Playing with Phantoms

Part two to: Behind the Veil

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The silence in Room 412 was deafening, swallowed only by the muted hum of the hotel air conditioner and the distant, muffled roar of the crowd blocks away at Radio City Music Hall.

Michael stood frozen in the doorway, his hand still holding the brass handle. The color had completely drained from his face as his dark eyes darted frantically from the silk robe hanging off your shoulders to the discarded black lace veil resting on the vanity.

"I... I don't..." His voice broke, barely a whisper. "Applehead?"

"You sound surprised, Michael," you said, your voice dripping with sweet, lethal sarcasm. "Were you expecting someone else?"

"No—I mean, yes—I..." He stumbled backward a step, his dark fedora slipping slightly as he ran a trembling hand through his curls. "You're... Nova?"

"I was going to tell you," you said quietly, the sarcasm giving way to an aching, hollow burn in your chest. "The day of the radio broadcast. I was sitting right next to you, humming the song, waiting for you to say anything. But you kept her note. You hid it. And you called her in the middle of the night."

"I made a mistake!" Michael blurted out, stepping into the room with his hands raised, palms out. "I swear to you, I was confused—I was an idiot! But I love you—"

The rage inside you boomed, reckless and overwhelming, boiling over after weeks of quiet torture. You closed the distance between you, and the sharp, sudden CRACK of your palm against his cheek echoed through the hotel room.

Michael’s head snapped to the side, his breath hitching sharply in his throat. But you didn't stop.

"You lied to my face! Every single day!" You struck his chest with open palms, pushing him backward against the wall. "You sat on my couch! You kissed me goodnight! And then you called her!"

Michael didn't fight back, taking the hard impact of your hands, his dark eyes wide and shining with agonizing guilt. "Applehead, please—"

"I hate you!" you sobbed, bringing another strike down against his chest, your entire posture completely unraveling. "I hate what you did to us!"

As your hands came flying up for another hit, Michael moved with sudden, fluid quickness. His large, warm hands reached up and caught both of your wrists mid-air.

He didn't squeeze or hurt you; he simply held them firmly in place, anchoring your shaking hands right between his chest and yours.

The physical resistance broke the final dam inside you. The rage instantly evaporated, leaving behind a hollow, overwhelming agony. Your knees buckled, and all the breath left your lungs in a loud, shattered sob.

You sank downward, slipping through his grip until your knees hit the plush hotel carpet.

"I've got you," Michael rasped, dropping down with you, his own voice cracking completely as he absorbed your weight. He stayed on his knees before you, keeping his hands hovering, terrified to push too far as he pressed his forehead against yours. "I'm sorry... God, I am so, so sorry, Applehead. Look at me... please."

You sat on your heels, shuddering, tears streaming down your cheeks. "I ruined everything," Michael choked out, tears finally spilling over his own lashes, dripping onto your silk robe. "I was selfish, and I was stupid, and I broke the only pure thing I had in this world. I'm so sorry..."

He cupped your jaw gently, his thumb wiping away a hot tear, and before you could move back, he leaned in and pressed his lips to yours.

It wasn't a soft, cautious kiss—it was desperate, bruised, and thick with a raw, intense longing. His breath hit your cheek hot and fast as his lips moved over yours, tasting like salt and rain, pouring every ounce of his regret into the pressure of his mouth.

The warmth of him flared through your veins, hot and dizzying. But as his hand slipped toward your waist, the instinct to guard yourself snapped back into place.

You placed both hands against his chest and pushed him back. Not violently—just firmly.

Michael instantly froze, breaking the kiss, his dark eyes heavy, dazed, and dilated with heat. His chest heaved, his breathing shallow and ragged as he stared up at you from where he sat back on his heels.

"Don't," you breathed, your voice low, rasping, and dropping straight into that heavy, commanding tone reserved for Nova. "Don't touch me."

Michael swallowed hard, a visible shudder running through him at the shift in your voice. His jaw tightened, but he obeyed instantly, placing his hands flat against the carpet, completely at your mercy.

"Okay," he whispered, his raspy voice thick with an intense, helpless submission. "Okay. Anything you want."

You stood up slowly, towering over him, the dark silk of your robe rustling softly. You looked down at the King of Pop kneeling at your feet, his curls messy, his dark eyes dark with a wild, hungry restraint, utterly desperate for a touch you were deliberately withholding.

"You want to know who Nova is?" you murmured, stepping closer until the hem of your robe brushed his knees. You didn't let him lay a single finger on you, but the slow, deliberate untying of your silk belt sent a electric jolt through the quiet room.

Michael’s eyes darkened, his hands clenching into fists against the floorboards as he forced himself not to reach for you, his body trembling with the strain of his own restraint.

"You don't get to touch," you whispered softly, leaning down just close enough for your warm breath to brush the shell of his ear, making him let out a low, shuddering breath.

Michael closed his eyes, a desperate groan catching in his throat as he tipped his head back, completely unraveling under your control, realizing that while he had fallen for a phantom, the real woman in front of him had total, absolute power over him.

When you took your robe off you were just down to your panties and heels. You pressed your heel into his growing bulge and he let out a whimper. “Tell me you’re sorry,” you said firmly. “I-“ he started. You dug your heel harder into his bulge. “Fuck-I’m so sorry baby.” He whined out, desperate for any touch from you.

You gripped the curls at the nape of his neck and forced him to look up at you. “Is this what you wanted? You wanted a more dominant woman that’s why you fell for ‘Nova’?” You questioned. “No baby I only want you, I don’t know why I-“

CRACK

You smacked him again. “LIAR” you said.

He bit his bottom lip and tried to suppress a smile and how much harder he got. “Yes ma’am,” he submitted.

You slowly took off your heels and underwear and he stared up at you like you hung the stars, eagerly waiting for his next direction.

You sat on the bed and opened your legs, “come here,” you coaxed.

He scrambled over to you, placing himself between your thighs, holding eye contact waiting for further instruction. You put your hand on the back of his head guiding him to your pussy. He gripped your thighs and pulled you closer to his face. He stuck his tongue directly into your hole and began fucking you with his tongue, his nose rubbing your clit at the same time. You gasped and cursed under your breath but didn’t let it all out, not ready to give him the satisfaction yet.

He was desperately eating you out, trying to make up for everything he did. You didn’t make a production out of it because you were still mad, but you already had about 2 orgasms.

You decided you wanted to feel him inside you so without warning you pushed him away and guided him up onto the bed on his back. He once again stared up at you in confusion waiting on your next move. You climbed onto him but you were facing the other way, reverse cowgirl style.

You rubbed his dick across your clit and your soaked entrance a few times. It took everything in his power not to grab onto you but he couldn’t help but buck his hips up. Since your back was turned and he couldn’t see your face you bit your lip and smirked, trying to suppress a giggle. You wouldn’t admit or show it just yet but you were internally so relieved that you still had Michael wrapped around your finger. ‘Just why did he have to be so stupid!?’ You thought.

You began to sink down into his large length and moaned out in pleasure. He grabbed your hips and jerked his hips up, driving himself into you. You cried out at the sudden fullness but then it dawned on you….. “You know what Michael…” you began.

“What is it lovey?” He asked. You got off of him causing him to whine at the loss of contact. “I think I deserve to be the pillow princess tonight.” You said. Without any hesitation he grabbed you, ignoring your ‘no touch’ boundary you had set earlier. He laid you on your back and pulled your legs up to where you were basically folded in half. All the while pausing periodically to see if it was okay.

Once he noticed you didn’t protest, he lined up at your entrance and slowly slid his length into you. You were soaking wet and he couldn’t continue to go slow-he needed you. He began to deeply drill into you until you were screaming his name and the headboard was thumping against the wall. He decided to take advantage of you letting him touch you and he wanted to give it to you good.

So, he pulled out and pulled you up to a standing position. You were caught off guard and about to ask him what he was doing but before you could he suddenly picked you up in his arms and pushed your back against the wall. His hands were holding you by your ass and he plowed himself into you, each thrust slamming your back into the wall and you moaned even louder than before-swearing you would get a noise complaint but not even caring.

He had his face buried in your neck, kissing it and behind your ear in between kisses telling you how sorry he was and telling you how much he loves you.

He sped up his thrusts and they became deeper and more sloppy until you both cried out and came at the same time.

He pulled out of you and kissed you hungrily, leading you back to the bed.

The heavy, electric stillness of the hotel room slowly settled, the furious rush of adrenaline fading into a quiet, heavy exhaustion.

Michael lay on his back atop the plush hotel sheets, his chest rising and falling in slow, steady breaths. You rested beside him, your head pillowed against his chest, listening to the solid, familiar rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your cheek. True to your word, you had kept control, keeping the distance and boundaries firm—yet the lingering heat of the moment still hovered in the quiet air between you.

Michael’s arm was wrapped securely around you, his large, warm hand resting flat on your back, pulling you in as close as you would allow. He didn't move aggressively or try to push for anything more; he just held on tight, as if letting go meant you would disappear into thin air again.

Slowly, his fingers began to trace tiny, gentle circles against the silk of your robe.

"Applehead?" he murmured softly into the dim light, his voice quiet, raspy, and thick with emotion.

"Hmm?"

"I'm so sorry," he whispered, his voice cracking on the words. He leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the top of your head, resting his cheek against your hair. "I'm so, so sorry for hurting you. For being selfish... for everything. I'm going to make it right. I promise you, I'll spend every day making it up to you."

The intense storm of anger, betrayal, and raw passion from earlier had completely drained you, leaving behind a soft, heavy numbness. You didn't want to break down the logistics of trust, or discuss Nova, or talk about what tomorrow would bring.

You just closed your eyes, breathing in the familiar, comforting scent of his perfume, and pressed yourself a tiny bit closer against his chest.

"Michael?" you murmured softly, your fingers lightly threading through the cotton of his shirt.

"Yeah?" he replied instantly, his voice tender, hanging on your every word.

"Don't talk," you whispered, letting out a long, quiet sigh into the stillness of the room. "Why don't we just lie here for now?"

Michael let out a shaky, breathless sigh of his own, the tension in his shoulders finally giving way. He tightened his grip around you, kissing your temple, and rested his chin atop your head.

"Okay," he whispered back, his voice full of quiet relief. "We'll just lie here."

And in the silent hum of the dimly lit room, wrapped in each other's arms, the world outside fell completely away.

His Name on Your Lips

Synopsis: As the live-in nanny at Neverland, your days are spent keeping up with chaotic schedules, and your nights are spent trying to ignore the magnetic pull between you and Michael. A shared glance over breakfast or a lingering touch in the pantry was bad enough, but when pure exhaustion causes you to pass out on the living room couch, the lines get completely blurred.

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Being Michael’s live-in nanny at Neverland was both the best job you had ever had and a special kind of torture.

From the day you arrived, you had built a special, unbreakable bond with his kids. You were the one who knew exactly how to tuck them in with their favorite bedtime stories, who didn't mind getting messy during spontaneous arts-and-crafts sessions, and who always knew how to turn a bad day into a fit of giggles. Seeing how genuinely you loved and protected his children warmed Michael’s heart in a way few things ever could. He would often stand quietly in the doorway, leaning against the frame with a tender, glowing smile, just watching you build fortresses out of couch cushions or softly sing them to sleep.

That deep, mutual devotion to his family naturally spilled over into an electric connection between the two of you. Over the past few months, the lines between employer and employee had blurred into an unspoken tension that hummed beneath every interaction.

It was in the little moments. The lingering eye contact across the kitchen island while making lunch for the kids. The way his hand would linger just a second too long on yours when passing off a juice box or a set of keys.

Just two days ago, you had been in the grand pantry, standing on your tiptoes on a stool, reaching for a high shelf to grab a box of tea after putting the kids down for their afternoon nap. Out of nowhere, a long arm had reached up behind you, easily taking the box from the top shelf. Michael had stepped right into your personal space, his chest practically brushing your back, smelling faintly of sandalwood and sunshine. When you turned around on the stool, you were eye-level with his parted lips. He hadn't backed away immediately; instead, his dark eyes had trailed down to your mouth before he offered a soft, quiet, "Here you go," his voice low and rich.

Moments like that had been slowly driving you out of your mind.

Which brought you to tonight.

By 2:00 AM, the quiet of Neverland was absolute, but your body had finally reached its limit. Between keeping up with the kids' endless energy all day, organizing schedules, and trying to ignore the constant flutter in your chest whenever Michael was near, exhaustion had completely taken over.

You had only sat down on the soft leather sofa in the main living room to catch your breath after an exhausting day, intending to rest your eyes for just five minutes.

Five minutes had quickly turned into hours.

When Michael walked in after a late studio session, he spotted you immediately, completely passed out. Shaking his head with a gentle, affectionate smile, he walked over and crouched down beside the sofa.

"Hey... wake up, sleepyhead," he whispered softly, reaching out to gently shake your shoulder. "Come on, let's get you to your bed."

You stirred slightly, letting out a soft, subconscious whine at being disturbed, turning your face deeper into the couch cushion to hide from the room's soft light. You looked so completely exhausted, cozy, and vulnerable that Michael’s heart melted. He didn't have the heart to keep trying to wake you or force you to stumble down the hall half-asleep.

Instead, he carefully slid one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back, scooping you up into his chest.

Half-asleep and seeking warmth, your arms automatically wrapped tightly around his neck. You buried your face into the warm nook of his shoulder, clinging to his soft t-shirt.

Michael smiled, adjusting his hold as he carried you upstairs and down the quiet hallway, intending to drop you off safely in your own room. But as he reached your bedroom door, your head shifted slightly against his collarbone.

A tiny, breathless sound escaped your lips—a quiet, soft moan that echoed sharply in the silent hallway.

"Mmm, Michael..." you whimpered softly, the sound thick with a heavy, unconscious longing.

Michael froze mid-stride, his heart hammering against his ribs. His dark eyes widened slightly, a sudden heat rushing straight to his chest. He shook it off, assuming he was just imagining things, and pushed your bedroom door open.

He walked over to your bed and leaned down, carefully trying to lower you onto the mattress.

But as your back hit the sheets, your grip on his neck tightened like a vice. You refused to let go. Instead, your fingers tangled into the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him down firmly over you. Another low, breathless sigh slipped from your lips, your body arching up into his touch.

"Michael, right there baby” you murmured again, your voice dripping with an unmistakable, needy warmth. Your knees parted instinctively, your thigh brushing against his hip.

That was when the realization hit him like a lightning bolt.

He looked down at your flushed face, your parted lips, and the heavy, slow rise and fall of your chest. You weren't just having any dream. You were dreaming about him—and it was entirely X-rated.

Michael swallowed hard, trying to stay respectable. "Hey... let go, sweet girl, you're in your room," he whispered, trying gently to pry your hands away so he could leave.

In response, you let out a needy, frustrated whine at his attempt to pull away. You pulled him right back down, your hips lifting just a fraction to press flush against him through your clothes.

Every attempt to leave was completely thwarted. Between your unyielding grip and the fact that forcing your arms loose would wake you up terrified and embarrassed, Michael realized he was completely trapped.

And as the intense, raw heat of your body radiated against his, the quiet politeness he usually carried completely melted away.

Knowing he couldn't leave you like this—and completely unable to resist the intense chemistry pulling at him—he gave up. He scooped you right back up into his arms, carrying you out of your room and straight down the hall to his master suite, where he knew no one would disturb you.

He carried you into his room, nudged the grand doors shut, and lowered you onto his massive bed.

This time, as your back hit his soft mattress and your hands kept him anchored right over you, Michael didn't try to pull away.

"You have no idea what you're doing to me right now," he whispered, his voice dropping into a low, raspy velvet that vibrated against your skin.

He allowed himself to sink lower, his heavy frame settling flush against yours. He rested his weight on his elbows on either side of your head, his face hovering just an inch above yours. His gaze traced the flush on your neck and settled heavily on your parted lips.

His hand slid slowly from your waist, his long fingers trailing up your side, leaving a path of pure fire in their wake. He captured your jawline gently, his thumb brushing over your lower lip.

You let out a shuddering breath in your sleep, tilting your chin up instinctively toward his touch.

Michael groaned low in his chest, the sound completely dark and delicious. He leaned down, his lips brushing the sensitive skin right beneath your ear, his warm, ragged breath sending an electric jolt straight through you.

"If you don't wake up right now," he murmured huskily, his lips trailing a line of hot, deliberate kisses down your jaw toward your mouth, "I'm not going to be able to stop..."

Your eyes fluttered open—heavy, dazed, and completely wild.

For a split second, your brain tried to process the sensory overload: the massive, dimly lit bedroom, the sheer, crushing weight pressing down on you, and the scent of sandalwood filling your lungs. But as your vision cleared, you locked eyes with Michael hovering just an inch above you. His dark eyes were blown out, filled with a heavy, smoldering heat you had never seen in him before.

The realization hit you like a bucket of ice water.

This wasn't a dream.

"Oh—oh my gosh!" Panic and sheer embarrassment exploded in your chest. The deep flush on your face burned ten times hotter, instantly turning beet red.

You tried to scramble backward into the mattress, your hands flying off his neck to push frantically against his chest. "Michael! I—oh God, I am so sorry! I was dreaming, I thought—I didn't mean to touch you like that, or pull you down, or—"

You were breathing so fast you could barely get the words out, completely mortified at what you had just done and said in your sleep.

"Hey, hey..." Michael’s voice was low, thick, and soothing, vibrating right against your skin.

Instead of backing away to give you space, he stayed right where he was, hovering over you like a warm blanket. He captured both of your trembling hands, gently pinning them flat against his chest right over his hammering heart—which was beating just as fast as yours.

"Stop," he whispered, a soft, irresistible smile breaking through the dark intensity on his face. "Stop apologizing. Look at me."

You looked up at him, your eyes wide, teary with embarrassment, and utterly helpless. "Michael, I was literally... I was whispering your name, I pushed you—"

"I know," Michael murmured, his voice dropping into that velvety, rasping tone that made your core melt.

Before you could spiral any further into your panic, he leaned down and captured your lips in a deep, slow kiss.

The world went completely quiet. The kiss was soft at first, deliberate and filled with a lingering tenderness that instantly cut off your anxious ramble. But as he felt you melt beneath him, he deepened it, his tongue gently teasing your parted lips, turning the kiss hot, sweet, and breathtakingly possessive.

When he finally pulled back just a fraction, his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing heavily in the quiet room.

"It’s okay," he whispered against your lips, his thumb reaching up to gently trace your heated cheekbone. "It’s completely okay."

"You're... you're not mad?" you whispered back, your heart hammering against your ribs as your hands instinctively tightened on his shirt. "I dragged you into your room..."

Michael let out a low, breathless laugh, his dark eyes sparkling with affection and heat. "Mad? Sweetheart, I’ve been trying to keep my hands off you for months. Ever since I watched you play with the kids, ever since I backed you up against that pantry shelf... I haven't been able to think about anything else. When you started saying my name like that... I didn't stand a chance."

He kissed you again—sweeter this time, lingering over your lower lip before pressing a soft, warm kiss to the corner of your mouth, your cheek, and down to your jaw.

"Don't ever apologize for wanting me," he murmured into your skin, his arms wrapping tightly around you to pull you flush against him once more. "Because I promise you... I want you twice as much."

His words made your heart flutter. You giggled out of nervousness and hid your face with your hair. He brushed your hair out of your reddening face. “Uhnt uh sweetheart don’t be shy now all that mouth you had in your sleep.” He said with a sly smirk.

He trailed his hand from your jaw down to your hips and then gripped your plump ass firmly, earning a gasp from you.

“So what were you dreaming about?” He questioned. You blushed again. “Wh-what?” You said. He let out a low laugh. “What were you dreaming about pretty, I can make it happen.”

You felt butterflies in your stomach. This couldn’t be real. Fuck it, you were probably still dreaming anyway.

“Um…” you started but your words were failing you.

Michael chuckled again. “Okay beautiful let me help you.” He started to gently pull off your shirt and pants. You already had a soaking wet spot in the middle of your panties making his mouth water. He reached for the hem but paused. “Is this okay?” He questioned, still the gentleman that he is. “Yes!” You blurted out a little too quickly, making him flash his award winning smile.

He gently pulled your panties down and helped you out of them one leg at a time. He pressed soft kisses all over your inner thighs. You were whining and trying to buck your hips into his face.

“Patience baby, I promise I’ll get you there, okay?” He said. This was absolute torture. He looked so hot and you just wanted him to take you right then and there. But Michael wasn’t a hit it and quit it type of guy. He was going to make sure you were fully pleased before he even thought about himself.

Finally, after he left a few hickies on the insides of your thighs, he buried his face in your pussy letting out a moan at the taste of you. You gasped and threw your head back saying his name over and over just like when you were asleep. While he was eating you out he reached one of his hands up to knead at your breasts, his other hand had a strong grip on your thigh.

God, you had a weakness for how big his hands were. You were moaning and babbling under him and he released your tits and stuck his middle and pointer finger in your mouth causing you to let out a mewl and suck them.

Once his fingers were coated in your saliva he pushed them into your pussy. “Oh my God, Michael!” You cried out.

“That’s it baby let me hear you,” he said in between licks. He was lapping at your pussy and the room was filled with the filthy squelching noises of your wetness and his mouth and long fingers working you.

It started to feel almost overwhelming. “Wait-Mi-Michael stop I feel like I have to pee.” You said, not knowing what the new sensation was. “It’s supposed to feel like that baby, let go for me,” he growled out.

He kept going and you squirted all over his face and sheets.

“That’s it mama, I told you I got you.” You didn’t even know you could squirt. Your chest was heaving and you were trying to catch your breath and stop your legs from trembling but Michael did not let up.

“Michael-“ you whined. “I came, I’m done.” You tried to push his head away. He didn’t even respond, he just swatted your hands away and gripped your thighs even tighter so that you could not move.

You felt another orgasm coming on and grabbed his hair with both hands, grinding your clit into his face completely using him as he moaned into you.

You looked down and noticed that he was grinding his erection into the mattress. “Michael please let me take care of you too.”

“Not till I say you’re satisfied love,” he said.

“I am, I-“ your sentence was cut short as another orgasm came flooding over you. He greedily licked up all your juices.

You felt tired already but you would be damned if you didn’t help him cum first after the way he just took care of you.

He finally loosened his grip on your thighs and you quickly sat up and flipped the two of you over so that you were on top. He looked up at you like you had hung the moon. You crawled down his body and gripped the waistband to his lounge pants, freeing his large cock. It softly slapped against his stomach and you could already see the precum leaking out of the tip.

Your mouth was watering and you stared in awe for longer than you realized.

He giggled softly. “Are you okay mama, you don’t have to if you don’t wan-“ “No!” You started. “I’m sorry you’re just…so big,” you gasped out. His cheeks and ears flushed a deep red.

Slowly, you licked from base to tip and he bucked his hips up instinctively to meet your mouth. You took as much of his length into your mouth as you could fit and began to bob up and down, swirling your tongue around the tip every time you came up.

He was whimpering and biting the bottom of his shirt trying to contain himself but it was too good. He grabbed the back of your head and started to thrust his hips up to meet your mouth every time you went down. On one particularly deep thrust it made you gag. He instantly let go and went to check on you. “I’m sorry sweetheart did I hurt you, it was just too good,” he cooed.

You looked up at him with swollen lips and tears welling up with a smile. “No, please that was so hot, I want you to fuck my throat.” His eyes widened as he had never heard you talk in such a way.

You shifted and laid on your back at the edge of the mattress with your head hanging off the side, you coaxed him over to you with your finger. He was completely in awe.

“You are such a freak baby,” he groaned out.

“Please just come over here and use me Michael,” you said, he could hear how needy you were for him.

He got up and positioned himself in front of your eager mouth. You opened up wide and he asked if you were sure one more time. Your response was grabbing the back of his thighs and pushing him in. “Holy shit…” he moaned out. He lost all his composure that he had and started to fuck your throat as you gagged and moaned, causing more of a vibration to be sent through him. “You look so beautiful taking all of me like this,” he said.

You responded with a moan and he gasped when he saw a bulge in your throat with each thrust showing just how deep he was.

He reached down and began to circle your clit with his fingers. “Please cum with me baby,” he said, his hips starting to stutter. Your orgasm came quickly by how turned on you were, your moans being muffled by his dick. Seeing you cum made him reach his peak immediately after. He thrusted a few more times and his muscles tensed up as he painted your throat with his seed, shooting ropes of cum out.

You swallowed all of it, not wasting a drop. “You taste amazing Michael.” You sighed out, licking the corners of your mouth.

He laid you back down on the mattress and sank down next to you.

He wrapped one long arm around your waist, pulling you securely against him, and used his other hand to gently stroke your hair, untangling the soft strands away from your face.

Your breathing immediately evened out, completely relaxed as you held onto him, lulled by the steady, soothing rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your cheek.

Michael leaned down, pressing a feather-light kiss to the top of your head in the quiet, dim room.

It’s Just Skin

Synopsis: In 1983, at the height of the frenzy surrounding Thriller, the safe sanctuary of the Hayvenhurst estate is the only place Michael Jackson can truly drop his guard. But as his vitiligo spreads, the pressure of the public eye leaves him overwhelmed by self-doubt and ashamed of the skin he’s in.

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The whirlwind of the Thriller explosion in 1983 meant the world outside Hayvenhurst was noisier than ever, but inside the Encino estate, the quiet sitting room felt sacred.

You had stepped down the hall to fetch two mugs of tea, leaving Michael alone as a soft jazz record spun on the turntable.

Left by himself, the heavy silence set in. Slowly, hesitation in every movement, Michael unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled his sleeves up past his elbows. He lifted his hands up to the warm light of the lamp, tracing his thumb over the pale, uneven patches spreading across his wrists, knuckles, and jawline. He caught his reflection in the gilded mirror above the fireplace, and an agonizing knot formed in his chest.

It's spreading so fast, he thought, his breathing shallow. It looks terrible.

Hearing your familiar footsteps approaching down the corridor, panic surged through him. Michael scrambled instantly—fumbling with his buttons, frantically trying to yank his sleeves back down, and snatching his glove off the side table to shove his hand into it.

You walked into the room just in time to see him nervously smoothing down the sequined cuff. Setting the mugs on the table, you raised an eyebrow.

"What are you doing?" you asked, looking at the single glove on his hand.

Michael flinched slightly, clearing his throat and attempting a casual shrug that came out entirely too stiff. "Umm... rehearsing?" he offered, his voice pitching up in that soft, guilty way it always did when he was caught off guard. "Just... practicing the arm movements for the routine later."

"Michael," you said softly, walking over to him and taking the cup out of his hand so he wouldn't drop it. "You don't rehearse Galaga with a glove on, and you definitely don't practice choreo sitting on the couch. Show me."

He shook his head, looking down at the floor as his shoulder dropped into a slump. "No... please. It’s getting worse. I look in the mirror and I feel... ugly. I feel like my skin is betraying me."

Your mind instantly drifted back over the years—long before the solo stardom, gold records, or stadium tours.

You were eight years old, sitting on the rusted metal swing set of a local Indiana park. A young Michael sat alone on the wooden bench nearby, his tiny knees pulled up to his chest, staring glumly at the dirt.

Even back then, he had been quiet, carrying a quiet weight that most kids his age didn't understand. You had swung yourself off the swing and walked over, popping a pebble with your shoe.

"What's wrong?" you had asked gently.

"Nothing," young Michael mumbled, tucking his hands deep inside his jacket pockets.

"You look sad," you insisted, sitting right beside him on the bench. "My mom says if you keep something bottled up, it turns into a tummy ache."

Michael had looked at you, his big brown eyes filled with hesitation. Slowly, reluctantly, he pulled his hand out of his pocket and held out his small wrist. There, right near his pulse, was a small, pale patch of skin where his natural brown pigment had vanished.

"I have this spot," he whispered softly, as if confessing a secret. "It won't go away."

Instead of gasping or pointing, you had just smiled. You pulled up the cuff of your shirt, revealing a pale, smooth patch of skin right on your forearm.

"Look," you said proudly, holding your arm right next to his. "Mine's bigger. We match!"

Young Michael stared at your arm, then at his, a tiny, disbelieving gasp leaving his lips. "You... you have one too?"

"Yeah! It's just skin," you giggled, tapping his hand. "Doesn't make us any different. Want to go play on the slide?"

A bright, shy smile broke across his face—the very first time you ever saw that radiant grin. He scrambled off the bench, all his worries forgotten in an instant.

From that afternoon on, you were glued at the hip.

As the Jackson 5 exploded into stardom, you became his safe haven from the chaos of the music industry. While the rest of the world saw a superstar in the making, you just saw Michael. Through every grueling tour and late-night studio session, you were always right there.

You were the one who stayed up with him during midnight movie marathons, sitting cross-legged on the floor eating popcorn and laughing at Disney classics until three in the morning. When the stress of fame became too overwhelming, you were the person he called for impromptu sleepovers at the estate—building massive pillow forts in the living room, listening to records, and talking in hushed tones about his biggest dreams and deepest fears.

Whether it was competitive arcade games where you’d battle for high scores on Galaga, water balloon fights in the backyard, or simply curling up on the couch to shut out the noise of the world, you were his constant. His anchor. The one person who loved him entirely for who he was, long before the world knew his name.

Back in the warm glow of the Encino sitting room, you looked at the grown man sitting before you, still carrying that same innocent vulnerability.

"So you think I’m ugly?" you asked calmly, crossing your arms.

Michael’s head snapped up instantly, his wide dark eyes filling with shock. "What? No! Never," he stammered, standing up to face you. "Why would you even say that? You’re absolute perfection. You know how beautiful I think you are."

Without saying a word, you reached down and pulled your sleeve past your forearm, revealing the same pale patches that had grown alongside you both through all those years of late-night talks, game nights, and quiet moments.

Michael froze, looking from your skin up to your eyes, the decades of shared memories washing over him like a warm wave.

"We’ve been best friends since we were kids, Michael," you said softly, taking his trembling hands into yours. "Through every movie marathon, every arcade game, and every late night. It wasn't an important factor on the playground, and it isn't an important factor now. Vitiligo isn't a character trait. It’s just skin—it doesn't define who you are, what's in your heart, or what we mean to each other."

Michael stared at you, the heavy, suffocating anxiety that had been building inside his chest for months suddenly unravelling.

"It’s just skin..." he repeated softly.

"It’s just skin," you confirmed gently. "And if you think I'm beautiful, then you need to start giving yourself that exact same grace."

You gently slid off his glove—the one he had claimed was for "rehearsing"—and tossed it onto the side table before undoing the cuffs he had just scrambled to button up. Kneeling on the plush rug right in front of where he sat, you guided his hand up to your lips, pressing a soft, lingering kiss right over the lightest patch on his wrist.

Michael gasped softly, a deep, electric shiver running down his spine.

"You are radiant," you whispered against his skin.

You moved up to his inner forearm, pressing another tender kiss against a patch near his elbow, before leaning up to place a kiss at the dip of his collarbone, where the vitiligo sat like constellations.

"Every single part of you," you murmured, kissing the edge of his jawline where the pigment had shifted. "It doesn't make you any less you."

His fingers tangled deep into your hair, holding you close as a tear slipped down his cheek—not of shame, but of sheer relief.

"Do you believe me?" you asked, leaning back just enough to catch his gaze.

Michael looked into your eyes, seeing the exact same unconditional love he had felt in every pillow fort, playground, and quiet night over the years. But now, as his dark eyes locked onto yours, the air between you shifted—thickening with a heat and intensity that had been quietly building between two best friends for a very long time.

"I..." he choked out, his breath coming faster as a soft, breathless laugh broke through. He rested his forehead against yours, his hands moving from your hair to cup the back of your neck, pulling you impossibly close. "I think... I'm starting to."

"Say it," you whispered, your lips brushing against his, playful and teasing. "Say what you are."

"I'm beautiful," he whispered against your mouth, the words settling deep into his heart. His fingers tightened gently against your skin as he pulled you up onto the sofa with him, the vulnerability melting completely into desire. "And I want you."

He pulled you into his lap and you straddled him. Your lips connected in a deep kiss. Both of you moaning into it and tongues battling for dominance. “Michael…” you breathed against his lips as you pulled back for air.

He responded with a deep groan from his chest and stood you up to remove your pants and pull you back onto his lap.

You were just wearing your black lacy panties and he could now see more of the pale patches on your thighs. You felt embarrassed and instinctively covered up as much as you could with your hands but he swatted them away quickly. “No, let me see you pretty.” He said.

His eyes raked over your body up and down causing you to blush a deep crimson. “Oh my god….” he groaned out. “You’re so gorgeous.”

Just like you did to him moments ago he captured every last patch with his lips. “Your skin is so soft.” “You taste so sweet.” He said in between kisses.

You were a moaning, whimpering mess. You began you rock your hips back and forth on him to try and ease some of the ache between your thighs.

He gasped and gripped your hips tighter. He pulled you off of his lap again and took his pants off leaving him in his boxers and you could see his huge erection starting to peek through. You were staring at it in a trance almost drooling at the sheer size of your best friend before he pulled you back onto him again.

You went back to grinding your clit on his tip until you both had wet spots. In a moment of pure intimacy you guys intertwined your fingers and you leaned forward, burying your face into his neck. You continued to rub your clit on his with your hands joined together until you felt that familiar knot in your lower stomach ready to snap. Before you both reached your peak he pushed you onto the plush carpet between his thighs. You whined at the loss of friction. “Hold on pretty girl,” he said with that contagious smile of his that made your heart skip a beat, “I wanna try something.”

You tilted your head to the side in confusion and then he pulled your shirt off and unhooked your bra as if he were unboxing a porcelain doll.

Now it was his turn to stare at you in awe, almost drooling. He leaned down and kissed all over the top of your breasts and squeezed them together, sucking both your nipples in his mouth at the same time. This earned a loud gasp and mewl from you, making his dick impossibly more hard.

“Spit,” he growled. “Wha-what?” You breathed out. “I said spit mama,” he repeated with your breasts still squeezed together in his hands. You did as you were told and as your spit dribbled down, he rubbed it around coating between your tits and gathered some up for his throbbing length. It didn’t take you long to realize what he was doing.

He pushed his dick between your tits and instantly upon impact, he threw his head back and thrusted up. You took over and held your boobs together, starting to move up and down letting him take his pleasure.

When you felt his thrusts start to become uneven you said “baby, I wanna feel you.”

You didn’t have to tell him twice.

“How do you want it pretty girl,” he breathed out, trying to come down from almost finishing all over your chest and face.

“However you wanna give it to me Michael, I just need to feel you.”

With that, he picked you up and carried you upstairs to his room. He laid you gently on your back on his mattress and began to eat you out like he was starving, relishing in how good you tasted.

“This is what I’ve been missing out on all these years!?” He growled. The way his voice was so low sent a vibration straight through you.

If there’s one thing you’ve learned about your friend over the years it was that he was a giver, but never would you have guessed that it bled over into the bedroom as well. He ate you until your thighs were shaking around his head and you were trying to push him off. You lost count of how many orgasms you had.

Once he finally decided he had enough, you were dazed and your eyes were already glassy. He freed his huge cock from his boxers and lined himself up with your entrance.

He pushed the tip in and your breath caught in your throat. You could always see through his pants that he was big but you hugely underestimated him. He noticed your discomfort and began to kiss you as a distraction. His lips captured yours—no longer gentle or hesitant, but deep, lingering, and possessive. The innocence of the evening dissolved into the warm darkness of the room as his hands slid down to caress every inch of your body that he could reach.

You were a moaning mess underneath of your best friend. Without you even noticing, he was completely buried inside of you. As he started to move his hips you cried out in pleasure and clawed at his back.

“Fuck, Michael this is so good.” You exclaimed.

“Watch your mouth mama,” he teased. This made you blush and giggle.

He then hooked his arms under your thighs and pushed your legs up over his shoulders and you crossed your ankles behind his head. Your eyes rolled in the back of your head at the new position as he kept ramming your g spot. You screamed his name out over and over driving him closer to his climax.

What did it for him was watching your tits bounce with every deep thrust.

He came deep inside of you and kept fucking you through both your climaxes.

Michael lay on his side, his long arm draped lazily over your waist as he pulled you flush against his chest. His chin rested gently in the crook of your neck, his breath slow and steady against your skin. The air felt unburdened—light in a way it hadn't been in months.

Slowly, his fingers began to trace soft, lingering patterns over your forearm, pausing at each lighter patch of skin. He lifted your wrist to his lips, pressing a sweet, quiet kiss right over the center of it, then rested his cheek against your hand.

"Thank you," he whispered softly into the quiet room. His voice was thick with emotion, but it carried a peaceful, genuine warmth.

You turned your head slightly to look at him, smiling as you ran your fingers through his soft curls. "For what, Mike?"

Michael looked up, his deep brown eyes soft and searching as he brought his own hand up—uncovered, bare, and completely unhidden in the dim light. He rested his palm over yours, lacing his fingers through yours without a trace of hesitation.

"For helping me see," he said, pressing another lingering kiss to the back of your hand, then up to your knuckle, and then along the inner curve of your arm. "For making me stop hiding... especially from you."

He leaned up on one elbow, cupping your cheek with his hand. His thumb gently stroked your cheekbone as he leaned down to press a tender, unhurried kiss to your lips, tasting the sweet relief between you both.

"I've spent so much time feeling like I had to cover up every inch of myself," he murmured against your skin, pressing a kiss to the tip of your nose, then to your chin, and down to the pale patch near your collarbone. "I was so scared of what people would think. But when I'm with you... you make me feel whole. You make me feel like it's okay to just be me."

"It is okay to just be you," you replied softly, lifting your hand to gently trace the shifting pigment along his jawline. "You're perfect, Michael. All of you."

A soft, breathless laugh escaped him, and he leaned down to kiss you again—deeper this time, full of adoration and quiet devotion.

"I love you," he whispered against your mouth, pulling the blanket higher up over both of your shoulders as he tucked you tight against his chest again. "Don't ever let me forget it, okay?"

Behind the Veil

Synopsis: To protect herself from the invasive glare of 1990s stardom, singer-songwriter creates Nova—an enigmatic, veil-wearing soul artist whose identity is the music industry's best-kept secret. Even her superstar boyfriend, Michael Jackson, has no idea that Nova and his grounded, quiet girlfriend living across town are the exact same person.

———————————————————————-

The drive back to your house in the Los Angeles hills was always the hardest part of the routine.

In the trunk of your sedan sat the heavy velvet gown, the wide-brimmed hat, and the thick, sheer lace veil that hid your face from the world. In the driver's seat, you were just you—clad in a soft, oversized sweater, dark jeans, and plain white sneakers. No heavy makeup. No enigmatic posture. Just a young woman trying to protect her sanity in an industry designed to swallow artists whole.

When you created Nova, it was never meant to be a gimmick. It was a shield. You loved writing songs, loved the warmth of the recording booth, and loved watching your music climb the charts. But you loathed the invasive, suffocating circus of 1990s celebrity culture. You wanted a normal life. You wanted to walk down the street without photographers jumping out of bushes.

Most importantly, you wanted a real relationship with Michael.

Because you both valued your independence and wanted to build a genuine foundation away from the blinding spotlight of his stardom, you kept separate homes. You had your quiet house in the hills; he had his sprawling estate. When he visited you, there were no bodyguards at the front door, no fans pressed against the gates, and no flashbulbs through the curtains. It was your sanctuary.

You pulled into your private driveway, killed the engine, and let out a long, slow breath. The lingering adrenaline of the afternoon was still humming through your veins.

An hour ago, you had been sitting in a soundproof radio booth in downtown Los Angeles, putting on the smooth, velvety cadence you reserved exclusively for Nova. The host had leaned across the table, grinning like he had just won the lottery.

"Nova, the entire industry is trying to figure out who you are, but I want to know who you're listening to. Who's the dream collaboration?"

You had smiled beneath the mesh of your hat, a warm spark of playfulness hitting your chest. "Oh, Michael Jackson. Without a doubt."

"The King of Pop himself?" the host had laughed.

"Honestly? He’s my absolute celebrity crush," you had confessed, letting out a soft, genuine giggle into the silver microphone. "If I ever met him in person, I’d probably faint right on the spot."

It had been a harmless, private joke between you and the universe—a sweet, subtle nod to the man you loved, disguised as the fangirling of a mysterious pop star.

Unlocking your front door, the warm scent of vanilla candles greeted you. The house was quiet, save for the faint hum of the air conditioner and soft jazz playing from the stereo in the corner.

You walked into the living room, kicking off your sneakers by the entryway, expecting to find Michael asleep on the couch after his long morning at Westlake Recording Studios.

Instead, he was sitting upright against the plush cushions, a music magazine resting casually on his lap. But it wasn't his posture that caught your attention—it was his face.

A quiet, almost giddy smile was tugging at the corners of his lips. His dark eyes were bright, dancing with an unusual, suppressed excitement, looking entirely too satisfied with himself.

A sudden, strange knot tightened in your stomach.

"Hey," you murmured softly, leaning against the doorframe, crossing your arms over your sweater. "You're still awake."

Michael blinked, looking up as if pulled out of a deep trance. The bright, giddy expression melted into a soft, affectionate grin, though the lingering flush in his cheeks didn't disappear.

"Hey, Applehead," he rasped out, his voice low and warm. He set the magazine on the coffee table. "I thought you were going to be at your studio meeting longer."

"It wrapped up early," you lied smoothly, walking over toward the sofa. You narrowed your eyes slightly, watching the way he rubbed the back of his neck—a nervous habit you knew all too well. "What's got you looking so giddy?"

Michael let out a quiet, breathless laugh, looking down at his lap for a fraction of a second before meeting your gaze again. "Giddy? What do you mean? I'm not giddy."

"Michael, your whole face is glowing," you pressed, a small, tentative smile on your lips, though a prickle of suspicion began to itch at the back of your brain. "Did the studio session go that well today? Did you fix that bridge arrangement?"

"Oh... yeah, the session was great," he said quickly. A little too quickly. "Just... good music today. Lots of inspiration."

He patted the space beside him on the sofa, inviting you over. But as you walked toward him, the suspicion in your chest sharpened into something cold and lingering.

Normally, Michael was obsessed with industry chatter. Whenever Nova's music played on the radio, or whenever her mysterious image was brought up in a music magazine, he talked your ear off about it. He would analyze her vocal production for hours, marveling at how a total stranger could craft such intricate harmonies. He knew her interview was scheduled to air live at four o'clock today—you had casually mentioned it to him days ago, curious to see what he thought of "Nova's" public persona.

Yet, he hadn't said a single word about it. He hadn't asked if you listened to it. He was sitting there, practically vibrating with a secret, blushing energy, completely tight-lipped about the very radio broadcast that had just set the music world on fire.

Why isn't he talking about her? you thought, your heart taking a heavy, uneven beat. Did he hear it?

"You look tired," Michael murmured softly, breaking your train of thought as he reached out, his long, delicate fingers wrapping gently around your wrist.

The warmth of his touch instantly sent a wave of familiar comfort through you, melting away the sharp edges of your sudden anxiety. You looked down at his soft features—his gentle dark eyes, the curls framing his face, the innocent curve of his mouth.

You're overthinking it, you told yourself sternly. He's just tired. He has a million things on his mind.

"I am tired," you whispered, kicking your feet up onto the sofa and sinking into his side.

Michael immediately wrapped a heavy arm around your shoulders, pulling you close against his chest. He rested his chin on the top of your head, letting out a long, contented sigh as he stroked your hair.

"I miss having you around more," he murmured into your hair, his lips brushing against your crown. "I wish we didn't have to keep rushing back and forth between houses."

"I know," you replied softly, burying your face into the crook of his neck, inhaling the familiar, intoxicating scent of his cologne. "Soon, honey. We're building something real. It takes time."

"Yeah," he whispered. "Something real."

You closed your eyes, letting the steady beat of his heart soothe you. He tightened his grip around you, kissing your temple, completely content.

And as you lay there in his arms—the secret superstar he had listened to an hour ago on the radio, resting quietly in his chest—you tried to shake the lingering, icy feeling that he had the interview on his mind. ‘Maybe he just didn’t watch it yet’ You thought to yourself.

The seed of doubt, once planted, refused to stop growing.

For two days after the radio broadcast, you waited. Every time Michael came over to your house, or every time you spoke on your regular home phone, you gave him endless openings to bring up the interview. You even casually flipped through a music trade magazine while sitting across from him at his kitchen island, humming one of Nova's tracks under your breath.

He didn't say a word.

He didn't mention the host asking Nova about her dream collaboration. He didn't chuckle about a mysterious hitmaker calling him her "celebrity crush." He stayed completely quiet, his dark eyes evasive whenever the topic drifted anywhere near the radio charts.

The silence spoke louder than a confession ever could. He had heard it. And for some reason, he was actively keeping it from you.

Sitting in your home studio late on a Thursday evening, staring at a blank sheet of music, a dark, terrifying impulse took root in your mind. You wanted—no, you needed—to know how far his silence went. Was he just embarrassed? Or was he truly intrigued by the shadow woman behind the veil?

I'll test him, you thought, your fingers trembling as you gripped your pen. If he has an easy way to reach her, he'll tell me. He'll come to me and laugh about it. He loves me.

The next morning, using an elegant, stylized penmanship that was completely different from your normal handwriting, you penned a personal note on Nova's custom heavy stationery. You had your discreet business manager leave it directly on the soundboard console at Westlake Recording Studios while Michael was out taking a break.

The note was smooth, bold, and unapologetically suggestive:

Michael—

I meant every word I said on the radio. I can’t stop thinking about what our voices would sound like together... or what a real collaboration between us could become. If you’re curious to talk more, here is my private landline. I’m waiting for your call.

— N.

Below it was the unlisted number to the secondary, private telephone line installed in the spare room of your house—a line Michael didn't even know existed.

That night, you sat on the floor of your dark spare room, the beige landline telephone resting on the carpet in front of you like a coiled snake.

You had told Michael earlier in the day that you were going to bed early with a headache, giving him full freedom for the evening. Now, the quiet house felt suffocating. The air was heavy with the scent of old paper and dust. You pulled your knees to your chest, your chin resting on your arms, staring at the little glow of the phone's keypad in the shadows.

Don't do it, Michael, you begged silently into the dark, tears burning hot behind your eyelids. Just throw the note away. Call my regular house line. Tell me about the weird memo you found on your mixing board. Laugh about it with me. Please.

Ten minutes passed in excruciating silence. Then twenty.

Your heart began to slow down, a faint spark of relief blooming in your chest. You let out a breath, wiping at your eyes with the back of your sleeve. He threw it away. Of course he did. He loves you—

RING.

The sharp, high-pitched chime of the landline cut through the silence like a jagged blade.

Your breath caught in your throat, completely trapped. Your entire body went ice cold, shock paralyzing you where you sat.

RING.

A single tear spilled over your eyelash, trailing slowly down your cheek. The sound of the telephone ringing wasn't just a noise; it was the sound of your world cracking down the middle. He hadn't brought up the interview. He hadn't mentioned the bold, flirtatious note. He had kept it all a secret—and now, alone in his room at two in the morning, he was dialing the number of a mysterious pop star who had just invited him into her world.

With trembling hands, you reached out and lifted the heavy white receiver, pressing it slowly to your ear.

You forced a deep breath into your lungs, swallowing the lump in your throat, and leaned into the persona. You let your voice drop into that smooth, velvety, slightly gravelly tone you reserved strictly for Nova.

"Hello?" you whispered softly into the mouthpiece.

Through the faint static of the landline, you heard a sharp, nervous intake of breath from the other end.

"Nova?"

Michael’s voice filtered through the receiver—low, hushed, and guarded, dropped into that intimate register he usually reserved for quiet moments in the dark.

Sitting on the floor of your own house, miles away from him, your heart shattered into a thousand jagged pieces. The pain was physical, a crushing weight sinking straight into your ribs. He was really on the line. He was really calling a woman he believed was a complete stranger.

"It's... it's Michael," he murmured nervously over the wire. You could hear the faint, rhythmic sound of him twisting the phone cord around his fingers. "I... I got your note. I hope I'm not calling too late."

You closed your eyes tightly, a quiet sob threatening to break through your chest, but you squeezed the receiver until your knuckles turned white, forcing Nova's cool, alluring confidence back into your lungs.

"Michael," you said softly through the phone, your voice smooth as silk over the static. "I was wondering if you’d ever use that number."

On the other end of the line, miles away in his bedroom, Michael let out a soft, breathless laugh—flustered, flattered, and completely hooked—unaware that the heart breaking on the other end of the wire belonged to the girl he had kissed goodbye earlier that day.

The morning after that fateful first ring, a tiny, desperate spark of hope ignited in your chest.

When you woke up, your eyes were raw and swollen from crying on the floor of the spare bedroom. But as the bright California sunlight poured through your blinds, your rational mind scrambled to build a safety net.

It was just music, you reasoned with yourself, clutching a mug of coffee with two hands to stop the trembling. He’s an artist. He’s brilliant, curious, and passionate. He got a note about a potential collaboration from the biggest mystery in pop music, and he called to talk shop. That’s all it was.

For two weeks, that thin thread of hope kept you tethered. Michael came over to your house for dinner, brought you flowers, and held you on the couch just like he always did. Whenever he spoke to Nova late at night on that private line, the conversations stayed strictly professional. They talked about vocal arrangements, mic selection, analog compression, and chord progressions.

He hadn't crossed a physical line. He hadn't said anything untoward. You told yourself that if he was just pursuing a musical dynamic, you could find a way to forgive the secrecy.

He’ll tell me soon, you prayed silently every time you laid your head on his shoulder. He’s just waiting for the right moment to say, "Hey, Applehead, you won't believe who I've been talking music with."

But the days bled into weeks, and the confession never came.

Instead, the silence around Nova became deliberate. Heavy. Whenever her songs came on the radio in his car, Michael would quietly change the station or turn the volume down, his jaw tight, his dark eyes avoiding yours.

The fragile glimmer of hope in your chest began to flicker, suffocated by the growing wall of deceit. He wasn't just keeping a business call quiet; he was actively hiding a secret life.

By mid-July, the heat in Los Angeles was oppressive. Michael was back at his own estate, deep in rehearsals for an upcoming award show, while you remained at your house in the hills.

At ten o'clock on a humid Tuesday night, your regular house phone rang. You picked up the kitchen extension, leaning against the counter.

"Hello?" you said softly.

"Hey, Applehead," Michael’s voice came through the receiver. He sounded raspy, his tone soft and lingering.

"Hey, honey," you replied, smiling softly as a gentle warmth washed over you. "How were rehearsals today?"

"Exhausting," he sighed, the faint sound of him settling into his bed sheets rustling through the receiver. "We ran the dance sequence four times. My knees are aching, and my head is spinning... I'm just completely wiped out, sweetie."

"Oh, Michael," you murmured softly. "You work too hard. Make sure you get some real sleep tonight, okay?"

"I am," he said quietly, letting out a heavy, tired yawn into the mouthpiece. "In fact... I think I'm just going to turn off all the lights and go straight to sleep right now. I don't think I can even keep my eyes open."

"Alright, sweetheart. Sleep well."

"I love you, Applehead."

"I love you too, Michael. Talk to you tomorrow morning."

Click.

The line went dead.

Sensing nothing out of the ordinary, you set the kitchen receiver back into its cradle with a fond smile. You stretched, turning off the bright overhead lights in the kitchen, and wandered down the quiet hallway toward your bathroom. You went through your usual nighttime routine—washing your face with warm water, brushing your teeth, and applying a sweet-smelling lavender moisturizer.

Tying your hair back, you walked into your bedroom, pulled back the crisp white sheets, and climbed into bed, ready to settle in for a peaceful night.

Then, breaking the quiet of the house, a distant chime sounded from down the hall.

RING.

You froze under the covers. The sound wasn't coming from your bedside table. It was coming from the spare bedroom at the end of the corridor—the secondary landline.

A cold, heavy stone plummeted into the pit of your stomach. Your breath hitched, trapped in your chest as your entire body went stiff.

RING.

Slowly, like walking through a nightmare, you pulled back the blankets and stood up. You walked down the dark hallway to the spare bedroom, not bothering to turn on the lights. You sat down on the cold floor, pulled your knees to your chest, and stared at the beige secondary landline phone resting in the shadows.

A single tear spilled over your lashes, tracking a hot path down your cheek. The tiny glimmer of hope you had been desperately clinging to didn't just fade—it vanished completely, replaced by a cold, hollow ache.

He lied to me, you thought, your chest heaving with a silent, crushing sob. He hung up on me just to call her.

With shaking hands, you lifted the heavy white receiver, pressing it to your ear. You swallowed the heartbreak, drew a long, ragged breath, and forced Nova's smooth, intoxicating confidence back into your lungs.

"Hello, Michael," you purred softly into the mouthpiece, letting your tone drop into that slow, velvety cadence.

Through the static, you heard the rustle of his sheets as he sat up in bed—sounding suddenly wide awake, his voice dropping into that breathless, hushed register he reserved only for the dark.

"Hey," Michael murmured, his tone thick with a guarded, electric excitement. "I know it's late... I just missed your voice."

You closed your eyes, a bitter heat rising behind your ribs. Nova took over completely, a low, quiet hum escaping your throat. "You missed my voice, or were you just lying awake thinking about me?"

On the other end, Michael let out a shuddering breath, the faint friction of cotton sheets against skin coming through the static. "Both," he rasped, his cadence dropping lower, thicker, and dangerously close to the microphone. "I’m lying here in the dark... and every time I close my eyes, I just keep imagining what it would feel like if you were actually in this room."

"Tell me," Nova whispered, leaning back against the wall, her tone dropping into a slow, intoxicating purr. "Tell me what you're doing right now, Michael."

He let out a soft, sharp intake of air, his knuckles audibly tightening around the heavy receiver. "I'm under the covers," he whispered, his voice trembling with a mixture of raw, forbidden heat and overwhelming guilt. "Thinking about your voice... thinking about how close I want to be to you."

"You like listening to me, don't you?" you purred back, hearing his shallow, ragged breathing echo over the line as the conversation slid fast and heavy into territory no taken man should ever cross. "You're breathless..."

"I am," Michael confessed, a strained, desperate murmur spilling into your ear as he shivered in his dark bedroom. "I can't... I can't stop, Nova..."

As his hushed, breathless words continued to fill the quiet room—exchanging heavy, forbidden whispers through the static of the landline—you sat alone in the dark, cold corner of the floor. You held the plastic receiver tightly to your ear, forcing your voice to stay silky, smooth, and alluring, while silent, hot tears streamed endlessly down your face.

The night of the MTV Video Music Awards arrived in late August.

In your dressing room, you stood in front of the vanity, staring at your reflection. The transformation was complete: a sweeping gown of dark midnight silk, a broad-brimmed black hat, and the heavy, intricate lace veil that obscured every feature of your face. You were no longer the quiet woman who wept on her bedroom floor. Tonight, you were only Nova.

Michael had stopped by your house to kiss you goodbye before he left for the VMAs. He had held your face in his hands, soft and tender, whispering how much he loved you and how he wished you didn’t have to work so you could sit beside him at the VMAs. You had smiled, kissed him passionately, and told him to have a wonderful night.

He had no idea you were leaving for the venue five minutes behind him.

Radio City Music Hall was packed, the energy inside electric and wild. Sitting in the front row in his sharp jacket and dark fedora, Michael cheered for the early awards, completely unaware of the storm brewing behind the heavy velvet curtains.

Then, the stage lights plunged into total darkness.

A single, brilliant blue spotlight cut through the shadows, illuminating the center of the main stage. There stood Nova.

When the orchestra swelled and your voice echoed through the arena—deep, velvety, and resonant—the crowd erupted. But in the front row, Michael froze. His breath hitched in his chest, his dark eyes wide and fixed on the stage. He leaned forward, hands gripping the arms of his seat, entirely spellbound. Every run, every effortless belt, every subtle sway of your silk gown held him in a hypnotic grip. He was utterly, helplessly in awe.

From behind the lace veil, you caught his gaze in the front row. You sang straight to him, pouring every ounce of passion, betrayal, and heartbreak into the microphone, leaving the entire arena—and Michael—completely breathless by the final note.

An hour after the show ended, you were sitting on the edge of the plush king-sized bed in your hotel suite.

You had shed the velvet dress and hat, wearing only a sleek black silk robe. Your dark hair fell loose over your shoulders. Beside you on the nightstand, the heavy beige hotel telephone sat waiting.

You lifted the receiver and dialed the direct extension for his top-floor suite.

Ring... ring...

"Nova?" Michael picked up on the second ring, his voice quiet, raspy, and immediately breathless. "Your performance... God, Nova, you were unbelievable tonight. I was right there in the front row. I couldn't take my eyes off you."

"I know you were watching," you said softly into the mouthpiece, letting Nova's cool, magnetic cadence drift through the line. "I could feel you."

Michael let out a shaky, quiet breath over the static. "I've been going crazy thinking about you all night."

"Then stop thinking," Nova purred, leaning back against the headboard, playing her final card. "Room 412, Michael. I'm waiting for you."

The line went dead quiet. You could hear his heart practically hammering through the wire.

"What?" he whispered, his voice trembling.

"Come down to Room 412," you murmured, letting a subtle, dangerous promise lace your tone. "No reporters. No cameras. Just you and me. You'll be the very first person in the world to see who I really am. You'll finally know my real name... and everything else."

On the other end, Michael swallowed hard. The guilt fought fiercely against the sheer, magnetic pull of the mystery he had been chasing for months.

"I'm coming down," he whispered raspy.

Click.

Ten minutes later, a soft, tentative knock sounded at the door of Suite 412.

You stood up from the bed, your heart beating with a cold, precise rhythm. You walked over to the door, stood to the side, and unlatched the lock.

Slowly, the heavy wooden door swung inward.

Michael stepped into the softly lit suite, pulling his coat tight around himself, his fedora pulled low over his forehead. His eyes scanned the room nervously, dark and wide, his throat moving as he swallowed hard.

"Nova?" he breathed into the quiet room, his voice barely a whisper. "I'm here."

Standing with your back turned to him near the window, looking out over the glowing city skyline, you closed your eyes for a brief second to steady your voice.

"I know you are," you said softly.

The voice didn't have the static filter of a telephone wire. It was crisp, clear, and painfully intimate. Michael stopped dead in his tracks, a sudden, cold knot tying itself in his stomach. The tone was familiar—terrifyingly familiar. Then the smell of your perfume hit him.

Slowly, deliberately, you turned around on your heel to face him.

The dim lamplight hit your face. No veil. No lace. No mystery. Just you, standing in your silk robe, tears faintly glittering on your cheeks, your eyes cold and unwavering.

Michael’s heart stopped dead in his chest. All the air was violently ripped from his lungs. His jaw slackened, his dark eyes expanding in total, paralyzing horror as his brain tried to process the impossible image before him. His mouth opened and closed as if he were trying to find the words to say but couldn’t.

The girl he had kissed goodbye at home. The girl he claimed to love. The ghost on the telephone line.

They were all the same person.

You tilted your head slightly, a cold, bitter smirk twisting your lips as you crossed your arms over your chest.

"Hi, honey," you said, your voice dripping with sweet, lethal sarcasm. "Did you miss my voice?"

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Final part to “All About You”

Thank you everyone for supporting my first fic, it wasn't many people (obviously I’ve only been on here a few days) but I definitely felt the love and a new found confidence for writing. Please utilize my requests if anyone has any, I'm pretty active on here:P

This story contains smut 18+ Minors DNI!!

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The front door clicked shut down the hall, followed by Denise’s high-pitched, performative laugh echoing through the corridor.

In the quiet den, you stood completely still. The silence left behind was deafening. Your chest felt hollow, a cold ache spreading through your ribs where a warm flame had lived for weeks. You stared at the empty doorway where Michael had been standing just moments ago—the same man who had held you in the dark, whispered promises against your skin, and swore he was done letting her ruin him.

Slowly, you walked out of the den and toward the front entrance. You needed air.

As you passed the dining room, you caught a glimpse of them through the archway. Denise was sitting close to Michael, unpacking takeout containers and cooing over how hard he’d worked at the studio. Michael sat there, looking at her with that gentle, naive hope in his eyes—a puppy desperate for affection, eating up every fake word.

He caught your reflection in the glass cabinet across the room for a split second. A flash of guilt crossed his face, but he quickly looked back down at his plate.

You didn't say goodbye. You just stepped out into the cool evening air, letting the heavy oak doors of Havenhurst shut quietly behind you.

In the days after Denise launched her sweet, calculated act, Havenhurst felt like a battleground where only you were fighting.

Whenever you caught Michael alone in the hallway or the studio, you tried to plead with him. You tried to reach the man who had held you in the dark just nights before.

"Michael, please just listen to me for one second," you whispered, catching him by the piano late one afternoon while Denise was upstairs. "She’s only acting like this because she felt threatened. Can't you see it's a game?"

Michael didn't even look at you. His hands hovered over the keys, his face set in a stiff, unreadable mask.

"I have a girlfriend," he said, his voice cold, rehearsed, and completely devoid of warmth. "Denise and I are working on our relationship. I'd appreciate it if you respected that."

The words felt like a slap. Two days later, you tried again in the kitchen while everyone else was outside. "Mike, she's using you. The second she feels safe again, she's going to go right back to how she was—"

Michael pulled his arm back before you could even touch him, stepping away as if you were a stranger. "I said no, okay?" he snapped, his tone sharp and distant. "I have a girlfriend. What happened between us was a mistake. Please leave it alone."

That was the moment something inside you snapped. The hurt gave way to a cold, quiet exhaustion. You stopped pleading. You stopped trying to catch his eye across the room. You stopped initiating conversations.

You grey rocked him completely.

When you were at the house, you acted completely neutral. You smiled and talked with Janet, Randy, and La Toya, but around Michael, you became a ghost. If he walked into a room, you gave him a polite, hollow "Hi" and went back to your book. If he asked for the salt at the dinner table, you handed it over without making eye contact. You gave him nothing—no emotion, no anger, no warmth, and no reaction.

And ironically, your sudden silence began to unsettle Michael far more than your pleading ever had. Whenever Denise was cooing over him, Michael’s eyes would secretly wander over to you, searching your calm, impassive face for any sign of the fire you used to share. But there was nothing left to find.

Within forty-eight hours, the storm blew over, and the old status quo settled back over Havenhurst like a suffocating blanket.

Denise was back, her sharp tongue restored to full strength. She was right back to barking orders, rolling her eyes at Michael’s jokes, and treating him like an accessory. And Michael—starved for peace and terrified of conflict—slipped right back into his quiet, subservient routine.

Except now, whenever Denise snapped at him, Michael didn't just look at the floor. His big brown eyes would immediately dart to you across the room, silent and pleading. He looked like a drowning man wordlessly begging you to throw him a lifeline, to offer him the sweet escape you used to give him.

You didn't bite.

Whenever Denise humiliated him, you just kept reading your magazine or chatting calmly with Janet and Randy. You didn't laugh at him like his siblings did, but you didn't run to his rescue either. You stayed entirely neutral.

It all came to a head on a rainy Thursday evening.

The siblings were in the game room playing cards, and you were sitting on the window bench in the hallway, reading a book.

Down the hall in the small rehearsal room, Michael was practicing choreography. The muffled, rhythmic bass of an Off the Wall track hummed through the walls. He had been in there for hours, pushing himself to total exhaustion.

Denise walked down the hall, holding a glass of water. She paused when she saw you, giving you a smug, victorious smirk. True to your new defense, you didn't even acknowledge her; you just turned the page of your book.

She knocked on the rehearsal room door and stepped inside.

"Michael, stop the music," Denise’s voice carried through the crack in the door, no longer dripping with the sweet sugar she had used all week. Her tone had a sharp, familiar edge to it. "You've been in here all night. We were supposed to go to dinner with my friends an hour ago."

"Denise, I told you I needed to finish this routine," Michael’s soft voice replied, sounding exhausted. "The rehearsal for the TV special is tomorrow morning. I just need twenty more minutes..."

"I don't care about twenty minutes, Michael!" her voice snapped, the sweet facade completely shattering. The fake gentleness she’d put on for a week evaporated in a second. "You always do this! You care more about your stupid dancing than you do about me!"

"That's not fair," Michael murmured, his voice sounding small, weary, and deeply hurt. "I've been trying so hard this week... I thought we were doing better..."

"We were doing better because you were paying attention to me!" Denise yelled, her voice echoing clearly into the hallway. "I'm sick of waiting around for you!"

A heavy silence followed Denise's outburst, broken only by the quiet hum of the rain against the windowpane.

The door opened abruptly, and Denise stormed out, her face red with frustration. She slammed the front door shut, her heels clicking angrily into the distance.

Silence settled over the hallway. Slowly, you closed your book, stood up, and walked toward the open door of the rehearsal room.

Michael was standing in the center of the floor, his head bowed, his hands resting on his knees as he panted heavily. His curls were damp with sweat, and his shoulders were trembling softly. The illusion had broken.

As your shadow fell across the doorway, Michael looked up. His big brown eyes met yours—raw, vulnerable, and crushed under the weight of his own mistake.

"You were right," Michael whispered, his voice cracking.

He took a desperate step toward you, his hands reaching out. Before you could say anything, Michael leaned down, his eyes filled with a sad, pleading desperation as he tried to kiss you—reaching for the warmth he had spent days rejecting.

But you didn't let him.

You gently shoved his hands off your arms and pulled back, turning your face away so his lips hit empty air.

Michael stumbled back an inch, his eyes wide with shock and hurt. "Please... I'm so sorry..."

"No, Michael," you said, your voice sharp, steady, and unshakeable. You held your hand up between you, setting a firm line.

“You don't get to do this," you told him, looking him dead in the eye. "You don't get to hit me with 'I have a girlfriend' every time I try to talk to you, treat me like a stranger, and then reach for my lips the second she shows her true colors. I am not your backup plan."

I was just trying to fix things—" Michael started, his voice cracking, but you cut him off with a bitter, self-deprecating laugh.

"No, actually, it's my fault, right?" you spat out, the tears finally pricking at the corners of your eyes. "I forgot—you have a girlfriend, remember? I guess I’m just the stupid homewrecker who let herself get used to keeping you warm until Denise decided to be nice to you again."

Michael recoiled as if you had slapped him. A sudden flash of fierce, desperate anger crossed his face—not at you, but at the terrible way you were describing yourself.

"Don't say that!" Michael shouted, his soft voice booming through the studio as he stepped closer, his big brown eyes filled with pained urgency. "Don't ever talk about yourself like that! You are not a homewrecker! You were the only person in this house who was actually good to me!"

"Then why did you throw me away the second she offered you a cup of tea, Michael?!" you demanded, your voice breaking.

Michael’s chest heaved, his jaw trembling as your words landed with devastating weight. The anger drained out of him instantly, leaving him looking smaller and more broken than before. His hands dropped helplessly to his sides, a single tear slipping down his sweat-streaked cheek.

Seeing his pain, the cold wall you’d built over the past few days softened just a fraction, replaced by the deep, enduring affection you had always held for him. You took a gentle step closer, placing a warm, steady hand on his shoulder—not as a lover, but as a true anchor.

"I care about you, Michael. I always have," you murmured softly, using your thumb to gently wipe the tear from his cheek. "And because I care, I'm here for you. I'll listen, I'll help you through this, and I'll be in your corner. But strictly as your friend. The romantic side of us is over."

Michael looked at you, swallowing hard through the lump in his throat. He recognized the firm boundary in your eyes, but he also saw the genuine kindness that Denise had never once offered him.

Slowly, he nodded, leaning his forehead lightly against your shoulder for just a moment, drawing strength from your presence.

"Thank you," Michael whispered into the quiet room, his voice thick with emotion. "I'm... I'm really sorry for hurting you."

"I know, Mike," you said quietly, patting his back softly. "I know."

The weeks bled into months, and as the emotional toll weighed on Michael, he began trying to slip past the boundary you had set.

One late evening in the kitchen, while Denise was in the living room on the phone, you were pouring yourself a cup of chamomile tea. Michael walked in quietly, his shoulders slumped, looking utterly exhausted.

He stepped close—too close—his body radiating that familiar, magnetic heat. He reached out, his long fingers hovering near your waist as he looked down at you with raw, dark eyes full of unspoken longing.

"I miss you," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, leaning in just an inch as if testing the waters for a kiss. "I really miss us..."

You didn't panic, and you didn't flinch. You simply picked up your mug, stepped back to create a respectful distance, and gave him a gentle, friendly smile.

“I'm right here, Mike," you said smoothly, keeping your tone light, warm, and entirely platonic. "I'm always here for you if you need to talk. That's what friends are for."

The word friends hit him like an electric shock. Michael’s hand dropped back to his side, his jaw tightening slightly in quiet frustration.

A week later, it happened again in the hallway. Denise had just yelled at him over missing a dinner reservation, and Michael had retreated into the dark corridor. Seeing you walk by, he caught your wrist gently, pulling you into the shadowy alcove by the stairs.

"Please," he murmured, his face inches from yours, his thumb softly stroking your pulse point just like he used to when you were together. "Just one minute. Just hold me. Please..."

You gently unclasped his fingers from your wrist, patting his hand reassuringly—like a big sister or a supportive buddy.

"It's going to be okay, Michael," you said calmly, looking him dead in the eye with zero romantic heat. "You're a strong guy. You'll work it out with Denise. Let me know if you need me to grab you a soda or something, alright?"

Michael stared at you, his chest heaving, stunned by the absolute iron wall of your boundaries. You were being kind. You were being supportive. But you were refusing to let him cross the line into romance, leaving him completely trapped in the bed he had made.

The months bled together at Havenhurst, and the toxic cycle rolled on like clockwork. Denise was back to her usual sharp-tongued self, and Michael was back to taking it in silence.

Except now, Michael was drowning.

Every time Denise belittled him, Michael’s big brown eyes would silently plead with you for an escape. When those silent looks didn't work, he started trying to push past the boundary you had set. But every single time he tried to slip into your space, you gently, unshakeably friend-zoned him. You stayed warm, supportive, and kind—but strictly platonic. You refused to be his secret comfort while he stayed in a toxic relationship.

The pressure built until it finally detonated late one rainy evening.

Denise had just spent thirty minutes picking Michael apart in the living room over a minor scheduling error before retreating to the guest wing. Exhausted and humiliated, Michael had quietly slipped away to his bedroom.

You walked down the hallway carrying a warm mug of tea, intending to leave it outside his door as a quiet gesture of friendship. But his door was slightly ajar, the dim lamp light spilling into the corridor.

When you pushed the door open slightly, you saw Michael sitting on the edge of his bed, his head buried in his hands, his shoulders tense.

"Mike?" you called out softly, stepping inside. "I brought you some tea."

Michael’s head snapped up. The moment he saw you—alone in the very room where you had once shared that breathless, unforgettable night—something in him shifted. The quiet, beaten-down look vanished, replaced by an intense, desperate heat.

He stood up from the bed, closing the distance between you in two long strides. Before you could set the mug down on his nightstand, Michael reached out, his long fingers wrapping around your wrists.

"Please," Michael breathed, his voice thick, raspy, and desperate. He pulled you in close, his body radiating heat, his dark eyes searching yours. "I can't do this anymore. I need you. I miss how you used to look at me, how you used to hold me... Please, just kiss me. Just one kiss."

He leaned down, his lips hovering mere inches from yours, his hot breath brushing against your skin as he reached for the comfort he had so foolishly thrown away.

You didn't panic, but you didn't yield either.

With a calm, firm motion, you brought your hands up against his chest and pushed back, tilting your head away so his lips missed completely. You gently unclasped his fingers from your wrists, stepping backward to create a clear, unshakeable distance between you. You set the mug down on his desk with a quiet clink.

Michael stood there, his voice cracking with desperation. "Why? Why are you doing this to me? I know you still care!"

You looked at him with complete composure, giving him a supportive, friendly smile that held absolutely zero romantic warmth.

"I do care about you, Mike," you said smoothly, keeping your tone light and entirely platonic. "I'm always here for you as a friend if you need to talk."

The absolute iron wall of your words hit him like a physical blow. You were being supportive, but you were completely refusing to rescue him or let him back into your arms.

Michael stood frozen in the center of the room. The casual, polite rejection, combined with months of Denise’s constant belittling and his own overwhelming frustration, finally pushed him over the edge. Something inside him snapped.

His jaw clenched tightly, his chest heaving as a wave of pure, chaotic rage and heartbreak flushed his cheeks red. He opened his mouth to argue, to shout, to beg—to spill every ounce of emotion he had been bottling up—but the words choked in his throat.

With a loud, guttural growl of pure frustration, Michael turned on his heel. He didn't look back at you. He didn't say another word.

He practically lunged out of his own bedroom, storming past you into the hallway.

SLAM!

He pulled his heavy wooden door shut behind him with all the strength in his body. The frame vibrated, the loud boom echoing like thunder down the quiet hallways of Havenhurst, leaving you standing completely alone in the dim light of his room.

You stood frozen in the center of the dim, lamplit room, your breath catching in your throat. Your hands were still slightly raised from where you’d pushed him away, your mind struggling to process the sudden explosion. The frame of the door was still faintly vibrating from the force of his departure.

One second passed. Then two. Three.

You stared at the dark wood of the door, completely stunned, your heart hammering wildly against your ribs. You had never seen Michael lose his composure like that—never seen the sweet, soft-spoken man succumb to such raw, unbridled rage.

Then, before you could even take a full breath, the brass doorknob twisted violently.

The door flew open, crashing against the interior wall with a loud, wooden thud.

Michael stood in the doorway, his chest heaving up and down under his black shirt like a wounded animal. His dark curls fell wildly over his forehead, and his big brown eyes were dark, frantic, and flushed with a volatile mix of heartbreak, desire, and pure, unfiltered desperation.

He didn't say a word.

In three long, furious strides, Michael crossed the room. Before you could even gasp, his long arms wrapped around your waist, his large hands gripping you tightly—pulling your body flush against his with a force that took the wind right out of your lungs.

He cupped the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair, and brought his lips down onto yours in a rough, bruising kiss.

It wasn't the gentle, hesitant kiss from weeks ago. This was every late-night conversation, every cold "I have a girlfriend," every ignored glance, every ounce of jealousy, and every second of agony he had bottled up inside himself finally tearing through his self-control.

He kissed you like a starving man reaching for his last breath, his lips moving against yours with an intense, demanding heat that made your knees go weak. His chest surged against yours, his heart hammering just as wildly as your own, as if he were trying to pour every unspoken "I'm sorry" and "I need you" directly into your soul.

He was completely exposed, completely unraveling in your arms—refusing to let you walk away, refusing to let you be just a friend, and leaving you completely breathless in the quiet room.

The force of his lips against yours sent a jolt straight down your spine, but as the initial shock wore off, reality rushed back into your head.

You pushed gently against his chest, breaking the kiss for just a fraction of a second to catch your breath. Your heart was slamming violently against your ribs, your voice trembling as you looked up at his flushed face.

"Michael—" you gasped out, your voice barely above a desperate whisper, "Michael, stop... Denise is still here. She’s going to hear—"

"I don't care," Michael breathed, his voice thick, rough, and laced with an intense, intoxicating heat you had never heard from him before.

He didn't give you a chance to pull away. "I don't care about her," he murmured against your skin. "I only care about you."

Before the words could even fully leave his mouth, he tightened his grip around your waist, pulling you so close there wasn't a sliver of air left between you. He tilted your head back, his fingers tangling deeper into your hair as he captured your lips once more—deepening the kiss with a fierce, intoxicating passion that completely swept the floor out from under your feet.

He backed you up until you hit the bed and you propped yourself up on your elbows watching him as he made his way across the room to go shut and lock the door. “Stupid bitch,” he muttered to himself “always fucking yelling at me-“ “how could I be so stupid.” You had never heard Michael so vulgar before but it was turning you on.

He turned his attention back to you and climbed on top of you, stealing another breathtaking kiss. He trailed open mouthed kisses along your jawline, to your neck, and to that sweet spot behind your ear that caused a soft moan to slip out. This made Michael smirk and boosted his confidence.

He continued kissing his way down to your breasts and as you reached for the bottom of your shirt to take it off he grew impatient and ripped it. “Michael!!” You gasped, half shocked by his strength and half turned on. “Shh girl I need you so bad.” He groaned. He reached under your back and unhooked your bra, and freed your tits. He wasted no time latching onto one of your nipples and playing with the other between his fingers, earning a gasp from you.

“Mi-Michael this isn’t right,” you said in between moans. “I don’t care anymore I need to taste you mama.” He let go of your nipple with a soft ‘pop’ and kissed down your stomach and grabbed the waistband of your pants snatching them down and then ripping your underwear. “Michael,” you whined, “what am I gonna wear out of here.” “Not worried about it right now,” he said, absolutely in awe at how soaked and beautiful you were.

“You’re so wet for me,” he gasped out. You felt heat creeping up to your cheeks and straight to your core.

Without warning, he licked up your slit and latched his mouth to your clit. “You taste just as good as you look mama I can’t believe I’ve been missing out on this.”

He devoured you like a man starved and you tried everything in your power to be quiet but it was useless. “Baby you’ve gotta slow down somebody is gonna hear,” you pleaded. “Let them hear, I wanna hear those beautiful noises you make let me hear how I make you feel.” He said. The room was filled with the disgusting squelching noises of him slurping your pussy. You were a babbling mess saying his name over and over again.

“Michael I-I’m gonna,” you started. “Give it to me mama let me taste you, make a mess on my face.” He said. You came loudly and your thighs were trembling. He didn’t stop or even slow down. “It’s too much!” You cried out and tried to gently push him off. His grip on your thighs tightened. “Don’t ever interrupt a man while he’s eating.” He said sternly. “Lay back down you’re done when I say you’re done.” You had no idea what had gotten into him you’ve never seen this side of Michael but you liked it. Just as you felt another orgasm creeping up he moaned into you which sent a vibration between your legs and another one crashed over you. You came loudly this time not caring to try and stifle it.

The sound echoed off the bedroom walls, and a second later, the sharp, distinctive click-clack of high heels began echoing down the hardwood floor of the corridor.

Click. Clack. Click. Clack.

Panic surged through your veins. Your hands slapped against his shoulders, trying to push him away, but Michael barely budged. His dark eyes sparkling with a sudden, mischievous glint in the dim lamp light.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

"Michael?!" Denise’s sharp, shrill voice blasted through the wooden door, accompanied by heavy pounding. "What was that noise?! Michael, who is in there with you?!"

Your eyes went wide as saucers. You clamped your hands over your mouth, desperately trying to keep your breathing quiet, your chest heaving.

Michael didn't panic. In fact, a low, quiet rumble of a laugh bubbled up in his chest. Seeing you so wide-eyed and terrified only seemed to delight him. He leaned down, burying his face in between your thighs, his soft giggles vibrating warm against your skin as you silently swatted at his shoulder, praying he wouldn't make a sound.

"Michael! Open this door right now!" Denise demanded, her heels impatiently shifting outside. "Answer me!"

Instead of answering, Michael pulled your hands away from your face, trapping your wrists in one hand. A wicked, dimpled smirk spread across his lips. He got up and pressed his mouth back onto yours, smothering your muffled squeal with a kiss that was even deeper, hotter, and more deliberate than before.

He didn't say a single word to the woman screaming on the other side of the door. He just held you tight, kissing you thoroughly while chuckling softly against your lips at your desperate attempts to stay quiet—leaving Denise pounding on the wood while he claimed the only person he actually wanted.

Then, he snatched you up off the bed and pressed you up against the door with your back to him. He entered you from behind unexpectedly and this made you squeal from the sudden fullness.

You tried to pull away “She’s right on the other side of the door stop it are you crazy??” You whispered.

“What was that!?!?” Denise’s voice boomed from the other side.

“How many times do I have to repeat I don’t care.” He half-whispered back. He was thrusting in and out of you mercilessly right against the door. It became harder and harder until eventually you gave in a started moaning louder. “That’s it mama let her hear you, let the whole house hear for all I care. I’m done pretending,” he said loudly this time.

His new found confidence made you crack and you were moaning as loud as you could, the noises of your wetness and his balls slapping against you were prominent. The pretty noises you were making drove him to his limit and he came right inside of you with a loud moan of his own.

On the other side, the pounding instantly stopped.

A sharp, suffocating gasp hissed through the wood, followed by the sudden, frantic tapping of her heels as Denise turned on her stick-thin ankles and sprinted down the hallway. Seconds later, the heavy front doors of Havenhurst slammed shut with a deafening crash, followed by the roar of an engine peeling out down the driveway.

She was gone. Really, truly gone.

"Michael..." you breathed, your heart still hammering against your ribs. "She's gonna tell everyone... she's never coming back."

Michael didn't flinch. Instead, a slow, genuine smile spread across his face—a real one that reached all the way to his eyes, dimples showing in the dim light of the bedroom.

"Good," he whispered softly.

He reached down, taking your hand in his and lacing his fingers tightly through yours. He brought the back of your hand to his lips, pressing a soft, tender kiss over your knuckles.

"I'm done," Michael murmured, looking you dead in the eye with zero hesitation, zero fear, and zero excuses left. "No more games. No more 'fixing' things that were broken from the start. I was an idiot for letting her make me lose sight of what was right in front of me."

"Mike..."

"I mean it," he interrupted gently, his voice firm and steady. "I'm calling my manager in the morning to handle her stuff. It's over. It's officially over."

He pulled you in close, wrapping both arms around you and burying his face in the crook of your neck, taking a deep, shuddering breath as if he were finally breathing fresh air after drowning for months.

"I don't want a secret," Michael whispered into your skin, his chest warming against yours. "I don't want a backup plan. I just want you. Out in the open. If you'll still have me."

Standing in the quiet room, the heavy weight of the past few months finally dissolved into the warm air. You wrapped your arms tightly around his shoulders, holding him close as the house settled into a peaceful silence, knowing that this time, his promise was built to last.

Pt. 2 to “All About You”

Synopsis: Weeks of stolen touches, late-night promises, and an undeniable bond leave you believing Michael is finally ready to walk away from his toxic relationship. But when his girlfriend senses she’s losing control and launches a calculated scheme to win him back, Michael is forced to make a choice. Will he see through the manipulative game, or will he retreat back to the familiar shadows and leave your heart behind?

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"What's so funny?" Denise asked, her voice dripping with suspicion as her arms crossed over her chest. "What are you all giggling about?"

"Nothing," the siblings chimed in perfect, synchronized unison. Janet bit her lip so hard it turned white, while Randy took a very sudden, intense interest in his cereal bowl.

Denise glared at them, clearly annoyed at being left out of the loop, before turning her sharp tongue toward Michael. "Michael, my coffee isn't ready? I have to be at the boutique in twenty minutes. Honestly, you're so slow today."

"I'm pouring it right now, Denise," Michael said softly, his demeanor shifting back to his gentle, non-confrontational self. But this time, as he walked past you to fetch her mug, he let his hand subtly trace along your lower back, a hidden touch that sent a warm shiver straight down your spine. He wasn't pulling away this time—he was keeping you close, right under her nose.

Before Denise could launch into another lecture, a soft hoo-hoo-hoo sound echoed from the doorway.

Bubbles, dressed in a tiny little pair of overalls, waddled into the kitchen. The moment his bright eyes landed on Denise, he let out a loud, dramatic screech, hopping up onto a chair right next to her.

"Ugh! Get that hideous thing away from me!" Denise shrieked, jumping back so fast her heels nearly slipped on the tile. "Michael, take your stupid monkey out of here! He's going to ruin my dress!"

Bubbles just tilted his head, blowing a loud raspberry right in her direction, making Randy lose his fight with composure and burst into a loud laugh.

"He's just saying good morning, Denise," Michael said, trying to keep a straight face as he handed her the coffee.

"He's a menace!" she snapped, waving her hands wildly to shoo him away. "Get away from me!"

"Hey, Bubbles," you called out softly, crouching down a few feet away and holding your arms open. "Come here, sweet boy."

Bubbles immediately turned away from a fuming Denise. His mood flipped instantly. He hopped down from the chair, waddling over to you with happy little squeaks. He climbed right into your lap, resting his furry head against your shoulder and wrapping his small arms around your neck like a affectionate child.

You giggled, scratching him gently behind the ears. "See? He's a sweetheart. You just have to be nice to him."

From across the kitchen, Michael stopped what he was doing. He watched you cradle Bubbles, a look of pure, unadulterated warmth washing over his face. The contrast couldn't have been clearer: Denise, shrill and hostile, standing alone; and you, glowing, kind, and loved by everyone in the house—including his beloved pet.

Michael walked over, kneeling down right beside you under the guise of checking on Bubbles. His knee pressed against yours, and his hand covered yours as you both stroked the chimpanzee's back.

"He likes you," Michael whispered softly, his voice meant for your ears only. His eyes locked onto yours, filled with an affectionate heat that Denise could never hope to inspire. "He's a good judge of character."

"I like him too," you replied with a soft smile.

Denise scoffed loudly behind you, completely oblivious to the intense spark passing between you and Michael right in front of her. "Whatever. Michael, bring my bags to the car. Now."

Michael slowly stood up, but as he turned to follow her, he caught your eye one last time. He gave you a subtle, lingering wink—a quiet promise that no matter how loud Denise yelled, his heart was already completely yours.

Later that evening, the heavy tension of the day finally began to melt away. Denise was lounge-bound in the living room, flipping through magazines and letting out dramatic, bored sighs every few minutes just to make sure everyone knew how unimpressed she was with Havenhurst.

Michael, however, was practically glowing with excitement. He had just hooked up a brand-new arcade system to the television in the den, his long fingers carefully plugging in the multicolored cables.

"Anybody want to play?" Michael called out, looking back over his shoulder with bright, eager eyes. "It's got Space Invaders and Pong!"

From the sofa, Denise didn't even bother looking up from her magazine. She let out a sharp, mocking scoff. "A video game? Honestly, Michael, are you twelve? That is so childish and boring. I can't believe you waste your money on this junk."

Michael’s shoulders dipped slightly, the excitement in his eyes dimming under her familiar chill. He looked down at the bright red joysticks, ready to just turn it off and apologize.

"I'll play with you," you said quickly, stepping into the den with a warm smile.

Michael’s head snapped up, his soft smile instantly returning, twice as bright as before. "Really? You know how to play?"

"I might be a little rusty, but I bet I can give you a run for your money, Jackson," you teased, walking over and sliding onto the carpet right next to him.

Right on cue, a loud, exaggerated roll of the eyes came from the sofa as Denise snapped her magazine shut. "Unbelievable," she muttered under her breath, crossing her arms and turning her back to the two of you, visibly annoyed that her attempt to rain on his parade had completely failed.

Michael leaned over to hand you the second controller, his shoulder pressing comfortably against yours. As your fingers brushed against his, he leaned in close, his soft voice hovering near your ear so only you could hear.

“Don't hold back just because Denise is watching," he whispered, a mischievous glint in his dark eyes. "I'm not going to go easy on you."

“Good, because I don't plan on letting you win," you whispered back, a quiet laugh escaping your lips.

For the next hour, the den was filled with the bleeps and bloops of the game, punctuated by Michael’s high-pitched, melodic laughter every time you almost beat his high score. Every so often, under the cover of the flickering arcade lights, his knee would bump yours, or he’d reach over to playfully nudge your controller, his touch lingering far longer than necessary.

Behind you, Denise kept huffing and checking her watch, utterly ignored, while Michael sat right beside you, happier and more relaxed than he had been all week.

Michael seemed lighter, happier, and far more confident. Every smile he gave you felt like a secret universe built just for the two of you.

Over the next few weeks, the secret thread between you and Michael tightened into a quiet routine. Whenever Havenhurst fell asleep or the house emptied out, Michael would steal away to find you.

There were late nights in his bedroom, quiet whispers in the dim studio, and sweet, stolen kisses behind closed doors. You regularly shared intimate, breathtaking moments in private—moments where he held you like you were his entire world, whispering how safe he felt with you, how much he loved the warmth of your skin, and how he couldn't wait to finally be free.

Every touch, every shared night, felt like a brick building a future together.

But Denise was no fool.

She noticed the shift. She noticed how Michael no longer scrambled to agree with everything she said. She noticed the slight glow on his skin, how his eyes constantly tracked your movements, and how his soft, musical laugh seemed to echo only when you were near.

One afternoon, you were sitting at the kitchen table helping Michael sort through fan mail. Your shoulders were pressed together, laughing over a funny drawing a fan had sent in, when Denise burst into the room.

She slammed her handbag onto the counter, her sharp eyes locking onto the two of you like a hawk.

"What is going on here?" Denise demanded, her voice cutting through the warm air like a knife.

Michael jumped slightly, his hand pulling back from yours, though he stayed seated. "We're just going through the mail, Denise."

"No, it's not just the mail," she snapped, stepping closer, her arms crossed tight across her chest. She glared down at you, her eyes filled with a bitter, defensive heat. "You two are always together now. Whispering, giggling, going off by yourselves... Why are you two so close all of a sudden? Huh? What's going on?"

"We're just friends, Denise, like we've always been—" you started calmly.

"I wasn't talking to you," Denise spat, turning her glare back to Michael. "Michael, answer me. Why are you ignoring me for her?"

Michael swallowed hard, looking between you and Denise. For a moment, the quiet confidence you’d built together in private held firm. "She treats me with respect, Denise," Michael said softly, his voice trembling slightly but firm. "That's why."

The words hit Denise like a slap in the face. A rare flash of genuine panic crossed her features. In that instant, she realized something that sent a chill down her spine: she was losing him. The control, the luxury, the devotion of a superstar—it was all slipping through her fingers, right into your hands.

And just like that, Denise changed her strategy completely.

The next morning, the sharp-tongued, demanding woman was gone. In her place was someone gentle, attentive, and painfully sweet.

When Michael walked into the kitchen, Denise didn't yell. Instead, she rushed over with a warm cup of herbal tea, placing her hands softly on his chest. "I made your favorite, Mikey," she purred, her voice sweet as honey. "I'm so sorry about yesterday. I've just been so stressed... I haven't been appreciating you the way I should."

From the edge of the kitchen island, you almost choked on your cereal. It was so performative, so completely fake, that you immediately looked over at Michael, waiting for him to catch your eye so you could share a subtle roll of the eyes or a hidden smirk. You expected him to see right through it, just like you did.

You caught his glance for a fraction of a second, raising your eyebrows in a silently shared "Can you believe this?" expression.

In the past, he would have hid a dimpled smile or kicked your foot under the table. But this time, Michael didn't laugh. He didn't smile back. He didn't even acknowledge your look. His brown eyes were fixed entirely on Denise, blinking in stunned, wide-eyed surprise. As she leaned up and softly kissed his cheek, something in his face softened completely.

Over the next two days, Denise played her part perfectly, and you kept trying to reach him through your silent code.

When Denise dramatically laughed at one of his corny jokes, you leaned against the doorframe, trying to steal his glance to make fun of how fake her laugh sounded—but Michael’s eyes were locked on Denise, a hopeful, starry-eyed shine in his gaze.

When she brought Bubbles a treat and cooed at the monkey in a sickly sweet voice, you bit your lip to hide a laugh, catching Michael's eye to whisper a joke later. But Michael just smiled at Denise like she had just hung the moon.

You didn't realize it, but the game had completely inverted. While you thought you were both secretly laughing at her desperate attempts to keep him, Michael was actually falling for every single word. He was so starved for love, so desperate to fix things and see the good in people, that he was completely blind to the act—and completely deaf to the silent jokes you kept trying to share with him.

On Friday evening, Denise volunteered to leave Havenhurst to go out and grab dinner for herself and Michael—another one of her sudden, performative gestures of kindness.

With her gone, the den was quiet. Michael stood by the record player, softly humming along to an instrumental track.

Seeing him finally alone, you felt a wave of relief. You thought you could finally break the ice and laugh together about the ridiculous show Denise had been putting on all week. You walked into the den, stepping into his space just like you had done a dozen times over the past few weeks. You smiled up at him, leaning in automatically to place a soft, intimate kiss on his lips—a sweet ritual that had become second nature to both of you.

But as your face drew near, Michael flinched.

He sharply took a step back, turning his head away so your lips only brushed the cold air near his ear.

You froze in place, your lips still parted, a sudden, sickening chill rushing down your spine. You stared at him, wide-eyed, completely stunned by the rejection.

Michael couldn't even meet your eyes. He cleared his throat nervously, stepping back even further and putting physical distance between you. He looked torn, his handsome face lined with conflict, but there was a strange, hopeful glow in his eyes that chilled you to the bone.

"Mike...?" you whispered, your voice thick with a sudden, rising panic. "What... what was that?"

Michael took a deep breath, looking down at his hands before finally forcing himself to look up at you.

"I wanted to talk to you," Michael murmured softly, his voice tight. "About... us. About everything."

"Okay," you whispered, bracing yourself, your heart pounding against your ribs.

"Denise... she's really changing," Michael said, his voice filled with a naive, gentle sincerity that shattered your heart in real time. "She apologized for how she treated me. She's being so sweet now, just like when we first met. I think... I think she finally understands."

Your breath caught in your throat. The realization hit you like a wave of ice water: he hadn't been in on the joke at all.

"Michael, she's not changing!" you stammered, the panic spilling over. "She's only doing that because she saw us—she's playing you!"

"I really think she cares," Michael interrupted softly, offering you an apologetic, painful look that killed any hope left in your chest. "I know we've been... sharing these moments lately. And I'll always treasure what happened between us. You showed me what I deserved when I was at my lowest. But... I owe it to her, and to myself, to try and fix my relationship. I think I'm going to give Denise another real try."

The words felt like a physical blow, knocking the breath right out of you. You stood frozen, tears burning hot at the backs of your eyes as you stared at the man who had held you in the dark night after night, now treating those intimate memories like something to just brush aside for a lie.

Before you could say another word, the front door clicked open down the hall, followed by Denise’s sweet, melodic call: "Mikey! I'm back with dinner!"

Michael gave you one last, lingering, mournful look. "I'm sorry," he whispered quietly.

He turned his back on you and walked out of the room toward her, leaving you completely alone in the dim light, staring at the empty doorway.

————————————————————————-

The backstage air of the Tokyo Dome was thick with the scent of ozone, hairspray, and raw adrenaline.

You leaned against the doorframe of his private dressing room, your custom electric guitar slung casually over your shoulder. You were in your element—torn fishnets, heavy leather, and smudge-thick eyeliner that screamed metal royalty. You had built a reputation as one of the most ruthless, technically flawless guitarists in the industry.

You also happened to have a history of breaking—and having your heart broken by—the biggest pop star on the planet.

The door swung open, and there he was. Michael.

He was in full Bad era glory: the black leather jacket dripping with silver buckles, the perfect curls framing his face, and that intense, focused energy. But the moment his dark eyes landed on you, his posture stiffened.

Michael rolled his eyes so hard you thought they’d roll right out of his head. He let out a sharp, irritated sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You have got to be kidding me. Her?"

You let out a low, mocking laugh, crossing your arms over your guitar.

"Hi, honey," you cooed, your voice dripping with sweet sarcasm.

His jaw clenched, memories of your disastrous ending flashing in his eyes. Two years ago, right after the massive success of the Victory tour, he had sat you down in his quiet, sunlit living room. He had taken your hands in his, his voice dropping to that agonizingly soft, gentle whisper he used when he wanted to comfort you. He told you how much he loved you, but with the trajectory his solo career was taking, there simply wouldn't be any room left for a relationship. "I won't have the time you deserve," he had said, looking at you with those big, sorrowful eyes, expecting you to understand. "My career has to come first right now."

But you hadn't taken it quietly. The gentle, reasonable tone of his voice had only made the rejection sting worse, like a polite slap to the face. You had flown into a blind, beautiful rage. You grabbed a priceless porcelain vase and smashed it right at his feet. When he jumped back in shock, you ripped his favorite vintage record player off its stand and threw it against the wall, leaving his living room in absolute ruins before storming out. He had never forgiven you for the destruction; you had never forgiven him for the polite, cold abandonment.

And now, fate had a twisted sense of humor. Just hours before tonight’s massive show, his lead guitarist had fallen violently ill, completely unable to perform. Panic-stricken, his management team had scrambled to find a replacement capable of learning the entire intricate setlist on a moment's notice. They found only one person with that kind of raw talent and nerve: you.

"Just... do the job," Michael muttered, refusing to look you in the eye as he brushed past you, his signature buckles clinking angrily. "Don't mess up my show. And keep your hands off my things."

If he thought you were going to play nice, he clearly forgot who he was dealing with.

The stage was a roaring beast of ninety thousand screaming fans. When you stepped out into the spotlight, the crowd erupted. You didn't just play the songs; you owned them. During "Dirty Diana," you stepped up to the edge of the stage, the wind machine blowing your hair back as your fingers flew across the fretboard.

You were supposed to play a standard, clean solo. Instead, you threw in a series of blistering, heavy-metal sweep-picks and a screeching whammy-bar dive bomb. But you weren't done.

While shredding a ridiculously complex, heavy riff, you shifted your weight, kept your eyes locked on the crowd, and executed a flawless, butter-smooth sideways moonwalk right across the front of the stage—all without missing a single beat.

The stadium absolutely erupted. The roar of ninety thousand people cheering for your execution of one of his signature moves was deafening.

From the corner of your eye, you saw Michael pause mid-spin. His eyes flared with a mix of awe and pure, unadulterated fury. You glanced over your shoulder, caught his gaze, and winked.

The second the final encore ended and the stage lights cut, Michael didn’t even wait to greet the VIPs. He stormed off the stage, his loafers slamming against the metal scaffolding.

"In here. Now," he hissed, grabbing your wrist. His grip was firm, sending an unwelcome jolt of electricity straight up your arm. He yanked you into his private dressing room and slammed the heavy door shut behind you, locking it with a sharp click.

"What the hell was that?" Michael demanded, spinning around. He was panting, sweat glistening on his collarbone, his chest heaving under the unbuttoned leather jacket. "You threw off the entire tempo! You were showing off! And copying my choreography?!"

You carefully unstrapped your guitar and set it on the couch, completely unfazed. "The crowd loved it, Mike. Maybe your show just needed a little more edge."

"That wasn’t your show!" he snapped, stepping into your personal space. The anger radiating off him was hot, a stark contrast to the cold shoulder he’d given you for years. "First you smash up my stuff, and now you try to steal my spotlight? You did that on purpose. You wanted to mess with me."

"Maybe I did," you challenged, stepping closer until your boots bumped against his black loafers. You looked up, staring directly into those dark, fierce eyes. "Or maybe I just wanted to remind you of exactly what you didn't 'have time' for."

Michael's breath hitched. The anger in his eyes suddenly shifted, turning into something much darker, much hungrier. The space between you shrank to nothing.

"You think you can just walk back into my life, break my things, steal my moves, and disrupt everything?" he whispered, his voice dropping an octave, losing its soft, public cadence. It was raw, dominant, and laced with a possessiveness that made your knees weak.

"I think I just did," you breathed.

He threw his hands in the air dramatically and sat down on the couch, visibly defeated and you thought you had won. But you had a feeling you know Michael better than that it couldn’t be this easy.

“Come here.” He said flatly, staring at the floor. “Wha-?” you began. “I said come here. Now.” You felt intimidated but the sternness in his voice shot heat down to your core.

Slowly, you made your way over to the couch in front of him, watching as his chest heaved and he never took his eyes off of the floor. “Look Michael,” you began “I’m really sorry if I ruined your show-“ before you could continue he grabbed you by the wrist and snatched you over his knee, causing your leather skirt to ride up exposing your laced panty and fishnet clad ass.

‘CRACK’ he smacked it as hard as he could causing you to cry out in pain and pleasure before he rubbed the stinging spot to soothe it. You involuntarily let out a whimper at the feeling of his hands on you after years. To be honest-you hadn’t been touched since the breakup.

“What were you saying?” He said in a deeper voice, not his usual soft spoken tone that the world knew. “I said I’m sor-“ ‘CRACK’ another one on the other cheek now. This made you fully moan as you couldn’t hold it. “You’re sorry who?” He questioned. You remained silent. ‘CRACK’ again.

“I-I’m sorry daddy,” you whimpered. He smirked at this “Still a submissive girl for me after all this time. You put on this tough girl act for everyone but you can’t keep it up around me.” He then slid his hand up your skirt and went to pull your fishnets and underwear down but got impatient and ripped them further. “Michael.” you gasped.

“Look at you mama, so wet for me trying to act like you hate me.” He cooed. Without warning he plunged his middle and index finger into your wet heat. He started to drill his fingers in and out of you relentlessly causing your eyes to roll back and you were moaning loudly-not caring who could hear anymore. The room filled with the loud squelching sounds of your soaked pussy. “Michael baby I’m so close.” You cried out. “Give it to me mama make a mess on me.” His words were enough to drive you over the edge and your walls clenched around his fingers as you felt wave after wave of pleasure wash over you. But he didn’t stop. He kept driving in and out and you said “Michael it-it’s too much!” “You can take it baby, what happened to the tough girl trying to steal my moves and embarrass me on stage?” Another orgasm came without warning but this time you squirted and soaked his lap. “Oh fuck, there it is,” he groaned and licked his lips.

He lifted you off his lap and pressed you face first onto the couch. He unbuckled his belt and freed his painfully hard cock. He took a throw pillow and placed it underneath of your stomach to further press your ass into the air. He gave it another hard smack before pumping himself a few times and lining up at your entrance. He ran his tip up and down your slit a few times. “Please Michael it’s been so long don’t tease me.” You whimpered. This earned you another smack and he gripped your hair and wrapped it around his wrist. “Patience sweet girl you’re not in a position to be calling shots right now.”

You had never seen Michael like this before. In your previous years together he was always a shy and sweet lover. This side of him was turning you on so much you felt like you could cum again with no contact.

Slowly, he slid into you and buried himself to the hilt. You were moaning so loudly at this point for sure people would be able to hear. With his hand still in your hair he buried your face into the couch. He was pumping in and out of you so deeply that his tip kept kissing your cervix. You were drooling at this point and sounded like a full on porn star. “Keep making those pretty noises for me mama I’m close.” He growled. Your third orgasm came quickly. “Fuck, look at you soaking me,” he said.

His thrusts became more sloppy and out of rhythm. “Please cum in me baby I’ve missed it.” You said. As if it would be that easy.

He slowed down and pulled himself completely out of you before very slowly burying himself back in as deep as possible. He repeated these movements and it had your eyes rolling to the back of your head and you couldn’t even make a sound, your mouth was in an ‘O’ shape. “Do you think you deserve my cum?” He teased. “Yes baby, please!” He couldn’t help but smirk as he continued to enter you as slowly as he could. “I don’t know mama I’m not convinced.” Your legs began to shake and you were clawing at nothing. “Michael please cum in me baby I need you to fill me up,” you begged.

Without warning he sped his pace back up and within seconds his muscles tensed up as he shot ropes of cum into you. You forth orgasm of the night came and you were completely overstimulated.

He got off of you and helped you up as you were shaking. He cleaned you off with his shirt and decided to just wear his jacket buttoned up. He got you some water and when your tremors stopped, he cupped your face and kissed you passionately.

The kiss was explosive—a collision of two years of built-up resentment, longing, and heartbreak. It wasn't gentle. It was a battle. He tasted like adrenaline and sweat, his tongue tangling with yours as he groaned deep in his throat.

Your hands flew to his hair, pulling him closer, while Michael’s hands tore at the hem of your shirt, desperate for skin-to-skin contact. He broke the kiss for a fraction of a second, sliding his lips down your jaw to press hard, bruising kisses into the crook of your neck.

"You drive me absolutely insane," he growled against your skin.

“You!?!? You fuck like THAT and expect me not to break your things for trying to leave me?” You exclaimed.

“Oh geez I’ve messed up now,” he blushed and smiled suddenly acting his shy self again.

“Yeahhhh you did…..fire your guitarist.” You said in a monotone voice.

You were curled up on the edge of the sofa in the living room at the Hayvenhurst, laughing as Janet and Randy argued over who got the last piece of sweet potato pie. Marlon was tapping out a rhythm on the coffee table, and La Toya was flipping through a fashion magazine, occasionally chiming in. You had been a fixture in the Jackson household for years; to the siblings, you were just family.

But then, the front door clicked open.

The warmth in the room instantly chilled as Michael walked in, followed closely by his girlfriend, Denise. Michael looked exhausted, his signature afro perfectly styled but his shoulders slightly slumped. He was carrying three different shopping bags, while Denise strutted ahead of him, empty-handed and wearing a scowl.

"I told you, Michael, I wanted to go to the boutique on Sunset, not the mall," Denise snapped, not even bothering to greet the room. "You wasted my entire afternoon."

"Denise, I'm sorry, I just thought—" Michael started, his soft voice quiet and placating.

"You didn't think," she cut him off, rolling her eyes. "Just put the bags in the hall. And don't hover."

From the couch, Janet made a sharp, squeaking sound, burying her face in a pillow to hide her laughter. Marlon leaned over to you, whispering loudly, "Oh, the King has been demoted to bellhop."

You bit your lip, trying to suppress a grin. It was a coping mechanism for all of you. Denise was always like this—demanding, sharp-tongued, and constantly picking at Michael. Because Michael was too gentle to fight back, you and the siblings always poked fun at him afterward, hoping a little teasing would help him see how ridiculous she was being.

"Hey, Mike," Randy called out, a smirk on his face. "Need some help carrying her attitude? It looks heavy."

Michael’s cheeks flushed a deep, embarrassed crimson. He gave a weak, apologetic smile, shooting a quick glance at you before looking down at the floor. "Whatever y'all," he muttered softly, before heading down the hall to his room. Denise had already disappeared into the guest wing to make a phone call, completely ignoring everyone.

"Seriously, though," you said, your smile fading as you watched his retreating back. "She’s really mean to him."

"Always is," La Toya sighed, shaking her head. "I don’t know why he puts up with it."

An hour later, the house had quieted down. The other siblings had drifted outside to the pool, but you had stayed behind to grab a glass of water. As you walked down the long hallway past Michael’s bedroom, a faint, muffled sound caught your attention.

You paused. It sounded like a quiet, ragged gasp.

Stepping closer to Michael’s door, you listened intently. It was the unmistakable sound of someone crying, trying desperately to smother the noise into a pillow. Your heart sank.

You knocked softly. "Michael? It's me."

The crying instantly stopped. A tense silence followed, and then his voice, thick and strained, came through the wood. "I-I'm okay. Just resting."

"Michael, please let me in," you said gently.

After a long moment, the lock clicked. The door opened just a crack, revealing Michael. His eyes were red-rimmed and watery, his beautiful features tight with hurt. Seeing him like this broke your heart. Without asking, you gently pushed the door open further, stepped inside, and closed it behind you.

"What's wrong, Mike?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper.

He tried to turn away, wiping his face quickly with the back of his hand. "Nothing. It's just... she's mad at me again. I can't ever seem to do anything right for her."

"That’s not true," you said, stepping closer and reaching out to touch his arm. "Denise treats you terribly, Michael. We joke around, but honestly, it hurts to watch. You deserve to be treated with kindness. With love."

Michael let out a shaky breath, a tear escaping and slipping down his cheek. "She makes me feel so small. Like I’m just... someone to carry her things and pay for her life. I just want to feel like I matter to someone. Really matter. Not just because of the music, or the money... but just me."

Seeing the vulnerability in his eyes—the raw, beautiful soul of the man behind the superstar—something shifted inside you. You stepped into his space, gently cupping his face with your hands. Your thumbs wiped away his tears.

"You do matter," you whispered, looking directly into his big, brown eyes. "You matter so much to me."

Michael’s breath hitched. He looked down at you, his gaze dropping to your lips before rushing back up to your eyes. The air between you grew thick, charged with years of unspoken affection.

"Can I...?" Michael whispered, his voice trembling with a mix of fear and desire.

"Yes," you breathed.

He leaned down, and when his lips met yours, it wasn't the tentative kiss of a shy boy. It was desperate, sweet, and filled with a longing that had been building for far too long. His hands found your waist, pulling you flush against him. You gasped into the kiss, tasting the salt of his tears and the warmth of his mouth.

When he finally pulled back, his chest heaved, his eyes wide and dark with sudden passion. "I shouldn't... Denise—"

"Forget about her," you interrupted gently, taking his hands and leading him backward toward his bed. "Tonight is not about her. It’s not about anyone else.”

You sat him down on the mattress and then climbed onto his lap, straddling him. You began to feel his bulge press into you. It made a soft mewl escape your lips.

You wanted nothing more than to have him inside of you at that moment in time but it wasn’t about you. Your mission was to make him feel every bit as worshipped as he should’ve been all along.

"Tonight is all about you, Michael," you murmured, your voice steady and full of promise. "I am going to show you exactly how you deserve to be treated."

A soft, shaky sigh escaped his lips as he leaned back slightly on his hands, watching you with complete devotion.

Slowly, deliberately, you reached for the hem of his button-down shirt. You unbuttoned it one by one, your fingers brushing against the warm, smooth skin of his chest. He shivered at your touch, his head tilting back as you pressed soft, lingering kisses along his collarbone, worshiping every inch of him.

"You are so beautiful," you whispered against his skin.

"Please," Michael whimpered, his hands finding their way to your hips. “Please what angelface?” you said. “Use your words darling tell me what you want.” His heartbeat accelerated at the nickname you gave him and he suddenly felt shy. He instinctively put his hands over his face in embarrassment.

“Don’t hide that pretty face from me I wanna see you while I make you feel good.” You said as you gently pulled his hands back to your hips.

You started to grind your hips over his growing bulge, earning soft moans and whimpers to fall from his lips and it was music to your ears.

“Mama I-I think I’m gonna-“ he began and at that you got off of his lap. He whined at the sudden loss of contact. “Did I do something wrong?” He questioned. “Shh of course not baby just let me take care of you,” you said as you started to undo his belt.

Once you got him free you couldn’t help but to widen your eyes at the size of him. You would be lying if you said you hadn’t thought about it but you had no idea he was this big.

You started to plant small kisses and kitten licks all over his dick making his hips buck into you. Just asyou went to take his length in your mouth he said “wait lovely…” You looked up at him with furrowed brows now wondering if you had done something wrong. “You want me to stop?” you questioned. “No it’s not that it’s just…you’re too pretty to be doing that to me,” he said shyly.

“Well doesn’t Denise do it?” you snickered. His face burned crimson. “Uhhh….no,” he said, barely audible. “Oh! You haven’t done anything like this Michael I’m so sorry you should’ve told me you weren’t ready-“ you started to babble. “No I have….I usually give. Denise doesn’t like to-you know-do this…she said she doesn’t want me getting anything on her and she doesn’t like the way it tastes so I usually just take care of her.” He confessed.

He was so used to giving, so used to serving others, that being the center of someone’s gentle, passionate focus overwhelmed him in the best way possible.

“Michael,” you began, “you’ve never had this done to you before? Like ever?” He shook his head. It broke your heart but made a smirk play at your lips thinking about being the first. “Well we simply can’t have that now can we?”

You ran your tongue along the vein on the underside causing him to hiss through his teeth. “What I need you to do is just lay back look pretty and let me show you how a woman should take care of her man” he obeyed your commands and loved how absolutely filthy you sounded.

You then swirled your tongue around the tip and sucked it slightly. You spit into your hand and started to jerk the base and suck as much as you could fit into your mouth. He was a moaning whimpering mess under you, gripping at the sheets. This fueled you to grab one of his hands and guide it to your curly ponytail. “Wha-what are you-“ he then gasped as you pushed his hand to shove your head down as far as it would go and began to deepthroat him as you gagged. He felt a little bad but the pleasure overwhelmed him and he just couldn’t stop. He was so close to cumming when you suddenly took your mouth off him with a ‘pop’.

He looked at you confused but stayed quiet as you previously instructed. You then pulled your jeans and underwear off. It was then his turn to widen his eyes. “Oh my-“ was all he could get to come out. This made you blush.

You then crawled back on the bed and positioned yourself on top of him lining him up at your entrance. “Is this okay?” you asked. “Please…” he said. And with that you sank down slowly. He groaned at the feeling of you around him. His size made you feel so full and it wasn’t even all the way in yet. Finally, you sank all the way down on him and started to bounce. He moaned and grabbed your hips guiding your pace and started to thrust his hips up to meet yours. This made you cry out and see stars at the pure bliss. He kept hitting your g spot with every thrust and you felt yourself getting close. “Mi-Michael I’m gonna cum baby” you moaned out. “Give it to me mama let me feel you.” The sound of his voice and the way he was filling you up was all too much and your walls started tightening around him as you gasped and whimpered.

The filthy sounds you were making on top of him combined with the way you felt brought him to his peak as well. “Where do you want me to cum pretty,” he said as his thrusts became more sloppy. “Inside of me please daddy!” You moaned out as you felt your second orgasm building. That was all it took as he shot thick ropes of cum in you, fucking you through your aftershocks.

After you both caught your breath you climbed off of him and kissed him passionately.

“Thank you mama,” he said.

“It’s nothing you didn’t deserve angel.”

You both got dressed and cleaned up and as you walked out on wobbly legs and went to the kitchen, the siblings were all back inside and stared between you and Michael with knowing looks and smirks.

“What?” Michael said and then they all erupted into laughter. You hid your face in embarrassment. Marlon and Randy started mimicking your moans in high pitched voices causing everyone to continue to double over with laughter. “C’mon guys stop it,” Michael said between giggles.

Just then you heard the clicking of heels and saw a familiar scowling face. “What’s so funny? And can you guys keep it down I’m on the phone.” Said Denise.