eleutheromania

You were sitting at your metal desk, red-penning a draft, when a heavy manila folder dropped onto your blotter. It landed with a flat, dry thump, scattering paperclips across your desk.

Your senior editor leaned against your cubicle, tapping the brass fastener with an ink-stained knuckle. “Pack a bag. You’re getting the exclusive sit-down for Ebony. Just you, him and a tape recorder.”

You pulled out the promotional glossies that spilled from the folder—heavy black leather, silver buckles tracing his arms, dark curls cut sharp around his jawline.

"The white mainstream papers want a circus act," your editor muttered, leaning in closer. "They want the rumors and the spectacle. But his team called us directly. They want someone solid who won't spend the first twenty minutes stuttering or handing him softballs."

"I don't flinch," you said smoothly, sliding the photos back inside. "And I don't print press releases."

You prepped that night with cold, methodical precision: a navy linen-blend suit with clean lines, fresh batteries in your portable Panasonic cassette deck, and three fine-point pens. In 1987, being a Black female journalist at a premier national magazine meant walking into every room with zero margin for error.

You had no way of knowing that this single assignment would quietly untether the next two decades of your life.

You couldn't foresee how this professional standoff would slowly turn into the only genuine sanctuary either of you had. You couldn't predict the late-night studio sessions in the nineties, sitting together in dimly lit control rooms long after the engineers had gone home, where he’d rest his chin on his hand and tell you the quiet truths he hid from the rest of the world. You didn't know about standing in the quiet, dust-moted library at Neverland years later, keeping your voice completely level to anchor him while his legal team paced frantically outside—or the realization that you had become his ultimate confidante, the one person whose judgment he trusted above the noise.

You couldn't predict the private phone calls in the dead of night, where professional walls dissolved into long, vulnerable silences. You didn't know how that deep, unshakeable trust would slowly shift into a heavy, unspoken heat—a sudden, dizzying pull where a comforting hand resting on your knee would linger just a second too long, transforming mutual respect into a fierce, unavoidable desire.

And you couldn't know the silent rule that would govern your evolution for twenty years: As long as the red light on the recorder was glowing, you were journalist and subject bound by ink and tape. The second the motor stopped, the shield came down, and the space between confidantes slowly blurred into lovers.

The low hum of the air conditioner barely cut through the heat trapped inside the quiet room. Heavy curtains blocked out the sun, casting long, amber shadows across the dark wood table. The red tally light on the Panasonic recorder flared steady and bright, a tiny glowing safeguard sitting directly between your notepad and his hand.

"The arrangements on the bridge," you said, your voice smooth and dry, though your pen hovered a fraction of an inch above the yellow pad. "You opted for a minor chord progression right before the final chorus. It's an unusual choice for a lead single."

Sitting across from you with his chin tipped low, Michael let those wide, luminous doe eyes hold yours in complete, unyielding silence—a gaze surprisingly deep and disarming behind the quiet intensity of his expression. He leaned forward, elbows propped on his knees and tape-wrapped fingers loosely clasped, completely ignoring the spinning cassette deck to keep his focus fixed solely on you.

"Pop radio likes predictability," he murmured, his voice dropping into that quiet, chest-resonant register reserved for small rooms and closed doors. "I don't. You know that."

"I know what the trade papers call it," you replied, meeting his dark, unyielding gaze directly. "They call it aggressive."

"And what do you call it?"

"Deliberate."

A slow, private smile tugged at the corner of his lips. He shifted, adjusting his posture, bringing him just close enough for you to catch the warm, familiar scent of his cologne mixing with the cool air.

"You always pick up on the things everyone else glosses over," he said softly.

"It's my job to pay attention, Mr. Jackson."

"Is that all it is?" His dark eyes held yours, searching for the crack in your armor. "Just a job?"

The air thickened, heavy with a quiet, magnetic weight that made the professional boundary feel paper-thin. You swallowed quietly, refusing to break eye contact or yield an inch of ground.

"The tape is still running," you reminded him softly.

Michael didn't pull back. His gaze lingered on your face, dipping briefly to your lips before settling back on your eyes, heavy with an unspoken warmth.

"I know," he whispered, his taped fingers inching closer to the recorder, though he made no move to stop it. "Ask your next question."

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

permanent taglist: @muddyloserlia @loves2tour @cupidslyrics @dreamylace @michaeljacksonspyt @motormouthmj @cal3xx @hernamewaswinnie @divaaprincess @missharper33 @feelthatheat @apqlehead @emsownworld @melodiesmurakamis @berlinswifey @tojiswifeforlife @misscowboyhat @imaladykiller @kiaraischronicallyonline @invincixbutterflies @fangirllexiee @loveposiie @brownsugarletters @gingerrsnapp @theonlyonlinefish @pr3ttiest-applehead @evmorfiad @myxstrx @gxsela @perfectscythetreaty @superstar-t20 @1234ilikecowsthanyoumore @artflooo @niyahctrl @smickeyyy @michaelsfishh @thabiddie23 @tinydreamerpillar

゛➜ COLLEGE BOYFRIEND!MICHAEL who takes up more space on the couch than he realizes. his long legs fold up awkwardly, knees bumping yours as he settles in beside you under the same blanket. the fabric smells like laundry detergent and the cologne he started wearing last semester after you'd bought for him as a birthday present. he’ll lean his head against your shoulder after a while, and mumble something about how this is his favorite part of the week — being able to sit under you, breathing in your comforting and familiar scent with nowhere else to be.

゛➜ COLLEGE BOYFRIEND!MICHAEL he’s been collecting baseball caps since forever. any kind—old team ones, thrift-store finds, the random ones people leave behind at parties. his side of the closet is just stacks of them, and half the time he’ll grab one and drop it on your head while you’re studying just to make you look up at him. and he’ll smile at you before attempting to figure what he actually came in the bedroom for.

sometimes, though, it’s the other way around. you’ll be in the car, the late-afternoon light cutting across the dashboard, and you’ll reach over, lift the worn brim off his head, and settle it on your own. the fabric is still warm from him. he’ll glance over, eyes soft, and coo under his breath at how cute you look—like the sight alone is enough to undo him. then he’ll lean across the console, one hand finding the back of your neck, and kiss you slow and deep until the world outside the windows fades and one thing inevitably leads to another.

゛➜ COLLEGE BOYFRIEND!MICHAEL who falls asleep in the weirdest positions when you study together. he’ll start out upright with a textbook open, then slowly slide down until his head is in your lap and one arm is wrapped loosely around your waist. you can feel him breathing steady against your thigh, and even when you try to move he just makes a soft noise and holds on tighter because he’s not ready to let you go.

゛➜ COLLEGE BOYFRIEND!MICHAEL who loves when you play with his hair. he’ll sit on the floor between your legs while a movie plays, head tipped back, eyes closed, completely quiet. if you stop even for a second he leans back into your hands and beings to complain and doesn't stop until you continue your soothing ministrations.

゛➜ COLLEGE BOYFRIEND!MICHAEL who takes you to the drive-in to see Howard the Duck because he swears it’s going to be “fun and weird in a good way.” he packs snacks, brings an extra blanket, and even wears one of his favorite baseball caps for the occasion. you think he’s actually excited about the movie.

turns out he’s not.

halfway through the first act his hand finds your thigh under the blanket, thumb brushing slow circles against the fabric of your jeans. when you glance over, he’s not looking at the screen at all—just watching you with a soft, heavy-lidded look he gets when he’s thinking about something he probably shouldn’t be thinking about in public. a few minutes later he’s already tugging you into the backseat, whispering that it’s “just for a second,” voice low and a little breathless against your ear.

the two of you end up tangled together under the blanket, his baseball cap knocked crooked, your laughter muffled against his mouth every time the movie gets particularly ridiculous. his hands are warm and careful, always checking your face between kisses like he still can’t believe you’re letting him have this. you’re so caught up in each other that neither of you notices the flashlight until it knocks firmly against the window.

an employee clears his throat. “you two just couldn't wait, huh?”

the drive back to your shared on-campus apartment is quiet except for the low hum of the radio and your barely-contained laughter. michael’s ears are burning. he keeps both hands on the wheel, jaw tight, refusing to look at you even as you lean over the center console and poke his cheek.

“you couldn't even wait until the beginning credits were over, baby.” you tease.

he scowls harder, mean-mugging you at the next red light like you’ve personally offended him-which in his book; you definitely did. “for the record, i was watching the movie.”

“sure you were.”

he mutters something under his breath that sounds a lot like “unbelievable,” but the corner of his mouth keeps threatening to curl upward every time you laugh. by the time he parks outside the apartment he’s still pretending to be annoyed, but the second the engine cuts off he reaches over, hooks a finger in the front of your shirt, and pulls you into one more kiss— he still can’t help himself even when he’s trying to be mad.

゛➜ COLLEGE BOYFRIEND!MICHAEL who gets so distracted when you walk around the apartment in just one of his t-shirts. the hem barely hits mid-thigh and he keeps losing his train of thought mid-sentence, eyes dropping before he forces them back up. he’ll clear his throat and try to focus on whatever he’s doing, but the second you bend over to grab something from a low shelf he goes completely still, bottom lip caught between his teeth. later when you’re both in bed he pulls you into his lap without a word, hands sliding up under the shirt to please you like he'd been wanting to all day.

          In addition to working with Prince, she is rumored to be dating him.

          Michael never questioned the rumor. At award shows, he tried working up the courage to talk to her, but she was always with Prince and her other colleagues. They were physical with each other. Hugging longer than what seemed platonic. Kissing each other’s cheeks and jaws.

          To his chagrin, he couldn’t deny that it was a match made in heaven. Both seemed to bask in the murky waters of controversy. It was like they anticipated what the other would do. There was a synergy when they performed together that electrified the crowd. They had androgynous styles that kickstarted speculation of their identities.

          Dating rumors between her and Madonna also sparked after their interactions at award shows and parties.

          A picture of her and Madonna with their faces close together at some event spun onto the screen and then it faded into a hazy shot of her sitting in front of Barbara. They exchanged pleasantries before the interview started. “You’re very controversial. You stir up a lot of speculation,” Barbara said. Chanté nodded along.

          “I’m an int’restin’ person, and people are curious. It’s…” She shrugged. Her eyes shifted to something above her, thinking. “I expect it. I’m not offended. I think it’s funny, all the rumors and conspiracies everyone comes up with.”

          She pronounced every long “i” sound like “ah” and spoke with non-rhoticity. Her singing and talking voices were the same. Soft and feathery. It made a regular sentence sound flirtatious and teasing. “People were pretty shocked when they found out my name is actually a stage name. Now, they think everything about me is a lie.” A laugh flowed out from her smiling lips. It was a mellifluous sound, like audible honey.

          Barbara asked about Chanté’s upbringing. Moving from Gary to Chicago at a young age. Her hobbies as a child. How her parents raised her. Her face brightened like a spotlight hit it when she talked about her parents. They were instrumentalists. She credited them for her meticulousness in musical arrangement.

          Chanté smiled when she spoke and never shied away from saying how she felt. She returned the insults interviewers dished out to her. The media didn’t like that too much. That was what Michael admired most about her. It was never irate. Classy. During her album press tour two years ago, the papers slammed her for being rude and “bitchy”.

          It was around the time she complained about interviewers interrupting her. She had even threatened to walk out. Once an interviewer asked if she thought she looked like a clown because of her makeup, and she replied, “I’d rather look like a clown than someone boring, such as yourself.”

          He rolled his eyes at what the press said about her. How much scrutiny could someone take? They got mad when she tolerated disrespect. They got mad when she didn’t. Damned if you do. Damned if you don’t.

          “Your music is very raunchy,” Barbara said. “Many people have complained about that change and have been turned off by it.”

          Her image matched her art. He fell into the trap. Michael had saved some of her more provocative posters and an issue of Playboy that had a centerfold of her. She was nude but with all the important bits covered. He kept the magazine along with his fantasies tucked away in the drawer of his nightstand.

          “Did Prince push you into that?” Barbara asked.

          A harsh laugh kicked off the back of Chanté’s throat. She looked into the camera before she answered. “I have a mind of my own, Barbara,” she started. “It’s somethin’ I always wanted to do. I was maturin’. I wasn’t a teenager anymore. I had desires like every other woman. If anything, Prince helped me make that pivot; he did not push it upon me.”

          “And how do your parents feel about your music? You grew up religious, right? Do they think you’re some jezebel?”

          Chanté pressed her lips together and hummed. “I may be a jezebel to some, but not to my parents. They know me. They’re very proud of me.” She smacked her lips before speaking again. “And they know what they did to get me here, so they can’t act brand new.” She winked at the camera and smiled.

          A warmth crept onto Michael’s cheeks, eyes locking onto her lips. Thick and glossy red. He imagined what it would be like to kiss them. How her lipstick marks would stain his skin. Were her lips as soft as they looked? How did her lipstick taste?

          Barbara ran through questions about the dating rumors. All of them pertained to Chanté’s song “Magdalene”. It was Michael’s favorite song from her most recent album. Innuendo-filled lyrics detailed a woman’s sexual escapades and talked about how society reduced her to a sexual object only. Some listeners assumed the titular Magdalene is Chanté, but instead of reflecting on the flaws within themselves, they focused on whom these escapades might have been done with.

          She read some of the lyrics people have speculated to be about Prince. Michael chewed the inside of his cheek, drawing the parallels. Ruined. Chanté denied it. A quick “no” to every line Barbara read. Then she joked about Prince being too short for her. Michael relaxed into the couch.

          Other listeners assumed it was a song about the speaker’s escapades with someone named Magdalene. Barbara mentioned how people thought Magdalene was Madonna since their names start with the same two letters. Chanté laughed and said the reasoning was ridiculous. Barbara asked if she and Madonna were together. Chanté said, “She’s not my type.”

          “I hear you’re making a new album.”

          “Yes, production started…” She rocked from side to side in her chair. Her lips shifted to the right as she thought. “…two, three months ago. A lot of writing. A lot of demoing.”

          “I imagine there will be some collaborations on the project.”

          Chanté nodded and lifted a finger. “I won’t tell who.”

          “Do you have a dream collaboration with someone you haven’t worked with?” Barbara asked.

          “Absolutely! There’s a few, but this one’s at the top of my list.”

          Michael leaned closer, almost falling off his couch. His fingers gripped onto a nearby pillow.

          Chanté spoke slowly. “I would love, love, love…to work with Michael Jackson.”

          His eyes widened, and he jumped up from the couch. Me? That’s me! His heart had leaped out of his chest. Trembling took over his hands and his knees.

          “I believe we could get in that studio and make sweet…sweet…” She paused. Her pink tongue swiped over her lipsticked lips. “…music.” She laughed with a squeak, similar to Dolly Parton. “Just like Prince, I think he’s a genius. I’m a long-time fan of his too. We grew up next door to each other before I moved to Chicago, you know? We used to play together. We used to go to church together. Very, very fond memories. I’m very proud to see how far he’s come. I hope he’s proud of me. If he even remembers me, that is.” She laughed again.

          Of course, he remembered her. She was the little girl with the angelic voice that always got solos. He had wanted to collab with her since the release of Off the Wall. Things didn’t work out the way he wanted. He was too shy to approach her at events. Other obligations ripped him away from contacting her. Now, he had a green light.

          “How would you even align? Don’t you think you’re too ‘out there’, too sexual for him?” Barbara asked.

          “I admit I’m much more overt than he is, but trust and believe, we are talkin’ about the same things,” Chanté responded. “At the end of the day, he is a grown man.”

          He reached for the landline on the side table and dialed Frank DiLeo’s number. After the fifth ring, he picked up. “You watchin’ Chanté Dove’s interview?” he asked. “Get in touch with her manager. Let’s make somethin’ happen.”

                                                       —————

          It was the 15th time you muttered the same prayer. You stood in front of the door to the booth, hands pressed together and head bowed. Doom clawed at your chest, making you pick up the pace. Every prayer felt like a pile of bricks weighing down your shoulders, but not this last one. This was it. This was the one that would settle your mind and pulverize the weight. When you opened your eyes, everyone else had left the studio.

          You shook your arms out. Everything around you blurred and doubled. It had been a week since that Barbara Walters interview, and proper sleep hadn’t visited you once. They know. They know. They know. You can’t hide. You never could. Instead of sleeping, you prayed any prayer you could think of. Over and over and over. Delirium clouded your mind and reduced your control.

          You had gotten, at the most, four hours of sleep since then. The psychiatrist said these new pills and higher dosage would help the insomnia. They hadn’t. Your team had to monitor you. They drove you around. They confiscated every newspaper thrown at your doorstep. The only job you had was to record, and that proved to be as much of a struggle as everything else.

          The audio engineer popped his head in. “You finished?” he asked.

          “Yes, please bring everyone in,” you said, entering the booth.

          You closed the door behind you and paced around. It was around four in the afternoon. The crew had been working since seven in the morning. Everyone lost count of all the takes you recorded. Each playback was discordant like nails on a chalkboard. Nothing hit your ears the way you intended. The layering was off. You warmed up your voice again by doing lip trills. Glissando with a pentatonic scale then a heptatonic one.  

          Your producer was the first to return with a paper cup in his hand. Another coffee added to the collection. He sat on one of the swivel chairs behind the mixing console. The engineers came in next. You put on your headset and gave them a thumbs up to let them know you were ready.

          This track was slow. A ballad. One hadn’t been featured on your projects since your second album. No one helped with the lyrics. No outside ideas. Nothing. You wrote and rewrote the sheet music for all the instruments used. You were on the piano and harp. Sheila was on drums. Prince did guitar and bass. You had recorded the instrumental the day before the interview. It was, so far, the only track that had a title. “Redamancy in Sin”.

          The music filtered through the headset. Your hand tapping on your thigh became a metronome. You vocalized with the harp’s melody. The crystalline sound swept you away. The rhythm seeped into your bones. When the cue came, the first note left your mouth sharp.

          “For fuck’s sake!” you yelled, snatching off the headset. Your eyes stung with tears. “Can we try that one more time, please? I’m so sorry.” The producer and audio engineer exchanged disapproving glances but went ahead anyway.

          That take was the best all day. It wasn’t great, but it was listenable to your critical ears. Progress was always worthy of a little praise. It sounded more like music than noise. The engineers and producer whispered at the mixing console. You sat with your head buried in your hands on the leather couch. They were probably discussing how much they’d rather work with another artist. You were on the verge of dismissing everyone and telling them to go home.

          “Chanté,” your manager, Nia, said. She stretched out the last syllable of your name. “I got a present for you.”

          Your head lifted. She carried a huge vase filled with pink camellias and apple blossoms in her arms. The speckled, powder pink petals of tiger lilies peeked out from what would have been negative spaces between the rest of the flowers. Your fingers ran over the waxy petals.

          “My God, these are lovely. So thoughtful,” you said.

          “Check the note.”

          You pulled the stiff card out from the prongs of the plastic holder and opened it. Your eyes squinted to better focus on the words on the paper. The handwriting blended erratic print and unslanted cursive. It had random instances of uppercase letters in the middle of a word.

          Chanté, I dropped everything to watch your interview. I love the way you carry yourself especially in difficult situations. When you said you wanted to collaborate with me, I just couldn’t wait to reach out to you. I’ll meet you where you are. Let’s make magic. — Michael Jackson

          Your jaw slackened. It had to be a hallucination. “No, no.” An incredulous laugh punctuated each word. You shook your head. You turned the note around to show Nia. “Read this. Read it for me.”

          She sighed and rolled her eyes, taking the card from you. She exaggerated how much she opened her mouth to pronounce the sound of each letter. A slow and deliberate cadence. Every word she spoke was the same you had read. Your eyelids and mouth gaped.

          “Y’all hearin’ this?” you asked, looking between the engineers and the producer. “Nia, please, please, please,” your hands joined at their palms, “get Michael Jackson on the phone right now. We need to arrange this.”

          “Already did it,” Nia said, sitting down next to you. “Got a fax the other day from his manager. I gave them addresses to the studio and all the best hotels.” She leaned in closer and whispered, “His plane lands in an hour.”

          You hopped to your feet. It was involuntary as if someone was controlling you with strings. A sandy feeling filled your hands and legs. Your lungs constricted. “Y’all can go home,” you said, out of breath. “Thank you for all the work you’ve done today. I’m sorry for keepin’ you.” You contorted your face into a broad smile.

          They cleaned up their coffee cups and uttered “goodbye” as they exited the studio. You turned to Nia, and your smile dropped. 

          “I can’t meet him like this.” Your hands spanned the sides of your body. You had anticipated it being a long day, so you put on your most comfortable clothes. Sweatshirt. Sweatpants. No makeup. “We have to go back home. We have to make it quick.”

          Nia ushered you out the studio and made two cups of black coffee for you to down on the car ride to your house.

                                                       —————

          “She’s right in here, Mr. Jackson,” Chanté’s manager, Ms. Williams, said. Her arm opened out to the door. “Just give her a minute. She prays…a lot.” Her eyes drifted to the side. “All for good luck.”

          Michael looked through the glass pane in the door and into the room. The lights in the studio were off. There were a few lit candles. The glow from the mixing console outlined Chanté’s frame. She sat there, hands clasped together and head bowed. He leaned his back against the wall, clutching a bouquet of baby’s breath and tulips. “It’s fine. I pray a lot too.” Ms. Williams smiled and nodded. She rocked from her heels to the balls of her feet.

          A pressurized silence fell over the hallway. Michael bit his lip and looked around. It was six o’clock. Maybe seven. The sun was setting outside. It was snowing again, a little flurry this time. There were already six inches on the ground when he touched down.

          The door to the studio creaked. He snapped his head in the direction of it. Ms. Williams held the door open and flipped on the light switch. The yellow light spilled into the hallway.

          “She’s done,” she said.

          Michael hid the bouquet behind his back as he walked in. The door closed with a soft thud. Chanté swiveled in her chair to face him. Her eyes roamed from his head to his feet and then back up. He rubbed the back of his neck. It really was her.

          “Michael…wow,” Chanté said, her voice breathy. “About twenty-two years since we’ve last seen each other?”

          Twenty-two years? Had it really been that long? The realization of how old he was hit him like a train. A life spent in celebrity, he figured, swept you into a whirlwind that made years feel like minutes.

          He had imagined seeing her again an embarrassing number of times. At award shows. Backstage at one of his concerts. Backstage at one of her concerts. Maybe on a flight. Each version of her was a little different, but intimidation remained a constant. None of those imagined scenarios matched the woman sitting before him. He imagined himself being more confident, but every word escaped him.

          She smiled. Without lipstick, it wasn’t like the ones from her promotional photos and music videos. It was the same smile she wore when she stood on the chancel in her choral robes all those years ago.

          She got up from the chair and crossed over to him. Her stride was long and confident like a model’s. A hypnotic sway in her hips complemented each step. Somewhere between her departure and their reunion, she had learned exactly who she was and what effect she had on others. So close yet so far from the little girl he’d grown up around.

          Michael’s eyes dropped to her hips for a fraction of a second. He licked his lips and took a deep inhale, careful not to let temptation get the best of him.

          “Enchantée.” She held out her hand, dangling it from her wrist. Michael grabbed her hand and kissed it. He stared into her eyes as his lips pressed against the delicate skin. There was a fire radiating from her brown irises. “You are even more handsome in person.” Michael gulped. He was swimming in sweat underneath all his clothes.

          “Th-thank you,” he replied. “You-you’re…you’re gorgeous.” He pulled the bouquet from behind his back. “These are for you. I heard you like tulips and…well, I wanted to get you some.”

          She let out an “aww” and took the bouquet with both hands. “Thank you so much!” she said. “A lot of flowers today.” She walked to the coffee table and set the bouquet down next to the vase.

          “I put in the order a few days ago. I-I meant to expedite them.”

          “It’s okay. I love them. The more, the merrier, right?” She gave him a small smile. “Your face and hands are mismatched by the way,” she said, chuckling.

          Michael looked down at his hands. The splotches of depigmentation hadn’t reached them yet, not like the rest of his body. “Vitiligo,” he muttered, clasping his hands behind him.

          “Don’t hide. I ain’t judgin’.” She grabbed his hands and held them up to his face. Her eyes studied the difference in skin tones. “I think it’s cool.”

          He blinked, unsure of what to say. He didn’t know what he expected her reaction to be, but it wasn’t like this. Not positive. She looked at it as if it was stylish.

          “I…” he started, brain malfunctioning. “I, uh…”

          She smirked and let go of his hands. She sat back down in her chair. A legal notepad with notes scribbled all over lay on the mixing console. “Wanna get started?”

          Michael nodded and sat in the chair next to her. She rolled closer to him, knees almost touching. His body shifted to the other side of the chair to avoid the heat emanating from her. She pushed the notepad to him. It was a bit worn. Some pages had previously been torn from the binding. Yellow sticky notes stuck out from between pages. Ink bled onto the edges.

          The album was about love. The good and bad of it. The first page had a list of potential names. She wrote down the types of love Greek philosophers posited. One page dedicated to one type. Agape was first. “Completed” sat next to it in parentheses. At the bottom of the page, a song title was circled in red ink. “Redamancy in Sin”.

          Michael looked through the other pages. She had notes of the definition and things that reminded her of the type of love. He found lyrics and sheet music she wrote at the back of the notepad. His eyes widened. Everything had a place and a purpose.

          There were two features so far. Sheila E. for “storge”. Vanity for “eros”. Chanté left blank lines between what she wrote to signal the place where the feature was supposed to enter.

          Michael smiled. “This is incredible. You…did all this yourself?” Of course she did. Why would you ask that?

          But she didn’t seem to mind. “My mind wouldn’t shut up one night. I reckoned maybe I needed to get it out,” she replied.

           He returned to the first page and raised his head to look at her. She was already staring at him, pupils as big as a black hole ready to suck him in.

          “Um…” She squeezed her eyes shut and let out a short, nervous laugh before opening them again. “I’m thinkin’ we can do somethin’ for…” Her voice trailed off as she flipped to the right page. “Ludus,” she said and tapped her pen on the word. Playful love. “It’d be perfect, y’know? We’re gettin’ to know each other again. Last time I saw you, you was a lil' boy.” She bit her lip. “Now you’re all man.”

          Michael tucked his lips into his mouth and covered his face with his hands. A fierce heat crawled up his neck.

          “Why um…” Michael cleared his throat and slid his head out of his hands. “Why don’t we go out?”

          “You askin’ me on a date?”

          “No. I don’t know. I-I mean…like, y’know…we gotta get to know each other. Let’s go out to eat,” he stuttered.

          “Right.” She shot him a knowing look then smiled and gave a playful punch to his arm. “I’m just fuckin’ with you. Let’s go.”

          She got up. Michael followed her lead. He retrieved the vase and bouquet and cradled them in his arms. The purple puffer jacket hanging from the coat hanger slipped onto her body. Her hair, long and crimped, flowed down and out like a lion’s mane. His breath caught, taking her in from behind.

          “I didn’t peg you to be so…I don’t know,” she said and pressed the button the ground floor. She stepped back and stood shoulder to shoulder with him. Her eyes stayed focused on the elevator doors. “Nervous, I guess.”

          “You’re intimidating. Like a maneater or somethin’,” he responded.

          “I get that a lot. But the more time we spend together,” she said, turning her head to look at him, “you’ll come to know that I’m anything but.”

                                                       —————

          The new meds and exposure therapy were a godsend. Seven hours of sleep dehazed your brain. The bags under your eyes reduced. Recording sessions were smoother. Your team let you drive again and stopped confiscating the papers.

          After recording, you and Michael would brainstorm ideas for the untitled ludus track. No writing took place. There wasn’t an instrumental yet. You wanted to marry both of your sounds. It couldn’t be just yours. It couldn’t be just Michael’s. There was equal ownership of the song even though it would go on your album. He’d beatbox, and you’d vocalize the melody.

          You knew you wanted a xylophone or chimes. Something sparkly. Something ethereal. A new love was the closest thing to heaven. A harp was a must-have. You wouldn’t compromise on that. Michael loved the idea.

          He took you out after every session. He had done research on all the things to do in Chicago. Navy Pier, hole-in-the-wall delis and pizzerias, and eating on the Skydeck at Sears Tower. Despite the bone-penetrating cold, you would stand outside the delis and pizzerias and eat. You huddled together to share warmth, teeth chattering as you brought your food up to your lips. When snowflakes landed in his hair, you brushed them off.

          You had taken him to the two neighborhoods where you grew up. Hyde Park first. The house you’d lived in was long demolished and replaced by a Victorian. Your family got priced out and moved to Washington Park. The trip to your second neighborhood was short. Crime had spiked in the area, and you didn’t want to get him caught up.

          Even with the separation of 22 years, conversation flowed. It was as if you and Michael had been a lot closer than you were. You were strangers for the most part, but not really. There were shared memories and experiences. He’d talk about buildings and certain people in Gary, and it would unlock memories you swore you had thrown away.

          The media had caught onto your outings. It wasn’t like you were being sneaky about it. You probably should’ve been. Five newspapers spread across your kitchen peninsula.

CHANTÉ ADDING MICHAEL TO HER TOY COLLECTION? How long will it take for her to get bored of playing with him?

THE DOVES ARE CRYING Did Michael steal Chanté from Prince?

CHANTÉ WEARS THE PANTS

          A picture of you in drag for a music video paired with a picture of Michael getting his makeup done was pasted underneath the headline.

MICHAEL JACKSON AND CHANTÉ DOVE: WHEN LONELINESS GOES TOO FAR Michael’s desperation drove him into the arms of someone like Chanté.

CHANTÉ’S A HOT COMMODITY Prince, Madonna, and Michael Jackson all want her. Who else is on her list of admirers?

          You gripped onto the wall phone. Nia was on the other line. “I don’t know how people come up with this shit.” Your fingers rubbed over the ink, and you laughed. “I can’t lie, though. ‘The Doves are Crying’ is pretty good.”

          “Don’t only read the headlines. Read those two-paragraph articles. They’re ridiculous,” Nia said.

          Her voice faded away from your ears. The world darkened until it left you and the papers in a black room. The headlines circled your body. Booming and taunting. You squeezed your eyes shut and pressed your fingers into them. Your shoulders shrugged up to cover your ears. Don’t do it. Fight it.

          The doorbell sounding brought you back to reality. You opened your eyes and looked around. The wall phone hung from its cord, almost touching the floor. Your eyes darted around the room. Quick, heavy breaths forced their way out of your mouth. The doorbell rang again. You picked up the phone.

          “Chanté? Chanté!” Nia yelled.

          “I gotta go. Someone’s at the door,” you said.

          “What the fuck? What happ—” You hung the phone up before she could finish and made your way to the front door.

          You yanked it open. It revealed Michael standing on your doorstep all bundled up with earmuffs and scarves. “Hey,” he said, grinning. His breath turned to condensation in the frosty air.

          “Hey.”

          A long moment of silence stretched between you. Michael ran his mittened hand over his eyebrow. “I, uh…you didn’t come to the studio at the time we agreed, so I…I just came to check on you. See if you were okay.”

          You let out a frustrated groan. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry.” You covered your hands with your face and then dragged them down. “I forgot to tell Nia to tell you I would be coming later. I have an appointment with my psy—my doctor in an hour,” you said.

          “It’s okay. I get it. You have to take care of your physical health.”

          You smiled and bit the inside of your cheek. “Right. Physical health is my top priority.”

          Another moment of silence. You took it as an opportunity to stare at him. He really was handsome. Gorgeous, even. His eyes were guileless and twinkling. It was intoxicating, the way his wavy hair framed his structured face. The perfect blend of masculine and feminine.

          Your heart sped up. Images of his lips on you and his large hands traversing your body played in your mind. You wondered how the vitiligo affected the rest of his body. Especially…

          A chill breeze blew past the door, making you shiver. “D’you wanna come inside? I…I mean, it’s cold out there. It’s warm in here.” Your hand rubbed up and down your arm. Your voice softened. “I can make you some hot chocolate.”

          “Yeah,” he said, nodding, “I’d love to come inside.”

          You sat at your dining table in the kitchen. The pale sunlight filtered in through the blinds. Michael’s eyes closed while he drank the hot chocolate. You tapped your hand on the table. Your eyes looked past him. Anxiety wrapped its hands around your throat, squeezing and squeezing until it cut off your breath.

          “You okay?” Michael asked. “You look a lil' on edge.”

          You snapped your eyes to him and nodded. “Yeah, yeah, I’m okay. It’s a lil' embarrassing, but,” you leaned in closer, “hospitals kinda freak me out.” It was a lie, but you needed anything to explain away the anxiety plaguing you.

          “You want me to come? I could comfort you.”

          Shit.

          “No, it’s fine. I’ll be fine. Plus, good news, I got a band to come in to record the instrumental. We’ll finally be able to start writing!”

          “That’s great,” he said, smiling. He grabbed your hand. His thumb caressed the back of it.

          Sweat formed on your palms. Your eyes flickered from him to the clock on the wall above the back door. 9:26. You retracted your hand from his. “I have to go.” Michael finished the rest of his hot chocolate and stood up from his seat. You escorted him to the front door. “Thank you for comin’ and checkin’ on me. I really appreciate it.”

          “Of course,” he said, then he wrapped his arms around you. You stiffened for a second. The warmth of his arms was enough to melt an entire glacier. Every muscle in your body relaxed. His hold tightened to keep you up. “I can’t wait to see you later,” he whispered. He let you go and gave you a small smile before he walked back to his car.

                                                       —————

          Your psychologist, Dr. Sinclair, sat across from you, her legs crossed at the knee. Her glasses sat on the tip of her nose. Scratches of her pen against the notepad filled the quiet room. You chewed on the skin at the side of your thumbnail, pulling it off.        

          “Have you…have you read the news about me?”

          “No,” she said without looking up.

          Your eyebrow quirked up. Who wouldn’t have read the news about you? Not reading it was like trying to avoid oxygen.

          “Do you not care? Do you not want to?”

          “I don’t need to.”

          “Why?”

          Dr. Sinclair stopped writing and looked up from her notepad. “Why read the papers when I can get it straight from the source?” She took her glasses off and sighed. Her hands clasped together on top of her leg. “I know you, Chanté. Our relationship is professional, but it’s also intimate. You sit in my office for an hour every week and tell me things you don’t tell anyone else. I’m not the media. I can’t disclose that information, and I don’t want to.”

           You shifted in your chair.

          “When I ask you about your sex life and your romantic relationships, I’m not doing it to scandalize you; I’m doing it to assess the psychological effects it has on you.”  

          Your body was restless. It always was in these sessions. No matter how many years you’d seen your psychologist, you were never comfortable enough to sit still. Your legs rubbed together. You picked at your nails.

          “I know your OCD is tied to religion. It’s tied to sex. It’s tied to romance. We must discuss these things so I can deliver treatment that will best benefit you.”

          “What if I don’t want to?”

          “Too bad.”

          You furrowed your eyebrows and got up from your seat. You paced the perimeter of the chair.

          “You could always lie. I still get paid whether you tell the truth or not, but lying isn’t going to help you,” Dr. Sinclair said.

          An idea ping-ponged in your brain. The side that told you not to say it out loud lost. A prickly feeling took over your body. “I’m interested in someone. It’s Michael Jackson,” you blurted.

          “Okay.” Dr. Sinclair nodded and wrote some more.

          “It’s just business, though. We’re workin’ on a song together.”

            “Do you want it to be more than that?”

          You shrugged. The steps in your pace slowed. Your eyes rolled up to look at the ceiling above you. “I don’t know. Maybe. He’s such a sweet guy. I don’t wanna tarnish him.”

          “What do you want to happen? Be honest.”

          You stopped pacing and turned around, afraid to look her in the eye while you confessed. “I wanna fuck him. So, so bad. I wanna be all over him. I want him all over me. But I also wanna hold him. I wanna wake up next to him.”

          “You think having sex with him will tarnish him?”

          “Yeah…” you sighed, “because I’m unclean.” Dr. Sinclair hummed. There was more scratching from her pen.

          “If he asked you to be his girlfriend, what would you say?”

          You faced her again. “I can be selfish. I’d say yes.”

                                                       —————

          The band was already in the booth tuning and warming up when you arrived at the studio. Your producer and audio engineer sat at the mixing console making idle conversation. Michael and Nia sat on the leather couches behind them. He made a beeline for you as soon as you entered. You nearly went into cardiac arrest.

          “You okay? How was the appointment?” he asked, whispering.

          He got within arm’s length, and you backed up. I can’t let my filth touch him. I’ll condemn him to Hell along with me.

          “Great. It was great.” Your voice was strained.

          Everything he did to comfort you destabilized you instead. His eyes were too friendly, too inviting. His lips were as pink as those tiger lilies. The backs of his hands were veiny. Crude images entered your mind. His fingers in your mouth. Taking him while a stained-glass window of Jesus’ crucifixion looked down on you. You slapped your hands against your cheeks. The room quieted. You looked around, and everyone was staring.  

          You inhaled a shaky breath. “I’m-I’m ready to get started.”

                                                       —————

          Everyone had gone home an hour ago. Chanté’s avoidance of Michael since she returned became more obvious. At least with everyone else in the room, there was plausible enough distraction for her to not pay any attention to him. Now, there was nothing but the clock’s second hand tick-tocking away. The last time they talked seemed a lifetime ago. It itched at him. The past few weeks had been so idyllic. He’d rather lie down in the snow naked than accept this treatment from her.

          The lights were off. The candles scattered all over the studio provided some light. He thought she did this so she wouldn’t have to see him.

          She locked herself in the booth and wrote there. Michael would glance at her when he took a break to think to see if she was looking at him too. No. Her eyes were glued to her notepad. The locks of hair unrestrained by her scrunchie hung in front of her face. The candlelight cast her in gold. Beautiful, precious, and unattainable.

          He bit his lip and pretended to write. His grip on the pencil was enough to crush it. The separation between them made it harder for him to write. His mind chanted her name. He replaced every word he had meant to write with “Chanté”. Frustrated, he erased, almost tearing the page. One step forward, two steps back.

          He laid his pencil down and pressed the talkback button. “Did I do somethin’?”

          That got her attention. She stood up from the ground and spoke into the microphone. “What?”

          “Did I do somethin’?” he repeated. “You’ve just been so distant since you got back.” Desperation crawled out from his voice. It came out meeker and more subdued than he intended.

          She dropped her head and shook it. “No, Michael.”

          “Then why are you actin’ like this?”

          “I have a lot on my mind right now.” She massaged her forehead.

          A sigh left his mouth. It wasn’t worth it to keep pushing. “Wanna read what I have so far?”

          She nodded and exited the booth. Excitement sparked within him. Michael rolled closer to the other chair at the mixing console, giving her just enough room to sit down. He handed her the notebook and made their hands touch. She didn’t flinch this time. She didn’t back away. A smile tugged at Michael’s lips, but he fought it off.

          The candle’s backlight formed a halo around her body. Her lips mouthed the words he had written down. She was wearing the same lipstick he was so curious about. His mouth watered. It drew him closer like a siren’s song. He scooted towards her until his knee grazed against hers.

          “Michael, this is perfect,” she said, turning her head to face him. Their eyes locked onto each other.

          He had to know. He had to know what her lips felt like, what they tasted like. He leaned forward and captured them. Soft and sticky like cotton candy. His tongue swiped against her lips.

          She pulled away, eyes wild. What could have happened at that damn appointment? He thought he was going somewhere with her. The flirting. The dates. She had become so open with him. Maybe he misread her attraction to him. He shouldn’t have done it, but he was so sure. Now she’d probably never want anything to do with him. She could kick him out right now and send him back to L.A. Scrap the song. The work wasn’t set in stone yet.

          “I’m sorry, I—”

          Chanté’s lips crashed onto his. Michael’s eyes widened. Her wispy eyelashes lay atop her cheekbones. Fingers combing through his hair coaxed his eyes to drift closed. It was better than all those fantasies in the dark. He could’ve died a happy man right then. His hands found her hips and pulled her on top of him. A delicious weight that satiated an undiscovered void in him.

          His skin pulsed, mind hazy. She slipped her tongue into his mouth when his lips parted. Their tongues swirled around each other in a slow dance. All the blood rushed to his lower region. He knew she felt it too. Her hips rolled into his at an agonizing pace. There wasn’t nearly enough friction. He whined.

          “Open.”

          Michael obeyed. She spit into his mouth. The warm saliva hit the back of his tongue. He closed his mouth and swallowed. A hum of approval vibrated from her. Her eyes narrowed.

          “Good boy.”

          His hips bucked up in response. The wet spot in his briefs was cool against his tip. Chanté pushed his chin up, exposing his neck. Her tongue swirled around his pulse point. His whole body shivered. Soft moans and whimpers filled the air.

          His hands reached to her ass and squeezed. The rapture took over him. He was no longer in control. His eyes rolled back as far as they could go. She licked a wet trail down his neck to his collarbones. Her teeth sank into the thin skin, lips wrapping around to suck. Her hand reached in between their pelvises and palmed him through his jeans. Michael took in a sharp breath.

          “Do you,” she whispered against his neck, “wanna spend the night?”

          The words spilled from his mouth. “Yes, yes, yes.”

                                                       —————

          Michael had to go back to his hotel to pack a few things for the sleepover. You showered while you waited for him. Brushed your teeth. Washed your face. Put on a sheer double feather robe. Your hands tied the sash into a neat bow. The gathered tulle worked to blur your nipples. The reflection in your mirror was so arousing it made you cry and run to your bed. Jezebel. Slut. Whore.

          You yanked the drawer to your nightstand open. A half-empty pack of menthol Pall Malls stared back at you. You shook your head and shut the drawer. Kneeling was better. It wouldn’t kill you at least.

          The tears flowed as you bowed your head. You begged God to forgive you for what was to transpire and to spare Michael from His wrath. What if I didn’t pray correctly? Then you did it again. What if God isn’t listening because I’m too much of a sinner? Then you did it again. My God, my God, why hath thou forsaken me? You kept doing it until you rid yourself of all the unmanageable guilt.

          Michael arrived 20 minutes later with his suitcase and a bottle of wine. He set the bottle down on the side table near the door. Your lipstick smudges and hickeys on his neck and collarbones littered his skin. He wrapped his arms around your waist and kissed you. His hips rolled into yours, a hard bulge pressing against your bone.

          “Did anyone see you?” you whispered against his lips.

          “Don’t worry about that.”

          Your hand gripped his jaw and removed his face from yours. “Michael, there’s gonna be somethin’ out tomorrow.”

          “I know,” he mumbled. He spun you around in his arms, your back flush against him. His face nuzzled into your neck. “I wasn’t thinkin.”

          Hot, open-mouthed kisses on the sensitive skin disarmed you. Your head lolled to the side, giving him more access. Breaths doused in ecstasy fell out from between your parted lips. He licked and nipped and sucked. The thought of how many times he'd used his mouth to quell concern popped into your mind.  

          He glided his hands up from your waist and cupped your breasts. His fingers rolled and pinched your nipples through the fine mesh of the tulle, hardening them. The muscles in your stomach clenched and forced a strained moan out. Your back arched off his chest.

          “I just wanted to get to you.”

          He guided you to the couch and bent you over the armrest. The tulle draped over you, collecting just a bit of the slick from your heat. Michael hummed. He dropped to his knees with a thud. His fingers splayed against your ass. The pads pressed divots into the soft flesh. Kisses trailed up from the backs of your knees to your hamstrings to the crease where your ass and thigh met. Left side then right side. An offering to show appreciation.

          He moved at a torturous pace, increasing your hypersensitivity and your frustration. Goosebumps pimpled up. The fine hairs on your arms and nape stood at attention. Every pore embedded in your skin tingled like it had been slathered with Vicks VapoRub.

          He lifted the robe to rest on your lower back. A gritty groan hit your eardrums. “You have such a beautiful pussy,” he whispered. The pitch in his voice lowered. It was full and viscous like molasses. “I don’t think I’m worthy enough to touch it.” His hands spread your cheeks to open it up more. “Can I? Will you let me?”

          Why wouldn’t you? What was the point of denying yourself and him? You had already gone so far.

          “Yes, Michael.”

          “Thank you.”

          His thumb dipped between your lips, tentative as if exploring uncharted territory. From your entrance to your clit, he slid it through the slick valley. The tip of his thumb added pressure. Slow, small circles. The chill from it shot up your spine, locking it in place. Your legs and glutes tensed. You sucked in a breath through the spaces of your teeth.  

          “So wet,” he said. “Is this all for me?”

          “Yes, all for you…only for you.” Your head dropped, burying your face in the couch cushion.

          His thumb circled your clit more quickly. Another finger prodded at your entrance. He bit into the fat of your ass, and you yelped.  

          “I want you to watch me while I eat you out.”

          Trembling, you straightened until you stood upright and turned around. Your breath hitched at the sight of Michael. This man, the biggest artist in the universe, knelt at the temple of your arousal. Hands on his knees. His big eyes full of reverence. A faint, red flush blanketed his face. Women would kill to be in your position, to have the Michael Jackson at their mercy, asking permission to please them.

          He hooked his arms around your thighs, pulling you towards him until your knees rested on top of his shoulders. His index and middle fingers opened you. A freezing stream of air targeted at your clit blew out from his puckered lips. Then he flattened his tongue and licked a thick stripe. When he reached your clit, he pointed his tongue, flicking it up and down and side to side.

          Your mouth stretched open, but no sound came out. One hand gripped onto the couch. The other tangled itself in Michael’s hair. Ooh’s escaped your mouth. He moaned against you, sending mini shockwaves through your nerves.

          His lips closed around that sensitive bud and sucked while his tongue ran over it. His eyes focused on your face, gauging each subtle reaction. He inserted a finger. His movements were measured and debilitating. The tip of it brushed ever so slightly against that spot that could unravel you.

          “Fuck!” you yelled.

          Michael detached his lips from your core. His finger wriggled inside you. “Does that feel good, Goddess? Am I pleasin’ you right?”

          Goddess?

          “Yes!” The end of it turned into a squeal. “You makin’ me feel so good, baby boy.”

          “Keep callin’ me that, please.”

          You nodded, and he returned to licking and sucking. Sin had never felt so good. Your body ignored your mind. Michael’s actions, his words. They all contradicted what the intrusive thoughts screamed at you. If this was what Hell felt like, maybe you’d rather be there.

          Michael added another finger. You grabbed his hair and smushed his face into you. Your hips rolled, chasing your impending orgasm. He stuck his tongue out, fingers motionless inside you.

          “Stay right there.” Your head tilted back. A fever took over your entire body. “I’m gonna come, baby boy. I’m gonna come for you.”

          Your body went limp for a split second, and then every muscle tensed. You screamed. Michael’s hands pressed down on your hips to keep you still while he lapped up your juices. The aftershocks of your orgasm made your body twitch and convulse.

          Michael pushed you back onto the couch. He climbed up to you. His knee sunk into the cushion to hold him up. He placed a quick kiss to your lips.  “I’m so ready for you. I need you.”

          You looked down. The crotch of his jeans bowed out, his dick desperate for liberation.

          “You see what you do to me?”

          He helped you up, and you led him upstairs to your room as quickly as your wobbly legs would let you.

          You crawled onto your bed. Michael stood at the foot of it. His deft fingers popped open the buttons of his shirt one by one. The bones of his sternum poked out from his chest. More splotches of depigmentation decorated his torso. The skin around them was lightening to even out his complexion.

          The moonlight projected a bluish-silver glow onto him. He folded his shirt after taking it off and placed it on your nightstand. The little flexes in his arms made your clit throb. Your fingers ran across your collarbones. You licked your lips, watching him unzip his jeans.

          He pulled them and his briefs down. The vitiligo had not yet reached below the waistband, just like his hands. He was long and girthy. Pre-cum smeared over his tip and more pebbled out. He crossed his arms over his body in a poor attempt to hide himself.

          “Michael…”

          “Do you,” he started then paused, “do you like what you see?”

          “Of course. You’re…you’re just so…perfect,” you whispered. He tried to hide his smile. His skin turned scarlet. “Come here. Come to me.”

          He crawled on the bed and lay beside you, his elbow propping him up. His hand ghosted over your robe. “Can I take this off?”

          You nodded. He pulled one end of the sash, and the bow fell apart. You sat up for a moment to slip your arms out of it. Michael inhaled a sharp breath. His hands rubbed up from your lower abdomen to your breasts. He planted soft kisses to your cleavage, squishing your breasts around his head. Pre-cum spilled onto his thigh in a clear, sticky line. His hips rut against your leg.

          “You don’t have to wait. I need it just as much as you,” you said.

          He positioned himself between your legs, hands grabbing your ankles and placing them on his shoulders. His knees shuffled closer and closer until his tip bumped against your clit. A quiet whimper left his mouth.

          “I wanna savor you.”

          He spit on his hand and brought it down to stroke himself. There was a hesitation in his movements. Slow breaths cut through the silence. You touched his abs, fingers tracing the ridges of each muscle. You mouthed Keep going to him. He lined his dick up with your entrance and pushed inside. One inch. Pause. Push. One inch. Pause. Push.  

          You threw your head back into the pillows. A pathetic whine flew out of your mouth. The stretch burned so good, like stepping outside on the first day of summer. He was nearing your intestines, and his hips weren’t close to meeting yours.

          His eyes were bleary, unfocused. He bit down on his lip. Sweat trickled down his forehead. With a final push, he settled inside you. A shudder seized his body. He turned his head and kissed your ankle.

          “So tight,” he breathed. “So wet, so tight.” He dragged his hips out and slammed back into you. You squealed. The sharp entrance dissipated into a pleasurable pressure. “My God, you feel like Heaven.” Tears dripped out from the outer corners of your eyes.

          He wrapped his arms around your neck and laid on top of you. The change in his position stretched your hamstrings taut. Your knees pushed against your chest. He rolled his hips like a wave, and—fuck—you wished you had a mirror to see how his body moved.

          It was all so comforting. The way he spoke to you. The way he held you. It enclosed you in a tenderness you hadn’t felt in a while. A warmth that reached deep beneath your skin.

          “Kiss me, please,” he said, rubbing your noses together.

          And you did it because he’s your good boy, and you wanted to give him what he wanted. Your lips met his. His tongue slipped into your mouth. The taste of your essence lingered on his tastebuds. He pulled away to moan in your ear. High-pitched and needy. His dick pulsed inside you.

          Your nails scratched down his back. With every thrust, his tip brushed against your cervix, making you arch off the mattress. His strokes faltered, and his body shivered.

          “I’m so close. I can’t—”

          “Don’t stop, baby boy. Keep going. Show me how good this pussy feels.”

          He raised up. His hands grabbed your ankles, holding your feet against his chest. He jackhammered into you.

          “Ooh, shit,” you moaned.

          A few strands of his hair stuck to his face. His mouth hung open. Sweet, melodic sighs drifted out.

          “Where can I come, Goddess?”

          “On…on my stomach.”

          He pulled out as soon as the answer left your lips. Milky white cum shot out in interrupted spurts. It landed hot on you. Michael whimpered as he came, body spasming. Your legs fell from his hands and onto the mattress. He took deep breaths—in through his nose, out through his mouth—to slow down his breathing.

          “You gonna clean me up?” you asked.

          Michael nodded. His tongue ran over your skin, collecting each streak of semen. He looked up at you through his eyelashes. When he finished, he opened his mouth to show you that he swallowed it all. You pulled him down for a few quick kisses.

          He cuddled up to you, head on your chest. “I’ve dreamed of that a lot.”

          “Really?” you asked, stroking his hair.

          “Yeah, really. I—ahh,” he interrupted himself. “I shouldn’t say it.”

          You smiled. “No, tell me.”

          “Okay,” he sighed. “I have that Playboy with you in it.” A chill struck your body. “I use it every time I stroke myself. I had always imagined you tellin’ me what to do. Tellin’ me how to touch myself.”

          “I hope I lived up to your expectations.” Your fingers massaged his scalp. He winced a little but didn’t tell you to stop.

          “You blew them out the water, trust me.”

          “I used to hang your posters on my wall and kiss them,” you confessed. There were a few seconds of silence before you both busted out laughing. “And whenever I listened to ‘The Lady in My Life’, I imagined you singin’ it to me.”

          “I am singin’ it to you. I’ll sing it to you right now.”

          His voice was soft and smooth. He laid his head next your shoulder and turned your chin so you could look at him. The intensity and sincerity in his eyes captured yours. It made it feel like those lyrics he first sung four years ago were written with you in mind. A light feeling ambushed your chest. Velvety butterfly wings tickled your ribcage.

          At the end of the first chorus, he leaned in and kissed you. His lips caressed yours. He hoisted your leg up on his hip. His hand ran under your thigh and over the curve of your ass. His hardening length pressed against your skin.

          “You’re addictive,” he said, pulling away.

          You reached down, grabbing his dick, and pushed his tip against your hole. Michael rolled his hips up. You both gasped when he entered. Each stroke was slow, but they reached deep within you. He angled himself just right to hit that spongy spot every time. Shaky breaths replaced your moans.

          “Is that it? Right there?”

          You nodded, unable to speak.

          “I feel you creamin’ all over me. You gonna come?”

          You nodded again. Your body was a ticking time bomb. Any little poke could set you off. Michael worked harder to push into you deeper. He lifted your leg higher until it rested on his shoulder. Another stroke, and that did it. Convulsions wracked your body. Your eyes rolled back. But that didn’t stop him. He kept going until he, eventually, reached his peak, pulling out to come on your pelvis. And, like the first time, he licked it all up. You fell asleep in each other’s arms not long after.

                                                       —————

          Michael wasn’t sure if he had opened his eyes or not. The moonlight no longer streamed in through the window. He turned his head. The red numbers from the digital clock on her nightstand read 3:13. He rubbed his hand where Chanté was lying, but it was flat. He shot up.

          “Chanté?”

          No answer.

          Another call of her name.

          No answer.

          He got up and put his briefs on. Each creak of the floorboards sounded louder than they were in the silence. His fingers flipped on the switch to her en suite. The light flooded his eyes, and he squinted. She wasn’t there. She wasn’t in the closet. She wasn’t in some corner in the room. He had even checked under her bed.

          Gone.

          Heart pounding, his hands ran over the walls in search for more switches in the hallway. The paintings tilted. His hip bumped into one of the side tables. He hissed and continued through the dark. He caught onto one and flipped it on. If he had taken another step, he would’ve stumbled his way down the stairs.

          The bottle of wine he left at the front door was missing. His suitcase untouched. The smell of cigarettes wafting from the door concealing the basement singed his nose hairs. She smokes?

          He tiptoed down the basement stairs. Chanté sat in a leather wingback chair surrounded by massive bookshelves stocked with encyclopedias and dictionaries. She sat in the middle of a ring of candles. Despite the basement being much colder than the rest of the house, she wore only her robe.

          The small, round table next to the chair had an ashtray full of gray ash and a glass with about three sips of wine left. She held a half-smoked cigarette in between her index and middle fingers. She hadn’t noticed him in her periphery yet.

          “Chanté?”

          Her eyes shifted to look out of their corners. “Fuck,” she breathed, waving the smoke away. She stubbed the cigarette out and stood up from her chair as Michael approached. “I only do it when I’m stressed,” she explained, her words choked. “I know I shouldn’t smoke. It could fuck up my voice and everything.”

          “What’s wrong? What’s goin’ on?” Did she regret the sex that much?

          “I’m not an easy girl, Michael, okay? I wantcha to know that. This isn’t something I just do. I don’t-I don’t sleep around, okay?”

          She must have thought he believed everything the press printed about her. It was ridiculous. The tabloids were fodder for the self-righteous. Even if she was promiscuous, he wasn’t one to judge. God knows he’d taken advantage of being desirable to women all over the world.

          “I never said you did—”

          “You’re the second man I’ve ever been with.”

          Michael didn’t have to ask. He had a feeling who that first man was. That wasn’t important, though. He battled himself on whether he should ask or not. The media had already speculated enough about her sexual proclivities, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t curious about it either.

          “Have you…” Michael paused, embarrassed. “…been with women?”

          Chanté sighed. She flopped back down into her chair and filled her glass with more wine before speaking.

          “I’ve only been in one relationship. It was with another girl,” she confessed.

          Michael raised his eyebrows. So the rumors were somewhat true. The press was on the right track with their misguided “Chanté and Madonna are dating” speculation. He had gay rumors himself, but nothing in his love life pointed to it being the truth. There was more at stake for Chanté.

          “I wrote ‘Redamancy in Sin’ about us. Me and her. We started datin’ when I was 15, somewhere around that age. We were together for years. She kept picturin’ this future that I just couldn’t. It wasn’t because I didn’t love her. I loved her very much. I loved her more than life itself. I just…”

          She paused and shook her head, trying to think of the right thing to say. She brought her glass up to her lips and drank the wine in one gulp. A contented sigh left her mouth.

          “I was gettin’ more famous, if you could say. I kept havin’ these thoughts that everyone would find out. I had thoughts like ‘I’m goin’ to Hell’, ‘God hates me,’ and ‘God hates faggots.’” Tears welled in her eyes. Some invisible force sucked the air out of Michael’s lungs. “I started going to Mass and Confession. I ain’t even Catholic.”

          She buried her face in her hands. Her voice came out muffled. “I thought that it would all go away if I became a better Christian. These thoughts. My attraction to my girlfriend…and women in general. Nothing worked. I had to break it off; I couldn’t take it anymore. Society wouldn’t accept me.”

          She pulled her hands out from her face and looked at Michael. Her eyes were a glowing red. The wet trails her tears left behind glistened in the soft light of her candles. “Hell, I couldn’t accept myself at the time.”

          “Chanté…” he said, stepping closer and over the flames of the candles. His hand reached out to cup her cheek, and she leaned into it.

          “I want you, Michael, in every way, not just sexually. I want your attention. I want your love, but I’m afraid I’ll ruin you. These thoughts keep tellin’ me I’ll ruin you and drag you down with me.”

          Michael shook his head. “No…no…”

          “I want you nice and pure for all the women you’ll be with.” Her lips pulled into a sad smile.

          “Chanté, stop, please!” She flinched. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry but let me decide what I want for myself. Can you give me that?”

          She didn’t answer.

          “I want you. I’ve been wanting you.” He dropped to his knees and laid his head on her lap. “Let me have you.”

                                                       —————

          Whoops and hollers and clinking of glasses drowned out the music playing from your living room speakers. Your team had come by for a private celebration. The song you and Michael recorded, “Riding on the Clouds”, just beat out Olivia Newton-John’s record for most weeks at No. 1 by one week.

          Magazines all over booked you for joint photoshoots. Chicago. L.A. New York. London. The most controversial photoshoot was for the cover story for Smash Hits. During the continued production of the song, you and Michael had stayed out of the public. There wasn’t a need to go out anymore. He had checked out of his hotel and started staying at your house. The media stopped speculating about your relationship with him.

          That cover for Smash Hits, however, revived those dating rumors. The cover story focused on your and Michael’s creative process and mutual respect for each other, but no one cared about that. No. Not at all. It was all about the cover. Michael stood behind you, his chin on your shoulder and arms wrapped around your waist. Your hand was on the side of his face, pushing him against your cheek.

          Next thing you knew, Star and Us Magazine printed copies claiming to expose your relationship. The National Enquirer got a photo of you ripping up one of the copies with the headline “CHANTÉ PUTS HER FOOT DOWN”. It was largely ignored and the public believed you paid the National Enquirer to run that story.

          The rumors worsened when you and he were booked for joint interviews and TV specials. There was no way to conceal the longing glances Michael gave you. He was always touching and rubbing your knee. You leaned in closer to him whenever he talked. Your eyes kept drifting to his lips. You’d sworn you were being more discreet. The rumors died down, as they always do, after a few weeks when the media caught onto another celebrity to scrutinize.

          You hated to admit it, but the tabloids were right this time. You and Michael denied and denied knowing damn well you were cohabitating for the time being, sharing secret kisses behind the scenes, and having quickies on set. Nia always had to cover for you.

          Michael was supposed to leave when the production of the song ended but he decided to stay until after the release of your album. In the weeks leading up to the release, you had a lot more free time. You spent your days lazing around with him. You never explained why you prayed so much. He never asked; he just prayed with you.

          Your album release thrust you back into the spotlight. Every pop culture magazine cover was you. Every newspaper had you on the front page. They had you dressed and posed like R&B divas like Anita Baker and Jody Watley. The headlines were more favorable to you. They took your art more seriously.

CHANTÉ THE ROMANTIC

CHANTÉ DOVE: MOST QUALIFIED PROFESSEURE OF LOVE

THE GREATEST DIVINITY

WE KNOW WHY THE CAGED DOVE SINGS

          Michael flew you out to L.A. to congratulate you on the release while he was preparing to record his own album. In L.A., the paparazzi was everywhere. The most ridiculous thing about it was that Michael believed his disguises worked. If anything, each disguise brought more attention to him. The paparazzi took every opportunity to photograph you and him. The rumors amped up again so much so that you were getting booked interviews to discuss your relationship.

          You sat across from Oprah for a short interview on AM Chicago, and you just realized that you skipped taking your medication for a few days. Sweat ran down your temples. A skull-cracking headache pounded into your head. You scanned the crowd. Your heart beat loud in your ears.

          “So tell me, girl,” Oprah said. Your eyes snapped to her. “You and Michael Jackson got a lil' somethin' somethin' goin' on?”

          They know.

          The crowd cheered and hollered. You faked a laugh and doubled over.

          “We don’t have anything goin’ on. Michael is just so sweet, the sweetest guy you’ll ever be around. He checks in on me. I check on him. Y’know,” your legs crossed at the knee, “he asked me to come to L.A. because he wanted to congratulate me on the album. I had free time in between all the promotional stuff, so I went. That’s all.” You clapped your hands together with finality.

          “You sure you not coverin’ anything up, girl? We’ve seen the interviews. We’ve seen the photoshoots.”

          You looked over to the crowd. Eyes wide. Hungry for your answer. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath before speaking.

          “What’s there to cover up? I feel like I’m very transparent. I pour my heart into my music. If you listen to me, then you know me intimately.”

          Oprah gave you a knowing look. You leaned closer to her. Your hand rested on top of hers.            

          “Honey, there’s nothin’ goin’ on between me and Michael. We’re really just good friends.”

Michael intended to do exactly what you asked. Eventually. 

Instead of kneeling, he hoisted you up in his arms and carried you to his bedroom with his mouth attached to yours, setting you down on the bed. His hands slipped under the dark material of your dress, breaking the kiss only for a moment to slip it over your head and leave you in just those red lace panties. 

Crawling over you, Michael couldn’t help but think about how pretty you looked underneath him. Absolutely beautiful. Mostly bare, thick hair dark and curly against his pillows, skin glittery, lips all kiss-swollen, with your eyes wide and bright and expansive as they stared back up at him. 

Something about the thought of you sitting close to another man looking like that was.. unsettling. Something about you laughing with that man on dates. Laughing like you used to with him. Spending time with him. Learning him. Wearing panties in his favorite color. Doing that flirty thing with your lashes, looking up from under them when you were turned on. Something about the idea of you falling in love with this guy, eyes sparkling as he intimately touched you. 

Something about that undid him. No, he didn’t like that. You were his…

You knew you were. And really, he didn’t need to convince you. He just needed to remind you.

His body knew yours vividly, no matter how much you tried to deny it or keep yourself at arm’s length. He knew exactly where to touch, exactly where to hold, lick, bite… a body that he’d explored, learned the limits of. 

Limits he planned on revisiting tonight.

His body was pressed against yours so close, he wanted you to flood all of his senses. Intoxicated, he buried nose in the crook of your neck for more of your scent and cursed under his breath, dick throbbing and twitching against you. You felt it, lifting your hips until they were flush against his crotch. Wanting to be closer. Craving it. Wanting to touch him so bad, your hands twitched. They snuck down between you to push off his pajama pants and before you could accomplish that, he gently grabbed your wrists, making you pout as he pinned them up above your head.

“Patience.”

His kisses were intense, heady… the battle of dominance between your tongues, a familiar dance that sent heat pooling behind your belly button every time. Teasing you, he pulled back a bit and you chased his tongue, sighing in concession as you felt it flick your top lip, glide down your jaw and into your neck, expertly swirling around your pulse point. You were so wrapped up in the feeling that you missed the sound of handcuffs until it was too late.

If he was gonna convince remind you, he was gonna do it his way. You couldn’t help but look shocked, pulling at your wrists to confirm you were handcuffed to the base of his bed. He just shrugged, smirking.

“You asked for this.”

Your softness was at his mercy, body toned and squishy all in one, malleable, to do whatever he wanted with. Praise, tease, mark, worship, overload. 

Michael’s hands were tight against your ribcage as he admired your body, hot and arched in his grip. Both his hands moved higher, squeezing your breasts before lowering his head and wrapping his lips around one of your pierced nipples.

“Mmm, missed my titties. So perfect, baby. Fit right in my hand.” His mouth was muffled against your skin as he praised you between the squelching sounds of his wet tongue rolling around your sensitive nubs. He kneaded your flesh, sucking the left nipple first, tugging at your barbell before switching to the right one, over and over again until you panted and trembled underneath him, letting out a helpless moan.

Michael’s ears perked up at the sound.

“That’s right, Tink. Exactly what I wanna hear.”

Keeping his eyes on yours, he mapped a light trail of burning kisses all over your body. Your fingers, up your arms and chest, soft kisses around your taut nipples and the hickies he left around them, down your torso. The feeling of him affectionately kissing the stretch marks on your belly made you bite your lip, stopping yourself from getting emotional at the tingles forming all over your skin. He moved downward, kissed your feet, calves, mouth parted as his lips found the back of your knees. Ceremoniously, he stopped just above your core, decorating his favorite spot on your inner thighs with more love bites. 

Moaning, he bit and sucked on your delicate skin until it bruised, intentionally resting his splayed hand against your mound. Your hips rolled up toward his palm and he smirked, repositioning your hips back onto the bed so he could continue.

“Be still ‘fore I cuff them ankles too.”

You bit down on your bottom lip anxiously as you watched him, fighting against yourself to stay still. Michael continued to kiss around and proudly admire his artwork. There were varying hues of red and purple on your chestnut skin. Smirking, he thought about you trying to strategically cover them from another man and pretend you didn’t belong to him, but his mark on you had been made long before now. 

He could tell from the rise and fall of your chest that you were anxious to be touched, his thumb absentmindedly rubbing against the growing wet spot on your panties.

“Fuck…you smell so good, Tinka…”

His head lowered until his nose was pressed flush against you, taking deep inhales against the darker red patch of lace. Vibrations from his groans had you helplessly twitching under him, handcuffs clinking as you tugged at your wrists above your head.

He used that same thumb from before to press between your folds through the material, aimlessly enjoying how the sticky material clung to you and further drenched in your wetness, until smack! The feeling of his palm slapping your pussy made you cry out, approaching your breaking point of his teasing. You tucked your face under your arm to hide the frustrated tears stinging your eyes, body twisting away from him.

Michael smirked, amused, reaching his hands out to gently brush against your nipples while you squirmed. The juxtapose of sensations made you gasp, whimpering and breaking out into goosebumps all over. 

“Aww, ‘s too much? I think you can handle some more convincin’, mama…” 

You shook your head no, which earned you another wet smack against your heated flesh. Then his thumb pressed against your covered clit and you whined, arching, gripping the pillow under your head.

“Nghh, shit Mikey… you’re being meannn…”

“‘m not bein’ mean, you just thought you was gon’ use me without any consequences.”

Smack.

Your body jumped at the impact this time, rattling the cuffs. Your clit was so sensitive, every touch or slap or caress anywhere on your body had it thumping like you had a second heartbeat between your legs.

“Look at you now. Quiet.”

You twitched again at the feeling of his fingers sliding into the dip of your inner thigh and hooking into your panties. They were so soaked he had to peel them off your skin just to move them to the side. The look in his eyes as he spread your puffy lips had you visibly trembling, body begging to be touched some more.

He loved making you needy.

“I know baby, promise I’m almost done admirin’ you and then you can use my mouth however you want.” He offered sincerely, awestruck at the sight between your legs. “I missed my pussy so bad… she miss me too, look how much she cryin’ for me…” He murmured, swiping his fingers through the sticky wetness dripping out of you.

Eagerly, he sucked his wet fingers, eyes darkening at the taste of your arousal.

“You always taste so good, pretty girl. Need more of you.” 

Leaning in, he moved like he had all the time in the world, tongue lolling up and down your clit like you were the sweetest peach he’d ever taste in his life. One he craved constantly, and wanted to savor for as long as he could stand to. His hips were flush against the bed to hopefully dull the growing ache in his pajama pants intensifying at the full experience of you on his tongue, but he was exactly where he wanted to be. 

The sensation felt like your body was attached to a live wire. Electricity shot up your spine, shuddering roughly underneath him while you whimpered and panted and arched as high as you could with your wrists still cuffed together above your head. 

“Mm, be still for me mama, please. Lemme eat.”

His eyes rolled closed as he adjusted you closer to his mouth, pushing your knees up and keeping them wide to make space for his torso to settle between them.

You were trying to be still. You really were. But your hips had a mind of their own, chasing his mouth for more pressure. He would push harder with his tongue on some passes until your legs shook and then pull away into teasing flicks that made your thighs angrily twitch around his head. 

“Fuck, Michael please—” Closing your eyes tight, your words faded away in the loop of his tongue swirling around you repeatedly. If you could just angle your hip a bit more to the left—

His mouth squelched around your flesh as he pulled back with a loud pop.

“That feel good?”

Your breathing was ragged, so close to an orgasm you could taste it. He sucked your clit this time, making you twitch and moan out a soft, “aah, yes daddy…”

“Mm, there’s my baby… Open your eyes, look at me.”

He waited to make eye contact with you before he continued.

Watching him intensified everything. Made you wetter if that was even possible, a puddle forming under your ass against the duvet. You sobbed, pulling at your bruised wrists to get away from this evil, evil man sucking the soul out of you through your clit.

“Where you goin’…’m ready for my pussy to cum now, mama...”

His words were emphasized by his middle and ring fingers dancing briefly into the absolute mess between your legs before slipping inside you.

You couldn’t believe what he was doing to you, how your body helplessly shook as he fucked you with his fingers. Maybe it was the slip of your swollen clit against his lips, currently being sucked as he pulsated his mouth around it, or the warmth of his large hand pressing down on your abdomen, or the sight of his broad shoulders and back muscles flexing with the intent of your pleasure. 

Maybe it was the sound of him groaning and spitting your juices back against you only to illicitly slurp them up again, head snaking from left to right and up and down against you, eyelids heavy as he possessively watched you through his messy curls.

But it really was all too much. 

And before you knew it you were crying out, eyes rolling to the back of your head.

Your orgasm was aggressive, consuming you wholly, making you grit your teeth and groan as your hips jerked and desperately twisted, arms aching from being in the same position for so long. Michael’s curved fingers repeatedly dragged against your g-spot, head following suit with the same intensity and commitment.

Pupils dilated, he admired the impossible curve in your spine and how it elongated your torso, making your breasts wiggle on your chest and rise further into the air. The fucked out look on your face as you looked down at him, your noises curt, moaning his name and rutting into his tongue and fingers over and over again. He felt a flood of warm liquid rushing from your pussy, making him open his mouth wider, satiating his addiction to your juices by catching as much of it as he could. He didn’t let up until your well was completely empty, leaving residuals of your overstimulation dribbling down his chin.

Your legs squeezed around his head in defeat, moving like a wounded soldier as you begged for mercy… and Michael smirked, temporarily granting your wish.

“Go on another date, see what happen.”

a/n!: Hello lovelies! I’m slim! I’ve fallen in love with Michael and I CAN’T GET UP!!!! No srsly, I’ve been obsessed since the movie yall, I’ve used this as my chance to get back into writing, as I haven’t cohesively written a story in a very long time. Just editing and adding ideas but not flushing them out if ykwim. Idk, whatever girl. I have so many ideas and a lot of them match the storyline I came up with here, so I’m just gonna make this an anthology series with connected stories that can be read separately. But I gotta lay the foundation down first! Important to note: Michael and her don't actually meet in this part; they meet in the next one! This won’t be released until it’s finished, so fret not. this is just exposition and context for now. I'm a sucker for it tbh. 2. Michael was supposed to create a song called 'Family Thing' for the Addams Family Values, but was dropped after the allegations. I don't think it was going to have a music video, but we're pretending for the sake of the fic. 3. There's no smut and won't be for a while. I want to delve more into Michael's (possible) celibacy since we really don't know if he really did lose his virginity to his first wife or not. I also just am not that much of a fan of it anymore. 4. Olaide is very much #misunderstood, just...bare with her please. pt 2 is looking a little more like there's gonna be a pt 3, and if i go that route, you're not gonna like her in pt 2 😭. Just stick beside my girl! 5. I'll talk more about it in the series masterlist, but this series, while i try to keep it lighthearted, does have dark themes and topics. It's all past trauma so it's talked about and implied rather than taking place in the series. Just a warning if you want to follow it! I hope you all enjoy this, and idk abt y’all I’m in this fandom long term, so 🤷🏾‍♀️ I'm using this as a chance to become a consistent and intentional writer, so anything i say I'm doing is getting done. I'm not gonna be a hiatus writer anymore, I'm telling you!

pt 2

AUGUST 17, 1993 - LOS ANGELES

No one else was up to the job.

It was a beautiful but humid summer day in California. Though the sky was gorgeous, the heat did nothing to help Barry Sonnenfield’s nervous sweat as he hastily walked to the trailer for his next film’s antagonist. He never imagined he’d be in this position; directors send people to deliver bad news; they don’t do it themselves. And on the off chance they do, they’re certainly never this worried about the outcome. 

Not even Rena, her assistant, wanted to be in the same room. “Uh uh,” she’d said, shaking her head profusely. “I’m not touching that. You the one who got rid of Michael Jackson, so you go in there and tell her just what you did.” Some wonderful words of encouragement, and because she was Olaide Carter’s assistant, she could accept or refuse whatever she wanted, just like her stuck-up boss.

He finally approached the trailer, taking a minute to adjust his clothes and calm himself down, only realizing how badly he was shaking when he trilled his knuckles on her door instead of the 3 sharp knocks he really wanted. “Come in,” she’d called. He took the small towel he had in his pocket and dabbed his forehead before saying screw it and wiping his entire head like a madman.  Then, he rattled the door handle a few times before being able to open it.

He walked in with a smile to no avail. She never smiled at him unless she was getting what she wanted. He hadn’t seen what she was like when she didn’t; he’d only heard about it.

He was about to find out. 

“Hey darling,” he greeted happily. 

“Mhm, what do you want?” She cut to the chase, already untrusting of his tone. It’s never good when the director comes in, jolly as can be, minutes after your crew skedaddled out of your room. Everyone had been acting weird all day. And she knows it’s not good news if Rena got called to his office and he came back instead.

Barry sat down on her pink faux fur couch, requested by her. The upholstery was bedazzled with pearls and had a leopard print stripe outlining it. The entire room was themed similarly; a mix of black, varying pinks, and some sort of animal print. All a bit of an eyesore in his opinion, but whatever kept her happy.

“I just want to go over a couple changes with you.” He was grossly underexaggerating the news in question, and she could sense it.

Looking through the mirror, she glances at the papers in his hand. Her face remains stoic as she gussies up her curly blonde bob. She looks into his eyes, then looks back at herself. The whole thing lasted mere seconds, but felt like a lifetime for Barry. “Script changes?” She asks.

He gulps. “…amongst others,” he mutters, pulling out his towel once more. The trailer had its own air conditioning, and he was still sweating like a pig.

She nods with a look on her face that reads ‘sarcastic acknowledgement’. “Ah,” she said, “And what would these ‘other changes’ be?” She turned to him while doing the quotes, then crossed her right leg over her left, placed her hands on her knees, and gave him a beautiful, closed-mouth smile that looked the exact opposite of pleased. Right now, she was more upset that he was, very obviously, playing in her face.

He saw it as letting her down easy so she doesn’t completely wail on him. Instead of just admitting it, he continues to push for talking about the script beforehand. “Well, we’ll have to start shooting again in 20 minutes, so I’m going through and going over these changes with everyone-”

“Well, how much time could it take to tell me the other stuff? And it’ll be better if we talk about the script right before we start anyway.” The smile never dropped, and her voice never faltered. She was used to this kind of thing. “Just say what it is, Barry.”

He takes a deep breath, holds it in for just a second, then says, “Michael Jackson is no longer doing a song for us.”

For a minute, it’s silent. She just sits and looks at him. She blinks. Then blinks again. And again. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I heard that correctly.” She turns her head and puts a single manicured finger behind her ear. “Did you say…you dropped Michael Jackson from production?”

The man sat there twiddling his thumbs, completely drenched. He didn’t say…exactly that. But that is exactly what happened. And maybe in any other circumstance, this would be a minor disappointment. But if the song got cancelled, that means so did the music video Olaide was set to star in.

He gulped heavier this time as he tried to explain, even though he didn't think he should have to. “Now I know you’re disappointed. I wanted you to meet him and see you in the video; everyone did. But-” He’s interrupted by a bottle of perfume being aimed at his head. He ducked just in time for Chanel Platinum Egoiste to shatter against the wall, leaving an auburn stain and a gorgeous smell that wafted through the room. He gathered all his courage to look up at the woman who was now fully standing and glowering at him. Her bob surrounded her head like a silky, golden star; her short curls big enough to frame her face so that only her scowl, scrunched nose, and fiery chestnut eyes were visible to him. 

“Do you have any idea how much that video meant to me?” She raises her arm, and her finger comes up slowly, then pokes straight at him like a bow. If he focused, he could see her shaking slightly. “Fix it.”

“Olaide-“

“NO!” In a flash, she turns over and grabs a shoe. “Take it back, now!” She throws it, and this time it lands on his arms as they shield his face. “Are you fucking kidding me!”

She continues to pick up small items and throw them at Barry on the couch while he shouts at her to stop. “Olaide-ah! I’m sorry! But it’s not a good-ow! Look!” His words fell on deaf ears. He let her have her tantrum until she picked up a stool. He was already out the door when it smashed against it.

Rena, the makeup team, and the hair team all stood in a circle outside, having scattered from the door when it opened in a panic. Some of them looked concerned, others laughed amongst themselves, and Rena just shook her head. “I told you I wasn’t touching that.”

SEPTEMBER 6TH, 1993 - MOSCOW

Michael thinks this may be his lowest point.

After everything that’s happened to him, his tumultuous childhood, his hair catching on fire, his vitiligo completely taking over his body, he didn’t think he could suffer more.

The accusations had ruined him, accusations he could never come back from. Ever. This will stain his legacy forever, whether things work out in his favor or not.

It was September, weeks after Evan Chandler publicly accused him of something so heinous he couldn’t even bring himself to say it out loud. He lay in his hotel, alone like usual, but this time he felt suffocated by the isolation. There’s no silence; there never is when it comes to him. Right outside, he could hear a large crowd shouting at him from the street. There were still millions of people who cared. And yet, he’s all by himself in a dark, dark room.

Everyone has to hate him; it must be true. He’s lost so much already; the same company responsible for his chronic pain threw him to the curb when he needed them most, and production companies are dropping his projects like flies. He can barely remember them all, not that he needs to anymore.

He felt like he weighed two tons. The pills on the side of his bed mocked him as he succumbed to something that mimicked sleep. He thought of the past months of his life, the stress of the tour with the uncertainty of what Evan’s next actions would be. The whole thing had confused him; he couldn’t understand why this man hated him so much. He barely even saw him unless it was with his ex-wife and son.

One thing he knew for certain: he could not settle this outside of court. While it wouldn’t have been cold, hard evidence, it would be too suspicious for anyone to ever trust him again. At the same time, he was losing a lot because of this, and settling so it’ll never be discussed again is the fastest way to getting things back on track. Neither option made him happy.

Happy? When was the last time he could say he was truly happy?

At 4 in the morning, he finally closed his eyes, then opened them again at 8 am on the dot. 4 hours, yes, that was more than enough sleep for what would be an over 16-hour day. He rubbed his face and left his bed to open the curtain and let in some Russian sun. The crowd had dissipated, leaving lingering photographers and super fans who just had to get a glimpse of him. They would all be back tonight, maybe. 

Hopefully. He needs something to tell him that there was still love for him out there somewhere.

Finishing up in the bathroom, there’s a knock on his suite door. Breakfast and his assistant making sure he’s up and at ‘em. He lets them in without a word. He hadn’t spoken since he’d gotten in the limo yesterday to leave the concert. “Good morning, Michael. How did you sleep last night?” She asks as room service wheels in the food that he inevitably won’t eat.

Michael taps his feet and looks at the ground. “Okay, I guess.”

She doesn’t look pleased with his answer, but what can she do? She’s used to this by now. She definitely knows he slept too late and didn’t get any real rest. But it was morning now, and Michael needed to get to the studio rented out for night 2. “Well, if everything goes according to plan today, you can get a nap in before the concert.” He nodded, knowing that wasn’t going to happen. Michael didn’t take “naps”. If he did, they didn’t last longer than 10 minutes.

“So first, your lawyer called about an hour ago; you need to call him back now because it’s currently 1 in the morning Eastern Standard Time, and he said he’d stay up until 1:30.” Michael let out a grunt through his nose and rolled his eyes to the ceiling. That’s the last thing he wants to do right now. 

“Can you just tell him to go to sleep and call me back when he wakes up?”

She nods and writes it down. “Okay, other than that, your morning is pretty free unless you still have things to pack up. You should look through some more fan mail; your sound designer wants to speak with you, so make sure to call him…other than that, just like yesterday. Be at the studio by 10, meet and greet at 4, then prepare for the show tonight. I’ll let you know about any changes, okay?” He nods and thinks of asking her to join him for breakfast. He won’t finish it; he never does, and he could really use some company.

But he finds he doesn’t have the energy to keep talking. She smiles sadly at him, feeling his sadness but doing nothing about it. Then, she flips the page over with a furrowed brow and gasps. “Oh! Right! You know who called last night?”

Michael, without breaking eye contact, turned his head to the side oh so slightly. “No…” he answered nervously.

“Barry Sonnenfield. He really needs to talk to you. Sounded like it was urgent. Best time to call him would be late at night for you. It’s the only time you’ll be free. It’ll be the afternoon in Los Angeles. But that’s if you even want to speak to him.”

Barry Sonnenfield? In all honesty, Michael wanted nothing to do with the people who turned their backs on him, but he just had to know why the hell the director of Addams Family Values was urgently contacting him. He thought about it for a few seconds before deciding, “I don’t know. I don’t know what he could want with me.”

She shrugged. “Heck, if I know. Maybe they regret letting you go. Maybe they believe you.” But Michael snorted at that. There was no way. They wouldn’t rescind their decision before he’d even gone to trial. “Well... why else would they call?” He still smiled but bit his lip in wonder. Why else would they call?

“Okay, I’m gonna leave you to your breakfast. See you before 10.” They waved at each other, and she turned to exit. She’ll be back in about 2 hours to get him for the studio.

He would be remiss if he didn’t admit he was nervous. He already has a lot on his plate; what is it now? What could it possibly be? He finds himself too nervous to eat the little breakfast he usually does and opts to open one of the few large bags of fan mail that always came every day. They’ve been lighter recently.

As he reads through the letters, his heart swells, and his eyes soon follow. He wishes he could be with them, all of them. He was so alone…

He gets up swiftly to grab his journal from the nightstand.

SEPTEMBER 7TH, 1993 - LOS ANGELES

“Have you heard anything?”

“Nothing yet. Not from him or Olaide.”

Barry Sonnenfield wiped his sweat with a towel. These past few weeks had gone straight to hell. He was warned, he was warned not to work with this woman, that if he’d screwed anything up, he’d come to regret it. Now look at him. Production pushed back by 3 weeks! All because she wanted to go on strike.

After he, essentially, “broke the news” to her, the rest of the day was spent trying to get her out of her room. Only Rena had been allowed to come in, and she spent 3 hours in there trying to calm her down enough to want to leave, and leave she did. When her security walked her out, she was wearing shades, and her shoulders and hair were wrapped with a light, breezy scarf. Rena walked out soon after, exasperated. She adjusted her glasses, smoothed down her dress pants, and sighed. “So…she’s not coming back.”

This girl was so upset she refused to come back to set until he’d reinstated his contract with Michael Jackson and got that video back in production. Barry had called her bluff, thinking she’d cool off in a couple of days then come back. Maybe not with an apology and maybe a little more attitude, but she would come back.

And now, it’s been nearly a month, and she hasn’t said a word to him.

She didn’t disappear, far from it! She was just in a fashion shoot for Ebony magazine. Black in Pink! The article was called. Cute.

Unfortunately for him, he couldn’t ignore an entire movie production. The crew was pissed, specifically those who were on hourly or paid by the day. Janitorial, Cosmetics, costuming, catering; they were all missing out on money because of this, and Olaide wasn’t facing any of the consequences. They were reaching the final act of the movie. They were set to film the scene in Debbie and Fester’s mansion where she attempts to kill him in one final act, then the ending where she almost electrocutes the entire family. Nearly the entire movie had been shot; there was nothing anyone could do. Nothing anyone could change to work around this hiccup.

The shareholders were angry, and so was his staff; he was coming between a rock and a hard place. So, he swallowed his pride and called Michael Jackson…

To no avail.

He had already retired for the night, according to his assistant. Of course, he was still on tour after all.

Certainly, with the element of surprise gone, Michael would not be calling him back. There was no conceivable way he’d want to talk with him about anything. He didn’t know what he was going to do.

The clock turned 1. Two minutes passed, then his desk phone beeped. Someone was waiting on the line for him. Before he could grab it, his assistant frantically ran into his office. He looked up at him, slightly annoyed. “Yes?”

He caught his breath and swallowed his spit before answering. “Sir, Michael Jackson is on line 2.”

MOSCOW

“Hello?”

“Hello? Michael?”

“…Yes, I’m speaking with Barry Sonnenfield, right?”

On the other line, Michael hears Barry clear his throat. “Yes, this is he. Hi Michael.”

Michael takes a deep breath. “You called me yesterday.”

“I did.”

The silence was nothing more than deafening, and if it meant anything at all, it made one thing clear: Michael wasn’t going to like where this was going.

“I just want to start by saying, I apologize for being so hasty with my decision. You know, I got scared. But that was wrong of me.”

Then there was a pause, and for a second Michael thought, that’s all? He geared up to thank him anyway, the people pleaser in him working against his true feelings as usual. But then, Barry kept going.

First, he had the nerve to sigh, as if apologizing had taken everything out of him. “Look, I’ll just cut to the chase,” Michael’s mouth snapped shut, waiting to hear what it was that was so difficult to say. 

“I’m wondering if you would consider…restarting the production for ‘Family Thing’.”

What? What!

“What?”

“I know, I know, trust me. I hate to ask you like this… but I’m desperate.” Oh yeah, like that was supposed to make Michael feel better. Did he even want to call him?

“You’re desperate.” He repeats. It was almost humorous, if only it weren’t so pathetic.

“Yes, I’m desperate.” Barry doesn’t sound sorry at all, just exhausted. What the hell was troubling him so badly? “This hasn’t gotten out yet, but…we haven’t been able to shoot for nearly a month.”

“…okay?”

“One of our leading ladies has…gone on strike, I would put it. Olaide?”

Oh. Oh. “She was supposed to be in the music video, right?”

Barry sighs once again. “Yes. She was not happy to say the least. She hasn’t returned any of my calls since August, and her assistant won’t relay anything that wasn’t her being in your video.”

Michael was stunned. He tried to come up with something to say, but he was drawing a blank. What could he say? Who would have thought this would wait for him on the other line?

All because of a video? His video? He could just put her in one if that were the case. He almost said it, but stopped himself. That wasn’t something for Barry’s ears.

“I…I don’t…What?” He tripped over his words as he failed to respond to this very interesting information. This girl loved him that much? It’s not possible.

And then, he thinks about it some more, and Michael’s nervous grin decays. His face becomes stoic, and he rubs his chin. This request was appalling to say the least, despite the reason it happened. His “apology” was even more confusing. It barely sounded like one; he took forever to say it and took a breath every few moments, as if it were suffocating him. He literally choked on his words, then sighed in relief when he was finally done.

Barry didn’t even want him back. It was Olaide, and she’d forced his hand.

He was, frankly, abhorred by his audacity and his fake concern. But, ever the gentleman, Michael thanked him all the same. “Okay, uhm, thank you, Barry. But I’m not doing the song.”

The line fell silent for a bit, and Michael got worried he’d made him angry. He knew it was foolish, but he hoped and prayed he didn’t ask him ‘why?’ He didn’t really have an answer. At least, not one he felt would make sense to Barry. He could say he didn’t think he was really sorry, but that would just make him hostile or give him an even more pathetic apology. He wasn’t a vengeful person, so it’s not like he wanted to get back at him. And it’s not like he didn’t feel sorry for Olaide; he looked forward to meeting her as well.

He was hurt. That’s all. He just doesn’t want to do it anymore.

To his surprise, Barry doesn’t ask him to explain himself. No. He pleads.

“Michael, listen. I understand how you may be feeling. I was a dick to you; I get that. But I’m telling you, if we don’t get production started soon, we’ll start losing a lot of money. Our staff and contractors are threatening to quit on us, and we cannot finish shooting without her. I’m begging you, man.”

This was almost worse. A situation that wasn’t his fault, but started because of him, that he can solve, but it goes against his wishes. No, not almost. This was worse.

While he did appreciate where her heart was coming from, he simply could not accept workers going unpaid when they were promised or looking forward to payment. No, it wasn’t his fault, but he felt the need to do something.

“Look, Barry, I’ll…think about doing a video. Okay?” It wasn’t the answer he wanted, but he did sound a bit relieved over the receiver.

“Okay. Thank you, Michael-“

“Hold on, just-before you go…” he trails off, getting a bit nervous about what he wanted to ask.

“Yes?”

“Why don’t you…why don’t you give me her number? Let me talk to her.”

SEPTEMBER 10th, 1993 - LOS ANGELES

“Ugh, would you look at this shit!”

Olaide’s voice echoed through the master bathroom, then through the halls of the penthouse suite of her hotel. Rena cringed before picking up the magazine her boss and best friend threw to the floor. In bright, yellow letters it read: CRAZY CARTER ON STRIKE! Then the caption: OLAIDE THROWS A TANTRUM AND STOPS PRODUCTION! ADDAMS FAMILY PUT ON HOLD!

In all honesty, she was surprised it took this long for the news to come out. It’d been nearly a month now since Olaide walked off the Addams Family Values set in protest against Barry’s, and by extension everyone’s, treatment of Michael Jackson. She guesses one of the actors must have spoken about it, and it spread from there. Or maybe an inside scoop from a crew member. It doesn’t matter anyway; Olaide was, once again, being dragged through the dirt.

But, in typical Olaide fashion, she couldn’t care less about that. “They always use that picture! How did they even get that? I don’t remember wearing that; I’m telling you, it’s edited.”

It is not edited. Rena remembers that night, and not fondly. It’d been a few months after she started working for her in 1987. She was at one of her first high-profile after-parties. Rena was mainly tasked with babysitting her, so she didn’t get into trouble.

At that point, the two of them were not fond of each other, to say the least. There were many times during the night Rena would be stuck apologizing profusely to Olaide, just to get her to calm down and not turn their argument into a screaming match. Rena gathered she was the kind of person who had to ruin everyone’s night once hers went to shit, and she didn’t appreciate that.

Eventually, she couldn’t stay silent, so she walked away to get them some water. What she needed was a damn drink, but she couldn’t afford to lose focus. Olaide kept her on her toes. This was all the more proven when she came back to find her missing. After 20 minutes straight of searching the manor, Rena finally found her with her hand in Jon Bon Jovi’s, stumbling as he led her to God knows where from who knows what. That picture was after she had forced her away from him and tried to lead her back to the limo. Whatever she was on, of which Rena still doesn’t know to this day, caused her to throw up all over that gorgeous dress, ruining it forever.

Rena has confessed what happened that night a million times, and every time Olaide seems eager to forget it, then she literally does. This time, she just sighs and puts the magazine on a counter. “I think you look good, actually.” And that was true. Olaide couldn't look bad, but that didn't mean paparazzi didn’t try. It was the worst possible picture they could take of her, so they used it whenever it was time to talk about her.

Olaide smirked for a second before dropping it and turning her head to the makeup artist. “Shut up, you’re so sweet. I’m trying to complain.” Her voice projects easily from years of having to speak with authority to be respected. Her hairstylist unclips the giant rollers in her silk-pressed hair, letting the strands fall into bouncy curls and scrunching them with oil. She finger-combs through them 3 times, scrunches again, then hairsprays all over her head, being sure to cover her face. The makeup artist does the same with setting spray and covers her hair. Olaide takes her hand fan and starts to dry her face, closing her eyes as she feels the cool breeze on her cheek. She could spend 5 more minutes in here before she had to put on her dress and leave.

She and Rena were attending a charity benefit for CASA Long Angeles, the largest foster care advocacy organization in California. Olaide herself had made generous donations over the years; she always had a seat waiting for her at every event. It was a bi-annual routine of hers that she never missed, even in the middle of shooting a movie.

Or…not.

A sigh leaps from her chest out her mouth as her mind moves a mile a minute like it always does when no one’s talking. One thought leads to another before the last one even finishes, and soon she’s rubbing her head, perturbed. In all honesty, she didn’t know what she was thinking, walking off a movie set like that and vanishing without a peep. Not towards Barry at least. While she felt some pride standing up for what she believed in and having the power to do so, her stomach still churned at knowing somewhere, someone who hadn’t done her wrong was suffering because of her actions. She couldn’t bring herself to do anything about it; each day that went by was another gigantic ‘fuck you’ to all her colleagues and fans who were excited to see her. How could she rescind her decision with nothing to show for it? Had Michael Jackson even noticed? He’s still on tour, she would know; she saw him at the beginning of the year. 

He was in Europe or Asia or wherever; he wasn’t concerned with what she had going on. They’d never even met before, and they’d had ample opportunity to do so. An after party, a gala like tonight’s, hell, she could have gotten vip passes in January. But she foolishly never made the effort to, not quite feeling worthy enough. She needed more Oscars, more publicity, more shoes and dresses and perfume.

She needed to be more than what she was if she ever wanted to meet Michael Jackson and not completely pass away. So she took the roles that didn’t “belong” to her and showed directors what they couldn’t imagine; a girl like her front and center, being doted on, smart, confident, messy, and courageous. She made it impossible to see anyone else bring their vision to life, just as Michael makes it impossible for her to listen to any other artist.

All that hard work, for what? Another reason for everyone to hate her, use her as an example of disgusting stereotypes that keep her and other black women from reaching new heights. And whose fault is that? Who can she blame but herself? She’d been through a lot…but she hates letting her past define and control her. No, all her actions, all her problems, all her pain; it was on her to fix it. Her emotions are her decisions alone, and so is what she does with them.

For some reason, it was easier for everyone to hate her while she held her head up high. She would be hated even if she begged and groveled for forgiveness, so why should she embarrass herself like that?

“You okay, honey?” Rena peeked her head in the bathroom after the stylist and MUA finished and left. She heard the loud exhale and wanted to give her a minute before checking on her. She held up her rose gold cocktail dress. “We gotta go soon. You don’t like your hair? Or your makeup?”

Olaide shakes her head no. “No, as in yes? Or no as in, no it’s not that?”

“Rena, please.”

“Please what? We gotta go, and you don’t have your clothes on sitting in here sulking like you have all night. What’s wrong?”

How could she explain it? She’s never known how to gently express her negative emotions. She can’t put it into words that don’t place the burden of healing onto another person, and the last person she wants to do that with is Rena. “I don’t know, girl,” she whines.

Rena puts the dress down and walks up to her. She wraps her arms around her shoulders and lightly touches her head with her cheek, making sure not to smudge her own makeup and Olaide’s gorgeous curls. “I know you’re thinking about the movie. Just so you know, I think you’re doing the right thing, showing him your support.”

There’s something left unsaid that hangs in the air, and Olaide hates that kind of tension, so she breaks it. “But I’m doing it the wrong way…aren’t I?”

Rena takes a deep breath and nods on the exhale. Her heart was beating a bit fast; she had yet to tell Olaide that Barry had called and confirmed that Michael Jackson would reach out to them soon. Apparently he said he’d think about doing the video, but both Rena and Olaide know that if they were him, they’d tell Barry where to stick it. He was a gentleman who, according to people who knew him, hated confrontation. Of course he said he’d consider it.

Olaide dipped her head even lower and held Rena’s arm. It wasn’t until Rena felt a warm tear drop on her hand that she finally spoke again. “Oh, no no no. We can’t have that.” She held Olaide’s cheeks in her hands and frowned at her pouty face. Her eyes were completely glossed over with tears, and they threatened to fall with each passing second. She quickly reached for napkins and began dabbing her skin, holding them underneath her eyes to catch the remaining tears that escaped.

“Rena,” she whispered, “what should I do?”

“…Just wait. I think something good is coming soon.”

At that moment, Olaide believed her. She put on her dress and entered the limo waiting to take them to the banquet hall in the Millennium Biltmore Hotel. She was still a bit nervous, but held Rena’s hand whenever her brain worked too hard, and all would be right with the world.

They both felt the shift when they finally arrived. The usual cameras were flashing from uninvited paparazzi trying to get a glimpse of the big names entering the building, but inside, they were almost nonexistent. Many people greeted them with a nod or a polite smile. There was the occasional handshake, but the typical warm welcomes and excited smiles that Olaide was always greeted with here were missing. It was odd, to say the least.

A couple of the staff working for the event asked for some pictures, which she was always delighted to give. They were the only pictures she was asked to take that night. What is going on?

Olaide didn’t say anything to Rena, and definitely wouldn’t say anything to her security, but she knew she wasn’t imagining things. Did anyone really think she couldn’t tell how clearly unwanted she was here? Did they think she wasn’t used to being in a room full of people who wished she was anywhere else? She can tell; she knows the glances, the whispers, the cold shoulders; she knows it all. And usually it wouldn’t hurt…but…

Not them. Not this charity. It means too much to her.

Her faith in Rena’s words began to fade. There weren’t many times Olaide’s actions came back to bite her, not really anyway. Not in a way that she cared. Is this what karma is?

What do they know? She was just standing up for what she believes in. ‘So are they,’ she suddenly thought.

Hm…that’s stupid.

No, that’s stupid! At least say it to her face, not pretend to be buddies with her and take her money.

“Rena,” she finally says. “Do you want to go?”

The woman sighs in relief. “Oh my god, I thought you’d never say something. It’s very weird in here.”

But their troubles weren’t over. Leaving the venue was just as bad as entering, and since they were the first ones to depart, they got the full brunt of paparazzi and journalists. As they waited for their driver to bring the limo, they stood only feet away from blinding cameras and intrusive questions from people who wanted to ruin their lives with the answers. Olaide rolled her eyes and scoffed dramatically, all of which the cameras caught, but underneath her sunglasses, she was on the brink of tears. She harshly bit her lip to stop herself from crying, and she impatiently tapped her foot on the concrete. Rena, adjusting her own shades, subtly wraps her arm around Olaide’s and checks her nails.

“Olaide! Olaide! Over here!”

“Olaide, you look wonderful tonight!”

“Leaving so early? Do you have somewhere to be?”

“Are you sleeping early to get back to set after a month of being away?” 

Rena holds Olaide’s arm tighter. “Not worth a response.” Olaide agrees, but she was shaking. Her skin crawled. She needed the driver to get here now.

“Olaide, why have you decided to leave the production? Is it really because you’re intimate with Michael Jackson?”

The moment the question left the reporter’s lips, the girls’ mood dropped. Rena lets out a frustrated sigh, rubbing her head because she knows Olaide has yanked her head to the side to find whoever asked her that question. She pulls her arm from Rena’s grasp and tries walking over to where the paparazzi stood behind the black rope. Her security stops her, but only physically. “Who said that? You? What do you mean I’m intimate with Michael Jackson? What the hell are you talking about? You don’t know what you’re saying.”

Rena sees the small smirk on the woman’s face before it disappears and the mic is back up to her mouth. She got her. She baited Olaide, and she got her. “Honey, we know you have always been a little obsessed with him since you were a child-“

“What the fuck does that have to do with anything?” She shouts as the cameras get louder and her security fumbles around with her as she keeps breaking loose, trying to get around them. All the while, the reporter is following Olaide with the microphone pointed at her. “I’m not intimate with Michael Jackson, ma'am. You’re playing with me.”

“So then why would you risk your career for him? You’re-“ Olaide is furious now. She doesn’t want to let the woman finish and is doing everything in her power to shut her up, but to no avail. Every time she gets out of one guard’s grasp, the other grabs her. She manages to slightly interrupt her, but only because she’s still trying to catch every insult and defense Olaide throws at her. “You’re…you’re throwing your career away for someone you’ve never even met; you said it yourself before.”

“What? Ma’am, ma’am, in all honesty, you sound dumb. My career is fine. Thank you. Thank you!”

“What do you think it looks like leaving a foster charity benefit early after publicly supporting-“ 

SMACK!

Olaide’s hand found a way through the wall of security separating the two women; she would later say her hand “acted on its own,” like a heat-seeking missile. Her vision had gone black, leaving a small circle of light aiming right at the woman’s cheek. She moved too quickly for anyone to realize she’d already focused her aim. The reporter had flown back, glasses soaring off her face into the air and shattering on the ground.

“Oh my lord, get her in the car NOW!” Rena screams at her security. They pick Olaide up as she continues shouting profanities at anyone and everyone who was listening. They get her and Rena into the limousine, then close the door, sending them off.

In the silence, Rena realized Olaide had been drinking all night. She didn’t remember her saying no to a glass of champagne. Olaide wouldn’t speak, but she knew she was trying to drink her sorrows away.

Olaide went to bed without a word, the lock click ringing through the halls and Rena’s heart. She wondered, ‘Should I tell her about Michael?’ Barry said he’d call, and she thought it would be a nice surprise, but things weren’t looking up. She hoped he’d do it soon. 

She did get a call the next morning…from their publicist, a job with high turnover. “What happened last night? CASA is furious. They’re saying they should have rescinded the invitation! You can’t handle her, no one can!”

Rena rubbed her head. “She regrets what she did-“

“Does she? Or are you speaking on her behalf? That woman is going to sue her! What exactly did she say?” And her silence spoke the words she kept inside. “Hmph. Do you know what I just saw on a hot dog cart in New York? New YORK, Rena.”

She braced herself for whatever horrible thing was being said about her friend. Nothing could have prepared her for the email she received. She put her hand over her mouth and closed her eyes. Her throat swelled as she tried not to cry.

WACKY JACKIE? ADDAMS FAMILY STAR GOES CRAZY FOR JACKO!

SEPTEMBER 11th, 1993 - FUKUOKA

It’s been some days since Michael spoke with Barry, and he still hadn’t brought himself to go through with his idea.

He could say he just hadn’t found the time, and that would be a reasonable excuse as he had just arrived in Japan, but he wasn’t trying to make time either. He was nervous to say the least. He wondered, would she make him do the video? He hated the word 'no’ whether it’s coming to or from him. And knowing what he knows about her, he felt she was the same.

Hm, what did he really know about her? Not much at all, he realized. Which was why he currently had magazines with her likeness spread out on his desk.

Now, Michael had had these magazines for a while, since the beginning of the year when he was first contacted for the movie. He remembered being so excited as he’d absolutely adored The Addams Family. He agreed profusely to do it and immediately got to work creating a concept for a music video. He mostly expected it to be him alone in a room somewhere, singing to the camera with scenes from the movie, but after looking at the overview, he thought of having something a little extra at the end. He decided he’d be a long-dead maestro who lived in an abandoned castle. He was a rich bachelor and heir to an amazing fortune, but he was killed in a riot led by Old Cannonball Addams, who took over his manor; the same manor the Addams currently lived in.

The video would have been set an unknown number of years in the future, where the Addams family no longer resided. He’d have stood and danced in a ballroom, surrounded by soiled and tattered portraits of the family, and then at the end of the video there’d be a knock at the door. He’d open it to reveal Debbie and let her in, after which she’d turn to the camera and smile as the door closed and thunder clapped. It wasn’t a big role, but he thought it’d be a nice touch.

He never spoke with her, but apparently Olaide had been elated to hear the news, even if it’d only really take a day to record her scene. He didn’t know too much about her, just what he’d seen in the media, and he knew better than to let that cloud his judgment or decide her character. Although…she certainly doesn’t make things better for herself.

TEEN VOGUE ‘88 Olaide Carter’s guide to  RAISING HELL!!! on and off set “I always get what I want, It’s a talent I have.”

She was far from unknown to Michael; he had just never gotten a chance to speak with her on a personal or even professional level. But that wasn’t to say he wasn’t a small fan, even with her reputation. She was definitely a staple in the late 80s. She’d been acting since she was a teenager, and you could find her in the occasional detective show or a patient in a medical drama, but her big break had been The Breakfast Club in 1984, where she played Claire. It was a huge deal, especially at that time; black actresses were not seen in lead roles like this where they were playing the desirable, popular girl that everyone wants.

Everyone thought she’d be the new face of romcoms because of it, but she subverted all expectations when she popped out in Aliens in 1986. Of course, it hadn’t done as well as its predecessor, but it was a good follow-up. After that, she was everywhere. The world couldn’t get enough of her. She had an insane movie run with Beetlejuice and Hellraiser, solidifying her as the face of horror in the 80s, and most recently she played Clarice Starling in Silence of the Lambs. 

ESSENCE  QUEEN CARTER: AN INSIDE LOOK AT THE FIRST BLACK SCREAM QUEEN 1990

VOGUE CARTER’S GUIDE TO LOVE, LOSS, AND OUTSMARTING HANNIBAL LECTER 1991

To Michael, someone who broke barriers with every new project they did was someone to keep an eye on. He wasn’t a fan of horror movies, but Olaide intrigued him enough to give them a try. For research, of course.

What he found was a woman who transformed herself for every character she played. He didn’t think he was watching Olaide; he could almost be convinced she was a completely different person. Each personality she gave her characters was distinct and formative. He loved when he could tell how much fun an artist was having with what they did. She put her everything into her acting; he could see why she was so sought after.

Not just for acting, though. She was a beauty to say the least. She always managed to be the picture of utter perfection; the kind of woman on every girl’s wall and in every guy's dream. While they never really had the chance to meet one another, as she didn’t attend music award shows, he admired her a lot and what she meant to pop culture.

Yes, Michael was very familiar with the infamous starlet, the girl who gave every director a run for his money and still got cast. 

As he flipped back through the magazines, he finally took a second to really read everything she had to say. She really was an intelligent young lady, but her confidence came off as smugness. The interviews were mostly interested in how she got these roles rather than how she formed her craft. In her answers, she’d say things like ‘who wouldn’t cast someone this pretty?’, ‘It’s a no-brainer.’, or sometimes, she’d just plain admit it: ‘Maybe I'm just that fucking good.’

The few times she gets good questions is where her artistry begins to shine. Reading the Essence article, he recognizes the TV special it was adapting. The interview that crowned her a Scream Queen when no one else wanted to admit it. He’d seen the interview one night on tour, mindlessly searching channels waiting for his sleeping pills to kick in. They’re working less and less these days.

Who would you say are your biggest inspirations for how you perform? And she would go on a tangent about her favorite actresses and shows from when she was a teenager to decades before she was born. She was very inspired by old Hollywood and loved old cartoons the most. It made sense; she was very dramatic and expressive with her roles.

‘My absolute favorite performance is Sissy Spacek in Carrie. She was just so tragic, and during the prom scene she was so unsettling. She made my skin crawl.’ She sits up as she begins to reminisce about seeing Carrie for the first time. Little Olaide in 1979, watching a tape she had no business getting her hands on in the first place. It’s as if she’s teleported back to that very moment in time, clutching her pillow and shaking with fear but unable to look away. ‘The unbridled and blinding white fury in her eyes as she just stared into the crowd, I was…depressed, *ha! I was sick, and I was terrified. I want to evoke that kind of feeling into people the way she did to me. Not those emotions themselves, you know? Just being able to rupture a strong reaction out of people.’ Then she leans back and relaxes with a cute smirk. ‘And I can. And it’s amazing.’

‘When did you see that movie? I was 15 and snuck into the theater, haha!’

‘HA!’ Olaide shouts, placing her hand on her chest. ‘Oh girl, I stole the tape from my babysitter when she fell asleep. I was 10.’ The studio begins to laugh with her. ‘She didn’t wake up, because she was drunk,’ and even more laughs ensue. ‘But she found out in the morning because…ooo, I said too much.’

‘What? What happened?’

‘I peed myself.’

Michael managed a good cackle before his eyes got heavy and he drifted away. Looking back over it now, he’d missed the part where she lists him as an inspiration next.

‘Is there anyone else you’d say inspires you? Or motivates you?’

‘So many people, uh…Diahann Carroll, Eartha Kitt, who I’ve had the privilege of meeting, Marilyn Monroe, Mel Blanc, if you can believe it.’ That piqued Michael’s interest. He’d have to remember that for later, if things went well.

‘But most of all, I love Michael Jackson.’ Oh…oh! He immediately feels the heat rise from his neck to his face, and he can’t stop the nervous smile that spreads; what he would have given to hear her say his name. The article reads Olaide gets a far-away look in her eye and lets out the dreamiest sigh and smile; our girl is in love! And he had the gall to fall asleep at that moment. Of course.

‘Oh? Are those heart eyes?’ Her interviewer teases. Apparently she has the most mischievous giggle that leaves you wanting to know more. He could almost hear it.

‘Oh, man. You guys don’t even know. Rena can testify.’ She had pointed at her most recent assistant in the background who confirmed, ‘Yeah, she can’t get enough. She don’t stop.’

Olaide then laughed so hard she fell over on the couch. She caught her breath and, true to Rena’s word, she kept going. ‘Oh yeah, I’m waiting on a call from him. I’ve always wanted to be a girl in his short films. I would watch Thriller thinking, damn it should have been me!’

And there it is. That explains why she would be willing to break a movie contract near the end of it just so she can perform with him. Just to meet him. Just to be near him.

After recovering from laughter, her interviewer says, ‘Don’t we all?’

‘Yes ma’am, but I’m telling you, it’s gonna happen one day. I can feel it.’

‘Oh, can you?’

‘Sure can! Can you feeeel it?’

Michael bursts out laughing for the 100th time since he started reading. This girl was a riot with immense intellect. From her icons to her mindset, and even her humor. He liked her…a lot. He regrets not making more of an effort to meet her before.

He never really knew what to think of her; she may have the reputation of a diva, but not everyone she’s met had horror stories. In actuality, there are nearly as many people who talk about how she’s able to light up a room and can be very charming when she wants to be. And he can clearly see that. She makes everyone she meets blush, whether in awe or anger, and will sweep you off your feet if you’re not careful. At least, that’s how Vogue describes her.

After recent events, maybe he should reach out to her, although he knows he has no real reason to do so. He wants to thank her for her support, but that can’t be all. Maybe…maybe he just wants to see her in the movie, which is true. However, he’d already given up on Family Thing, so he couldn't begin to consider coming back to it. It was painful for him now.

He feels like he has to prepare for this as if it’s a work presentation. He can’t say the wrong thing and bring the conversation to a halt. 

She says she always gets what she wants, and that may still be true.

Later that day, he sees a new magazine while walking down the hotel lobby with his security. He stops at the paper stand near the entrance and inspects it. It says…Wacky…Jacky? Oh no.

SEPTEMBER 12th, 1993 - LOS ANGELES

Today she was feeling better.

Yesterday, Rena decided it would be a self-care day. She ordered Olaide’s favorite food for breakfast, Butter Chicken and Basmati rice with Naan, and managed to coax her out of her room with the sweet smell. The rest of the day was dedicated to a makeshift home spa; they did face masks and facials, gave each other mani-pedis, then she helped Olaide wash the heat-pressed curls out of her hair, restoring her big, bouncy afro. She had cried from how appreciated she felt, but didn’t mention it afterwards.

Today, Rena rolled a blunt, and they were playing cards on the balcony when she got a call. Her heart dropped again, and she tried not to let it show in her face, but then she looked at Olaide, who had gone pale, and she grimaced. “I don’t know who it is,” she said. It was true, but she could probably guess. Their publicist, someone’s lawyer or theirs, it could be anyone at this point.

“Hi, is this Rena Taylor? Olaide Carter’s assistant?”

“Yes, this is she. Who am I speaking with?”

“Uhm…this is Michael Jackson. Barry Sonnenfield called me and told me she wanted to be in a music video? I’d love to speak with her, if she wouldn’t mind.”

I hope you all enjoyed! the series masterlist should be coming soon and a taglist. Gonna try and fit in a small synopsis for the series and an About Me for Olaide as well! please comment and talk to me! I don't take requests (i'd never commit to them) but I love to YAP! my anon requests are off, im sorry to those of you who are shy, but if you've seen what people have been dealing with you'd do the same. I'm not touching that! Byeeeee! welcome to my Michael Jackson fan act! My main is @tojisbbygworl . I write for other fandoms: Spiderverse, JJK, and Red Dead Redemption 2.

You’ve been seeing Michael for a few weeks now and things had been going smoothly.

Aside from the fact that he didn’t know what you are.

You just didn’t know how to bring it up. It’s not like your kind was a secret or anything. Mainstreaming had become more popular as the Authority pushed for integration. But of course many resisted and your kind was still globally hated.

You were only a new vampire but you quickly understood the severity of the situation. Mostly because you weren’t one of those peaceful mainstreaming vampires like your maker. You’d spilled blood. Lots of it.

You were proud of who you were and yet you couldn’t bring yourself to tell Michael about you.

He was the sweetest man you’d ever met. The last thing you wanted to do was ruin what you two had. And sometimes, being a vampire did just that.

Especially one like you. The nature of your death has made it difficult to control your impulses. Not to mention your maker making it his life mission to keep you strictly sheltered.

Though you understood why. You were dangerous when hungry, which was a lot more often than you’d like to admit.

Dangerous when you were angry especially, that drunk guy attacking that woman at the bar could attest to that.

Well actually no he couldn’t because he was currently decomposing into soil somewhere your maker had disposed of him. Good riddance.

But you didn’t want Michael to know that side of you. So you kept your distance as much as you could in the physical sense.

Until you couldn’t anymore.

It was quiet and dark, the sun having dipped below the horizon hours ago, and the trees in the surrounding forest were rustling together in the wind.

But inside the car was noisy with the sounds of yours and Michael’s lips smacking together.

His car had stalled on the way to your house and instead of getting out and figuring out a way back, you ended up over the center console and in his lap, lips pressed firmly to his.

You hadn’t been touched like this in so long and having his hands on you was driving you crazy. It was like your skin was on fire everywhere his hands trailed, over your ribs, your hips, your chest.

And he tasted so good, like cinnamon flavored gum, sugar and spice. You couldn’t get enough of it, your tongue tangling with his.

Things were going fine, but then his hands, large and warm slid down your bare thighs and that’s what did it.

You felt your fangs retract immediately and broke the kiss as quickly as you could, ducking your head.

“Ow,” Michael’s soft voice rang into the quiet of the car as you panted trying to catch your breath.

You knew you nicked him. You could smell it without even having to look. The blood in the air.

“Fuck— I’m sorry.” you turned your head away, slapping a hand over your mouth to hide your fangs. But he’d already seen, the pearlescent white catching in the moonlight.

How could you be so reckless?

You’d expected to hear his pulse spike, that instinctual fear to flood his veins when people got an idea of what you were. Your blood ran icy through your veins. You were scared. Scared of his reaction, of what he’d do when he found out.

But the freak out never came. His pulse stayed a steady beat, only a little raised from the kiss.

“It’s okay, I promise,” he whispered. “I just wasn’t expecting that to happen.” you took a chance and looked back towards him. He was looking at you, brown eyes catching in the light as his gaze danced across your features.

“You’re not mad? Or scared?” you asked through your fingers. He grabbed your hand and pulled on it, threading your fingers with his. He inspected your mouth with light curiosity but it didn’t go beyond that. Normally, people would poke and prod in your mouth, trying to figure out how your fangs worked— what made you tick.

“Well, I do wish you had just been honest with me but no ‘m not mad. I kinda figured anyways. You're not the best at hiding it y’know.” he looked down at your intertwined hands in his lap and you furrowed your brows.

“So you had a feeling this whole time? And you stayed?” you were in complete disbelief.

Instead of answering, Michael brought his lips back to yours in a sweet kiss that had your whole body humming. You couldn’t even begin to guess what he was made of for him to get this reaction from you. Each time his lips met yours was like a hit of hard drugs.

“I don’t mind that you’re a vampire. It’s a part a’ who you are. And I like you so I like that part too.” he spoke like it was the simplest thing in the world. Not like you were a dead woman walking and could drain him dry faster than he could blink.

It was sweet. Maybe a little stupid too, but sweet. And it made you feel better.

“You’re serious?” you leaned your back against the steering wheel eyeing him. He never failed to surprise you.

“Dead serious,” he seems to ponder his word choice for a moment, “well maybe not but— you’re still you right?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Alright then.”

After the air had cleared you got an idea to tease him.

“So… you like that I’m a vampire?” you let your voice dip, pressing closer to his chest, hearing his heart beat pick up again.

“Yeah.” his voice came out a bit shaky but clear.

You moved your lips to his neck, letting your fang brush up against the spot as lightly as you could. He shivered, and you could feel him adjusting his hips underneath yours, something poking lightly at your core.

“Would you let me bite you?” you pressed a kiss to the sensitive skin right underneath his jaw causing him to squirm and swallow.

“Hmm maybe.” his answer surprised you but you tried not to show it. A very stupid answer.

His hands had found their way back to your thighs surrounding his hips, as he distractedly smooths over the plush skin.

“And would you bite me? Drink from me?” everyone knew why happens when a human drinks a vampires blood. That intense connection and euphoric high— one of the most sought after drugs on the market. It was concerning what people would do for it. And yet we’re labeled the monsters.

“Uh huh.” his whine made you giggle. Oh he had no clue what he was saying, so gone with the feeling of you on his lap, pressing and grinding against him. That familiar heat crawling up his spine and pooling in his lap.

“D’you know what happens when you have my blood? You’ll start dreamin’ about me.” you whispered, barely audible in his ear but he’d heard you.

“I already dream about you.” you wondered about the nature of his dreams. If they were filthy like they’d be if he had your blood in his system. You hummed and continued peppering kisses along his throat, moving to peck his cheek at some point.

“I always thought you smelled really good. Almost sweet, I wonder what you’d taste like Michael.” you ran your tongue over his pulse point, tasting skin and the cologne on his neck and he whimpered quietly, a shiver racking his spine, hands tightening over your hips.

You pressed yours against his more firmly, grinding down onto him.

“I kinda wondered the same.”

A smirk broke out against his his skin.

“D’you wanna find out?” you were just teasing mostly, but he seemed eager as he nodded and you felt his fingers inching under your skirt.

He dipped a finger under your panties, coming into contact with your wet center. He immediately felt how soaked you were and you melted into the feeling of his hands on you.

Then he started rubbing small quick circles on your clit. You liked that a lot. No way your fangs were gonna go back up now. You arched into his touch, your head pressed to his shoulder.

“Fuck that feels so good.” you were grinding down onto his hand and he added a finger, dipping it inside you while still keeping the pressure on your clit. His fingers were much better than your own. Or anyone’s for that matter. You let out a mewl.

“You’re so pretty like this, fallin’ apart on my fingers.” his voice was right in your ear, smooth and hushed. It was bringing you closer to the edge.

“Please don’t stop.” you cried out and he added another finger, pumping it in and out of your dripping sex.

You were trying so hard to keep your lips away from his neck but his pulse was thundering in your head the closer you got. You wanted it so bad and he seemed willing. It would be so easy—

“Y’gonna come for me baby?” shit. He seemed dead set on making you cum, his fingers curling in you to hit just the right spots. Right before you came you placed your hand firmly over his neck before surging forward and sinking your teeth in.

It felt euphoric, your slick coated all over his fingers as he kept rubbing your clit, nearly into overestimation.

You pulled back from his neck inspecting the damage. Your hand had two slightly jagged puncture marks oozing small amounts of your blood, but you’d be fine— it would heal in seconds.

You took a look at Michael’s neck, completely untouched, and sighed out in relief.

You hadn’t bit him.

Michael however didn’t seem to mind either way as he took his fingers, the ones that had been inside you, into his mouth sucking at the digits all while making eye contact with you.

“Tastes good.” you didn’t know who would kill who first.

© megsnotokay 2026 .ᐟ

Thinking about visiting Hayevenhurst with Michael's werebear family...

Michael had invited you over to help him with some much-needed sorting of his room. He had boxes of old records and tapes that he needed to get rid of, and you, being the supportive girlfriend you were, offered to take some off his paws.

And donate the rest, of course.

The moment your feet pass the threshold into Hayevenhurst, you're greeted with a scene straight out of one of Michael's fairytale books: Katherine stirring a pot of spaghetti with tween Janet on her back, clinging to the abundant fur. Unlike Michael, Janet didn't grow in size with her bear form. In fact, from where you're standing, she almost looks smaller with her paws deep in her mother's coat.

In the living room, Marlon and Tito stand on hind legs, leaving their arms open to playful swipes and bats. With Tito getting the upper hand, the two tumbled to the floor in a heap of fleece and paws. Laughter filled the space as their bodies morphed into their human counterparts.

It seems werebears run in the family. But as you took in the sight in front of you, you couldn't help but realize the uniqueness in every member of Michael's family. Tall, small, thick, lanky. They were all different despite resembling your average brown bear. Even their transformations were tailored to who they were.

How could Michael ever hide this part of his life from you? Maybe it would scare the average person, but you were anything but.

Refocusing on the task at hand, you skip off to Michael's room with him following close behind.

After thirty minutes of unpacking dusty records, you stumble across a box with a worn photo album at the top. “Mikey, are you giving this away too?” Curious, you take out a battered binder, the front inscribed "loves."

“Wait, don't open that—" It was already too late. With a crack of the spine, your eyes were blessed with dozens of candid photos of young Michael. Performing and playing with his brothers, all while as a little cub.

"Aww, look at you!” You hold up the book to your boyfriend's embarrassed face. Flaunting a photo of Michael clinging to Katherine's dress, his eyes glinted green from the camera's flash. He couldn't be older than maybe five or six. “I-I don't know how those got here… must be a mix-up." He bashfully attempted to close the book in your hands, but you weren't going to let him off the hook so easily.

Angling your body away, you hold the book close to your chest, out of Michael's reach. “What's wrong? You look cuter than ever here...” Your eyes squint skeptically.

“It's embarrassing, baby; I don't look good. Let's just… put it in the trash pile.” Your ears perk up because you know you didn't just hear your boyfriend say that. Michael quickly begins backpedalling with half-hearted excuses before you interrupt. “I don't wanna hear that shit from you, Michael. Look at you, so cute and dapper. You can't throw these memories away; they're just another part of you.”

“A very fluffy part," you finish, squeezing his hand.

Later that evening, after Bill dropped you off at your apartment, Michael tucked the photo book next to his Disney tapes. Beside it, the now-framed photo of him clinging to his mother.

a/n Mikey is such a mama's boy you don't understand

The house was quiet, so quiet it felt like the middle of the night, but alas… it was the morning. 

Grey, textureless light seeped through the kitchen window; the sun hadn’t yet broken through the clouds, and you hadn’t fully awakened.

Your eyes were maybe open all of twenty minutes before you had to bolt up from the bed; the heat of Michael lying beside you became oppressive. 

He was a wall of heat and limbs, all over you during the night—laying diagonally, stealing the duvet, occasionally snorting softly right into your hair. Blissfully unaware of how atrocious he made your sleep.

You padded down stairs and made herbal tea, as you had been loving the ritual—boil, steep, wait—anchoring you in the silence of the morning. The birds chirping and the neighbours dog barking intermittently made your zen slightly less dreamlike.

Your little routine softened the zombie feeling you had each morning after getting very little sleep beside your husband.

The familiar sounds came from upstairs: the groan of the mattress, bare feet on floorboards, soft, irritated mumblings. 

You’d probably woken him clattering around for your favourite mug. Drawers opened and closed with force. He was looking for his glasses. He always lost them.

When he appeared in the doorway, you bit your lip hard to stop yourself from smiling too wide.

Michael stood there squinting, one hand rubbing his temple, so innocently. Shirtless, his torso pale in the weak light from the patio doors. And... he was wearing your sweatpants. 

Your Juicy sweatpants.

You’d kicked them off at the foot of the bed last night to sleep skin-to-skin. He’d whine it wasn’t fair if you weren’t naked with him. Michael got what he wanted. Most of the time.

They were soft, black velvet Juicy Couture pants, with the branding spelled out in diamantes across the ass. 

He must have felt for something on the floor in the dark, his fingers closing on fabric instead of his plain plaid pajama pants.

They fit him all wrong. The waistband strained, sitting too high and folded over, too tight on his hips. The legs ended three inches above his bony ankles. The word ‘JUICY’ was stretched taut, the letters distorted, across the back of his perky bum. 

It was all wrong, yet… he looked good. His prominent happy trail, that black dusting of coily hair that led down under the waistband, stark against his skin. 

You could see the clear line of his dick through the material of the sweatpants, the seam making it protrude more—he at least had a semi.

He always had morning wood. You felt yourself clench at the thought of what it would have been like to wake up in bed together this morning.

His hair was a different story.

It was a dark and very cropped. Beautiful tight, delicate coils, each no longer than your fingertip, packed densely across his scalp. 

It wasn’t his usual style these days—most of the time he'd bare a longer weave, silk-pressed waves, or a curly piece.

But at home, with just you, he kept it natural. 

He’d tried to grow it, but decades of sewn in hair pieces had chafed and pulled, leaving a lingering trauma to the damaged skin beneath.

The tiny curls were soft as fine velvet, with a springy, resilient life.

Despite being patchy in some areas, it looked good; but then again, he always looked good. 

Now, sleep had matted one side, pressing the coils into a soft whorl against his temple.

He shuffled in, movements cautious, sleepy, irritated. “My glasses,” he said, voice gravelly. 

“Can’t find ‘em.”

“Nightstand?”

He grunted and looked at you as if ‘do you think im stupid?’. 

“Obviously not there. Must’ve fallen down the back.”

He fumbled in the bread bin, pulled out two slices of wheat bread, movements precise despite his faux blindness.

He got them into the toaster, pushed the lever down, and stood there, arms crossed, waiting. 

The pose made the sweatpants stretch even more, his ass subconsciously cocked out. 

‘JUICY’ glimmered in the grey light.

You set your mug down with a silent giggle and looked for your camera. You’d left it on the counter a few nights prior after being out with friends; it was your old Konica film point-and-shoot. 

You picked it up, framed him in the viewfinder: the slope of his bare back, the sharp shoulder blades, the ridiculous curve of diamante script.

You pressed the shutter. A soft snick-whirr.

He turned his head, frowning. “What was that?”

“Nothing.”

You walked up behind him and you heard him sigh, a tired exhale. He was always so exhausted these days, from the press, the tours, the work schedule these executives had him operating under. It was sad.

You placed your hands on his hips to ground him, the fabric was thin and warm under your delicate touch. He eased up immediately at your touch.

“Your pants are too small, Mikey.”

“Mmm, yeah, tight,” he agreed, tone flat with annoyance. “And short. Shrank in the dryer probably.”

“They didn’t shrink, you idiot” Your thumbs hooked into the waistband above the ‘J’ and pulled him closer to your chest. 

“They’re not yours.” You whispered up at him; he was much taller.

There was a long silence as his brain did some computing.

You felt the realization move through him; irritation shifting to mild embarrassment, then understanding.

He uncrossed his arms and his hands subconsciously found yours where they were wrapped around him and he grabbed them tight and gave a little squeeze of acknowledgement before going back to the food. He always did that, acknowledged how much your touch meant to him.

The cuddling was so domestic and so far from the normal routine. The hardcore rehearsals and stress would be the reality soon enough when the next album cycle started again.

“They’re not mine?”

“No.”

“God- I'll have ruined th-”

you cut him off, trying to be unserious;

“Yeah, stretched them ‘cause your ass is so… Juicy.”

A soft huff of air—almost a laugh. 

“Oh, m’lord. It’s not the Juicy Couture ones you were wearin’ last night, is it?” He looked incredulous.

“In all their glory.” You backed off of him and leaned against the island counter.

He twisted awkwardly, trying to see his own ass. When he saw it, he chuckled lightly 

The toaster popped and whilst still laughing slightly, he turned and pulled the slices out, the smell of burnt wheat faint. He did a bit of spreading before then taking a bit of one of the slices, chewing thoughtfully as he turned back to you, the jam—raspberry, you knew—glistening. 

“So that’s what that little noise was. You took a picture?”

“Yes. Just to keep. Only for me.”

“Y/N, that better not be on page 6 by tomorrow. i mean it when i say keep it safe when you develop it,” He took another bite of the bread.

“its a momento. Just for me, baby. M'gonna keep it safe!”

You were laughing now, wholeheartedly, at how funny and cute the whole situation was.

He feigned some annoyance, moving slowly towards you all menacing, still chewing his breakfast.

Once he was close enough to be able to see you, his eyes, even unfocused, found yours so intently. 

Sleep-softness was gone, replaced by simmering intensity of both horniness and playfulness.

Morning breath, now laced with the sweet-rot scent of jam, hung between you.

He reached behind, hands finding the counter’s edge, caging you. “You think this is funny?”

“Uhhhh, yeah. Really funny. Juicy, if you will.”

He leaned in, nose brushing yours and gave you a peck on the lips. 

You felt the hard line of his dick against your thigh as he'd moved closer. 

“All that laughin’,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a low, gritty register. 

“Makin’ fun of your husband. Maybe I oughta to do something about it?”

“Oh Mike, whatever will you do to me?” you feinged fear right into his face, and he raised his dark eyebrows expectantly.

“Ohhh I don’t know. Fuck you, so that you stop laughing at me? See how funny you think it is when you can’t even form a sentence?”

It was a challenge, a promise of obliterating pleasure that shot straight to your ovaries. 

Your laughter died in your throat, replaced by a sharp intake of breath.

His hands slid to your backside, gripping you through your sleep shorts, pulling you firmly against the hard ridge of his dick. 

“Well, jokes on you, because I’d like that,” you managed, your voice already losing its steadiness. “Your juicy ass and your dick.”

A slow, dark chuckle after realising your reference came from him

“Greedy girl.” 

His hands went to the waistband of your sleep shorts and the panties beneath. 

He just shoved them down roughly, just enough, the elastic stretching tight around your thighs, creating a frustrating, thrilling barrier. 

He fumbled with the strained waistband of the Juicy pants, shoving them down his hips just enough to free himself. 

The glittering ‘JUICY’ now sat crumpled around his upper thighs. 

He was half-dressed, you were half-undressed, and it was dirtier, more urgent - the kitchen windows easy for people to see through if they had so wished it.

He was already slick at the tip and probably had been for a while considering he woke up already fairly hard.

he used that wetness to rub himself against you, the pressure was delightful.

He kept pushing himself through your folds and hitting your clit; each direct hit making you close your eyes, at each burst of pleasure.

“A quickie to start your day, m'lady?”

You nodded, wordless, your hips pushing against his hand.

“Didn’t hear you,” he growled, leaning in. His breath was hot and jam-sweet against your ear.

“Yes,” you whispered.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, I want that.”

“What’s the magic word?” he teased, but there was a dark heat in it. He was done talking.

“Please, Michael. Please fuck me.”

That was all he needed. He hooked his hands under your thighs, lifting you forward off of the counter just enough, and with a rough, unceremonious push, he was inside you. 

Far from a slow invasion; he filled you in one blunt, deep stroke, the stretch sudden and breathtaking.

You held in your moan, your eyes rolling back into your head from how good it felt to be filled to the brim.

The angle on the counter somehow making him feel deeper than ever before. 

The cold granite of the counter bit into your backside. He was looking intently at you, his eyes black and focused, observing your face as he began to move.

It was fast and deep from the start, a hard, driving rhythm meant to overwhelm you. He was playing games. 

“That’s it,” he panted, his voice raw. “Dirty girl takin’ it good on the kitchen counter f’me”

It was incredibly effective. Each thrust punched the air from your lungs. 

You could only cling to his shoulders, your head thrown back, every sound pulled from you a choked gasp or moan. 

He was making good on his promise—fucking you into speechlessness.

But then his rhythm faltered. A grimace twisted his features. He tried to adjust his angle, but the counter was too high, his stance awkward.

“Damn it,” he gritted out, his thrusts becoming shallow, strained. “My back…”

He pulled out of you abruptly, the loss hollow and shocking and pulled up the pants. This brought out another laugh from you.

Before you could protest, his arms were under you, lifting you completely off the counter.

He held you against his chest, your legs around his waist, your panties and shorts still tangled around your thighs. 

“Bed,” he mumbled, as if to himself. 

“Should’ve started there.”

He carried you out of the kitchen, through the living room, and awkwardly found his way up the stairs, juicy pants low on his hips. 

Each step jostled you, his still-hard cock under the sweatpants rubbing against your wet, sensitive flesh with every movement. 

It was a torturous, overstimulating tease.

You were already so close from the counter sex, and this constant, rhythmic friction was pushing you toward the edge without any relief. 

You whimpered, burying your face in his neck.

“Sensitive, my baby?” he murmured, a note of smug understanding in his voice. He took the stairs slowly, deliberately, making sure you felt every bounce.

He was really having a field day today - usually it was you doing the teasing. 

He shouldered into the bedroom and deposited you onto the bed, following you down without breaking contact. 

This time, he took a moment to properly kick the ridiculous sweatpants off his ankles and push your sleep shorts and panties the rest of the way off your legs. 

He settled between your legs and started pumping his swollen and hard dick, the tip so flushed and almost purple from lack of attention.

The energy from the kitchen had banked into something hotter, slower, more deliberate and duller; but not less exciting.

He sank into you again, this time with a long, deep groan of relief. 

“Better,” he sighed against your lips, beginning a slow, grinding rhythm. “So much better.”

After a few more deep thrusts and his thumb playing expertly with your clit, you could feel your own climax coming. He really didn't have to do much and you were there.

But you didn’t want it to end. You wanted this—him, like this—to last.

It wasn’t really that often you had a whole day off together and you wanted this to be good.

When you felt his pace start to quicken, his breaths becoming more ragged, you knew he was getting close, too.

You put your hands on his hips, stilling him. “Wait,” you breathed.

He froze, looking down at you, confusion and desperate need in his eyes. “Baby…shit.. I was so close to comin',”

“Not yet,” you said, your voice taking on a new authority.

You shifted beneath him, gently rolling him onto his back. He went willingly, a soft, surprised sigh leaving him. 

You straddled his hips, sinking down onto him slowly, taking back control. “I’m not done with you.”

The position changed everything. 

You set the pace, a slow, deep, rolling grind that had him biting his lip, his hands fluttering to your thighs and then up to your tits. 

“Oh… oh, that’s… hnmngg, you’re so wet and slippery” he babbled.

“You were gonna come, weren’t you?” you whispered, leaning forward to speak against his mouth. 

“I could feel it. But I want more.” You lifted yourself up almost all the way off him, until just the tip remained, and paused.

He whined, a high, helpless sound. His hips canted up, seeking. 

“Y/N… please…”

“Please what?” You sank down an inch, then rose again. Teasing. Easing him back from the edge, only to stoke the fire higher. “Use your words, Michael”

“Please, I need… I need you to move. Please, just use me, I need it… I need you” He whined. 

His words were a desperate stream. He was writhing beneath you, not trying to take over, just lost in the sensation you were meting out. 

His hands gripped the sheets, his beautiful face a mask of tortured pleasure. The dominant act from the kitchen was completely forgotten. He was putty, begging, whining and aching for you to tell him what to do.

You gave him what he asked for, but on your terms. 

A fast, hard pace that made him shout, then slowing to a near-stop when you felt him tense. 

You were edging him, drawing out every second of his pleasure, making it last. His begging became incoherent, a mix of your name, whimpers, and promises that he’d do anything for you… if you’d just let him come inside you.

“You look so good whimpering for me like that, angelface” you murmured, watching him come completely undone at his favourite pet name. 

“So perfect. Gonna make you feel so good, but you have to wait for me.”

You could feel your own orgasm building, a slow, deep wave this time. 

When you finally let yourself tip over the edge, crying out as you clenched around him, it was the signal he’d been waiting for. 

“Mhm can i come inside, baby?” he asked you, his whole body tensed under you as you rocked on top of him. 

You couldn’t even speak, you just nodded, your eyebrows furrowed and your lip almost bloody from how much you were biting it, holding in your further groans from riding it out.

With a sobbing gasp of relief, his own control shattered. 

His release was massive, a deep, pulsing flood inside you that seemed to go on and on, his body arching off the bed, a continuous, broken groan torn from his chest.

When he came around, he pulled you into him, a sweaty, trembling heap. 

He held you tightly, his arms like vices, his whole body shuddering through the aftershocks. His breath sobbed in your ear.

“To think I was teasin’ you and you’ve only gone and switched out on me,” he said breathlessly into your hair. 

You didn’t even reply, still in shock from the level of pleasure you had just experienced.

Eventually, his grip loosened. One hand came up to cradle the back of your head, fingers gently stroking your hair. You both stayed like that for what felt like 10 minutes, his dick still inside you, soft now.

His voice, when it came, was quiet.

“You…” he breathed, the word shaky. 

“You own me. Body and soul.” He turned, lips finding your temple in a trembling kiss. 

“not just my heart, but every damn part of me is yours. You know that?”

You nodded against his sweat-salted chest.

He let out a long, shuddering sigh that seemed to come from his bones. A moment later, a soft, breathless laugh shook his chest.

“Sorry about stealin’ your sweatpants and probably ruinin’ them, m'a bit blinder than I thought I was.”

You laughed too, weak and sated. You hugged him a little tighter, not wanting to let this cute moment end. His smile was basically audible. 

“Worth it.” you said.

tags:

The London drizzle had turned the tarmac of Earls Court into a slick, obsidian mirror by the time the heavy door of the executive limousine slammed shut.

Inside, the world stopped.

The sudden silence was almost deafening, cutting off the ocean-like roar of thousands of screaming fans, the aggressive snap of flashbulbs, and the relentless shouting of the international press line-up outside the 18th Annual World Music Awards. Inside the custom Mercedes-Benz limousine, there was only the low, ambient hum of the climate control, the faint smell of rich leather, expensive perfume, and the soft rhythmic pitter-patter of rain against the heavily tinted privacy glass. 

Michael let out a long, heavy breath—a sound that seemed to carry the weight of the entire evening, the months of intense preparation, and the towering expectations of a world that never stopped watching him.

He leaned his head back against the black leather headrest, closing his eyes for a brief second. He looked magnificent, though visibly exhausted. The gold-embellished jacket he’d worn to accept the coveted Diamond Award glittered faintly under the low-lit mood lighting of the cabin. His signature dark locks framed his face, a few soft tendrils sticking slightly to his forehead from the sheer exertion of the stage.

Then, slowly, his deep brown eyes opened, turning toward the corner of the leather bench.

Toward you.

A quiet, slow smile tugged at the corner of his lips—the genuine, gentle kind that the world outside rarely got to see anymore. The global superstar, the King of Pop, melted away in a fraction of a second, leaving behind just Michael. Your husband.

“God,” he murmured, his voice that recognizable low, gentle rasp, soft as velvet and heavy with relief. “We made it out.”

You smiled back, reaching out to gently loosen the grip he still had on his own knees. You leaned over, your fingertips tracing the sharp line of his jaw before resting softly against his cheek. “You were incredible tonight, Applehead. You took that stage, and you reminded every single person in that room exactly who you are.”

Michael let out a quiet, breathless laugh, turning his head slightly to press a warm, lingering kiss into the palm of your hand. “I was nervous,” he admitted softly, his eyes searching yours with that characteristic, childlike vulnerability. “Before I went out there... when Beyoncé was speaking, when she was presenting the award... my heart was beating so fast in my chest. I kept thinking... will they still love me? Will they still sing along?"

“Michael,” you whispered, moving closer until your silk dress rustled against his tailored trousers. “Look at me.”

“They never stopped loving you,” you said firmly, your fingers gently smoothing back a loose strand of hair from his forehead. “And when you sang We Are The World with that choir… when those children held up their candles… there wasn’t a single dry eye in Earls Court. You brought the house down, baby. You were magic.”

A soft, genuine flush warmed his cheeks. He reached out, his long, slender fingers wrapping around your waist, pulling you smoothly across the gap between the seats until you were sitting directly beside him, flush against his side.

"I couldn't stop looking for you," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, slipping into that deeper, more intimate register he used only when the two of you were completely alone. "When I was up there on that podium, holding that trophy... I kept scanning the side of the stage. And when I saw you standing there in that dress... leaning against the monitors, smiling at me..." He shook his head, his hand sliding down to rest possessively on the curve of your hip, his thumb caressing the smooth fabric of your evening gown. "...I almost forgot my speech."

You let out a soft laugh, resting your hand on his chest, feeling the steady, strong beat of his heart through the heavy metallic embroidery of his jacket. "You lied to the press on the red carpet, you know."

Michael raised a dark eyebrow, a playful, mischievous glint entering his eyes. "I did? What did I say?"

“You told that reporter from the BBC that you were looking forward to a quiet night of rest back at the hotel," you teased, your finger trailing down the zipper of his jacket.

Michael’s lips curved into a wicked, slow smirk—a look so purely suggestive it made your pulse skip a beat. "Well... that depends on your definition of rest, don't it?"

Before you could reply, Michael raised his free hand and pressed the small button on the side panel. With a quiet, electric whir, the thick black divider glass slid all the way up, completely sealing off the driver's compartment. The heavy velvet privacy curtains were already drawn. The cabin became an absolute sanctuary—a warm, dark bubble gliding through the rain-slicked streets of London.

"Michael..." you breathed, your voice catching as his hand on your hip grew firmer, pulling you up until you were straddling his lap, the rich fabric of your dress pooling around his thighs.

"Mmm?" he hummed softly, his hands moving up to cup your waist. He looked up at you through his dark lashes, his gaze heavy, dark, and utterly focused on you. "Tell me."

"You're bad," you whispered, tilting your head down.

"I'm not bad," he murmured, his voice dipping into a low, honeyed growl that vibrated against your chest. "I've just been waiting for hours to get you away from those cameras. Do you have any idea how hard it was... standing up there, holding that award, pretending to listen to executives... while all I could think about was getting you into the back of this car?"

He didn't wait for an answer.

Michael reached up, his long fingers cupping the back of your neck, gently pulling your face down to his. When his lips met yours, it wasn't the tentative, careful kiss of a public figure—it was deep, hungry, and full of a desperate, built-up demand that had been simmering all evening.

You let out a soft gasp against his mouth, and Michael instantly took advantage of it, deepening the kiss. His tongue slid against yours, warm and slick, coaxing a low moan from your throat. His hands shifted from your waist down to your back, his palms warm even through the thin fabric, pressing you firmly against his chest.

The contrast was intoxicating. The man who, just thirty minutes ago, was being hailed as a global icon, receiving the highest honor in the music industry, was now completely helpless under your touch, his breath coming in short, ragged hitches against your mouth.

"Michael..." you murmured between kisses, your hands tangling into his soft, dark hair, feeling the faint dampness of his curls from his stage performance.

"Stay right there," he whispered huskily, his lips moving down your lip to trace a line of scorching, feather-light kisses along your jawline. "Don't move. Just... let me look at you."

He pulled back just an inch, his heavy-lidded eyes trailing over your face, down to your collarbone, and over the curve of your shoulders. His breathing was uneven, his chest rising and falling beneath you.

"You look so beautiful tonight," he breathed, his voice rich with awe and deep affection. "So gorgeous, baby. Every time I see you in the light, it takes my breath away. But like this... in the dark... just for me..."

He reached out, his thumb gently catching the bottom strap of your dress, sliding it slowly down your shoulder. The touch was so tender, yet so thick with unspoken intent, that a shiver ran down your spine.

"Michael, we're twenty minutes from the hotel," you whispered, a playful spark in your eyes as you ran your fingernails lightly along the back of his neck.

"Then we have twenty minutes," he rasped softly, his smirk returning as he reached up with both hands, unbuttoning the top three buttons of his white dress shirt, exposing the smooth, warm skin of his chest.

He gripped your hips tightly, lifting you slightly before pulling you back down against him, ensuring there was absolutely no space left between you. The physical sensation made you bite your bottom lip, a soft gasp escaping you.

Michael caught the sound with his mouth, sealing his lips over yours once more in a passionate, intoxicating dance. His hands were everywhere—tracing the curve of your spine, anchoring you to his lap, slipping beneath the fabric of your dress to rest against the bare skin of your thigh. His touch was warm, possessive, and masterfully deliberate.

Every time the limousine took a smooth turn through the London traffic, the motion shifted your bodies closer together, the friction sending waves of intense heat through the cabin. Michael let out a low, gravelly groan into your mouth, his head tilting back against the leather headrest as your hands slid down his chest, your fingers lightly touching the exposed skin near his collarbone.

"You're driving me crazy," he whispered rasps against your ear, his breath hot and fast. "You know that? You've been doing it all night."

"Me?" you teased, kissing the sensitive spot right beneath his earlobe, feeling him shudder beneath you. "I was just sitting in the audience, minding my own business."

"You were looking at me with those eyes," he murmured, his teeth lightly grazing your earlobe before his lips moved down to the hollow of your neck, leaving a trail of wet, lingering kisses that made your knees go weak. "That look you give me when you want me to know I'm yours. It nearly broke me while I was on that stage."

"You are mine," you whispered fiercely, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, holding him close as the soft ambient lights of the city streetlamps flickered periodically through the tinted glass, illuminating his sharp, handsome profile in flashes of gold and shadow.

"Always," Michael breathed, his voice filled with a quiet, profound devotion that anchored the intense passion between you. "Only yours, baby."

His hands tightened on your waist, lifting you just enough to shift your weight, his mouth finding yours again with an urgency that felt like a floodgate opening. The kiss turned deeper, messier, filled with the raw, unspoken emotions of everything you two had weathered together to reach this moment—the triumphs, the struggles, the quiet victories that no one else ever saw.

Here, in the dark, shielded from the world, he wasn't a legend or a headline. He was just a man deeply, helplessly in love with his wife, drinking you in like a man dying of thirst.

His thumb smoothed over the exposed skin of your hip, his fingers digging lightly into your plush curves, a quiet sigh of pure satisfaction escaping his throat as you hummed into the kiss, your body melting entirely into his.

The car began to slow down, the faint sound of tires rolling over the smooth driveway of the luxury hotel signaling that the journey was coming to an end.

Michael pulled back slowly, his lips swollen, his eyes dark with unsated desire, his chest heaving as he stared up at you. A stray curl hung over his forehead, and his dress shirt was rumpled, the golden jacket pushed back off his shoulders.

He looked gloriously undone.

"We're here," you whispered, your heart pounding against your ribs, your own breath coming in ragged hitches as you smoothed down your dress.

Michael let out a low, quiet chuckle—a sound rich with promise and heavy with anticipation. He reached up, his long fingers tenderly brushing a stray hair from your face, his thumb tracing your bottom lip.

"Good," he whispered, his voice a low, suggestive rasp that sent one final, electric shock straight down your spine. "Because I'm not done with you yet, Mrs. Jackson. Not even close."

He buttoned his shirt just enough to look presentable, straightened his jacket with a smooth, practiced flick of his wrists, and then pulled you in for one last, sweet, possessive kiss against your temple.

When the valet opened the limousine door, exposing the dim London night once more, Michael stepped out first. He turned back, offering you his hand—his touch firm, warm, and steady—as he guided you out into the cool night air, leaning in close to whisper against your ear as the hotel doors swung open:

"Let's go upstairs."

© 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐥𝐲𝐩𝐲𝐭𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐛𝐱