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The phone rang at an odd hour, the shrill sound cutting through the quiet of his bedroom. Michael picked up the receiver, his voice soft and uncertain. "Hello?"

"Hi... is this Michael?" Your voice came through the line, slightly breathless, like you'd been working up the courage to make this call for hours.

He blinked, sitting up straighter against the headboard. "Yes. Who is this?"

"Hi Yes, well, I'm sorry, I know this is strange. My name is Y/N. My father—he's a producer at Epic—he gave me your number. I promise I'm not some fan who broke into his office or anything." You let out a nervous little laugh, and something about it made the corner of his mouth twitch upward.

"Oh.. Well hi. And yes, I know your father quite well. He’s a great man." His tone was cautious but curious, not angry, his voice airy and highly pitched. Even more so than you had heard before in interviews.

"I know, he’s great, and he’s crazy about working with you," you admitted. "I just—I told him I felt like I needed to talk to you. He probably thought I was crazy. Maybe I am. But yeah. You know my dad, so don’t worry about me being a stranger, I guess."

There was a pause like he was mulling over putting the phone down, and then Michael asked, "Why… did you need to talk to me?"

You swallowed. "Because I saw that interview you did last month. The one where you talked about growing up in the industry and how it felt like you never got to just... be a kid… or a young adult. I feel the same, my dad moved us around a lot for his job, so i never got the childhood i deserved."

Silence on his end. Not quite the uncomfortable kind—the kind that said you'd struck something true in his heart. You had heard he had quite an old fashioned soul, really spoke from deep within.

"I've never had anyone say that to me so plainly before," he finally said, his voice even quieter than before. "Not someone who actually understood what I was talking about when I said i missed out on my childhood. Its odd to hear someone agreeing, actually."

"Then I'm glad I called." You smiled, curling the phone wire giddily in your hand.

The conversation flowed like water finding its natural course. You talked about childhoods that weren't really childhoods—yours spent hovering at the edges of your father's world, his spent at the center of a spotlight so bright it cast shadows everywhere else. 

You discovered you both loved old Cary Grant films, that neither of you could sleep before midnight, that loneliness felt like a second skin, a skin, you both needlessly tried to shed but couldn’t.

"You know what I think?" you said, curled up on your bed with the phone pressed to your ear. 

"I think the universe put us in each other's path. Too many coincidences for it to be random."

Michael laughed—his real laugh, breathy and bright, and you’d never heard it before. "You believe in fate?"

"Don't you?"

A pause. "I think I'm starting to. If I have my producer's cute daughter calling me this late. I’ve seen your pictures..." He said. “Your dad is proud of you, Miss training-to-be-a-nurse”

Your chest warmed at that. It was strange to think your father had sat across from this person — this boy who'd just spent twenty minutes debating the correct order to experience Fantasyland — and watched him become someone else entirely in a recording studio. A beast, your dad had called him. The kind who walked into a room and knew immediately when the string quartet had played their last note, who could hear a synth line once and tell you exactly why it was wrong. Someone who agitated his own vocal until it sat right, not because he was told to but because he simply knew.

You'd turned that over in your head for weeks after your father told you. The contradiction of it. Because nothing about Michael Jackson suggested beast. Everything suggested careful, considered, a little fragile around the edges; and tonight had confirmed it. 

He'd been so clipped at first, his answers arriving in small careful portions like he was rationing himself. You'd talked about The Shining, which he'd been watching alone in the big quiet house while his family were out, and somewhere in that conversation something had loosened. 

Then Disneyland, and he'd come fully alive, telling you about a replica Walt Disney World train set he kept, his voice losing every last trace of caution as he described it. He'd sounded like a kid. Like someone who'd never had to perform for a train set.

That was the contradiction your father hadn't mentioned. That the beast in the studio and the boy on the phone were the same person, separated by something you couldn't quite name.

By now his guard had come all the way down. You could hear it, the way he'd settled deeper into his pillows, the quiet rustle of silk against sheets, his voice sitting lower and easier than it had two hours ago.

"What are you doing right now?" you asked.

"Lying in bed. You?"

"Same." You smiled to yourself. "What are you wearing?"

A surprised little huff. "My pajamas. Why?"

"Hmm. What do they look like?"

"They're... blue. Silk."

"Sounds nice." You let your voice drop, just slightly—enough to shift the air between you. "I bet you look nice in them."

Michael's breath caught audibly. "That's—you don't have to—"

"I want to. Can I tell you something?"

"Yes. You may."

"I've been thinking about what you might look like up close and in person. What your hands might look like. The way your voice sounds right now, how low it's gotten." 

You rolled onto your back, staring at your ceiling. "Is that okay that I am thinking along those lines?"

The silence stretched. Then, so quietly you almost missed it: "Yes." he almost whispered.

Your pulse kicked. "Good. Can you do something for me, Michael?"

"Maybe."

"Make yourself feel good, in this moment"

You heard the sharp intake of breath. "I—I don't—"

“You’ve never touched yourself?” you asked, shocked and incredulous. You found it hard to believe someone so sensual on stage and in recording had never been intimate with himself.

“No, I absolutely have, a lot - I mean, I can’t find a girlfriend the normal way so its hard.” He said back, almost stuttering over his words nervously.

“Well, I am a girl and I want to make you feel good. Even if it is over the phone. I feel compelled to” you said, a blush starting to form on your face.

Michael never replied, but you could hear his breathing quicken

"Okay, move your hand for me. Just put it on your chest. Over your heart. Can you feel how fast it's beating?"

A rustle of fabric, then a soft exhale. "Yes."

"That's because of me. Because I'm talking to you in this way. Which I doubt any other woman has yet?." You let your own hand drift down, fingertips tracing your collarbone.

 "Does it feel good? Having someone tell you what to do in a sexual way?"

Another long pause, but this one was weighted differently. He was thinking, not retreating. "I... no one's ever asked me that before or spoke to me so plainly"

"Ask yourself. Right now. Does it?"

His answer came out barely above a whisper: "Yes."

"Okay. I want you to slide your hand down. Slowly. Over your stomach."

Fabric rustled. His breathing changed, became shallower. You could picture him—long, beautiful fingers tracing his own skin, that honey skin tone and his beautiful face flushed in the dim light of his bedroom.

"Are you doing it?"

"I am." The word was almost a sigh.

"Keep going. Until you're touching yourself over your pajamas. Don't go underneath yet."

A strangled sound escaped him—half protest, half something else entirely. You heard him shift, the creak of his mattress, then the distinct rhythm of his breath turning ragged.

"There you go," you murmured. "Feel that? That's for me. You’re doing this for me."

"Y/N—" His voice cracked on the syllables. "This is—I shouldn't—"

"You can stop whenever you want. But you don't want to stop, do you?"

Quiet. A shaky exhale. "No."

"Tell me."

"I don't want to stop."

The admission hung between you, electric and trembling. You slid your own hand lower, fingers dipping beneath your waistband, finding the heat that had been building for the past hour.

"I want you to go under now," you said, your voice steadier than you felt. "Take yourself in your hand. Don't stroke yet—just hold. Feel how hard you are for me”

The whimper he let out sent a jolt straight through you. You heard him obey—the subtle sound of silk being pushed aside, his breath hitching as he wrapped his fingers around himself.

"Good," you breathed. "Now I want you to stroke. Slowly. Just the way you like when you're alone in bed, when no one can hear you."

He groaned, and the sound was exquisite—raw and unguarded, nothing like the polished performer the world knew. This was him, stripped bare. "Ahh—"

"Does it feel good?"

"Yes— It feels more dirty doing it with someone on the line" His hand started moving faster, and you could hear it now—the slick, rhythmic sound of him pleasuring himself, punctuated by those desperate little gasps he couldn't seem to control.

"Slower," you commanded. "I didn't say you could go fast."

A frustrated noise, but he obeyed. You could picture his hand moving in long, deliberate strokes—him biting his lip to keep from crying out.

"Y/N, please—" The word was ragged, almost pleading.

"Please what?"

"Tell me—tell me what you're doing. I want to imagine it.”

Your fingers moved inside yourself, your slick warmth clenching around your slim fingers, and your voice came out shakier than you intended. 

"I'm touching myself too. Thinking about your hands on me instead of my own."

"Gods—" The profanity startled you both, spilling from his lips like he couldn't hold it back. 

"Are you—inside?"

"Mmhm. Two fingers. Wishing it was you, filling me up"

The sound he made was somewhere between a moan and a whine, his restraint crumbling audibly. "Want to feel you—want to be inside you so badly— I’d fill you up"

"Then earn it. Keep stroking. Faster now." you said, your hands moving faster on your heat. “And don’t be quiet, Michael. I want to hear that voice of yours.”

His rhythm picked up immediately, desperate and uneven. You could hear the wet sound of his fist sliding over himself, the slap of it, his breath coming in sharp bursts. "Hahh—ngh—I'm—gonna come on myself if you keep talking to me like that. So- so dirty and honest"

"Not yet," you whined, even though your own body was trembling on the edge. 

"Y-you don't come until I say so, Michael."

A full-body shudder seemed to pass through him, audible even over the phone. "Ugh, Please, I can't—you're making me—"

"You can. You will." You pressed deeper, your thumb finding that spot that made your vision white out. "Tell me how badly you want it."

"I want to be inside you so deep—want to hear you say my name when you come—I- god, I—want to fill you up and watch you fall apart for me—" The words tumbled out like he'd been holding them behind a dam, dirty and raw and so at odds with the shy man who'd answered the phone two hours ago.

Your back arched, your fingers working furiously. "Michael—oh—"

"That's it, say my name—let me hear you—"

"Michael—oh—" The orgasm ripped through you without warning, your walls clenching hard around your fingers, your thighs snapping shut as you rode out the waves. You couldn't hold back the moan that spilled from your lips—guttural and uncontrolled and so, so loud in the quiet of your bedroom.

You heard him make a sound like he'd been punched—broken and desperate. "Oh god—d-did you just—did you come? Did you actually just—"

"Mmhm," you managed, still trembling, your voice wrecked. "So hard, Michael. Came so hard for you."

"Oh f-fuck—" The word came out stuttered, reverent, like he'd never said it before in this context and wasn't sure he was allowed. "I've never—no one's ever—that was the most intense thing I've ever heard in my entire life, I—"

He was still stroking, you could hear it—the slick, obscene sound of his fist working his shaft, faster now, more urgent. His breathing had gone completely ragged, punctuated by these tiny whimpering moans he seemed to be trying to swallow.

"Don't stop," you breathed, coming down slowly, your body still pulsing with aftershocks. "Keep touching yourself. I want to hear you finish."

"I've never had anyone listen to me before," he admitted, his voice thin and strained. "When I'm alone I have to be so quiet, my brothers are always in the next room and I—ngh—I always imagine someone wanting to hear me, wanting to know what I sound like when I lose control and I—"

"And what do you sound like, Michael?" You rolled onto your side, pressing the phone tight against your ear. "Let me hear the real you."

A broken gasp. His hand sped up, the wet sounds growing louder, more rhythmic. 

"I sound like—hahh—like this. Like I can't breathe. Like I'm losing my mind over someone I've never even met and it's—it's driving me insane—"

"Tell me what you're thinking about. Right now. What's making you so turned on?"

"I'm thinking about—" He broke off with a whine, and you could hear him struggling, his shyness warring with the pleasure coiling tight in his belly. "I'm thinking about your fingers inside you. How wet you must be. That you are a complete stranger. That I am unraveling for.” You could hear him gasping for breath, the phone was so close to his mouth. 

“I want to—I want to taste it. I want to put my mouth on you and lick you until you're screaming my name again and again—"

"Michael—"

"No one's ever let me—" His voice cracked, raw and exposed. "I've thought about it so much. Going down on a woman. Having her grab my hair and use my face and I just—oh god, I'm so close, Y/N, I'm so close—"

"Then tell me what else you'd do to me." You slipped your fingers back inside yourself, still slick and sensitive, and the sensation made you gasp. 

"Tell me everything. Don't be shy anymore."

A shuddering exhale. "I want to—I want to push into you so slowly. Make you feel every inch." 

He was babbling now, the words tumbling out faster than he could filter them. "I want to watch your face when I first enter you, when you feel how hard I am for you. I've never—I've never been inside anyone before and I want it to be you, I want you to be the first pussy I ever feel clenching around my cock and I—"

He stopped abruptly, and you could practically hear him blushing through the phone. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said—that word—I—"

"Don't apologize. We’re in the moment" You were grinding against your own hand now, impossibly turned on again. "Say it again."

"I want to—" He swallowed hard. 

"I want to feel your pussy around me. Is that—is that okay to say? It feels so dirty when I say it out loud. Dirtier than when I think it alone in my bed. It makes me even harder, knowing you're hearing me say these words."

"Good. Keep going. What else would you do?"

"I'd—I'd flip you over." His voice dropped lower, gaining confidence even as it shook with need. "Pin you down. Take you from behind so I could watch you—watch your body move every time I thrust into you. Would you like that? Would you let me be a little rough with you?"

"Yes," you moaned. "God, yes."

"I've never been rough before. I've never even had the chance to find out what I like but I think—I think I'd like that. Holding you down. Making you take it. Feeling you get wetter and wetter every time I—every time my hips snap against your ass and I can hear the sound of our skin slapping together—"

"Fuck, Michael—"

"Am I doing this right?" he asked suddenly, his voice turning vulnerable again, that sweet uncertainty creeping back in. 

"Am I—am I being sexy enough? I don't know what I'm doing, I've never talked to anyone like this and I—"

"You're perfect," you gasped. "You're so fucking perfect, don't you dare stop."

"Really?" The word came out like a prayer, awed and disbelieving. 

"You really think—no one's ever told me I was—I'm always too quiet, too soft, too weird but when you say it like that I almost believe I could be—"

"You could be what? Tell me."

"Good at this." His rhythm faltered, growing erratic. 

"Good at making you feel good. I've imagined it so many times, practiced in my head what I'd say if I ever had a woman who wanted me to talk to her while I touched her and ahh—hahh—now that I'm actually doing it I can't stop, the words just keep coming out and they're so filthy but it feels so right when you're listening—"

"Because you were made for this." You pressed your palm against your mound, grinding in tight circles. 

"The shy boy who says the filthiest things when the lights go out."

"Oh god—oh god oh god—" His breathing had reached a pitch of desperation, each exhale a miniature moan he couldn't seem to contain. 

"I'm gonna—I can't hold it anymore, please, Y/N, please let me come, I'll do anything, I'll say anything you want, just please—"

"Tell me something you've never told anyone."

"I think about—ngh—I think about someone watching me. While I touch myself. I want them to see how desperate I get, how pathetic I look when I'm chasing my release and I can't find it and I'm whimpering and begging and—I want them to see what you've done to me. I want you to see what you've done to me."

"Michael, come for me."

The sound he made, this raw, transcendent keen that seemed to tear itself from somewhere deep in his chest, would stay with you forever. You heard the rhythm of his hand stutter, then seize, then stop entirely as he let out a strangled series of moans, each one higher than the last.

"Oh—oh fuck, I'm—Y/N, I'm coming, a-all all over my stomach, it's so much, you made me come so much, I—ahhh—mmph—" It sounded like the receiver dropped for a moment

"Michael," you whispered, and you came again too, your second orgasm rolling through you softer but no less devastating than the first.

For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of two people trying to remember how to breathe. 

His gasps were ragged and uneven, yours shaky and light, and the silence between you felt sacred somehow.

Then, so quietly you almost missed it: "That was... that was my first time. Doing that with someone."

"Really?"

"I've never trusted anyone enough to let them hear me like that." You could hear him shifting, probably reaching for something to clean himself with. "I can't believe some of the things I said. It felt good to do it though.  Did I really call it my—my cock?"

You laughed, warm and genuine. "You did."

"Oh god." A soft thump, like he'd dropped his head back against the pillow. "I've never even said that word out loud before. Not in that context. I’ve heard it in porn films. And… I said I wanted to feel your—your—"

"Pussy," you supplied helpfully.

He made a noise like he was dying. "Please don't say it again. I am going to die of embarrassment when I wake up in the morning and realise how vulnerable I have been with you on the phone tonight.”

"Don't you dare be embarrassed." You rolled onto your stomach, pressing the phone against your ear like you could somehow get closer to him through it. 

"Michael, that was beautiful."

"Beautiful?" You heard the skepticism in his voice, the way he couldn't quite believe you meant it. "I sounded like... I don't know. Some kind of animal."

"You sounded like someone who felt good. Someone who let himself feel good for maybe the first time." You traced idle patterns on your sheets, your body still humming. "That's not embarrassing. It's normal to want release Sometimes you just need a good excuse to get it."

He was quiet for a moment, and you could hear him moving—probably pulling his pajamas back into place, wiping his stomach with whatever he'd grabbed. The domestic reality of the aftermath, the part they never showed in movies.

"I can't believe my father's BIGGEST artist just came while thinking about me," you said, a smile in your voice. "The Epic and CBS executives would have a heart attack if they were somehow to know."

"Oh, stop." But you could hear him smiling too now, that shy little laugh escaping him. "You're going to give me a complex. I'm never going to be able to look your father in the eye again."

"He'll just think you're being your usual quiet self. Little does he know his star performer has quite the mouth on him when he wants to."

"Y/N!" The indignation in his voice was undercut entirely by the laugh he couldn't suppress. "You're terrible. You're absolutely terrible and I—"

He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice had softened. "I really liked talking to you. Before the... you know. And after. I like your voice."

"I like yours." You hugged your pillow closer. "Even more now that I know what it sounds like when you fall apart."

A soft groan. "You're not going to let me live this down, are you?"

"Not ever."

You heard him shift again, settling back into his pillows, and the intimacy of the sound struck you—how domestic this was, how comfortable, for two people who had never even seen each other in person.

"When can I see you?" The question slipped out before you could second-guess it.

Michael went still. "You want to see me? After... I mean, you've heard me now. You know I'm not exactly—"

"Michael." You cut him off firmly. "I want to see you. I want to sit across from you and watch your face when you talk. I want to know if you gesture with your hands when you get excited about something. I want to see your Walt Disney World toy train set in person. I want to feel what its like to cuddle up next to you on the couch whilst we watch a scary movie. I want to see what you look like when you blush, because I have a feeling you're blushing right now."

"I am not," he lied, his voice pitching higher in that way that told you he absolutely was.

"Liar."

"Maybe a little." A pause. "I'm free this Saturday. If you wanted to—maybe we could get coffee? Or tea? I don't really drink coffee. It makes me jittery."

"Tea sounds perfect." Your heart was pounding again, but this time with anticipation, not nerves. He’d finally see you in the flesh and not just in picture, or your voice on the other end of the receiver.

"There's a little place in Studio City. Very quiet, very private. No one would bother us." You spoke up after a brief moment of silent thought.

"How do you know I don't want people to bother us?" His tone was teasing now, surprising you both. "I'm a superstar, you know. I have an image to maintain."

"Is that right? Because from what I just heard, superstar, you—"

"If you finish that sentence, I'm hanging up this phone and changing my number and telling your father you're delusional."

You laughed, bright and real and full of something that felt dangerously close to hope. "Fine, fine. I'll be good."

"I sincerely doubt that."

Saturday felt impossibly far away. You had three days to get through, three days of classes and shifts at the hospital and pretending you were a normal person when all you could think about was the boy with the honey voice who'd whispered filthy things in your ear like he'd been waiting his whole life for someone to listen.

"Y/N?" His voice pulled you back to the present.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. For calling. For removing me from my mundane and lonely reality. It isn’t all its cracked up to be… being famous." He said it so earnestly, so sweetly, that your chest ached with it. 

"I've never felt this comfortable with someone. Usually I'm so worried about saying the wrong thing, or being too weird, or making people feel awkward—"

"You could never make me feel awkward, Michael."

"No?" You could hear the smile in his voice, that tentative hope blooming again. "Not even when I said I wanted to—"

"Okay, goodnight, Michael!" you half yelled, feeling embarrassment gurgle in your belly once more. You didn’t want to rehash just how dirty you had both been.

His laugh was your favorite sound now—bright and breathy and completely unguarded. You wanted to bottle it. You wanted to fall asleep to it every single night.

"Goodnight, Y/N." A pause, weighted with everything neither of you knew how to say yet. 

"Dream of me?"

"Only if you dream of me."

"I already know I will." And then, softer: "I think I started the moment you said hello."

The year prior the questions from reporters were varied — When was your next album? Would there be a single released soon? What new music was being produced as of recent weeks? And maybe, if they were feeling nosey, they’d ask about your lover.

The lover they only care to hear about now that he’s an ex.

It was no secret that every news channel, magazine and radio station was milking your separation for everything it was worth — earning every dime off of your heartache. You’d been cornered and screamed at by reporters over the past few months over your break-up from the worldwide superstar Michael Jackson more times than for any music you’d put out.

So, you knew tonight would be no different.

Your manager had already warned you about keeping any responses to questions about Michael to a polite minimum to prevent bad press — but when every single reporter was asking the same thing, your irritation began to rise to the surface.

"Michael Jackson, your recent ex-husband, has just arrived here at the Grammy’s, he’s nominated for 12 awards — is there any resentment towards him now you’ve spilt as you’re only nominated for 2?"

Bitch.

You bit your inner cheek so hard you almost cried out as you forced down a nasty insult, but faked a smile and grit your teeth, "Not at all. He’s a talented man who worked hard for each nomination." You started, "But, I have also worked hard myself for my nominations which I am proud of if I win or not."

"And when will the divorce be final?"

Swallowing thickly, your breath shook as you exhaled gaining composure, "As of right now, there has been no divorce settlement papers drafted. We are just split up."

"So, technically, you’re still together?"

"No." You snapped, a forced smile still on your face, "We are split up." You repeated, trying not to sound too agitated.

"So,—"

"Thank you for your time." You cut off, picking up your dress and walking away.

You knew there’d be a story about that in the morning, but you didn’t care. It was either that or you screamed at her — and that certainly wouldn’t get you a Grammy.

You rushed through each interview, declining questions about Michael which only spurred the reporters on to press you about why you were saying no to questions about him. The inside of your mouth was practically red raw from how often you were biting down to force the agitation back down your throat.

Luckily, the ceremony was a blissful, magical experience — all memories of your ex-lover had been washed away, for the time being, as you watched each of your fellow singers and stars win their awards. A good friend of yours, country singer, Debbie Allen, had just won her award for Best Female Country Vocal Performance for her single ‘Baby I Lied’, who thanked her loved ones & producers, and rushed back down to the table you shared for the night.

"Well done, honey!" You beamed, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek as you embraced in a hug, "So proud of you."

"Thank you, baby." She whispered, "How you been tonight? I hope those reporters haven’t been giving you too much trouble."

You scoffed, taking a sip of your Martini, "They couldn’t have given me more trouble, Deb."’

"Oh, Lord." She sighed, "I’m so sorry, honey, I know this must be real hard for you."

You huffed in defeat, shrugging, signifying you knew there wasn’t anything you could do about the situation. You and Michael hadn’t spoken since you moved out of your shared house, Hayvenhurst in Encino, and back to your own personal home. Since then, the media have spun lies and rumours, only forcing you further apart and building the awkward tension.

You quietened down as the presenters at the stage began talking, "This award is for Record of the Year, where many talented musicians have displayed some of their best work yet." One started, "The nominees are ‘Every Breath you Take’ by The Police," They read names and applause sounded throughout the room as each one was read, "'Flashdance… What a Feeling’ by Irene Cara, and ‘Beat it’ by Michael Jackson."

Your breath caught in your throat at the mention of his name and his smiling face on the screen in front of you. You refrained a gasp from slipping past your lips at his attire — Goodness, he looked good. His bedazzled suit, glove and signature sunglasses made him look like a true king. You were barely paying any attention as your heart hammered in your chest at the mere mention of his name. You hated how he still had an effect on you after all this time.

"And the Record of the Year goes to.." The silence was deafening as you held your breath,

“Michael Jackson ‘Beat it’!"

The room erupted into screams of adoration and loud applause as they all stood to congratulate him. Your heart thumped in your throat — part of you wanted to stand with a proud smile for the familiar lover, but the other half didn’t know whether it was worth the tabloids rumours.

In the heat of the moment, just as you were about to stand, a soft smile creeping on your face, you halted in your tracks.

Michael, your ex-husband of a mere few weeks, turned to his fellow nominee, Irene Cara, who was smiling sweetly at him, and kissed her.

Not once — but twice.

Air was knocked out of you as your mouth fell ajar as you watched him approach the stand to accept the award. Your mouth went swiftly dry and your eyes threatened to well up with tears, but you could feel the eyes on you, and soon the cameras too. So, a fake smile was forced onto your face as you stood to clap — ignoring the people around you glancing at you dramatically, as if waiting for your reaction.

Michael took the stage with his Producer Quincy Jones, who hugged him tightly, then jumped for joy at Michael’s second win of the night. Your chest rose and fell quickly as you watched the stage, your heart shattering as he stood at the stand — a smug smirk on his face while he held his two awards.

"I love all the girls in the balcony." Michael spoke, lifting his bedazzled hands in the air to point at the screaming fans beyond the stage.

Double homicide.

A sick, disgusted feeling crawled into your stomach as you listened to him talk. You honestly couldn’t believe what you were hearing — the man who devoted his life to you a few months ago, promised you children and a future, stability and love till the end of time, was now kissing women backstage at the Grammy’s and thanking his aroused, infatuated female fans. You were mortified.

You zoned out as he thanked his family, and Quincy took the stand to thank Michael and the editors to the album again. Your mind was in shambles as Debbie reached over to place a comforting hand on your arm, offering a sympathetic smile. You pursed your lips at her — trying to ignore Michael’s voice thanking the girls in the balcony once more before he exited the stage.

You swallowed thickly — you were in shock and disgust at the man you thought you knew. He clearly got a taste for being single and had his ego stroked too many times tonight, and decided to act a fool in front of everyone.

Embarrassment was an understatement.

"Men are pigs, sweetie. Don’t let him get to you. You’ve got a Grammy to win." Debbie whispered, squeezing your hand encouragingly.

You breathed out a laugh, smiling weakly at her as thoughts raced through your brain. Despite all the anger, sadness and disgust you felt right now, the most prominent emotion that was infesting your body right now was jealousy. You were sick with envy at Irene Cara — being able to stand up there and kiss your ex-man twice on stage. It made you violently jealous.

"The next award is for Best Female Pop Vocal Performance." The next presenters spoke, their voices pulling you out of your train of thought.

This was your nomination.

Your heart drummed with anxiety once more — the cocktail of emotions in your body knocking you sick as you waited.

"And the nominees are, ‘Flashdance…What a Feeling.’ by Irene Cara,"

Oh, now the competition was really on.

You hated that you secretly felt as though you were competing for Michael, but you couldn’t help but want nothing more than to win against her.

Your name was read last — the camera turning to you as a smirk crept onto your face, waving sweetly into the camera lense, attempting to look as unbothered as possible.

"And the winner is.."

Cheers erupted into the room as your name echoed in your ears, Debbie practically screaming beside you as she clapped feverishly.

You had won.

A wicked thought crept into your brain as you stood up, walking towards the stage with a dangerous grin on your face. This was going to get him back in every possible way. And her.

The applause died down as you were handed the award, which weighed your arms down, as you kissed the female presenter on the cheek. You leant the award on the stand as you approached the microphone.

"Firstly, I’d like to thank my Producer, who sadly couldn’t be here tonight, but gives his own personal thanks to all the editors and executive producers who helped us with this song that I’m beyond proud of." You started, smiling sweetly, catching the eyes of familiar faces in the crowd as you spoke.

"I also wanted to say that I am particularly proud of myself for this song as, I’m sure all of you are aware, these past few weeks have been difficult for me." You stated, whispers and shocked glances were shared across the room, "But, regardless, I’m here tonight, winning an award, feeling beautiful and happy to be alive." A round of applause was instigated as you laughed, "You will also know that despite common belief, when a separation occurs between man and wife — they are still, by law and under the word of God, still married. Which means no matter how many people you kiss on stage, I’ll still be your wife, Michael. And, I will always be, if you know you know, the Lady in his Life."

Flashing your wedding ring to the crowd that you still wore, you laughed loudly as the crowd went berserk, before exiting the stage. Screams of joy and shock erupted in the room as people sat near to Michael whispered to him, whose face himself was sporting a playful, shy smile, ignoring Quincy Jones laughing loudly next to him.

The rest of the night, where Michael went on to win 6 more awards, failing to address your call out of his stunt on stage, you were praised by many familiar stars — who claimed your speech was the best they’d heard in years. Unfortunately, you only won the one award, but you didn’t care — as the way you had outed Michael elicited a better feeling than any award could.

The end of the ceremony soon came around, and the after parties were beginning to start. Debbie had dragged you to one before you even got chance to decline, but you wanted to bask in your glory for a little longer before heading home.

Debbie had wondered off somewhere, claiming she needed to talk to Lionel Richie, and scurried off into the crowd — leaving you alone with your 4th Martini of the night.

"Nice little speech you gave earlier."

The familiar soft voice that sounded behind you sent shivers up your spine as you turned around to face the one man you’d wanted to ignore and be close to at the same time all night.

"Thank you." You smiled, "I thought it was fitting."

Michael hummed, nodding as the corner of his mouth threatened to curve into a smile, "I always admired your honesty." He spoke, "Congratulations by the way."

You chuckled softly, "Flattery won’t save you now, Michael."

"What? I can’t compliment my beautiful wife, as you say you are yourself."

Your breath hitched in your throat at his words, "I am when you’re kissing other women in public in front of me, I’m not when you want something from me now you realised you’ve fucked up."

Michael chuckled, taking a step closer to you, the waft of his cologne filling your nostrils — a sickly sweet reminder of his stunning scent that you once had smothered on your bedsheets and in your hair after a night of ecstasy. The thought of your late night love during your marriage sent a wave of uncontrollable arousal throughout your body as you looked up at him.

"I don’t think God would approve of you denying yourself as my wife whenever you please."

"That’s rich coming from you." You scoffed, furrowing your eyebrows, "You were borderline adulterous tonight."

"I would only be adulterous if you were still officially my girl. Yes, you’re legally my wife. But, the last I knew, we were ‘separated’" He teased, taking another step closer, your chests nearly touching as your breathing quickened, "So, unless you’re saying you want me back?"

You scoffed, avoiding the question as you looked away from, not wanting to be the one to admit you missed him, "In your dreams, Michael."

"Sure is."

Your mouth fell agape at his words, trying not to interpret it as sexual — but your already aroused brain instantly went there, eliciting a flush of heat through you.

"You can’t pick and choose when you want me, Michael." You stood strong, ignoring the small waver in your voice, "I’m either your wife or I’ll have the divorce papers drafted for Monday morning."

Michael didn’t speak — just stared at you through his sunglasses, his lips pressed together calmly as he eyed you. Your chest rose and fell quicker as you grew more and more impatient for his response, your lips forming an irritated pout, which you subconsciously forgot he loved as a smirk grew on his face.

"What’s so funny? I’m being seri—“

"Come with me."

Without having a second to comprehend what was happening, Michael grasped your hand tightly and began exiting the party. Your mouth fell open in confusion as his fingers laced through yours while leading you through the crowd, earning a few confused glances from other stars as you rushed past.

The cold February air hit you sharply as Michael guided you outside, the instant intense flash of cameras blazing your eyesight as he smiled at the cameras, squeezing your hand as a push to do the same. You forced a smile as he ushered you into the back of a car, jumping in with you and shutting the door.

"Where to, Sir?" The driver questioned.

"To our home — Hayvenhurst, please." Michael spoke softly, as he always did, your ears perking at the use of the word ‘our’, "And take the long route."

You turned to face the superstar as the partition closed, silence filling the car. Michael was already looking at you, his glasses had been taken off, and sporting a small smile.

"Don’t give me that look. I meant what I said, Michael." You sassed, crossing your arms.

"I know you did." He agreed, "I’m sorry for how I behaved tonight. A man without the support of his beautiful wife is a lost man who makes stupid choices."

You eyed him as he spoke, attempting to not fall for the flattery, which proved to be difficult as he met you with his classic puppy dog eyes.

"Like you said, I wrote that song just for you. That one among many. You are the only lady in my life — you inspire all of my love songs. You are the reason my heart swells with such passion to sing about love."

Your heart skipped a beat at his words — pink flushing your cheeks at the sweet confession as he smiled softly at you. He knew exactly how to play you to get what he wanted.

"Come on, baby, didn’t I make you happy?"

"Michael." You warned, eyeing his smirk as he shuffled closer to you.

"I know I did." He whispered, suddenly as close as he was at the after party, forcing your breath to catch in your throat, "I made you smile, and laugh, and feel content with your life and our future." His hand crept up to your knee, your breathing increasing ever so slightly at the sudden touch, "But, more importantly, I made you feel good, didn’t I?" He mewled, his hand sliding up your dress to caress your thigh.

"Michael." You sighed, arousal building between your legs at his tender touch.

"Admit it. I made you feel so good when I made sweet love to you every night." Michael teased, his hand now snaking around your waist and pulling you flush against his warm body, a gasp ripping from your throat in surprise, "I knew exactly how to pleasure my sweet, beautiful lady."

"Yes — God, yes, you did." You breathed, your chest heaving in pure arousal as your hands clung to his chest and around his neck, finally giving in to him, "Please."

Michael didn’t need to tease and wind you up tonight — he knew you needed each other so badly it would’ve physically hurt to deny each other one another for any longer. His hands around your waist pulled you as close to him as humanly possible, another residing on your red hot cheek as he pressed his eager lips to yours in a feverish kiss.

You instantly hummed in pleasure at the feeling of his warm, soft mouth against yours — your hands flying to tangle in his curls as you moved over to straddle his hips. Michael groaned into your mouth as his hands slid down your exposed back, pressing your body into his as he slipped his eager tongue into your mouth — desperate to taste you everywhere.

His excitable kisses edged down from your jawline to your neck, to your chest, your heartbeat hammering against his lips — love bites being littered across your skin.

"Baby, please."

Michael groaned at the sound of your desperate, aroused plea — his achingly hard cock twitching beneath his slacks.

"Let me make it up to you, darling." Michael started, moving to lay you down on the back seat, and kissing slowly down your body as you whined beneath him impatiently, "Let me taste your perfect pussy — make you feel good."

"Yes — God, yes, please."

Michael didn’t waste a second as the whiny, breathy words of desperation left your lips — bunching your dress around your hips. Michael let out a shaky breath at the sight of your drenched panties — your puffy pussy drooling for him even after the whole ordeal.

He hooked two fingers into your waistband and shimmied the soaked pink cloth off your cunt, the bare sight of your pretty pussy on show for him. He let out a sigh of pure adoration as he admired you, pushing your legs apart.

"Gosh, this pussy is beautiful — so wet for me."

You whined beneath him, bucking your hips in despair as your hole clenched around nothing, begging to be touched. Michael took this as a sign to slide his two fingers between your slit, a loud gasp ripping from your throat as he nudged your sensitive clit, collecting your essence on his digits. Pushing your legs back further, Michael slid his lubricated fingers towards your quivering hole, teasing the outside, earning a loud cry of irritation as you silently begged for him to fill you.

"Be a good girl now — let me make you feel better." He ordered, pressing a soft kiss to your elevated ankle as he slid two fingers inside you, an erotic moan leaving your lips, "Mm, that’s it, baby, let me hear you."

He knew exactly how to take you, how you liked to be pleased and what made you cum instantly. You felt as though even though he was making it up to you, he was also getting off on this. He pumped his fingers in and out of your tight cunt — the squelching of your juices and the sound of your delicious moans filled the car, Michael’s cock throbbing beneath his clothes at the pornographic noises entering his ears.

"Such a sweet, good girl for me. And I’m such a bad husband, aren’t I? But, I’m gonna make it all better, hm?"

"N-No, you’re p-perfect, Mike." You forced out, your voice wavering as he pleasured you.

But, Michael knew exactly what was going to make you forgive him. Leaning down in between your legs, he littered your thighs in kisses before attaching his lips around your throbbing clit. His fingers still curling to hit that spongy spot inside you had your back arching off the seat, your cries reaching their loudest as your built up sexual frustration for your husband came to its peak.

"O-oh— Michael, God, I-I’m gon—gonn—“

"Cum for me, baby, give it to me." He egged on, his lips never leaving your clit, as his fingers sped up inside you to help push you over the edge.

You came with a scream, your hand flying to his curls to tug on while your legs clamped around his head — his name flooding from your mouth as you shook around his head, his tongue lapping up your juices as they leaked from your abused hole.

Michael didn’t waste any time after you came down from your high, perching up on his knees to free himself from his slacks and boxers, shoving them down his thighs to let his painfully hard cock spring free. You hummed in arousing anticipation as he spat a dollop of his saliva onto his hand and slicking his cock in the natural lubricant — pumping himself a few times with a hiss before positioning himself by your shaking cunt. He slid his cock between your slick folds — nudging your swollen, sensitive clit, earning a pathetic cry as you grasped his bicep.

"Ready to feel how sorry I am, sweet thing?"

You nodded with a whine as he pushed your knees closer to your chest in a brutal mating press — before pushing his tip into your tight walls. Both of you let out intense cries of pleasure at the feeling of one another’s genitalia after so long — the sexual frustration melting away as he slid in further and further. You always struggled to take his thick, heavy dick — but tonight you didn’t care. You were so caught up in your emotions that the burn and stretch of his fat cock didn’t phase you tonight. You just needed him to take you over and over again to prove his apology and how much he loved you.

Michael bottomed out with a groan, "Oh." He shivered, "I’ve missed this perfect pussy, Jesus." He leant down to capture your lips in a messy, passionate kiss, tongues and teeth banging together as he pulled out all the way, to slam back into you. Both of your explicit noises filled the car mixed with the stench of pure sex as he fucked you into the seat.

"M-Michael!" You whined, your hand reaching up to touch his face as his pelvis rubbed against your pathetically sensitive clit — that and the feeling of the tip of his cock abusing your G-Spot had you seeing stars and threatening to cum again already.

Michael, lost in the pure ecstasy of your weeping cunt, had words failing him as he slammed into you repeatedly — pure excitement flooding his veins at the feeling of you squeezing him in as you reached your climax once again.

"M-Michael, Michael, I’m there — I’m cumming!"

Michael cursed under his breath as his flopped forward, his face nuzzling into your neck as you arched your back into his chest, your fingers curled in his hair as you tightened around his aching cock — cumming with a loud cry against him.

Michael wasn’t far behind at the feeling of your pussy clenching him so hard as you finished — milking him for all he’s worth. He came with a growl into your neck, your name and little moans of pure pleasure whined from his lips as he stuffed you full of his load.

Michael flopped against you as his orgasm feathered away, being careful not to crush you under his weight. His legs shook as he slipped out of you with a hiss and a curse under his breath — the feeling of his warm cum trickling out of you had you whining quietly.

Michael leaned down to capture your lips in a gentle kiss — this one now delicate and tender, compared to the intense one prior. He took time with your lips, a soft hand on your neck as he lovingly pecked your lips.

"I love you so much, baby. I don’t wanna be without my wife any longer. I’m sorry for everything I’ve done — please don’t leave me again." He admitted, pressing his sticky forehead against yours, his eyes fluttering shut.

Your heart swelled at his gentle, kind words, suddenly feeling so full of love and purpose once more.

"I love you too, Michael.” You breathed, a shaky hand coming up to stroke his cheek, "And I’m sorry for embarrassing you tonight. I won’t ever leave your side again."’

Michael smiled against you, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, before sitting up to tuck his softened cock back into his boxers. He then assisted you back into your underwear, fixed your dress and smoothed your hair for you, before calling out to the driver to tell him to head towards home.

"Does this mean you’re my official girl, wife, everything again?" Michael whispered, wrapping an arm around your sleepy frame as you slumped against him.

You nodded weakly, "Yes, Mike, I’m your everything again."

"You always were, my darling."

GONE BY MORNING

fluff / smut / angst (18+)

word count: 13.2k

SUMMARY: The year is 1984 and she never asked for this, but when you fall in love with Michael Jackson, life becomes loud. For an entire year, they've built this loudy, messy, tender life together. For the first time in a long time, she was happy, believing that despite the whirlwind that came along with the Jackson craze, Michael's love was unwavering. But the road to fame has many victims and she just might be one. Whispers she tries to ignore, nights when he doesn't come home and the gnawing feeling that she's not the only one he gives himself to continue to grow. When a tabloid photo splashes across the morning headlines, proving what she always feared, she has no choice but to call him from a thousand miles away and hears the truth in the silence.

GONE BY MORNING (part 2)

fluff / smut / angst (18+)

word count: