recs＜꒱

You hadn’t imagined returning home for your ten-year high school reunion would involve so much laughing. You’d imagined walking in, catching up with your two friends from the decade, and leaving early the next morning. 

Never in a million years would you have imagined sitting in the only bar in town, sharing drinks and cracking up with your entire graduating class. All 20 of them. 

One thing you’d forgotten from growing up in such a small town is that everyone knew each other, and everyone talked. “Come on, you were scared of your own shadow,” a guy who’d set the state record at a track meet junior year said from across the table. 

“Remember that time someone dropped a book in Biology, and she screamed?” Your school’s leading actress asked. 

“My favorite is still the blown tire incident,” your high school boyfriend said, gently nudging your shoulder. 

You could admit it without shame; you’d grown up a very timid child. Every bump in the night sent you hiding under the covers, clutching your flashlight. You hated the dark, spiders, and anything creepy. Growing up, Halloween was always a hard time for you. 

You were never particularly popular, but it was hard to disappear in a school that didn’t have enough people in one grade to form a football team. You’d hear about the parties, even if you weren’t necessarily invited to them. That’s how you ended up the joke of the next story to grace the reunion. 

“I’ll never forget it: Halloween night, senior year. Driving up to Old Man Richard’s place, absolutely convinced it was haunted,” another classmate reminisced, watching as you tried to shake off a chill in the warm room. “She stayed in the car, scared to death! Wouldn’t even walk up the front steps!”

You didn’t see it, but that classmate and the track star shared a knowing look before leaning across the table and dropping their voices. They knew you were terrified of that house, of Old Man Richard. You didn’t know why; you’d never seen the man, the house just made you uneasy. There was something about it, the way it groaned in the wind and shadows danced across the windows at all hours. 

“I thought Old Man Richard died,” you wondered aloud, not enjoying the mischievous looks on your classmates’ faces. 

“Well, he did,” the track star began. “But the house sold a couple of years ago. The guy who lives there now is even scarier.” 

“How do you know?” You challenged, the liquor in your system making you uncharacteristically brave. 

“My wife and I moved back here the same year it sold. We decided to raise our kids closer to my folks,” he shrugged easily before the glint returned to his eye. “My son snuck up there a few weeks ago, came back with all kinds of stories.” 

“What kinda stories?” The other man to his right asked, an almost comical eyebrow raise gracing his face. 

“This guy controls things with his mind, can contort his face in all these crazy ways. My son even said he could raise the dead and dance with them.” 

“Necromancy? Really? Your scary stories have really lost their edge,” you scoffed. 

“You know, you can just say you’re still scared. Scared of what, I don’t know, but you can say it.” 

You didn’t know what came over you, but defiance rose in your chest. You were an adult now, a grown woman with a job, an apartment, a 401k for crying out loud! You weren’t that kid anymore, hiding from every creak and crack, trembling with fear. It’s not like you cared what these people thought anymore; you’d moved on from the trivialities of high school. 

But after a night of drinking and reconnecting, you couldn’t let these same people get the best of you an entire decade later. 

“I’m not scared,” you said quietly, narrowing your eyes at them. 

“You could always prove it,” he said, smiling wickedly. 

He couldn’t be serious. Here you all were, pushing 30, and you were being pulled into an adolescent mindset by someone you hadn’t thought about since graduation day. 

“I don’t have to prove anything,” you laughed, not realizing how your foot began to bounce anxiously against the barstool. 

“Wow,” the track star leaned back against the wall behind him, looking smug. “You were right,” he said, turning to his friend. “She is scared, and she won’t admit it.” You hadn’t even noticed the hush that had fallen over your table, everyone listening to the exchange with interest. 

Suddenly, you envisioned the 17-year-old version of yourself. How she missed out on almost everything because she was afraid. Afraid of being hurt, afraid of being caught, afraid of having a good time. You felt like you owed her. She deserved to live for one night without fear. And now that you had excellent medical insurance and enough money saved up for bail, you figured you could afford to be a little reckless. Just once. The point didn’t need to be proven, and you knew that, but it didn’t matter anymore. 

“Fine,” you crossed your arms over your chest, jutting your chin out in defiance. “How do you want me to prove it?” 

“Same as last time,” your classmate rested his elbows on the table, staring straight through you. “Go up to the house, steal something, and bring it back to us. But this time,” he grinned. “You have to go alone.” 

Standing at the wrought-iron gate, you turned to see a handful of classmates staring at you with quirked eyebrows. They held beer bottles and tall cans, thanks to loose rules put in place by the local bartender. In true small-town fashion, the bartender had graduated the year before you and bent all kinds of rules for your reunion. 

“It’s locked,” you huffed, trying to keep a brave face. In reality, the low fog and cobwebs surrounding the grand manor made your skin crawl. Every fiber of your being screamed at you to find a way out of this, make up some kind of excuse. 

“Then climb it,” said the guy who’d started this childish bet. You narrowed your eyes at him in annoyance before turning back to the gate, trying to work out where to put your feet and hands to get over the 10-foot-tall barrier. 

As you moved to lay a hand on it, the gate creaked open by itself. You held in your startled squeal as the group behind you oohed and ahhed. You looked back again, wondering when the jig would be up, when they would tell you it was all a joke, and you didn’t actually have to walk into this place and rob a stranger. A stranger who had horrifying stories told about him. You didn’t think they could actually expect you to do this. Yet there they stood, watching you expectantly. 

You sighed and started the trek. The soles of your shoes crunched against the loose gravel of the winding driveway, the town disappearing behind a thick canopy of overgrown oak trees, obscuring your classmates from view. The cool night air did little to dull the buzz of three gin and tonics sloshing around in your stomach. 

“Start the timer,” the track star whispered to the rest of the group. “I have five dollars down that she comes running back in under two minutes.” 

Up the trail, you let out a harsh breath, watching the mist dance around your face, reflecting in the moonlight. Your mind replayed the mocking grins back at the bar, the effortless way your classmates had slipped right back into their teenage selves, pulling you down along with them. You shook your head; you knew better than to let them get in your mind. 

A sharp breeze rattled the high canopy above your head, making the branches scrape together like dry bones. Instinctively, you flinched, your heart giving a familiar, anxious flutter. 

No. Absolutely not, you told yourself, forcing your feet to keep moving, even picking up your pace a little. The sooner you get there, the sooner it’s over. 

As the driveway finally crested the ridge, the manor came into view, looming on top of the hill. It was massive, dark, and imposing against the star-scattered sky. Its gothic spires poked at the clouds like jagged fingers, floor-to-ceiling windows staring back at you like hollow eyes. The townspeople called it cursed; your friends claimed the tenant could warp reality itself. 

Standing at the edge of the overgrown lawn, the scent of grass tickling your nose, you stared up at the shadow of the house, a sudden wave of absurdity washing over you. 

If I get arrested for breaking and entering, my lawyer will never stop laughing, you thought, a faint, bitter smile touching your lips. If I get eaten by a ghost, or whatever is in there, at least I won’t have to go to brunch with them tomorrow. 

You took a deep, steadying breath, feeling the chill settle deep into your lungs. You weren’t doing this for your classmates; you still knew you didn’t have to prove anything to them. You were doing this for the girl who made her father cut down the tree outside her bedroom window, because the moonlight reflecting off the leaves looked like eyes. The girl who had missed out on half her youth because she was too terrified of the shadows.

Just a souvenir, you bargained with yourself, stepping off the gravel path and onto the damp grass. A cracked window on the ground floor called to you, not even a whisper of light escaping. One little trinket, and then I can leave this town for good. 

You walked up to the window, careful not to make a sound, and listened for signs of life. Nothing. Still fighting your instincts, you slowly raised the window enough for you to crawl through. Your boots hit the old hardwood floors without a sound. The air hit you hard, though, thick with the scent of aged paper, crushed velvet, dried lavender, and a subtle, static charge that made the hair on your arms stand straight up. You spotted a small silver music box resting on a mahogany desk. You reached for it, your heart hammering in your chest. 

As your fingers brushed the cool metal, the window slammed shut behind you with a thunderous boom that vibrated through the room. You spun around, your heart leaping into your throat, and backed away from the window until the edge of the desk dug firmly into the small of your back. The room, which you discovered was a library as your eyes adjusted to the darkness, fell dead silent. The only thing you could hear was the sound of your own frantic, ragged breathing. 

“A thief? Isn’t that mundane...” 

The dark, purring voice echoed from the shadowed corner of the room. You froze, watching a silhouette uncoiling from a velvet armchair, stepping slowly into the silver moonlight spilling through the arched windows. 

It was a man, or something that looked remarkably like one, wearing a soft, flowing white shirt, reminiscent of the men on the covers of romance novels your mother loved. Dark, glossy curls framed a face that was impossibly striking, highlighted by a sharp jawline and gleaming eyes. When he moved, he didn’t walk. He glided across the room, closing in on you with a predatory grace. He stopped a few paces away, crossing his arms over his chest as he examined you like an unexpected insect that had landed on his desk. 

“I-I was just,” you stammered, your adult confidence evaporating with speed. 

“Breaking in? Trespassing?” He paused, tilting his head and letting out a dry, dramatic sigh as he gestured around the room. “Tell me, do you usually enter people’s homes uninvited, or am I just exceptionally lucky tonight? 

“I’m not a burglar,” you squeezed out, pressing yourself as flat as possible against the desk, trying and failing to tear your gaze from his. 

He raised an eyebrow, a slow smirk spreading across his face. “Not a burglar? Well, that hurts my feelings even more! You mean you broke into my lovely, peaceful home just for the ambiance? The dust? The draft?” 

He took a slow step closer, still maintaining a comfortable distance, his dark eyes sparkling with wicked delight. “Look at you. Shaking like an autumn leaf. You’re terrified, aren’t you?” 

“No,” you lied, your voice cracking slightly. 

The man threw his head back and laughed, a rich, musical sound that bounced off the high ceilings. “Oh, I do love a liar!” He leaned forward slightly, slipping his hands into his pockets and inspecting you, his demeanor entirely mocking. “Don’t feel bad, sweetheart. Scaring people happens to be my specialty. I’m a master at it, really,” he smiled at you again, making your heart skip a beat. For someone so terrifying, he was unbelievably attractive. “The mayor down in town?” He asked, raising his eyebrows at you as he stood at his full height again. “Cried like a baby the last time he stepped on my lawn. Make his hair stand straight up!” He laughed loudly. 

He snapped his fingers, and with a sudden whoosh, the grand fireplace to his right roared to life, casting a flickering amber light across his amused face. You tried hard to hide the way you flinched, but you could tell he’d seen it by the way he softened slightly. The chill in the room began to fade, replaced by a comfortable warmth. 

“So,” he said, turning to take a seat in a nearby velvet armchair, resting his chin on his hand as he watched you. “If you’re not here to rob me blind, why are you creeping through my library at two in the morning?” He waited for a moment, giving you a chance to answer. “Speak up, I don’t bite... usually.” Just like that, the spine-chilling grin was back. 

You swallowed hard, suddenly feeling completely ridiculous. “It was a dare,” you whispered, squeezing your eyes shut to shield yourself from the way you expected him to mock you. 

“A dare?” His eyebrows shot up, an amused chuckle rumbling low in his chest. “Please elaborate. I haven’t heard a good local rumor in months.” 

“I came back to town for my class reunion,” you admitted, shifting uncomfortably against the solid wood as the initial wave of panic began to settle into simple, childish embarrassment. “My old classmates... they were making fun of me. Talking about how I used to be scared of everything. My own shadow, this house.” 

“And are you?” He asked, dropping the sharp, mocking edge and softening into genuine curiosity. “Scared of my house?” 

“I was,” you whispered, looking around at the grand, towering bookshelves, stocked full of anything you could imagine. “They told me to come up here and steal something, bring it back to prove I wasn’t that scared little girl anymore. I didn’t even know Old Man Richard had died until today.” 

He laughed again, a rich, genuine sound this time. “Oh darling, you’re dealing with a much higher class of host now,” he leaned back, examining you with a newfound appreciation. He stopped looking at you like an intruder, but as someone who had actually stood their ground and set out to prove something. He admired that. “And who exactly sent my lovely guest on this little errand?” 

“This guy, one who shouldn’t have been able to get to me,” you sighed, regretting every choice that had led you here. “And the rest of my graduating class.” 

“Ah. The local bravery committee,” the sinister grin returned to his face. A face you tried to ignore, but it got more beautiful the longer you looked at him. “You know,” he mumbled, his voice dropping into something low and smooth as he stood to approach you. “If you really wanted to prove how brave you are...” 

“I think I’ve proven enough,” you interrupted, the horrifying reality of the situation suddenly crashing back over you like a wave. You pushed off the desk, taking a quick step toward the window you’d climbed through. “I should go; I’ve made a big enough mess.” 

“Wait.” 

The word wasn’t a command, nor was it delivered with the supernatural boom from before. It was quiet. Almost tentative. 

You stopped, turning back to find him standing in the center of the library. The wicked, playful smirk he’s been wearing slipped, revealing something far more human than you’d expected. A quietly heavy vulnerability in his dark eyes. 

“Don’t go. Not yet,” he requested softly, gesturing vaguely between the two plush armchairs by the roaring hearth. “Please. It’s, well, it’s been a very long time since I’ve had a visitor who didn’t come bearing torches and pitchforks. Or screaming at the top of their lungs.” 

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in his demeanor. “You’re... lonely?” 

He let out a soft, self-deprecating chuckle, resting a hand on the back of one of the armchairs. “Extremely,” he breathed, looking away from you. “The townspeople aren’t exactly known for their warm hospitality toward someone like me. I suppose I can’t blame them entirely, given the local chatter. I just wish...” he trailed off. 

Unsure of yourself, but strangely drawn to the quiet sincerity in his voice, you slowly walked over and sat down on the edge of the velvet seat. He smiled, one that reached his eyes, and sank into the chair opposite yours. 

“You just wish what?” 

He took a deep breath, seemingly trying to find words that hid how honest he was being. “I just wish they would give me a chance, you know?” 

You let his words settle heavily over the room, considering them for a long time. You’d expected to find something from a horror movie when you dropped into the room, anticipating running for your life. Instead, you’d found something genuine. You still didn’t know if he was truly a human man, but you knew he acted and felt like one. He had feelings and emotions, and nobody else seemed to care about that fact. “So,” you began, resting your elbows on your knees and leaning toward him. “What’s true and what isn’t?” 

He leaned back, settling into the chair, a faint, familiar spark of mischief returning to his eyes, tempered by a quiet warmth. “Well... let’s see. They say I can do all kinds of things, right?” He studied you, the way your skin glowed under the warm firelight, your hair shining and eyes sparkling with an innocence he so adored. 

You nodded, watching him closely, the veins in his large hands shifting as he spoke with animation. 

“Contorting the face?” He made a ridiculously dramatic, exaggerated pout before relaxing. “A classic, but mostly reserved for uninvited guests with bad attitudes, like the mayor.” Your mind raced with the fact that you would have screamed and run out of the room ten minutes ago, but he’d somehow made you feel comfortable. Somehow, you knew he wouldn’t hurt you. “Raising the dead?” He scoffed gently, waving a hand in the air, his muscles gently flexing against the thin fabric of his shirt. You pretended not to notice. “Pure exaggeration. I don’t raise corpses, darling. My friends are ghosts, spirited, theatrical, and excellent dancers, but entirely incorporeal. The spirits in this house are my family. Ghostly musicians, dancers, aristocrats from eras past who simply craved a sanctuary where they could perform without judgment. We make music together. We dance. We live.” He waited for a reaction from you, smiling to himself when you didn’t move an inch, entirely focused on his words. “As for controlling things with my mind?” He flicked his wrist slightly, and a silver teapot on a side table quietly floated up, pouring two cups of tea, and gently placing one on the table between your chairs. “Guilty as charged.” 

You couldn’t help the light laugh that escaped from your lips, taking the warm cup in your hands. “They talk about you like you’re some kind of monster.” 

“And you?” He asked softly, watching you over the rim of his own cup. “Do you think I’m a monster?” 

“No,” you breathed, surprising even yourself with your honesty. “But I won’t pretend to know what you are.” 

“Ah, the million-dollar question,” he laughed, placing his teacup gently back on the table and leaning toward you. “What am I?” 

He gestured vaguely to himself, his eyes dropping to rake over you quickly. “The town calls me a demon, a sorcerer, and a freak. But in truth?” He paused, hoping to keep you engaged and not convince you to run away. “I am simply an artist. A conductor of the unseen. I’m a maestro, darling, a weaver of music, magic, and illusion. I don’t belong entirely to the living world, nor to the grave. I exist in the sweet, exquisite space in between.” He considered his next statement for a long time, his expression softening as he looked around the grand room. “I bought this place to create a haven for the misunderstood, the eccentric, the outcasts. I am their conductor, their protector. But because we prefer the cover of night and a little rhythm, the ordinary folk assume we’re evil.” 

“I don’t think you’re evil,” you said before you could think. “You’re theatrical, sure. A bit eccentric, definitely dramatic. But you’re being honest with me; an evil person wouldn’t be able to do that. You haven’t tried to hurt me, and you’re not hiding behind a story. That’s more than I can say for a lot of people in that town.” 

You sat in silence for a long, stretching moment, save for the crackle of the fireplace. You sat, studying and staring at each other. You breathed in sync with him, letting yourself relax and truly take him in. The billowy shirt moved against his skin smoothly, the ruffled front rising and falling slightly with each breath, his long legs clad in perfectly fitting black wool slacks. You wondered if he dressed like this all the time, or if he felt you approaching and put on his most gothic, romance-novel-inspired outfit. 

“I must admit,” his dark eyes sparkled in the fire as he stood up from his chair. “A dusty library is hardly the proper stage for a proper host. If you truly wish to understand what I am, and what this house is, you deserve the full production.” 

He offered you his hand, long fingers elegant and steady. You hesitated for only a second before placing your palm in his, expecting a chill, but finding his touch surprisingly warm, humming with a faint electric energy. 

“What do I call you?” You asked softly, standing much closer to him than you’d anticipated. 

“You can call me whatever you’d like, sweetheart,” he said, smiling down at you. “But most people call me Maestro. Follow me, little thief,” he purred, leading you out of the library and into the cavernous, vaulted hallways of the estate. He held your hand tightly, leading you carefully through his home. What you didn’t know was that this was the first physical contact he’d had with someone in years. He couldn’t remember the last time someone held his hand, walked alongside him, letting their arms and shoulders brush. 

As you walked beside him, the intimidating gothic shadows of the manor seemed to soften. The grand portrait gallery wasn’t filled with somber, dead ancestors: instead, as Maestro snapped his fingers, the painted figures inside the gilded frames blinked, smiled, and bowed to you in silent welcome. 

“You see?” Maestro chuckled, squeezing your hand lightly. He gestured to a portrait of an 18th-century cellist who waved her bow at you. “Not monsters. Just my friends. Artists, dreamers, and souls who simply needed a stage where they wouldn’t be judged for being a bit... unconventional. I give them a home where the music never has to stop.” 

He led you up a sweeping double staircase toward a pair of towering mahogany doors. He paused for a moment, looking over the railing at the grand foyer. “The town is afraid of me because they fear what they can’t fit in a neat little box. But the truth is that I manipulate energy, purely for the thrill of creation.” 

Pushing open the heavy doors, he revealed the crown jewel of the manor: a breathtaking, grand ballroom bathed in silver moonlight. Above, an enormous crystal chandelier hung suspended in midair without a chain, glowing with a soft, ethereal blue light. Maestro tried to ignore the way his breath hitched, and his pulse raced as you wrapped your free hand around his bicep, holding him close as you looked around in wonder. You didn’t even worry about the cobwebs in the corners; you were taken by the beautiful space and the beautiful creature next to you. 

“And this,” he whispered, his voice echoing softly across the polished parquet floors, “is where the magic happens.” 

“It’s incredible,” you breathed, stepping into the center of the vast room, looking up in awe, but not letting go of his hand until you had stepped out of his reach. You spun around slowly, taking in every detail of the room, the plush chaise lounge up against an intricately decorated wall, antiques from all eras in every corner, striking sculptures and artwork everywhere you looked. You turned to find a large, ornate grand piano just off to the side and stepped toward it, running your hand along the smooth wood. You turned again to find Maestro watching you intently, a warm smile spreading across his face. He stepped to join you again, keeping his hands behind his back. “Do you play?” 

He laughed to himself, bowing his head. “Not really, but I have a friend who does.” He snapped his fingers again and looked up at the window as a translucent person materialized there. The figure floated down to the piano and began to play a sweetly haunting melody, the sound reverberating off the stone walls and sounding amplified. “Do you dance?” He turned to you, searching your face. 

“Not really,” you sighed, looking away in embarrassment. You thought about lying to him, but decided against it, knowing how honest he’d been with you. “Never been asked,” you kept your gaze from him, instead watching the keys of the piano move as if they were possessed. 

“What?” The sound that left his mouth was incredulous; he absolutely did not believe it. “Beautiful thing like you? Never been swept across the floor?” 

You shrugged, still refusing to look at him. It was bad enough you’d broken into the man’s house; you absolutely could not let him know the effect he’d had on you since the first time he opened his mouth. Your skin didn’t tingle in fear, but in his magnetic pull. Your mouth didn’t dry out with held screams, but with the inability to verbalize how his voice made your lower stomach coil tightly. 

“May I have the honor?” He asked, holding a hand out to you. You noticed how he trembled slightly, the look in his eyes full of prayer. When you finally turned to look at him fully, you saw the silent question cross his face. Please? 

You placed your hand lightly in his and allowed him to walk you to the middle of the floor, your hands held high between your bodies. You wondered how old Maestro was; his mannerisms reminded you of Regency-era novels. He stopped gently, turning to face you and wrapping his free arm around your waist, his fingers brushing lightly along your spine. You placed your hand on his shoulder, staring up at him with wide eyes, your brows knit together, trying to understand the gentleness in his actions. His feet began to move, finding the beat easily and leading you around the floor in a beautiful dance. You kept your eyes locked on his, as did he, memorizing every inch of each other. 

“They talk about you like you’re some kind of terrifying creature who hides in the dark. But this isn’t terrifying at all, Maestro. It’s astonishing,” you breathed, just barely audible over the music. 

The playful smirk he’d worn almost all night melted away, replaced by a look of quiet, profound wonder. He watched you take in his world as he held you close, drifting around the floor like a professional. 

“You really mean that,” he said softly, searching your eyes with an uncharacteristic gentleness. “Most people run before they ever look past the shadows. They see the magic and call it a curse. But you walked right in,” he breathed in wonder. “You trusted me. You listened, you looked, you didn’t judge.” 

“You’re easy to trust.” 

A rich, genuine warmth blossomed across his features. He pulled you even closer, until you were chest to chest, your faces mere inches from each other. You could feel the intoxicating heat radiating from his body, and wondered when he began to shake in your arms. 

“You are remarkable,” he breathed, his breath fanning across your cheeks, sweet and minty. His voice came out lower than before, dropping into something dark and hypnotic. “I am extraordinarily glad you picked my window to break into tonight.” 

You held your breath, taking him in, trying to memorize the moment. Moving agonizingly slowly, Maestro placed your other hand on his shoulder, using his now-free hand to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing softly over your cheekbone. His touch was so light it felt almost like a breath of wind. His breathing became shallow, his anxiety bubbling to the surface. He worried you would disappear from his grip if he pushed you too hard, if he went too far. 

“I can’t remember the last time someone stood this close to me,” he whispered, his dark eyes wide and tender as he studied you. “Without fear. Without running.” 

His hand trembled just a fraction, a quiet crack in his suave facade that revealed a deep, aching loneliness. He leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away, until his forehead rested gently against yours. A shuddering breath escaped his lips as he simply took in the feeling of another person willingly sharing his space. 

“You smell like rain and life,” his voice was thick with emotion. “Please... tell me I’m not dreaming.” 

“You’re not,” you replied softly, your hands resting at the nape of his neck, gently stroking his dark curls. They wove softly through your fingers, and if you hadn’t been paying attention, you wouldn’t have noticed how his knees almost buckled at the feeling. That small, voluntary point of contact sent a jolt through his body. Maestro let out a soft, helpless sigh, capturing your lips in a kiss that was impossibly gentle. His hand traveled from your face to your waist, where he held you softly, but pulled you even closer to his body, if that was even possible. He savored you, desperate and sweet, as if he were a dying man tasting water for the first time in centuries. Involuntarily, his hands came back to your face, long fingers tracing your jawline, your neck, drinking in the soft skin with a reverent passion. His hands trailed down your chest, but he stopped himself just as he reached the soft tissue of your breasts. He pulled back with a gasp, but you held him close. 

“I’m sorry,” he apologized, his face twisted up, expecting you to leave. 

“Don’t be,” you kissed him again, pulling him back into your body. He groaned into the kiss, turning it heavy and breathless as his need took over. His hands roamed down to your waist, pulling you into his chest so you could feel the wild rhythm of his supernatural heart. He couldn’t stop touching you; every stroke of his hands over your back and hips was greedy yet impossibly tender, desperate to map every inch of you. 

“So brave,” he purred against your lips, his hands slipping beneath the hem of your top, his palm pressing flat against your skin. You sighed into his mouth as his fingers stroked up your ribcage, his touch gentle but needy. “Let me have you. Please.” 

You nodded, moaning a desperate agreement into his mouth. He guided you gently back toward the grand piano; you hadn’t realized the music had stopped, leaving you completely alone with him in his expansive ballroom. With effortless strength, he lifted you up, seating you directly on the smooth, dark wood of the piano casing. He stepped between your knees, your skirt riding slightly up your thighs. Your fingers worked quickly at the buttons of his shirt, your hands sliding over the soft skin as soon as it was exposed to you, drawing a gasp from him and a gentle nibble of your bottom lip. His hands slid up and down your legs as his head dropped to the crook of your neck, peppering feverish kisses down to your collarbone. 

“Feel what you’ve done to me,” he whimpered softly into your skin, taking one of your hands from his chest and guiding it down to the front of his slacks. 

Underneath the fine fabric, he was insanely hard, throbbing against your touch. Moving instinctively, your fingers unbuckled his belt, opened his zipper, and slipped your hand inside, wrapping around his bare, heavy length. His teeth grazed your neck as you began to stroke him, causing him to throw his head back in a breathless, dramatic groan, his hips involuntarily thrusting into your palm. 

“Yes, please. Just like that,” he pleaded, his voice a husky hum as you felt the slick heat swell in your grip. “Don’t stop,” he sighed, dropping his head back to your neck, nipping and sucking at the skin. “It’s been so long.” 

While your hand drove him to the edge of his composure, Maestro’s hands worked quickly, stripping away the barrier of your top and pushing your skirt up to your waist until your bare skin sat against the piano. He slipped two fingers under the damp lace covering your dripping core, groaning as he felt how wet you were, knowing he’d had a hand in it. The knowledge drove him crazy; it’d been decades since he’d been desired. He’d begun to wonder if anyone would ever want him again. He found your slick center with effortless precision, sliding a finger inside of you with a deep, contented sigh that vibrated your entire body. He captured your lips again as your hips arched into his touch, kissing you deeply. He stroked you in a hypnotic rhythm, his thumb working in perfect circles over your clit. 

“Beautiful,” he whispered, his dark eyes glowing with adoration as he watched you unravel in his hands. Driven wild by the friction of your palm around his shaft and the desperate, slick heat of your body, Maestro pulled his fingers free and slid them into his mouth, his eyes rolling back in his head. “So sweet,” he breathed. 

“I need you,” you sighed, dragging his lips back to yours, tasting yourself. 

“I need to taste you first, baby. Please,” he started begging, his pupils blown wide, his gaze fierce and deeply emotional. “Please, it’s been so long. I want to feel you fall apart on my tongue.” He crashed his mouth into yours, using his body weight to lay you down onto the cool, polished wood. He kissed down your body, one large hand splayed across your stomach to keep you laid flat as he dropped to his knees. He placed his shoulders right under your legs, your thighs encasing his face, and a low, gravelly moan escaped his throat as he finally got to look at you in all your glory. “Gorgeous,” he whispered, placing soft kisses against your knees and inner thighs. 

His dark eyes looked up at you through thick lashes, completely desperate. He buried his face between your legs with a sigh. A loud, startled gasp ripped from your throat as his tongue made its first broad, hot stroke over your hot core. Maestro worked you like a man possessed, licking and sucking deeply, reverent and relentless. He drank you in with greedy groans, his dark hair brushing against your skin as he coaxed sweet sounds from your lips. 

You cried his name, the sound bouncing off his ballroom walls, your hands flying to tangle in his curls, gripping him tightly as he flattened his tongue and lapped at you with a wild, hungry rhythm. 

“Yes, darling,” he murmured against your wet skin, the vibration of his voice sending a violent shock through your entire body. “Give it all to me. Melt for me, fall apart.” 

He swirled his tongue around your sensitive clit while slipping a finger deep inside you, mirroring the feverish pace of his mouth. It only took one curl of his slender finger for the sensory overload to shatter you. Your hips bucked relentlessly into his mouth, your back arching off of the piano as you cried his name, completely coming apart on his lips. He swallowed every drop of your release, letting out a deep hum of satisfaction. He slowly rose to his feet, his eyes burning with adoration as he slid an arm around your waist, pulling you back up to meet his lips. 

As he kissed you intensely, wiping tears of pleasure as they fell from your eyes, he aligned himself with your entrance. You cried out as his tip slid against your throbbing clit. He pulled back, studying your face for any glimpse of pain or regret. He didn’t find any. 

“Together,” he whispered softly before pushing into you with one smooth, unyielding thrust. 

The sensation was overwhelming, a complete fullness that made you gasp, wrapping your legs tightly around his waist. Maestro let out a low moan, burying his face in your shoulder as he began to move. With every deep slide of his hips, your intermingled voices filled the cavernous ballroom with a breathless, wild melody. He held you like you were precious, his touch starved yet protective, driving you both higher and higher with every relentless stroke until the world shrank down to nothing but the way he felt against your skin. 

He began to shake in your arms again as he took your lips again, whimpering loudly against them. A string of “Yes. Thank you. You’re perfect. So good for me. Thank you.” was whispered against your mouth as he reached the edge. You knew he’d want to give you the option, ask you where you wanted him to finish, but you were lost in the trance of him. Your legs locked around his waist, keeping him exactly where you wanted him as his cock began to twitch inside of you. The warm feeling of him spilling inside you earned another deep moan from your throat as you took his bottom lip between your teeth and pulled. 

The final harmony of your voices faded into the moonlit arches of the ballroom as you collapsed into each other’s arms, Maestro holding your waist tightly, your arms wrapped around his neck. You listened to the steady beat of his heart as the cool night air gradually restored your senses. He held you with a gentle, worshipful grip, his fingers trailing mindlessly down your spine as if still convincing himself you were real. 

“I suppose,” he mumbled softly into your hair, his voice tinged with a quiet humor, “your little friends are wondering where their souvenir is.” 

You let out a soft laugh, sitting up straight and staring at him, his face slack with pleasure as he stared at you like you’d hung the moon. “I completely forgot about them.” 

“Good,” he said, a wicked, triumphant smirk gracing his lips. You reached up, smoothing his dark curls from where your grip had ruffled them. He stepped back just enough to remove himself from you and helped you slip your top over your head, his long fingers lingering over your swollen core as he replaced your panties from where he’d pulled them to the side. You gasped at the contact, overly sensitive from the wild encounter. He smiled again, finding your eyes and stepping closer to kiss you again. “Dreadful little people anyway. They lack all appreciation for the arts.” 

Glancing toward the grand arched windows, you saw the very first violet hues of dawn beginning to streak across the eastern horizon. The class reunion, the silly dare, the lingering anxieties of the teenager you used to be; all of it felt miles away, completely eclipsed by the magic of the manor and the man standing before you. His hands found your waist again, like he was terrified to let you walk out of his home. But he knew he had to. 

He removed one hand from your body to reach into his pocket, withdrawing an ornate key on a chain. He took your hand, placing the cool metal into your palm, before wrapping his long fingers over yours. 

“Take it,” he whispered, his dark eyes sparkling with profound warmth. “It’s better than the music box. It’s original to the house. Consider it a gift from the host. Go back down that hill, show it to them, and let them wonder for the rest of their mundane lives what truly happened up here.” 

You drew his lips back to yours again, a slight devastation settling in your chest; you should have known this would be temporary. “And if I want to come back?” 

A dazzling smile spread slowly across Maestro’s face, the theatrical persona vanishing entirely, leaving behind only the open, touch-starved artist who’d bared his soul to you. He took your hand and pressed a sweet kiss to your knuckles. 

“The doors of this manor will never be locked to you, my darling,” he promised softly. “Whenever the world gets too quiet... come back. We still have an entire symphony to write.” 

He walked you to the door, taking you by the waist and kissing you deeply one last time, making your back arch as he dipped you down, reminiscent of one of the romantic gothic paintings that hung on his wall. Leaving the manor through the front doors this time, you walked down the winding driveway as the sun broke over the treetops. The morning air was crisp, but a deep golden warmth stayed settled in your chest. You hadn’t proven anything to anyone other than yourself, and you found an amazing experience on the other side. 

When you pushed open the door of the local diner, the bell announcing your arrival, you found your classmates sitting in a back booth, looking exhausted and weary. They froze as you approached them, their eyes darting from your calm face to the key you dangled in front of them. With a triumphant smile, you slid the chain over your neck, letting the key settle on your chest. The one who’d started this whole thing, the track star, searched your face for any sign of terror, tears, or panic. 

You didn’t say a word; you simply squeezed yourself into the crowded booth and met his eyes with a knowing smirk. “Can I get a cup of coffee, please?”

tag list: @sophisanmjlover @1984grmmys @ilyliberiangrl @bevellin777 @screammv @muaddibswift @thrillerpilled @sourshe @cyber-bunnyy @sampenguin @spideyjaafar @bthnybts @offtheinvincible @mjmusex @sulkygyu @laugalaxie @decodemj @cherryshawol5 @bumblebee-art-blog @zackuri

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝

manager!michael is a boomer; we have to remember that. not to say he wasn’t progressive in his own right, but just keep in mind, he was born in the late 50s. he’s pretty open-minded about a lot of things, and doesn’t have anything against homosexuality or the queer community. 

now, i will say it does come as a big surprise to him when he finds out you are bisexual.

he’s going through your music videos one night, just scrolling through the few he wasn’t on set for or directly involved with. as you plan your newest album tour, you release a few music videos over the months leading up to it. when he misses you over long stretches of time, he turns to your visual projects. he’s a connoisseur of arts, but he also loves to watch you.

when he stumbles across one of your more explicit and daring songs, his curiosity is piqued. he also feels himself getting a little excited, something he ought to be ashamed about, but he can’t help the feelings he has for you, aroused by the sweet memories of your perfumed skin and gentle touches to his body, the intimate friendship you both have. 

what’s a little risque music video going to do?

he’s halfway unbuttoning the top of his pants to loosen up, settling into his bedroom cushions better, and hits play on the computer. the song starts to play, outlined with a bold plot: you are portrayed as a patron of a strip club, watching a beautiful woman dancing in the center stage, illuminated by red lights and the contour of her body encircling the silver pole. you sing as you watch the woman with sharp eyes, adorned in a large hat, sharp suit, halved gloves, and pointed heels. michael licks his lips when he sees you. you’re divine, absolutely stunning.

you sing of a woman, presumably the stripper you are watching, who is having an affair without her man knowing and the dilemma of dealing with her infidelity as the one involved in cheating. clips of the unknowing male partner are shown throughout the video, working two jobs, buying flowers on his way out, and scrolling through text messages with his girl as he travels in the subway home. his cheating partner is the stripper, he thinks.

michael’s arousal at the vision of you is dwindling as he starts to pay attention to the music video’s plot. as the song progresses, it seems you are looking at the stripper with a different gaze. not admiration of another woman’s athletic skills or pride in womanhood, but something more. there’s something in your eyes that he’s seen before. a glint of excitement, that flutter in your lashes, the squint of your eyelids when you are observing your next prey. and his heart sinks a little.

it’s lust. dominant lust. lust you’ve shared with him before.

he tries to convince himself it’s acting, you’re acting out the lyrics of the song, it’s artistry at best, a shock factor and then it happens.

the stripper approaches your table and leans forward seductively, and you’re kissing her. passionately. desperately.

michael’s heart drops completely, so fast, he sits up in his bed, eyes widened in shock. he’s frozen there, unable to look away from the screen as he watches you pull the beautiful stripper down to lay her onto the stage. it seems there is no one else in the club, just you and your lover. then the boyfriend comes home, sees his girl isn’t there and calls her.

when the phone rings in the club, it’s ringing from your suit pocket. 

michael slumps back into his bed, stunned and impressed. the cheater wasn’t the stripper; it was you the whole time. you were singing about yourself the entire time.

as the music video comes to a close, michael reaches up and taps the lid of the laptop down until it shuts with a sound click. he sits in his bed for a long time, unmoving, staring at the wall across his bed, hands folded over his belly. he’s thinking, so many thoughts running through his head.

when he calls you the next morning, weary from erotic dreams of you and another woman writhing over each other, you answer cheerily.

“i saw your music video for ‘find out’.” he murmurs into the receiver as he hands paris her favorite cereal box. she responds with a ‘thanks daddy’.

you hum back. “mm, and what did you think? my ‘in the closet’, if you will.” you giggle despite yourself, and he takes a few hurried strides away from the breakfast table so his children won’t hear.

“girl,” he glances back at his children, who are munching away at their breakfast, and cups a hand over the receiver. “my video was nothing like that, and you know it.”

you snort over the phone. “fair, times are different now. but look at rihanna, gaga, nicki minaj…hell, she dropped ‘anaconda’ and i can’t kiss a girl?”

michael blinks a few times and takes a deep breath before answering. he closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. “it’s…it’s not like that. and besides, that’s just…a whole nother topic.” he’s unsettled by the constant news reports of minaj’s seemingly outlandish and explicit music video for her new song, which he hadn’t even heard yet aside from the chorus.

and the single visuals of the rapper in a skimpy thong, but he disgresses.

he hears you rummage around, something shutting in the background. a sharp crack is heard, fizzling, and then a deep gulp followed by a breath. “are you bothered by me kissing a woman, michael?”

it’s hard to say. yes, he’s bothered by you kissing anyone for that matter, be it woman or man. what can he say, he’s quite protective of you, especially with the few escapades you both have had over the past few years he’s managed you. not two albums later, and you’re exploring a more creative and mature outlet. he won’t deny that it’s something he’s encouraged you to dig into, but now he feels selfish and childish about how it’s going. and it’s bad.

“have…” he’s clearing his throat a little, giving a few “hum-hum”’s as he tries not to squeak. “have you…aw, hell, i dunno how to ask this, fox.”

“have i ever been with a woman?” you interject. there’s a smile hidden in your voice.

“yes.”

a pause. “yes.”

michael swallows hard. “you’re bisexual, then?”

“yes,” you answer carefully. “does that bother you?” you’re not defensive, but your voice has taken on a more vulnerable tone. sad.

“no!” he says a little too loud as he hears his voice echo in the niche of the kitchen. he feels eyes on his back, and chooses to ignore it. “no, of course not.”

you sigh in relief. he smiles a little, huffing out a laugh. “what, you thought i was homophobic, girl?”

his heart squeezes when he hears your sweet laugh ring out from the phone. “oh, no! i know you’re chill, mickey. i was just, i dunno, wondering how you’d react to it. i know i might get a barrage of letters from angry parents about it.”

michael rolls his eyes, tossing a hand out to swat away the thought. “eh, who cares? you don’t think i’ve had my fair share of that crap when my videos were broadcast?” you mumble in agreement, shifting over something distantly.

there’s a clatter of plates and utensils near the island behind him, and michael swivels around to see blanket not so sneakily place his unfinished food on the counter to scurry away. he snaps twice at his son, eyeing the boy down and wriggles his fingers in a ‘come hither’ motion. blanket drops his shoulders in annoyance and drags his feet to grab the plate again, scarfing the remnants of food down his throat, long hair nearly getting caught between his fork and teeth..

“slow down, boy, it ain’t goin’ nowhere,” michael mumbles as he adjusts the phone between his shoulder and ear. he busies himself by putting the perishables in the refrigerator. he hears you hum directly into the side of his head, and he tries not to shiver.

“who’s there?” you ask casually.

michael glances at his son, who presents the now-empty plate to him and rushes to dump it in the sink before slipping away. he sighs. “blanket. just havin’ breakfast with the kids.”

you must be smiling, for your voice lilted sweetly when you told him, “aw, enjoy. tell ‘em i said hi.”

he’s near the sink now, farther from the older two children when he hears you speak again. “michael, about the video…”

“hm?” he asks. he’s trying to sound casual, uncaring, but the pit in his stomach is twisting and he’s suddenly nauseous.

you seem to have some cautiousness of your own as you stumble a bit over your words. “it’s just acting. for the music video. i mean, i do like men and women equally, but…”

what you and i have is real, he can tell it’s what you wanted to say. or what he wants you to say. he can’t tell the difference anymore and his bias is blurring all kinds of lines.

“i get it, fox,” he closes the fridge door and catches the slipping phone into his hand, settling the other onto the countertop. “you don’t gotta explain it to me.”

overall, i think michael is rather accepting of you. how can he judge someone for their sexuality when the media hounded him for his own for years, claiming he was something he was not? it simply wouldn’t be fair, and he never really had a problem with the queer community. he would chalk up his reaction to surprise, not judgement or jealousy. 

though he will say, now when he sees you being friendly and affectionate with women, he wonders if you’re acting this way out of girlhood or is there a hint of flirtation layered with those compliments? i don’t think he would be brave enough to ask the right questions, just mull it over in his head until you pull him aside over a few drinks and force the conversation with him.

he does find it attractive when you kissed the beautiful stripper, and he will revisit the video many times. on the rare occasion where he is stroking his dick late at night to the thought of you, the brief images of you getting your sweet pussy licked by another woman flash through his mind, and he has to shake his head violently to chase those thoughts away. 

the prospect of it is uncouth; he hates sharing you, even someone else touching you is disgusting and revolting to him. he deserves you, he wants you, he’s had you! you’re his, he will have you, he just needs time. yes, he drools to himself as his hand pumps his damp length faster, he’s panting now, as he thinks of just you and him, him and you, you and him, him and you, you getting your swollen tits licked by another gorgeous woman—no, no, no!

and yet, he doesn’t miss the way his cock twitches in his hand at the moment. he’s not stopping. and the thoughts come flooding in. your delicate pussy getting fingered and teased by another woman, someone who will give you pleasure because you deserve nothing less, your moans as you grip onto her long hair while she eats you out. oh, he’s thrusting his hips up in tandem with the fantasy of you rapidly rubbing your pussy all over the other woman’s face, using her as you cum over her tongue. and then, and then!

oh finally, then, you will push her aside, scramble over to michael, hands and knees, desperate for him, his touch, his fingers, his dick, him. him, only him. because only michael can make you feel really good. the girl was nice, his fantasy narrates to his lust-filled mind, but michael was different, always different. you would beg for him to fuck you, to let him hold you close, kiss you dearly, ride his cock into tomorrow, make a music video about that!

it’s only after he cums hard over his own warm hand and belly, milky seed turning cold in the bedroom air, and he’s left gasping for air and twitching over his sheets, that he thinks it can never happen. the reason his fantasies stay within the confines of his mind.

꧁⎝ 𓆩༺✧༻𓆪 ⎠꧂ 

You happily let his weight topple on you, head resting on your chest as you go to rub soothing circles on his back. “Don’t want to shower n change first?”

He grumbles into your skin, eyes already fluttering shut. “Mmm, wanna lay down for a bit before.” You would’ve believed him if you didn’t start to feel fingers play with the straps of your loose tank top, silent permission to pull them down your shoulders. You help push the fabric down, revealing your breasts for the habit you don’t remember letting him create, although you’re more than happy to let it continue if it knocks him to sleep like a baby for the rest of the night.

His palm is full and warm as there’s no hesitation to cup one of your breasts, having your breath stutter. He begins to knead gently, the soft weight of you in his hand making your own arousal start to surge.

The other hand wanders down, creating goosebumps in its wake. His touch stops at your ass, now caressing them in the same rhythm he’s doing on your breast.

“Tell me about your day, mama. What did you do while I was gone?”

Your mouth falls open, but no words come out as he now rolls a thumb over your nipple, hardening the peak. He feigns obliviousness to your shivers, but there’s a thrill surging through him to having you like this, open and breathless, undone with any touch he gives you.

You clear your throat, searching for your voice. “It was okay,” The tremble you tried to fight back in your tone becomes evident the second he starts to close his lips over your nipple, sucking gently. “Besides waiting for you to come home, I kept myself busy by seeing what needed to be clean around the house.”

He hums in response, then letting the tip of his tongue swirl over the bud. The hand on your ass stops its caresses, to only give them to your other breast so it wouldn’t be left neglected.

You bring up your hand to comb through his curls, keeping the conversation going to ignore the way his tongue is dragging slow, messy circles over your nipple, which is giving you the urge to press your thighs together. “I take it rehearsal was tiring again today?”

He draws back to breathe over the wet skin, squeezing the other breast in his palm gently. “mmm, my pretty girl feels so soft.…would stay here forever if I could.” How he completely ignores your question, too lost in how giving love to your breasts is nearly putting him to sleep.

You pull back some of the curls covering his face, watching him lean back down to lick a wet stripe up to your nipple, sucking it back into his mouth and letting it roll between his lips.

God, it’s hard to not squirm. You hear his breathing start to slow, work of his mouth getting gentler, sleep around the corner ready to take him. Whether it was an accident or intentional, you don’t know, but he suddenly bites down lightly on the bud.

You shudder out a gasp, unable to stop the jerk of your hips. He grumbles, snaking one arm around you to keep you still. As if you weren’t already fighting for your life to do so.

Then, you feel the cold air hit you particularly hard on your chest, looking down to see him dozed off with half of your nipple hanging out his mouth, breast all slick and peak swollen. How even in his sleep, his tongue twitches to give the faintest licks to your nipple, never truly letting you escape the shudders he delivers you.

The door crashed open and he was on you before it swung shut.

He was still in his stage clothes—black pants and a thin, sweat-soaked white top clinging to the sharp lines of his torso. The smell of him hit you first: hot skin, sweat, and the faint, smoky smell of pyrotechnics. His eyes were dark and wild, pupils blown wide.

He essentially lunged at you, opening the door in nothing but a silk robe. His hands gripped your waist and he moved you back against the wall, his mouth finding yours in a desperate, engrossing kiss. You could feel the nervous, antsy energy radiating off him; show-night Michael, always horny and a bit wild.

The kiss broke as he walked you backwards, his hands undoing the knot of your robe. The silk gave way, pooling at your feet. You both stumbled another few steps into the next room, a clumsy tangle of limbs, and then you were falling.

His arm hooked around your back, taking the brunt of the impact as you landed together on the plush carpet of the sitting room.

He was on you in an instant. His black pants were shoved out of the way in a rushed motion and he practically ripped the white tee off of himself, messing up his hair in the process. Where it had been damp and curly, it was now slightly frizzy.

He braced himself over you on his forearms, knees digging into the deep pile of the shag. You spread your thighs wide around his hips, locked your ankles behind his back, and pulled him in. He drove himself home with one deep, searing thrust that knocked the air from your lungs.

Then… well, he was pounding into you, the wet slap of skin echoing in the quiet room, the furthest thing from romantic practically ever. Each thrust jolted you up the carpet with the force. Every withdrawal was a sweet, hollow ache; every return a jolt of pleasure in your core that made your back arch and your toes curl. It was fast and unforgiving.

He looked wrecked and beautiful; sharp cheekbones from where he'd lost healthy fat during the tour, lips parted and scabby from where he bit them in a nervous state before he emerging onstage that night. That same fierce concentration on his face as he moved above your body as he did during performance.

Your eyes wandered from his face down the taut plane of his pale abdomen, dark clouds of pigmented skin swirled into the paleness.

You watched the muscles clench and release with each drive of his hips. The deep V-lines cutting into his pelvis pointed like an arrow to where you were joined.

After a while, he sat back on his heels, breathing hard. He hooked his hands under your knees and dragged your body up onto his cock with a rough, possessive pull. The new angle was brutal, perfect, hitting your g spot rhythmically.

His eyes locked on where your bodies joined, his tongue darting out to wet his lips, watching himself disappear into you with a dark, rapt focus.

You were babbling, lost to the neurons in your brain that were on fire. "Mmh… god, Mike… s'good… jus’ like… mmph…"

His hips never stopped, but his eyes flicked up to yours.

A slight frown creased his brow, his lip caught hard between his teeth.

"Baby you know I hate mumblin'," he stated, his voice low and commanding.

The next thrust was deliberately deeper, making you yelp.

"Use your words. Tell me what you need. Lemme hear you."

The command cut through the haze. Your eyes met his, wide and desperate. The need was sharp, shocking on your tongue. You swallowed.

"Spit in my mouth."

His entire body went rigid for a split second, it was barely noticeable in the grand scheme of what was going on but you felt it.

Then a slow, sly smile spread across his face.

The rhythm of his thrusting changed completely after your outburst.

He drove into you harder, but slower than you started off, each thrust a deliberate, soul-shaking impact.

He leaned forward, bracing his hands on either side of your head again, caging you in. His silver chain dangled against your lips and clinked off of your teeth as you gasped. Your lips were so dry that immediately you could taste the metal.

"Did I," he began, his voice a husky whisper, each word punctuated by a deep grind of his hips, "just hear what I think I did?"

You nodded helplessly to him feeling your hair move behind your head, matting it, your breath now coming in short, sharp pants.

"Y-Yeah, baby. Please. I want it so badly. N-need it."

A low, guttural sound escaped him. "Need it?" he purred into your right ear, goosebumps now raising on your sweaty skin, "is that so?"

"mhmmm," was all you could manage.

"You filthy, perfect girl." His eyes were twinkling with mirth.

I n one smooth motion, he shifted his weight. One hand cupped the underside of your jaw, his fingers firm, tilting your face up to his. His thumb brushed your lower lip gently, then his index and middle fingers pressed against your parted lips.

"Suck on em," he whispered, his voice thick.

You obeyed, letting the two digits slide into the heat of your mouth. You swirled your tongue around them, and he groaned, a low, shaky sound, his hips giving an involuntary jerky thrust into you as he watched.

After a moment, he slowly pulled his glistening fingers free.

"Now," he breathed, his eyes locked on yours. "Open for me. Stick out that pretty tongue."

As you let your jaw go slack, your tongue resting in invitation, his hand shifted. His grip firmed. His thumb pressed insistently down on the center of your bottom lip, pinning it to your teeth, while the rest of his hand cupped the point of your chin, tilting your head back and holding your mouth in a forced, wide-open circle. You couldn't have closed it if you tried.

His eyes darkened. He worked his mouth, took his time, tongue running along his teeth, then leaned down and spat; a spray of warmth initially, and then a wet plop directly onto the center of your waiting tongue.

The taste exploded in your mouth; salty, musky, intimately him. A shocked moan vibrated in your throat as you swallowed convulsively.

"m'god, you really liked that, didn’t you?" he praised, his voice thick. He began to move inside you again, resuming that deep, punishing pace, his eyes locked on yours.

He fucked you through the shock of it, his face now smug, the energy between you turning a bit manic.

“fuck, you’re so wet for me, I keep slippin’ out,” he grunted, and each time he did, the fumble to get himself back inside felt crazy; his cock sliding up and down past your clit before sinking back in with a breathy sigh of relief from him.

He leaned down close again, his lips brushing your ear. "If you like bein' spat on that much, baby," he whispered, the words hot and dark with promise, "m'gonna do it again."

Before you could even process it, he pulled almost all the way out with a wet, slick sound. He was breathing hard, chest heaving. He looked down between your bodies, at the creamy evidence coating the base of his cock, and gathered another thick mouthful. With his free hand, he spread your swollen folds.

He leaned back and spat a thick, viscous string directly onto your clit.

You gasped at the sudden cool shock as it dripped down.

The moment it dribbled near the head of his cock, he drove back into you with a guttural groan, the spit easing his way into a devastating, slick glide. You cried out, arching off the carpet.

His thrusts pushed you further away each time, but he dragged you back, his long fingers digging into your hip bones, grabbing your ass cheeks tight to pull you onto him. He was dangerously close, you could tell, the sex becoming sloppy and frantic.

"Head up and watch me make you feel good," he commanded, his voice a rough scrape. He put his large palm behind your head, pulling you up slightly so you were looking down at where your bodies joined.

He held your gaze as he pushed back into you, slowly. You watched, mesmerized, as his spit-slicked cock disappeared into you, over and over, a lewd, shining mess.

“You are dirtier than I thought you were.”

As he rocked himself into you again, you glanced up from watching your bodies join and gave him a half assed wink.

That got another deep moan from him, and the rhythm became something desperate, his control fraying at the edges. The coil in your own stomach tightened, pulled taut. You were right there, teetering on the brink.

“Mike— I’m close, keep going like that” you gasped, the words torn from you. His thrusts were short and staccato now. He was hissing slightly, his foreskin making his shallow thrusts even more pleasurable.

His eyes, which had been glazed with his own pleasure, sharpened instantly on yours again. A wild, tender pride flashed across his face.

“Yeah? That’s it, baby,” he gritted out, his hips snapping harder, faster, chasing your release as much as his own. "love it when you take back control and you tell me what to do,"

and with that, you were catapulting off the edge, your pussy clenching around him

"There you are. That's m'girl."

⭒ 〔 © urbanfunkchild 〕

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Bran Castle rose above you, as it was against the mountains. Its towers were jagged, the windows tinted dark. Its walls are older than any other English map you had prepared for. You had been sent by your firm in London as a young solicitor. You were competent, careful, and most of all entirely alone– to assist the Count with the purchase of Abbey and the transfer of other certain properties. The letters had been overwhelmingly polite, the terms being generous. Nothing in those pages had mentioned the cold that seemed to live within that stone.

A heavy door opened without a sound. The man who stood in the threshold was tall, slender, dressed in black that made the curve of his throat look almost luminous. His hair fell in soft dark waves around a face that was both beautiful and strangely still. When he smiled, the expression didn’t reach his eyes.

“Ah, Miss.” He said, his voice was low, it carried some sort of accent that was very faint, and unnamable. “I have been expecting you. Please– come in. The night isn’t very kind t’travellers.” 

You followed into the hall lit by a single chandelier that casted more of a shadow than light. The air smelled of dust and something sweet, like old roses in water. He took your cloak with his careful, surprisingly huge hands. His fingers brushed the back of your neck for the briefest second before he stepped away. 

“You must be weary,” he said. “I have prepared a room. Tomorrow we will discuss the papers. Tonight you rest.” 

You slept poorly. The bed was too large, and the silence was unsettling to you. Somewhere far below you thought you heard soft footsteps, and once, very faintly, the sound of a woman’s laughter that did not sound entirely human. 

Journal - 5 May

I arrived at the castle after nightfall. The Count himself received me. He is not what I expected. Younger than the letters suggested, or perhaps simply preserved by some strange fortune of the mountains. His manners are perfect, almost courtly, yet there is something very watchful in him. He looks at me though he is learning the shape of my thoughts. 

His documents are in order. Carfax Abbey will be his. I am to remain until the final signatures are complete and certain arrangements for the voyage are settled. He insists I stay as his guest. I have no means of refusing–the carriage is gone, and the road is closed by the weather, or so he tells me. I do not like how quiet the castle is after dark.

The next few days passed in a strange way. You worked in a high chamber lined with maps of England, the Count seated across from you at a long oak table. He asked questions about the Abbey’s grounds, the neighbouring properties, the legal transfer of certain chests that would travel with him to London, His attention was charming, it sparked something in you slightly, it was the way it never wavered. 

Yet he never ate in your presence. When you dined, he sat with a glass of dark wine and watched you with an expression that was almost gentle.

“You have a steady hand with that pen,” he said one evening, as he watched you correct something, a clause it seemed like. “Most solicitors I have dealt with are… annoyingly noisier. You are quiet. It’s nice, it’s restful.” 

You glanced up. “I was trained to listen more than I speak, Count. That is what my entire job is after all.” 

A faint smile touched his mouth. “Michael. While we are alone, y’may call me Michael. These.. Titles grow heavy after so many years.” 

The name felt too intimate in the cold room you both lingered in. You nodded once and returned to the page, aware of the way his gaze lingered on the pulse of your wrist.

At night the castle changed. Doors that had been open in daylight were locked. Your own door remained unlocked, yet when you tested the outer corridors after midnight you found every passage sealed. Your satchel–containing your passport, your crumpled return tickets, even the silver cross your mother had given you–vanished from the desk on the third evening. When you asked, Michael only looked at you with something like regret.

“It is safer this way,” he said. “The mountains are not kind to those who–um– wander. Stay within the walls I have left open to you. For now.” 

You did not answer. You simply met his eyes and felt the first true cold of understanding settle in your chest.

Journal - 12 May It seems I am a prisoner. I write it plainly because there is no other delicate word for “prisoner.” My papers are gone, and the doors are locked. The windows of my chamber open to a sheer drop that would kill me before I reached the trees. He doesn’t threaten me, no, He doesn’t need to. The isolated threat is enough. And yet he is kind in the strangest ways. He brings books to my room–Poetry, histories of the Carpathians. He sits with me during the evenings and asks me about London, far too many questions about London. When I speak of home he listens as if he’s never heard such things. Maybe it’s the way that I describe it. Tonight he stood very close while I sealed a letter that will never be posted. His hands brushed mind, his hands were cold. I should have drawn it away but I didn’t. I am beginning to fear what that means.

You discovered the truth in pieces, many things have stood out to you ever since your stay here. 

One night, restless. You stood at the high window of the library and watched the courtyard below. The moon was bright, and admirable. The only thing that has given you a peace of mind. A dark figure moved along the outer wall–climbing, no, crawling, head downward like a bat, limbs moving with such impossibility, the figure paused at a lower window, slipped inside and was gone. You recognized the shape of the shoulders, the fall of the dark hair. 

Michael.

Your breath left you in a single quiet sound. You didn’t scream, no, you simply just closed the curtain with trembling hands and returned to your chair, heart beating so fast you felt it in your teeth.

The next evening a group of women came.

You woke to the softest sounds of laughter outside your door. Three of them, beautiful, eyes bright with what seemed of hunger. They spoke in a language you did not know, as their giggles continued, one of them reached for the handle. The door would not open. A voice–Michael’s–spoke from the other side, the giggling stopped.

You could make out some words of him telling them to “head back” and “leave her alone.” The women hissed as they retreated, the corridor was silent again.

In the morning he found you in the library, still fully dressed from the night before, the journal open on your lap.

“I what you’ve seen.” He said, his voice still and slightly intimidating. 

You closed the book carefully. “I saw you on the wall. And I heard them outside my door.” 

He stood very still for a second, the careful courtliness fell away and something older looked out of those big brown eyes of his–he looked. Tired. Almost afraid of what you might say.

“I would not have let them touch you,” he said quietly. “Y’are under my protection. For as long as y’remain here, no harm will come to you from them.”

“And from you?” The question lingered. He didn’t answer immediately, instead he moved closer, stopping short of the chair, and looked down at your face with an expression that was almost soft.

“I have lived a very long time, I have learned the difference between hunger… and… something else. You are not food to me. You are the first person in a long time that looks at me and does not immediately look away.” 

You should have been terrified. Part of you was. Another part–quieter, you noticed the loneliness inside of him, the way he spoke to you. No, he wouldn’t harm you, you believed him. His brows were furrowed as he bit his lip in front of you. Nibbles of nervousness, his eyes were looking toward the floor. There was nothing else to say.

That evening, after the work on the papers had ended and the fire in the great hall had been lit, you finally asked the question that had been buzzing in your head all day since the women appeared. 

“Who are they?” you said, your voice was steady this time, you were comfortable enough to ask him questions. “The women. The ones who came to my door. Who are they to you?” 

Michael was standing before the hearth, one hand resting on the mantle. He did not turn immediately, when he did the firelight caught the sharp line of his cheek, complimenting his facial features more, especially his eyes. 

“They are… what remains of older choice,” he said slowly. “Centuries ago I was not always careful with what I took, or with what I left behind. They were women who came to the castle of their own will, or who were brought. I gave them the same gift given to me. If one can even call it a gift. But, they are now bound to this place, asI am in some ways still bound. They’ll kill anythin’. They don’t understand restraint.” 

You watched him carefully, the word “kill” did not seem to bother you, as much as you should’ve been afraid, you do remember him telling you that he would protect you.

You watched him carefully. “Are they your wives?”

A faint, humorous smile touched his mouth. “In the language of old stories, perhaps. In truth they are companions of a kind I no longer seek. I keep them here because the alternative would be to release them upon the villages afar, and I will not do that. They’re dangerous. I am more dangerous when I am forced to protect what is mine from them.”

“And am I yours, then…?” The words came out a bit more hesitant than you intended them to be. “Is that why you locked the doors and took my papers? Because you decided I belonged here the same way they do?” 

His expression changed, he looked a bit offended to hear you say that, pain moved across it before he smoothed it away. 

“No,” his voice was quieter now. “You are not theirs. And you are not a possession that night you came. You arrived with a purpose. You have work to do. I kept you here because the road is not safe, and because…” He stopped, the shyness in his voice crept in as he took another breath. “Because for the first time, in such a long, long, long time. This place has felt less absolute with another voice living in it. Trust me, that’s not an excuse. It’s only the truth.” 

You stood. The distance between you both felt too wide and too narrow. 

“You still took my freedom,” You said. “You still made me a prisoner while you decided whether I was company or prey.” 

“I know.” He met your eyes. “And I am not proud of the manner in which I did it. If you wish to leave when the weather clears and the road is passable, I won’t stop you. I’ll return y’papers. I will see you safely to the pass. But until then, I ask that you stay within the walls I have left open for you. Not because you are trapped. Because… the night isn’t finished with either of us. Yes.” 

The argument did not end clearly. You left the hall without another word and did not speak to him again until the following afternoon. Yet when you finally returned to that same spot in the library to continue the work on Carfax, he was already there, the relevant maps laid out. A fresh point of ink waiting. He did not apologize again. He simply inched his head and waited for you to take a seat. 

It was a bit different that day, more quiet. A lot more careful.

Journal - 18 May  He’s a vampire. A vampire, an actual vampire. The women that he has living with him are the same–his brides, or as he would call it   something close enough to the old stories that the distinction no longer matters. He keeps them from me. At least he says he will not let them touch me. I believe him, and that belief frightens me.  When I asked if I was just like the women that lives with him, a possession he looked almost wounded to hear me say that. I don’t hate him. He’s starting to open up to me more, he speaks of his ancestors. Fierce men who rode under banners of black and gold. He speaks of them as though they were other people. Distant. When I asked why he never speaks of himself in the same way, he went very quiet, he then told me, so softly I almost missed it, “Because the man I was is no longer here. What remains is… older, lonelier.” I put my hand on top of his after that, I’m surprised he didn’t pull away. I am in danger. More danger than I understood, not because of him or this castle. It’s from the way my own heart is beginning to move when he looks at me.

The days grew longer, with the amount of time you’ve stayed here with Michael you worked less on papers and more on simply being in the Castle itself. Michael had left more doors open, the music room, the long gallery. You had grown a deep attraction to Michael, it was growing rapidly through you, through your chest. It was not only about his beauty, but the way he stood in front of you. He seemed so powerful, yet careful. The sweet tenderness in his tone when he spoke to you. You’re aware you aren’t afraid of him, but drawn to him and his odd charms. When he’s near you, he knows to be gentle. 

Michael adored telling you many stories now, his comfortability growing each time you guys spoke to each other. He had been talking about old wars again– a battle in the snow, a prince who held himself up after his men fell. When the story ended, he was quiet. Well, he was always quiet. It just seemed abrupt. 

“Why do you always tell it that way?” You asked him, his eyes were just staring into the fireplace. “When the man in the story is clearly, you… why do you describe him like it isn’t?” He didn’t answer, instead he just let out a long sigh. 

“Because if I speak of him as myself I have to speak of what came after. The years of walking alone, watching every face I cared about fade while I stayed the same. The world that I fought for does not remember my name.” 

He shifted his position, as he grabbed the poker, lightly pushing around the burning wood within the fireplace. “I’m tired of bein’ alone. And ‘m afraid of what it means that you make that tiredness less.” 

The truth of it settled in your chest, your eyes captured his essence, the attraction that brought you to like him so much was so overwhelming. It has settled into something clear, clear for you. And hopefully he felt the same way as you did. You lifted your hand and rested it against the side of his face. His skin was cold, but he voluntarily leaned into your touch. 

“I’m afraid too,” your voice soft. “But I’m still here. And I need you to understand something. This pull I feel toward you is not only fear or curiosity. It is the way you protect me even when I’m not necessarily angry at you for locking the doors, It’s the way you listen. It’s the fact that you could take whatever you wanted and still choose to ask.” You sat close enough that the heat from the fire warmed both of you.

The slight tremor that ran through him when your thumb moved across the sharp line of his jaw. His eyes dropped to your mouth. Yours did the same. The space between you narrowed until you felt the soft brush of his breath against your lips. You could have closed that last inch, and damn he could have too. The air between you felt tight, his hands holding yours to his face. The faint metallic sweetness of his breath, your own lips parted without thinking. Then he stopped, his eyes lifted back to yours.

Dark and careful, he didn’t close the distance, Instead he turned his face just enough to press a slow, deliberate kiss to the inside of your wrist, right over the pulse that was beating so hard against his mouth. The touch was soft, when he finally lifted his head again the almost-kiss still hung between you, unfinished.

“Go to bed,” his voice was low, and rough as if he needed a glass of water. “Before I forget how to stop.”

Your hand was still against his cheek, feeling the way he held himself carefully still until you stepped back. You turned and left the hall without looking at him, That kiss. The unfinished kiss. It bothered you all night. 

Journal - 24 May 

Dear God, if you can hear me. I want him. I want him so bad. I just wish he would let me see him, I want to know more about him. I feel as if he trusts me but he doesn’t show it. He could end me at any moment, but he doesn’t. Count Michael. Michael. He finds the strength to be gentle with me. 

Michael’s hand rested on the cushion near yours. As you tried to distract yourself by looking at the papers, he finally managed to speak. 

“I meant what I said,” he said after a while. “About asking. I have taken enough without permission over the years. I will not take this.” 

You turned to look at him, he was getting up to light another fire, and when he managed the firelight moved across his face. You bit your lip anxiously thinking about the night before. The way he kissed your wrist, the way he stopped himself.

“Then stop holding back,” you said. “You keep saying you’ll ask, but you still won’t tell me what you actually want. You talk about loneliness like it’s something that happened to someone else. You’re open with me, Michael… not really.” You tried so hard not to raise your voice, but you noticed as you spoke, your voice was getting louder.

His jaw tightened. “I’m trying.”

“Trying isn’t enough, it’s not the same as doing it.” Your voice bled with frustration. “I told you why I’m still here, I told you what this pull feels like. And you keep giving me these stories, these puzzle pieces that I’m supposed to figure out? You’re continuously slamming the door in my face Michael, the second you get close to what you actually feel. You shut me out, that’s not fair.”

He looked away toward the fire. “You do not understand what it costs to open that door.” 

“Then make me understand.” You shifted off of the couch, as you walked toward him, he didn’t turn to meet your pleading eyes. 

“You say you’re tired of being alone, I’m sitting right here. You aren’t alone anymore, Michael. You aren’t, stop acting like you are.” 

Something flickered across his face– want, maybe fear. His dark eyes met yours as he stood in front of you. “You make it sound simple.” 

You rolled your eyes, letting out a slight huff. “It is simple,” you said. “You’re scared, I get that. But you don;t get to pull me in, make me feel this, and then keep yourself locked up like I’m still just the solicitor that walked through your door. It’s not fair, Michael. Not when you’ve already let me see that you want more.”

Michael furrowed his eyebrows, his eyes averting back toward the fire, As he took a seat back on the couch, his thumbs fiddling with each other, He was quiet for a moment, brief glances at you as if you were going to say anything else, like he was waiting. 

Michael disliked confrontation, but he was willing to have this conversation with you. 

“Fine, you want honesty?” Michael took a breath, as if he was preparing himself for what he was about to say. “I want you. I have wanted you since the night you walked through that door, the night you stood in the library and looked at me after seeing what I am and didn’t run. I want your mouth. I want your.. Body… under mine. I want to hear you say my name, I want to... I just– I’m terrified of what happens If you let me heave you, that it was worth the risk.” 

The admission hung between you, as he just piled everything on you, you felt relieved. A warm sensation of heat settled low in your stomach. 

“Then ask me,” you said, your voice was timid now, “Not about the papers. About this. Right now.” 

You walked towards him taking the spot next to him back on the couch, his eyes followed you with care, with lust. 

With love. 

As the slight firelight caught his eyes ever so slightly. You both looked at each other, your eyes searching for something. 

“I’m allowed…to touch you?” He asked hesitantly.

“Yes.” 

His hand slowly covered yours, his thumb moved across your knuckles, then slid up to your wrist. “And–I’m allowed… to kiss you?” He asked once more, as you nodded your yes for him, he leaned in slowly. His lips were as cold as his hands, but the kiss itself was hesitant. Then it deepened, one hand came up to the back of your neck, the other stayed on yours. As his tongue slightly slipped inside of your mouth, he pulled back. His eyes looking at you, his lids slightly heavy.

“Tell me what y’want,” he said, his voice low. As his accent became more audible. “I need t’hear it out loud.” 

You swallowed the lump in your throat, “I want you. I want you Inside of me. I want to feel you take me.” 

Something like awe moved across his face. He kissed you again, deeper this time, and he began to undress you with slow hands, unfastening the high collar of your blouse one button at a time, sliding the fabric from your shoulders. The fire painted gold across your skin. He watched every inch of it as it was revealed. 

“You’re so warm.” He murmured against your collarbone. “I had almost forgotten how warm living skin feels.” 

His mouth moved to the side of your throat, tasting you, soft open-mouthed kisses that made your breath catch. His hands mapped the curve of your waist, the soft underside of your breasts, the places that made you shiver. When you arched into him he made a low sound and guided your hips against the hard line of him through his trousers. You felt the thick shape of his cock press against you.

“Tell me again,” he said against your skin. Soft and certain. “Use your words, baby.” 

“I want to feel you,” you said, voice unsteady. “I want to feel every inch of you.” 

He groaned quietly, the sound almost pained. He laid you back against the cushions and settled between your thighs, he kissed a slow path down your body, lingering at every place that pulled a sound from you– your collarbone, the soft curve of your breast, the inside of your thigh, until he reached the waistband of your panties.

He hooked his fingers under the fabric, and looked up at you once, when you nodded he slid them down slowly, over your hips and thighs, taking his time until they were gone. He tossed them on the floor and settled back in between your legs, pressing soft kisses along your plush skin, moving down as you felt his breath against your bare cunt before his mouth ever touched you. He licked a slow stripe through your wet folds, the sound that left you was soft and broken. He did it again, slower, tasting every inch of you, like he had never tasted anything else before. 

“Y’taste s’ good” he murmured against your cunt, his tongue circling your clit. 

“Michael–” You breathed out before he cut you off. 

“Shh… I got you.” His voice was low against your skin. “Just take it.” 

He licked deeper, as his tongue fucked you flat and slow, focusing on your clit with soft, steady strokes that made your thighs shake. One of his hands held your hip down; the other spread you open wider so he could taste more of you. He hummed when he felt how hot you were. Every time your breath hitched he slowed down even more, drawing it out, licking through your folds. 

Your fingers buried themselves in his dark hair. Your thighs trembled harder around his head. Lord, was he pussy drunk. 

“Michael.. I’m gonna… mmf–” Pleasure tightened low in your stomach, a warm knot of release forming. 

“That’s it… cum on my tongue baby–” He said as he kept his pace, his tongue doing wonders on you, you spilled over. You came with a broken moan, cunt pulsing against his tongue, hips trying to lift even with his hands holding you still. Licking up your juices as he gave you soft praises against your wet skin. 

“That’s it, good girl, let me feel it. "He said against your folds, as he rose up to give you a soft kiss, tasting yourself on your lips. 

Michael had started to undo his trousers, freeing himself. His cock was thick, already glistening with precum at the tip. 

He guided the head of his cock to your entrance and paused, eyes locked on yours, the broad head pressing against your wet opening but not pushing in yet. 

“Look at me,” he said. “I want to see your face when I take you.” 

You nodded. He pushed in slowly, inch by inch–letting you feel every bit of the stretch as he filled you. The coolness to your own heat was a sharp contrast. He kept going until he was seated fully inside you, his hips flush against yours, the thick length of his cock buried deep.

“Fuck— you’re so big…” You said as the slight discomfort of him being inside you slowly went away, adjusting to his size, Michael had one hand stroking your hair, the other braced beside your head. 

“You alright?” He asked, his voice soft, as his beautiful brown eyes looked at you, searching for any more signs for discomfort. 

“Yes,” you breathed. “Please. Move” 

Michael’s pace started off slow, as he let out a faint whimper on the first thrust, “Shit… you’re s’tight.” He managed to say as he rocked his hips into you, every drag of his length inside of you made your vision blur/ You felt that wet slide of him pulling almost all the way out before pushing back in, the soft wet sound of hit filling the room, the crackle of the fire. And his whimpers that he couldn’t hold back. 

“Princess–fuck–” His voice broke on the word. “You feel s’good. So tight ‘nd warm around me…Jesus–” 

“Mike–” The nickname slipped, as you panted in his ear. 

“I got you,” He murmured, hips rolling in another deep stroke. “Let me take care of you. Jus’ feel how full y’are—shit—baby.” 

He kept the pace slow and deep, the thick head of his cock kissing your cervix every time he pounded into you, the pressure you had before starting to build again in your stomach, feeling him clench around you, his pace slowed even more. 

“Jus’ wait baby, wanna feel y’please– don’t cum yet…” He said breathless as he kept you on edge until you were trembling and begging in soft spoken words.

“Please– Michael, please–I need–” 

“I know, I know, baby. He shifted the angle, pushing deeper, and at the same moment his mouth found your throat, feeling his teeth graze against your skin. He bit you. You hissed through your teeth. The bite was careful, sharp enough to sting, gentle enough that pain bloomed into something hot and perfect. 

You felt the brief bright pull of blood, the way he groaned against your skin as he tasted you, the wet heat of his mouth sealing over the mark while his cock kept moving inside you in those same relentless strokes.

The combination felt like ecstasy. 

“I’m gonna cum–Mike–” You said as you clenched around his cock, Michael deliberately nodded his head. “Cum–cum on my cock baby.” He panted, your climax hit hard, pulsing in long waves as you cried out, clinging to him. The adrenaline and the pleasure and the dark sweetness of blood. 

He kept thrusting through it, fucking you through every pulse, until his own orgasm followed with a low shuddering sound. His hips pressed flush against yours as he came, spilling inside you in long, hot pulses you could feel. He stayed buried deep, cock twitching with every spurt, mouth still soft against the mark on your throat.

Michael had lifted his head to look at you, a faint smear of your blood marked his lower lip, he kissed you, letting yourself taste it—metallic, intimate, shared. While his cock softened inside of you.

For a long time afterward you lay tangled in front of the dying fire, his body curved around yours, one hand resting over your heart. 

Michael pressed a soft kiss to the mark on your throat, you turned in his arms to look up at him. 

“I’m still here.” You said faintly, “I wish to continue staying with you, Michael…you have let me see every single part of you.” 

His smile was small and almost shy. For the first time since you arrived it reached his eyes. 

“I still don’t know what I will be in London, or what awaits me.” You leaned closer into him. 

“Then we can go together,” you said. “Whatever waits, I’ll be there for you. I wanna be there for you.” Michael pressed a soft kiss onto your nose.

Journal - 3 June 

We are leaving the mountains. The road is open. London waits for us. He sits across from me even now, watching the trees pass with a look I have never seen on him before. The mark on my throat has faded, the memory has not. Neither did the sound of his voice when he asked me to stay. 

I am closing the journal for now. There will be more pages. More nights. The castle is disappearing behind us now. 

The carriage continued down the pass. Michael’s hand found yours across the narrow space.

“So it’s actually over this time?” Your best friend and roommate asked as she slid a fresh drink to you, the condensation dripping onto your fingers. 

“I guess so,” you sighed, swirling the ice and vodka slowly. “I haven’t heard from him in months.” 

“Thank god,” your other friend groaned, leaning on the table with relief. “I mean, he’s great, don’t get me wrong. But I don’t think he was right for you.” 

“What is that supposed to mean?” Your face screwed up, suddenly defensive. 

“I’m just saying,” he took a long drink as you stared daggers into the side of his head, turned while he looked out onto the crowd. “I think you loved him more than he loved you. He’s an artist; he’s a jetsetter. Dude, he took you to London; you fought. He came back to the States to play in Pittsburgh, and he didn’t call. Someone who loved you wouldn’t leave you hanging like that.” 

“It’s not like it was a huge fight,” you sank a little lower in your chair. “We just had a disagreement.” 

“Yeah, about your future,” your roommate reminded you. “Babe, the tour is over, and he still hasn’t called,” she took your hand and squeezed. “If he loved you, he would have been at your door as soon as the last show was over. He can’t be that busy.” 

“I guess you’re right,” you huffed, draining your drink in one go, hoping the liquor would wipe your memory of rushing out of Michael’s hotel room while he called after you. Fighting through the crowd of fans who had no idea who you were, your suitcase in tow. Sobbing in the airport, waiting to board your flight home for the last time. 

“Hey, miss,” the bartender called as he approached your table. “Got a call for you.” 

“How do you know it’s for me?” You asked, confused. Everyone you knew was in this bar, celebrating a friend of a friend getting a new job. 

The bartender shrugged. “He described you really well, kinda spooky actually,” he whispered the last part to himself before lifting his head to you again. “Told me to close your tab and tell you to take the call.” He turned and left without another word, pointing to the wall phone across the bar on his way out. 

You exchanged worried looks with both of your friends before standing and making your way to the corner. The receiver sat on the sticky bar, leaning against a speaker, their idea of hold music. Tentatively, you picked it up and raised it to your ear. “Hello?” 

“Hey, mama,” his voice was thick and scratchy, that low register you used to hear when he was buried in your neck or between your thighs. 

Your entire body tensed. You looked out to the table you’d just left to make sure your friends weren’t watching. Still, you turned toward the wall for some kind of privacy. “How did you know where I am?” Your voice came out harsh. 

“Tell Maria I said congratulations on the new job,” his laughter crackled through the phone. You’d forgotten he’d met some of your friends and heard stories about others. You had no idea he was listening so well. There was a beat of silence where you listened to his heavy breathing before he said, “I need to see you.” 

You gasped out a laugh in disbelief. There’s no way he was calling the bar right now, asking for you, and demanding to see you after everything that had happened. “Well, I don’t think I want to see you.” 

“So you’re not sure? Let me make up your mind for you, baby,” he paused just long enough for the bartender to hand you a receipt and a pen; he’d really taken Michael’s instructions. You looked over each shoulder, wondering if Michael had hidden cameras or spies. You scribbled a tip and your signature, still not sure why you followed his instructions too. “There’s a car on the way. Get in it, and let me see you. I promise I’ll make it worth your time.” 

“You get twenty minutes,” you huffed, hanging up the phone with a hard crash and heading back to your friends. “Sorry, guys,” you sighed, grabbing your purse and coat. “I have to go.” 

“Is everything alright?” Your roommate asked with concern. 

“Yeah, everything is fine. I just have to, um, feed my uncle’s cat. He’s going to be at poker all night, so,” you nodded, impressed by the excuse you pulled out of thin air. Not bad for someone who can’t lie. “I’ll see you at home.” 

You kissed her cheek and gave your other friend a quick hug before heading out the heavy bar door and onto the street. Just as you stepped out and looked around, a shiny black car turned the corner, catching you in the headlights. You shook your head; Michael was never one for subtlety, especially not after this record-breaking tour. Everything had to be top of the line. 

The driver didn’t even confirm your name. He stepped out of the car, smiled at you, and rounded the side to open the back passenger door for you. The ride out to Los Olivos was mostly silent, save for the soft radio playing up front. You imagined the upcoming argument the whole drive. You’d tell Michael how he’d hurt your feelings when he said he didn’t know when he would want to go public, that he was worried it would ruin your life. What a stupid thing to think, you’d shout. You’d tell him you were tired of being in the shadows, and that’s why he lost you. You’d tell him he was fine with walking around with Liz Taylor, Brooke Shields, and other gorgeous women, but never you. And that’s why he’d lost you for good. 

You hadn’t been to Neverland in almost eight months, since Michael moved in and you spent two weeks christening every room of the house, living like the perfect couple you longed to be. It looked almost the same, just with more landscaping and rides. The car drove you straight up to the main house, coming to a stop in front of the beautiful front doors. You remembered seeing them for the first time, and how they took your breath away. Now, they just served as a barrier between you and the man you longed to fight with. The driver opened your door for you and wished you a good night, letting you walk up to the doors by yourself. You turned and watched the car drive off before knocking. Much to your dismay, a housekeeper answered the door, inviting you in with a warm smile. 

“Second door on the right, honey,” she pointed you to a hallway. You thanked her, holding back your building anger. It wasn’t her fault. She was just the messenger. 

Coming to the door, you waited a few seconds before knocking, just listening. You could hear his dancing shoes against the hardwood floors, sliding and shuffling in time to music you could not hear. You knew it had to be the music that was on a constant loop in his mind. You felt yourself softening for just a moment before shaking the feeling away and banging on the door. 

Michael opened the door almost immediately, and shit, he looked great. He was all toned muscle, long legs, and damp curls. Spending almost two straight years on the road would have been hell on anyone else, but Michael came alive on the stage. You’d seen it firsthand, the night you left. 

He stared at you, leaning on the door. His dark eyes raked over your body slowly, taking in every inch of your tight jeans and cropped tank top, casual but sexy. As he looked back to your face, he took his bottom lip between his teeth and smiled, his pupils dilating as he glanced at your lips. Although the look made your knees go weak, you held strong, crossing your arms over your chest, unintentionally pressing your breasts together. Or maybe it was intentional, to show him what he had lost. You rolled your eyes when you saw him look down at your chest. “You rang?” You asked sarcastically. 

“It’s good to see you too, mama.” Michael stepped back from the doorway and waited expectantly for you to join him. The space was a custom-built rehearsal room, mirrors on all sides, hardwood floors, a large stereo in the corner, and the scent of Michael’s cologne mixed with sweat, your favorite scent in the world. It reminded you of dark nights, Michael leaning over you, his curls tickling your cheeks while he kissed you tenderly and slammed into you roughly, the perfect balance. 

You stepped past him, your heels clicking sharply against the polished wood as you crossed the room, deliberately putting space between you and him. You looked around, trying to avoid his gaze. But everywhere you looked, the mirrors betrayed you. No matter how hard you tried, there he was: smirking in profile, watching you from behind, leaning against the closed door with that quietly maddening confidence. 

“Nice to see you haven’t lost your temper,” he murmured, stepping across the room to the stereo and selecting a tape. He lowered the volume to a soft background hum. “I always liked that about you.” 

“I didn’t come here to flirt, Michael,” you bit, turning on your heel to face him. In the surrounding reflections, a dozen of you stood tall, but dozens of him were already closing the distance. “You called me. At eleven o’clock at night. After months of radio silence.” 

“Because I knew you’d answer,” he replied smoothly. He didn’t even try to hide the cocky, self-assured tilt of his chin. 

“So, what do you want?” 

“I wanted to see you,” he took another step toward you, his dancing shoes now silent on the floor, his dark eyes entirely fixed on yours. His arrogance made your blood boil; who did he think he was? He’d never been a superstar to you; he’d only ever been the man who’d swept you off your feet and shown you a world you’d only ever dreamed of. Not a world of riches and glamour, but one of being loved exactly the way you wanted to be loved. And he’d watched you walk away from it without so much as an attempt to chase you that night in London. The speech you had rehearsed on the drive over surged to the back of your throat: the fury about being hidden away, the supermodels and living legends he chose to be seen with, how he used protecting you as a cowardly excuse to keep you in the dark. You wanted to scream at him for not having it in him to fight for you, for breaking your heart. You also wanted to throw yourself into his arms and take up residence there. 

“You think you have this all figured out, don’t you? The perfect solution for yourself,” your voice rose, sharp and defensive to hide the way your hands trembled with the urge to touch him. “You think you can just call me whenever you get lonely in this giant, empty house? After you hid me away like a secret you’re ashamed of?” 

Michael didn’t flinch at the venom in your words. You usually wouldn’t take out your anger on him, but right now, you wanted to hurt him the way he’d hurt you. Instead, he just kept coming, taking another step until he had successfully invaded your personal space. The heat radiating off of his skin was tangible; his scent made your head swim, and your thighs shake. 

“I’m not ashamed of you; I never was,” he spoke softly, scanning your face with a dangerous intensity. “I told you why it had to be that way. Then, you ran.” 

“I didn’t run; I left you, Michael,” you spat, taking a step backward just to run into the solid wooden arm of an antique leather chair sitting against the mirrored wall. You didn’t even realize you’d drifted so far from the middle of the room where this conversation began. “I left you,” you breathed, praying for a reaction from him, to no avail, “because you’re fine with being seen with gorgeous women, legendary actresses, goddamn Playboy Playmates, but with me, suddenly we’re holed up in a hotel room ‘for my own good’. It’s bullshit, Michael.” 

Michael reached out, placing his hands firmly on the armrest behind you on either side of your body, trapping you against the chair. He leaned in close, his breath grazing your lips and cheeks. In the surrounding glass, infinite reflections of the scene stared back at you. 

“You think those women mean anything to me?” He whispered, his voice dropping into that low, husky tone you heard over the phone. He leaned even closer, his bottom lip brushing yours as he spoke. “You think I’m calling them in the middle of the night, begging to see them?” 

You let your eyes flutter closed, basking in his familiar scent and warmth for just a moment. 

“You are the only one I want here,” he sighed, his hands sliding up your hips to grip your waist, his long fingers digging into the denim of your jeans. “You’ve always been the only one. Tell me you didn’t miss this.” 

The entire encounter swirled in your mind, from that fateful night in London to the phone call at the bar to being determined to give Michael a piece of your mind. Now, your entire plan had been torn apart because you had to be honest with yourself. It was him. 

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” you breathed against his lips, your hands betraying your mind and running up his arms to rest on either side of his neck. 

“Stop thinking, mama.” His thumb slid under the hem of your top, searing hot against your bare skin. 

He finally kissed you, slow and questioning, like he wondered how far you would let him go. He figured tonight would be the last time, the closure everybody kept telling him he needed, but he also knew you were both lying to yourselves. You stilled for half a second before kissing him back, moving your lips softly against his. He pulled back just an inch and looked deeply into your eyes, a soft, triumphant smirk playing at his lips. 

He didn’t give you another second to pretend. Michael pulled you up by the hips, settling you onto the armrest before capturing your mouth in a hard, possessive kiss. Eight months of agonizing distance melted instantly into something sharp and feverish. You gasped into his mouth, your hands gripping the soft curls at the back of his neck, pulling him closer as he slid between your knees. 

Every mirror in the room amplified the chaotic beauty of it. His sweat-slicked shoulder against your skin, your hips arching off the chair, his hands unbuttoning your jeans with a practiced, breathless urgency. He pushed the denim down your thighs, his mouth never leaving yours until he started to track fiery kisses down your jawline and throat. 

“This is the last time, Michael,” you panted as his hands gripped your thighs, spreading your legs apart before pushing his own pants down, aligning his tip with your soaking core. “I’m never coming back.” 

Michael let out a low, dark chuckle against your neck, his voice filled with knowing satisfaction. “Lie to me again, baby.” 

Before you could breathe, he pressed forward, slowly filling you in a way only he could. He took his time, savoring each centimeter squeezing him, sliding into a place he called home. He groaned your name as he lost himself in your body. You bit your lip, dropping your head to his shoulder. 

Michael immediately reached up, his fingers catching your chin and forcing your head up. “No,” he commanded, “look in the mirror. Watch.” 

He tightened his grip on your waist to force you to look over his shoulder at the far mirror, to watch your own face contort in pleasure as the muscles in his back and legs flexed with each movement. 

“Look at us,” he panted against your ear, no doubt watching himself in the mirror behind you. “Look how badly you want me.” 

The mirror exposed reality in undeniable detail. You saw your flushed cheeks, your glassy eyes, and the helpless wreck you became under him. You lifted your head from his shoulder to look at the real thing, his eyes instantly locking on yours, dark and burning with a mix of adoration and ownership as he set a relentless, perfect pace. You felt the way his knuckles turned white as they squeezed the skin on your hips and the wicked, satisfied curve of his lips broke down the very last of your defenses. 

“See?” He dropped his lips to your neck again, his breath scorching against your skin as he increased the tempo, forcing you to watch every brutal thrust, your own resolve shattering in real time. “You can’t leave this. You belong right here.” 

You couldn’t answer; you could only turn your head to watch yourself unravel in the glass. You gripped his shoulders as he drove you over the edge of pleasure, whining his name, the sound echoing off the glass walls. Michael whimpered against your skin, crying out soft thanks and sweet nothings until there was nothing left in the world but the two of you, destroying each other all over again. 

He growled loudly, biting down on your shoulder as his body shuddered violently against yours. You held on with all the strength you had, utterly defeated by how much you still loved him. But you would never tell anyone, not even him. It wasn’t worth going through the same heartbreak all over again. 

Gently, he pulled out of you, dressed himself, and then you, taking a moment to scoop the cum leaking out of you and softly press it back in, marking you as his before he pulled your panties and jeans back into place. He lifted his gaze, lingering close to you, his lips curved into a quiet, satisfied smile as he reached up to stroke your hair. 

“I would understand if you never picked up that phone again,” he whispered, his thumb caressing your cheek. “But I don’t know how long I’ll be able to stay away from you.” 

You felt yourself being dragged back into his orbit, and your chest suddenly felt hot. You couldn’t put yourself through this again. You loved him, but he couldn’t know that, or you’d be right back in the same position you were in while in London. You blinked away the tears as they threatened to fall and kissed him lightly before placing a hand on his chest and pushing him away. 

“I have to go, Michael,” you dropped your feet to the floor and slipped out of arm’s reach. 

“I know,” he said sadly. 

You retreated from the dance studio with haste, unable to look at him for fear of begging him to let you stay: to carry you up the stairs into that sanctuary of a primary bedroom, lay you on that plush mattress and tell you how he loved and missed you. 

You ran out the front doors into the chilly night to find your driver from earlier in the night parked just down the driveway, chatting with some security guards. He excused himself and jogged to the car, opening the back door for you with a disappointed look on his face. You stared at him in confusion and hurt. Did Michael plan to kick me out this whole time? He said all those things, and still just wanted a one-night stand? Is he fucking serious? 

You flopped into the car without a word, staring angrily out the window as the driver ran around to his door and began to drive you away from Neverland. He’d only been driving for a few minutes before the question eating you alive finally spilled from your lips. 

“Does he do this often? Send you to pick up women and drive them home two hours later? Is anyone special enough to stay a second longer?” This time, you did take your anger out on someone who didn’t deserve it. And this man looked back at you in the rearview mirror, his face contorted in his own confusion. 

“No ma’am, not at all,” he finally replied, checking the mirror for your reaction. “The Boss asked me to pick you up and bring you here. I was almost out the door when he asked me to stay the night. He said he didn’t know how you’d feel about what he had to say. I don’t get into his business, but,” he took a deep breath as he turned a corner. “If you asked me, I think he was hoping you’d stay. But he wanted to make sure you had the option to leave.” 

One Week Later

The bartender at the new hotspot in town glared at you as you approached the payphone for probably the fourth time. Between rounds of tequila shots with your closest friends, you’d slipped away every twenty minutes, dropping quarters into the slot and dialing an unlisted number. You knew for a fact that a single-digit number of people had this phone number. That fact made you giddy; you’d known this number by heart since he had the phones installed at Neverland. 

Unfortunately, you’d made four calls and gotten exactly zero answers. Just the endless, frustrating ring of an empty primary bedroom in Los Olivos. By 1:30 AM, you were pleasantly tipsy, rosy-cheeked, and completely over caring about whatever your friends had to say. 

You’d ignored the looks they gave you when you not-so-subtly migrated the group to stand closer to the payphone, just in case it rang. Mercifully, it finally did, and you snatched the receiver off the hook before the second chime. Behind you, your friends groaned and jeered. You rolled your eyes; they didn’t understand. 

“You’re impossible to reach,” you slurred softly into the mouthpiece, turning away from the faces of your disappointed friends. 

A low, gentle laugh vibrated through the line, smooth and slightly amused. “I was in the studio, mama,” Michael’s voice was velvety and thick. “The housekeepers came to get me after the fourth call. Dawn was genuinely worried; she thought it had to be some kind of emergency,” he chuckled. 

“It is an emergency,” you giggled, twirling the cord around your finger. “I’m bored, and my friends are talking about their exes.” 

“Then come see me,” he murmured. You knew he was looking out his bedroom window into the stillness of the valley just by his tone of voice. “The side door is unlocked.” 

Just like that, you were listening to a dial tone. Adrenaline flooded your system, sobering you up instantly. You hung up the phone and turned back to your group. Everyone had moved on to their own conversations, except your best friend. 

“You gonna tell me who you’ve been calling all night?” She huffed, her annoyance evident. 

“It’s, uh, my mom,” you lied. She didn’t believe you. 

“You have to get better at lying,” she waved you off. “I just hope it’s not him!” She called after you as you grabbed your coat and purse and took off for the front door. 

You found your car with ease and decided to swing by your apartment to change into something you’d bought with Michael in mind before the breakup, something you’d known he’d like. The black lace set was perfectly fitted to your body, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. To take it a step further, you didn’t put any clothes on over it, just a classic trench coat, a pair of Michael’s favorite heels, and skipped happily out of your apartment. The drive out to Neverland wasn’t filled with rehearsed arguments; there was no anger to unload. You were too buzzed, and you needed to get laid. You knew he felt the same; you knew you shared a mutual addiction that you were both entirely done pretending to fight. 

You smiled at the gate guards as they let you in, and you drove up the driveway, bypassing the main entrance, and parking your car out of sight near the side door. You let yourself in and stepped quietly up the dimly lit back staircase to Michael’s bedroom. 

When you pushed the door open, Michael was sitting on the edge of the oversized California king bed. He had already shed his signature button-down; it lay draped over a chair just inside the door, next to a luxurious-looking white blazer you knew you recognized from somewhere, but you didn’t remember where. He wore only black sweatpants, his dark curls tied back into a soft ponytail, his skin glistening from a late-night dance session. A single lamp illuminated the rich wood and dark silk of the room. 

He didn’t stand up when you entered. He just leaned back on his hands, tracking you from the doorway with a slow, heavy, appreciative gaze that made your blood run hot. An easy grin spread across his face as you closed the door, stopping to stare at him. 

“You really drove all the way out here just because you were bored?” He chuckled softly, his eyes following your hand as you unbuttoned your coat and let it fall to the floor. 

“I drove out here because you took too long to call me back,” you replied, watching as his pupils dilated at the sight of the thin lace against your skin. You didn’t take your eyes off him as you slowly took his white jacket off the back of the chair and slipped it on, pushing the oversized sleeves over your elbows. It still smelt like him. 

His eyes darkened even further, his eyelids becoming heavy and his mouth falling open as you stepped toward him. You saw him searching for words, trying to keep up the light banter and faltering slightly. 

“You didn’t even pretend to put up a fight this time,” he tried to tease, but it came out breathy. 

“Why waste the gas?” You replied, stopping a few feet in front of him, letting him get a really good look. 

His restraint snapped, and he grabbed your wrist and pulled you firmly between his thighs. His hands came to rest on the bare skin at your waist under his coat, and he sighed heavily, taking in every detail. You slid your hands down his chest, feeling the rapid beating of his heart against your palms. Looking up at you through thick lashes, he pressed his lips to your nipple through the lace. You gasped, the friction enhanced by the texture of the fabric. He smiled, kissing the other breast, his hands sliding up to cradle your ribcage. 

In one quick motion, Michael leaned back on the bed and took you with him. You landed right on top of him, your lips crashing together so hard your teeth knocked. You laughed against each other’s mouths, forgetting the drama that had hung in the room before. He kissed you again, sweet and warm; he tasted like peppermint tea. 

“You are completely ridiculous when you’re drunk, baby,” he chuckled, his hands roaming your body underneath his coat. “But so beautiful.” 

The words swirled around your already hazy brain; you knew you’d overthink it if given the chance. To avoid that very issue, you began to sprinkle kisses all over his face, his nose, his cheeks, and that spot under his jaw that always made him squirm. You lightly raked your nails down his chest and dipped them just barely into his waistband, causing him to gasp. You looked up at him from beneath your hair and lashes. You kissed down his body, dragging his sweatpants and boxers off agonizingly slowly. He kicked them off the rest of the way as you took his length in your hand, rubbing him gently. You maintained eye contact as you straddled his lap, pulling your black lace underwear off swiftly and lowering yourself onto him with purpose. He was impossibly deep, nudging against your cervix, making you see stars. 

Michael sat up and held you in place as you adjusted to him, placing sweet kisses all over your chest. He didn’t move, letting you set your own pace, but he dropped a hand to trace slow circles on your clit the way he knew you loved. You looked down to find him staring back up at you already, his pupils blown and reverent. He let you use his body for your own pleasure, your hand cupping his cheek to kiss him and moan into his mouth. 

When your first orgasm hit, you trembled and shook in his arms, groaning his name. He fucked you through it, holding back his own pleasure to watch you come undone. As your body calmed, Michael hooked his hands under your thighs and flipped you both over with athletic ease, his cock still buried deep inside you. Now, hovering over you, his curls fell forward, framing his face and tickling your cheeks, the way you remembered him. The air in the room became light and easy; it felt like a breath of fresh air. 

“How was that, baby?” He asked, his eyes and nose crinkling with a broad grin. 

“Great,” you hummed, running your hands up and down his arms where they supported him on either side of your head. 

“Come on, I think we can do better than great,” he leaned down, pressing light, lingering kisses on every inch of your face. “The word we are looking for is incredible.” 

The stubble on his jaw tickled your skin, making you burst into breathless laughter, unintentionally clenching your body around him. “Michael, it tickles, stop!” You squealed, squirming under him. 

He paused, lifting his head just enough to look at you, his expression softening into something so tender and familiar it made your heart ache in the best way possible. You brushed his hair away from his face, and he leaned into your touch. 

“I missed you,” he said simply, a sweet truth. 

“I missed you too, baby,” you replied, gently stroking his cheek and letting his curls fall back into your face. He placed a kiss on your palm and began to move again, but it wasn’t frantic. It was smooth and wonderfully fluid, the hips of a dancer. 

You let out a soft, contented sigh, your legs wrapping lazily around his waist, the heels he so loved digging into his lower back. Michael leaned down, collapsing his weight to his elbows, and kissed you deeply, like it used to be. 

He established an easy, rolling rhythm, moving his hips against yours with an effortless synergy that felt as natural as breathing. There was no point to prove, no argument to win. Every soft thrust was met with quiet gasps and shared smiles. Michael took your hand in his, intertwining your fingers and pressing your knuckles into the mattress beside your head. 

“You feel so good,” he whispered against your lips, his chest heaving slightly as his pace picked up just enough to send a light jolt straight to your core. His skin was warm and slick against yours, but painfully familiar, like you’d never left in the first place. 

“You’ve never been better,” you breathed as you arched up to meet him, pulling him even deeper. 

He let out a quiet laugh, his forehead coming to rest against yours as he started to break over the edge. Kissing you again, the friction built easily and naturally until a sudden, sharp burst of pleasure ripped through you. You moaned his name against his lips, wrapping an arm around his shoulders as you unraveled beneath him. 

Seeing you undone brought a low, satisfied groan from his chest. Michael pushed into you for one last unhurried thrust, his whole body tense and shuddering as he came inside you, whimpering into your mouth. 

You both lay there for a moment, catching your breath. “What about that?” He whispered. 

You laughed again, bringing your conjoined hands to your lips and kissing the back of his hand. “Incredible.” 

You placed another kiss on Michael’s lips and gently shoved him off of you, much to his surprise. He hit the mattress with a breathless laugh, grasping at you as you sat up and grabbed your lace panties from the floor, slipping them on easily. “Where the hell are you going?” He chuckled in disbelief. 

“I have an early morning,” you replied easily, shrugging out of his white blazer and replacing it on the chair before grabbing your own coat from the floor. You turned to find Michael sitting straight up, naked and dumbfounded. You stepped back over to him, grabbed his jaw, and kissed him one last time. “Thanks for that, baby.” 

Michael couldn’t find any words to say before you slipped out of his bedroom and back the way you came. You sat in your car for a second, smiling to yourself before driving off. How many other women could say they fucked the King of Pop and walked away of her own volition? You knew he’d call again, anyway. 

Three Days Later

The shrill ringing of the phone on your nightstand ripped you from a fantastic dream. You were sitting on a patio somewhere with Michael, sipping iced tea, watching animals roam in the grass. You could feel his skin against yours when he held your hand, even though the scene was draped in the smoky haze of a dream. 

Not even bothering to raise your head or open your eyes, you grunted into the mouthpiece instead of saying “hello”. Not sure what you were expecting, your eyes flew open at the harsh, uneven sound of someone trying and failing to keep their breathing quiet, followed by the faint but unmistakable rustle of a receiver being gripped too tightly. There was no smooth greeting, no playful chuckle, but you knew who it was all the same. 

“Michael?” The silence of your apartment crowded around you, knocking the air out of your lungs. 

“I...I didn’t know who else to call,” his voice came through thin and cracked, so stripped of his trademark composure it made your chest ache. “I’m so tired, mama,” he breathed. “Everyone wants something from me, and I just...can’t be him right now. Please.” 

“I’m on the way,” you whispered, throwing off the blankets and slamming your feet to the floor. You couldn’t find the time to pause and consider crossing boundaries; Michael needed you, and that’s all that mattered. 

“Okay,” his voice broke, a small sob crackling through the phone before he hung up softly. 

You didn’t bother to change out of your sweatpants and oversized T-shirt; you just threw on your most worn-out sneakers and grabbed your keys, leaving the apartment without your wallet or brushing your hair. 

The drive out to Neverland felt endless through the pouring rain. As the road twisted and turned in front of you, your mind raced with the scene you would find. Would Michael lie about something like this just to get you over there? No way, not after last time; he didn’t need to do that anymore. Would he be buried under the covers, sobbing like a pained child? 

Those questions were answered in the worst way possible when you let yourself in through the side door and walked up the pitch-black staircase. The house was devoid of the usual hustle and bustle, no background music, no dancing shoes shuffling against polished wood. When you entered Michael’s bedroom, you found him curled up on the plush rug of his private sitting room, leaning against the sofa, his knees pulled up to his chest, his face buried in them. He wore a faded sweater, oversized on his large frame so the sleeves covered his hands. 

You didn’t say anything or turn on any lights; you just closed the door and sat beside him, pulling him into your arms. He raised his head, and you got a good look at him: his dark hair was a tangled mess, like he couldn’t stop running his hands through it, his eyes red-rimmed and hollow with exhaustion. Michael let out a shaky, trembling breath and collapsed into you, burying his face in the crook of your neck. His long arms wrapped around your waist, holding on with a desperate and crushing strength as if you were the only thing keeping him grounded as he broke into soft sobs. You stroked his hair and blinked away your own tears, rubbing his back while the rain hammered against the tall windows. 

“I’m so tired,” his voice was muffled against your skin. “They need me to be a machine that never breaks. But the second I shut that door, I’m so alone.” 

“You’re not alone, Michael,” you pressed a soft kiss to his temple. “I’m right here.” 

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes filled with devastating vulnerability. “Then, why did we stop? Why did you leave me?” 

The question hung heavily in the dark room, punctuated by the soft crackle of the fireplace across the room. For the first time in nearly a year, you didn’t have the urge to argue with him. 

“Because it hurt too much to love you from a distance,” you admitted, searching his sunken face. “I watched you give yourself away to the entire world until there was nothing left for us. I was kept in the dark while everyone else got the light. I just thought, if I stayed... I’d end up hating the very thing that made me fall in love with you.” 

Michael really looked at you, a tear slipping down his cheek. He reached his long fingers to brush a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb tracing your cheekbone with painful gentleness. You leaned in, kissing each tear away off his face as it fell, refusing to let Michael feel an ounce of pain while in your presence. 

“I thought I was protecting you,” his breath hitched with held sobs. “The world eats everything good alive. I didn’t want them to tear you apart the way they tear me apart; I couldn’t live with that. I never want you to feel the way I do.” 

“I know,” you choked on the thick tears that fell from your eyes, leaning into his hand. “But I can’t leave you for real, Michael. That’s why I keep coming back. I know it’s a bad idea, but I can’t stop.” 

“It’s not a bad idea, baby.” Michael leaned forward, pressing his forehead against yours. “It’s the only real thing I have.” 

When his lips met yours, the kiss was heavy with months of unspoken grief, forgiveness, and devotion. He moved his mouth against yours slowly, his face creased as more tears fell, dampening your cheeks. His hands came to rest around your waist, rubbing gently as he shifted to lay you back on the rug softly. He hovered over you with tender grace; every touch held a new weight, every breath shared between you a silent promise. He undressed you and himself without a word. His hands were soft and reverent, tracing the curve of your waist and slope of your shoulders as if he were trying to memorize you all over again. He kissed everywhere, his tears drying and his breath growing hot. He wanted to show you exactly how he felt, unable to admit it out loud. 

This time wasn’t about heat or passion, or even laughter or distraction; it was an unconditional surrender. Michael made love to you, sliding into your soft skin with a low, shuddering sigh, burying his face in your hair as your hands held him tight to your chest. The pace was slow, deep and intimate, every breathless moan echoing the truth you had both tried so hard to deny. 

Michael came first, collapsing into you with a deep sigh. Ever the gentleman, he continued moving, his length dragging against your most sensitive spot while his thumb traced slow, heavy circles over your clit. He increased the pressure as high-pitched moans fell from your lips, and his name fell from your lips. You grabbed his face and captured his mouth in a deep kiss as you clenched around him, tears trailing down your temples and into your hair, taking every last drop of him. 

Lying together in the fire-lit room, Michael’s head resting on your bare chest, his arm wrapped tightly around your waist while your fingers traced soft patterns across his shoulders. Neither of you dared to speak about tomorrow or what your friends would say when you walked through the door at sunrise. You just lay in silence, trying to find the strength to leave again for your own good. 

Two Weeks Later

“You have to be kidding,” you laughed loudly, not caring if you were breaking the environment of the quietly luxurious restaurant. 

“I’m not!” Your roommate shouted back. “He told me his dog died, and then later that week, he basically ran out of the apartment saying he had to feed that very same dog!” 

The entire table howled with laughter at her story, a man she’d been seeing recently who wouldn’t sleep with her, always making up excuses. Three rounds of celebratory cocktails deep, laughing over the oversized dinner menu to toast to your birthday. 

The last two weeks had been filled with you and Michael just missing each other. He had a recording session the night you were free; you had a work event the night you were free. It kept happening until you became two ships passing in the night. You missed him more than you cared to admit, touching yourself to his memory almost every night. Little did you know, he was doing the same thing across town. 

Coincidentally, on the other side of the dining room, hidden behind a large, decorative fern, Michael sat with Marlon, sharing their monthly meal to catch up on each other’s lives. Michael saw you and your friends walk through the door of the restaurant, your scandalously short dress catching his eye immediately, his attention snapping away from whatever Marlon was rambling about. He concentrated on staring through the leaves at the back of your head, smiling to himself each time you threw your head back and laughed. 

“Mike,” Marlon snapped in his face, laughing. “What the hell are you looking at?” He craned his neck to try and follow Michael’s gaze. He couldn’t see you, though, a fact Michael enjoyed. It was like fate had decided you were for his eyes only. “Well, she sounds pretty.” 

“Shut up, Marlon,” Michael chuckled, returning his attention to his meal. 

A waiter approached your table holding an ice bucket with a bottle of vintage champagne. “Someone would like to wish you a very happy birthday, miss,” he smiled kindly at you. 

“Oh,” you gasped as the man poured the first glass for you. “Who?” 

“He didn’t wish to be identified,” the waiter smiled, turning to pour champagne for the rest of your friends. You looked over each shoulder around the room, trying to find suspects, when you caught the unmistakable flash of dark eyes and a wicked smirk through the leaves of a large plant. The man looked away quickly, leaving you to question what you knew you had just seen. 

Your friends broke into light teasing, asking about the wealthy, mysterious stranger that was somewhere near, but your heart began to kick against your ribs. You had a sneaking suspicion you knew exactly who’d sent this over. 

Ten minutes later, after finishing your first glass, you excused yourself to fix your lipstick in the restroom. The single-occupancy room at the end of the hall was spacious and dimly lit, decorated with dark marble and fresh flowers. You softly closed the door behind you, turning to face the mirror, only for the handle to turn from the outside. 

Before you could react, the door creaked open, and Michael stepped inside, locking the door behind him with a sharp click. You inhaled to say something, but his hand came up to softly press a finger to your lips, shushing you. 

“Happy birthday, mama,” he whispered, his voice dropping to the tone reserved only for you. His dark eyes raked over your dress, low-cut and short, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as his gaze dragged back to your face, heavy with intensity that cut off any small talk. 

Without a word, Michael spun you around, pressing your front firmly against the cool marble edge of the vanity. In the large mirror, you could see him standing flush behind you, his dark curls framing his face, his eyes meeting yours in the mirror as his hands slid down to hitch the hem of your dress up to your waist. 

“Michael, my friends are literally right outside,” you panted, inhaling sharply as you felt his long fingers pull your skimpy underwear to the side, running them through the slick heat of your folds. 

“I know,” he mumbled against your neck, pressing a hot kiss to the sensitive spot right below your ear. “And you’re going to go right back out there when we’re done.” 

He wasted no time, unbuttoning his pants and burying himself to the hilt in one deep, agonizing stroke, filling you as only he could. You bit your lip to muffle the sharp groan that escaped your throat, your knuckles turning white as you gripped the edges of the vanity. He set a quick pace, his hips slamming into yours with a loud, wet slap that echoed off the tiled walls. 

You caught his gaze in the mirror, his eyes dark and hard while he drove into you from behind, one of his hands releasing your hip and rubbing roughly at your clit, earning a loud gasp from you. He ripped his hand away and shoved his fingers in your mouth to keep you quiet, your tongue swirling around them. His other hand tangled in your hair, pulling your head back onto his shoulder as he kept pounding. 

“You have to stay quiet,” he rasped, “you don’t want your friends to know what you’re doing in here. Who’s fucking you.” 

His words shoved you over the edge; you arched against his chest, moaning around his fingers as an intense orgasm ripped through you, making you tremble violently against the sink. Michael pushed into you three more hard, unforgiving times, his body going rigid against yours as he filled you completely. He slowly pulled back, his fingers brushing against your overly-sensitive core as he replaced your panties, keeping his cum safely trapped in your pussy. 

He leaned in close, removing his hand from your mouth and resting it on your bare hip, his thumb rubbing a slow, possessive circle over your skin. 

“Now,” he whispered softly in your ear as he pulled your dress down, his voice dripping with dark intensity. “Go back out there, drink the rest of that champagne, laugh with your friends. Try to pretend I’m not dripping down those pretty legs,” he gently bit the side of your neck, leaving a dark lovebite, “and wait for my call. I have more for you.” 

He looked at you in the mirror again, fixing your hair over the dark bruise blooming under your ear. He grabbed your chin and kissed you roughly before peeling himself off of you and leaving the bathroom without another word. 

You took a moment to catch your breath and fix your hair, following his instructions to keep up the charade. You took small steps as you returned to the table, keeping your thighs pressed together, your friends chattering and laughing like you never left. You sat down gently, your lower half raw and shaking. One joke made you laugh so hard you had to shove the napkin in your lap between your legs, cleaning a bit of Michael before it leaked onto the chair. 

The cab ride back to your apartment felt like an eternity as you came down from your high. Your mind raced with the last two encounters, and your chest felt light as you thought about how Michael had changed. He was back to normal. He wasn’t trapped in his own mind; he was hungry for you again, like the first time you saw him after the breakup. This was your new normal, and you wanted so badly to be okay with it. 

By the time your bedroom phone rang at 1 AM, you were vibrating with a lingering ache that the bathroom episode had only inflamed. 

“You know where to go,” Michael said the second you picked up, his voice low and heavy. “Come straight upstairs. Don’t make me wait.” 

When you entered his bedroom, the lights were dimmed, and a few candles were lit, draping the room in a romantic glow. Michael was lying against the headboard, a stack of pillows next to him, wearing only a pair of his favorite loose lounge pants. He looked ethereal. And that wasn’t the champagne talking. 

He didn’t say a word; he just patted the mattress next to him, giving you a commanding look that made your knees weak. You walked over, kneeling next to him on the mattress. But before you could pull him into a kiss, he pushed gently on your shoulders, laying you down with your hips perfectly propped on that stack of pillows. 

He kissed you once, his tongue shoving into your mouth with dominance, while his hands hiked your dress up again, sliding your damp panties down your legs and discarding them to the floor. He sat back on his knees, forced your legs apart; his fingers lightly brushing your skin, his face going slack at the vision in front of him. 

You were swollen and red, folds stuck together with his cum from hours earlier. He moaned, using a thumb to separate your skin, thin strings stretching between them. You’d followed his instructions, and that drove him crazy. He took his time, rubbing your legs and stomach while his thumb traced heavy lines from your clit to your entrance, pressing in just a bit. You gasped, still sensitive from earlier in the night. 

He leaned down, lying on his stomach, and wrapped his hands around your legs, pulling himself closer. His dark curls spilled over your inner thighs, his breath warm against your skin. You watched as his eyes fluttered closed and his tongue made a long, deliberate stroke along you, lapping up all the evidence of what you did in that nice restaurant. You sighed happily, gripping the blanket beneath you. He released one of your legs and gently pressed down on your lower abdomen, experimenting. You felt a small, warm gush escape your pussy, Michael taking it all into his mouth and swallowing. 

“I’m going to take my time, baby,” he growled against your skin. “Gonna make you cum all over me. Make me yours.” 

Michael didn’t rush. He ate you out with precision, learned during your time together. Each time his tongue darted inside you, he pressed down again, the squelching sounds absurdly loud in the quiet room. You whined as Michael sucked hard on your clit, slipped two and then three fingers inside you, curling up into that sensitive spot that made your back arch off the pillows. His mouth created a vacuum seal, his fingers dragging roughly inside you. 

“Michael, please,” you whimpered, the sensation becoming overwhelming. 

“I’ve got you, mama,” his voice sent another jolt up your spine, his dark eyes looking up at you through his lashes. He watched as your face unraveled as he sped up his rhythm, his tongue flicking with intense pressure. 

The friction became too much, the sensation expanding until a sudden, violent wave of pressure burst from between your legs. A loud, breathless scream tore from your throat as Michael plunged his fingers into you, his lips closing around your clit again. Your body bucked, his hand pressed down harder, and a warm, soaking fluid squirted over his mouth and chin, soaking his cheeks, his hair, and his chest. 

Michael didn’t flinch or pull away. He drank you through every wave, humming softly against your skin and licking up every drop until you finally settled back on the mattress, completely spent. 

Slowly, he lifted his head, wiped his chin with the back of his hand, and that arrogant smile lit up his face as he looked at your dazed expression. He crawled up your body, placing kisses in his wake before pressing his lips against yours, wet and warm. 

“Happy birthday,” he whispered against your mouth. 

Two Days Later

The tall grandfather clock in the corner of Michael’s bedroom clicked heavily, reading 3:15 AM. The air was thick and suffocatingly quiet after the moans and screams faded away. You sat on the edge of the bed, your back turned to him, yanking your tank top over your head with aggressive jerks. You reached for your crumpled jeans on the floor with a huff. 

He’d called you over to listen to a new demo, and he hadn’t been lying. He played you the song, took your notes, and you spent the evening talking and laughing, exactly how it used to be. You let yourself believe in the fantasy, and then it all came crashing down. As it always did.

Behind you, Michael sat up against the headboard, his hair wild around his face, his hands folded in his lap. He was staring at the back of your head, his jaw clenched tightly. 

“Where are you going?” He asked, his voice low and gravelly. 

“Home,” you grunted, reaching for your shoes. “Where I’m supposed to be.” 

“It’s three in the morning,” Michael snapped, rubbing a hand over his face in frustration. “You’re going to drive back to the city, completely exhausted - why? Because you don’t want to stay the night?” 

“Do you want me to stay the night?” You bit back, turning to face him. 

“Of course I do,” Michael sighed, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. 

“As what, Michael?” You shoved a foot into your shoe with a stomp. “Your girlfriend? Just a hookup? What the fuck are we doing?” 

Michael didn’t move, but his eyes narrowed slightly, his defenses raising. “We’ve been over this.” 

“No, we haven’t!” You shouted, your voice cracking over months of built-up confusion and frustration. “We haven’t talked about anything! We broke up because it wasn’t working. You let me walk out of that hotel room, finished the tour, and then you called me, out of the blue. And we’ve kept doing the same thing. You call, I come over, we sleep together, and we pretend as if none of that happened. Is this a relationship? Do you even want to get back together?”

“Do you?” Michael countered, his voice rising to match yours. “You demand all these answers, but do you actually want to do this for real again? Do you want the isolation? The loneliness? You told me it broke you!” 

“I gave you a chance to fight for us, and you didn’t,” you grit your teeth, crossing your arms over your chest. “You let me go. Now, you’re using me because it’s comfortable and you’re lonely.” 

“I’m not using you!” The accusation made Michael’s skin burn; he would never do something so awful to you. You had to know that. He stood abruptly, towering over you, his chest inches from yours. The anger in his eyes was bright and suffocating. “I call you because I miss you so much it hurts. Because I don’t know how to fix the mess we made! I don’t know if we can fix it! I don’t know if I can give you what you want, and I don’t know if you can handle who I am. But I call you because I would rather you scream at me just to have the chance to touch you.” 

“You have to stop calling me,” you said lowly, staring at the heat in his eyes. 

“You come over every single time,” he said, gripping your waist tightly. “You want this just as much as I do.” 

“That’s not true,” you choked, wondering how this argument landed you back in his arms. 

“Keep lying, mama,” he growled, smashing his lips into yours. With uncharacteristic roughness, he threw you back on the bed, his large hand ripping your unbuttoned jeans down your legs. He grabbed at you harshly, turning you onto your stomach and dragging your hips up until you were bared before him, on your hands and knees. 

The room exploded with the fury of two people who hated how trapped they were by each other. He pressed against your lower back, arching you up to meet him, and slammed into you with a thrust that would have been painful if you weren’t still stretched out from taking him not half an hour ago. 

“Tell me to stop and I will,” he rasped in your ear, holding back grunts as he drove into you. 

“Don’t you dare stop,” you whined, the angle bringing his tip to your deepest point. You buried your face in the sheets and screamed, fueled by the terrifying realization that neither of you had an answer to the future. His hands held a bruising grip on your hips; you knew you’d have ten separate small bruises when you woke up in the morning. He pulled out of you for a moment, flipping you onto your back, and slamming into you again while he dropped his head to your neck. Your nails dug deep red tracks into his shoulders, both of you fighting for control over a situation that was completely out of hand. 

He moved against you with an intense, athletic power born of pure anger and frustration, forcing you to ride every brutal wave of friction until your eyes rolled back, and you screamed into his ear. He didn’t slow down, driving you over the edge again and again until his own guttural groan echoed off the ceiling. He collapsed against you, holding you pinned to the mattress. 

“I don’t know,” he whispered into your ear, answering the question that had hung in the air. “I really don’t know,” his hand traced a gentle, apologizing pattern on your bare hip. 

You caught your breath and pushed at his shoulders. “I’m still going home, Michael,” you breathed, feeling your own heart break again. “I need time to think.” 

He crawled off of you and didn’t turn to watch you leave. He couldn’t bring himself to see it. He did move to his bedroom window after you left the room, and watched you get in your car and drive off. He turned back to the empty room and broke into tears. He was alone again, and it was all his fault. 

Three Weeks Later

The knock came at 3:12 AM, almost the exact time you’d walked away from Michael for what you promised yourself would be the last time. The quiet, three-tap cadence echoed through your apartment. 

You froze on your couch, a half empty glass of water in your hand and a worn paperback laying open in your lap. You wondered if it could be your roommate, who’d left for a date a few hours ago, but you watched her grab her keys. Your heart dropped to your stomach when another option dawned on you. 

For three weeks following your last night at Neverland, you ignored every late-night ring of your phone. You forced yourself to listen to the shrill tone until it stopped, sitting on your hands and repeating your new mantra: It’s over. Break the cycle. 

The knock repeated, softer this time, but persistent. 

You stood up, oversized t-shirt whispering against your thighs, and walked to the door. You looked through the peephole and quit breathing. 

Standing in your dim, carpeted hallway was a tall, slender figure buried under a large bomber jacket and baseball cap. He stared at his shoes, polished black loafers. No security guards, no tinted-window convoy waiting on your corner. He’d driven himself across town, climbed up your back staircase, and landed at your door. All on his own. 

You unlocked the deadbolt and cracked the door open just enough to show your face. He looked anxious, and you hated it. “What are you doing here?” 

Michael stood under the flickering lights looking small. He looked bone-tired. 

“You stopped picking up the phone,” he whispered, his voice raspy. 

“Michael, it’s three in the morning,” you tried to harden your tone and hide how your hand trembled on the doorknob out of sight. “You can’t just show up at my door. Someone could see you.” 

“I don’t care,” he took a step closer, reaching a hand out to lean on the door frame. “It’s been three weeks. I called four times a day. You didn’t answer.” 

“Because we agreed this is a disaster,” you hissed back. Although the sight of him, vulnerable and reckless, was quickly dismantling any protective walls you’d built in the time that had passed. 

“Please, just let me in. Just talk to me, mama,” his voice dropped to that velvet register. 

You hung your head and breathed deeply, truly considering the consequences of your actions if you were to let him in. Your mind screamed, begging you to enforce the boundary you’d promised to keep. The look on your friends’ faces were devastating, they’d looked at you with pity when you told them what happened, where you’d been disappearing to, who you’d been seeing. 

But your hands acted on muscle memory, your feet stepping back and opening the door to allow him into your home. His shoulder brushed against yours as he crossed the threshold, and you closed the door behind him gently, leaning up against it. 

He stepped toward you, his hand reaching out tentatively to cup your cheek, his eyes searching yours for a hint of regret. There was none. 

“I tried to stay away,” he leaned his forehead against yours, lips brushing yours as he spoke. “I swore I was going to leave you alone. But I can’t sleep knowing you’re mad at me.” 

“I’m not mad,” you sighed, your hands rising of their own accord to rest on his chest, feeling the slow beat of his heart against your palms. “I’m just tired, baby.” 

“Me too,” he mumbled. 

He pressed his lips to yours with a certain begging, like he was asking you to forgive him without words. Begging for another chance at this. His hands took yours, thumbs rubbing over your skin. You broke the kiss and led him to your bedroom by his hand. He followed behind you slowly, not looking to jump you again, just submitting to you. 

You led him to your bed and sat down, pulling him between your knees. The faint hum of late-night traffic filled the room, the glow of streetlights painting golden stripes across his eyes. He dropped to his knees in front of you. He didn’t pull at the hem of your shirt; you didn’t push his jacket off his shoulders. You just breathed each other in. 

“I’m tired of hiding behind excuses,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I don’t want to find reasons to hear your voice at two in the morning. I’m tired of watching you drive away into the sunrise, feeling like I lost you all over again.” 

“Michael, it didn’t end because we stopped caring. We didn’t stop loving each other. It was because the world was too loud, and we didn’t know how to protect what we had.” 

“Then we learn,” his voice became frantic, his hands tightening on your hips like he was afraid you’d get up and run off. “We learn how to handle it. I don’t care about the press, or the management, or whatever fucking else wants to take you from me. I know now that protecting you doesn’t mean keeping you in the dark. It means keeping you close. I’d rather fight through all of that together, then spend another night sitting alone in that house, trying to come up with reasons to call you. Reasons to get you back in my arms.” 

You felt a tear escape from the corner of your eye, it didn’t get far before Michael kissed it away. For almost ten months, you had convinced yourself that the endless, late-night cycle was all he was capable of giving you. But now, here he was, stripped of all his fame. He knelt in front of you, his hands rubbing your sides, begging you to take him back. His posture was vulnerable and you realized he was just as terrified of you losing you as you were of losing him. 

“You really want to try?” You asked, your voice barely above a whisper. 

“Do you?” He breathed, pulling back just enough to scan every inch of your face. 

“We would have to do this for real,” you sighed, your hands brushing his hair off his face. Michael let out a slow, shuddering sigh, a soft, breathless laugh breaking through his exhaustion. He pressed kisses to your forehead, your nose, your cheeks, before kissing your lips deeply and sweetly. 

“For real,” he breathed against your lips. His hands tightened even more, pulling you flush against his chest. “No more running, mama. We’re going to do this right.” 

His words warmed your heart, a stream of happy tears falling from your eyes. You’d spent so long feeling like he was better off without you, wishing you could fit into his life in a way that would work for you both. You hadn’t wanted to push him, beg him to make space for you, yet here he was, begging for the chance to do that very thing. You finally slipped your hands under the collar of his coat, pushing it down his shoulders and off of his arms. 

He kept his eyes locked on you, expecting you to pull back, to disagree, to tell him to get the hell out of your apartment and your life. And if you asked, he would do it without hesitation. He would live with the pain of being without you, as to not break your heart again. He would pour his love for you into his music for the rest of his life, but he would be satisfied knowing you were better off without him in your life. 

As his coat hit the floor, you turned and pulled down the blankets of your bed, slipping into them and pulling for Michael to join you. He kicked off his shoes, shrugged out of his button down, and kicked off his jeans until he lay beside you in just his boxers, his skin warm against yours. He pulled the heavy blanket over both of your shoulders, sealing out the cool air of the room until there was nothing left in the worst except the quiet, steady rhythm of his heart against your collarbone. 

Neither of you rushed the encounter. The urgency that had brought Michael to your door had quelled into a slow, profound worship. He laid on his side next to you, his large hands running through your hair, brushing against your skin with a feather-light touch. 

Slowly, he shifted his body to lean over you, your favorite way to look at him. His dark curls fell around your faces like a curtain, shielding you both as his lips found the hollow just beneath your jaw. 

“I love you,” he whispered against your skin, his voice thick with emotion and unreserved. He pressed a long, lingering kiss on the pulse fluttering in your throat. “I love you so much.” 

His hands were remarkably gentle as they shoved the hem of your T-shirt up from around your legs, to your waist, and finally over your head. His long fingers traced the line of your collarbone, sliding down your arms to weave his fingers with yours, pressing your knuckles softly into the pillow below your head. He moved down your body, kissing and worshiping every inch of skin he had spent months longing for, even when he had you in the dark. 

It wasn’t the same, the month or so of sneaking around, stealing each other, and you both knew it. This felt comfortable, like it was the way things were meant to be. 

He kissed the curve of your shoulder, whispering the words again into your skin. He kissed the center of your chest, feeling your heart beat slowly beneath his lips. You were both calm, comfortable in each other’s presence. He tracked soft, warm kisses down the slope of your ribs, your stomach, your hips, his breath scorching against your skin, making you shiver under his touch. 

“Michael,” you gasped softly, your legs wrapping around him loosely. 

He lifted his head, looking up at you through heavy lashes, his eyes brimming with a quiet intensity. “I mean it,” he mumbled against your skin, slowly kissing back up to your face. “Every single day I spent away from you was a waste of time. You’re my heart, mama. You always have been.” 

He captured your mouth in a kiss that tasted like a million years of devotion. Like he was the only person you were ever meant to kiss. He kept your lips connected to his while his fingers dipped below the fabric of your panties. But he stopped. 

“Can I?” He asked, pulling back to look at you. He was serious. After all this time, he wanted your permission to have you. 

“Please,” you sighed, resting your hands on his bare shoulders and kissing him again. He removed the fabric slowly, his hands moving to remove his own underwear under the sheets. You were finally skin to skin, and it felt different. This time, it felt real. 

He slid inside you with a deep, fluid motion that drew a soft moan from both of your chests. This time, it felt like a reunion. Michael set a lazy, rolling rhythm, his hips moving against yours in a seamless, intuitive grace that felt as natural as the beating of your hearts. Every unhurried stroke was punctuated by soft whispers against your lips between kisses. “I love you. I’m right here. I’m not letting you leave again. I’ll fight for us. I love you so much.” 

You arched your back to meet him, locking your legs around his waist and burying your face in the crook of his neck as a steady warmth built deep within your chest. He kept your hands locked in his, holding tightly, still terrified that you would disappear if he let you go. He continued whispering against your hair, telling you all the things he’d held back, guiding you through the wave until a soft, breathy gasp tore from your throat as you unraveled beneath him. 

Michael let out a slow groan, his shoulders tensing as he pushed deep into you one last time, holding you close as his own release washed over him. He sniffled softly in your ear, lifting his head to kiss you again. “I love you, I love you,” he cried into your mouth. 

“I love you,” you replied, pressing your lips against his. 

Michael didn’t pull away from you, he stayed merged with you, both of you breathing deeply. He could stay like this forever, if only you’d let him. 

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

You had to beg Michael to introduce you to his family. 

He’d moaned and groaned for months about how his brothers were going to scare you off, but you’d sworn that it would take a lot more than that to get rid of you. 

You’d worn him down eventually—you always did—but when the time came to actually have dinner with them, you were starting to feel like you’d bitten off more than you could chew. 

Because hello, holy shit, you were about to sit down with the Jackson Fucking Five. (And a half. Sorry Randy.)

“We don’t have to do this, honey.” Michael tried to talk you out of it one last time. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, watching you get ready in the mirror, and he looked like he’d rather have a root canal on every tooth than suffer through this meal.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” You brushed him off, playing the part of the calm and collected girlfriend, even if that was not how you were feeling inside. “Unless you’re embarrassed by me?” You raised an eyebrow and watched as his expression contorted into a pout.

“‘m not embarrassed.”

“Then stop trying to get out of this.”

“I’m just sayin’, there are plenty of other things we could be doin’ tonight.”

“And we can do them after dinner.”

It wasn’t like you were going far. 

Michael had treated the decision about where to eat like it was Sophie’s choice. 

On one hand, meeting at a restaurant would give you absolutely no privacy. The paparazzi would have a field day with all seven of you being in the same place at once. 

On the other, having dinner at Michael’s house meant there was no escape. The two of you couldn’t just get up and leave if it wasn’t going well. 

In the end, he’d decided that his place was the lesser of two evils. 

“You’ve got to stop worrying so much. It’s going to give you wrinkles.” You advised, stepping away from the mirror and going to stand between his legs. His arms instinctively wrapped around your waist, and you put yours around his neck, playing with the hair at his nape. “What’s the worst thing that could happen?”

“How long d’you got?” He asked, like he couldn’t possibly narrow it down to one, and you laughed at how dramatic he was being.

“Wanna know what I’m worried about?” You offered, like maybe the knowledge that you were also nervous would help put his mind at ease. 

“Hm.”

“Making a bad first impression on the most famous family in the world.” 

“Well, y’don’t have t’worry about that. You landed the most famous one already.”

“There he is.” You smiled, giving his hair a playful tug. 

“What?”

“My smug boyfriend.” 

“I’m not smug.”

You rolled your eyes and kissed his cheek, leaving a lipstick mark there. “You are, and I love you for it. But that’s not the point. The point is that I’m nervous too, but we’ll survive it.”

He didn’t look convinced.

“Michael. I want to be a part of your family, but I can’t do that if I never meet them. Right?”

That seemed to do the trick, because he sighed, but nodded in reluctant agreement.  

“Alright, then. Let’s go. You can’t be late to your own dinner party.” 

As pretty as he looked with your lipstick on his face, you knew his brothers would never let him live it down if he came downstairs like that, so you licked your thumb and wiped it away. Then you grabbed both his hands and hauled him to his feet. 

“You look very handsome tonight.” You smoothed the front of his shirt, looking up to find him scowling.

“An’ you look beautiful. That’s got me feelin’ even worse.” 

“Why?”

“‘cause my brothers are flirts.”

“Oh, good. It’s been such a long time since a man flirted with me.” You grinned; Michael did not. 

“That’s not funny.” His voice was starting to take on that low, gravelly quality that it did when he was frustrated about something. It was rare, but you secretly loved getting that tone out of him. 

“Look. I promise not to leave you for any of them. Although, if Marlon or Jackie asked me…”

“I’m cancelin’.”

“I’m just kidding! I’m kidding.” You laughed again, taking his face in both hands like you were going to kiss him, but didn’t want to ruin your lipstick. “I’m all yours, pretty boy. You don’t have to worry about a thing.”

He tried to close the space between you, but you shook your head. “Ah-ah. You’ll mess up my makeup. You can kiss me after dinner. If you’re good.”

“You’re gonna be the death of me.” He groaned, resting his forehead against yours. 

“Don’t be so melodramatic. You’ll survive a couple hours without a kiss.” 

“I won’t.”

His pouty face was almost impossible to resist. Almost. 

“You’re going to have to. I’ll make it worth the wait, I promise.” You dropped your hands to squeeze his shoulders and then pulled away completely, checking your reflection one more time. “Now, come on.”

The house was quiet when you walked downstairs, but not for long. The noise when his brothers arrived and piled inside was akin to a herd of bulls in a china shop.

It was just the five of them tonight—no parents, no sisters, no wives or kids. You’d wanted to meet the whole family, but Michael had put his foot down, and you didn’t want to test your luck too much.

Turns out, he was right. Five was more than enough. 

As soon as they made it through the door, they all started talking at once, each one louder than the next. 

“Would you look at that? Mike was tellin’ the truth.” 

“Nah, he was holdin’ out! He didn’t say she was this pretty.” 

“C’mon, man. Introduce us! You’re actin’ like you never done this before!” 

“That’s ‘cause he ain’t never done this before!” 

“He’s been married twice, idiot.” 

“Yeah, but have you ever seen him look at a girl like that?”

“Enough.” Michael cut them off right when the conversation was starting to get interesting. You made a mental note to tease him about that later. “I can’t introduce anybody if y’won’t shut up for five seconds.” 

You could tell by his grimace that he was really regretting this now. Your nerves, on the other hand, had disappeared entirely. 

“Go on, tell me who they are.” You nudged him with your elbow, doing your best to keep a respectfully straight face. 

“That’s Jackie, he’s the oldest. Then Tito. Jermaine. Marlon—he’s the most irritating. And Randy’s the baby.” He pointed to each brother in succession, and you pretended like you didn’t already know exactly who they were.

As if you’d been living under a rock all your life. 

“It’s nice to meet all of you.” You gave them your politest smile. “Including Jermaine.” 

The joke landed, thank God, and the other four started howling with laughter. Even Jermaine chuckled. Marlon had legitimate tears in his eyes. 

“Whew. I like this one.” He clapped Michael on the back like winning you over was some great accomplishment. “You did good, brother.”

“I’m sorry.” You apologized, putting a hand on Jermaine’s arm. “The joke was right there. But it is very nice to meet you, really.” The last thing you needed was to get off on the wrong foot with a potential future brother-in-law. He shook his head, flashing you a charming grin. “I’m never gonna live that one down. But it’s okay, I’ve got a thick skin after growin’ up in this family.”

“Don’t listen to a word that comes out of that boy’s mouth! He’s a big ol’ crybaby.” Marlon chimed in. “He’s the first one to go runnin’ to his mama about somebody hurting his feelin’s. And tattlin’? Lord, don’t even get me started.” 

“Marlon, I will skin you alive.” Jermaine glared at him, and you took that as your cue to redirect the conversation. 

“We should sit down, right? Let’s sit down.” You gestured towards the table, which was already set for seven and piled high with enough food to feed an army. You thought they might argue over where to sit, but they didn’t. They took their places immediately, like they’d been sitting in the same order all their lives. 

Thankfully, that order left an empty space next to Michael for you. He sat down first, and you watched him hook his foot around one leg of your chair and pull it closer to his own, like he didn’t want you too close to anyone else. 

He was so cute. Paranoid, but cute. 

When you sat beside him, he visibly relaxed, like he’d been holding his breath since his brothers walked in and was just now letting it out. 

“I think this is going well.” You whispered, close to his ear. 

They thought you were pretty and funny, and there’d only been one near fight. It couldn’t be going any better, as far as you were concerned. 

“Just wait.” He muttered, putting a protective hand on your thigh. His thumb mindlessly rubbed the spot where your tattoo was, a force of habit, but you’d intentionally worn a dress long enough to cover it up tonight. His brothers didn’t need to know that particular detail about you. 

Apparently they didn’t need to know much about you at all. You tried making small talk with them for about thirty seconds before they decided they’d rather interrogate you about your relationship instead. 

Jackie started in first, talking around a mouthful of food. “What I wanna know is how our brother landed such a pretty young thing.” 

You wondered if they had actually managed to miss the news about you yelling at the paparazzi for him, but decided not to ask. 

“Well, we met on a red carpet. Then he hunted me down to ask for my autograph.” You stole a glance at Michael, who looked like he wanted to crawl underneath the table. “After that, he started following me around like a puppy. It was very cute.”

“Oh, he’s got it bad.” Tito chuckled. “Mike ain’t asked for an autograph since…”

“Nineteen seventy something?” You offered. That’s what he’d told you the night he asked you for it. 

“Yeah, somethin’ like that. We performed for some real big shots, back when he was still a little thing, and he used to get all starstruck. He’d ask for other folks’ autographs at our own shows.”

He wasn’t a little thing in the 1970s, but still, the thought of a twelve or thirteen-year-old Michael asking anyone for an autograph made your heart want to burst. You could picture him now—all sweet and shy, timidly approaching some celebrity to compliment their work as if they hadn’t come to see him. You’d pay good money to have witnessed that. 

“Tell me more about what he was like when he was little.” 

That set them all off. 

“Mike? He was one bad ass kid.” 

“Yeah. One time, when we lived in Gary, we started havin’ a real bad rat problem in the house. Turns out little Mike was feedin’ ‘em. When our mama found out, whew boy—”

“Didn’t learn his lesson, though. Oh no. After we moved, he started breedin’ ‘em. Remember that?”

“He had a whole rat factory in his bedroom!”

“Aw, the rats weren’t that bad. What was bad was when he brought—”

“Okay. We don’t need t’get into all that.” Michael held up a hand, once again ending the conversation right when they were getting to the good part. 

“What?” You turned to him, innocent as can be. “I want to know what I’ll be getting into with our kids.” 

He choked on his water.

Everyone else shut up at the exact same time—some of them exchanging glances across the table, others frozen with their forks halfway to their mouths. Marlon’s eyes looked like they were going to bug right out of his head. 

The sudden silence was unnerving, and you wondered if you’d said something wrong. Then the noise erupted again. 

“Hold up. Is this an announcement?”

“Oh, shit. That’s why you invited us, ain’t it?”

“You better notta knocked that girl up without puttin’ a ring on it first! You’re gon’ kill your mama.”

“He’s done it before.”

“That ain’t the same thing and you know it!”

“Hold on, wait a second.” You interrupted them, laughing. “It’s not an announcement. I’m just thinking about the future, that’s all.”

“You shoulda started that sentence with a disclaimer.” Marlon put a hand to his chest, clutching at it like the thought alone was enough to send him into a cardiac episode.

Apparently dramatics ran in the family. 

“I’m sorry! I didn’t expect that reaction.” 

“So you’re plannin’ on havin’ kids?”Jermaine raised an eyebrow, glancing between you and Michael, who seemed to have forgotten how to talk. The only evidence that he hadn’t gone completely catatonic was the way his grip on your leg tightened. 

“I would like to, yes.” 

“When’s the wedding?”

“There is no wedding.” 

“Well, there’s gotta be a wedding.”

Michael wasn’t coming to your rescue at all, so you just shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.” 

“Uh-oh. Mike, you better go ‘head and lock ‘er down before somebody else does.”

“Where do I submit my application for best man?” 

“Aw, give me a break. You’d be his last pick.”  

“I think I should be the best man. On account of me being the best, and all.” 

“The best at what? Screwin’ everything up?”

Once again, it fell to you to redirect the conversation before someone came across the table and throttled someone else. 

“Does anybody want dessert? I’ll get it.” You stood up before anyone had a chance to respond, grabbing Michael’s arm and dragging him with you. “Michael. Help. Please.”

His brothers snickered at the way he obeyed without a word, but you didn’t care. You didn’t let go of him until you were in the kitchen and safely out of earshot. “Hello? Are you still with me?” You waved a hand in front of his face, like you were trying to snap him out of a trance. 

“Sorry.” He mumbled sheepishly, his cheeks turning pink. “They just—”

You shook your head, cutting him off. “We’ll talk about it later. We just need to get through the next half hour. Think you can do that?” He nodded, and you stood on your tiptoes, giving him a quick peck. “It’s going fine.” Your voice softened as you wiped the remnants of your lipstick away with your thumb. “We’re having fun.” 

At least, you were having fun. You got the sense that he would still prefer the root canals. 

“But we could be havin’ so much more fun.” He complained, wrapping his arms around you, and you felt a wave of relief. At least the conversation at the table hadn’t completely broken him.

“I told you we would, after dinner.” You reminded him, tipping your head towards the dining room. “Unless you want them to think we’re fucking in the kitchen. Which is fine by me, but…” 

“Nope.” He let go of you so quickly it was like you’d suddenly caught on fire. “After dinner ‘s good.”

“That’s what I thought.” You giggled, grabbing the dessert off the counter and returning to the dinner table. 

The rest of the evening went off without a hitch. 

You and his brothers got along even better than you’d hoped, and by the end, even Michael seemed to be having a good time.

You could definitely get used to being a Jackson. 

“You did good tonight.” He murmured later, sitting propped up against his headboard while you got ready for bed. “They loved you.”

“I know. I’m very charming.” You teased, picking one of his shirts to sleep in and tugging it over your head. 

“And so humble, too.” He opened his arms for you to join him, and you did, curling up into his familiar warmth. 

“Seriously. I loved them too. But Marlon is definitely my favorite. Don’t tell the others.” 

He chuckled, long fingers beginning to run through your hair. “Secret’s safe with me. I’m not about t’give him a big head by tellin’ him that.” 

He played with your hair in thoughtful silence for a while, and you closed your eyes, content to fall asleep sitting up just like this. 

“Did you mean what you said down there?” He asked finally, his voice quieter than usual. 

“Hm?” 

“About havin’ a baby. You wanna do that with me?” 

That made you open your eyes and look at him. 

“Of course I do. I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it.”

“Since when?”

His left hand slid down, flattening over your stomach, and the way it covered almost the entire thing gave you butterflies.

“I don’t know. It snuck up on me.” You admitted. You’d never pictured yourself having kids at this point in your career, but being with him, seeing the way he was with his three… you wanted that. “Maybe it’s because you’re such a DILF.”

“I don’t know what that means.” 

Of course he didn’t. His innocence about that sort of thing always made you giggle. 

“Dad I’d like to fuck.” 

He crinkled his nose at your blunt reply. “Quit cussin’ for no reason.”  

“I’m just telling you what it stands for!” 

His eyebrows furrowed, and the two of you fell back into silence, but you could practically feel his brain working in overdrive. 

“Do you think you’re done having kids?” You asked after a bit, trying to keep your tone neutral, as if you didn’t care either way.

“No. I mean… I don’t know. I’d like to have more. But I want t’be married first.”

“Of course. Can’t have people thinking you’re having premarital sex.” 

“I’m serious.”

“I know.” You nodded, putting your hand over his and fiddling with his ring finger. You’d spent an embarrassing amount of time imagining what he’d look like wearing a wedding band right there. 

Hot. That was the answer. He would look hot as hell. 

“Do you ever think about marrying me?” 

Maybe you were imagining things, but you thought you felt his hand tremble the tiniest bit underneath yours. 

“I try not t’let myself do that.”

Yeah. His hand was definitely shaking. 

“Why not?”

“I mean… d’you really wanna get married?”

“Eventually, yes. Are you just now realizing that I’m serious about this relationship?” 

“Well, no. It’s just… considerin’ my track record.”

Ah.

“Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve dreamed about being someone’s third wife.” You quipped, trying to lighten the mood. 

“You’re lyin’.”

You were. But you honestly didn’t mind the fact that he’d been married before. Especially after everything his brothers had said. He’s never looked at a girl like that. You’d been replaying that sentence over and over in your mind all night. 

“Third time’s the charm, right?”

“I don’t think that applies to women.”

You sighed, lifting his hand to your lips and gently kissing the back of it. 

“Michael, I’m in love with you. Like… no more looking, I’ve found the one, in love. So unless you don’t feel the same way, I’m planning on spending the rest of our lives together.” 

For a brief moment, you were hit with the sudden, humiliating realization that maybe he didn’t feel the same way. Maybe this wasn’t as serious to him as it was to you. 

But no—he was the one who had insisted that it wasn’t casual after the first night you slept together. He’d made it very clear that he didn’t do flings. And he was too good a person to keep stringing you along if he wasn’t serious. 

He was just scared. 

“Look, I’m not proposing to you.” You reassured him, kissing his cheek. “I’m just saying, hypothetically, if you asked me… I wouldn’t say no.”

His entire body relaxed, like he was giving in to the idea that you were being honest with him. It wasn’t a joke or a trick—you really, truly wanted to be his wife and have children with him.

“There’s no pressure.” You continued, pressing another kiss a little lower, against his jaw. “But I am ovulating this week. So… chop chop.” 

That made him tense right back up. 

“You can’t be sayin’ things like that t’me, honey.” He groaned, closing his eyes and tilting his head back against the headboard. 

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t think that’s a decision you oughta be rushin’ into.” 

He didn’t mean that. You could hear it in his voice. He was saying it because he thought that’s what he was supposed to say—to be responsible—but he’d been convinced the moment you said the o-word.

“I don’t think that’s the reason."

“What is it, then?”

“I think it turns you on.”

He nearly choked the way he had at dinner, this time on nothing. 

“That’s not—no. That’s not why.” 

The blush creeping up his neck and blooming on his cheeks said otherwise. 

“Look at me.”

He opened his eyes, but didn’t look directly at you, staring at the ceiling instead. 

“Come on. Look me in the face and tell me that the idea of getting me pregnant doesn’t turn you on. Not even a little bit.” 

When he finally met your gaze, the black of his eyes had almost completely swallowed the brown.

“…maybe a little bit.”

“I knew it.” You grinned triumphantly, shifting your attention to his lips. When you kissed him, he kissed you back, but you could tell he was still restraining himself. 

“I just think you’d look so pretty…” He mumbled, his voice small and quiet like he was admitting a deep, dark secret. “Growin’ my baby.” 

There was nothing dirty or kinky about what he was saying. He sounded absolutely reverent. 

The butterflies in the pit of your stomach started to flutter again. 

“Well, don’t get too excited. I really am ovulating, but I can’t get pregnant until I get my IUD removed. And you will be in attendance for that appointment, because if that little piece of copper and plastic hurts half as much coming out as it did going in, I’m going to need the emotional support.”

In a moment, whatever was left of his restraint seemed to snap. 

“I can get a doctor to take it out tonight. Just say the word, honey.”

His sudden change in demeanor took you by surprise. “Yeah, that’s gonna be a no from me. But I love the enthusiasm.” 

“I don’t wanna wait anymore.”

“You’ve been waiting for all of five minutes! And you’re the one who wanted to be married first, Mr. Traditional.”

“I can get somebody t’do that tonight too.”

His impatience was as endearing as it was amusing. 

“What? You have a gynecologist and an ordained minister on call?” 

“No, but I could get ‘em.”

“I’m not marrying you in the middle of the night on a random Saturday. I want a nice wedding.”

Not big, but nice. A proper ceremony. 

He may have been married before, but you hadn’t. You wanted the full experience—the dress, the flowers, the whole nine yards. 

“How about y’marry me in the middle of the night on a random Saturday, and then we have a big party t’celebrate?” 

“Nope. Not a chance, pretty boy.” 

He stuck his lower lip out so far he looked like a little kid being denied a piece of candy. “But—”

“Michael. We are not getting married tonight.” You said firmly, kissing away his pout. “I need time to plan! Wouldn’t you rather see me in a wedding dress than some ancient t-shirt?”

“Not ancient. Vintage.”

“Sorry, vintage. The point is, I deserve to wear a wedding dress at least once in my life. And as gorgeous as you look in those pajamas, I’d really like to see you in a suit.”

“You’ve seen me in a suit a million times.” 

“It’s different when you’re walking down the aisle!”

“...I guess.” He heaved an exaggerated sigh, but you both knew that you’d won this argument before it even began.

“It’ll be worth it, I swear.” You tucked your head in the crook of his neck, taking his left hand in yours again. “Should we take bets on whether or not you’ll cry?”

“No, I‘m definitely gonna cry.” He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, burying his nose in your hair, and your heart swelled at his honesty. 

“I can’t wait to never let you live it down.” You ran a fingertip along the place where his wedding ring would sit, absolute giddiness bubbling up in your chest. You’d spent a lot of time imagining what it would be like to be married to him, but that had always felt like a distant possibility. Now it felt like something that was really, truly happening.

And frankly, after the baby talk, you had a feeling you’d be getting a ring within the week.

You better call your nail girl and make an appointment ASAP.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Hayvenhurst always carried a distinct weight—a blend of polished mahogany, expensive cologne, fresh flowers, and the faint, unmistakable smell of pine from the massive grounds outside. Beyond the gated perimeter, Encino hummed with the steady pulse of late 1970s Los Angeles: warm summer asphalt, neon lights along Sunset Boulevard, and the distinct smog settling over the Valley. But inside the main house, the rest of the world felt muffled, as if the thick carpets and grand architecture were built specifically to keep the noise of reality from seeping in.

Tonight, however, the silence in the living room was suffocating.

You sat tucked into the corner of the deep cream velvet sofa, your fingers wrapped around a tall glass of orange juice that had long lost its cool. The ice cubes had melted into tiny slivers, diluting the orange liquid, but you hadn’t taken a sip in twenty minutes. Across the low glass coffee table, Valerie—your best friend since the ninth grade—was practically vibrating with anxious energy. Her long, manicured acrylics clicked rhythmically against the side of her leather clutch, a fast uneven staccato that was slowly driving you mad. 

“You’re doing it again,” Valerie murmured, leaning across the gap between the couches. Her eyes darted toward the hallway before snapping back to your face. “That face you make when you’re overthinking. What’s going on in that head of yours?”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, staring down at the condensation pooling around the base of your glass. “Nothing. Just… thinking.”

“About Marcus?” Valerie’s voice dropped an octave, laced with a strange, jittery sharpness. “You still caught up on what he said when he pulled up to your apartment last night?”

Just hearing his name made a cold, familiar knot tighten in the pit of your stomach. Marcus. You had been dealing with his hot-and-cold routine for nearly two years. He was the kind of man who knew exactly how to speak to you when he wanted something—soft-spoken, dripping with charisma, promising the moon and the stars—only to turn around and treat you like a second-tier option the moment he felt secure again. He canceled plans at the last minute, flipped every valid argument back on you until you were the one apologizing, and subtly chipped away at your confidence while demanding total, unquestioning loyalty in return.

And yet, when he had shown up on your doorstep at two in the morning, standing under the flickering yellow porch light with his hands shoved in his pockets and tears shining in his eyes, swearing he’d hit rock bottom without you, a traitorous part of your heart had softened. You were so tired. So utterly exhausted from the emotional whiplash that giving in and believing his lies felt easier than fighting them.

“He sounded different this time, Valerie,” you whispered, keeping your voice low so it wouldn’t carry toward the kitchen. “He swore he was done with the games. He said he realized what he’s losing, and he wants to actually step up. I don’t know… maybe people can really hit rock bottom and change.”

Valerie’s jaw tightened, a weird, flicking shadow crossing her features before she smoothed her expression back into a sympathetic pout. “I mean… if you think he’s being real, babe. You know I just want you to be happy.”

Before you could reply, a burst of bright, booming laughter echoed from down the hallway, instantly cutting through the heavy mood in the room.

“Man, if you don’t get outta here with that!” Marlon’s voice carried around the corner, followed by the heavy, rhythmic thrum of a bassline playing softly from the stereo unit in the far corner of the family room.

A second later, Marlon strolled into the living room, tossing an orange in the air and catching it with one hand. Randy was right behind him, fanning himself with a vinyl sleeve, arguing passionately about a bass bridge on a track they’d been messing around with in the home studio.

And then came Michael.

Seeing Michael in the summer of 1979 was like looking directly at a solar flare. He was standing on the precipice of absolute global dominance with Off the Wall taking over the airwaves, yet here in Hayvenhurst, he was still just the quiet, incredibly observant core of his family. Sporting an oversized thin-stripped button down shirt rolled up loosely at his forearms, dark fitted slacks, and a thin silver chain resting against his collarbone. His afro was picked out into a soft, perfectly rounded halo framing his sharp jawline and deep, soulful eyes.

He radiated an effortless, magnetic youthfulness, but the moment his gaze swept across the room and landed on you, everything about his posture shifted.

The easy, playful smile resting on his lips faltered. His dark eyes—sharp, intuitive, and entirely too perceptive—scanned your slumped shoulders and the anxious way you were nursing your warm juice. He picked up on your mood in less than a second.

“Look who finally decided to come out of the shadows,” Marlon teased, dropping onto the leather armchair across from you and taking a loud bite of his orange. “We thought you fell into the pool, girl.”

“Very funny, Marlon,” you managed a weak chuckle, though it sounded thin even to your own ears.

Michael didn’t say a word to his brothers. He walked across the room with that light, silent, almost floating stride of his, stepping right past the empty armchair and dropping onto the plush sofa cushions right next to you. He sat close—close enough that you could smell the subtle, comforting scent of broad-spectrum vanilla, warm musk, and sweet hair sheen that always seemed to follow him.

“Hey,” he whispered. His voice had that signature soft, high-pitched cadence, but underneath it lay a firm, grounded warmth that instantly made the tension in your shoulders give way.

“Hey, Mike,” you murmured, offering him a tiny, exhausted smile.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he noted softly, tilting his head. His eyes locked onto yours, completely ignoring the chatter starting to build as the rest of the house woke up around you. “And don’t tell me you’re fine, because I know that look. What’s going on?”

You shifted uncomfortably on the cushion. “It’s nothing. Just tired from work.”

Michael raised a single brow, a subtle crease forming between his eyebrows. He leaned in a fraction closer, lowering his voice until it was a private hush strictly meant for your ears. “You were talking to him again. Weren’t you?”

You didn’t have to ask who he was. Michael knew about Marcus. In fact, Michael knew more about the emotional toll Marcus took on you than almost anyone else, mostly because Michael was the one who had sat with you on the back patio two weeks ago until three in the morning while you cried over another forgotten date.

Michael’s jaw tightened sharply, a rare, flickering flash of irritation breaking through his usually gentle expression. He hated Marcus. It wasn’t just a mild dislike—it was a deep, visceral revulsion. He couldn’t fathom how a man could hold your heart in his hands and treat it like garbage. 

To Michael, who had spent months admiring your grace, your humor, your quiet strength, and your staggering beauty from a safe, respectful distance, watching you be dismantled by a loser was pure torture.

“You can’t do this to yourself,” he said, his voice dropping into an earnest, urgent whisper. “You can’t keep giving that guy passes to tear you down. He doesn’t see you, girl. He really doesn’t.”

“Michael, it’s just… it’s complicated,” you sighed, looking down at your lap, feeling the burn of shame in your throat. “He said he wants to try again. He apologized.”

“Apologies are just words,” Michael countered softly, reaching out. For a brief second, his long and slender fingers brushed against the back of your hand—a light, fleeting touch that sent a sudden jolt of electricity straight up your arm. “You deserve somebody who respects you from the start. Somebody who doesn’t have to lose you first to realize what you’re worth.”

You swallowed hard, looking into his big, expressive eyes. The sincerity in them was overwhelming. It was terrifying, honestly, how deeply Michael cared for you, and how easily he could see right through the defenses you spent so much energy building up.

Before you could figure out how to respond to Michael, the heavy double doors leading to the grand foyer clicked open, breaking the intimate bubble Michael had built around the two of you.

Jackie walked in first, tossing a set of car keys onto the entry table, complaining loudly about the traffic on the Ventura Freeway, with Jermaine right behind him, draped in a light sweater and adjusting his watch. A moment later, Mrs. Katherine stepped into the room carrying a heavy silver tray laden with fresh glasses, a pitcher of iced sweet tea, and a plate of warm lemon square bars.

“I brought some tea for everybody,” Katherine announced, her warm, soothing voice instantly blanketing the room in motherly comfort. “It’s hot out there tonight. Y’all need to stay hydrated.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Katherine,” you said, forcing a polite smile as the room filled up with the chaotic, vibrant energy that only the Jackson family possessed.

The living room had suddenly become the center of the house. Marlon was stretched out on the rug, Randy was flipping through a stack of 45s near the studio, Jermaine and Jackie were leaning against the archway discussing a mix tape for an upcoming studio session, and Katherine was settling into the wingback chair near the window.

You took a deep breath, trying to shake off the heavy conversation you’d just had with Michael. You felt cluttered, your purse sitting on the end table near the floor lamp feeling miles away.

“Hey, Valerie,” you said, turning slightly toward your friend. “Can you hand me my bag from over there? I need my lip balm.”

Valerie jumped slightly at the sound of her name, looking almost guilty for being addressed. “Oh—yeah. Yeah, sure, hold on.”

She reached over the side table, but instead of just grabbing your leather purse, her elbow clumsily knocked against her own heavy designer clutch. The bag tottered on the glass edge for a second before slipping, crashing onto the hardwood floor with a sharp, echoing clatter.

The impact popped the metal latch wide open.

Lipstick tubes, a compact mirror, a cloud of loose powder, keys, a thick fold of cash, and several loose items exploded across the glossy dark wood floor, sliding toward the center of the room.

“Dang it!” she cursed, her voice suddenly pitching an octave higher than normal—sharp, shrill, and laced with immediate panic. She practically threw herself off the couch, dropping to her hands and knees to frantically sweep everything back toward her. “I got it! I got it, don’t worry about it!”

“Relax, Valerie, it’s just a bag,” Marlon laughed, reaching down from his spot on the rug to grab a stray lipstick tube that had rolled near his knee.

Randy, who was sitting the closest to the side table, leaned over to help. “Here, let me grab this—”

Randy picked up a small, heavy object that had skittered under the edge of the coffee table, along with a thick square piece of paper that had landed face-down near his shoe. He casually flipped the paper over to see what it was before handing it back.

But the moment Randy’s eyes locked onto the photograph, his hands stopped dead in mid-air.

The playful smirk vanished from his face instantly. His eyebrows pulled together in the deep, confused scowl, his eyes darting from the small photo to the heavy silver item in his palm—a thick, custom-engraved Cuban link bracelet with a distinct dragon-head clasp.

“Yo…” Randy’s voice cut clean through the cross-talk in the room. It was flat, sudden, and heavy with instant anger. “What the hell is this?”

The tone in his voice was so sharp that the entire room fell dead silent within two seconds. The track playing on the stereo seemed to fade into background noise. Jermaine stopped talking mid-sentence. Katherine paused with her tea glass halfway to her mouth.

“Randy, give me that!” Valerie practically shrieked, lunging across the floor with her hand outstretched, her face flushed a bright, splotchy red.

Randy snapped his head back, standing up fully and holding the item way out of her reach. He wasn’t laughing anymore. His face was dark, his eyes blazing as he looked from the heavy silver bracelet in his hand, down at Valerie on the floor, and then straight over to you.

“Wait a damn minute,” Randy said, his voice rising, thick with disbelief and disgust. “Is this Marcus’s chain? The one he never takes off? The one with his initials stamped on the inside of the clasp?”

Your stomach dropped into a bottomless, freezing pit. The room seemed to tilt on its axis. “What…?”

Michael sat up straight beside you. All the gentleness, all the soft, dreamy energy that usually defined him vanished in a fraction of a second. His spine went rigid, his posture shifting into something razor-sharp and intensely alert. “Randy, what are you holding?”

“This is Marcus’s chain,” Randy said loudly, turning the object over in his hand before holding up the small glossy paper for the whole room to see. “And this is a Polaroid. Taken in a room at the Beverly Hilton.”

“Randy, give it here, don’t look at that!” Valerie cried out, her voice cracking as she scrambled to her feet, tears of pure panic springing to her eyes. “It’s personal! You have no right to touch my stuff!”

“Shut up!” Jermaine barked from the doorway, taking three long strides across the room and snatching the Polaroid directly out of Randy’s fingers.

Jermaine looked at the print for three seconds before his jaw set into a hard, furious line. He looked over at you, his eyes filled with a sudden, overwhelming pity that made your blood run cold.

“Show her,” Jermaine said quietly, his voice dangerously low.

Randy took the Polaroid from Jermaine and stepped over to the couch, placing it gently on the glass coffee table directly in front of you.

You leaned forward, your hands trembling so violently that you could barely keep your balance on the edge of the cushion. You looked down at the photograph.

It was crystal clear. It was a flash-photography photo taken in a dimly lit hotel room. Marcus was sitting on the edge of a messy bed, wearing his signature black silk shirt—unbuttoned at the top—with his arm wrapped tightly around Valerie’s shoulders. Valerie was leaning into his chest, laughing hysterically, wearing a silk robe that you recognized because you had given it to her for her birthday last year. The white date stamp in the bottom right corner of the glossy paper read: JULY 27, 1979.

Two weeks ago.

The exact weekend you were laying in bed at home with a hundred and two-degree fever, shivering under three blankets, while Valerie had called you saying she was driving down to San Diego to visit her aunt.

The breath was completely sucked out of your lungs. It felt as if someone had taken a sledgehammer and slammed it directly into your chest, shattering your ribs into a thousand tiny needles. Your vision blurred around the edges, the room spinning, the sound of your own heartbeat echoing like thunder in your ears.

“Valerie…?” Your voice didn’t even sound like yours. It was small, fragile, a broken whisper that barely carried across the glass table. 

Valerie stood frozen in the middle of the living room, her face pale, her lips trembling as tears streamed down her cheeks. “Look—listen to me! Please, just let me explain! It’s not what it looks like!”

“Not what it looks like?!” Marlon roared, stepping up beside Randy, his face contorted in pure rage. “Are you out of your mind?! That’s a picture of you in a hotel room with her damn man! While she was sick at home!”

“He manipulated me!” Valerie screamed back, completely crumbling under the weight of the room’s collective anger. She reached out toward you, her hands shaking. “You know how Marcus is! He was calling me, he came by my place, he made me feel like—he said you guys were over anyway! He said you didn’t care about him like I did!”

“Don’t you dare put this on anybody else!” Jackie barked, stepping into the living room, his voice booming off the high ceilings. “You brought your fake, snake-in-the-grass ass into our home! You sat on our furniture, ate our food, and listened to this girl cry her out over that man, knowing damn well you were sleeping with him behind her back!”

“I was gonna tell her!” Valerie sobbed wildly. “I was gonna tell you! It was a mistake!”

“A mistake?!” Randy spat, holding up the heavy silver bracelet. “You kept his chain in your purse like a damn trophy! You been carrying this around while sitting right next to her!”

“Get up.”

The command was not loud. It was not shouted. It didn’t carry the booming rage of Marlon or the booming authority of Jackie.

It was quiet. Ice cold. Deadly serious.

It came from Michael.

You looked up through the blur of your tears. Michael had stood up from the sofa. He was standing right between you and Valerie, his tall, slender frame acting as a physical, unyielding wall protecting you from the mess in front of you.

His dark eyes were locked onto Valerie. The softness, the light, the youthful warmth that usually defined Michael Jackson was completely gone. His face was a stone-cold mask of absolute, uncompromising fury. His fists were clenched tightly at his sides, his chest heaving with deep, controlled breaths.

“Michael, please—” Valerie choked out, taking a small step back, terrified by the look in his eyes.

“Don’t you say my name,” he said, his voice dropping into a register so low and dangerous it made the hair on the back of your neck stand up. He stepped forward, pointing a single finger directly toward the grand front doors. “Don’t you say her name. Don’t you look at her. Don’t you ever, ever step foot on this property again.”

“Mike, listen to me—”

“I said get out!” he snapped, his voice cracking with a sudden, explosive power that shattered the air. “Get your things and get out of this house before I have security throw you into the street!”

Mrs. Katherine stepped forward, her face a heartbreaking mixture of deep grief and absolute, unshakeable sternness. She looked at Valerie with eyes that held no mercy. “Valerie, sweetie… you need to go. Right now. You have brought venom into my home, and you have broken this child’s heart in a way that is unforgivable. Pack your things and leave.”

Jermaine didn’t wait. He walked over to the side table, snatched up Valerie’s open purse, shoved the loose items, the Polaroid, and the silver chain back inside, and shoved the bag roughly into Valerie’s chest. He grabbed her firmly by the elbow, pulling her toward the foyer.

“Move,” he demanded coldly, walking her straight out of the living room.

Marlon and Jackie followed right behind them to make sure she didn’t turn around, their voices echoing down the hallway as they barked at her to keep it moving.

A second later, the massive, heavy oak doors of Hayvenhurst slammed shut with a deafening, thunderous BOOM that rattled the glass windows of the living room.

The silence that settled over the house in the wake of the front door slamming was heavy, absolute, and suffocating.

You sat frozen on the velvet sofa, staring blankly at the empty spot on the glass table where the Polaroid had rested just moments before. Your brain felt entirely numb, completely unable to process the sheer scale of the betrayal that had just been unraveled in front of you. The two people you had trusted the most in the world—the man you were foolishly considering taking back, and the best friend who had held your hand through every tearful night—had been laughing at you behind closed doors.

A ragged, shuddering gasp tore through your throat, and before you could suppress it, the first sob broke free.

Instantly, the cold, furious energy in the room shattered, replaced by a wave of intense, protective family devotion.

“Oh, sweet baby,” Mrs. Katherine whispered softly, rushing over to the sofa and sinking to her knees right beside you. She reached out, taking both of your ice-cold, trembling hands into warm, soft palms. “It’s alright. Let it out, child. Take a deep breath. You are safe here.”

“Unbelievable,” Jackie muttered, pacing back and forth near the rug, shaking his head in disgust. “Absolute human trash. Both of ‘em. You don’t ever have to worry about seeing either one of those snakes again, you hear me? We’ll make sure security has their plates. They won’t even make it past the front gate.”

“They’re dead to you,” Randy added firmly, leaning over the back of the couch, his voice thick with protective anger. “Dead and buried. Neither one of them exists anymore.”

While his brothers paced and vented their rage, and while Katherine held your hands, Michael did something different.

He didn’t speak. He quietly walked out of the living room and into the kitchen. A minute later, he returned carrying a tall glass of ice water and a small, soft cotton towel soaked in cool water.

Michael crouched down directly in front of you, sinking to his knees on the carpet right next to his mother. He placed a gentle, steady hand on your knee. The fierce, terrifying anger that had flickered in his eyes just moments ago had completely melted away, replaced by an overwhelming, painfully tender warmth.

“Here,” he whispered softly, his voice a feather-light hum that seemed to cut straight through the roaring in your ears. “Drink a little bit of this for me. Just a sip.”

Your hands were trembling so badly that when you reached for the glass, the water sloshed over the rim. Without a second thought, Michael reached up, his long, slender fingers wrapping around yours to steady your grip. He held the glass with you, helping you bring it up to your lips so you could take a slow, cool swallow.

Once you set the glass down, Michael took a damp towel and began softly dabbing away the warm tears spilling down your cheeks, his touch so light, so extraordinarily gentle, it felt like a breeze.

“Look at me,” he whispered, his voice low, steady, and anchoring.

You forced yourself to pull your eyes away from the floor, looking down into his dark, luminous eyes.

“You listen to me,” he said, his tone carrying an unshakeable, absolute certainty that made your frantic, racing pulse begin to slow down. "You are done with both of them. You hear me? You are never going back to that guy. Ever again. And you don't need a friend who treats your heart like it's cheap. You don't deserve that. You have never deserved that."

A choked sob escaped your lips, but Michael didn't pull away. He leaned closer, his hand shifting from your knee up to wrap securely around your shaking fingers, pressing a warm, firm squeeze to your hand.

"You have us," Michael whispered fiercely, his eyes shining with a deep, emotional truth. "You have Mother. You have Marlon, Randy, Jackie, Jermaine... you have me. We are your family. We are going to take care of you."

As his words sank deep into your chest, something in you finally snapped—not in brokenness, but in total, liberating clarity. The heavy, suffocating web that Marcus had spun around you for two long years shattered into dust. The illusion was gone. The ex was dead to you. Valerie was dead to you.

And sitting right in front of you, holding your shaking hands in his, was the one man who had loved you quietly, purely, and endlessly from the very beginning.

Deep down inside Michael’s chest, beneath the genuine, aching fury he felt for your heartbreak, a quiet, golden spark ignited. The toxic fog had cleared. The man who had kept you trapped was finally gone forever.

Michael looked at your tear-stained face, squeezing your hand tighter, swearing to himself in the quiet of his heart that he would spend every single day from this moment on proving to you what real love actually felt like.

The days following the blowup at Hayvenhurst felt like living inside a soft-focus velvet bubble.

Mrs. Katherine had flatly refused to let you go back to your empty apartment that night. She had led you up the grand staircase herself, tucked you into one of the guest suites on the second floor, and made sure a fresh set of oversized satin pajamas was laid out across the duvet. For three days, the Jackson home became your fortress. 

The outer iron gates remained locked tight against the outside world; security had explicit, unyielding orders from both Jackie and Michael that neither Marcus nor Valerie was to be allowed anywhere near the property.

By the fourth morning, the overwhelming shock had given way to a quiet, lingering ache—a tender bruising of the spirit that left you exhausted.

You sat on the cushioned window bench in the second-floor conservatory, staring out at the sun-drenched gardens. The morning L.A. warmth was rising off the lawns, smelling faintly of cut grass and blooming honeysuckle. You wore one of Michael’s thin, worn-in striped studio shirts over a pair of lounge shorts, the sleeves rolled up past your elbows. It smelled softly of him—sweet vanilla, clean cotton, and a hint of warm sandalwood.

A soft knock sounded at the open wooden doorway.

"Hey, sleepyhead," Michael’s soft, gentle voice hummed.

You turned your head to see him leaning against the doorframe. He looked effortless and gorgeous in the golden morning light: a white t-shirt, black fitted slacks, and his hair loosely picked out in that soft, iconic Off the Wall halo. In his hands, he carefully balanced a silver tray loaded with fresh strawberries, buttered toast, a small bowl of scrambled eggs, and a glass of chilled orange juice.

"Michael, you didn't have to do all that," you said softly, a genuine, warm smile breaking through the quiet haze of your morning.

"I wanted to," Michael replied, stepping into the room with that light, silent, almost floating stride of his. He set the tray down on the small glass table next to the window bench and sat beside you, tucking his long legs under himself. "Mother said you barely touched your dinner last night. You gotta eat to keep your strength up, girl. I'm taking care of you."

"I know," you murmured, looking at the spread. "Thank you, Mike. For everything. Your family has been... incredible. I don't even know how to repay y'all."

His expressive eyes softened instantly. He reached out, his fingers gently closing over your wrist, his thumb resting over your steady pulse. “Don’t ever talk about repaying us. You’re family. You hear me? We take care of our own.”

He picked up a strawberry from the plate, holding it out toward you with a playful, encouraging tilt of his head. “Here. Take a bite.”

You chuckled softly, shaking your head at the stubborn attentiveness, but leaned in and took a bite. The sweetness burst on your tongue. Michael watched you with a quiet, intense satisfaction, a slow, breathtaking smile spreading across his face—the kind of smile that made his eyes crinkle at the corners and instantly lit up the entire room.

“There,” Michael murmured, his voice dropping into a soft, tender register. "That's better. I like seeing you smile again."

Later that evening, after the heat of the day had settled into a cool, breeze-filled dusk, the rest of the family had cleared out—Marlon and Randy were out at a record company event, and Mrs. Katherine was turning in early. The grand house was quiet, save for the low, rhythmic thrum coming from the private recording studio tucked into the lower wing.

You walked down the carpeted hallway, pulled toward the sound of music like a moth to a flame.

When you pushed open the heavy acoustic door, you found Michael standing in the center of the wood-paneled room. He was wearing dark headphones rested over his neck, standing beside a grand piano with a notebook spread open over the keys. An unreleased instrumental track was looping softly through the studio monitors—a smooth, mid-tempo disco-groove laced with lush strings and a thumping, irresistible bassline.

He was moving to it—just slightly—his body swaying with that natural, instinctual rhythm that lived in his bones. But the moment the door clicked, he paused, turning around.

"Am I disturbing you?" you asked from the threshold, suddenly feeling self-conscious.

"Never," Michael said instantly. He took off the headphones, setting them on the piano, and gestured for you to come inside. "Come here. I want you to listen to something."

You walked into the studio, the ambient yellow dim lighting creating an intimate, magical world cut off from the rest of the universe. Michael stood by the piano, watching you closely as you approached.

"Is this for the next record?" you asked, leaning against the edge of the piano console.

"Maybe," Michael whispered, stepping a little closer to you. The distance between you narrowed until you could feel the soft warmth radiating off his body, smelling his sweet, hypnotic scent. "I've been working on the melody all day. But... every time I try to write the lyrics, my mind keeps going back to one thing."

Your heart took a sudden, hard thud against your ribs. "To what?"

Michael looked down at you, his dark, soulful eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made the breath catch in your throat. All the playful, shy innocence he carried during the day seemed to melt away, revealing the deep, burning passion that made him who he was.

"To you," Michael said softly, his voice barely a breath.

The studio fell dead silent, the instrumental loop fading into the background.

"Michael..." you whispered, your heart hammering against your chest like a trapped bird.

"I mean it," Michael continued, stepping directly into your space. He reached up, his long, warm hand gently resting against the side of your neck, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone with a delicate, trembling touch. "I hated seeing you hurt the other night. It broke my heart into a million pieces watching you cry over those people. But..."

He hesitated, his jaw tightening slightly as he searched your eyes, searching for permission to finally speak the truth he’d kept buried for months.

"But what, Mike?" you whispered, leaning imperceptibly into his touch.

"But a part of me... a selfish part of me... was glad," Michael confessed, his voice dropping into a raw, breathless whisper. "Because I couldn't stand watching him treat you like you were nothing. I wanted to scream every time you went back to him. Because I've been standing right here the whole time... just waiting for you to see me."

Your breath hitched. The air in the room became thick, electrified, supercharged with a romantic tension that had been building between you two for over a year—hidden under the guise of late-night phone calls, shared secrets, and lingering glances.

"Michael..." you gasped softly, staring at his plush, beautiful lips. "I... I see you. I've always seen you."

Michael’s eyes darkened with a sudden, overwhelming emotion. "Really?"

"Really," you murmured, reaching up to lay your palm against his chest. You could feel his heart hammering wildly beneath his shirt, just as fast as yours. "I was just... scared. Scared to ruin what we had. Scared that someone like you couldn't really want someone like me."

"Don't ever say that," he breathed, his hand sliding from your cheek down to wrap around the back of your waist, gently pulling you flush against his body. "You're everything to me. You're beautiful, you're strong, you're sweet... you're everything I've ever dreamed of."

Before you could say another word, Michael leaned down.

The first touch of his lips against yours was hesitant, sweet, and unbelievably soft—a gentle, questioning press that made your knees go weak. But as you wrapped your arms around his neck, sinking your fingers into the soft curls at the nape of his neck, Michael let out a soft, shuddering sigh against your mouth.

The kiss deepened instantly.

He pulled you tighter against his chest, his hands anchoring you to him as if he was afraid you might disappear into thin air. His lips moved over yours with a desperate, pent-up passion, taste-testing you, claiming you, pouring every unspoken feeling, every late-night yearning, and every ounce of his pure, electric heart into the kiss.

It wasn't the chaotic, manipulative pressure you were used to with Marcus. This was reverence. This was being held like you were the most precious, fragile, irreplaceable treasure in the entire world.

When Michael finally pulled back just a fraction to catch his breath, his forehead rested gently against yours. Both of your chests were heaving, your lips flushed and tingling, your eyes locked together in the dim studio light.

Michael’s hands remained securely wrapped around your waist, his thumbs gently caressing your hips through the soft fabric of his shirt. A brilliant, breathless, ecstatic smile broke across his face.

"I'm never gonna let anybody hurt you again," Michael whispered against your lips, his voice thick with devotion. "I promise you. You're mine now."

You let out a soft, genuine laugh—a sound full of freedom, joy, and peace for the first time in years. You cupped his cheek, leaning up to press a sweet kiss to the corner of his smiling mouth.

"I'm yours, Michael," you murmured softly. "I'm yours."

Outside the heavy studio doors, the L.A. night was dark and quiet, the shadows of the past officially washed away. But inside the sanctuary of Hayvenhurst, wrapped in Michael Jackson’s arms under the soft studio lights, your new story was just beginning—and it was breathtakingly beautiful.

© 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐥𝐲𝐩𝐲𝐭𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐛𝐱