No, I—" you bit your tongue. You shouldn't find excuses. Reasons.

You swallowed dryly and tried to focus on your food as you spoke. You couldn't look at him. "I've just had bad experiences, is all. Bags filled with knives. Strange things to measure my skull." All things considered you could at least admit to yourself the relief you felt when you realized all you two would be doing is talking. At least for now.

His fingers thrummed on the table and you finally took note of the ring he was wearing.

"I'm not that kind of doctor."

Your jaw ached as you clenched it. Watching him lean forward on the table by his elbows. His expression unreadable as he spoke.

"Are you afraid of me?"

"I don't know." You didn't. You hadn't the faintest idea how you felt about him. A thousand things. Perhaps nothing. A few. It felt complicated.

The thrumming stopped and he dug into his coat pocket before pulling out a moderately small package and holding it out for you. "This is for you."

You eyed it for a long moment. Taking note of his slender hands. The bones and muscle that made him up. A gift?

With furrowed brows and a cautious hand, you gently took it from his hold and peeled back the wrappings.

Your shaking hands suddenly stilled.

"What?" He asked, voice even, as ever.

You lightly ran your fingers down the cover, over the ridges of the title. It was the first edition of your favorite novel. "Nothing, just...a book?" You looked at him, brows furrowed. Trying to read him but he was written in a foreign language.

He nodded, resting his chin in his palm.

Was this a session?

"And what does it remind you of?"

Your lips parted to ask him how he even knew but the memory from your childhood outshone the rest of your thoughts.

It was Christmas morning when you were a child and your mother had grown tired of you stealing the papers from the neighbors despite them all saying the same thing. You were convinced you’d find something new in them and your father no longer had time to take you to the library.

It had been the first book you were ever gifted. Your own. The first thing you felt like you could truly call yours.

You blinked away tears and set the book down. "I'm sorry, I don't understand—"

"I think you understand me well enough."

So this was a session. He took you off guard. No warning. A change of scenery. You couldn't prepare. You hated it.

"A bookshop." The lie slipped out.

He hummed. He knew.

You thrummed your own fingers now on the table. This whole thing was off kilter. Not right. Your mind trailing back to the hesitancy of the priest.

"Are you a clergyman?"

He blinked. "No."

"Do you have any affiliation with the church?"

There was a moment, brief reluctance. “No.”

Your brows furrowed. Not understanding how your mother would have agreed to this. Not understanding the priest's suggestion even though he did try to warn.

Which brought you to your next question.

Why the warning?

"I'm a practitioner. I work with the mind. Diseases of the mind. I don't deal with fantasies of demons lurking in the shadows or behind closed eyelids."

Science. A man of science. Perhaps that was the reason for caution given the two tended to clash heads. But you still felt like that wasn't enough. Not to mention you weren’t diseased. You weren’t.

You were not mad.

He said your name in a lull, dancing around your throat and tilting your head up. "I'm here to listen to you. To reason." He paused and seemed to consider his next words. "I don't think you're mad. We just need to prove to everyone else that you're not. And that only begins once we stop your... night terrors."

"They're not night terrors." Your stubbornness was still intact, apparently.

He sighed, looking at you through long lashes. "I would like to help you. If you talk to me, I will listen. But—"

"I don't want to go back to the garden."

The words were out and you were holding onto your dress so tight you were sure the threads would rip. Thinking about that night is one thing. Actually reliving it, that was not something you wanted anyone else to witness.

All he did was hum and tap your book with a finger as he stood.

"Until tomorrow."

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You felt heavy. Caressed. Something soft grazing the side of your face.

The pain was sharp and sudden but melted into something alien and blissful. A silent gasp left you and your pulse thrummed. Skipped.

Hazy and opium filled the air.

You looked up through heavy eyes, spotting the now familiar darkness of his hair.

Part of you wanted to touch it. Touch him.

But your limbs were too heavy.

Only as you went to the bathroom later that morning did you finally take notice of the bruising.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Eyes bore into each other. The tick of the clock matched your heart.

He was so patient.

You were sitting today. Not laying. Not wanting to be that vulnerable, yet.

There was the rustle of fabric as you shifted. Watching him watch you.

"I'm not sure what you want me to tell you."

He shook his head, chin tilting down. "I don't want anything. It's what you want to say that's of interest to me."

You looked down. Your fingers tapped a light rhythm into the book you held in your hands. Since he'd given it to you, you were already about a quarter way in.

Silence stretched and pulsed.

"How's the book?"

You pressed your tongue behind your teeth. "It's fine."

"What do you think?"

Your eye twitched. "Are you laughing at me?"

"No." He leaned forward, elbows on knees. Keen.

"I'm just curious. The book seemed to mean a lot to you."

You shook your head, looking away again. "It's just a book."

"Does it remind you of anything?" That head tilt of his had a habit of slowly unraveling you. "Your childhood, perhaps? If we are to circle back to the topic of nostalgia."

Your skin felt too tight. He somehow knew. Knew too much. Too little. "Not quite. Lots of children want books—"

"And did you? Want books? Want that one?"

"To say so is bad luck."

"Bad luck?"

You hummed. Tracing the letters. "To say what you want does the opposite. It's best to keep it to yourself. Be careful of wanting anything." Your mind trailed to that night. Your desperate prayer. "You may be punished for it."

You hadn't realized he stood, now in front of you. Hands in pockets and staring down. A god deciding to observe mere mortals.

"Do you think you're being punished?"

His eyes. So stunning in their appearance. Their depth. Flickering red for a moment in the firelight.

You were breathless as you spoke. "I think so, yes."

You felt like you were being torn open.

Not like flesh. Not the gruesome tears.

Softly, like fruit. Too ripe and splitting with barely a tug.

Abrasive.

That's what he was. That's what this was.

"Have you had any dreams since being here?"

You paused as you messed with the hem of your sleeve. "I suppose." You didn't dare look at him. The room dark, as always. You debated on running to the window and tearing open the blinds just to see what he would do. "Not that I can remember them, though."

You couldn't help it.

A peek, that's it.

He looked... disappointed.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You were brought down for dinner.

Snow was coating every window and you couldn't help it as your mind wandered. Watching the gardens from each window you passed. That's the only time the curtains were pulled back. Swathing the estate in moonlight and candles. Fires roaring.

Christmas was nearing. Your first without your family. Your mother.

Every year you were gifted a book.

You wondered what this year would've been.

Your knife slipped at the thought and crimson bled onto your plate.

However, you were distracted from the pain by the sudden intake of breath from someone else at the table.

Your eyes danced up.

The attendant looked... well it was rather concerning.

He looked as if he were about to lunge at something—you, before Mr. Jackson’s sharp tone cut through the air.

"Take your leave." he practically snapped. A warning.

"Michael—"

"Now."

You’d never heard him sound like that.

Michael... so that was his name.

The scrape of wood met your ears as the man left and you looked at the head of the table.

He was sitting perfectly still. Not even blinking.

Pupils wide.

You bit the inside of your cheek. Grabbed your napkin and pressed it to the cut. "Rude not to offer a wounded lady help."

A beat.

"I was under the impression you didn't want my help."

You took a drink of your wine. Annoyed. At him. Yourself. Your life.

"And I was under the impression you were going to give it anyway."

He smiled slightly, into his own glass.

You shouldn't have felt pleased.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You laid awake as the night droned on. Staring at the ceiling and seeing red carnations in your minds eye.

M.J.

"So that's who..."

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You didn't remember falling asleep.

It was a craving. To know him.

Forbidden.

Insatiable. A lurid glare to it as you tried to claw your way toward it.

Down down down into the pit. Persephone stumbling after Hades.

You wanted to go where you knew you couldn't. Not that you weren’t allowed... it wasn't possible. Shouldn't be.

You shouldn't want to descend.

You shouldn't want to tear into his body like he did yours and look inside.

But you did.

You wanted to claw your way through shadows and flesh and hold the heart of your shadow.

Your affliction.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

It felt as if your skeleton had shifted inside of you.

Evolved.

Adapted.

You watched him more closely.

You knew he was familiar. Knew something wasn't right.

Come to me.

It didn't scare you anymore.

There was no fright.

Just fuel to the fire that was your curiosity.

You remembered all your dreams. You always had.

You wanted to know him.

Whatever the cost.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

The bruises bloomed like lilacs, soft-edged and dusky, nestled in the hollow of your throat and curling faintly at your jaw. They didn't ache like bruises should. They pulsed.

You stood at the washbasin, fingertips hovering above the discolouration. You didn't dare touch them. The skin there felt different, as though it didn't belong to you.

Sleepwalking, you thought. A fall, perhaps. A bedpost knocked in the night. You had no memory of it. Only of... warmth. A heaviness. A dream that left you breathless, as though you’d run from something and forgotten why.

And always, always his voice. Somewhere between a lullaby and command.

You dressed high-necked that day.

Michael— Mr. Jackson, didn't remark on it, though he watched your collar with pointed interest.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

That night, you dreamt of teeth.

Not fangs, not the obvious kind, but rows of them.

Clean, white, perfect. Smiling. Too wide. Set in a face you almost recognized, but the name felt wrong on your tongue.

When you awoke, your bed was cold. You had no memory of leaving it.

The bruises were darker now. Deeper. Like ink stains pressed just beneath the skin.

You no longer believed you’d walked into a bedpost— never believed it in the first place.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You stopped a maid that afternoon. A girl no older than twenty two, with flaxen braids and red-raw hands.

"Where is Mr. Jackson sleeping?" you asked.

The girl blinked, confused. "He doesn't, miss."

You tilted your head. "Doesn't?"

"Not since I've been here."

You left the conversation colder than you entered it.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

The next evening, you didn't sleep.

You waited.

You left the lamps unlit and the windows cracked to let the night in. Bitter cold with yule on the heels. You let the estate settle into silence, that old, heavy silence peculiar to large houses built to hold the dead. And then you crept from your room, barefoot on the carpet. Soft. Cautious.

Drawn.

The air grew colder the further you wandered. Corridors unfamiliar. Doors you hadn't seen. The paintings on the wall were more distorted here, melted faces, hands too long, eyes that followed.

And then you heard it.

Music.

Low. Disjointed. Like a lullaby played backwards.

It drew you to a door at the end of the hallway, grand, arched, carved with something that might have once been ivy. It was ajar.

You pushed.

Inside was not a room.

It was a chapel. Barely lit. The walls were stone, the air damp. An altar stood at its centre, not with a cross, but with something old, older than the Church, older than scripture. A symbol you couldn't place, carved in ash and bone.

And him.

Not standing. Kneeling.

Michael Jackson, his head bowed, dark curls catching the candlelight. His lips moved. Singing? Praying? You couldn't hear.

You took a step back. The floor creaked.

His head turned.

He said your name plainly. Gaze knowing. His voice was calm. Almost warm. "You ought to be in bed."

You didn't answer. Couldn't.

"Curiosity," he murmured, finally rising to his full height, "is a strange sort of affliction, isn't it?"

You swallowed. Your mouth was dry.

"I heard music."

"Did you?" He approached you slowly, like one might approach a skittish doe. "What did it sound like?"

You stepped back, suddenly afraid you wouldn't remember how to run if you needed to.

"What is this place?"

"A room for reflection," he said. "Or confession. Depending on what you bring to it."

"And what do you bring?"

His eyes glinted. That unreadable thing.

"Hunger."

"Hunger," you echoed, and your voice sounded thin, like stretched glass. "For what?"

He stopped just shy of you. Too close. His shoes almost scuffing against your slippers. Taunting.

"Truth," he said softly, tilting his head. "Is that not what you want as well?"

Your pulse was a staccato drumbeat in your throat. "You don't pray," you whispered. "You said so. You don't believe in demons."

"I don't," he agreed. "But belief is not a requirement for truth."

Your spine pressed against the cool stone of the doorway. He hadn't touched you, not really. Not with his hands. But you felt surrounded all the same.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You couldn't remember how you got back to bed.

"This isn't treatment," you breathed.

"No," he admitted.

A candle flickered beside you and in that small movement of flame, something shifted in his face. A flash, not anger, not cruelty. A melancholy.

He looked lonely.

He took your hand, gently, like you were spun sugar, and placed something cold in your palm.

A key.

"Next time you walk the halls," he murmured, "don't wait for music. Choose a door."

And then he turned from you, his coat whispering behind him like wings. The candlelight dimmed as he passed, and when you looked down at the key, you swore you felt it hum.

That night, your sleep was not your own.

When was it ever?

You stood in your dream, or in something like it, in the same chapel. Barefoot. There was no roof, only a black sky, the stars like puncture wounds.

Something brushed your collar. Breath, maybe. Wind. Or worse.

When you awoke, your feet were dirty. The key still clutched in your hand.

And the bruises had bloomed again.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

At breakfast, you wore a scarf.

He made no remark — only poured your tea, and added a drop of something from a dark bottle you hadn't seen before.

You didn't stop him.

Treatment, maybe.

"Tell me," he said after a long pause, "has the voice grown louder?"

You froze.

You hadn't mentioned Him in a while.

Had you?

You met his eyes across the table. Something within you said: ask. Ask the thing you don't want to know.

So you did.

"Am I sleepwalking?"

He took a slow sip from his glass, and when he set it down, the reflection in it wasn't quite his.

"No," he said evenly.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

The key was warm in your palm that evening.

It shouldn't have been.

You sat on the edge of the bed, the curtains drawn against the dusk. There was a hush to the estate that night, not silence, not quite, but the sense that everything was listening. The house breathed.

You held the key between your thumb and forefinger, turning it, studying the tiny sigils carved into the metal. Not letters. Not anything you knew. But the more you looked, the more they started to seem... familiar. Like the curl of smoke. Like the bone-white markings you'd once seen drawn in salt outside a chapel. A priest who spoke in tongues. A body buried without eyes.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You didn't remember leaving your room, only that you were suddenly in the east wing — the one the staff never went near. The corridor stretched long and crooked like a spine. Doors lined either side, tall and narrow, all unmarked. Some had handles. Some didn't.

One door breathed when you passed.

Another sighed.

The third... sang.

A low note. Barely audible. A single violin string beneath the floorboards. A tone that rang behind your teeth and in the base of your spine.

Your key fit that lock.

Of course it did.

Your fingers trembled as you turned it. The door creaked inward and a cold breath of air curled out, kissing your neck.

The room inside was, impossibly, a replica of your childhood bedroom.

Down to the crooked bookshelf. The lavender candle. The missing curtain hook. A pair of scuffed shoes too small to wear now, placed beside the bed.

You stepped in. The air was stale with memory.

"Clever," you murmured. To yourself. Or maybe not.

The candle lit on its own.

There, on the nightstand, was your old hairbrush. The one your mother had broken in half in a fit of frustration the year your hair refused to be tamed.

You lifted it — not a crack to be found.

Something in the mirror moved.

You turned. Nothing there. But your reflection lingered a moment longer than it should have.

You left quickly after that.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You didn't sleep. Not really. You floated. Drowned, more like.

The next morning, he greeted you with soft eyes and a darker waistcoat. You noticed his cuff was stained with something that looked like wine. But wasn't.

"Shall we begin again?" he asked, voice smooth as ever.

You didn't respond.

He gestured to the settee. You sat, heart stammering, mind fractured from the night before.

"I want to try something," he said. "Nothing frightening. Just... deeper. A guided state. The mind is like a room. Sometimes we must rearrange the furniture."

You blinked. "You mean hypnosis."

He smiled, but not unkindly. "I mean honesty."

Your fingers twitched.

"You're safe," he said, and for one treacherous second, you almost believed it.

His voice dropped into that lulling cadence you now recognized, the one that threaded through your dreams. The one that made the air feel thick and sweet.

"Close your eyes."

You didn't want to.

You did.

He was in the garden again. You could smell roses.

There was blood beneath your fingernails.

And in the trees, something watching. Breathing. Waiting.

He knelt before you.

Not the practitioner. The other him. The version with no shadow. With too-sharp eyes and a mouth that had forgotten how to be kind.

"Do you know my name yet?" he asked.

You tried to speak.

Couldn't.

He leaned closer, whispering into your throat.

"Say it, and I will set you free."

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Something was wrong.

You stared down at your hands as you sat in bed, watching the bones shift as you moved your fingers.

Something was missing. Fading.

But what?

Everything felt as if it were breathing. Too sharp. Too colourful. Too aromatic.

You crawled to the window, desperate for something fresh in this house.

The pane of glass creaked as it slid open and you inhaled winter sharply.

Not enough. Not nearly enough.

You didn't even think to grab your robe or shoes before you slipped out the door.

The gardens greeted you with open arms as if they'd been waiting for you. Lush despite the season. White roses gleaming with ice as they caught in the moonlight.

You felt faint needle pricks in your feet as they crunched through the snow. Your head pounding, a sharpness behind your eyes that made the stars a bit blinding.

Your breath came out in puffs and your skin was riddled in goosebumps but you didn't mind. It was a nice distraction. A needed one.

You did not want to sleep.

Your mind raced as your fingers brushed along the roses.

This treatment didn't seem to be going anywhere. You still had dreams. It felt as if it were getting worse now that you were covered in bruises.

You weren’t sure what was real or not in this place. That chapel, your childhood bedroom... being outside helped ground yourself a little bit.

"Taking a late night stroll?"

You spun around at the voice, your flesh snagging on thorns and blood began to drip into the snow.

The attendant went deathly still and you watched as his carefree smile grew tense. His eyes trained on your hand, the slickness of crimson and how it glinted in the moonlight.

"Sir—"

You weren’t quite sure how it happened. It felt like you had only blinked before you found herself on your back and blinking up at the stars, a silent sort of pained sound leaving you as something burrowed its way through your skin. Your cut opened up even more.

Blood terribly warm against the cool night air.

Someone was on top of you. Pinning you to the earth and snow soaked through your nightgown but you couldn't focus on the cold as hands gripped you tight, securing you in place.

You felt light headed, back arching slightly at the pain and you forced yourself to look down. At what was happening to you.

Your mind couldn't keep up or perhaps it simply couldn't understand.

It looked as if he was kissing you. The visual rather romantic. His mouth open and his tongue sliding against your skin, but his teeth–

They were in your flesh. Buried deep and you felt the pull.

He was there one moment and gone the next.

Ripped from you and only then did you scream as his teeth tore jagged lines from being forced away.

Everything was spinning but you faintly registered shouting.

Your head rolled to the side, trying to make sense of the blurry figures a few feet away from you.

Focus, your mind begged.

It was Michael and the attendant. Fighting. The latter looked like an enraged animal and the former attempted to restrain him.

It didn't take long.

A fist went flying in the air, knocking the attendant right in the temple and he crumbled, not getting back up.

You caught sight of dark eyes gleaming as footsteps crunched through the snow, approaching you.

Michael might've fallen to his knees at your side, but you weren’t sure.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Dim lighting flickered across the ceiling and you felt strange. Cold despite the fire. Despite being swathed beneath thick blankets.

Your eyes slated to the side, half surprised to see him there. A chair drawn close to the side of the bed, elbows perched on his knees and chin resting in his hands as he watched you.

There was something different.

Either regarding him, or yourself. You weren’t sure.

Something was missing.

“How do you feel?”

You felt… fine. Serene. Grounded in a way that didn’t feel correct.

“Am I dreaming?”

His hand reached out, tentative and slow as if he were approaching a wounded animal and your breath hitched as his thumb dragged lightly along your cheekbone.

“I didn’t think I would have to do this so soon.”

Your brows furrowed, your question dying on your tongue as Michael leaned forward, dark eyes drifting from your mouth to your neck.

The gasp that left you was a soft exhale as you felt something prick, too distracted by the softness of his lips against your throat to take hold of the concern that should’ve been paralyzing you.

You felt a pull, almost as if your soul was being unspooled by the fates and you felt so dazed as you gazed up at the ceiling. Your fingers burying themselves in his hair without thought, his own hand coming up to cradle the other side of your neck while his other arm wrapped around your waist, practically pulling you into his lap.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You felt him everywhere. The gentle touch of his fingers drifted over your sensitive skin like leaves dancing over flagstone, mere whispers but enough to entrance.

You couldn’t stop staring at him. Finding a different footing on a new sense of madness and yes… yes, you knew him. Knew who he was.

You had known all along.

He was your ghost. Your shadow. All those months… praying to him through the messenger of the moon.

The garden that night…

“It’s you.” Your voice cracked, the realization settling in the cavity of where your chest like a revelation worthy enough to be slotted into scripture.

His mouth tugged up at the side, being pulled by an invisible string and you could finally see them— fangs, the tips pressing into his bottom lip like a promise.

Michael’s hand cupped your throat, thumb pressing up beneath your jaw to tilt your head back while his other hand wound in your hair. “Look at you,” he spoke quietly, a dazed expression woven into his features.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You weren't used to them.

They itched. The kind of itch that was maddening and made your head swim— a lick of hunger curling around your stomach violently as you sat on the ground in front of the hearth, head resting against Michael’s knee as he ran fingers through your hair.

“It’ll pass,” he muttered, voice hiding beneath the crack of fire.

You were half tempted to sink them into his thigh, your eyes slating to the side as you looked at the muscle of his leg—

Michael’s hand tightened in your hair. “Don’t.”

Your eyes flicked up. He wasn’t looking at you.

Jaw tight as he gazed at the fire and eased his hold on your hair. “Once that line is crossed, I can’t—“ he shut his eyes and took a breath. “Just, don’t. Not yet.”

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Your dreams had stopped since then, or perhaps they’d become your reality— your own version of Alice slipping through the cracks of the soil after failing to follow the rabbit.

He had fixed you, his reputation not failing him.

You stood in the gardens. Slippers wet with blue snow and you stared at the frozen body of the attendant. Still crumbled up on the ground like a discarded newspaper.

It had been weeks. Days. Months?

You didn’t know.

Your eyes danced up to the moon. Please, you prayed.

A ravenous hunger hollowed you out and then you finally realized what had been wrong. What had been creeping up your mind like a spider.

You hadn’t heard your heartbeat in a while.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Your eyes met his in the dark. Breath still as your nail traced a line down his cheek to the corner of his mouth, thumb coming up to press against the tip of his fangs.

A breath passed as you waited for him to pull away. To grab your wrist. Not yet— his two favorite words lately.

Michael didn’t say a thing.

You barely had to try, not a moment later your flesh was pierced like it was ripened fruit. A spot of crimson dewing up and before it could drip, Michael’s lips wrapped around your thumb. Gaze locked on yours and you watched as his eyes flashed red at the taste of you.

You’d never known such longing.

The rawness of it as it consumed you, feeling on fire as he slowly dragged you towards him, pulling your strings because your limbs were suddenly useless.

Say it.

You shut your eyes as his voice blanketed your mind, his soul consuming yours as you straddled his hips.

His grip tightened on your waist, “please.”

Your hands came up to cup his face, taking in the beauty of him. He was sculpted of sharp lines, his creator clearly obsessed with perfection and his eyes— Christ, looking at him felt like damnation. Like Orpheus turning to glance at Eurydice because he just couldn’t help himself.

“Michael.”

His mouth met yours and you saw a burst of multicolored lights dance behind your eyes as they slid shut, melting into him as your hands greedily pulled him close.

He stood up, carrying you easily as you wrapped your arms and legs around him, hardly paying any mind as your back settled on the bed. You couldn’t feel anything but his soul and yours.

Michael’s hips settling between your own and his hand was in your hair again, pulling taught and guiding your mouth lower— “Now.”

One word. That one word sounded like Gabriel’s trumpet— heaven reigning down in a blinding cascade of fire and finally…

Your teeth sank into the side of his throat and the sound that left you wasn’t human.

He shuddered violently, holding you close and chanting your name like a hymn he’d known for thousands of years. A millennia passing before he finally got to taste the sweetness of it on his tongue.

Michael held you close, hips pressing into yours and when you felt him thrust inside— the drag of it felt like a hit of opium.

He pulled your hair, dragging your mouth to his, hot and open— tongue dancing with yours and he groaned at the taste of your blood.

Michael’s arms held himself up just enough not to crush you as he thrusted forward, pushing you further into the mattress and your mouth gaped open at the force of it.

He was dancing on the edge of violence and it was lovely. A macabre beauty to the way his hips rolled and then his teeth dragged along your throat, drawing blood and his tongue flattened over the fresh wound moments later.

Then he was saying your name again— the cadence an ancient lilt as his cock dragged out and back in, hitting something inside of you that teased the entrance to the Elysian Fields.

The orgasm hit you hard and you choked out a cry, legs trembling but Michael kept going, his mouth and teeth digging into your throat so deep you thought he might get carried away and actually start eating you.

“Michael.”

He forced his head back, mouth and chin and teeth covered in crimson and he looked so unraveled— hips slamming into yours and pelvis grinding against your clit.

Michael was kissing you again, the action a complete mess. Wet and tasting of iron and something else a bit sweeter. Dancing between the notes of orchids and ichor.

His thrusts became erratic, the bed slamming into the wall so hard the old oak frame cracked down the middle and the mattress collapsed to the floor like the earth had opened up beneath you.

When he came and your name dripped off his tongue, you knew you’d found it. What you’d been praying for.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

michael jackson masterlist

taglist: @solarrandom @mjssluttyfish @tojiswifeforlife @sometranslationnoteru @sunshineyrosie @swgarpeas @amoravelee @softchaosdiary04 @slugstarzz @unknown11 @redemptioninthe4ethers @saberlight1 @roseidol @iimsopretty @auroralwriting @thottiepebbles16 @wannabestartinsmth @delicate-ray-of-sunshine @devynrulesboisdrool @loverstar014 @mjjsangel @uconnwbbloversworld1 @ghzfj @18lkpeters @devilslittlehelper @cherubae111 @pr3tt1d0llx @ursamajor17 @sarcasmismyfirstlove @bbpanth3rr @justalocalloser @brainacidsstuff @fayleyy @lovern-9 @jxngwons-pinkyy @veraberaxx @qultpur @thrill3rnights @arzua10 @michaelcomeback @coornballz @escapefromrealitylol @meowwnchild @oceansandwords @rorawrnoa-zoro @ooooglymoooogly @tellybearryyyy @softchaosdiary505 @yennabow @sparklyglove @khxna @bunzvii

Your hotel suite buzzes with activity as stylists, assistants, and various team members mill about the room, keeping a tight schedule as the evening’s music awards event draws near. You’re a plus one for the night, but hold an even greater role as Michael Jackson’s longtime girlfriend.

You fiddle with the ring resting on your left finger, staring blankly at the vanity placed in front of your chair. The ring’s weight still feels heavy; you’ve only just started wearing it daily this past week. You glance down at your hands, flexing your fingers. The large diamond fits perfectly, and you study it like you haven’t been staring at it so often that you’ve memorized every single reflective piece that bounces off the light.

One thing about your boyfriend: he has taste, and he knows exactly what you love.

Correction: not boyfriend. Fiancé.

A bead of sweat trickles down your back.

You swallow dryly and look back up at the mirror. Your makeup artist, Donna, has been rambling on about something you haven’t paid attention to. It takes you a second to hone in on the gentle undulation of her voice and catch onto what she’s saying.

“—And Marv, well, he’s doing better now, but the kids are getting crazier as they get older. You know what I mean?”

You blink slowly, take another second to settle in, and nod.

“Um, yeah, for sure, Donna.”

Donna gives you a knowing look before rolling her eyes and continuing to powder your face. You catch a playful glint in her expression as she eyes you in the mirror.

“You didn’t hear a word I just said, did you?”

You duck your head sheepishly and shrug. “Sorry. Got a lot on my mind.”

“Yeah?” She asks, moving on to work on your eyes. “Like that big rock on your finger?”

Your eyes flit away and then back at Donna’s reflection. You smile, bashful, and nod.

Donna chuckles. “Congrats, honey. Don’t think I got a chance to say it before.”

You glance down. “Thank you. We… I mean Michael and I, we haven’t really said anything yet.”

“Everyone knows, sweetie,” Donna chides playfully. She swipes some product onto your lids. “We were all wondering when he’d finally ask.”

You chuckle. “I know, it’s kind of been a long time coming. We feel ready now. It’s just…”

You trail off again, feeling a pit grow in your stomach. You start to fiddle with the ring again.

Donna fills the silence. “The press still don’t know?”

The grimace on your face appears immediately. “No. There’s no better way for them to find out than tonight, I guess.”

Donna nods without reply, finishing her work on your eyes. She gestures at you to look up. You study the look: neutral colors with a touch of rose, the same shade as your blush. The color palette compliments your brown eyes and medium skin tone, just the way you like it. Donna added a gold line on top of your black eyeliner, a simple touch to elevate the look. You nod and smile at her.

Donna does the finishing touches as she speaks again. “So how are you two going to approach the big reveal?”

You sigh. “Well, we haven’t really discussed it. I think we both mutually agreed that we just wouldn’t say anything unless someone asks us directly. Michael has a ring too; he says he got it just because he liked it, but I know he wanted to join in the engagement somehow.”

Saying that out loud brings a small smile to your face. Michael was just sweet like that. He never wants you to feel alone in what you two do together. Donna smiles as you talk.

“That’s wonderful, honey. Well, I’m wishing you both godspeed tonight. Just hold onto each other, like you always do.”

Donna squeezes your shoulder. You reach over to touch her hand briefly and look up at her, smiling. She pats you and finishes your makeup off with your lips.

You get dressed after your hairdresser comes over to adjust the small kinks in your updo. Your dark hair is pinned up in a messy bun, styled to look effortless and clean. You glance at the closed door. Michael’s on the other side, and you have yet to see him since you both started getting ready. You let out a slow, deep breath as more of your team flutters around you like birds, fussing over every small thing they notice needs fixing. After a few minutes, your assistant Charlie motions at you to stand.

“I’ll help you get your shoes on,” She chirps.

You smile, grateful. “Thanks, Char.”

You hold onto the back of the chair you sat on while slipping your feet into the gold heels. Charlie clasps them securely. When she stands, she gives you a once-over with an admiring smile.

“Stunning as always, my love. Do you want to take a peek?”

“Sure.” You walk carefully over to the mirror, testing out the heels. Slightly uncomfortable, but not totally impossible to walk in. The shoes click along the floor as a path emerges amidst the milling crowd, guiding you towards the mirror. You take your place in front of it and can’t help a small gasp escaping your mouth.

A glittering, black dress hugs your figure perfectly as it cascades down into a short train. You turn left and right, sneaking a glance at the nearly backless frame, held together by a few straps that complement your body. You run your hands along your stomach to your hips, feeling the silky material. You glance up at your torso and face, seeing body glitter shine subtly in the light and illuminating the soft features in your face.

You continue to admire the final look as you hear soft whistles and cheers sound behind you. You look around and wave people off, smiling and feeling a slight blush heat your cheeks. You don’t notice the door open off to the side and the almost immediate hush that falls over the room.

You smile at your reflection and say to no one in particular, “I think this is one of my best looks.”

“Indeed, it is.”

You turn to the side and see Michael leaning against the door frame, arms and legs crossed. He has his aviators on already, covering nearly half his face, but it still draws attention to the small half smile spread across his mouth. You glance up and down at him. He dons his armor-like leg guards on his shins atop fitted black pants, covering his staple loafers. He wears a fitted black leather vest, also shining in the light, with the collar popped open at the neck. His curls are cut short in a fluffy, stylish manner. You have the sudden urge to run your hands through them.

Michael stands out, but in the best way possible. Even after all these years, he still takes your breath away. Your smile widens as you twirl in place.

“Like what you see?”

Michael pushes himself off the door frame and walks over to you. He covers his mouth and rubs his chin slightly, laughing.

“I do. You look incredible, baby.”

That elicits a small giggle from your lips. The world hones in on the two of you as you watch Michael approach. He takes off his sunglasses and tucks them in his shirt as he draws near. You don’t notice Charlie shooing everyone out, whispering a small, “We’ll leave you two alone for a few,” before closing the door with a soft click.

Michael goes to stand behind you and slides his hands around your waist, enveloping you in a gentle caress. He stares at your reflection with round, soft eyes, tracking your every move. You hold his gaze and lean against him like second nature. You both begin to sway back and forth involuntarily, looking at each other in the mirror. Michael leans down to kiss your shoulder above the dress strap. He straightens and catches your eye as he flashes a shy smile.

“So beautiful.”

Your blush deepens. “You look very handsome yourself.”

Michael laughs, a deep rumbling against your back. “Thank you.”

He glances down at your hands and takes your left one, his fingers grazing the engagement band. You turn towards him, still keeping close, your other hand on his chest. You both look down at the ring.

“How do you feel about tonight?” Michael asks, gentle.

You release a shaky breath you didn’t realize you were holding in. “Okay.” You rub Michael’s hand absentmindedly. His other one resting on your waist squeezes slightly. You avoid his gaze, fiddling with his jacket collar with your other hand.

“Just okay?”

Michael leans down to catch your eye, a knowing glint reflecting in his own. You chew your bottom lip and furrow your brows.

You sigh, shifting to reach both arms around Michael’s shoulders and pull him into a hug. You feel your heartbeat hammering in your chest as he pulls you close. His scent envelops your senses, calming you.

“No,” You mumble. “I’m nervous as hell.”

Michael laughs again, his embrace tightening slightly. “I am too, baby. But we’ll get through it together.”

You hum. “I know we will.”

You pull away and grab his left hand, running a finger on his own silver band and smiling. You bring your lips to it, keeping eye contact as you plant a kiss on top of his fingers and leave a lipstick stain behind. Michael’s grin stretches from ear to ear, a bashful blush tinging the top of his ears pink.

“Just don’t let go of my hand, my girl.”

You hit his chest playfully. “Never.”

Michael kisses the side of your head, careful to avoid your makeup, and slips his hand into yours as you both leave the room. He slides his aviators back on as Charlie appears next to you. She places your clutch in your hand and begins to rattle off instructions to the two of you. You nod absentmindedly as security leads you out into the hallway, to the elevator, and through the hotel lobby. As you approach the exit, you can already see the flashing lights from behind the window. Michael’s grip on your hand remains firm as you enter the frenzied crowd.

Cameras flash in your face, and the familiar chorus of excited voices and exclamations that always follow your fiancé rushes into your ears. You keep your head slightly down, focused on putting one foot in front of the other. Paparazzi and reporters call your name, Michael’s name, shoving notepads and audio recorders towards your faces. Your security team keeps a narrow path open for you to reach your car.

Michael moves behind you as you reach the open door. He helps you with your dress as you scoot inside, him following quickly behind. The door shuts immediately, drowning out most of the sound. You release a breath and find Michael’s arm again, slinking yours around it.

Michael reaches over to move a few loose strands framing your face to the side. He kisses your head again and looks down at you, adoration splashed all over his cheeks.

“Step one done,” He jokes.

You snort, which makes him laugh. “Yeah, out of a million.”

You both make idle chit chat as you drive to the event. Eventually you pull in and see an even bigger crowd of roaring fans, and numerous media outlets surround the award’s red carpet entrance. The car pulls to a stop and someone opens the door on Michael’s side. He squeezes your hand.

“Ready?”

You lean in to give him a small peck on the lips. His head follows yours as you pull back, Michael smiling softly as if wanting more. You shake your head, laughing.

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

Michael gets out of the car first, and the screams outside intensify. He holds his hand out to help you down. As you step fully out, you glance outward with a shy smile on your face before looking back at Michael. He takes your hand and mouths, “Hold on.” You nod as you both take off into the carpet.

You first pose to take pictures. Charlie materializes again to take your clutch from you, signaling that she’ll return it once you’re settled inside. You rejoin Michael as he poses for the cameras. His hand never leaves your waist as he guides you from one spot to the next. Near the end of the picture train, you raise your left hand to rest on Michael’s chest. You see him glance down at your peripheral, and you look up at him. He grins from ear to ear as he leans into your touch. You follow him, unable to keep your laughter in as you both lose your composure.

The frenzy behind the camera line rises to an uproar. You hear numerous exclamations of shock and joy from the crowd as Michael takes your hand again and leads you into the reporters’ section.

“Michael, is that a ring?”

“Hold up your hand, let’s see the rock!”

“Let’s see those smiles!”

You chuckle as you continue walking. A staff member speaks to Michael briefly before leading him towards the first reporter. You steel yourself and touch Michael’s arm. He leans down as you speak into his ear.

“How many reporters are we talking to today?”

Michael shakes his head. “I’m hoping only three.”

You know that’s probably wishful thinking as you station yourselves next to the first person. She’s a tall, beautiful woman sporting a big afro and wide smile. The camera crew adjusts themselves while she readies her cue cards. She looks at the two of you before rolling and greets you warmly.

“Hi, you two, welcome to the VMAs. I’m Shayla and we just have a few questions for y’all today, nothing major.”

Michael nods as you voice over a soft “okay,” and someone announces you’re live. You smile as the interviewer greets Michael first.

“Hello to the stunning couple here! Michael, could you tell us what you’re wearing?”

“Yes, well, these are custom, designed by my longtime stylists, Michael Bush and Dennis Tompkins. They’re wonderful, as you can see, and really tailor the elevated look I like.”

“Of course, you always look incredible. And you, my dear, this dress is gorgeous on you.”

You laugh. “Why, thank you. I’m wearing Versace head-to-toe.”

Shayla smiles. “Amazing. And…” She trails off, glancing down at your entwined hands. “I’m sorry, I have to ask! There’s also something shiny catching my eye on your finger. Is that what I think it is?”

You inhale deeply and flash a grin. You bring your hand up as if tucking back your hair and then rest it on your chest, breathing dramatically. “I do believe so.”

Michael covers his mouth, his shoulders shaking as he suppresses his laughter at your antics. You glance at him with mirth as Shayla lets out a not-so-subtle shriek into her microphone.

“Oh my god! Can I see the ring?”

You nod, laughing as you stick your hand out. She takes your fingers delicately, ogling the diamond before looking back at you.

“Okay, screw the cards! Congratulations! When did you propose? Did this just happen?”

You look at Michael, who nods shyly.

“Yes, this past weekend. I thought it was high time.”

He looks down at you, and you just nod back, giggling.

“So sweet,” Shayla muses. She looks at you. “And you’ve been together for a few years now, right?”

“Yes, almost four now. We’ve honestly been talking about it for a while now, but we finally bit the bullet. Actually, he finally proposed; I’ve just been waiting here.”

You point your thumb at him and roll your eyes playfully, earning a few chuckles from the camera crew and a light laugh from the interviewer. Someone from your staff signals that it’s time to move on and Shayla nods.

“Well, that’s amazing news, you two. Congratulations again and enjoy your night!”

You both give your thanks before moving along the carpet. Michael leans down to speak in your ear.

“That wasn’t too bad.”

You hit him lightly on the chest. “Don’t jinx it!”

He laughs as he leads you along. Michael stops a few times to greet the fans, mostly to avoid more interviewers. You say hi as well; most of them scream your name and unintelligible words above the noise. You just continue smiling and nodding before you’re whisked away to another interviewer close to the entrance of the awards building.

Almost there, you tell yourself. The interviewer Michael parks you next to is a middle-aged white man with a permanent smirk on his face. He looks up and down before flashing a grin. You smile politely before glancing up at Michael. You can’t see his eyes, but his jaw is set in a straight line, and you can see him gritting his teeth. His arm snakes around your waist as he pulls you in close. You don’t resist as the interview gets started.

“So, lovebirds, word travels down the carpet fast. You’re engaged? Congratulations.”

A mild tone of politeness oozes from the man’s voice. Michael nods curtly.

“Yes, thank you.”

“And you just happened to announce it first at tonight's awards show? Bold move.”

Michael answers again coolly. “Well, yes, we thought there wouldn’t be a better time.”

The man glances down at his cards and then looks up to address you. “You’ve known Michael for how many years now?”

Your polite smile feels stiff on your mouth as you reply. “About four.”

“Mm. And you’re how old again?”

You blink and tilt your head. Outrage flames in your chest, and you fight to stamp it down, praying any media training you’ve received kicks in at this moment.

“Now, sir, isn’t it improper to ask a woman of her age?” You bat your eyelashes and force your grin wider, hoping to exude witty charm rather than incredulous shock.

The man chuckles; it seems to have worked, for now. “It’s just, you seem so young. And no doubt you’ve read what folks have said about your… relationship.”

Your expression falters slightly. Oh yes—you’ve seen the headlines.

This Just In: Michael’s Hot New Fling (A Young One, At That)

Breaking News: Michael Likes Little Girls Now?!

Age Gap Love: In Fashion or Out of Style?

The content of those features is even worse. The media circus seems to know everything about you and Michael but the actual truth of your relationship. The stuff they say about you is vicious, hateful, and infantilizing, despite you being of age when you both first met. You knew what it would look like to the rest of the world, yet you underestimated just how nasty public scrutiny could get.

Michael has been through the worst, and you’ve been right by his side the whole time. You both felt less alone through everything, but it still hurt sometimes. Now, though, declaring your love and devotion proudly to the world and still being judged for it, you felt nothing other than simmering fury threatening to boil over.

But still, you forced yourself to remain calm. Tonight was Michael’s night, and yours. So you kept that smile plastered on your face and spoke through your teeth.

“Of course I’ve read everything. But I love Michael, and he loves me. We make each other happy. Now we’re engaged and can’t wait for married life together.”

You brought your hand to rest on his chest, and he grabbed it with his other, squeezing softly. He smiled down at you before frowning at the interviewer.

“I love her, and that’s all that matters.” He said firmly.

The interviewer cleared his throat and looked at his crew awkwardly. “Well then… one more question for you, Michael…”

He asked a standard question about Michael’s performance tonight, and before you knew it, you were led inside the venue. Michael greets other artists along the way to your seats in the front row. You see Janet and pull away from Michael for a moment to hug her and chat. She notices your ring and squeals in happiness, rushing to hug you once more and congratulating you.

“About time my damn brother proposes. Ahh, I’m so happy for y’all!”

“Thank you Janet, it really means a lot.”

The two of you hug again when Michael finds you. He also hugs his sister, chatting briefly before he takes your arm and guides you to your seats.

After you sit down, you slump against Michael with a groan.

“God, I thought that would never be over.”

He laughs in your ear, which sends warm tingles down your spine. Michael moves his arm to pull you against him. You nestle in closer as you let out a huff of breath. He rubs your arm up and down in a soothing motion.

“That last reporter was a dimwit. Are you okay?”

You shift to look at him. Michael’s face is inches from yours. You’re close enough that you can barely see his eyes behind his glasses, which flit all over your face, searching your expression. You give him a genuine smile, reaching over to smooth his hair back and caress the side of his face. Michael leans into your touch, breathing in deeply and giving your palm a soft kiss. You almost melt at the sight of him like this, so enamored and concerned with his beloved.

Again, the commotion around you in the auditorium disappears. Everything closes in, muffles in volume and out of focus. Your attention is locked in on the man beside you, like you’re the only two people in the world. He returns your smile and reaches over to squeeze your exposed thigh. Your breath hitches involuntarily, a blush rising in your cheeks.

You clear your throat as you reach to hold his hand. You clasp your fingers over his as you say, “I’m fine, baby. They don’t know anything about us.”

Michael nods, though his mouth remains downturned. “They really don’t. But still… They say awful stuff. The last thing I want in the world is for you to take those words to heart.”

You respond by squeezing his hand firmly. “Their words hurt sometimes. You know that; I’m only human. But Mikey, we’ve got something special. And your love gives me strength. I know who I am, and our love only gives me more courage to push through. I promise.”

Michael’s face lifts at your words. He looks down at your intertwined hands. His fingers rub tiny circles on yours as he hums.

“You help me be brave too, my girl.” Michael flashes you one of his brilliant grins, warm and blinding all at once. You can’t help but hum back in admiration and lean forward to kiss him softly.

He kisses you back, not fully leaning in, but lingering, not wanting to break apart from your embrace. You pull back slightly to give him a big smile. Michael just looks at you in wonder, drinking in your features as if you’re the only woman in the world. Everything around you suddenly rushes in again, blaring music from the speakers flooding your senses and calling your attention to the stage. You rest your hand on top of Michael’s, which never leaves your thigh the whole ceremony.

He leaves in the middle of the show to prepare for his performance, and when he steps out on stage, you already know that this would be one of his most iconic sets. The screams from the crowd and the fans on the balcony are deafening. You relish seeing him on stage, adored by everyone and looking so good. But what you love the most is how many times he searches for you in the crowd and looks in your direction. He even points a few times, cheeky and flirtatious, causing you to laugh every time.

The camera also keeps panning to you cheering and dancing in place. You don’t miss the glint of the diamond on your finger on the big screen and how Michael’s ring flashes in the stage lights. A subtle announcement, a proud declaration of your love.

Your chest swells with pure devotion. To the rest of the world, the man on stage is Michael Jackson, global superstar and legend. To you, he is the love of your life, the man you’ll spend the rest of your days with.

Michael finishes his performance with a bang and runs offstage. When he returns to your seat during commercial break, you stand up cheering for him with open arms. Michael sweeps you upward in a fierce hug and spins you in the air. You squeal, laughter escaping your body as the wind is nearly knocked out of you.

He sets you down and kisses you again, this time a little more deeply. You’re sure everyone around you is staring, but you could care less. He lingers a little longer before pulling back with a boyish grin.

“How’d I do, honey?”

“Flawless as always,” You reply, breathless. You return his expression with a bright smile and you take your seats as the show continues.

When Michael and Janet win their final award for the night, they take the stage and do their speeches. At this point, they make it short and sweet, but Michael adds a special touch to his words that shocks you with bliss.

“I won’t take too much time. Janet and I are very grateful for these awards, thank you MTV. Again, I want to thank God, my family, and especially my special lady in the front row.”

Michael points directly at you and your eyebrows raise in surprise. This is the first time Michael explicitly acknowledges you on stage all night. The camera pans to you as more screams erupt from the crowd. You blow a kiss with both hands and keep your hands on your chest. Your face hurts from how much you’re smiling, but you can’t stop.

Michael turns away in his shy manner, a soft smile on his face. Then he turns back to face you and keeps eye contact as he finishes speaking.

“You make me a better man. You’re the reason I do what I do. And I can’t wait to keep celebrating these moments with you for the rest of our lives.”

Michael blows a kiss back, his ring catching the light. Your eyes flood with tears threatening to spill, chest filling with emotion as he mouths “I love you” while walking offstage. The crowd erupts into a frenzy as the next announcers appear. They have to shout to be heard over the din. Although he didn’t say it outright, Michael might as well have told the whole world what you’ve both got coming next. And you couldn’t be happier.

Your head buzzes, feeling light and airy as Michael returns to his seat. Cheers follow him and don’t seem to settle as another commercial break returns. You turn to him as he sits down and shove him lightly.

“Real subtle, what you just did.” You tease.

Michael shrugs, biting his lower lip. You mirror him, fighting the sudden urge to pounce on him right then and there. God, you love him so much.

“What can I say baby, I just speak my truth.”

You lean to kiss his cheek and smooth his curls back. He follows your every move as you shake your head playfully.

“Well, I’m honored,” You chuckle. “I can’t wait for the rest of our lives to begin, too.”

Michael takes your hand and plants a soft, lingering kiss on the back of it. You giggle and lean into him again as the ceremony reaches its finish.

At the end of the night, you both decide to go back to your hotel instead of the afterparty. The media is a full on circus in the pick up area. Reporters from every angle yell to dish out more information about your engagement, Michael’s proposal, and when you’re getting married. The door shuts behind Michael and the car peels away, leaving the din behind as you both retreat into your own private little world for the rest of the night.

The next morning, you flip a newspaper idly as the news plays on the TV in the background. Your feet are on Michael’s lap, him running his fingers absentmindedly on your skin as he eats breakfast.

Unsurprisingly, the two of you are splashed all over the front page. The King of Pop Engaged!

“Aw look, honey, this is actually a decent press photo of us.”

You turn the newspaper towards Michael. He leans in to take a peek. You’re both looking to the side in a candid way, Michael throwing a peace sign while your hand is on your chest, smiling brilliantly in the same direction. The photo catches the ring in the perfect angle, its glint shining perfectly on paper.

“You look gorgeous, baby,” He muses, and glances playfully at you. “If I’m not mistaken, that hand placement is suspiciously placed. Almost like you planned it for the photo op.”

You snort, putting down the paper and looking at your hand in admiration. “Well, strategic maneuver or not, I just love showing this off.”

“I know you do.” Michael grabs your outstretched hand and pulls you up to stand. You give him an amused look before bursting into giggles as he twirls you in place. He sways you back and forth, your chest flush against his torso as you dance to the TV noise.

You look up at him, smiling. He returns your gaze, warm brown eyes melting into you. You turn your head to rest against his body. You hear his heartbeat, strong and steady, thrum in your ears.

“I really can’t wait to marry you,” He whispers. His voice rumbles in his chest and you look back up at him. He looks at you like it’s the first time he’s seen you—smitten and hopelessly in love. Like every time he looks at you, he sees an angel come down to earth who will change his life forever.

You laugh, bright and airy. It fills the space and lights up Michael’s expression even more. He looks lovesick, like he’s seeing the face of God. Like the only thing he wants is you.

“I can’t wait to marry you and become Mrs. Jackson.” You reply, flirty and sensual all at once.

Michael groans, helpless, and smiles as he leans down to kiss you, pulling you in as close as possible. You wrap your arms around his neck as you stand on your toes to meet him. Michael kisses you deep and slow, like he’s memorizing every part of your body with every touch. His hands grip your waist, roam underneath your shirt to graze your skin. His touch is gentle, feathery light, but feels like fire. You gasp, breathless, pulling back slightly.

At your sounds, Michael emits a deeper groan, chasing your mouth as his grip on you tightens. He swallows your gasp in another deep kiss, swollen lips enveloping you in a desperate fervor. Michael breaks apart to bend down and lift you bridal style in one sweep. You yelp, laughing as he picks you up. He kisses you sweetly as he walks towards the bedroom.

You hum into his mouth. “Mikey, we haven’t finished breakfast yet.”

“We can finish it later,” He murmurs, continuing to kiss you as he leads you to the bed.

He lays you down gently onto the covers and hovers over you, basking in your face and body below. His eyes search you, full of wonder and adoration and complete devotion.

“I love you so much, my girl.”

You gaze up at him, this beautiful man with dark curls and gentle eyes, with an even gentler soul. Your heart swells until it threatens to burst.

“I love you more, Mikey.”

Michael grins, teasing.

The Tokyo streets glow with sodium lamps and neon signs that are blinking overhead. The streets are mostly empty, aside from a few stragglers and drunks passed out along the sidewalk.

It isn’t until ten minutes into your walk that you feel it—eyes. You glance around, confused. There’s no one you can see, just a small cat on the other side of the street that isn’t even watching you, finding more interest in it’s own paw. Shrugging you keep walking.

Five minutes later you cut into a narrow alley. A shortcut home you normally take after a night out with the girls, granted they are with you—safety in numbers or something. Your drunken mind isn’t really concerned with that right now, though. Your feet are cold, small stones digging into your toes where you’re walking, and you’re lucky you haven’t encountered something sharp yet.

A little bit further into the dark alley you feel it again, that heavy sense of being watched. Whipping your head around you see someone stand at the end of the alleyway. The person’s silhouette completely black, except for the stark white hair that’s illuminated by the streetlight from above. The second thing you note is how tall they are. And the third thing you notice is the eyes—they’re glowing. Piercing blue looking over at you.

He’s just… staring at you. But when he sees you looking at him, he takes a step towards you. Then another. And another. You back up, pointing a finger at him.

“Stay there!” you bark out, finger trembling slightly. “Stay,” you repeat, firmer. The man halts, one pale eyebrow lifting in amusement.

“That’s right. Good boy.” If you were sober, you’d cringe at calling a stranger good boy, but right now all you can think of is that you’re drunk, barefoot, in an alley, and this guy is, what—seven feet tall?

His face becomes clearer now, a bit of moonlight illuminating some of the planes of his face. His skin is porcelain-like, eyes like a kaleidoscope of every blue imaginable, and a smirk is on his face, clearly enjoying this entire interaction.

Right, you’re staring. You clear your throat. “I-I’m going now. You just… stay there.”

He only crosses his arms and leans against the wall, still watching. You slowly nod your head, taking a small step back. Okay, good, he’s staying right where he is. Where you told him to stay. Turning around you nearly scream bloody murder.

He’s right there.

A gasp slips from your lips, mouth dropping open while your eyes bug out of your skull. Did the alcohol in your system fuck you up so bad you somehow turned around slow enough for him to walk in front of you without you noticing it?

You crane your neck up to look at him, stumbling back slightly with the change of your head, before you steady yourself again. He’s smiling down at you, and it’s a nice smile, honestly. It would’ve been charming, if not for the fangs. They’re long, sharp, and very obvious.

Alarm bells blare in your head, muffled slightly by the badum badum badum of your heart in your ears. Impossibly blue eyes, inhuman speed, and now fangs.

“Vampire,” you whisper, voice barely audible.

The stranger’s smile widens. “Ding, ding, ding, sweetheart.”

You swallow hard, of course this would happen to you today out of all days, after being told your friend is fucking your ex and leaving you stranded, alone, in the club.

Your hand slips into your bag, fingers fumbling, digging, trying to search for the bag you had touched earlier that night. But the more you keep fumbling, the harder your heart is starting to beat. Did you make up the fact that you had the bag with you? He notices the motion, of course he does.

“Oh? Gonna pepper spray me? Call a friend?” there’s clear amusement in his voice, “Newsflash, sweetheart, I’m way too fast for that.”

Your fingers keep searching. Come on, come on, come on— There. The pads of your fingers skim over the plastic bag, and it crinkles under the motion. Bingo.

Your heart slams against your ribcage. God, please let that dumb folklore be right. You grab the bag an dump it onto the ground, a soft thud sounds through the alley as thousands of rice grains scatter across the tiles.

The vampire’s head snaps down. He stares for a few seconds, blinks, then crouches. He mutters something under his breath and begins to count, fast—really fucking fast.

You stare at this seven-foot, hulking creature for a few more seconds. Then you take one step back, and another, and another. Then you run, feet pounding against the floor down the alley.

You risk a glance over your shoulder, just hoping he isn’t fast enough to count all of that within seconds. Big mistake. He’s still counting, luckily. But… he looks kind of cute doing it, nevermind the part where he’s a seven-foot vampire.

You slow down, feet coming to a halt, before you turn back and walk up just enough to grab your phone from where it fell onto the ground.

Click.

He doesn’t look up, but the twitch of his fingers tell you he heard it. “Cute.”

Gojo has never seen something like this before. He didn’t expect to be pelted with grains of rice by a cute drunk girl he’d set his sights on the moment she stumbled out of the club. Worse, he has the compelling urge to count them all. He isn’t sure why, all he knows is that he has to count them.

It’s something he’ll look into when he gets home.

It was a smart move on your part, clearly having read some sort of vampire lore before—unless you throw rice at every creep you encounter. However you came back, feet still bare, one of your heels lay abandoned further down the alleyway.

Then you whispered something about how cute he was, as if he isn’t a whole seven feet of vampire.

Now? Now you’re sitting across from him, feet still bare and dirty with grime and small pebbles stuck to your toes—how you haven’t noticed is beyond him—heel danling from your fingers, and your dress is riding up your thighs.

You’re mumbling incoherently about your ex and your friend, not that he’s paying attention to it, all his focus is on the stupid grains of rice.

He isn’t sure why you aren’t running. You know he’s a vampire, having seen his speed, his fangs, his eyes—hell, you even whispered it, vampire. Yet you’re still sitting here, in front of him, as if you’re keeping him company.

He knows you’re drunk, he can smell it on your breath, and if that wasn’t the dead giveaway then the stumbling and walking back to a fucking vampire would be. No one would do that shit when they’re sober.

You’re recounting a story about your ex now, gesturing wildly into the cool night-air. He’s had to restart his count a total of three times already because you keep distracting him. The first time you accidentally kicked the pile when you went to sit down, apologising to him for fucking it up.

The second time you ‘accidentally’ smacked his arm when telling him something. You’d said it was accidental because you were gesturing, but he thinks it’s because he wasn’t paying attention to your story.

He can only hope that the third time just works out for him, because he really wants to sink his fangs into your glistening skin—apart from the sweat you’d certainly built up in the club there’s something else to it, maybe a shimmer you’d applied before leaving for the club earlier today.

He only has a few hundred grains of rice left when your phone rings. And just like anything else tonight, you pick it up without any hesitation.

Gojo can hear a man on the other side of the line, saying something snarky. He isn’t tuned into the conversation, but his ears could hear everything if he wanted to, but he’s still counting, and he’d rather focus on that and finally feed himself than listen to whatever is being said by you or the man.

3124 3125 3126 3127… He’s about to count the last grain of rice when you suddenly flip the phone to him, screen illuminating his skin in a mix of blue and green. 3159 grains of rice, all counted.

He finally looks up and sees a guy filling your screen. Faux blond hair with green roots, brown eyes, and a smirk on his face that quickly morphs into something else. Then you turn your phone back to yourself, slurring out a, “See, ‘m with someone. Now leave m’ alone, asshole.”

Gojo hears the call disconnect, sees the way your screen goes dark. The only light illuminating your skin now is the pale moonlight. Then you take a deep breath and promptly fling yourself backward onto the ground.

“See what I have to deal with?” your eyes find his, a small pout formed on your face while your brows furrow. Gojo doesn’t say anything, just looks at you with those piercing blue eyes. He crosses his arms over his chest and clears his throat. “I’m gonna give you a twenty-second head start, sweetheart. If I were you I’d take it.”

Your brows furrow in confusion this time, nose crinkling slightly. God, you really forgot, didn’t you?

He heaves a sigh and opens his mouth just enough to show his fangs. They glint in the moonlight, showing of just how sharp they are. You squint your eyes a bit, then they open wide again.

“Vampire,” you whisper again, voice fully trembling. But then you groan, it rumbles through your chest a bit, and kick your feet a little. “I don’ wanna runnnn.”

Gojo has to close his eyes for a second and take a deep breath. He likes the chase that comes from when people are afraid of him. Likes it even more when his prey think they can outrun him. They can’t, but he sure does like having them believe they can. Blood always tastes sweeter when there’s a hint of fear involved, after all.

He opens his eyes again and looks straight at you. Then he leans in a little, breath just shy of ghosting the shell of your ear.

“Run,” he whispers, voice sticky sweet as honey. He can see the way your eyes gloss over a bit. Then you’re scrambling upward, and dart out of the alley—your other heel clattering to the ground.

Gojo, true to his word, waits a full twenty seconds. Then he’s in front of you again, making you yelp and dash away again, stumbling over your own feet a little, crashing into the wall, scraping your hand on the rough stones.

The cat and mouse game continues for what he thinks is a full ten minutes. He can hear your heart pounding, blood rushing through your body, and your whispers of ‘Please don’t kill me, I’m way too hot’ and ‘I should’ve stayed home’ and ‘He is kinda cute, though.’

He ignores that last one.

It isn’t until you stumble up the steps of a house where he catches you. His broad chest pressed to your back, one arm wrapped tightly around your waist, fingers dipping into your sides,, while the other is planted next to your head on the door.

“Gotcha,” he whispers into your hair. You’re trembling in his grip, knees almost buckling out form under you. You’re pressed flat against the front door of your house.

You were so close, all you had to do was open it and you would’ve been fine.

You can feel the way his pecs are squished against your back. He’s hunched over you, entire frame leaning down so he can nose against your hair. His muscles are bulging out of his shirt, making you press your thighs together.

It’s a weird mixture of fear and arousal that’s shooting through you. You know he’s a vampire, know he can kill you in an instant—and maybe he will drain you of all your blood—but he’s also so tall. His entire hand splayed out over your tummy now.

He chuckles when he notices the way you’re pressing your thighs together. His cold breath fanning over your skin, almost like a night breeze caressing your face. “You gonna let me in, sweets?”

You know you shouldn’t. Know you should try to get out of his cold, undead grip as fast as you can. The door is right there, one step and you’d be free of him. One big step, you’d just have to get out of his grasp. Sure he has bulging muscles and probably inhuman strength, but you can twist your way out of this, can’t you? Just do a little shimmy and free yourself.

The big hand that’s on your stomach can’t possibly keep you right there, pressed against him, can it? Nevermind the fact that he has such thick forearms and biceps and triceps even Greek Gods would be jealous of.

Turning a bit to the left, you try to see if you have any wiggle room, only for him to chuckle once more. His fingers dig into your flesh a bit harder now, indenting the skin where he touches you. Welp, there goes your plan, straight out the window.

“Promise not to kill me?” You don’t dare to look at him, afraid his eyes will put you under a spell yet again. You know you should’ve ran the first time he told you to, but you were too out of your mind to fully grasp the situation. “Mhmm, just want some of your blood.”

That seems… reasonable enough. You fumble with your keys slightly, still trembling in your grip, the keys and keychains clinking against each other. It’s the only sound in the entire street, everyone else already being in bed—which is no surprise, considering you left the club at… three or something like that.

When you finally slot your keys into the hole, you twist it open, pushing the door open to your dark hallway.

You’re about to set a foot into your house when the guy tugs you back against his chest. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Right, he’s a vampire and not just some random hookup you dragged home. A very handsome vampire, though. If you’re going out, at least it’s by a hottie. Oh fuck, he really can just kill you. I mean, he just said he wouldn’t, but he can lie about it. Then again, he could’ve killed you ten times over already.

“What’s your name?” That seems to catch him off-guard. Blinking a few times, those baby blues looking you over in wonder a few times, and you can’t help but melt into him a bit—only for you to stand up straight again when you feel how fucking cold he is.

“Satoru,” is all he mumbles out, fangs poking out slightly. He really is cute for a terrifying creature.

Nodding your head you nudge the door open even further, extending your hand into your house with a flourish. “Come in, Satoru.”

The next second you’re picked up before he all but throws you onto your couch, your body bouncing a bit before he’s on you. A yelp leaves your lips, heart pounding out of your ribs, fingers shaking slightly, breaths heavy.

Right, he is a vampire with inhuman speed and strength. Your pupils dilate a bit, hairs standing on edge when he grins down at you with those too-sharp canines. His eyes almost seem to glow in this moment, face shadowed completely.

You’re frozen in place, reality settling in like someone poured a cold cup of water over your head to sober you up.

You just invited a vampire into your house. To drink your blood. Way to fucking go.

“Ready, sweets?” He murmurs down at you, picking up your hand where it lies limp beside you on the couch, pulse hammering in your ears. He brings your fingers up to his mouth, before wrapping his lips around the bloodied appendages, tongue laving over the wounds there. You’d honestly forgotten you even had them—too busy running away from him to notice just how scratched up your clammy palms were.

His saliva stings your skin, making you pull away, only for him to hold your wrist in place. He licks a broad stripe from your palms up to your fingers, leaving behind a red trail—blood and saliva mixed together.

When you don’t answer he grins a bit wider, lips slightly red by your blood. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.”

With that he surges forward, one strong arm wrapping around your waist to keep you from squirming while the other quickly brushes away the hairs that are falling over your shoulder. His fangs puncture your skin just above your collarbone, and it feels like your nerves are on fire.

Your mouth opens in a scream, only to have it clamped shut by a big palm. Tears spring to your eyes, fat drops falling down the apples of your cheeks before they drip from your jawline onto the couch below.

You can feel the way your blood is leaving you. Satoru is sucking on the wound hard enough to make your eyes roll to the back of your skull—not in pleasure, but in pain. Pure agony running through your veins now.

From all the vampire lore, you whished the aphrodisiac bite was at least true. But instead of pleasure surging through you, it’s pain. Pure pain. You can feel the way your body jerks from the sensation, but Satoru just tightens his hold onto you, pushing you further into the couch.

The last thing you see before the dark takes ahold of you is the blue glow emitting from his eyes, casting the two of you in a soft, blue glare, making his pale hair stand out against the darkness of the room.

You wake up surrounded by softness. Blinking a few times you register just where you are—your own bed. Your pillow is soft and fluffy under your head, and your blanket is keeping you warm. Your head is absolutely pounding, a dull thud behind your eyes making you groan.

Just how much did you have to drink last night?

Thinking back on the night before, you can remember bits and pieces. You went out with your friend to celebrate… something, only for her to leave you alone at the club later that night.

Why did she leave you alone again?

Racking your brain, you try to fill in the gaps as good as you can. You remember drinking and dancing. Hips moving to the beat—well you tried to, but you probably were off-beat if you’re going to be honest—while your friend was laughing with you.

Then she leaned forward with a smile on her face and murmured something in your ear. What the fuck did she say that she had to leave?

You furrow your brows, closing your eyes once more. Right, right, it’s coming all back to you now. She told you she was dating Naoya out of all people. Even after you’d told her every minute detail about that scumbag, she still chose to be with him, destroying your trust in the process.

Fucking bitch. And then she just up and left you there to get home by yourself.

Okay, now you know why your head is pounding—having drank waayyy too much alcohol to at least have a good night by yourself. But how did you get home?

You pat around your bed to search for your phone, twisting your neck to look to your left side, only for a hiss to leave your lips when you feel just how much your neck hurts. Your hand shoots to the spot, only to find gauze under your fingertips.

Gauze? Why is there gauze on your neck out of all places.

You rub your head with your other hand, only to feel small scabs on your fingertips. Opening your eyes you look at your hand, only to see it being scabbed over at some places.

Right, you scratched your hand on the wall when running away from that cute vampire. …Wait, what??

Sitting up you look around your room, to hopefully see said vampire, but he’s nowhere to be found. A laugh bubbles up in your chest and leaves your lips. A vampire, how stupid is that. Your drunken mind probably made all of that up.

Seeing a weird silhouette in an alleyway sure is scary, so you just began to run back home. Yeah, yeah that must be it. Your drunken mind having conjured up a whole story about a guy that doesn’t exist. Vampires aren’t real; they’re just myths made up to scare children.

So why is there gauze on your collarbone?

Your head is pounding all the same, these silly questions surely can wait until after you had some water, or coffee.

Standing up you’re about to walk downstairs when you hear someone… humming? Your shoulders immediately tense up, feet planting themselves in their place. Why is there someone in your house?

Grabbing the nearest object—a vase with fake flowers, because nowadays it’s too much to ask guys to get you some flowers—you tiptoe down the stairs, careful to not make a sound. It’s one thing if there’s someone in your house, it’s another when they know you’re there.

On the last step you hear someone call out to you. “Oh, you’re awake. That’s good!”

You nearly drop the vase in shock, fingers slipping slightly, before you tighten your grip again. Your heart hammering out of your chest, goosebumps littering your skin, and before you can even do anything, a tall, white-haired man walks into view.

And suddenly everything from last night slams back into you. No, your mind hadn’t simply made up Satoru, it’s real. The gauze on your throat a bitter reminder that there are, in fact, vampires roaming the earth.

“What the fuck are you still doing in my house?” you ask him, setting the vase down onto your kitchen counter before walking up to him. You poke your finger against his arm, testing to see if he really is real, or if you might still be drunk. “You’re real, right?”

Gojo just chuckles at you, his fangs poking through his lips at your question. His fingers wrap themselves around your wrist—ice cold to the touch, making you tremble slightly from just how cold they are—stopping you from poking him any further.

“Duh, you can’t make up a face this pretty.” He gestures to his face with a small pout on his face. Okay, conceited much. You scrunch your nose up at that, looking him dead in the eye—the same eyes that glowed last night while he was feasting on you - is that the correct term? You’re not sure, but you don’t really care, either.

“As for your question, I stayed because I might’ve drained you a bit too much. The alcohol in your system made your blood thinner, so I had a harder time gauging just how much I drank. So I stayed to be certain you wouldn’t pass awa— anyway. Alcohol makes your blood taste bitter, by the way, Certainly didn’t help you weren’t as afraid as I wanted you to be,” he mumbles that last part under his breath.

“Not as afraid as you wanted me to be? I thought my heart was gonna crawl out of my mouth— can you let go of me? You’re cold as fuck,” you try to tug your wrist out of his grasp, only for him to tighten it just slightly, slender fingers enclosing around your wrist.

Grinning he leans down slightly, back hunched just slightly as he looks you in the eye. “Why? You didn’t seem to mind me touching you last night.”

You inhale sharply, the memory of him pressed against your back flooding your mind. His strong chest pressed against your back while his hand was splayed out over your tummy making you all hot and bothered— no, you can’t think like this, fucking stop it.

“Yeah, well, that was just me being drunk,” you mumble out.

He takes a step forward, and another, while you walk backwards, until your back hits the wall. The wall scratching your back slightly, straightening your spine. His hand plants itself next to your head, leaning forward until his nose is almost brushing yours. “You sure that’s all it was? I’m hurt, sweets. You’re saying you don’t find me cute anymore?”

Gulping you press your thighs together, your panties damp under your sleeping shorts, core hot and achy. There’s no denying he’s hot—not quite cute as you called him last night—but should you really do this? He’s a vampire, hot, sure, but still a bloodsucking creature. His grin widens when his eyes flick down to your thighs.

You know you shouldn’t do this. It’s irresponsible, downright stupid, but you can’t deny to yourself that he’s making you horny by just existing.

And suddenly a thought enters your mind, like someone whispered in your ear. Your friend—now ex-friend—is dating your ex. It makes your stomach flip a few times, trying to make sense of the situation you’re in right now.

Fuck it.

Your hands find his pecs that are flexed with the way he’s standing, fabric doing little to hide them. Your finger trails down to his abdomen where you can feel the clearly built muscles. You bat your lashes at him, tilting your head just slightly. “And what if I said I thought you were hot?”

“Then I’d ask to have another taste— a different taste this time,” he murmurs down at you. That’s all you needed, fisting the fabric of his shirt and pulling him down to meet you. Lips crashing against each other in a messy battle of teeth and tongue.

He groans into your mouth, carefully nipping at your lower lip, puncturing it slightly. He sucks on the little droplets of blood before he claims your mouth once more. Copper filling your taste buds, making you moan out slightly.

Then he suddenly picks you up, hands under your thighs while yours find purchase at his broad shoulders, clutching onto them, nails digging into his skin just slightly. He chuckles against your mouth, “I’m not going to drop you.”

And true to his word, he doesn’t drop you, but he does bring you upstairs at speeds you’ve never dreamed of having. He carefully lays you down onto the bed, matrass groaning under both your weight just slightly.

His lips disconnect from yours, and he has to keep himself from groaning out at the sight of your bloodied, kiss-bitten lips. All swollen for him. Gojo peppers featherlight kisses down your throat, until they find the gauze just above your collarbone.

Yelping you look down at him. He’s grinning up at you, blue eyes crinkling slightly while he carefully places another kiss onto the gauze. “That hurts, dickhead.”

“Hmmm, just showing my little blood bag some appreciation,” he purrs before his lips trail further down, all the way until he’s seated onto the floor, cold breath ghosting on your thighs, leaving behind slight goosebumps. “I’m not your personal blood bag.”

He just winks up at you before pressing a kiss to the fat of your thigh. Then one a little higher, another one to the apex of your thigh, and one on your hipbone. You’re squirming out at the feeling of his lips—cold to the touch, but oh so careful.

His fingers hook around your pajama shorts, looking up at you for permission. When you nod he pulls them off you, leaving you in your panties. His pupils dilate when they see the wet spot, “You’re soaked. All this for me?”

Rolling your eyes you look down at him, leaning on your elbows. “How about you touch me instead of being such a conc— oh fuck,” your head lolls back onto your shoulderblades, eyes fluttering shut slightly. His thumb presses onto your clit.

“What was that, sweetheart?” he chuckles when you moan out at the pressure he applies through your panties, thumb circling your twitchy clit. “That’s what I thought.”

He leans down to lick a broad stripe over your panties, moaning out at the taste of you—so sweet, and oh, how he wishes you weren’t drunk last night so he could’ve had a taste of this pussy earlier—lips wrapping around your nub and sucking on it slightly.

“Shit. Fuck— Satoru, right there,” your hand finds his head, fingers threading through his silky locks, pulling on them slightly when he sucks even harder, cheeks hollowing out. Pleasure shoots right through your core, thighs threatening to snap shut. Something that doesn’t go unnoticed by the white-haired man under you, big palms clasping your thighs and keeping them spread riiight open for him. “Just get those panties out of the way already!”

He releases his lips with a pop, making you sigh out. Grinning up at you, one of his fingers comes up to your swollen folds, rubbing them slightly—still with that damn fabric in the way.

“Someone’s eager. You want me to get rid of these cute panties?” He tilts his head slightly before his fingers creep further upwards,, until they hook into them, making you think he’s finally going to get them off you. Instead he pulls the fabric upward, stretching it over your poor twitchy cunt, “But they look so good on you— yeahhh look at that.”

His eyes are zeroed in on where the fabric disappears between your pussy lips slightly, stretching the fabric even further until you’re pushing at his head, whining out.

“Please, please just get them off,” you whine out, tears gathering in your eyes from the way he’s just playing with you, taking his sweet time while your hole is pulsing around nothing. He chuckles once more before letting the fabric snap! against your skin, having you gasp out.

“Guess I should give this pretty pussy what she deserves, huh?” He gives a few taps to your clit, thighs twitching with each pass of his fingers, before he finally hooks a finger around the gusset and pulls it aside, revealing your cunt to the open air.

Without any preamble he dives in, tongue flat against your twitchy clit. Your back immediately arches with the swipe of his tongue—this time without any fabric between the muscle and your aching clit.

One of his slender, cold fingers plunges itself into your soppy hole. Your fingers tighten in his hair, tugging on it slightly, moaning out at the intrusion. “Fuck— right there.”

He thrusts his finger in and out of you before adding another one. The cold touch such a stark contrast to your hot, needy core it has you keen out. Your legs are trembling in his hold, one of them still spread open by his other hand, while your own creeps down to hold your other leg open for him.

“Such a good girl,” he mumbles out against your core, pleasure shooting through you. He curls those long digits inside of you, trying to find that one spot inside of you while he very lightly nips on your clit, your walls clamping down on his digits. His fingers keep thrusting and curling inside of you, finding finding findi— you loudly moan into the air, head thrown back. Found it.

“F-fuck, Satoru, keep them there ‘m so close,” you sob out, thighs tensing up slightly while he continuously hits your g-spot with perfect precision. Your orgasm crashes over you, tiny fireworks exploding in your tummy. “Cumming— cumming.”

He stays down there, lapping up the slick that’s gushing out of you. Cold tongue dipping into your hole alongside his fingers, opening you up even further for him.

You go limp in his hold a minute later, and he finally detaches himself from your mound—lips shiny with spit and your arousal. Then he pulls his fingers from your hole, stringy juices webbing between his fingers when he spreads them, looking at them in wonder, before putting them in his mouth and moaning out at the sweet, sweet taste that’s you.

“Think you’re ready for me, baby?” He stands up already unbuckling his belt, and you have to swallow once you see his bulge. Fuck. He’s ginormous. You shouldn’t be surprised, this guy is seven-feet tall, everything about him is enormous compared to you, but still you can’t help the way your eyes are almost bulging out of your skull.

He pulls out his cock—angry, red tip swollen and glistening with pre—and wraps his fist around it, giving it a few tugs.

“That’s not gonna fit inside of me,” you blurt out, eyes transfixed on where his hand is still wrapped around his dick. He smirks at that, of course he does. He’s probably heard it a million times before, but of course you had to say it.

He leans forward, tip nudging your clit, coating himself in your arousal. “Relax, it’s gonna fit.”

Gulping you lay back slightly, opening your legs even further to accommodate him. He smiles at that, one hand clamping around your waist while the other guides his member towards your entrance. Taking a deep breath in, he pushes inside your fluttering walls.

A high-pitched moan leaves your lips, sweat breaking on your skin. The stretch is unbelievable—your walls fluttering uselessly around him, and this was just the tip. He hisses at the feeling of your walls clamping down on him—yes, actually hisses, fangs on full display. “Fuck, loosen up baby.”

His fingers come down to your sensitive clit, rubbing on it to keep you distracted from the intrusion—not that it helps. He pushes another inch inside of you, and tears are starting to spill down from your eyes, disappearing into your hairline.

Gojo looks at you, blue eyes almost completely black now. He can feel the way his dick twitches when he sees your tears. Leaning forward he balances on one forearm, tongue lapping up your tears, groaning at the salty taste of your tears.

“You’re too big,” you squeal, hand uselessly pushing against his abdomen. He merely presses a kiss to your cheek, then to the corner of your mouth, and finally his lips claim yours, tongue tracing the seam of your sealed lips.

He stays still like that for a little while, letting you get used to the way he’s stretching you out. When he feels you loosen up slightly he pulls his hips back until just his tip remains and pushes back in again, a bit further this time.

You moan out into his mouth, legs wrapping themselves around his waist, and your hands entangle themselves in his hair. “That’s it, knew you could do it.”

With a few more thrusts he finally bottoms out, his hips meeting yours. Tears are flowing free down your face and he has to resist the urge to just bite you with how cute you looked. Fuck, what he wouldn’t do to get a taste of you again—your blood surely much sweeter now.

He looks down, only to grin. Would you look at that. “Look down, sweetheart. See how well you’re taking me?” he grips your chin between his thumb and forefinger and angles your head down. Blinking a few times you look down and—oh! The print of his cock fully visible, bulging your tummy where he’s buried.

“You’re so deep,” you mumble out, slight awe in your voice, only for a broken moan to leave your lips seconds later. Gojo pulls out and thrusts back in, tip smooching your cervix. Again. And again. And again.

A creamy ring starting to circle around his base, balls slapping against your ass with each harsh thrust. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, leaving behind crescent shaped marks. You’re sobbing out into his neck, vision blurring slightly.

“Mhmm, I know.” He presses down onto your stomach where he can feel his own cock through your womb, and it has you keen out even more. Moans and groans and the lewd plap plap plap! of his hips fill the room.

Your legs begin to tremble, cock plummeting in and out of your soppy hole, the squelch it makes has your face heat up, a pretty blush forming on your face as you feel yourself near your second orgasm. After a few more thrusts, you come around him, clear liquid gushing out of you, spraying onto his abdomen, thighs and the sheets below you. Your vision whites out completely while your back arches, mouth forming an ‘o’ that you can’t seem to close.

Satoru hisses when he feels your walls clamp down onto his girth, speeding up his thrusts slightly. “Fuck, lemme cum inside, please.”

Your mind doesn’t register his request at first, too busy trembling around him. It’s only when he starts whining that you take note of his request. “Yes, yes ‘toru. ‘S okay.”

“Shit- need you to say it. Say it out loud for me, pretty,” he pleads with you, his own thighs tensing up slightly. “Y-you can cum inside, S’toru.”

That’s all it takes. He thrusts once more before stilling, his fat tip snug against your cervix while he spills inside of you. Ropes of cum keep coming, emptying his balls inside your greedy cunt completely. His forehead dropping down to yours.

The two of you lay there for a few moments, trying to catch your breath—well, it’s just you who has to catch their breath, but Satoru stays there for you—and calm down slightly.

“Soooo, you need permission to cum inside too, huh?” you giggle at the seven-foot vampire. He just groans, eyes fluttering shut. “Shut up.”

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