All My Interest

The car ride to the hotel is quiet but comfortable. Michael keeps his eyes on you while you rub your now-bruised hands, wondering how purple they’ll go tomorrow morning. You regret nothing—obviously not. Why would you? That witch kissed your man in front of you! Of course you would have dragged her ass to the floor. Thank god David stopped you from killing her.

“I meant what I said a while ago.” Michael broke you out of your train of thought. He blinked a few times, a subtle shyness washing over him.

“Huh? What are you talking about?” You blink too, slightly confused.

Michael clears his throat, shifting in his seat with his legs spread a lot more than usual.

“Ohhh,” you such your teeth and laugh teasingly, “You’re sick.”

“S’not my fault you turn me on.” Michael jokes in mock-offence, crossing his arms.

“Me beating up that botch turned you on?” You cross your arms too, copying his posture as the car turns a corner nearing the hotel.

“Yes. Very much.” He quips.

The hotel comes into view, the large building bustling with high-profile clients. Some are on their way to their hotels while others get into blacked-out cars on their way to a late dinner. Your driver cuts the engine before knocking the visor blocking the back seats from the front, signalling to you both that you can exit the vehicle. In one smooth motion, Michael hops out first, galloping to your side and opening the door for you. You step out with a soft smile, and he takes your hand, practically dragging you through the hotel lobby into an elevator. The ride up is painfully slow for his liking. He traps one foot on the plush carpet in the elevator, pushing his hands into his slacks to hide the growing bulge beneath them.

The doors finally open with a ‘ding’ indicating that you’ve reached your floor. The top floor is quiet. Empty. All the rooms on this floor are vacant. Michael arranged for the entire floor to be left empty for privacy reasons, fearing that paparazzi would eavesdrop on him and you during private moments like the one about to happen.

Michael quickly unlocks your penthouse suite, the large room stretching out on either side. It exudes luxury, fluffy brown carpet taking up most of the living room area while a large bed is draped in black velvet linen. Floor-to-ceiling windows allow LA skyline lights to bleed into the room, painting everything in blue and yellow hues. Calm and inviting.

You sit on the bed and huff out a tired sigh, taking off your heels while Michael rids of his loafers and bedazzled blazer. He hangs his jewelled blazer meticulously in the closet, making sure it sits right in between his other military-styled tops.

“You’re such a neat freak.” You stand up and wrap your arms around his middle, pressing your face to his back. Michael just chuckles and melts in your hold, closing the closet with a soft thud. You can see your silhouettes in the mirror, the dim light doing enough for you to notice the teasing smile on his face.

Silence fills the room as you unbutton his white shirt, pulling it out from under his black pants. You start with the lowest button, then move up, hands swift and practised. A soft hum escapes Michael in response, his body already anticipating your next move. When his shirt’s fully unbuttoned, you run your hands over his chest and torso, circling his hardened nipples. You pinch them teasingly, listen to his breath hitch and quicken. Michael sighs and leans back into your touch, his back pressing onto your face subconsciously. A few sirens ring outside on the busy roads, but you both pay them no mind. Instead, you slide your hands down his stomach and into his pants, letting them hover over where he needs you the most.

“You know…I really loved watching you go up that stage tonight.” You whisper, resting your hands on his thighs. “You’re an icon, Michael Jackson.”

Michael closes his eyes, body stiffening in desire. His breath is shallow, needy, and your praises do little to suppress the feelings bubbling inside him.

You slip one hand into his boxers, running a finger over his length before holding it properly in your warm palm. You sway your hips side to side behind him as you stroke in underneath his underwear. An involuntary groan slips out of his rumbles in his throat. The sound is sweet, almost a whine, as your hand moves softly over him.

In a gentle movement, you turn him around and cup his cheek with your free hand, the other finding its way back into his pants and around his warm length. Michael leans down and presses his lips to yours in a slow and breathless kiss, lips moving in sync with each other like a dance long rehearsed. His hands cup your cheeks too, hands big enough to cover your entire face in a warm embrace. You feel his slightly callused thumbs brush over the soft skin as he slips his tongue into your parted lips. Instead of fighting for dominance, you let his tongue explore your mouth, flicking at yours with unspoken reverence. God, he loves you.

You break the kiss, kneeling in front of him with half-hooded eyes as you pull down his slacks and boxers. His cock springs out, hard and glistening at the tips; as he kicks his feet out of his bottoms, leaving him in only the unbuttoned shirt. Michael’s expression scrunches up in a nervous glance, his hands clenching and unclenching around nothing. He’s not particularly used to seeing you like this—on your knees, ready to take him into your mouth—but he won’t stop you now. Curiosity always wins in the end.

“I’m not gonna kill you, jeez.” You giggle and spit into your palms, wrapping both hands around him. He's so big, intimidatingly so. A juxtaposition to how shy he is right now. You were shocked to find out he’d never really had much sex in his life. He’s 25 years old but somehow still gets flustered when he has you like this. When he first told you about being inexperienced, you laughed so hard, his face practically went red with embarrassment—if that even possible over his brown skin. You thought he was joking, but he was dead serious.

Your hands move at a tantalising pace over his cock, stroking him with loving eyes fixed on his. A few whimpers leave his mouth, eyes shutting when you finally wrap your lips around his dripping tip with a hungry hum. Michael’s hands rest lazily atop your head when you push him deeper into your hot mouth. He’s fighting the urge to pull at your curls, wanting soberly to be as respectful as possible. Your tongue slips out beneath his length, allowing you to push all of him in. You gag a few times before finally getting your breathing right. Michael’s hold on his urges is starting to break. His eyes meet your watering ones in awe. His entire dick is in your mouth, your nose pressed against his punic bone as you moan around him. Barely restrained moans come out of his parted lips, his hips finally giving in and rocking into your mouth in a staccato manner.

“Shit, baby—” He inhales sharply and grabs your hair to guide your mouth over him while he bucks his hips. You moan and laugh softly at his reaction, letting him have this moment of control—even if you know he won’t last very long if he keeps this up.

Tears streak down your face. You grip his bare thighs for support, squeezing your thighs together for some friction. Your eyes meet his again, crinkling at the corners when you see him lose control. He’s nearing the edge of release. You can practically feel his cock twitch in your mouth. You wonder if he’ll stop or simply let himself cum in your throat. The rhythm of his hips begins to falter, his eyes shut, and a moan choked out of him as he nears closer and closer to release. To your surprise, his movements halt, hands relaxing in your hair before he pulls himself out of your mouth. You stand, wiping the spit off of your chin with a grin.

“Sorry.” Michael chuckles bashfully, trying his best to fix your hair. His undying consideration shines even in sultry moments like this.

“Don’t be. I’m fine.” You turn around, and Michael unzips your dress, watching it fall into a small pile beside his clothes. “You got greedy there for a second.”

Michael hovers over you, unclasping your strapless bra with ease, exposing your round boobs. You hold his hand and lead him to the bed. He follows without question, letting you lead.

“I’m not an icon.” He comments when you push him onto the black duvet. He scooted back enough to rest his head on a pillow.

The sight practically makes you drool. He lies there bare and hard for you. You lick your lips, shake your head in blissful disbelief. He’s beautiful, the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen. It’s sickening in a way, difficult to comprehend sometimes.

“First man to win 8 Grammys in one night is pretty iconic. Let alone being a black man who did it.” Your words are thick with desire but also sweet with adoration. You slip out of your panties and crawl to him like a cat eyeing its prey.

“Don't gas me up. I still have a lot to do before claiming ‘icon’ status.” He rambles on about what else he wants to do in his career, resting his hands over his head.

You roll your eyes and listen, knowing damn well he hates being interrupted. Of all times to talk about his aspirations, he chooses this one? Really? You finally reach him, straddling him while he continues talking. You rock your hips over his, your wet folds slicking his dark cock. That makes him stutter, suddenly snapping him out of his ambitious chatter.

“You have terrible timing.” You huff out a moan and press your hands over his lower torso, still grinding against him.

“Uh…mmm,” Michael groans at the feeling. His hands rest flat over your thighs, squeezing the soft skin. “Please…”

“Please what?” You smirk and press your hips harder against him.

“Fuck, you know what.” He whines, his hands grabbing your waist.

“I really don't.” You tease. Michael breathes heavily and bucks his hips, needy and desperate. You laugh wickedly at his reaction, cute and endearing. You need to give in overcomes you and you lift your hips, aligning his dick with your wet pussy before you sink onto him.

“Oh fuck—” Michael whines at the sensation, his eyes close, and his hands slide down your body.

You moan too, feeling him stretch your velvet walls to oblivion. Your mouth falls open, a long groan slipping out as you fully sink down on him. You take a moment to adjust to him, pussy pulsing around his dick greedily while your eyes instinctively water. You rock your hips in circles first, huffing pleasurably at the sensation. Michael’s eyes glisten in the dim light, brown irises darkened with pleasure.

“You’re killing me, babe—ah!” He moans, the sound echoing in your mind. Michael’s hands rest on your hips again, trying to move you more.

“Say please.” You command through hooded eyes.

“Please. Please. Please. Oh, god, please.” He whimpers pathetically, biting his lower lip harder than he probably should.

You don’t tease anymore, holding onto his arms as you bounce on his dick. Your bounces are soft at first, still adjusting to his girth. Then you pick up the pace, sliding up and down his cock with your eyes closed. Both yours and Michael’s moans fill the room, melting into each other in lustful harmony. His head presses into the pillow, some pain rushing over it in response, but it’s overwhelmed by the pleasure he’s experiencing with you on top of him.

“Michael—Michael, you’re so big.” You whine, still bouncing for dear life. Michael’s hips push into you at the compliment. He bites his lips and nods. That thrust sends a sharp jolt of arousal over your spine, pushing a loud cry from you. “Ah! Oh my god!”

Michael hesitates for a second, confused about whether he did something wrong or not. He watches you continue bouncing blissfully, the sight making him lose his mind. He didn’t hurt you. Thank the heavens. The way your hips move over him is too much to bear, too much to just watch. He wants to be good for you, let you ride him, please him, but he gives in to his own desires.

Michael flips you over without warning, squeezing your thighs as he positions your legs around his hips. He pushes his dick into you, thrusting into your wetness with unfiltered need.

“I’m sorry—” He whispers into your ear when he balances himself with his elbows. “I tried. Shit, I really did.”

Your mons are loud, piercingly so, but he doesn’t care. You’re enjoying this, fingers raking over his arms and back—surely leaving red streaks behind. The sound of his apologies seems to be egging you on, making your cunt flutter around him.

“S’fine—mmm. S’okay, Mike.” You mumble, words blending into each other as your eyes roll back. You’re so close, Michael can feel it. He whispers sweet nothings into your ear; some things make no sense, while others compliment how tight you are.

“C’mon, baby…let go for me,” Michael whines, his thrusting never sputtering as you finally fall over the edge. The tight knot which once built up in your core came undone, and you cried out his name.

“Michael! M-Mike!” You scream, grateful for the empty hotel floor right now. Waves of indescribable ecstasy were over your sweat-slick body. Your core pulses uncontrollably around Michael's cock—unapologetic and desperate.

Michael doesn’t let up, hips loose as he snaps them into you with greed for his own orgasm. A part of him wants to slow down and let you ride out your high, but the other part is oh so hungry to fill you up with his seed.

“You’re beautiful. So beautiful.” He straightens up, lifting your legs over his shoulders. He kisses your calves, nibbling at them in between thrusts.

“Y-you too, Mike.” You whine, breathing hard as another orgasm approaches. This one more intense.

“Fuck—” Your words break him. His pushes into you stutter, less sharp and controlled.

Thick and warm cum coats your walls while you orgasm once again. Michael presses his lips to your in a sloppy kiss. You both moan and whimper as you ride your high. Almost his entire weight is on you, but he still moves inside you lazily.

When he eventually stops moving, you circle your arms around his neck, legs shaking around his hips. He falls onto you tiredly, breathing in your scent with his nose pressed in the crook of your neck.

Breathless silence falls between you both, too exhausted from the sex to speak. Your fingers twirl around the curls at the nape of his neck. He stokes your cheek, trying to catch his breath. A long moment passes before you both fall asleep like that, intertwined and mangled over each other like true lovers.

Taglist

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@mjsbiggestlover @sadieisagoodgirl

It ran through your mind so often over the next few days that you sometimes found yourself preparing for conversations that didn't even exist yet. Out loud in the shower. In the back of cabs. In the recording studio while your producer was trying to give you feedback (Sandra needed to literally shake you awake to get you out of that one).

And every time the landline rang, your heart practically attempted to torpedo itself directly out of your thoracic cavity. Which was unfortunate, because you got a lot of phone calls.

For the first few days, you'd find yourself jolting to life every time your phone went off, already half-expecting to hear that familiar soft voice you'd spent years listening to on records and television interviews.

Instead it was Jerry from production. Or your publicist. Or Sandra.

Or, on one particularly humiliating occasion —

“Hello?” “Hi. Am I speaking to — ” You stood up straighter. “Yes?” “Wonderful. I'm outside with your pizza.”

That had been your lesson in the dangers of anticipation.

Eventually your brain surrendered to the slow, inevitable process of habituation. And by the seventh day, the ringing of the phone no longer startled you half to death.

You reviewed the facts: Sandra had given your number to Frank. Frank had, presumably, given it to Michael. And somewhere presently on the planet, Michael Jackson theoretically possessed a piece of paper with ten digits written on it. That was all.

And a week of silence was basically an answer enough.

People got busy. He was on tour. Tours were enormous. They were schedule-devouring things that swallowed time whole. He'd had a moment of curiosity, or amusement, or whatever it had been — an impulse Frank had been dispatched to act on — and then the impulse had passed.

It was fine.

You were fine.

The thin, persistent thread of disappointment you'd been carrying around since approximately day three was simply the natural result of an unusual situation. Nothing more.

You reflected on this with great reasonableness as you dragged yourself through the door of your apartment at half past two in the morning, still wearing the clothes you'd put on fourteen hours earlier. You towed with you a full-body exhaustion that came from a day of back-to-back rehearsals for a television appearance that was, in your current state, becoming increasingly difficult to feel enthusiastic about.

Your feet hurt. Your voice had settled into a low, scratchy register that always developed after a day of singing without nearly enough water. The apartment was dark and quiet and perfect and all you wanted to do was fall face-first into bed and temporarily cease to exist for the next eight hours.

You managed the shoes. The jacket. You dropped your keys onto a random surface and would spend the next morning wondering where they'd gone. Your makeup was regrettably left on. Whatever ended up on the pillowcase was tomorrow's problem. It needed changing anyway.

Within minutes of your body hitting the mattress, sleep took you completely, the sheer weight of the week finally pulling you under. Your brain didn't even bother with the gradual descent of light sleep, skipping N1 and N2 completely. You plummeted straight into the heavy, restorative depths of N3. It was a dreamless, total blackout. And you were frolicking in it.

.

.

.

The phone rang at 3:17 a.m.

Somehow you heard it under fifteen layers of unconsciousness. Despite this, you continued your stroll through the serene meadows of dreamland, your brain deciding to file the interruption under: not relevant, continue slumbering.

You pulled your blankets closer.

The ringing stopped.

Then it started again.

You made a deeply chagrined noise into the pillow that communicated your feelings about this development clearly, if not articulately. Whoever this was would give up. Everyone gave up eventually.

The ringing stopped.

Then, with what felt like a hidden agenda, it started again. A third time.

Three separate, consecutive, deliberate phone calls at 3:17 in the morning from someone who clearly had no intention of developing any shame.

You sat up. Hastily, with an utter lack of grace — surfacing from sleep like something dredged from the bottom of a lake. Hair everywhere. Eyes not fully functioning. A deep and righteous fury gathering in your chest at whoever was on the other end of the phone.

You had been asleep. Beautifully asleep. You had a rehearsal in what was now less than eight hours, and you needed every single one of them. And the person currently dialing your number for what was now the third time in a row was going to understand that very clearly. You grabbed the phone from its place on the wall and almost ripped it off the mount entirely.

“Who the fuck is this.”

…

Nothing. Not even breathing, or the faint shuffle of someone hesitating at the pure vitriol that had just escaped your mouth. Just the empty, electric buzz of an open line at three in the morning. 

Then, very faintly —

“...hi.”

…

The absence that followed was the loudest thing you’d ever personally produced.

You knew that voice.

You knew that voice very well. Disturbingly well, considering you had just identified it from one small, scarcely spoken word while operating on half a mind. It had nestled itself into the minute crevices of your bones without you having chosen to put it there.

The cadence of it. The specific hush. How even a single syllable carried something immediately, unmistakably him.

“...um… it’s Michael…”

It was Michael Jackson…

You’d just asked Michael Jackson who the fuck he was.

The belated mortification arrived in a single, consummate wave, wiping out what remained of your righteous furor and replacing it with the sudden, hideous realization of what you’d just done.

“Oh my god,” you said. Now very much awake. “I’m so sorry. I’m so — that was — I didn’t know it was you. I was asleep, I didn’t — oh my god. I’m really sorry, Mr. Jackson, that was—”

“No, no,” he said swiftly.

Every muscle in your body locked. You braced yourself, prepared to sink into the floor. You had basically just spat on the greatest musical artist currently alive.

“Please don’t call me that.”

You flinched. “What?” 

“Mr. Jackson,” he said, and there was a twinge of embarrassment in how he corrected it. “That’s what people call my father.”

This had somehow thrown you more than the profanity had. “Right,” you said. “Sorry. Michael.”

From the speaker of your telephone came a sound you were not prepared for: a laugh. Small. Genuine. Caught between apology and delight.

“It’s okay,” he said, and the amusement in his voice made everything worse. “I deserved that.”

A yawn pulled itself out of you, born of vexation and legitimate exhaustion. You pressed the heel of your palm to your forehead. 

“Actually yeah,” you said, because humiliation had limits, but your commitment to being correct did not. “You do. You called me three times. Do you have any idea what time it is?” 

Apparently, whatever distress had seized you a moment earlier surrendered almost instantly to the stronger, uglier force of your weariness. “I don’t care who you are,” you continued. “Nobody interrupts a woman when she is sleeping.” 

“I know, I’m sorry. I’m in Osaka.” 

You processed this. Osaka was — you did the math badly twice before arriving at: very far ahead. Afternoon, for him. An hour at which people made phone calls without first considering whether they were cutting into someone else’s sleep. You dragged a hand down your face.

“You forgot the time difference.”

A weak scuffling came across the telephone line. “Well — no, I didn’t forget. It’s just — ” he hesitated, “I needed to make sure you were home?”

At that, you glared daggers at the wall in front of you. The logical part of you, still violently deprived of the joys of snoozing, was begging you to hang up, lest tomorrow’s poor rehearsal crew be forced to face the wrath of a sleep-destitute you.

Unfortunately, another part of you was still reeling from the fact that this was the call. The call you had been waiting for. The call you had convinced yourself would never come.

And now that it had, every sensible thought in your head went straight out the window, taking with it every carefully rehearsed version of how this conversation was supposed to go.

“That's — okay,” you said finally. “That's actually a fair point.”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve been busy.”

You could hear the shrug in his voice. “I figured.”

Letting your body trudge itself back to the bed, you dragged the phone cable behind you. The receiver stayed pressed to your ear as you climbed under the covers again and pulled them over your knees. “Took you a while to call.”

“A week,” he said, “I kept starting to dial and then — ”

You waited for him to continue. “And then?”

“I’d hang up.” There was something painfully simple about the confession. It came without explanation, without some careful little speech to make it sound better. Just the image of him standing there with your number half-dialed and no idea what to do with himself.

You looked down at the landline cord twisted over the edge of the mattress. “So what made tonight the night?” you asked.

A pause. You had the impression of him settling — a shift in the quality of the stillness, the way you could sometimes tell through the phone that somebody had gotten more comfortable.

“I had a good show tonight,” he said. “And after a good show I always want to — I don’t know. Tell someone. It’s usually the same people and I love them. But I’d been thinking about calling you all week, and tonight I thought — well, why not?”

He stopped.

“Is that strange?”

“A little,” you said honestly. His breath caught a little too close to the receiver.

“But not in a bad way,” you added. “I don’t mind being privy to the afterglow of a good show.”

He seemed to like that answer. You heard it in the sparse exhale that followed, the slight loosening of something.

“But not at three in the goddamn morning.”

He chuckled. “I’ll remember that.”

“Yeah, you better.”

“I’ll write it down.”

“Underline it.”

“Twice.”

The clock continued to tick by your bedside.

“So how was your day?” he asked.

Your eyebrows rose, surprised by the direction this exchange had taken. “You’re asking me how my day was?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I wanna know.”

You looked at the ceiling. The dark of your apartment. The thin strip of light coming from under the door. “Long,” you responded. “I've been in rehearsals since noon. TV thing next week.”

“Which song?”

“Two, actually. One older, one from the new album.”

“Which older one?”

You told him.

“That one’s great,” he said. “The bridge especially.”

You blinked. “Really? The bridge almost didn’t make the final cut. The label wanted it shorter.”

“They were wrong.”

“They were,” you agreed. “I had to fight for it.”

“You should always fight for the bridge.”

And, without either of you quite deciding to, that was where the conversation found its footing.

You hated how easily the corner of your mouth betrayed you. More than that, you hated how natural it felt. How one subject slipped into the next. How one topic found another. As if this were one of many calls instead of just the first one — his voice reaching you from Osaka while you lay half-buried in your blankets in your quaint New York apartment.

The talk continued.

One thing led to another in a loose little pattern of its own, neither of you steering it so much as following where it went. You talked about the television rehearsal, and he talked about the Osaka show — a specific moment in one of the songs where something had finally clicked in a way it hadn’t in weeks. The feeling of that and how hard it was to explain to anyone who hadn’t experienced it.

You knew what he meant. You told him so, and he said, “Yes, exactly,” and his voice eased.

He was funny, which caught you slightly off guard. Dry and quick, with better comedic timing than you would have expected from someone so often treated like an untouchable monument. He made you laugh twice in the first ten minutes and seemed pleased with himself both times, though he tried badly to hide it. It was endearing.

The words came faster than they usually did with new people, arriving without the usual self-conscious editing. There was a noticeable absence of measuring, of constantly deciding what to give and what to keep back.

There was an honest curiosity in the way he asked questions. Different from the performed attention you got in interviews, designed to flatter just enough to open you up. His questions landed with the weight of someone listening closely, like what you said mattered.

Betwixt another rehearsal story and his complaint about the Osaka hotel having terrible tea, it hit you with rude, inconvenient clarity: this should have felt stranger, right?

He should have felt farther away.

Against all sense, he sounded close enough that the thought of him calling again did not feel nearly as terrifying as a sober, perfectly conscious version of you knew it should have.

Though not at three in the morning, obviously. You still had principles.

Michael was telling you about a dancer who had missed his cue but had recovered so well the audience thought it was part of choreography.

“You should hire him for every mistake from now on,” you said, your voice still thick with the harrowing beckon of sleep but gaining a playful edge.

“I told him that,” Michael replied. You could hear the grin in his voice.

“You did not.”

“I did.”

“That’s cruel, Mr. Ja — Michael. Truly.” You shifted under the duvet, the landline cord tangling around your arm as you settled in.

“He laughed!”

“That man was probably terrified of you,” you countered. A series of rhythmic car honks rose from the street outside your window, thank you New York. You rolled your eyes before continuing. “Most people would be. You’re a perfectionist with a global empire; one misplaced step probably feels like a death sentence for him.”

“He was not terrified of me,” Michael defended quickly. “We have a good relationship. He’s a professional.”

“Michael, you are Michael Jackson.”

“That doesn’t mean people are terrified of me.”

“It means people pretend not to be terrified of you out of professionalism.”

He lost his sentence halfway through, a wheeze coming through the telephone line. You beamed.

“Can I tell you something?” you whispered, somewhere around what turned out to be the forty-minute mark.

“Sure.”

“The fan events,” you winced, already lamenting it.

He choked on whatever he was about to say next. “Oh, the article mentioned that.”

“Yes, I know,” you said, with as much dignity as you could manage. “And I would like to note for the record that I am extremely normal about you.”

“Are you?”

“Yes — ”

“The fan meetings,” he said, circling it back, clearly enjoying himself.

You closed your eyes briefly. “It was twice. Maybe three times. It was a long time ago, before my first single, so technically — ”

“Which tours?”

“I’m not answering that.”

“Triumph or Victory?”

“I’m actually not — ”

“Both?”

“Goodbye,” you said, the last shreds of your ego rapidly dissipating.

A thud came through the speaker. He had dropped the phone. Somewhere in Osaka, Michael Jackson appeared to be losing a fight with his own laughter. You were in the middle of figuring out how not to burst into flames.

“Well, I appreciate it,” he said, when he’d settled. His phrasing sincere now, the teasing gone from it. “That you were there.”

“You can’t appreciate it,” you protested, drawing the words out as if you hadn’t been the one to bring it up in the first place. “It gives you too much leverage.”

“I won't use it against you.”

“You literally just did.”

“I won't use it against you again,” he amended, his tone mellowing into something more genial than the playful banter from a moment ago.

You were smiling, which seemed to be the default state this phone call had put you in. “I need to ask you something in return. Fair is fair.”

“Okay.”

“You read the whole article?” 

The silence that followed was immediate and very informative. Static crackled faintly over the line, carrying all the confession he refused to say out loud.

“Aha!”

“I read some of it.”

“Enough that you knew about the fan meetings?”

“I skimmed it.”

“Oh, who knew,” you said, tickled. “Michael Jackson is a man who likes to read articles about himself — ”

“I was not reading it because it was about me.”

That shut you up. He continued, quieter now.

“...It just… it mentioned you.”

The heat that rushed across your face was immediate. You dropped the phone. Apparently you were both clumsy with phones.

The receiver landed on your pillow, threatening to slide down to the floor while you pressed both hands over your face, as if you could physically force the reaction back into your skull. You let your head fall back against the pillow and stared at the ceiling, thinking that of all the ways this call could have gone, this was not one you had imagined.

This easy, partly ridiculous thing. This conversation that had begun with you swearing at him and had become something you did not want to end. Talking to him felt less like an event and more like something you had been waiting for without even knowing you were waiting.

The bluish light of your alarm clock washed over the side of your face.

4:02

“Oh, hell.”

A muffled sound came from the blankets. Crap. The phone.

You scrambled for it and dragged it back to your ear.

“Are you still there?”

“I’m here,” Michael said.

You had been on the phone for fifty minutes. Rehearsals were in less than seven hours. You had not slept nearly enough, and rehearsals were happening whether you were prepared for it or not. You were still in yesterday’s clothes, lying in the dark of your apartment, talking to a man on the other side of the world, and you needed, with some urgency, to go to sleep.

“I have to go,” you said. Even as you said it, there was a fragile reluctance in it that you suspected he could hear. “It’s four in the morning.”

"Yeah?"

“I have a rehearsal in — ” You squinted at the clock. “Six and a half hours.”

You heard him laugh. “Do not laugh. You have taken years off my life.”

“I’ll call earlier next time.”

Next time.

The words slipped into the room far too easily. 

“Promise?” Whether you were asking him to promise he would actually call earlier, or whether you were asking him to promise that he would call again at all, you weren’t sure.

“Yes,” he said. “Promise.”

A beat.

“Probably.”

“Michael.”

He chuckled: a low, unhurried sound you were already too familiar with for someone who had only called you once.

You did not move immediately. Neither did he, it seemed. The line stayed open, both of you sitting on either end of it before it actually ended.

His laughter was the last thing you heard before the call clicked dead. You set the receiver down and lay back in the dark.

The apartment was exactly as it had been an hour ago — same walls, same ceiling, same cold air, same thin line of light under the door — and you were exactly as you had been, tired and in yesterday’s clothes with tomorrow (technically today) coming too fast.

Everything was the same.

You stared at the ceiling for a while anyway, grinning like an idiot at nobody, before you finally closed your eyes.

You were asleep in minutes.

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He wore a pair of crisp, sky-blue cotton pyjamas, the top buttoned neatly to the throat. Michael was old school like that.

Without the stage makeup, the sharp of his cheekbones were softer, the famous cupid's bow of his lips relaxed but still a little pouty. He was so focused on the book, in front of him that he hadn’t realised your eyes were on him. The kids were finally in bed, and the Santa Barbra Valley was quite literally an oasis of pure and utter silence.

You lay on your side, head pillowed on your arm, watching him, the sound of your pulse in your ear. The digital clock on the nightstand read 1:17 AM.

For six months, this had been your secret universe, Neverland, the kids, your research. Access to all the books you could ever want; because Michael wanted them too.

It hadn't been the fame that made you fall. You'd grown up with him on MTV like everyone else, had your own version of him blu-tacked to some adolescent wall in your head. But that person and this person were barely related.

This one read your work irrigation manuals for pleasure to better understand you and got genuinely despondent about your losses.

you were used to failed dates and one night stands that didn’t work out, so when Michael came around all dashing and interesting, you hadn't stood a chance of getting away from his gravitational pull.

He was a beyond perfect boyfriend; allowing you into intimate spaces with his kids, being soft with you romantically, cooking you dinner - albeit, not very fancy dinners — but it was what you both loved. The lack of care or pretence. His heart was always in the right place.

There would however, always be 12 dozen beautiful deep red roses on the counter in the main kitchen at Neverland for you, when you came home from a dig.

✧˖°.

Earlier that evening you'd been cross-legged on the library floor surrounded by plaster casts and field notes, a Triassic vertebra balanced in your palm; genuinely quite stressed about work… and the unraveling situation you found you could not control with Michael.

He could sense your stress and when he'd appeared in the doorway in his socks, two mugs of chamomile in hand, you felt your shoulders drop considerably.

"Is that bone from something that could have eaten me?"

You looked up. He was already looking at the bone with genuine concern.

"Probably not," you said. "It's a herbivore."

He looked quite petulantly disappointed that it wasn't some ravenous, crazed creature. He handed you your mug anyway and dropped down onto the floor beside you, crossing his legs, the chamomile balanced carefully in both hands while he peered at the vertebra like it might do something.

"How do you know it's a herbivore?"

"The teeth mostly. And the shape of the jaw."

"But you don't have the jaw."

"No."

"So you're guessing then?" He smirked at you, the smile lines around his mouth pronounced and feather fine.

You looked at him. "I'm inferring. From evidence we have collected, the context…. It's different."

He made a face that suggested he wasn't entirely convinced but was willing to let it go, and reached for one of the plaster casts.

He turned it over slowly in his long fingers, studying it from every angle, and something about the way he held it and how he reached up and pulled his reading glasses down from where they'd been pushed up on top of his head, settling them onto his nose, made your heart squeeze in your chest.

His eyes behind the lenses went enormous. Soft and dark and completely ardent, blinking down at two hundred million years of bone like it owed him an explanation.

He always touched your work like that. Like he'd been told what it cost you to bring it home. He was so fascinated by everything you did, and he usually asked such deep and intrinsic questions about it too; the conversation very rarely lingered on himself, he always flipped it around on you.

"What's this one?"

"Femur. Juvenile. About two hundred and twenty million years old."

He was quiet for a moment, genuinely sitting inside that number.

"Two hundred and twenty million," he repeated softly, more to himself than to you. He set it down gently. "And we're sitting here worrying about tabloids."

You laughed before you could stop yourself and he looked pleased — a little startled by it, like your laugh was a thing that still caught him off guard.

He stayed. Asked questions for nearly two hours, working through your field notes. he clearly had nowhere else to be and genuinely wanted to understand.

At some point he'd stretched out on his side on the rug, head propped in his hand, reading your annotations upside down and asking whether the scientist who'd disagreed with your dating method was being professionally jealous or just wrong.

"Both, probably," you'd said.

"Mm." He'd nodded gravely. "I know that feeling."

You'd been about to say something when small feet appeared in the doorway.

Prince stood there in his Star Wars pyjamas, eight years old and entirely unrepentant about the hour, holding a copy of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire against his chest like it was going to grow wings and fly away.

"Daddy."

Michael turned his head. "Buddy, it's late—"

"You said you'd do the voices for the characters."

"I have company, baby."

"You did the 'maybe' face when you said it. The maybe face means yes."

You pressed your lips together very hard to try stop from laughing. Michael sat up and gave you a look that clearly communicated that he did not appreciate you finding this funny.

"The maybe face," he said flatly, not fully understanding Prince's made up concept.

Prince padded across the library and deposited the book in Michael's lap with a funny nonchalance that did not belong to a kid at that age. "Voldemort needs to be scary. Last time you made him sound like a good guy”

"He's a complex villain and I—"

"Daddyyyy” Prince whined.

Michael picked up the book. Looked at you expectantly, clearly wanting you to get him out of this scenario; that would likely last into the small hours of the night; Prince never fell asleep fast.

"Okay," he huffed, standing, and Prince immediately took his hand. As he passed to walk out of the door, he pressed a chaste kiss to the top of your head, warm and brief, there and gone before either of you had to overthink the softness of it. The domesticity.

Their voices disappeared down the hall. You could already hear Michael attempting something considerably more threatening than a butler.

You had sat for a moment listening to them with a small smile on your face, the chamomile tea stale and cold beside you.

✧˖°.

He’d come back into the bedroom later that evening with a soft smile on his face, clearly happy he’d been able to do that for his son. 

You had already climbed back into bed and lay there in the dark with the weight of all of your thoughts sitting heavy on your sternum; six months of a life you hadn't planned on, settling over you like sediment.

He had come so out of the blue, a whirlwind, well and truly. All grins and soft murmurs about how ‘pretty you were’ and that he ‘needed to take you out and learn more about archeology’. 

There were long conversations that stretched until dawn about lost cities and starving children, about music as a healing force, about the joy of him being able to grow his own fruits and vegetables without anyone there to interrupt him now, and how he couldn’t have ever had that before if it weren’t for Neverland. He loved the slow life now, there was no more touring or extravagant stress on his body, just peace.

You'd connected in a way that felt predestined, two oddly-shaped puzzle pieces from different boxes that somehow fit. He called you his "mirror soul."

But outside these gates…

"What if the fans find out?"

The words left your mouth quickly and quietly, like word vomit. Michael's finger, tracing a line of text, stilled. You inwardly rolled your eyes that he was trying to read such a stiff book at this hour; but this was Michael and he quite literally would read anything.

He didn't look up immediately. He slowly closed the book, using a velvet tassel to mark his place, and set it aside on the nightstand.

He took off his glasses, folded them neatly, and turned his head towards you. His dark eyes were almost amber in the lamplight.

"Then… they find out," he said, his voice a low, melodic rasp used only for these private hours.

A gentle smile touched his lips. "—and I want them to. I'm tired of hiding you away," He said, his hand slid over the covers to lightly touch yours that lay balanced on your side.

"You deserve to be shown off, to be in the light"

You pushed yourself up to sit, pulling your knees to your chest and your hand away from his.

The oversized MIT sweatshirt you wore swallowed you whole.

The silence stretched long enough to become its own kind of rebuttal to his sweet proposed gesture. When he finally spoke, his voice was measured, but you could hear the slight emotional waver.

"Do you want to be with me, Y/N?" The question came out, no accusation in it yet, just something careful and exposed sitting underneath the words.

He was looking at you with intense, pleading eyes and you could see him doing the thing he did when he was bracing for impact; a stillness that moved through his whole body, like he'd drawn himself inward. Likely waiting to hear something he already suspected was coming.

"Because sometimes I feel like I am the only one who — " he stopped. Pressed his lips together. And then started again.

"I need you to tell me honestly. Because if this isn't what you want—"

"Michael, that's not what I—"

"Then what?" He snapped.

and there it was, just briefly, the hurt surfacing before he could smooth it back down. He shifted against the pillows, and the lamplight caught the angle of his jaw, tight with the effort of staying composed.

"Because I have been patient, and I have been careful to keep you out of the papers, and I have tried to give you every reason to feel safe here, and still you talk about this," He gestured between you both, exasperated. "like it is something you are waiting to escape from. Like I am something you are waiting to get away from."

"I'm not," you said, and the firmness in your own voice surprised you. "I promise you, I am not."

He looked at you for a long moment. Something in his expression shifted, the hurt receding just slightly, making room for confusion. "Then why do you keep—"

"Because they'll eviscerate me." The fear tumbled out now, cold and slick, and once it started you couldn't seem to stop it.

"They'll find my academic records, they'll find pictures from my high school days and make fun of me, they'll call me a gold-digger, a nobody, they'll — they'll say I'm too plain, too ugly for you."

Your hands, curled up in the sleeves of your sweater, came up to the sides of your face.

"Your fans, they have an image of you. It's celestial. And I'm just a person really. Just a regular person. They'll find out how much older you are than me and they'll eat it up, and they'll get between us and cast doubt in your mind that maybe I am not the one—"

True tears started to brim in your eyes of the thought of being rinsed through in the tabloids, just like Michael had been most of his adult life.

The tension completely left his body at that point, his eyes no longer casting an accusatory and pained look. You looked up and found him watching you with an expression you hadn't seen before — it wasn’t hurt or guarded, something much softer and a little undone, like he'd been handed back something he thought he'd lost.

He understood now. It hadn't been about him at all.

His usually easy smile was settled in a patient line. He had listened until you ran out of breath, until the only sound was your shaky inhale. It was his turn now to make a point.

"C'mere," he said, a firm request, cutting off your spiral into despair. His voice had dropped another octave, an authority you'd only glimpsed in flashes before.

It was the voice of the man who commanded stadiums, not really the gentle soul who read bedtime stories to his children.

This was Michael in his late forties, a king in his own kingdom, and he was done with this ugly narrative that the press were constantly spinning about his celebrity.

You uncurled yourself and moved to the edge of the bed beside him. Instead of pulling you into an embrace, he took your face in both his hands. His palms were warm, his touch infinitely gentle, but his grip was unyielding.

"Look at me," he whispered. "Really look. Do you see a celestial being? Or do you see a man?"

You rolled your eyes and tried to pull out of his grasp but he held your face tighter.

"A man…" you said, moping.

"Uh-huh. A man who needs prescription glasses to read, who loves bad sci-fi movies, who gets nervous before going to the dentist? You see me. And I see you. The most beautiful, brilliant, confounding woman to ever walk into my chaos. And I will not let you speak about her that way."

He released your face and stood up in one fluid motion, extending a hand. "Get up."

"Michael… its late, where could we possibly be going?" You reluctantly whined and gave him your hand.

"Up. Now." The command was soft, but absolute.

You took his hand. He led you across the deep-pile carpet, to the far wall of the master suite, which was dominated by a magnificent, floor-to-ceiling antique mirror in a gilded frame.

He let go of your hand and, with a surprising strength and energy for almost 2am, began pulling large, decorative pillows from a nearby chaise lounge, arranging them in a semi-circle on the floor directly before the glass.

"Sit," he instructed, nodding to the pillows.

Feeling a confusing mix of vulnerability and a strange, thrilling charge, you sank down onto the cushions, sitting cross-legged. You were facing the mirror, your reflection wide-eyed and small in the sweatshirt.

He came behind you, a soft and oddly sweet vision in his blue pyjamas, and knelt close, his knees framing your hips.

You could feel the heat of his body through the thin cotton. He placed his hands on your shoulders, his gaze locking onto yours in the mirror.

"You see her?" he murmured, his lips beside your ear. His breath was warm, the air moving the hair beside your ear, tickling you slightly.

"That's the woman I fell for. Look at her."

You tried to look away, but his hands tightened slightly. "Look."

You met your own gaze. You saw the anxiety, the fear, and most importantly how lost you looked.

"She is a humanitarian," he whispered, his voice a sensual, rolling cadence. He began a slow, deep massage of your shoulders. "Her hands have touched artifacts thousands of years old. They've also held the hands of orphans in Nairobi. She has a mind like a diamond; precise, brilliant, and tough." One of his hands slid down your arm, his fingers tracing the sleeve of your sweatshirt.

"She has a laugh that sounds like wind chimes near a beach town. She argues with me about the socio-political and… pretty much debates in circles around me." He laughed warmly, and you felt the vibration of it against your back. It was always a welcome sound, his laugh. Laced with innocence that made your heart swell.

"Hell, I think you're the only one to ever be able to tell me i am wrong to my face"

His other hand left your shoulder and came around your front, splaying possessively over your lower belly, pulling you back snugly against his chest.

You could feel the firm plane of his torso, the steady beat of his heart against your back. His voice never wavered, a hypnotic, intimate sermon. He was so good at this, you'd fallen into his clutch now. He'd speak at charity galas and award ceremonies, calling attention to incredibly important causes with grace and ease. He always knew the right thing to say. All that wit and emotional intelligence, still intact under the cruel paradox of fame. The more it demanded of him, the more it took. Yet, here he was. Still here, and still trying; and with you.

"And this body…" he breathed into your ear, changing the subject. He nipped your lobe gently with his teeth. A sharp, sweet jolt went through you.

"This body is a masterpiece. It's strong. It carries her across dig sites and through laboratories."

His hand on your belly slid lower, pressing down through the thick fabric of your sweats and the sweatshirt. "It houses a fire of ambition that matches my own."

His fingers found the seam of your sweats, dipping beneath the waistband. They didn't dive lower, just rested there, a hot, promising weight on your pubic bone. Your breath hitched and your head fell back against his shoulder, your eyes fluttering shut.

"Eyes open, baby," he coaxed, his teeth grazing your earlobe again. "Watch. Watch me worship you."

You forced your eyes open. In the mirror, you saw the intimate tableau: you nestled back against him, your cheeks rosy.

Him, looking over your shoulder, his expression one of fierce, concentrated adoration. His famous features were set in lines of absolute certainty. His smile reached his eyes, and the lines there were accentuated in the lighting of his bedroom; adorable. Proof that he had smiled so much throughout his life and had lived so thoroughly.

His hand began to move. He rubbed slow, firm circles over the front of your sweats, the heel of his palm applying perfect pressure right over your clit. The fabric was a frustrating barrier, but the motion, combined with his words, his teeth on your ear, was overwhelmingly potent.

"They don't get to have an opinion," he said, his voice thickening. "They can have me when I put myself out there. But when I want to be private I will. I get you always, because you're mine… and no one else's"

He paused briefly, his eyes finding yours in the mirror, his breath quite shallow.

"-- And right now, I can feel my girls heat through two layers of clothing." He punctuated the statement by grinding his palm down harder, and a broken moan escaped you.

"And its so warm, and wet for me," You felt your hips gyrate slightly, without you even meaning. Your body just naturally gravitated to the pleasure, seeking more.

"That's it," he praised, his own breathing starting to deepen. "Yeah" his voice was breathy and low.

"Let me hear you. It's only me here with you, let yourself feel good."

His other hand came up to your chest, sliding under the bulk of the sweatshirt and your thin camisole beneath.

His cool, elegant fingers found your bare breast, cupping its weight, his thumb sweeping back and forth over your nipple until it peaked into a hard, aching point.

He pinched it gently, rolling it, and you arched against him, a whimper caught in your throat.

"See how beautiful you are?" he murmured, watching your reactions in the glass.

"See how you come alive? That's my doing. Why should we deny ourselves of this just because some journalists said so? No one else can have an impact on this."

The mixture of sensations were a driving delirium in your brain. The deliberate, rhythmic pressure through your sweats, the expert play of his fingers on your breast, the hot whisper of his words and the sharp little bites on your ear and neck. You were panting, your hands gripping his thighs where they bracketed you.

"Off," he commanded softly, his hand leaving your breast to hook into the waistband of your sweats and your panties beneath. "Lift up for me."

In a daze, you raised your hips. He peeled both the sweats and your simple cotton panties down your thighs in one smooth motion, leaving you bare from the waist down, the cool air a shock against your feverish skin. You felt yourself start to flush again realising you had not even bothered shaving. You gave him a helpless look in the mirror and he rolled his eyes and tutted.

"Aw c'mon now, you know i prefer you this way" the sound of his voice in your ear sent tingles shooting down your spine, making your cunt wetter. You could see your entrance glistening in the mirror, courtesy of the spotlights above you.

"So perfect f'me, so natural", he peppered kisses down your neck and back up again to your ear, the skin there now raised with goosebumps. "-- the way its meant to be"

He tossed the garments he'd been holding aside without a glance, his attention fully returned to the mirror.

His arm came back around you, his hand no longer hindered by fabric. His fingers, long and knowing, slid through your slick folds with a low, appreciative hum that vibrated through your back.

"So slick," he breathed. "So ready for me."

You were so wet for him that you could hear yourself, you didn't even bother look at what he was doing with his hands, the sensation already lighting a fire in your stomach.

He slide his his middle and ring fingers into you slowly and gently, the base of his hand now pushing at an angle against your clit. You let go of the breath you were holding and threw your head back. His free hand that had been roaming came up to hold your neck.

"Mm i love seeing you like this, how you respond to my touch" his hand gently left your neck and and pulled your face to a position where you could see yourself in the large ornate mirror again.

He gave you a shy little smile and continued on. The scene in front of you was obscene, and so diabolically dirty. He pulled his fingers out of you and a glistening string of wetness trailed away with it. You briefly eyed his face to see his reaction to this; his eyes drooping lightly, lustful and his bottom lip under painful pressure from where his teeth where digging into it.

He found your clit, already swollen and throbbing, and began to circle it with a torturously slow, wet precision, smearing around your arousal.

His touch was confident, dominant, leaving no room for insecurity or thought.

It was pure sensation, orchestrated by him. Your moans became continuous now, a low, desperate string of sounds—"Ohgod, oh, thatssogood, p-please…"

You watched, mesmerized and exposed, as his fingers worked you in the mirror. You saw your own face, eyes dark with pleasure, mouth slack.

his face also reflected, etched with an efficacious mix of love and lust, his eyes glued to where his hand disappeared between your legs. The visual was as arousing as the physical touch, a feedback loop of escalating need.

"I'll continue since you said please, m'girl", feigned innocence in his low voice,

Driven by a surge of boldness, you reached one hand back, fumbling behind you. You found the firm swell of his erection in his pyjama pants.

He was so hard for you, straining against the pale blue cotton. You palmed him through the fabric, and a ragged, guttural groan was torn from his throat, his rhythm faltering for a second.

"is this really turning you on, Michael?" you managed to gasp, squeezing him gently.

In the mirror, you saw his eyes slam shut for a moment, his jaw tightening.

When they opened, they burned with a new, hungrier fire. He increased the pace of his fingers, then now sliding inside and out at a rapid pace, curling just so. You cried out, your hips bucking against his hand.

"Y-yeah, God —," he gritted out, his composed, sensual narration cracking under the strain of his own desire.

"And it's not enough. Touching you like this… watching you… it's heaven, but it's not enough."

He withdrew his fingers suddenly, making you whine in protest. He brought them to his lips, never breaking eye contact in the mirror, and slowly, deliberately, sucked your taste from them.

The act was so blatantly carnal, so far from the shy, boyish figure of public imagination, it stole the air from your lungs.

He didn't let the moment at the mirror linger. The charge was too high, the need too direct. With a soft groan that was more command than sound, he stood, pulling you up with him. Your legs were unsteady, but his arm had a strong hold around your waist, guiding you the few steps back to the edge of the vast bed.

"Here," he murmured, his voice already thick with intent.

He sat on the edge, the mattress dipping under his weight, and pulled you to stand between his spread knees.

The sky-blue pyjamas were a stark, innocent contrast to the dark hunger in his eyes.

"Riiiiight here, baby."

His hands went to your bare waist, and tugged at the hem of the thick sweatshirt you were wearing.

"Let's get this off," he said sweetly.

The cool air of the room kissed your bare skin on your legs, but the heat of his gaze was enough to keep you warm.

"Arms up." You obeyed, and he pulled the sweater and the thin camisole over your head, leaving you utterly exposed before him. You felt quite silly in this moment, and very…observed. In the past, the sex had mostly been in the dark, you feeling shy and uneasy about your imperfections. Michael was lean, petite, but strong and very beautiful. You were not always sure you lived up to that level of…perfection.

You knew deep down and rationally that no one was perfect and even he struggled at times, his weight fluctuating and his vitiligo… but he still had such a presence, an aura that preceded his natural and physical beauty.

He let out a long, slow breath.

"My God."

A violent wave of shyness crashed over you. You crossed your arms over your chest, wanting to shrink, to hide. He caught your wrists gently but firmly.

"No," he said, his voice low and unwavering. "No hiding. Not from me. Not ever." He guided your hands down to your sides, then leaned forward, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to your belly. His hands slid up to cradle your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipples, making you gasp.

"I want to see the pleasure on your face when it happens. And I want you to see it on mine. We're not hiding anything tonight" He said, his features soft.

"I am not willing to hide you anymore, either."

He laid back on the bed, propping himself up on the mountain of pillows, his legs still hanging off the side. He beckoned you with a curl of his finger.

"Come here. Sit on the bed, facing me. Show me how you touch yourself."

Trembling, you climbed onto the bed, kneeling a few feet from him. The lamplight painted your skin in gold, highlighting every tremor.

You couldn't look at him. Your gaze dropped to the rumpled duvet.

"Eyes on me, baby," he coaxed, his voice a sensual rasp. He was already working on the buttons of his pyjama top. He shrugged it off, revealing the lean, pale plane of his torso. It was mostly pale with a sprinkling of darker little vitiligo patches; a beautiful painted galaxy on his skin.

He then hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his bottoms.

"C'monnn, keep looking at me."

You forced your eyes up as he pushed the blue cotton down his hips. His cock sprang free, fully erect, thick and flushed a deep, ruddy dark pink at its tip. A prominent vein ran along its length, and a clear bead of fluid welled at the slit. As much as it was cliche, he really was breathtaking. An intimate masculine sight.

He took himself in hand, giving one long, slow stroke from base to tip, a low hiss escaping his teeth.

"See what you do to me? How much I have been strainin'" he swallowed slightly, his mouth clearly dry. "This is all yours."

He began to stroke himself quite delicately, you observed, but not without showcasing rhythm.

His fist moved with a soft, wet sound, his thumb smearing the pre-cum over his swollen tip.

"Your turn," he breathed, his eyes locked on yours. "Touch yourself. Let me see you do it."

Your hand felt like a stranger's as you brought it down between your legs. The first contact of your own fingers on your slick, swollen flesh made you jerk. You touched your clit, a feather-light circle, and a shaky sigh escaped you. You tried to look away, your cheeks burning.

"Please look at me though," he said, his voice gaining a ragged, desperate edge. His strokes on himself sped up slightly.

"I want to see it in your eyes. I want to see the second it feels good. C'mon, m'girl. For me."

You met his gaze. The intensity there; the love, the lust, the sheer want…it was as if he were getting on his knees and begging from the ground for this.

You pressed harder, circling your clit with more purpose. A soft moan built in the back of your throat.

"That's it," he encouraged, his own breathing deepening. He shifted, spreading his legs wider, giving you a full, unobstructed view of his hand working his cock.

The sight was mesmerizingly lewd. You could see the way his legs tensed in pleasure, and how he worked his body to try get himself further to the precipice; his movements becoming slightly uncoordinated.

"Yeah, just like that. You're so wet for me. I can hear it. Let me hear you moan, too."

You did. A low, continuous whimper started as you fell into a rhythm, two fingers sliding through your own arousal before returning to circle your clit. You were panting, your free hand clutching at the duvet.

"Use your fingers inside," he guided, his voice hoarse. "Imagine it's me. Curl them a lil'. Ahh… just like that."

He quickened the motion on himself, his fist twisting on the upstroke, his hand angled in the perfect way that could nudge him closer to his peak.

He was fucking his own hand now, his hips lifting off the bed to meet each stroke. His hair was falling in his face, no longer silky and straight at the front where his real hair was peaking out, it looked soft, wet and coiled.

"You see how hard you make me? You see how bad I need you? How much I crave you? I'm gonna come so hard for you, baby. But I need to see you. I need to watch you come for me first."

You were so close hearing him talk this way. It wasn't that he wasn't always dirty, he most definitely was.

The fever pitch within you was tightening, burning. The visual of him — the man you'd really grown to adore, on his back, jerking himself off with desperate, hungry strokes while he watched you pleasure yourself, was the most insane aphrodisiac imaginable.

But the vulnerability was overwhelming. As the first flutters of your orgasm began to spark, you tried to turn your head, to hide your face in the crook of your arm.

"NO." The word was a cracked, desperate plea. He stopped stroking himself, his hand stilling, gripping the base of his cock tightly, the veins on his pale hands standing out.

"Please. Look at me. Please. I need your eyes. It's the only thing that–" he looked down at himself and started to slowly but surely pump his cock in his hands again "… ahh… it's the only thing that makes it real. Don't hide from me. Let me in."

The raw, broken need in his voice shattered your last barrier. You turned your face back to him, your eyes swimming with tears of overwhelming sensation and emotion. You held his needy gaze.

Not all of the dirtiness of the situation, but his need, that's what sent you right off of the edge.

With a cry out loud of "fuck", you came.

Your body bowed and jittered, your fingers working frantically as waves of intense, pulsing fulfilment racked you. You held his eyes through it all, watching as your climax reflected in his; a mirror of lust and ecstasy.

The sight of you coming while holding his gaze destroyed him.

"Fuu–!" he spluttered, cutting himself off before he could yell out much more; his hips moving off of the bed, and his legs straight and tense with concentration. His hand became a blur on his cock, his strokes short, brutal, and frantic.

"Your--Mouth. Open your mouth. Now. Gonna give it to you. Take it. Swallow it!"

You were dazed, submissive, floating on the aftermath. You crawled forward on your knees, your lips parting obediently just inches from the throbbing head of his cock.

He didn't wait. With a final, guttural shout — "AHH-GOD! I love–" …he came.

The first powerful jet hit the back of your throat, hot and salty. The next pulses painted your tongue, filled your mouth, thick and copious.

He kept stroking himself through it, muttering "thats it m'girl" milking every last drop, his body trembling violently. 

Those two words sat in your chest, lodged like a wooden stake, splinters and all. 

“I love” — and then nothing. 

Swallowed back down in the chaos of it, gone before you could be sure of what you'd heard. You tried to hold onto the present moment, the heat of him, the weight of the room around you, but your mind kept snagging on it, turning it over like one of your fossils. 

He had never said it. Not once in six months. And maybe he hadn't said it now either. Maybe it had been nothing. Maybe the wanting of it was making you hear things that weren't there.

His eyes were screwed shut in intense release, but then they flew open, locking onto yours as he fed his release into your mouth, ensuring you saw the utter, vulnerable surrender on his face.

Despite the come in your mouth, and how it dribbled over your lips and chin, he smirked and said something you were really not expecting and had never heard before from him in this context. He was usually quite old school.

"Kiss me," he panted, his voice wrecked. "please."

You did. The act was profoundly submissive, deeply intimate. He must have been able to taste himself on your lips.

Spent, he fell backwards deeper onto the bed, his softening cock resting against his belly. He was breathing like he'd run a marathon, sweat glistening on his chest. He reached for you, his hands trembling as they cupped your face.

"Damn that's taking more out of me nowadays than i thought," he whispered, his thumbs stroking your cheeks.

He pulled you down, into what you expected to be another kiss, but instead moved to rest your head on his sweaty chest, right over his pounding heart. He wrapped his arms around you, his hands finding somewhere to hold on your body, the way they always did, as he already knew the shape of you by heart.

"Y'hear that pounding? Genuinely that's how you make me feel, always" he murmured, the bliss of the intimacy evident in his voice.

You turned your head and looked up at him through your eyelashes, completely dumfounded by the entire outcome of the evening. 

The question was still there, quiet and persistent, curled up and pressing around your heart. You weren't going to ask him. You weren't ready to know the answer, and you suspected, from the way he'd swallowed it back down, that neither was he.

As the clock flickered over to the 3am mark, he spoke again more quietly; "i need them to know you, Y/N. how special you are."

You nodded solemnly, not exactly thrilled about the situation, but it meant that you wouldn't have to be so careful anymore, and that you could begin living a life that truly was in the light, and not as much in the shadows.

The silence of the valley returned and all you could smell was him, musky and a bit sweaty with a powdery aftershave peaking through.

This evening proved you had sacred proof of a trust that maybe no headline could ever touch.

nobody tells you that he'll still knock even though he has a key, because he has your key. he kept it. And you never asked for it back.

maybe because you forgot, maybe because you didn't care, maybe because some tiny, embarrassing part of you couldn't handle another thing disappearing from your life.

a knock comes at the door right on time. ofcourse. Michael was never late when it came to his daughter. You open it And there he is.

There is that same face that used to make you forget every reason you were angry.

"Daddy!" Michaella runs past you before you can even say hello. Michael's whole expression changes. Every ounce of the world's biggest superstar disappears, and he's just a father. "Hey, princess." He drops down immediately, picking her up. "Y' been good for mama?" a tiny nod. "Good girl." and you stand there. Watching, because despite everything...

despite the papers, the arguments, the nights you spent crying over the man standing in your doorway—he is still a good father... a damn good one then his eyes find yours, and everything changes.

that little smile disappears and there's a sadness there now, sadness that wasn't there when you first met him. "Hey." a simple word and somehow the hardest one. "Hi."

"How y' been?" You actually amost laugh, almost. Because that is such a Michael question.

like he doesn't already know the answer, like he doesn't have people asking about you, like he didn't spend the last year wondering. "I'm fine." a lie. You both know it. "That's good." another lie. He's not glad that's all you gave him. He wanted more.

He always wants more. "Michaella, go get your teddy, baby. Daddy's gonna wait right here, okay?" the little girl runs off, and now it's just you again. Just like it used to be. You cross your arms. "Get our daughter, Michael. Keep her safe. Bring her back Sunday."

Cold & professional right? like he's a babysitter. not the man you spent years loving.His face falls for half a second. Only half.Because he's learned how to hide it. "That's all y' got to say to me?"

"What else is there to say?" He looks at you. really desperate. and fuck. You hate that he still does that.like he's reading every thought you've ever had. "a lot."

"Michael, There isn't."

"There is."

"Michael—"

"I miss y'." and silence hits. ofcourse, ofcourse he would say it like that, Just throw the grenade into the room and watch what happens. Your jaw tightens. "Don't say that."

"Why?"

"Because it doesn't matter."

"It matters to me." Your heart betrays you. You hate him for still having that effect. "We divorced."

"I know." He hates that you keep mentioning it. "We ended for a reason."

"I know."

"Then stop looking at me like that." That one catches him. His eyes soften. "Like what?"

"Like I'm still your wife." The room goes quiet. and the answer takes too long, Way tooooo long.Then—"Because in my head..." His voice drops, almost ashamed. "Some days, y' still are." You close your eyes, because that was unfair. So unfair. "Michael."

"I know." and for once, no arguments, no charming smile.Just a broken man standing in your doorway."I know I don't get to say that anymore." And somehow that's what hurts the most. a tiny voice interrupts. "Daddy, teddy!" Michaella comes running back.

And just like that, the moment is over. Michael wipes his face quickly. He picks her up and walks to the door. Then he stops. His hand rests on the handle.

The same hand that used to unlock this house every night.The same hand that still has your key. He turns around. "I still got it, y' know." You frown. "Got..what?" a small smile, a sad one. "The key." Your throat tightens. "Michael—"

"I know i should give it back." He looks around your home. his old home. The place where he held his daughter for the first time. Where he kissed you in the kitchen. Where he promised forever. "I just..." He swallows. "Couldn't make myself do it." And for the first time in a year... you don't tell him to leave.

❤︎ 🧸 © 𝙢𝙞𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙚𝙡𝙨𝙢𝙚𝙡𝙤𝙙𝙞𝙚

y/n adored painting her nails. from gentle hues like baby blue and butter yellow, to more vivid colours like navy or purple. her favourite was purple.

and michael, well, he loved it too.

watching her sit at her vanity, the little bulbs illuminating her pretty face as the brush glided along each of her nails, coating them in a new, pretty colour.

but michael, he’d always had one vision. deep, almost seductive cherry red nails.

so, he bought her the nail polish.

a tiny little glasses bottle, the colour vivid inside, placed carefully inside a little box, which he placed delicately before her.

“mikey…” she smiled, her lips parting softly as he presented the box. he always bought her gifts.

“it’s a special one,” he said, stopping whatever protest she was about to begin as he nudged it towards her, his black hair shifting on his shoulders as she took the box onto her lap.

as much as she tried to play the sweet, modest girl, he could see the excitement in her eyes as she lifted the lid.

his eyes stayed locked on her face, watching the way her lips parted happily, the spark in her eyes as she took in the bottle.

“it’s such a pretty colour,” she gasped, bringing it close to her face to get a better look, “i love it,”

“yeah?” he watched her still, “put it on,”

“now?”

“now, baby,”

y/n nodded, unscrewing the lid as she rested her hand in the table. michael moved silently behind her seat at the vanity, taking her hair into his hand and pushing it out of her face.

“such a pretty colour,” he hummed, his voice quiet so as not to break the atmosphere as she finished her first hand, “for a pretty girl,”

he watched the shift in her face as she smiled, a soft pink hue filling in the apples of her cheeks.

his hand still rested on the back of her head as she leaned back to admire her now-dry fingernails, the very shade he had imagined.

“even prettier than i imagined,” michael whispered, his voice almost breathless as she held up her hands.

y/n wasn’t silly. she could see the way his eyes went hazy as he focused on her hands, the way his teeth sunk into his lower lip every time the light caught her nails and made them shine.

“you’re thinking,” she said, watching his face as the light caught his features.

“what’re you thinking about?” she screwed the bottle up, placing it beside all the other colours he had gifted her.

she watched as he pulled her to her feet, gentle as he inspected her hands. god, it was just as he had imagined.

“thinking about you,” he murmured, his voice low, strained almost, “these, wrapped round my dick. god, you’d look so pretty,” the rest of his sentence trailed off into her lips.

michael wasn’t gentle, but he wasn’t soft either, his hand on the back of her head, her hands pressed against his chest.

the back of y/n’s legs hit the bed, her lips pulled from his as she sat down on the edge of the mattress.

michael’s eyes darkened, one hand tilting her chin up so she could look at him, her lashes fluttering, the other on one of her hands.

“so gorgeous,” he muttered, his breath hitching in his throat as her hands came to his belt, undoing the silver buckle.

there was something so seductive about her nails, deep, dark and red, against the silver of his belt, sliding the leather out of her way so she could tug down the waistband of his trousers.

“so goddamn gorgeous,” he muttered again, hands tangled in her hair as she wrapped her lips round his tip.

her lashes fluttered against her cheek as michael pushed her hair from her face, guiding her lips round him.

“use your hands, i wanna see those pretty fingers,” his voice was choked almost, hoarse.

the light caught against her cherry red nails as she slid more of his dick into her mouth, his hand guiding her along.

“thats it,” he watched her, her hands twisting round his base just the way he liked it, “thats my girl,”

y/n hummed, the vibration sending a spark of pleasure through him as she bobbed her head, the sound of her mouth against his dick filling the room.

she looked almost ethereal on the bed before him, her hands moving along his shaft, nails painted that pretty, cherry red colour he adored.

“prettiest girl i’ve ever seen,” michael whispered, his tone bordering reverence, “you’re doing so good, baby,”

he guided her off of him, her hair wrapped round his hand, his other hand coming to glide his thumb across her bottom lip.

“so pretty,” he leaned down, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth, “use your heads, there’s my girl,”

his breath hitched as she wrapped her hands round his base, stroking him a few times before her lips were back round his head.

she knew how to make him gasp, and how to make him groan.

y/n knew him so well.

y/n gagged, her eyes watering as she pulled back, her hand gliding along his length to spread his salvia along him, coating his member in her glossy spit.

michael could almost feel something shift inside of him as y/n looked up at him through her pretty lashes, her dark-red nails still moving along him.

“just like how i imagined,” he watched her hands move, her lips once again wrapping round his tip, her tongue swirling round him.

her head bobbed against him, her lips sliding right down as far as she could, her hands working at the bits she couldn’t reach.

“i’m so close, baby,” his head fell back, eyes fluttering shut as she alternated her rhythm, speeding up then slowing down almost painfully slow.

y/n pulled him from her mouth, her hands working him up and down as she felt the tension in his body, her lips dragging along the side of him as he groaned, his cum spilling against her lips.

his vision went dark for a second, flickering back as he watched her finger drag along the cushion of her lower lip, a bead of cum against the dark red of her nails.

for a second, he just watched her, sliding her finger into her mouth, her tongue swirling round to collect the salty cum.

“you’re so beautiful,” he finally spoke, pressing a kiss to her lips as she giggled, her hands either side of his face.

“we should shower,” y/n said, pulling away for a second.

and something told him they weren’t quite done for the day.

❀❀❀❀

new york city, 1977 .

sometimes you wonder if your impulsive behavior was an asset or a liability to your livelihood. when michael asked you to move to new york with him while he filmed the wiz, you were excited—probably way too excited, which is why your parents were hesitant to let you go in the first place. in your delusional and overly optimistic mind, you thought that this was your chance. you’d live in the big city with michael, away from the watchful eye of his close knit family (who you did love but were honestly total cockblockers) and his controlling father and you’d be able to run away from the pressure of being a solo artist after your musical group abandoned you disbanded to pursue new ventures.  

you had it all planned out in your head. you and michael would spend the summer traveling from club to club, eating at high-end restaurants, and with the new romantic atmosphere, michael would realize his feelings for you and he’d finally confess his undying love under the city’s beautiful skyline. it was supposed to be perfect, something you’d tell your grandchildren about in the future.

in actuality, new york is one of the shittiest and dirtiest places you’ve ever stepped foot in, you have a permanent banging in your head from how many times you’ve visited studio 54 in the past month, and worst of all, he never even planned for the two of you to be alone because he also invited his older sister, latoya, to live in new york with him, acting as a 24 hour cockblock and shattering any romantic ideas you had conjured up in your head on the spot.

this wouldn’t be the first time you had read too much into his otherwise friendly actions, but this is by far the stupidest you’ve ever taken it. dropping everything to move to follow michael across the country pissed your label off to the max. you wanted to use your newfound freedom to work on your discography, but as of recently, you couldn’t get a single producer on the phone with you, your former groupmates were too busy releasing platinum records to return your calls, and your label kept postponing meetings with you—not even your dad/manager wanted to return your calls anymore.

you were so fucked and it’s not even funny.

the only thing you could do now is distract yourself from your impending doom by shopping in various stores and ordering takeout. all of this without michael by the way, because while you were dying out of boredom everyday, he was filming scenes for the wiz while charming his longtime crush, diana ross. you had absolutely no idea how much time went into creating a movie and you completely underestimated how much time the duo would have alone together—way more than you and michael have had this entire time—and you were spiraling just thinking about what they got up to all day.

you always wanted to believe that the feelings you held for michael were mutual and the relationship the two of you shared was special, but the way he acted around diana was hard to deny and it didn’t help that she was the total opposite of you. she was older, absolutely stunning, confident in herself, and despite the fact she couldn’t hold a note to save her life, she had an insanely successful solo career. it was hard to believe michael could have feelings for you when she was so clearly his type. 

you let out a groan, tossing the throw pillow that you were holding onto the floor out of frustration. currently, you were sitting alone in yours, michael’s, and latoya’s shared manhattan apartment. michael obviously had left in the morning for filming and a couple of hours ago, latoya went out shopping for some records at the request of michael, which left you home alone with your own thoughts, which was never a good idea. the longer you were left alone, the closer you got to losing it. 

you were waiting for something—anything—to happen to give you something to keep yourself busy with. after a while, you simply started staring at the entrance to the apartment from your spot on the couch, hoping somebody would come through the door so you wouldn’t be alone anymore.

if on cue, the door slowly opens, and on instinct you pop up from your seat on the couch. your eyes light up and a smile forms on your face, assuming michael came back early from filming. however, that excitement faltered slightly when latoya came shuffling through the door with a ridiculous amount of shopping bags, causing her to shruggle to get through the door. 

“oh, it’s just you,” your smile drops slightly, as you plop back down on the couch, resting your head in your hands.

“wel, it’s nice to see you too,” latoya replies in that soft spoken, docile, voice that all the jacksons seemed to have as she dropped all the bags onto the floor in one unceremonious movement, “have you been sitting here all day?”

“damn, did you buy out the entire store? i thought michael said he wanted you to pick up a couple of records. this is way more than a couple,” you pointed to the pile of bags on the floor, opting to ignore her question.

“these are the records michael asked for!”

“oh shit,” you let out a surprised laugh. moving from your seat on the couch to the door entrance, crouching down on the ground so that you could ruffle through the various bags, picking up any records that caught your eye, “this is too much…”

“well, not all the bags are his. i went shopping as well,” latoya shrugged, “and i also got something for you too.”

“for me?” you perked up, unable to hold back the childish smile that was forming on your face.

“mhm,” latoya nodded, scanning through the mountain of bags on the ground, looking for one specifically and when she found what bag she was looking for, she pulled a record out it and handed it to you, “here, i thought you’d be interested in hearing this.”

you graciously accepted the record with a close eyed smile, wondering what music latoya had picked out for you. but, when you opened your eyes, your smile immediately dropped.

staring back at you was the face of your older sister and ex-groupmate on the cover of her globally successful album. the same album she released the day after she left the group, completely blindsiding you in the process. you were filled with so much anger, you started twitching, causing latoya to give you a concerned look. without another word, you got up from the ground, traitor’s album and headed straight towards the highrise balcony with latoya following close behind.

opening the door to the balcony, you quickly chucked the album off the balcony and dusting your hands of the trash.

“y’know that cost money, right?” latoya crossed her arms and huffed. 

“it’s alright, i’ll pay you in pizza when i order some tonight,” you patted her on the back, heading back to your seat on the couch.

“whens the last time you’ve been outside?” latoya followed after you with a raised eyebrow, suddenly becoming more concerned. 

“umm…” you scratched the back of your head sheepishly. 

“i’m going to see michael on set, you should come, okay?” latoya suggested, but the both of you knew that deep down, you wouldn’t refuse the offer. 

“i guess i could make some time in my schedule,” you shrugged feigning nonchalance as you slowly made your way towards your bedroom to change into something more presentable than the soda stained floral pajama pants and hockey jersey you were currently wearing.

after a short, 40 minute wardrobe change, you and latoya were out on the town (incognito of course), heading towards where michael was filming for the day. unsurprisingly, butterflies were swarming in your stomach the closer you got to the set. it had gotten to the point that you started fidgeting with a loose thread on your bell bottom jeans. it was like your heart was magnetically connected to michael and the closer you got towards him, the quicker your heart started beating. 

however, when the two of you finally arrived on set, you were met with the one sight you didn’t want to see: michael and diana cuddling up and laughing together. it seemed like everyone was taking a break and the duo were standing in a corner, far away from everyone else, giggling and whispering to each other like they were an actual couple.

you felt your stomach turn in a million directions and you wanted to throw up and honestly, you were considering it as a valid option to stop the scene in front of you. instead, you followed behind latoya with a look of mortification stuck on your face. 

after a second, michael noticed the two of you approaching and his smile grew wider as he turned his attention towards you both, causing diana to begrudgingly follow suit, “you guys? what are you two doing here?!” he asked genuinely surprised.

“we wanted to visit you, y'know see you in your element,” latoya grabbed you by your shoulders and shook you, while you simply kept your gaze on your boots, “what have you guys been up to today?” 

“oh nothing much, we just finished filming for the day and diana and i have just been hanging around,” michael shrugged, talking without thinking before he was reminded of something. suddenly, he called your name in his normal soft spoken voice, which forced you to finally look up at him and diana.

“have you met diana yet? i feel like you have but i’m not sure…”

michael’s casual tone did nothing to calm all the voices in your head, which were mostly telling you to scream and punch them both in their face. instead, you forced yourself to turn your head towards diana and give her a painful smile. diana stuck her hand out at you with an overwhelmingly confident smirk that made you want to crawl into a hole and die. despite it being painful, you smiled and extended your hand to meet hers.

“we haven’t met yet, but it’s an honor,” you started off, shaking her hand robotically before quickly adding with a smile that was just a little bit more genuine, “my mom is a huge fan, she’s been following you since she was a little girl!”

diana let out one dry life before snatching her hand away from yours. you suddenly felt just a little bit better about yourself, even though it was a low blow. 

“anyways, that’s great,” latoya let out an awkward chuckle before motioning between the two and adding, “well, tonight she offered to pay for dinner so we're heading out to eat. you guys should definitely come. we can do like a group thing.”

“that’s not even close to what i offered you,” you shook your head to yourself, scoffing in disbelief.

you were completely stunned by latoya’s offer. the thought of having to sit across from michael and diana for an extended period of time made you want to throw yourself from the balcony of our apartment. never once in your friendship had michael ever spoken in detail about the inner workings of his relationship with diana—no matter how much you pressed him for answers—but you knew he used to have a major crush on her when you guys were kids. that fact alone left you to speculate what they really meant to each other, which was worse than him just outright saying they were in a relationship because the secrecy let your imagination run wild.

“i’d love to go to dinner with you,” michael cut through your train of thoughts with his shy smile and quiet voice. he tilted his head to the side slightly and his smile widen, which caused you to imitate his movements. 

for a quick second, you forgot that anyone else was around as you just stared into each other's eyes. it was in moments like these, where you were able to convince yourself that you weren’t just being delusional and that he actually had feelings for you. the way he looked at you as if he was trying to peer into your head and read your every thought left you feeling overwhelmed in the best way possible. it was like the two of you were sharing a secret that no one else was in on.

“it’s funny that you say that actually, because michael and i are actually going to my house to rehearse lines. together. so, we can’t join you guys today, but maybe next time you can pay for our dinner,” diana interjected like a record scratch causing that personal barrier that you and michael built up to shatter immediately.

the way she grabbed onto his arm, pulling him unbelievably closer to her made you physically recoil. you were 99% sure she was attempting to leave a bruise on him with how tightly she sunk her nails into his skin. it was jarring to watch her cling to him like he was her lifeline, but it was also jarring to see how he immediately leaned into her touch with the same look you thought he had just given you.

your lip quivered ever so slightly, and the tiniest pout graced your lips before you finally spoke again, “well i wasn’t actually offering—”

“i mean you understand all the effort we have to put into this movie. we have to dedicate every free hour we have to each other,” diana cut you off and smiled, but you felt the mocking undertone in every giggle she let out.

“right…” you finally spoke, trying to make sense of whatever nonsense she was spewing out.

“not that we don’t already do that already,” she cut you off again, this time moving to wrap her arms around michael’s waist, resting her head on his shoulder, “its just that we get distracted very easily, getting caught up with other things.” but because she still had more audacity, diana leaned into michael’s neck, letting her lips gently press against his ear.

you turned to latoya sharing a look of confusion with her, before shaking your head again. you could only do so much to hide your frown. it hurt to watch the scene in front of you and it hurt even more that you couldn’t react. you felt so helpless to the cruelties of life. no matter how much you tried, you simply couldn’t control how michael felt about you and you couldn’t turn your platonic relationship to a romantic one. your friendship with michael was extremely grounding to you. your entire life you were forced to focus on music, and your brand and he was the only one who made you feel like a normal kid, and not just an adult stuck in a child’s body. you knew he felt the same way towards you, but you had always hoped his feelings for you would naturally develop into something more. before you even realized it, you were starting to hyperventilate. 

“i’m going home,” you threw your hands up in defeat. 

dramatic? probably. but, you were never good at controlling your feelings and you were never known for your discreteness. you started to walk off the set, not even turning around at the repeated call of your name. when you realized the call was following you, you started to pick up your pace, going from walking to running as the tears began to fall down your cheeks. you knew it was michael, but you couldn’t stop your legs long enough for him to catch up to you. you hated how weak you felt but couldn’t control it.

you soon realized that your dramatic exit was a mistake because after running for what felt like forever, you realized you were completely lost. you had no clue how the subway system worked (and had no plan of figuring it out) and you had no money to hail a cab, so you were forced to walk across new york city alone and miserable in boots that pinched your toes. you were once again left alone with your thoughts and you were spiraling trying to figure out how to come up for an excuse for your behavior but nothing came to mind.

by the time you reached the shared apartment, your feet were hurting and it was dark out, but you were grateful to get home without being mugged. you expected latoya to be asleep when you got home and michael to be with diana, so when you opened the front door, you were surprised to see michael walking back and forth, pacing throughout the living room while muttering something to himself that you couldn't quite hear.

at the sound of the door opening, his head immediately perked up and he turned to look at you. you could see the worried expression on his face turn into pure relief as he made his way over to you. quickly, he embraced you in a tight hug and wrapped his arms around your waist, which caught you off guard. usually you'd be quick to return the hug, using it as an excuse to be as close to michael as possible, but this time you just couldn't move. when he realized you weren't going to return his affection, he slowly pulled back and created space between the two of you but, bringing his hands up to your shoulders to maintain some physical touch. he spoke your name, breaking the silence between you two.

“i was so worried for you. i tried running after you but you were too fast. what the hell was that about earlier on set? you could've gotten lost or even worse. that was extremely irresponsible” he spoke in a rushed, almost chaotic manner as he frantically scanned your face, searching for a response from you.

you kept your gaze fixated on the ground and you bit the inside if your cheek. you wanted to come up with a little but you weren't quick enough on your feet. the only reason you came to new york was to experience what you thought to be your one great love, but it seems like the only thing you’ve experienced so far is one big heartbreak.

“why did you even ask me to come with you?” you finally spoke in a hushed tone and if he wasn't standing 10 inches away from you, michael probably wouldn't have heard you.

“what? what do you mean?” he stuttered, caught off guard by the question and the fact you brushed off his own question.

“to new york i mean,” you clarified, looking up with teary eyes to be met with his brown eyes squinting in confusion, “why did you even ask me to stay with you? i don't understand it at all…”

you felt humiliated, being vulnerable like this in front of michael of all people. he hadn't even given you a response yet and your cheeks were already burning in embarrassment and your heart was pounding out of your chest. as if the gears were turning in his head for the first time in years, michael grabbed you by the arm and without any pushback, you allowed him to pull you out towards the balcony. the breeze of the city night hit you immediately and calmed you down just a bit.

“i think i finally understand what happened today…” he chuckled, which didn't feel appropriate to you, “honestly, i've been trying to figure out why you’ve been acting differently lately. i know i've been busy filming but i’ve noticed you've just been…off lately.” not being able to explain himself further, michael simply led you towards the balcony’s railing.

you knew exactly where he was going with this. how could you not? he rested his arms on the ledge and you followed suit, however you made sure to look straight forward, refusing to make eye contact with him. this isn't at all how you expect things to go. you close your eyes for a second, simply letting your hair blow in the wind as you prepare for the inevitable rejection.

at least michael was nice—it was one of the many reasons you found it easy to fall in love with him. you knew he'd be nice when he was rejecting you. he'd try his best to make you feel normal about your feelings and he'd say he still wanted to be friends—really mean it too. it still hurt all the same though.

“i know we've been friends for ages, but i just can't help the way i feel. if i could make myself not feel all these emotions, i would. in a heartbeat.”

you could easily feel michael staring at you for what felt like eternity. the longer the silence between you two stretched on, the more awkward you felt and you had to bit your bottom lip to keep from crying. you wanted to be as mature as possible since you already ran away crying like a baby once before.

“it's not like i want to be jealous and insecure all the time. i just can't help the thoughts in my head…” you continued, feeling the need to overcompensate for his silence.

“look…” michael spoke with a relaxed tone, cutting you off from ranting anymore, “whatever you think you know about diana and i know just isn't true.”

his words made you perk up a bit. although you couldn't meet his gaze yet, a sliver of hope was brought back to you, though it was short lived as he continued to speak, “when we were younger, i definitely had a crush on her. i was completely infatuated by her. she was the most beautiful woman i had ever met and i’ll probably always hold a special place in my heart for her…”

any hope you had left of michael recuperating your feelings were swiftly shattered and burned alive with a couple of sentences. immediately, you slumped up against the railing and let out a dramatic groan as you felt your heart genuinely burst into a million pieces.

“but i’m not 10 years old anymore. i’ve grown up and i've learned that there's a difference between childish infatuation and genuine love,” he quickly added and just to get his point across he continued, “i don’t love diana—at least not in a romantic way.”

with those words alone, it was like he had done a resurrection spell on you, and brought you back from the dead. it was an incredible feeling, knowing that all those hours you, regrettably, spent comparing yourself to diana and worrying about michael’s relationship with her was totally unnecessary. you were doing the calculations in your head and the chances of him accepting your confession immediately skyrocketed. they weren’t actually together, which calmed your nerves a lot, though you weren’t entirely convinced.  

“but what about all that flirty touching and cuddling you guys are constantly doing,” you mumbled, gagging at the memories while finally turning your head to face him.

michael smiled when he finally got the opportunity to look at your face again, even if it was you making silly faces at him. “that’s just how she is,” michael shrugged indifferently, “i think she just enjoys being desirable, not so much me. which is one reasons i don’t want to be with her.”

michael took a second to just stare at you again, which of course left both of you flustered. both of you were naturally shy people and it was only amplified under these circumstances. only once you broke eye contact did michael feel confident enough to make his next move, sliding closer towards you, only stopping when your shoulders were touching. then, with a smirk, he leaned down so that your faces were only inches apart. you had to swallow a lump in your throat and remind yourself not to let your eyes drop down to his lips.

“you want want to know the other reason i don’t want to be with her?” he asked in a tone that wanted to make you pass out from overheating.

“yes,” you quickly responded, not even taking a second to think about it. 

“because i already fell in love with someone else. she’s one of the most talented, beautiful, and funniest girl i’ve ever met, plus she has the voice of an angel, but i was too scared to confess to her because i didn’t think she’d feel the same way about me.”

“what?!” you blurt out in disbelief, face contouring into one of disgust. you thought you knew where this was going, but obviously not! this time, you didn’t have to feel heartbroken because you were so pissed. you thought you had to worry about diana, but really it was some mystery girl? you squinted your eyes at him in suspicion, “who?!” 

mentally, you were going through the list of young, talented, and beautiful singers in the industry that michael could’ve crossed paths with in fall in love with, it could’ve been anyone. you were about to demand more information from michael about this mystery woman, but you were cut off by the feel of lips pressing against yours.

immediately you went silent and your eyes widened. just as quickly as it happened, it was over and you were left with the lingering heat of his lips on yours. you cheeks heated up and you brought your fingers up to your lips and let out an obnoxiously high laugh that reminded you more of your 13 year old self rather than your current self.

“were you talking about me?” you giggled again, still stunned by the kiss, which caused michael to roll his eyes in mock annoyance.

“of course i was. how oblivious can you be?” he scoffed before lifting your head up between his fingers and kissing you again under the city skyline.

it really was a dream come true. this kiss wasn’t like the last one. it was longer and said so much more. it held years of unrequited love you both thought you held for each other, as well as the excitement about the next step in your relationship.

Your apartment was quiet other than the slick sounds of Michael’s stiff dick grinding against your bare pussy.

He panted near your head gripping your hips like you’ll disappear from him. His heart was beating so loud he thought that even you could hear it. You would’ve, if only your heart wasn’t beating just as fast.

He was on top of you, between your legs that were splayed out against his hips. You both were bare, skin to skin, bodies warming up at each other’s touch.

Your whimpers flooded his ears as his length slid between your soft folds, tip catching your clit every so often. A light layer of sweat coated his back at his constant rhythmic movement.

“Baby—.” You whined looking up at him. You couldn’t help but clench at the sight, arousal pooling in your belly.

His cross necklace swung in your face almost brushing against your nose. His lips were parted as sensual sounds fell from them.

“F-feels too g-good.” He moaned, arms wobbly next to you as he held himself up. Every time you felt his tip nudge against your drooling hole, you couldn’t help but whine.

The request fell from your lips before you could think, brain already fuzzy. “Mikey, please—please—just the tip.” You whined hands gripping his biceps tightly.

His heart practically stopped, “B-baby w-we can’t. We said we’ll—agh—wait till marriage.” His breath picked up, fingers reaching to grip the white sheets you were laid on.

“I know baby but it’s barely inside—not the whole thing—promise.” You looked up at him, doe eyes meeting each other’s. He bit his lip contemplating on what to do. His eyes dropped to your pouty lips.

His brain wasn’t in a very logical state feeling your dripping cunt grind against him, causing him to lean more towards just putting it in. He watched as your eyebrows pinched together, lost in the ecstasy of your body melting into his.

“Mikey please, you feel so good—I need it.” The sultry tone in your words with the whine of his name almost made him nut right there. “J-just the tip?”

You nodded quickly, hips shifting in excitement from him falling to your pleas. He looked at where you were connected, breath catching at the wet and vulgar sight.

He grasped his hard dick, coated in your wetness, and brushed it up and down your folds. The mewl you let out was absolutely crude, making Michael’s desire for you grow.

As soon as you felt the heavy tip press against your dripping hole, you whined, heart speeding up. You couldn’t control the roll of your hips, body begging for him more than your own words.

He gently held your hip down so he can focus, not wanting to dip too far in. He ignored the small shame in the back of his mind, lust forefront and center in his brain.

He slowly pushed himself inside, gummy walls enclosing his tip. “M-Mikey—so big—oh my god.” You mewled. He whined, breath getting caught in his chest from your warmth.

“I l-love you—so good—rubbing in me so well.” You babbled mindlessly too caught up in the slight stretch. “Baby please don’t talk like that—I w-wanna be good.” The slight voice crack didn’t go unnoticed.

The rain sounds were background noise compared to the lewd noise of him slightly plunging his tip into you. “You are good—so good f’a me—so big.” You carried on.

“B-baby no—please—stop talking.” Michael whined hips not stopping his shallow thrusts. His words went into one ear and out of the other, brain only focusing on him rubbing inside of you.

“C-can’t—you feel so good—I-I’m so wet Mikey.” You pouted lost in your own world. Michael’s brain was starting to become clogged. Your words began to mesh together in his brain, your soft voice clouding around him.

“Your dick feels so good Mikey.” You wailed. Michael’s brain shut off at the your explicit word usage, never hearing you mutter as much of a ‘damn’.

He couldn’t control his body as he pushed all the way in, your pussy becoming a sleeve over him. His eyes rolled back and he let out the whiniest moan you ever heard from him.

You uncontrollably clenched around his length, your eyes tightly closed as you cried out. You didn’t expect the sudden sensation, feeling the deep stretch slowly simmering into pleasure.

“Baby ‘m sorry—sorry—too good.” Michael’s words tumbled out quickly, tone filled with neediness. You couldn’t even respond, mouth dropped open in a silent gasp.

“So pretty—I don’t wanna stop—squeezin’ me so good.” His hips picked up speed, his head coming down to kiss the corner of your lip. His tongue licked the small drool leaking from your mouth, and connected your lips together.

The lewd act made you clench around him, as you began moaning into his mouth. Your arms wrapped around his neck, feeling as if your bodies merged into one.

His hips continued to thrust into you, desperately. Michael only wanted you, his mind was muddled, focusing on the sounds of your pleasure and the feeling of your gooey pussy.

“My sweet angel—w-wanna feel you.” He said, his hands brought your legs up to his shoulders, shifting his hips to hit slightly deeper. Your back arched as your moans got louder.

Completely drowning out the noise outside, leaving you and Michael in your own loving sanctuary. He dug so deep, it felt like he was in your lungs. “I’m close.” You managed to choke out.

He leaned forward practically folding you in half as he drilled into you, becoming a whiny mess in your ear. “Please—cum on me—need it—need you.” He babbled as you cried out.

Tears rolled down the side of your face as you felt a ball of heat form in your stomach. He was constantly nudging your spot, only sending you farther into ascension. Your back arched with a cry as you soaked his length, nails marking his back.

“Thank you—thank you—cumming—I’m cumming.” “P-pull out Mikey.” You reminded him body shivering as he carried you through out your orgasm.

“C-can’t—need you—I wanna fill you.” He continued, your eyes widened realizing he had no intentions on stopping. “M-Mikey, no condom, you’re gonna get me pregnant.” You whined, you couldn’t stop the moans as he continued to beat into your oversensitive pussy.

“You’ll become a mommy—pretty mommy—I c-can’t. Please—take it—take my cum.” His rhythm felt relentless as your hips slapped together. His moans sounded through out the room, hips stilling in you as he shot creamy ropes of his nut inside.

You whined at the warm feeling, secretly enjoying him losing control inside of you. After a few minutes of him grinding inside of you, he slowly pulled out.

He stared at your used pussy, a mix of both of your orgasms spilling out. His mind still felt cloudy but reality began to set in.

“They’re gonna kill me.”

He wore a pair of crisp, sky-blue cotton pyjamas, the top buttoned neatly to the throat. Michael was old school like that.

Without the stage makeup, the sharp of his cheekbones were softer, the famous cupid's bow of his lips relaxed but still a little pouty. He was so focused on the book, in front of him that he hadn’t realised your eyes were on him. The kids were finally in bed, and the Santa Barbra Valley was quite literally an oasis of pure and utter silence.

You lay on your side, head pillowed on your arm, watching him, the sound of your pulse in your ear. The digital clock on the nightstand read 1:17 AM.

For six months, this had been your secret universe, Neverland, the kids, your research. Access to all the books you could ever want; because Michael wanted them too.

It hadn't been the fame that made you fall. You'd grown up with him on MTV like everyone else, had your own version of him blu-tacked to some adolescent wall in your head. But that person and this person were barely related.

This one read your work irrigation manuals for pleasure to better understand you and got genuinely despondent about your losses.

you were used to failed dates and one night stands that didn’t work out, so when Michael came around all dashing and interesting, you hadn't stood a chance of getting away from his gravitational pull.

He was a beyond perfect boyfriend; allowing you into intimate spaces with his kids, being soft with you romantically, cooking you dinner - albeit, not very fancy dinners — but it was what you both loved. The lack of care or pretence. His heart was always in the right place.

There would however, always be 12 dozen beautiful deep red roses on the counter in the main kitchen at Neverland for you, when you came home from a dig.

✧˖°.

Earlier that evening you'd been cross-legged on the library floor surrounded by plaster casts and field notes, a Triassic vertebra balanced in your palm; genuinely quite stressed about work… and the unraveling situation you found you could not control with Michael.

He could sense your stress and when he'd appeared in the doorway in his socks, two mugs of chamomile in hand, you felt your shoulders drop considerably.

"Is that bone from something that could have eaten me?"

You looked up. He was already looking at the bone with genuine concern.

"Probably not," you said. "It's a herbivore."

He looked quite petulantly disappointed that it wasn't some ravenous, crazed creature. He handed you your mug anyway and dropped down onto the floor beside you, crossing his legs, the chamomile balanced carefully in both hands while he peered at the vertebra like it might do something.

"How do you know it's a herbivore?"

"The teeth mostly. And the shape of the jaw."

"But you don't have the jaw."

"No."

"So you're guessing then?" He smirked at you, the smile lines around his mouth pronounced and feather fine.

You looked at him. "I'm inferring. From evidence we have collected, the context…. It's different."

He made a face that suggested he wasn't entirely convinced but was willing to let it go, and reached for one of the plaster casts.

He turned it over slowly in his long fingers, studying it from every angle, and something about the way he held it and how he reached up and pulled his reading glasses down from where they'd been pushed up on top of his head, settling them onto his nose, made your heart squeeze in your chest.

His eyes behind the lenses went enormous. Soft and dark and completely ardent, blinking down at two hundred million years of bone like it owed him an explanation.

He always touched your work like that. Like he'd been told what it cost you to bring it home. He was so fascinated by everything you did, and he usually asked such deep and intrinsic questions about it too; the conversation very rarely lingered on himself, he always flipped it around on you.

"What's this one?"

"Femur. Juvenile. About two hundred and twenty million years old."

He was quiet for a moment, genuinely sitting inside that number.

"Two hundred and twenty million," he repeated softly, more to himself than to you. He set it down gently. "And we're sitting here worrying about tabloids."

You laughed before you could stop yourself and he looked pleased — a little startled by it, like your laugh was a thing that still caught him off guard.

He stayed. Asked questions for nearly two hours, working through your field notes. he clearly had nowhere else to be and genuinely wanted to understand.

At some point he'd stretched out on his side on the rug, head propped in his hand, reading your annotations upside down and asking whether the scientist who'd disagreed with your dating method was being professionally jealous or just wrong.

"Both, probably," you'd said.

"Mm." He'd nodded gravely. "I know that feeling."

You'd been about to say something when small feet appeared in the doorway.

Prince stood there in his Star Wars pyjamas, eight years old and entirely unrepentant about the hour, holding a copy of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire against his chest like it was going to grow wings and fly away.

"Daddy."

Michael turned his head. "Buddy, it's late—"

"You said you'd do the voices for the characters."

"I have company, baby."

"You did the 'maybe' face when you said it. The maybe face means yes."

You pressed your lips together very hard to try stop from laughing. Michael sat up and gave you a look that clearly communicated that he did not appreciate you finding this funny.

"The maybe face," he said flatly, not fully understanding Prince's made up concept.

Prince padded across the library and deposited the book in Michael's lap with a funny nonchalance that did not belong to a kid at that age. "Voldemort needs to be scary. Last time you made him sound like a good guy”

"He's a complex villain and I—"

"Daddyyyy” Prince whined.

Michael picked up the book. Looked at you expectantly, clearly wanting you to get him out of this scenario; that would likely last into the small hours of the night; Prince never fell asleep fast.

"Okay," he huffed, standing, and Prince immediately took his hand. As he passed to walk out of the door, he pressed a chaste kiss to the top of your head, warm and brief, there and gone before either of you had to overthink the softness of it. The domesticity.

Their voices disappeared down the hall. You could already hear Michael attempting something considerably more threatening than a butler.

You had sat for a moment listening to them with a small smile on your face, the chamomile tea stale and cold beside you.

✧˖°.

He’d come back into the bedroom later that evening with a soft smile on his face, clearly happy he’d been able to do that for his son. 

You had already climbed back into bed and lay there in the dark with the weight of all of your thoughts sitting heavy on your sternum; six months of a life you hadn't planned on, settling over you like sediment.

He had come so out of the blue, a whirlwind, well and truly. All grins and soft murmurs about how ‘pretty you were’ and that he ‘needed to take you out and learn more about archeology’. 

There were long conversations that stretched until dawn about lost cities and starving children, about music as a healing force, about the joy of him being able to grow his own fruits and vegetables without anyone there to interrupt him now, and how he couldn’t have ever had that before if it weren’t for Neverland. He loved the slow life now, there was no more touring or extravagant stress on his body, just peace.

You'd connected in a way that felt predestined, two oddly-shaped puzzle pieces from different boxes that somehow fit. He called you his "mirror soul."

But outside these gates…

"What if the fans find out?"

The words left your mouth quickly and quietly, like word vomit. Michael's finger, tracing a line of text, stilled. You inwardly rolled your eyes that he was trying to read such a stiff book at this hour; but this was Michael and he quite literally would read anything.

He didn't look up immediately. He slowly closed the book, using a velvet tassel to mark his place, and set it aside on the nightstand.

He took off his glasses, folded them neatly, and turned his head towards you. His dark eyes were almost amber in the lamplight.

"Then… they find out," he said, his voice a low, melodic rasp used only for these private hours.

A gentle smile touched his lips. "—and I want them to. I'm tired of hiding you away," He said, his hand slid over the covers to lightly touch yours that lay balanced on your side.

"You deserve to be shown off, to be in the light"

You pushed yourself up to sit, pulling your knees to your chest and your hand away from his.

The oversized MIT sweatshirt you wore swallowed you whole.

The silence stretched long enough to become its own kind of rebuttal to his sweet proposed gesture. When he finally spoke, his voice was measured, but you could hear the slight emotional waver.

"Do you want to be with me, Y/N?" The question came out, no accusation in it yet, just something careful and exposed sitting underneath the words.

He was looking at you with intense, pleading eyes and you could see him doing the thing he did when he was bracing for impact; a stillness that moved through his whole body, like he'd drawn himself inward. Likely waiting to hear something he already suspected was coming.

"Because sometimes I feel like I am the only one who — " he stopped. Pressed his lips together. And then started again.

"I need you to tell me honestly. Because if this isn't what you want—"

"Michael, that's not what I—"

"Then what?" He snapped.

and there it was, just briefly, the hurt surfacing before he could smooth it back down. He shifted against the pillows, and the lamplight caught the angle of his jaw, tight with the effort of staying composed.

"Because I have been patient, and I have been careful to keep you out of the papers, and I have tried to give you every reason to feel safe here, and still you talk about this," He gestured between you both, exasperated. "like it is something you are waiting to escape from. Like I am something you are waiting to get away from."

"I'm not," you said, and the firmness in your own voice surprised you. "I promise you, I am not."

He looked at you for a long moment. Something in his expression shifted, the hurt receding just slightly, making room for confusion. "Then why do you keep—"

"Because they'll eviscerate me." The fear tumbled out now, cold and slick, and once it started you couldn't seem to stop it.

"They'll find my academic records, they'll find pictures from my high school days and make fun of me, they'll call me a gold-digger, a nobody, they'll — they'll say I'm too plain, too ugly for you."

Your hands, curled up in the sleeves of your sweater, came up to the sides of your face.

"Your fans, they have an image of you. It's celestial. And I'm just a person really. Just a regular person. They'll find out how much older you are than me and they'll eat it up, and they'll get between us and cast doubt in your mind that maybe I am not the one—"

True tears started to brim in your eyes of the thought of being rinsed through in the tabloids, just like Michael had been most of his adult life.

The tension completely left his body at that point, his eyes no longer casting an accusatory and pained look. You looked up and found him watching you with an expression you hadn't seen before — it wasn’t hurt or guarded, something much softer and a little undone, like he'd been handed back something he thought he'd lost.

He understood now. It hadn't been about him at all.

His usually easy smile was settled in a patient line. He had listened until you ran out of breath, until the only sound was your shaky inhale. It was his turn now to make a point.

"C'mere," he said, a firm request, cutting off your spiral into despair. His voice had dropped another octave, an authority you'd only glimpsed in flashes before.

It was the voice of the man who commanded stadiums, not really the gentle soul who read bedtime stories to his children.

This was Michael in his late forties, a king in his own kingdom, and he was done with this ugly narrative that the press were constantly spinning about his celebrity.

You uncurled yourself and moved to the edge of the bed beside him. Instead of pulling you into an embrace, he took your face in both his hands. His palms were warm, his touch infinitely gentle, but his grip was unyielding.

"Look at me," he whispered. "Really look. Do you see a celestial being? Or do you see a man?"

You rolled your eyes and tried to pull out of his grasp but he held your face tighter.

"A man…" you said, moping.

"Uh-huh. A man who needs prescription glasses to read, who loves bad sci-fi movies, who gets nervous before going to the dentist? You see me. And I see you. The most beautiful, brilliant, confounding woman to ever walk into my chaos. And I will not let you speak about her that way."

He released your face and stood up in one fluid motion, extending a hand. "Get up."

"Michael… its late, where could we possibly be going?" You reluctantly whined and gave him your hand.

"Up. Now." The command was soft, but absolute.

You took his hand. He led you across the deep-pile carpet, to the far wall of the master suite, which was dominated by a magnificent, floor-to-ceiling antique mirror in a gilded frame.

He let go of your hand and, with a surprising strength and energy for almost 2am, began pulling large, decorative pillows from a nearby chaise lounge, arranging them in a semi-circle on the floor directly before the glass.

"Sit," he instructed, nodding to the pillows.

Feeling a confusing mix of vulnerability and a strange, thrilling charge, you sank down onto the cushions, sitting cross-legged. You were facing the mirror, your reflection wide-eyed and small in the sweatshirt.

He came behind you, a soft and oddly sweet vision in his blue pyjamas, and knelt close, his knees framing your hips.

You could feel the heat of his body through the thin cotton. He placed his hands on your shoulders, his gaze locking onto yours in the mirror.

"You see her?" he murmured, his lips beside your ear. His breath was warm, the air moving the hair beside your ear, tickling you slightly.

"That's the woman I fell for. Look at her."

You tried to look away, but his hands tightened slightly. "Look."

You met your own gaze. You saw the anxiety, the fear, and most importantly how lost you looked.

"She is a humanitarian," he whispered, his voice a sensual, rolling cadence. He began a slow, deep massage of your shoulders. "Her hands have touched artifacts thousands of years old. They've also held the hands of orphans in Nairobi. She has a mind like a diamond; precise, brilliant, and tough." One of his hands slid down your arm, his fingers tracing the sleeve of your sweatshirt.

"She has a laugh that sounds like wind chimes near a beach town. She argues with me about the socio-political and… pretty much debates in circles around me." He laughed warmly, and you felt the vibration of it against your back. It was always a welcome sound, his laugh. Laced with innocence that made your heart swell.

"Hell, I think you're the only one to ever be able to tell me i am wrong to my face"

His other hand left your shoulder and came around your front, splaying possessively over your lower belly, pulling you back snugly against his chest.

You could feel the firm plane of his torso, the steady beat of his heart against your back. His voice never wavered, a hypnotic, intimate sermon. He was so good at this, you'd fallen into his clutch now. He'd speak at charity galas and award ceremonies, calling attention to incredibly important causes with grace and ease. He always knew the right thing to say. All that wit and emotional intelligence, still intact under the cruel paradox of fame. The more it demanded of him, the more it took. Yet, here he was. Still here, and still trying; and with you.

"And this body…" he breathed into your ear, changing the subject. He nipped your lobe gently with his teeth. A sharp, sweet jolt went through you.

"This body is a masterpiece. It's strong. It carries her across dig sites and through laboratories."

His hand on your belly slid lower, pressing down through the thick fabric of your sweats and the sweatshirt. "It houses a fire of ambition that matches my own."

His fingers found the seam of your sweats, dipping beneath the waistband. They didn't dive lower, just rested there, a hot, promising weight on your pubic bone. Your breath hitched and your head fell back against his shoulder, your eyes fluttering shut.

"Eyes open, baby," he coaxed, his teeth grazing your earlobe again. "Watch. Watch me worship you."

You forced your eyes open. In the mirror, you saw the intimate tableau: you nestled back against him, your cheeks rosy.

Him, looking over your shoulder, his expression one of fierce, concentrated adoration. His famous features were set in lines of absolute certainty. His smile reached his eyes, and the lines there were accentuated in the lighting of his bedroom; adorable. Proof that he had smiled so much throughout his life and had lived so thoroughly.

His hand began to move. He rubbed slow, firm circles over the front of your sweats, the heel of his palm applying perfect pressure right over your clit. The fabric was a frustrating barrier, but the motion, combined with his words, his teeth on your ear, was overwhelmingly potent.

"They don't get to have an opinion," he said, his voice thickening. "They can have me when I put myself out there. But when I want to be private I will. I get you always, because you're mine… and no one else's"

He paused briefly, his eyes finding yours in the mirror, his breath quite shallow.

"-- And right now, I can feel my girls heat through two layers of clothing." He punctuated the statement by grinding his palm down harder, and a broken moan escaped you.

"And its so warm, and wet for me," You felt your hips gyrate slightly, without you even meaning. Your body just naturally gravitated to the pleasure, seeking more.

"That's it," he praised, his own breathing starting to deepen. "Yeah" his voice was breathy and low.

"Let me hear you. It's only me here with you, let yourself feel good."

His other hand came up to your chest, sliding under the bulk of the sweatshirt and your thin camisole beneath.

His cool, elegant fingers found your bare breast, cupping its weight, his thumb sweeping back and forth over your nipple until it peaked into a hard, aching point.

He pinched it gently, rolling it, and you arched against him, a whimper caught in your throat.

"See how beautiful you are?" he murmured, watching your reactions in the glass.

"See how you come alive? That's my doing. Why should we deny ourselves of this just because some journalists said so? No one else can have an impact on this."

The mixture of sensations were a driving delirium in your brain. The deliberate, rhythmic pressure through your sweats, the expert play of his fingers on your breast, the hot whisper of his words and the sharp little bites on your ear and neck. You were panting, your hands gripping his thighs where they bracketed you.

"Off," he commanded softly, his hand leaving your breast to hook into the waistband of your sweats and your panties beneath. "Lift up for me."

In a daze, you raised your hips. He peeled both the sweats and your simple cotton panties down your thighs in one smooth motion, leaving you bare from the waist down, the cool air a shock against your feverish skin. You felt yourself start to flush again realising you had not even bothered shaving. You gave him a helpless look in the mirror and he rolled his eyes and tutted.

"Aw c'mon now, you know i prefer you this way" the sound of his voice in your ear sent tingles shooting down your spine, making your cunt wetter. You could see your entrance glistening in the mirror, courtesy of the spotlights above you.

"So perfect f'me, so natural", he peppered kisses down your neck and back up again to your ear, the skin there now raised with goosebumps. "-- the way its meant to be"

He tossed the garments he'd been holding aside without a glance, his attention fully returned to the mirror.

His arm came back around you, his hand no longer hindered by fabric. His fingers, long and knowing, slid through your slick folds with a low, appreciative hum that vibrated through your back.

"So slick," he breathed. "So ready for me."

You were so wet for him that you could hear yourself, you didn't even bother look at what he was doing with his hands, the sensation already lighting a fire in your stomach.

He slide his his middle and ring fingers into you slowly and gently, the base of his hand now pushing at an angle against your clit. You let go of the breath you were holding and threw your head back. His free hand that had been roaming came up to hold your neck.

"Mm i love seeing you like this, how you respond to my touch" his hand gently left your neck and and pulled your face to a position where you could see yourself in the large ornate mirror again.

He gave you a shy little smile and continued on. The scene in front of you was obscene, and so diabolically dirty. He pulled his fingers out of you and a glistening string of wetness trailed away with it. You briefly eyed his face to see his reaction to this; his eyes drooping lightly, lustful and his bottom lip under painful pressure from where his teeth where digging into it.

He found your clit, already swollen and throbbing, and began to circle it with a torturously slow, wet precision, smearing around your arousal.

His touch was confident, dominant, leaving no room for insecurity or thought.

It was pure sensation, orchestrated by him. Your moans became continuous now, a low, desperate string of sounds—"Ohgod, oh, thatssogood, p-please…"

You watched, mesmerized and exposed, as his fingers worked you in the mirror. You saw your own face, eyes dark with pleasure, mouth slack.

his face also reflected, etched with an efficacious mix of love and lust, his eyes glued to where his hand disappeared between your legs. The visual was as arousing as the physical touch, a feedback loop of escalating need.

"I'll continue since you said please, m'girl", feigned innocence in his low voice,

Driven by a surge of boldness, you reached one hand back, fumbling behind you. You found the firm swell of his erection in his pyjama pants.

He was so hard for you, straining against the pale blue cotton. You palmed him through the fabric, and a ragged, guttural groan was torn from his throat, his rhythm faltering for a second.

"is this really turning you on, Michael?" you managed to gasp, squeezing him gently.

In the mirror, you saw his eyes slam shut for a moment, his jaw tightening.

When they opened, they burned with a new, hungrier fire. He increased the pace of his fingers, then now sliding inside and out at a rapid pace, curling just so. You cried out, your hips bucking against his hand.

"Y-yeah, God —," he gritted out, his composed, sensual narration cracking under the strain of his own desire.

"And it's not enough. Touching you like this… watching you… it's heaven, but it's not enough."

He withdrew his fingers suddenly, making you whine in protest. He brought them to his lips, never breaking eye contact in the mirror, and slowly, deliberately, sucked your taste from them.

The act was so blatantly carnal, so far from the shy, boyish figure of public imagination, it stole the air from your lungs.

He didn't let the moment at the mirror linger. The charge was too high, the need too direct. With a soft groan that was more command than sound, he stood, pulling you up with him. Your legs were unsteady, but his arm had a strong hold around your waist, guiding you the few steps back to the edge of the vast bed.

"Here," he murmured, his voice already thick with intent.

He sat on the edge, the mattress dipping under his weight, and pulled you to stand between his spread knees.

The sky-blue pyjamas were a stark, innocent contrast to the dark hunger in his eyes.

"Riiiiight here, baby."

His hands went to your bare waist, and tugged at the hem of the thick sweatshirt you were wearing.

"Let's get this off," he said sweetly.

The cool air of the room kissed your bare skin on your legs, but the heat of his gaze was enough to keep you warm.

"Arms up." You obeyed, and he pulled the sweater and the thin camisole over your head, leaving you utterly exposed before him. You felt quite silly in this moment, and very…observed. In the past, the sex had mostly been in the dark, you feeling shy and uneasy about your imperfections. Michael was lean, petite, but strong and very beautiful. You were not always sure you lived up to that level of…perfection.

You knew deep down and rationally that no one was perfect and even he struggled at times, his weight fluctuating and his vitiligo… but he still had such a presence, an aura that preceded his natural and physical beauty.

He let out a long, slow breath.

"My God."

A violent wave of shyness crashed over you. You crossed your arms over your chest, wanting to shrink, to hide. He caught your wrists gently but firmly.

"No," he said, his voice low and unwavering. "No hiding. Not from me. Not ever." He guided your hands down to your sides, then leaned forward, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to your belly. His hands slid up to cradle your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipples, making you gasp.

"I want to see the pleasure on your face when it happens. And I want you to see it on mine. We're not hiding anything tonight" He said, his features soft.

"I am not willing to hide you anymore, either."

He laid back on the bed, propping himself up on the mountain of pillows, his legs still hanging off the side. He beckoned you with a curl of his finger.

"Come here. Sit on the bed, facing me. Show me how you touch yourself."

Trembling, you climbed onto the bed, kneeling a few feet from him. The lamplight painted your skin in gold, highlighting every tremor.

You couldn't look at him. Your gaze dropped to the rumpled duvet.

"Eyes on me, baby," he coaxed, his voice a sensual rasp. He was already working on the buttons of his pyjama top. He shrugged it off, revealing the lean, pale plane of his torso. It was mostly pale with a sprinkling of darker little vitiligo patches; a beautiful painted galaxy on his skin.

He then hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his bottoms.

"C'monnn, keep looking at me."

You forced your eyes up as he pushed the blue cotton down his hips. His cock sprang free, fully erect, thick and flushed a deep, ruddy dark pink at its tip. A prominent vein ran along its length, and a clear bead of fluid welled at the slit. As much as it was cliche, he really was breathtaking. An intimate masculine sight.

He took himself in hand, giving one long, slow stroke from base to tip, a low hiss escaping his teeth.

"See what you do to me? How much I have been strainin'" he swallowed slightly, his mouth clearly dry. "This is all yours."

He began to stroke himself quite delicately, you observed, but not without showcasing rhythm.

His fist moved with a soft, wet sound, his thumb smearing the pre-cum over his swollen tip.

"Your turn," he breathed, his eyes locked on yours. "Touch yourself. Let me see you do it."

Your hand felt like a stranger's as you brought it down between your legs. The first contact of your own fingers on your slick, swollen flesh made you jerk. You touched your clit, a feather-light circle, and a shaky sigh escaped you. You tried to look away, your cheeks burning.

"Please look at me though," he said, his voice gaining a ragged, desperate edge. His strokes on himself sped up slightly.

"I want to see it in your eyes. I want to see the second it feels good. C'mon, m'girl. For me."

You met his gaze. The intensity there; the love, the lust, the sheer want…it was as if he were getting on his knees and begging from the ground for this.

You pressed harder, circling your clit with more purpose. A soft moan built in the back of your throat.

"That's it," he encouraged, his own breathing deepening. He shifted, spreading his legs wider, giving you a full, unobstructed view of his hand working his cock.

The sight was mesmerizingly lewd. You could see the way his legs tensed in pleasure, and how he worked his body to try get himself further to the precipice; his movements becoming slightly uncoordinated.

"Yeah, just like that. You're so wet for me. I can hear it. Let me hear you moan, too."

You did. A low, continuous whimper started as you fell into a rhythm, two fingers sliding through your own arousal before returning to circle your clit. You were panting, your free hand clutching at the duvet.

"Use your fingers inside," he guided, his voice hoarse. "Imagine it's me. Curl them a lil'. Ahh… just like that."

He quickened the motion on himself, his fist twisting on the upstroke, his hand angled in the perfect way that could nudge him closer to his peak.

He was fucking his own hand now, his hips lifting off the bed to meet each stroke. His hair was falling in his face, no longer silky and straight at the front where his real hair was peaking out, it looked soft, wet and coiled.

"You see how hard you make me? You see how bad I need you? How much I crave you? I'm gonna come so hard for you, baby. But I need to see you. I need to watch you come for me first."

You were so close hearing him talk this way. It wasn't that he wasn't always dirty, he most definitely was.

The fever pitch within you was tightening, burning. The visual of him — the man you'd really grown to adore, on his back, jerking himself off with desperate, hungry strokes while he watched you pleasure yourself, was the most insane aphrodisiac imaginable.

But the vulnerability was overwhelming. As the first flutters of your orgasm began to spark, you tried to turn your head, to hide your face in the crook of your arm.

"NO." The word was a cracked, desperate plea. He stopped stroking himself, his hand stilling, gripping the base of his cock tightly, the veins on his pale hands standing out.

"Please. Look at me. Please. I need your eyes. It's the only thing that–" he looked down at himself and started to slowly but surely pump his cock in his hands again "… ahh… it's the only thing that makes it real. Don't hide from me. Let me in."

The raw, broken need in his voice shattered your last barrier. You turned your face back to him, your eyes swimming with tears of overwhelming sensation and emotion. You held his needy gaze.

Not all of the dirtiness of the situation, but his need, that's what sent you right off of the edge.

With a cry out loud of "fuck", you came.

Your body bowed and jittered, your fingers working frantically as waves of intense, pulsing fulfilment racked you. You held his eyes through it all, watching as your climax reflected in his; a mirror of lust and ecstasy.

The sight of you coming while holding his gaze destroyed him.

"Fuu–!" he spluttered, cutting himself off before he could yell out much more; his hips moving off of the bed, and his legs straight and tense with concentration. His hand became a blur on his cock, his strokes short, brutal, and frantic.

"Your--Mouth. Open your mouth. Now. Gonna give it to you. Take it. Swallow it!"

You were dazed, submissive, floating on the aftermath. You crawled forward on your knees, your lips parting obediently just inches from the throbbing head of his cock.

He didn't wait. With a final, guttural shout — "AHH-GOD! I love–" …he came.

The first powerful jet hit the back of your throat, hot and salty. The next pulses painted your tongue, filled your mouth, thick and copious.

He kept stroking himself through it, muttering "thats it m'girl" milking every last drop, his body trembling violently. 

Those two words sat in your chest, lodged like a wooden stake, splinters and all. 

“I love” — and then nothing. 

Swallowed back down in the chaos of it, gone before you could be sure of what you'd heard. You tried to hold onto the present moment, the heat of him, the weight of the room around you, but your mind kept snagging on it, turning it over like one of your fossils. 

He had never said it. Not once in six months. And maybe he hadn't said it now either. Maybe it had been nothing. Maybe the wanting of it was making you hear things that weren't there.

His eyes were screwed shut in intense release, but then they flew open, locking onto yours as he fed his release into your mouth, ensuring you saw the utter, vulnerable surrender on his face.

Despite the come in your mouth, and how it dribbled over your lips and chin, he smirked and said something you were really not expecting and had never heard before from him in this context. He was usually quite old school.

"Kiss me," he panted, his voice wrecked. "please."

You did. The act was profoundly submissive, deeply intimate. He must have been able to taste himself on your lips.

Spent, he fell backwards deeper onto the bed, his softening cock resting against his belly. He was breathing like he'd run a marathon, sweat glistening on his chest. He reached for you, his hands trembling as they cupped your face.

"Damn that's taking more out of me nowadays than i thought," he whispered, his thumbs stroking your cheeks.

He pulled you down, into what you expected to be another kiss, but instead moved to rest your head on his sweaty chest, right over his pounding heart. He wrapped his arms around you, his hands finding somewhere to hold on your body, the way they always did, as he already knew the shape of you by heart.

"Y'hear that pounding? Genuinely that's how you make me feel, always" he murmured, the bliss of the intimacy evident in his voice.

You turned your head and looked up at him through your eyelashes, completely dumfounded by the entire outcome of the evening. 

The question was still there, quiet and persistent, curled up and pressing around your heart. You weren't going to ask him. You weren't ready to know the answer, and you suspected, from the way he'd swallowed it back down, that neither was he.

As the clock flickered over to the 3am mark, he spoke again more quietly; "i need them to know you, Y/N. how special you are."

You nodded solemnly, not exactly thrilled about the situation, but it meant that you wouldn't have to be so careful anymore, and that you could begin living a life that truly was in the light, and not as much in the shadows.

The silence of the valley returned and all you could smell was him, musky and a bit sweaty with a powdery aftershave peaking through.

This evening proved you had sacred proof of a trust that maybe no headline could ever touch.

۶۟ৎ he's the gentlest guy you've ever talked to, and his favorite position is you playing with your pussy wide open in front of the camera.

۶۟ৎ he teases you a lot, he likes to play with you, and he pays so much attention to you, he likes to find out things about you, before entering in the horny mood.

۶۟ৎ sometimes mrthepimp58 sent money for you to buy a specific toy. thanks to him, your dildo collection is growing quickly in a short period of time.

۶۟ৎ one day you asked him what his job was—he didn't reach out for 3 weeks.

۶۟ৎ but when he's finally back, he is honest with you—he doesn't feel comfortable talking about him. and you respect his wishes.

if you want more let me know <3

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Michael stood rigid in the studio doorway, shoulders tight as you stepped inside with that same calm, knowing smile. His breath came uneven, eyes darting between you and the half-finished lyrics scattered across the console.

“So just leave me alone,” he muttered first, voice low and strained. He swallowed hard, shaking his head like he could force the words to stick. “Just stop dogging me around.”

You didn’t move. Your manicured fingers traced the edge of the mixing board, slow and deliberate, and he felt his resolve slip another inch.

“Don’t come begging,” he added quickly, almost desperate now, the sentence tumbling out before he could catch it. His hands flexed at his sides, fighting the urge to reach for you. “I love you, but I don’t want it.”

The last part cracked. He looked away, jaw tight, chest rising and falling like he’d run a mile. “I don’t—I don’t—.”

You met his gaze steadily. “Then why do you keep letting me in every time I show up?”

Michael’s throat worked. “Because I’m weak. Because you know exactly how to twist me up and I hate that I still want it.”

Silence stretched between you, thick with everything he refused to say. Then your hand brushed his wrist, light as a feather, and the fight drained out of him in one long exhale.

Michael’s fingers found your waist before he could stop himself. He pulled you in, mouth already seeking the curve of your neck, kissing hot and open while his hands slid lower to grip your ass through the thin dress. His cock pressed hard against your thigh, betraying every word he’d just spoken.

“I saw you with him,” he whispered against your skin, hips rolling forward. “That’s why I wrote it. Because it killed me.”

You tilted his chin up, forcing his dark eyes to meet yours. “And yet here you are, hard for me again. Tell me to stop and I will.”

He shuddered, voice cracking. “I can’t. I should, but I can’t.”

When you palmed him through his pants he groaned, already pushing your dress higher. His fingers slipped between your legs, finding you wet and ready, and he worked them inside you with the same helpless rhythm he always fell into. The studio filled with the slick sound of his hand moving, your soft gasps mixing with his ragged breathing.

You arched into his touch. “This is what you really want, isn’t it? Even when you say you don’t.”

Michael freed his cock and sank into you in one smooth thrust, backing you against the console. Every stroke was surrender and apology at once. He fucked you harder, chasing the feeling of being claimed, while still muttering broken fragments against your throat.

“I shouldn’t… but I can’t stop.”

You clenched around him, voice breathy. “Then don’t stop. Come inside me like you always do.”

He came with a choked moan, spilling deep inside you. Afterward he stayed buried there, forehead pressed to yours.

Later, curled together on the studio couch, Michael traced lazy circles on your bare thigh. “I keep thinking maybe this time we could actually try. You said you were ready to settle down.”

You rested your head against his chest. “I am. If you’ll let me stay instead of pushing me away every time it gets real.”

He sighed, pulling you closer. “I want to believe that. I just don’t know how to stop the cycle we’re in.”

You were enjoying a lovely day helping a woman with her wedding dress.

She wasted no time asking you when you and your boyfriend Danny were gonna get married.

You scoffed and, rather self deprecatingly, joked, “You know me, always the bridal consultant, never a bride, right Danny?” You walked over to your boyfriend who was standing at the register. You both laughed, but your undertone wasn't very humorous.

You stressed to him that it was important to you to get married. Then he started, "I'm sorry, I should’ve said this sooner, I wanted to do it someplace nice.”

You turned to the woman in her dress, both of you sporting a surprised look, “Oh wow…”

Danny continued, “Alright, here goes…I’ve been thinking…we should start seeing other people.”

Your jaw dropped, “What? Since when you been thinking that?”

“Since I saw Heather Biblow.” He replied, quite matter-of-factly.

You were even more shocked at that, “I can't believe you’re telling me this. What, were you stringing me along cause I'm your best salesgirl?”

“Thats the other thing. Heather needs a job.”

You placed your hand on your chest in disbelief, “So you’re firing me? I can't believe I just wasted three years of ever-dwindling youth on you and this dump!” You turned, your blown out curls swiping the air as you stormed to the door of the shop. “You can't fire me, Danny Imperiali. I quit!” You opened the door and walked out. Then a realization hit you, so you turned around and opened the door once again, proclaiming, “No! You fired me, that way I can collect unemployment.”

3 Days Later

You approached the door of the wonderful mansion in front of you and rang the doorbell. It was quite odd to you that your makeup saleswoman job had flown you all the way to California, much more that they’d sent you to a huge home in the middle of nowhere.

You rehearsed your introduction while waiting for the door to be answered. Soon enough a man answered the door. You perked up to introduce yourself, “Hello Im Y/N L/N—“ You were swiftly interrupted by the man, who you assumed to he a housekeeper.

“Yes, come in. We’ve been expecting you”

You stepped inside the lavish home, taking note of just how expensive this place must be. You were confused by his statement though,

“Oh, you have?”

“You are here for the nanny position?”

“I could be.”

You looked around the home, “Wow, this place is nicer than my Uncle Jack’s condo in Boca, and ya’know, he bought the model.” You said with a laugh.

The butler, quite amused by your quirky introduction, then spoke, “May I present your resume to Mr.Jackson?”

That caught you off guard, “Uh…Resume?” Being the quick thinker you are, you came up with a solution for you to swindle more from this lovely opportunity. “Ya know what? Why don't you go get Mr.Jackson and I’ll do the resume presenting myself.” You finish your statement with a smile.

“As you wish.” The butler left to grab Mr.Jackson, who you assumed to be the owner of the home.

As you sat with your resume, you realized you had nothing to write with…Welp! The lipstick in your briefcase will have to do.

In the middle of writing a boy no older than 10 came stumbling through the hall to you with some sort of plastic knife in his chest. “Oh! Augh!” He yelled, then sighed and—rather dramatically—collapsed on the ground.

You leaned over and looked at him, “Do you have a pen?”

The boy remained silent, so you waved him off with a small “Forget it.”

A man came down the walkway towards you and the boy, “Prince, You’re losing your touch.” You stood and he looked at you now, “I’m Michael Jackson, this is my son the late Prince Jackson.” Putting your focus back on Michael, you got a good look at him and realized you reconfigured him from somewhere, “Wait, I know you…Esquire Magazine “The World's Top Ten Handsomest Musicians.”

“You read Esquire?” He questioned.

“When they list the ten handsomest musicians in the world, I do.” You shook his hand, “Hi I’m Y/N L/N.”

“Well do come in”

He took a seat on the couch with your resume while you stood and gawked at the beauty of the home.

“Crayon?” He asked, referring to the red words all over your resume.

“Lipstick.”

“Ah Of Course, and what a lovely shade.” He replied, evoking a laugh from you.

Prince stood up, making his way to the couch across Michael he spoke, “I hate her.”

“Now Prince, let's not be hasty.” Michael told him.

“Yeah I haven't even sung Climb Every Mountain Yet.” You said, a bit taken aback by Prince’s…honesty.

“Ms.L/N, you've listed one of your references as “The Queen Mother…” Michael said in confusion.

“What? Let me see that.” You walked over to him and looked at the paper, skimming through it before smiling in amusement, “Oh no, that’s not the Queen Mother, that's my mother from Queens!”

As Michael went “Ohh,” two children walked in presumably from school, “Hi daddy!” The youngest spoke, a little brunette boy. “Oh hello blanket. Paris?”

The eldest, who you assumed to be the Paris in question, looked around the room with a rather confused or concerned look, then greeted him while walking toward you all, “Hello father.”

You immediately approached her, “Oh boy, are you gorgeous! And look at that hair,” you turned to Michael and continued, “You see, you cannot get color like that from out of a bottle. No way.”

Paris smiled politely and informed everyone that she’d be in her room doing her homework, and left up the stairs.”

“Really lights up a room doesn't she?” Prince asked, sarcasm dripping through his tongue.

You shoved his shoulder playfully and said, “Oh honey, you don't need personality when you’re an heiress.”

Michael asked Blanket about therapy, to which they engaged in small conversation till Prince made a sly comment and Michael decided to tell them to go to their rooms

“C’mon Blanket, let's leave father alone to hire someone else to take care of his problem children.” He said, grabbing hold of Blanket.

“Oh you’re a bitter little person aren't you.” You said as the two walked away. Then you turned to Michael, “Oh we're gonna get along fine.”

Michae put his head down, “I’m…I’m sorry you had to see that. I’ll show you out.” Michael made his way to the door.

You were quite confused by his words, “What’d I do? One smart-ass remark from the kid and I don’t get the job? That's not fair.”

At the door, Michael picked up your briefcase, “As you can see, I need help here. More help than can be provided by a door to door cosmetics girl.” He said while handing you your briefcase. You opened your mouth to rebut, but were swiftly cut off by a ring ring ring.

The phone was ringing.

“Bill.” Michael said expectantly. When no one replied, Michaels began his way up the stairs where he presumed Bill to be, “Bill!”

Seeing no point in waiting around for Bill, you scoffed, “Oh for God’s sakes, I’ll get it.”

You picked up the phone, "Jackson's residence.”

“Is this Mr.Jackson?”

“No honey, it’s Y/N”

Michael walked over to you and gently but sternly said, “Give me that,” and grabbed the phone from you.

You rolled your eyes and looked at him, "It's the nanny agency.”

“Michael Jackson here,” he looked at you, with clear expectancy for you to leave, “Thank you.”

“Oh yeah, right.” You turned and made your way to leave when—

“No, no. Monday is not acceptable. Listen, I need a nanny this weekend.” He placed down the phone.

You slowed your walk out the door and turned to him smiling, and gave him a small wave.

Michaels looked at you and began pacing slowly, lightly tapped his fingers on his couch, “Do you have any experience with children?”

You approached him eagerly, “Are you kidding? I practically raised my sister's two kids while she was suing her chiropodist.”

“There has to be another agency,” he was going to make his way back to the phone but you stopped him,

“Oh, please. I come from Flushing. There is nothing these kids can throw at me that I haven't seen before…except maybe their trust funds.” You joked.

“…Alright, you’re hired, but on a trial basis!”

He barely got to finish his sentence before you jumped and hugged, briefcase in hand, “Oh thank you Mr.Jackson Thank you so much. You won't regret it.”

“Somehow, I’m rather sure I will. Bill will show you to your room.”

You turned to Bill, quite surprised, “Oh, the nanny gets to live here?”

“Is that a problem?” He asked.

“Oh yeah. I'm sure I'm gonna miss being twenty nine and still living at home with my parents, but! if it's best for the kids!” You remarked, amusing Bill.

“Twenty Nine..” He replied smiling.

You scoffed, "Don't start with me Bill,” before you both laughed, making your way up to your new room.

—————————————

welp! thats chapter 1 folks! tried to keep it pretty on brand with the pilot for the nanny, except for a few minor changes like the kids genders, bill is now niles, and im debating making ms.babcock diana ross but i js cannot stand that ho and dont even like the idea of her being that close to michael even in my fictional world where he’s hiring a random woman to be his nanny, so ill probably keep her as herself. what do we think so far chat? do we fw it??

you didn't care if he knew it was an act. you just wanted him to notice you – to feel a fraction of the ache you’ve been feeling.

tonight was supposed to be the same, but you lost track of time.

you meant to be upstairs before he got home. but after spending the afternoon getting your hair done and soaking in a long bath, you end up curled on the living room couch with a book. your skin still smelled faintly of your favourite lotion, and a short slip silk dress clung softly to your body underneath your matching robe.

you were so absorbed in your book that you didn't even hear the front door open.

“good book?”

you startled, your head snapping up.

michael leaned against the archway, his jacket slung over his shoulder as he watched you. his eyes took in the gleam of your skin and the way the silk clung to you. he looked exhausted, but his gaze was piercing.

you didn't answer.

michael pushed himself from the archway and took a step toward the couch.

but you were stubborn, so by his second step, you snapped the book shut and stood up, pulling your robe tightly around yourself as you walked right past him toward the stairs.

michael didn't try to stop you. his eyes dropped to the hem of your dress, which rode up just above the swell of your ass as you moved. he closed his eyes, tilted his head back, and let out a heavy sigh, lingering for a moment before following after you.

by the time you hit the master bedroom, his steady footsteps were right behind you. you reached for the door to shut it, but he was already there, pushing it open and stepping inside.

“baby, don’t do this,” he sighed.

you ignored him, walking over to drop your book onto the vanity. "i'm tired, michael. i'm going to sleep."

"you weren't tired downstairs," his voice stayed calm as he shut the bedroom door behind him with a firm click. 

he rolled his sleeves up his forearms, keeping his eyes on your reflection.

"you’ve been playing this game for days. turning your back on me. pretending you’re asleep whenever i get home.”

you crossed your arms, looking at him through the mirror.

"maybe i'm just saving you the trouble of talking to me,” you muttered. “since you're so busy."

michael let out a low chuckle that sent a chill down your spine.

he wasn’t arguing with you, which was even more concerning.

instead, he stepped closer, his large hands settling on your shoulders. the warmth of his palms against the cool silk of your robe made you shudder.

he leaned down, his lips brushing the sensitive skin under your ear, his breath warm against your neck.

"is that what you think?" he murmured, his voice barely a whisper. "you really think you're saving me trouble, baby?"

you swallowed hard, staring at your reflection.

you tried to shrug him off, but michael’s fingers drifted down your shoulders, trailing along your bare arms. goosebumps rose instantly across your skin.

in the mirror, his eyes were hooded and fixed on you. your knees weakened.

still, you refused to give in.

“i don’t know, you tell me,” you scoffed, rolling your eyes. “seeing as you practically live at the studio now, i’m surprised you even remember what i look like.”

“you can be as sarcastic as you want, baby,” he murmured, his tone still soft. his thumbs rubbed light circles into your skin.

he didn’t give you the argument you were practically begging for.

the familiar scent of his cologne was completely clouding your head, and after days of barely touching him, the feeling of his hands on you was enough to turn you to mush. you found yourself subconsciously leaning back, melting into his chest.

but then you caught yourself, forcing your spine rigid.

he had been so mean for ignoring you all week, completely neglecting your needs and leaving you alone in that giant bed, and you weren't about to just give in that easily.

he let out a soft hum as his thumbs traced along your collarbone.

"y’missed me? that it?" he whispered, watching your chest rise and fall rapidly in the reflection.

a faint smile tugged at his mouth. “your whole body is shaking."

his hand slid down to the front of your robe, catching the silk belt.

with one quick tug, he undid the knot.

he parted the fabric, pushing it off your shoulders until it pooled around your ankles, leaving you standing there in just the slip dress.

he admired the view for a moment, his hands lingering on your hips before he let go. 

“you can stand there and act as stubborn as y’want,” he murmured. “but you’re not gonna get what y’want by bein’ a brat.”

you bit your inner cheek as you tried to hold his gaze in the glass. 

the silence stretched.

and the longer it did, the more you realized he was right.

you wanted his attention so bad, but now that he’s giving it to you, you were still pushing him away.

"step back f’me," his voice was soft as he nodded toward the bed behind you.

you bit your lip, the sudden loss of his touch making you dizzy. you backed up until the back of your thighs hit the mattress.

to your surprise, michael didn't follow.

instead, he crossed over to the armchair in the corner of the room, turning it so it faced the bed.

he sat down, leaning back and crossing one leg over the other, looking completely at ease.

"sit down," he said softly, his gaze fixed on you.

"touch y'self."

your jaw dropped slightly. "michael–"

"shh," he interrupted, lifting a finger to his lips before resting his jaw in his hand. "y’wanted my attention so bad, sweetheart. y’have it now.”

his eyes never left yours. “all of it.”

he leaned back in the chair. “but since y’couldn’t even be bothered to talk to me… let’s see how well y’do on your own."

“go on, show me how much y’missed me.”

the sheer audacity of him sitting there and watching you made heat creep up your neck.

you wanted to refuse and hold your ground, but you couldn't.

it hit you all at once that the quiet war you’d been waging all week was finally over.

the truth was, you’d missed him.

after days of feeling invisible, having his full attention on you made your knees weak. you were too starved for it to care about your pride anymore. 

slowly, you sat on the edge of the bed, suddenly feeling shy under the unblinking intensity of his gaze.

as you shifted, the thin strap of your dress slipped down your shoulder, exposing a sliver of bare skin to the cool air.

michales eyes immediately dropped, burning through the small patch before tracking back up to your face. 

with trembling fingers, you slowly worked the silk hem of your dress up your thighs. 

the fabric bunched higher until your little lacy panties came into view.

michael swallowed hard.

you leaned back onto your hands slightly, your legs parting just a fraction under the weight of his stare.

in the center of your panties, a dark patch of dampness was clearly visible, ruining any excuse you had of being indifferent to him.

michael’s jaw tightened. a soft, breathy "fuck..." escaped his lips before his eyes snapped back up to meet yours.

"take 'em off," he murmured. "let me see your cute lil’ pussy... look how wet you are."

the contrast between his soft voice and the filthy words sent a shiver down your spine.

your hands shook so badly you could barely catch the edge of your panties, but you managed to wiggle the lace down your hips. as the fabric cleared your thighs, a thin, slick string of your arousal clung to the lace, stretching against your skin before finally snapping. you kicked them off until they pooled on the carpet.

"such a good girl when y’listen," he breathed, a faint smile touching his lips as his eyes locked on your bare center. "now touch y'self. right there. let me see."

your heart hammered against your ribs as you slid your finger down, parting your own slick warmth. 

god, you were so wet already, practically dripping. the moment your fingers made contact, a thick, messy heat coated your hand. a soft gasp escaped your lips at the friction. 

"keep your eyes on me while y’do it," michael said softly.

you forced yourself to hold his gaze as your fingers settled into a slow rhythm. you slipped two fingers inside your slick entrance, stretching yourself open under his unblinking gaze. 

all you could hear was the wet, squelching sound of your own desire filling the quiet room along with your breathy gasps.

having him watch you like this, combined with the fullness of your own fingers, had you unraveling fast. your hips twitched against the mattress, your breath hitching into short, ragged pants as the pleasure steadily built.

"ah... michael," you whimpered, your head tipping back before his soft voice pulled you right back.

"no, look at me," he murmured, his tone gentle but firm. “show me how good my girl takes it.”

your breath hitched, your vision blurring as your pace quickened. you were so close, your body trembling as you chased the edge.

and looking at him wasn’t helping.

the way he was watching you made your head spin. it didn't even feel like a punishment anymore.

you just felt dizzy with how bad you wanted to please him.

your attention drifted over him as your hand kept moving.

he looked so fucking good sitting there – long legs crossed, dark hair slightly mussed around his face. there was a quiet hunger in his expression that made your stomach flip.

you couldn’t seem to look away.

your body trembled harder, your hips rocking helplessly against your fingers.

you were a filthy sight for him.

your arousal squelched loudly with every stroke, drenching your thighs and dripping onto the sheets below you. 

but it all felt wrong. you wished so badly it was his hands on you instead – craving the heat of his palms and those long, slender fingers. your mind raced with every memory of how beautiful his hands were, the subtle map of his veins tracing over his skin, and how perfectly they’d always fit inside you.

your own touch was just a miserable substitute for his. 

you could nearly feel the memory of him driving you crazy. the way he’d slide his fingers deep inside and hook them upward, relentlessly hitting your sweet spot until you were a sobbing, shaking mess–

"stop."

a frustrated sob almost tore from your throat, but you swallowed it down before it could escape.

anger rushed in to take its place.

you froze, your fingers trembling against yourself as you glared at him across the room, your chest heaving.

michael didn't say a word. he seemed completely unfazed by the daggers you were throwing at him.

he uncrossed his long legs and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. his dark hair fell forward over his sharp jawline as he stared at you.

"d’you want t’cum?" he asked.

you stared at him in disbelief.

you couldn't believe he was asking you such a ridiculous question.

so you kept silent because if you opened your mouth, something mean would come out.

"use your words, baby," michael murmured, failing to hide the hint of a smile as he bit his bottom lip.

the ache between your thighs was a screaming throb that was driving you crazy.

so, biting down on your pride, you looked away from his intense gaze and muttered a barely audible, "yes."

michael tilted his head slightly. "can't hear you."

your eyes snapped back to him, your glare returning in full force.

you bit the inside of your cheek so hard you could taste copper, your eyes stung with a mix of frustration and arousal. but your need for him outweighed everything else. 

"yes," you said, your voice a bit louder this time, the word trembling but clear.

instead of answering, michael lifted a hand from his knee. his fingers curled inward in a beckoning motion, whispering a “c’mere.”

a heavy silence hung in the room. you weren't just going to blindly give in and let him have all the control. if he wanted you to come to him, then fine – you could play along.

but that didn’t mean you were going to make it easy for him. you knew he wanted you just as bad. and if you were going to give him what he wanted, you could at least have a little fun with it first.

slowly, your furious stare melted into something much more calculated. you slid off the edge of the mattress, letting your knees sink into the soft carpet. you kept your head tilted low but turned your gaze up, looking right at him through your lashes, fluttering them deliberately.

you leaned your weight forward onto your hands, arching your back just enough for the low neckline of your dress to dip. 

with your eyes locked onto his, you put on a little show, beginning to move across the small distance between the bed and his chair. with every forward shift of your palms, you subtly swayed your hips.

michael didn't blink. his jaw tightened while his eyes tracked the roll of your hips.

by the time you settled between his open legs, your face was only inches from his. 

his hand slowly came up, his large palm resting against your jaw to cup your face.

"such a pretty thing," he murmured, his voice so low and soft it sent a shiver down your spine.

your heart hammered against your ribs.

the heat radiating off him completely enveloped you as his thumb brushed lazily over your cheek before trailing down to your lips.

he pressed the pad of his thumb against your mouth, dragging your lower lip down for a moment before letting it slip back into place.

you didn't back down.

holding his gaze, you lowered your head slightly and caught the tip of his thumb between your lips.

slowly, you parted your lips and drew his thumb into your mouth.

michael’s breath hitched, his fingers tightening slightly against your jaw as your lips closed around him.

you swirled your tongue right against the sensitive pad of his finger, tasting him, before hollowing out your cheeks to create a tight suction.

michael inhaled sharply, his jaw going slack at the sight of you.

he stared down at your face, completely transfixed as your eyes stayed pinned to his, your head slowly bobbing as you slid your mouth along his thumb.. 

you bit back a smile, loving that you were affecting him like this. you knew he was thinking of a million ways to fuck you right now. it was written all over his face.

he pulled his thumb out of your mouth with a soft pop, his eyes still locked on yours.

"stand up," he murmured.

he rose to his feet with you, completely towering over you. his hands gripped your hips and turned you around in one quick motion, facing you away from him. he guided you forward, pushing your upper body down until your hands caught the arms of the chair. your dress rustled as he hitched the fabric past your thighs, his body crowding over yours from behind.

"you're so perfect f’me," he breathed against your ear. "jus’ like this, baby."

his fingers found your sopping heat, slipping deep inside. he pumped them in a slow cadence, stretching you out until your knees felt weak. you buried your face in your arms with a loud gasp, but he just pressed closer, his lips moving against your neck to whisper praises, telling you how good you felt – how much he missed this.

he kept up the steady pace, his thumb rubbing circles against your clit until you were completely breathless and clinging to the seat. just as you neared your peak, he pulled his fingers out, leaving you aching and gasping for air.

before you could protest, he gripped your waist and pulled you off the chair. he walked you backward to the bed, pushing your upper body flat against the mattress, hitching your hips high.

he wasted no time unbuckling his belt and pulling his zipper down. freeing his length, he guided it straight to your opening 

he drove all the way inside you in one long stroke. your breath hitched sharply. 

he thrust a few deep, hard hits that had you lifting off the mattress to meet him.

he began to drill into you, pounding into you so deep that you could feel him in your lungs. you felt full.

every thrust hit all the right spots, forcing you to scream into the sheets. michael reached down, grabbing your arms and pulling them back, trapping your body flush against his chest as he ruthlessly pounded into you from behind.

"look at you taking it so good f’me," he panted against your ear. "such a good girl, taking all of it. look how tight y’are around my dick."

his words only made you wetter, your hips rolling back against every hit. but michael wanted more. gripping your hips, he flipped you over onto your back, pinning your thighs wide. he loved seeing your face when he fucked you.

his eyes locked on yours as he drove back in, hammering into your slick warmth.

the friction was building too fast, having had you near your climax twice now. you whined, your voice cracking as you cried out. your hands were clawing at his back as your hips started to twitch, desperate to chase the climax.

michael slowed his pace, drawing almost all the way out until just the head of his dick was teasing your opening.

"michael, no please," you gasped, arching into him to urge him back, but he held your thighs down, keeping you still.

"uh-uh," he panted, his chest heaving as he stared down at you. "you gotta promise me you're done actin' like brat. no more of this silent treatment."

"i promise," you whined. "i promise, michael, jus' please–"

"say it," he said lowly. his thumb rubbing just once against your clit before pulling away. "say y'gonna stop."

"i-i'll stop," you cried out. "i'll stop being a brat. please, please just fuck me."

he rewarded you with a kiss on the cheek, driving back in all at once, burying himself to the hilt, hitting your sweet spot over and over.

"god– missed this pussy so much," he groaned as the brutal force of his pace picked right back up. "i missed you so much, sweetheart. ‘m sorry– shit, i'm sorry f'leavin' you alone all week, baby.”

you whined high in your throat, your voice cracking as you rocked up against his thick length.

"i missed you so bad, michael–" you cried out, your breath hitching as he slammed into you again.

you wrapped your arms tightly around him, pulling him down to bridge the last of the distance.

michael leaned down and caught your mouth, his tongue sliding past your lips in a sweet, passionate kiss that completely took your breath away.

you came hard. your pussy was clenching around him, practically milking him. michael groaned into your mouth, his body stiffening as his dick pulsed, emptying deep into your core.

he stayed buried inside you, his chest heaving against yours as his breathing slowly leveled out.

after a long moment, he reached up, using the pad of his thumb to gently graze your cheek before cupping your jaw.

"'m sorry, baby," he murmured. "should've talked t'you. shouldn't have left y'feelin' like that." he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead. "next time, tell me, alright? don't sit there hurtin' all by y'self."

you reached up, cupping his jaw as your thumb brushed across his cheekbone.

"i will," you whispered.

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