Baewhore

He had tried a lot of things—things he has picked up from all the women he had encountered in his life that were said to send the right signs to their fellow women, the art of subtlety as Elizabeth would call it—but even when he’s gotten you one red rose, a lipstick in the exact shade you always wear, you just can’t seem to get it.

And Michael has exhausted every other subtle option he can squeeze out of both the female and male etiquette regarding sending signals that he’d want to court you.

Maybe it was because of those late night calls where he’d call you after a bad nightmare or in the middle of a mental breakdown where he’d unload the heaviness of being his family’s personal punching bag that swells and spat out money with every hit.

Or maybe it was because you have been privy to the whispers of his secret affairs—Which is not true, at all! He’s been too focused on his growing kids to go fishing—but you’re simply not budging.

Quitting is not an option when you’re the only woman he feels anything toward.

(And because Prince refuses to watch his father fail miserably at trying to woo a woman that he himself has been trying to push towards him before he could even realize his own feelings.

Children are far too perceptive for their own good sometimes.)

Hence the situation he found himself in their good teacher’s classroom, sat in one of the three small seats his children should be occupying but instead are standing in front of the whiteboard scribbling a bullet list of romantic things to do for his secretary with the hopes of them finally getting the message across.

“So!” Prince begins, hitting the first item on the list with the extendable stick as Blanket pushes the falling oversized aviators up his nose with a puff in his chest. “‘Operation: Get Peter Pan his Wendy’ is a go but first, let us first list down the mistakes he had already made so we don’t get a repeat of it and watch the painful failure ourselves.”

“Wait, mi-mistakes? You’re supposed t’be supportin’ me Junior.”

“Pops, I love you and all but you’re terrible at love.”

Michael opened his mouth to retort but then he remembered his past relationships and promptly shut his mouth.

“Why am I even listening to you guys? What do you know about love outside of movie scenes and books?” He jokingly asks.

Paris huffed. “And? We want a mom, daddy.”

He shouldn’t be encouraging this kind of behavior. His lacklustre love life shouldn’t be something his children should concern themselves in.

But then again, he also understood them wanting a permanent female figure in their lives. You may be prominent and practically raised them with him but you still go home, take breaks, and have the possibility of retiring—though he doubts you’d hand out the retirement notice at 32 years old.

God, why is he even considering this? Has he finally gone crazy?

Again, children are too perceptive for their own good, maybe they saw something he hasn’t? Maybe even thought of a better way to go about it?

Looking back at the rather neat script on the whiteboard, Michael scratched his neck and motioned at them to continue.

“Alright, what do you guys have in mind?” 

“Miss Secretary is always stressed out, how about offering to help her sometimes?”

It wasn’t hard to see you stressed out and hunched over yourself as you do the overthinking for him in terms of business, schedules and numbers. More often than not, people would always catch you surrounded by wads of paper as you sort them out to what is urgent and what can be pushed aside for a while.

This is the exact scene he had walked into later that afternoon with a cup of tea in hand before he’s returning to the kitchen to pour you coffee.

Placing it on the only clear spot on the table, he takes a seat on the open armchair next to the couch you’re occupying with all your stress and thoughts.

“Have you eaten lunch yet, Tink?”

You looked up from your work, seemingly surprised to see him at first before you’re reaching for the coffee he made for you without batting an eye to how it came, already used to his ‘thoughtfulness’.

Seriously, he’s kind and thoughtful but he’s not so kind and thoughtful to make someone coffee by his own volition, how can you still not see it? 

Even his legal team gets store-bought drinks and they’re one of the people that protects him and his kids, and are usually overworked for months on end.

“I got a few bites in until people started calling and demanding answers regarding your schedules.”

He shoots you a meek smile. Michael got busy tending to Blanket’s illness last week that confirming what he’ll attend and what he won’t was forced to the backseat.

“I’m sorry ‘bout that. Let me see the list?”

An hour later and he finally got the mess that is his schedule this month sorted, and he stands, daring himself to approach you from behind. Then with a deep breath, he placed both his hands on your shoulders and began kneading the muscles there.

Immediately, you tense up, back straightening the moment you feel his hands on you.

“You’re too stiff, loosen up a little, Ms. Secretary.” He chuckled.

“You’re being suspicious, boss. Why are you massaging me?” You asked, looking over your shoulder with eyebrows furrowed to meet his gaze.

“Can’t I just massage my most hardworking worker?” 

You open your mouth but when he pressed his thumbs on the spot under the juncture of your shoulders and neck, and the response dies in your throat as you sighed, the sound sending electric shocks from the tip of his fingers and down to the end of his toes, body heating up from the first sparks.

Clearing his throat that had clammed up with need, he reminds himself of the first step on Operation: Get Peter Pan His Wendy.

“You’ve been swamped with work since last month so I thought…. I can help loosen you up a little.” He tells you, voice taking an unintentional seductive tone with the low volume.

Not that it’s far from the imagery he’s trying to send you, he means exactly as he means.

Surely, you—

You gasped, turning around in a flash with that excited glint in your eyes and then asked:

“We’re going to a massage parlour?”

Attempt 1: Failed

“How about a pick-up line? Or maybe a dumb dad joke? Ms. Secretary likes those, she giggled a lot at that one pizza line last month!”

It's the last week of October and the sun hasn't even risen yet when Blanket and Paris burst into the room, jumping into his bed and screaming about decorating the house.

So here stands Michael, hair poking out on all sides and bleary eyed since 6am handing the kids a plastic skeleton and fake webs for them to hang wherever their little heart wishes it to be. He yawned and slowly stretched his neck side to side, sighing in relief when he’s rewarded with a loud pop.

“Daddy, this skeleton would look nice hanging in front of the door!” Paris screams, holding the plastic bones by the foyer.

“Outside the door?” He asked, pushing himself up to a stand.

“No, I want it hanging exactly right here!”

The spot being the protruding underside of a ceiling just before you enter the main hall where there is a small nail is left embedded, and it's close enough to barely nudge a fully opened door. 

Michael blinks.

“You want it to scare people, sweets?”

Paris nodded enthusiastically, eyes gleaming with mischief as Blanket's feet approached from behind, showing up at the edge of his eye to peer up into the ceiling his sister wanted to place her skeleton decor up.

Now, any reasonable parent would not allow such an idea because it's bad manners to welcome non-family members with a little heart attack on the front door and it would do well to teach kids to be thoughtful of people's reaction to a scare.

That being said, Michael is not most parent.

Fetching a stool from the kitchen, he takes the skeleton from his daughter's hand only to see that the string on it broke.

“Honey, the string on this is broken.” He tells his daughter. 

“Wait!” 

Then Paris took off giggling. It wasn't until a minute later and Prince's confused voice asking what she was doing with whatever she's carrying echoing from the kitchen, did Michael see what his dearest girl had thought of using to hang the skeleton.

A rope.

A thick fibre rope.

Michael didn't know whether to frown or laugh at the material she handed him but eventually settled to a wheezing cackle.

Kids can be a little gruesome sometimes.

“Honey, this is—haha!—a rope!”

“And? The skelly died because of heartbreak!”

Michael just nodded, a fond smile on his face as he quickly made a noose to put around the skeleton's thin neck. A sight he's sure that'll instill fear in many people's hearts if the media even caught a glimpse of it.

Imagine the horror of seeing the King of Pop smiling down at the skeleton as he tightens the noose on its neck on your front page paper.

At least that'll be another one for the board of The Most Bullshit Thing They Report About Me he began back in 1985.

Hanging it up, he finally steps down from the stool and takes a quick look at his work while Paris and Blanket giggled at the sight of the poor plastic skeleton slowly spinning in the air.

“It's dancing now.” Paris giggled.

“He's happy.” Blanket deadpanned morbidly.

Returning to the box of decorations, he sees his oldest already looking through the thousands of trinkets and nonsense they collected through the years while Blanket pulled his sister to help attach his spider webs on the staircase.

Seeing this, Michael began searching for the little spider attached to those webs.

“You realize that Ms. Secretary's the first one to walk in, right?” Prince quietly remarks as he pulls out one spider for his brother.

“A little heart attack to start the day won't hurt.”

You came in later at 8:30am sharp, all suited up in ironed clothes and neat hair bun, only to jump rather ungracefully at the surprise awaiting you on the front door.

Paris giggled, running up to you to hug your middle while Blanket guffawed at the reaction their little prank garnered.

“Surprise!” Paris exclaimed before she's leading you to the kitchen by the hand. “Now let's get you some water for the heart attack, Ms. Secretary!”

Michael was already manning the kitchen when you arrived, making waffles and frying bacon on the side while Prince sliced up apples on the counter next to him, plating it in a nice bowl where the other slices of apples are waiting with the grapes and oranges.

Hearing your heels clack against the tiles, Michael spun around and greeted you with a smile.

“Good morning, Tink.”

“Your hair's like a bird nest, boss.” You pointed out with a grin.

“It's all the rage right now. People like this look, they pay to have hair this good.”

Plating the bacon, he shuts the stove and quickly takes the waffle out of the machine before carrying the full plates to the counter. He finally leads you to the main hall by the small sitting area where the box of decors rested on top of the coffee table.

You began unloading his schedule this week while he sorted through the decor, nodding nonchalantly while trying hard to not pay too much attention to the skirt you wore today.

It's the same shade as the other thousand skirts you've worn but this one in particular hugs your thighs so well that when you sit down, he could see its thickness pool under you and it heightens the curvature of your legs up to your waist hidden by the closed blazer.

Closing around a round item in the stash, he pulls it out to find an eyeball staring back at him.

He tossed it to you before he could even process the idea he suddenly had and you caught the eye, staring at it confused before holding it up to him.

“I'm keepin’ an eye on you, Tink.”

The reaction was instantaneous. 

Only, it wasn't the exact reaction he was hoping for.

“Mr. Jackson, I swear that it wasn't me who gave Bill the wrong direction yesterday!”

Attempt 2: Horrifying Failure.

“Ask her to match costumes with you!”

It's the day before Halloween today. 

And as tradition, he pulled out the camera and tripod to take pictures of them in this year's costumes. Except this time, Paris is forcing you into the extra closet room, claiming how she wanted you to dress as a princess and pose with them for this year's annual halloween photoshoot too.

You don't even know why she's insistent on matching dresses, she doesn't even like them that much.

“Little miss, that would be… very inappropriate.” You grunted out, somehow losing against a toddler's strength. 

“But you took pictures with us last year!”

“That was a one time thing.”

“But I want Ms. Secretary to match me in a dress this year!” 

Then you were in, stumbling a little in your heels as Paris wasted no time in pulling you towards the hanging princess gowns as the rest of the house followed and stood by the doorway.

“You should go as Mario.” Blanket quietly suggested but apparently was loud enough that it caught Paris’ attention and she gasped.

Prince, having seen the chance, cleared his throat and turned to his father while Paris made you choose what dress to match with her. “What costume are you going with, pops?”

“Oh you can go as Princess Peach and I can be Daisy!”

You panicked, shaking your head. “I can't be Princess Peach, sweetheart. That's…!”

“It fits, ‘cause you're very important to my daddy!” Paris insisted and everyone watched as an idea visibly struck you, dread immediately filling their bodies.

“Oh I know who I can be instead! How about Luigi?”

Paris’ face fell into a deadpan while Prince took a deep breath, patting his poor father's shoulder in solidarity as you began explaining why Luigi is much more important than the princess. Something about brotherly bonds being stronger than romantic bonds.

You’re a smart woman, you know how to handle all his faults, his moods, and all the problems he’s had in the decade you’ve been working for him.

But how can you still not see?!

“Is she doing this on purpose?” Blanket whispered up to his brother and father, face contorted into an incredulous disbelief.

“I don’t even know myself.”

Attempt 3: Epic Fail.

“How about gifting her a book with your feelings underlined?”

Honestly, Michael doesn't have much faith in this but when you have three children pushing you to do it anyways, of course he's going to follow what they wanted. 

Handing you a book and calling it a recommendation with a DIY bookmark created from a cut out piece of a folder—a vines of roses and your name written in cursives in the middle of the floral border—he watched with bated breath as you flipped the pages over.

“Any quote you can tell me to convince me to read it, boss?” You asked him.

He quickly shuffled through the memorable quotes he loved in Letters to Milena before clearing the bubbling emotions in his throat.

“In a way, you are poetry material; You are full of cloudy subtleties I am willing to spend a lifetime figuring out. Words burst in your essence and you carry their dust in the pores of your ethereal individuality.”

As he says this, he continues to watch you skim through the pages, mentally begging that you catch onto the genuine love bleeding out in his voice as he recites the quote back to you.

Please hear the desperation, the need in my voice so I can finally be free.

“Woah, that's so romantic. Yeah, I'm definitely reading it. Thanks, boss!”

He mentally sighed. 

Attempt 4: Complete and utter failure.

“How about flowers? A bouquet of them this time with the more explicit meanings?”

Caught up with a hectic schedule following the holidays in the second half of December and the entirety of January, Operation: Get Peter Pan His Wendy was out on an indefinite hiatus while he got everything sorted out with the company, the fans, and the media.

He didn't even realize how long since he tried wooing you until Paris was shaking him awake at 6am to tell him it's Valentines day, successfully launching him out of the room to contact his bodyguards to buy him the specific flowers he wanted with the florist’s recommendation for the wrapper.

Michael hasn’t really made a bouquet himself but he sure is going to learn in under three hours how to do so.

Prince wanted him to buy twenty four red roses instead but it’s far too plain and boring for his taste.

(“There's nothing that would tell ‘I love you’ more than roses, pops. Why aren't you buying any?!”

“Roses are… they're too common.”

Prince didn't respond verbally but instead facepalmed.)

So locked in his room with Paris, he put together all the flowers that meant love in pastel shades together—white and light pink peonies, little gerbera daisies, and blooming baby’s breath flowers surrounding the three sunflowers in a formation of a triangle. Wrapping it, however, poses a different problem.

There were simply too many wrappers.

Since he was on a race against time, he had simply told Bill to buy whatever the owner thinks is a good shade to match the bouquet and got him speeding back so he could spend the next hour building the bouquet. Until that plan bit him back in the ass and now he’s picking between stripes, houndstooth, and checkered patterns to put under the lavender wrapper paper.

“Dad, we only have ten minutes left!” Paris reminds, the restless energy pushing her up to a stand. “Come on, faster!”

“I’m old, give me a break, sweetheart.”

Throwing all the fucks in the world, he takes the houndstooth and made a quick work of the wrappings just as rushed, muffled footsteps echoed down the hall and approached the door of his room.

“Dad! Ms. Secretary is here!” Blanket whisper-shouts through the door as he knocks rapidly on the wood.

It’s a wonder how he managed to make a perfect bow in so little time but he’s glad that he got it in under five minutes—just enough time he estimated Prince could stop you from going up to his room to check up on him, just to see if he's in a moping attitude or not.

You plan the day around his mood after all.

Paris demanded that he change into a suit. He ushered her out of his room, insisting that she should go act oblivious to what he did and with an exaggerated groan, she stomped down the stairs but lightened up the moment she was within eyesight. 

“Where's your daddy, princess?” He hears you ask.

“He's already fixing himself up!” 

“Well, it is Valentine's day. Has he said anything about a date?”

“I don't want any other women, how about you go out with him instead?”

You laughed lightly, sounding flustered. “That would be inappropriate, princess. I'm your daddy's Tinkerbell.”

“No, be Wendy instead!” Blanket exclaimed just before Michael closed his door shut.

Truth be told, he was planning to give Paris her own flowers. Not just to set a wonderful example of how people should treat her but also he just wants his little girl to not feel left out.

Soon enough, he's going down the stairs with his heart etching higher and higher up his throat with every step he takes. The moment the two bouquets were visible, Paris let out a loud gasp as he met her halfway to hand the little sunflower to her.

“To my favorite girls.” He says with a smile, placing a chaste kiss to her head and she responds with a kiss on his cheek.

“I love you too, daddy!”

Then he turns to you, heart beginning to beat out of his chest as he approaches you.

There's a softness in your gaze as you accept the bouquet, mouth falling into a shocked ‘o’ as you cradle it in your arm with so much care one would think it was a baby. You seem so moved and shocked that the bouquet was for you.

Caressing the petals of the sunflower and down to the daisies with that face-splitting smile on your face, you then looked up at him with tears brimming in your eyes and face growing red from probably the natural reaction before crying.

“This is so… oh my god. Michael…”

His stomach did backflips hearing you utter his name with such fondness. You haven't even kissed him, hell, you haven't even hugged him and he's already wrecked.

God, he really wants to pull you in and squeeze you tight. Can you just finally get what he's trying to say?

“Just a little… somethin’ for you. Th-they reminded me of you.”

You quirked an eyebrow at him. “How so?”

“Pretty…” Michael's voice fails him as he wavers into a whisper.

“Hm? I didn't catch that, sorry.” 

Tugging the front of his closed blazer, he clears his throat as he readied his little speech on his tongue. He practiced saying it in the shower earlier to find the right pronunciation, cadence and speed after a couple of repeats. It’s far different from whispering his declaration of love to water droplets but he can definitely do it.

“So uh… I was wondering, Tink...”

“Yeah? Any schedule you'd want changed? I'll give you a pass on any because I love this bouquet.”

Michael made a face, suddenly unsure on how to answer that. Floundering for an answer, he glanced at his darlings and it was his youngest who stopped fiddling with the long sleeves of his sweatshirt.

“Ms. Secretary, do you know what those flowers mean?” Blanket innocently asks.

It was meant to help his dad get the message further in the ocean, to hammer the ideas more firmly into your brain.

But of course, you’re you.

“Oh, no no. It's the first time I've ever gotten any kind of flower so I don't know much about them. But sunflowers mean happiness right?” You beamed, pointing at the biggest of the three. “The big boss is wishing me happiness, and with these pretty blooms… Maybe even eternal beauty?”

Michael wilts.

Maybe he should've done Prince's idea and bought you twenty four roses instead.

(At the back, Prince glared at his father's back, hoping he could feel just how heavy the ‘I told you so’ he's pouring into his gaze.)

Attempt 5: FATALITY!

After yesterday’s public execution on the incredible image he had built up for himself for his kids, Michael finds himself sitting rather lifelessly on the conference seat, the only seat that’s still occupied in the deserted meeting room while he waited for his people to fetch him and say he’s in the clear to leave.

With his long silence and refusal to appear in local media, people grew rather ravenous trying to catch a glimpse of him in the rare times he did leave the comfort of his home.

He looked over his shoulder as you entered the room with your trusty lavender clipboard where the kids had decorated the cover with stickers. Looking up to meet his gaze, you give him a sweet but brief smile as you quickly return to the professional persona you always wore outside with him.

Although he hated his glasses, he had no other choice but to wear them to read through the papers faster.

It wasn’t as packed as the last three months but his days are still occupied and booked, which is frustrating because he really did plan to take you out on a date soon.

“They just updated your February schedule, some of these are still tentative and there’s a few things that they didn’t list down but might come in the next few—”

Pointing at nearest Sunday, he demanded. “I want this day cleared. Move everything.”

“Come again?”

“Clear that Sunday for me, Tink.” He says with a terse smile, handing the clipboard back and clearing the thickness in his throat as he ponders over the final idea brewing at the back of his mind. “I have a date.”

He’s tired of being subtle, it's been months—hell, years even—since he began sending you enough signals and waited patiently for you to finally pick up the ball he threw on the side of your court. The ball has long deflated and the leather is rotting but you’re still pretending to not see it even if it rolled to your feet and nudged it.

So his solution? He’ll just throw the ball in your face, see if you can still ignore it by then.

Even without seeing your reaction, he knows you must’ve reeled back in surprise. Being his secretary who’s almost always around him, to find out your client has a date with someone you have no idea who must be shocking.

One would say, it's like a clap of thunder out of nowhere.

“O-oh? Well, she must be some special lady to be uh… prioritized over these meetings.” 

“But it’s still tentative. I’m not sure if she’ll even agree to a date with me.”

You scoffed in disbelief. “As if anyone would turn down the Michael Jackson.”

“Would you?”

Spinning the chair around to face you, he was quickly greeted by the confusion spreading in your expression as the smile on your face wavered.

“Huh? Wh-what do you mean, boss?”

“Would you turn me down, Tink?”

His words landed like fireworks shooting off into the sky. Only then did your brain finally catch up as sparkles twinkled into your widened eyes as a bright blush exploded on your cheeks and spread to the tips of your ears.

“Stop joking around, Michael.” You barely stammered out, holding the clipboard tightly to your chest as if to protect your heart from when the other shoe drops.

“I’m serious. Go out with me. Sunday at 8pm, we’ll go to that place you always liked downtown.”

“I’m your secretary! This is against the—”

“I don’t care. I trust that you won’t let yourself be compromised by your own emotions and that you won’t take advantage of me. We’ve been working together for a decade and I loved you for more than a third of it.” He pushed out, mouth and mind racing against the nerves now making his leg jump restlessly. “So, will you go out with me, Tink?”

Maybe his speech wasn’t enough, he did take a couple of shortcuts from the original script he made up in the showers yesterday, because there’s still hesitance in your expression as you pondered over his words.

“But the children?”

“They’ve been trying to push you to me, haven’t you realized it yet?”

You turned pensive, visibly replaying the memories from the past years before your face drops into one of disbelief. “There’s no way… Was Halloween…”

He just nods and your hand slaps your forehead as an incredulous laugh bubbled out of you.

“Oh no, I just—I never would have thought you liked me, Mike. I wasn’t really a pretty girl throughout high school and college so… Oh lord, was I really that oblivious?”

“You were. Now, will you go out—”

“Yes! I mean, yeah I will.”

ATTEMPT: SUCCESS!

husband𑁤michael : who met you at a grammy afterparty, and he couldn't keep his eyes off your chest. not in a creepy, lecherous way, but with a kind of awe, like a pilgrim who'd finally reached the holy land. you were wearing a deep crimson gown with a neckline that plunged daringly, and your full, natural breasts were a stunning, breathtaking sight. he spent the whole night trying to have a conversation with your cleavage.

husband𑁤michael : who, after you finally got him to look at your face, confessed with a blush that he’d never seen anything so beautiful in his life. he was shy, stammering, a far cry from the king of pop on stage. he asked, in a near whisper, if he could… well, if he could touch them. you laughed, took his hand, and placed it right over your heart. the feel of your warm, soft skin under his palm, the weight of you in his hand, it was his undoing.

husband𑁤michael : who loves to buy you clothes, but only one specific kind. he'll spend hours in the most expensive boutiques, not looking at elegant gowns or designer suits, but at the most revealing, most daring tops and dresses. "try this one on," he'll say, holding up a silk camisole with lace trim that offers very little support and even less coverage. he loves the way you look in them, the way the fabric drapes and clings to your curves, the way it makes you look both elegant and scandalous at the same time.

husband𑁤michael : who gets a visceral thrill when he sees other men looking at you. you'll be at a restaurant, and you'll lean over to grab something from your purse, and the deep v-neck of your dress will gape open, giving the table next to you an eyeful. he'll watch them, their jaws practically on the floor, and he'll have to fight the urge to puff out his chest like a proud peacock. because he knows. he knows that while they can look, they can't touch. they can look, but he gets to take you home.

husband𑁤michael : who has a specific ritual when you get ready to go out. he'll sit on the bed and watch you get dressed, his gaze dark and intense. you'll put on your bra, a lacy, flimsy thing that barely contains you, and then you'll start on the outfit. a low-cut blouse, a tight-fitting dress. he'll wait until you're fully dressed, and then he'll get up, walk over to you, and very deliberately reach down and cup your breasts, lifting them, adjusting them, making sure they're displayed to their best advantage. "perfect," he'll murmur, giving them a gentle squeeze. "jus’ perfect."

husband𑁤michael : who can't keep his hands to himself. at home, he's constantly touching them. you'll be washing dishes, and he'll come up behind you, sliding his arms around your waist, his hands inevitably finding their way up to your chest, kneading them like a contented cat. you'll be watching a movie on the couch, and he'll rest his head on your lap, one hand idly toying with the plump swell of your breast, his thumb brushing over the fabric of your shirt, back and forth, back and forth, until you're squirming.

husband𑁤michael : who loves to fuck your tits. it's one of his favorite things. he loves the feel of your soft, warm skin wrapped around him, the sight of your huge breasts enveloping him, the way your nipples pebble as he strokes himself between them. he'll hold them together, his hands squeezing, massaging, as he thrusts, his breathing growing ragged. and when he comes, he'll paint your chest with his release, a pearly white mess that he'll lovingly rub into your skin, marking you as his.

husband𑁤michael : who is obsessed with your nipples. he loves the size, the color, the way they get hard at the slightest touch. he'll spend hours just playing with them, pinching, rolling, tugging, until you're arching your back and begging for more. he loves to lick them, to suck them, to feel them tighten in his mouth. sometimes, when he's feeling particularly possessive, he'll use ice, tracing the sensitive skin around your nipple with the cold cube, watching it pucker into a tight, hard peak, then warming it with his hot mouth, a shocking, delicious contrast of sensations.

husband𑁤michael : who has a particular weakness for you in a simple, white t-shirt with no bra. the way the thin, wet fabric clings to your breasts after you've had a shower, the dark shadow of your areolas clearly visible through the cotton, it's a sight that makes his mouth go dry and his cock harden instantly. it's the paradox of it that gets him: the innocence of the white shirt combined with the raw, primal sexuality of what's underneath.

husband𑁤michael : who loves to watch you get undressed. he'll lie back on the pillows, propped up on his elbows, and just watch. he loves the slow reveal, the way your breasts are finally freed from the constraints of your bra, the way they bounce slightly with the movement, the way they settle into their natural, heavy shape. it's like a private show, a performance just for him, and he's always the most attentive, appreciative audience member.

husband𑁤michael : who, when he's on tour, will call you late at night, his voice a low, husky whisper. "what’re you wearin’, baby?" he'll ask. and you'll know exactly what he wants to hear. "a lil’ silk nightgown," you'll say. "n’ nothin’ else." he'll be quiet for a moment, and you can hear his breathing change. "touch ‘em f’me," he'll command softly. "touch your breasts. pretend 's my hands." and you will, describing every sensation to him, your fingers pinching and pulling, until you can hear him come on the other end of the line, a low, guttural groan that makes you ache for him.

husband𑁤michael : who loves to fall asleep with his head pillowed on your chest. it's the ultimate comfort for him, the ultimate security. the soft, warm weight of your breast against his cheek, the steady, rhythmic beat of your heart beneath his ear, the gentle rise and fall of your breathing. it's his anchor in the storm of his life, a simple, perfect, peaceful moment where he is not a performer, not a celebrity. he is just a man, with his head on his wife's chest, and everything is right with the world.

husband𑁤michael : who, during arguments, will get distracted. you'll be in the middle of a heated discussion about finances or a scheduling conflict, and you'll gesture emphatically, and he'll just… stop. he'll watch the way your breasts move under your shirt, the way the fabric pulls taut across your chest, and all the anger will just drain out of him, replaced by a wave of pure, unadulterated lust. "what?" you'll snap, noticing his vacant expression. he'll just shake his head, a slow, guilty smile spreading across his face. "nothin’," he'll say. "jus’… forgot what we were fightin’ about."

husband𑁤michael : who loves it when you wear his shirts. one of his crisp, white button-downs, worn with nothing underneath. the fabric is too big for you, and it hangs off one shoulder, gaping at the front to give him a tantalizing glimpse of cleavage. he'll unbutton it himself, slowly, one button at a time, kissing the skin he exposes. he'll leave it on you, open, as he makes love to you, the soft cotton a stark, innocent contrast to the raw, passionate act.

husband𑁤michael : who has a photo album hidden in his private study, and it's full of pictures of your breasts. close-ups, artistic shots taken in black and white, candid photos of you sunbathing topless, polaroids from your more adventurous nights. he'll look at it when he's feeling stressed or lonely, a private gallery of the one part of you he can never get enough of. it's his secret, guilty pleasure, a tangible reminder of the most beautiful, most perfect, most beloved part of his world.

husband𑁤michael : who, in the throes of passion, will talk to them. he'll bury his face between them, muttering incoherent praises, "god, i love you... you're s’perfect... you're all mine." it's as if they're separate entities, with their own personalities, their own power over him. he'll look up at you from his position on your chest, his eyes dark with adoration, and he'll say, "they're th’ reason i breathe, baby. th’ reason i get up in th’ mornin’."

husband𑁤michael : who loves to see them in motion. he'll watch you go up the stairs in front of him, the gentle sway and bounce of your unrestrained breasts beneath your shirt, and it's the most erotic thing he's ever seen. he'll watch you jog on the treadmill, or dance in the kitchen while you cook, and he'll be mesmerized, completely captivated by the simple, beautiful physics of it all.

nyle’s roster - - @angelofmikes @mjssolocup @king-mila @pheebsglow @camillemonroe @neverstreett @imeatingheehee @cottonkhandyy @loveposiie @khxna @luvs4harrington @snoopyreincarnated3 @jusforbey @anglfac @animegamerfox @wannabestartinsmth comment to join the taglist!

Your eldest took fast glances between the two of you and scrunched her nose. "Ew!" she huffs, causing us to give a soft giggle at her, the youngest still oblivious to what is going on. 

"I think it's time for the two of you to go to bed," Zuko replies, with a sarcastic roll of his eyes.

"FATHER!" they both say simultaneously, well, that caught the youngest's attention. In return, your husband tilts his head, giving the girls a sharp look, and both of them pout at him, hoping he would take it back, though, it didn't work. 

I was biting my bottom lip so hard to try to stop myself from laughing at the adorable interaction. After tucking them into bed, closing the door behind the two of you, you gaze up at your husband, neck straining only slightly, and your breath is almost stolen from your lungs. There was that feeling within him that's been happening since your second was born. 

He can't help but imagine you surrounded by tiny feet, hearing the children call you 'Mama' in such a sweet voice, seeing the way you read all those bedtime stories, answering all those silly questions they ask. You're so good around children, more importantly, his children. All he wants to do is fill you up to the brim, wanting you to beg for another one. His heart was swelling so bad it almost hurt 

"You're deep in thought... are you alright?" you ask worried, not even on that side of thinking what he was pondering about, getting you pregnant. 

"What?"

"Thinking?" you repeat, confused. Now you were really intrigued by what he was thinking, not knowing that he was thinking about all the different positions he wanted to put you in tonight. 

He rubbed the back of his neck, gaze turning in something you were very familiar with. "I was just... wondering."

Your eyes narrow playfully at him, placing your hands on his shoulders, nibbling your lip, noticing how small they are compared to him."Wondering?" you say again, taking a mini step forward, hoping he didn't notice, but it was hard not to. Having your chest that was simply covered with a nightgown pressing against his chest. 

"If..." He cleared his throat. "...If you want another one."

You burst into immediete laughter before sighing in relief, "Oh."

"Oh?"

"That's what this is," you add, relieved it wasn't anything else, or anything bad. 

He looked away, suddenly fascinated by absolutely anything else, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Zuko."

"I merely made an observation."

"You've been staring at me all evening."

"I have not."

"You absolutely have."

"...Maybe a little."

You tiptoe up and press your lips agains't his, "You want another baby."

"...Maybe," he whispers as you pull away. 

"I don't see why not," you reply in the same hushed tone as one of your hands moves to rest itself on his chest. And it wasn't even five minutes later that you were pushed onto the bed and Zuko's length was dragging in and out of your dripping cunt. All of a sudden, your head was thrown back in overstimulation, and a moan strung from your mouth as his cock slid right back into your slick-filled walls.

"You can take it, please," Zuko whispers into your ear, breath tickling your skin. "I need to fill you so bad." Zuko slips out of your walls and flips your body onto its stomach, and your eyes are wide with surprise, not expecting a sudden change of position.. You could feel him lift your hips and place a soft and fluffy pillow under your lower abdomen before letting your body rest fully down on it.

"Zuko, please... I need it," you mumble in a slightly needy tone. You then felt Zuko's mass press down against your back, and you let out a soft huff at the sudden weight. His abs were flush against your back, hands gripping the backs of your own, pressing them into the bed. Zuko's breath tickled your ear, and you wiggled your head at the warm sensation, your core getting wetter, your body trying to squirm away from the imposing hold that he had on you.

Zuko's hands moved slowly, changing his grip so that one of his hands held both of you over your head, being cautious not to get your hair entangled within the movement. A content sigh leaves your mouth when Zuko raises his body ever so slightly, trailing his free hand down the expanse of your smooth back before his fingers meet your slick entrance, filled with his cum from previous rounds.

"I'll make you feel so good," he mutters against your ear before taking a nibble, you let out a gasp at the sudden action. "Make you full of me."

Then you felt a heavy, throbbing tip press against your clit, and you moaned from the small touch. You tried to squirm away from the pleasurable cause but couldn't, as Zuko knew your body more than you did yourself, he knew you were gonna try to run from his body due to the pleasure. So, he pressed his weight against you once more.

You held your breath when Zuko sank his throbbing cock into your soft walls, his length getting squeezed by every ridge within your soaked cunt. A moan left both of your mouths as his length nudged the deepest spot within you. "Taking me so well," Zuko moans, relishing the way your walls clench him, how could he not want to cum inside, you feel so good. "When I'm done with you... "

You're going to be wrecked...

request

the tour was going by in a whirlwind of red eye flights and sleepless evenings that crept into early dawn.

but you loved every exhausting minute of it. the opportunity to be one of the dancers for michael jackson was something well worth the sacrifice of a healthy sleep schedule.

not to mention your rest got interrupted by other things.

you could hardly recall how it happened. countless nights cramped up in dance studios, perhaps. the isolation touring often brings. the tired laughs shared over jokes that made no sense but were funny anyway.

of course you liked him, if you didn’t, you would’ve had to be blind and insane.

but he was your boss and you had been behaving. honest to god.

michael apparently had other plans.

you had tried to not to put too much weight into any lingering touches he left on your body, just chalking it up to him being focused on the music and the moment.

it was all professional, almost clinical.

until it wasn’t.

you now practically spent every other night spread out in the bedsheets of whatever hotel he was staying in. his head buried between your thighs or his hips rocking into yours. the smell of sweat and sex a constant companion between the two of you.

no one else had a clue and you were both adamant to keep it that way. wanting to avoid a mess that was bound to unfold if the news got out that michael was sleeping with one of his dancers.

besides, you were both adults. completely capable of putting lust on the back burner the second you stepped foot on stage.

your mind and soul slipping away and getting lost in the music, your body following along with the routine like breathing. the stage lights and swath of thousands of fans driving every move.

that night had been no different. you were completely wrapped up in the performance as his voice poured out of the speakers.

dropping down to your knees right when you were supposed to, throwing your head back to look up at him and one of your hands came up to grip his thigh.

the dance itself was inherently sensual, there was no mistaking that, and in a moment michael was about to turn away from you.

only he didn’t.

he grinned down at you as he sang, the sharp lines of his lips teasing as one of his hands came down and slapped you lightly on the cheek.

you froze, for only a heart beat, as memories from the night before flooded you.

how michael had told you to get on your knees as he stood in the living room of the hotel suite. his teeth sunk into his bottom lip as he wound one hand in your hair while the other fed his cock into your wanting mouth. the way he groaned when your wet tongue slid against his shaft and you started to choke on the size of him. how michael had told you that you looked so pretty taking his cock. his thrusts going erratic when you started to cry from the lack of oxygen. the muscles in his stomach clenching as he held your head to his hips and he came down your throat, your name leaning his mouth in a broken sort of sound. when he had pulled out, the stringy threads of cum and saliva connected the head of his cock to your lips before you swallowed, looking up at him dazed.

how michael’s hand had come down to slap you on the cheek as he told you that you were a good girl.

your face felt on fire as you kept dancing, trying your best to look nonchalant like your part called for.

but your eyes kept catching michael’s and the bastard knew.

michael couldn’t stop smiling. he even laughed around a few of his lyrics, shaking his head at himself.

michael jackson masterlist

Your third $12.95 ticket of the night is burning a hole in your clutch, and your feet are screaming for mercy in these heels.

You take a lukewarm sip from your red solo cup, the cheap liquor doing little to numb the ache. You lean up against a sticky wall, clammy with cool condensation, watching your girls continue to tear up the dance floor.

God, you really hope this party provides free shuttles. If you have to pay for an uber, you might actually scream.

You’re starting to think about tapping out. You feel blisters forming on your soles, you consider walking out of the party and to your apartment in your bare feet.

But then the music plays, and you internally groan. Their slow, rhythmic steps form right in front of you, and somehow, you’re pushed to the front of the crowd as the circle forms. And then you see them.

The Nupes dressed in crisp red and white, moving in their routine stroll, all in sync.

And then you see Michael. Front and center of the line. Anyone could recognize his face — shit, he was all over campus. He'd be at community service events, looking unusually good in a simple T-shirt. It wasn't always something you were used to.

You were used to seeing him like this. Dressed in the Kappa Alpha Psi colors, strolling through parties with the same confidence. His signature sunglasses were still on; it almost amused you.

Wearing sunglasses in a dimly lit club, you knew it was highly unlikely that he could see anything, let alone move far enough to be in the front of the line. But he did it nonetheless, effortlessly even.

He's in the middle of a step, his body moving in perfect rhythm with his brothers, when he suddenly slows his motion, his head tilted just slightly in your direction. In one fluid motion, he reaches up, hooks a finger under his sunglasses, and pulls them down, just enough to peer over the top. His eyes lock directly with yours.

I know you fucking lying.

A slow smirk spreads across his lips. He pushes the sunglasses back up, and the stroll continues.

"Girl, did you see that?" Your friend starts yelling something in your ear, but you can barely hear it over the blood rushing in your ears.

It was time to go the fuck home.

If you didn't know anything at all, you knew one thing: Don't mess with a nupe.

Your mama told you that, your aunts told you that, even family members who pledged into Kappa Alpha Psi told you that.

Ten minutes. You give yourself ten more minutes.

That's more than enough time to shake off the FOMO and dance to one last song with your girls. But the entire time, you could feel a prickle on the back of your neck. You would've thought he'd get tired of watching you.

You grab your friend's arm. "I'm out," you shout over the noise. "My bed is calling my name!"

She laughs, pulling you into a tight hug before you share your goodbyes with the others. You weave through the crowd, the bass fading behind you as you push through the heavy doors and into the blessedly cool night air.

The sudden quiet is almost dizzying. You lean back against the brick wall of the venue, fumbling in your clutch for your phone to — unfortunately — order an Uber.

A low, smooth voice cuts through the quiet, coming from the shadows just to your left. "You gone?"

"Yes." Your voice is sharper than you intended, and you don't even look up from your phone.

He steps out of the shadows, leaning against the wall next to you. The red and white jacket is gone, replaced by a simple black tee that hugs its frame. "Damn, girl, relax. Jus' didn't get a chance to say hello inside."

You finally look up from your screen. His sunglasses are now tucked into the collar of his shirt, and his eyes are exactly as you remember them, all dark and amused, a little too amused for your current level of exhaustion. He nods toward your phone, the glow lighting up your faces in the dimness. "Do you still have my number saved? Or did you delete it after last time?"

The memory hits you with a wave of emotional nausea, taking you back to that one night, months ago. You swore you wouldn't think about it. The way he never called like he said he would.

"Michael, I'm sorry — I don't wanna do this with you right now. I'm tired, and I'm leaving."

"I can take you home... if you want."

As good as that sounded, you swore you wouldn't. Not again. You hesitate, then let out a long exhale. "No, thank you."

The Uber app on your phone glows, waiting for you to confirm the ride, but your thumb stills, silently cursing you. His voice drops, losing some of its playfulness. "Look. I know I messed up. I know I should've called you, 'n when I saw you tonight... I couldn't let you go without saying something."

"Let me do this for you. No disappearing or nothin'. I promise."

God, your feet ache, and your head is starting to pound, and every sensible part of you is screaming to just order the damn Uber. You let out a humorless laugh, crossing your arms over your chest.

"You promise? C'mon, Mike. You're gonna have to do better than that.

I ain't a dog you pick up on the street. Miss me with that bullshit."

Ain't a dog my ass.

Your party clothes are now a discarded heap on his floor, his apartment lit only by the street lights filtering through the blinds, painting long, stark shadows across the room. The room smells heavy with your sweet perfume, mingling with the sharp tang of arousal.

His hand is firm over your mouth, his other hand grips your thigh, holding you open for him as his tongue flicks over your clit, trailing down to tease your entrance, then moving back up to suck on the little bundle of nerves.

His voice is a low, soft murmur against your skin, vibrating through you. "Shhh, gotta be quiet f'me, remember? Thin walls."

You can feel the damp heat of his breath, the slick, deliberate noises of your pussy as he muffles himself against your lips, fucking you nice and slow with every dip of his tongue.

You try to nod and conceal your mewls, the noises swallowed by his large palm, coming out as muffled, broken cries. Your fingers fist the sheets, knuckles white. His bed creaks softly as your hips buck upward to match his movements. You didn't even care about your pride anymore. You missed this. Missed him.

A car alarm blares faintly from the street below, a distant, irrelevant echo of the world outside of his room. He nips gently at your inner thigh, removes his hand from your mouth, and puts two fingers in his mouth. The sight alone makes your face hot, his saliva-coated fingers sliding out of his mouth and into your entrance. Your head falls back at the stretch, thrumming against the pillows, a low, desperate sound catching in your throat only to be halted by his lips returning to your clit.

His fingers tighten on your leg, his grip possessive as he flicks his tongue, driving you oh, so, impossibly closer to your much-awaited orgasm. He pulls back just enough to speak, lifting his hand from your mouth. His breath was hot against your overheated skin. "You gonna let me feel it like you did last time?"

His fingers continue to curl against your sweet spot, and your hips buck involuntarily. "M-Mike please — just shut up and let me — fuck!"

His eyes snap up to meet yours again, a flash of irritation cutting through his lustful gaze. In one sharp movement, he clamps his hand over your mouth again and pulls his fingers from your soaked pussy. You whimper at the denial, tears threatening to well in your eyes, blurring the harsh, frustrated lines of his face above you. He shakes his head and lifts his head.

"Nah. You don't get to talk to me like this all night." He crawls over you and leans in closer, his nose almost touching yours. "Do you talk to your new boyfriend like this? W'this much attitude?"

You grab his wrist, forcefully pulling his hand from your mouth. "What I do in my relationship doesn't concern you, Michael."

"I think it does, 'specially when I'm the only one who can make you feel like this." He presses a soft kiss on your cheek. "You don't get to be rude and then expect me to be nice to you. That's not fair." His thumb brushes away a tear that escapes the corner of your eye, the gesture surprisingly tender despite the tension. His free hand grips your hip, holding you still.

"You ghosting me wasn't fair either."

"And I told you, Imma make it right. Alright?" His eyes soften. "I'm not going nowhere." His lips brush your temple, giving you soft and slow kisses, trailing down to your lips. He drinks in your familiar taste, his fingers gently tracing your jawline. His hand slides from your hip to the small of your back, pulling you closer against him.

You can feel his bulge pressed against your inner thigh as he shifts his weight. The friction is practically maddening as his underwear gets closer to your entrance. Your own slick and saliva coating the fabric. You reach down and tug at his waistband, and he complies, finally freeing himself.

His hands move from his hips to yours, gripping you firmly as the head of his dick nudges against your entrance, but he didn't move. He liked the anticipation, letting it build until it made you visibly ache. Your whines grow more frequent every passing moment.

"What's wrong?" He couldn't help but fight a smile.

"I want you, please, Michael." The words escape in a desperate rush; you've been trying to bite your tongue to show patience, but you can't help but plead.

The stretch is overwhelming as he sinks into you, a slow push that steals the air from your lungs. Your nails dig into his shoulders as he fills you, the fit so agonizingly perfect it feels familiar. Your body trembles as he gives you slow, grinding strokes. Each thrust nice and deep, effortlessly hitting spots you forgot existed.

Your legs wrap tightly around his waist, and you bury your face into his shoulder, stifling any moans that threaten to escape you. The change in angle makes him moan against you, pulling him deeper; the sound vibrates from your chest to his.

Michaels mouth finds your neck, teeth scraping lightly against your pulse point as his pace quickens, fucking you so relentlessly it has the headboard tapping a steady beat against the wall. The heat in your stomach tightens unbearably. Your fingers clutch at his back, leaving faint trails on his skin. He grabs your thigh, hooking it over his shoulder to change the angle. He damn near kissed your cervix with each thrust, making you cry out into his shoulder.

"Wai— f-fuck, baby! 's too much—"

His pants and moans grow louder, no longer paying any mind to the thin walls surrounding you. His large hand snakes between you two, reaching down to rub your clit in tight circles, encouraging you to do the same. "I know, baby, just give it to me. Shit — you feel so g- good..."

His assurance, coupled with the devastating angle, is enough to have you come around him, clenching so tightly that he follows with a high-pitched whimper. White paints your vision, the aftershocks of your orgasm crashing, screaming waves that shake your entire being.

His body lifts up slightly, leaving you cold for a moment before he grabs your wrist, pulling you up into his arms. You feel his heartbeat against yours, slowing down with every breath that mirrors yours. His weight around you is a warm anchor, grounding you back from your high; his face is buried in the crook of your neck. He doesn't move, just presses a soft, open-mouthed kiss to your collarbone. His arms tighten around you, and you reach up to play with the curls at the nape of his neck.

He shifts just enough to look at you, his eyes soft and hazy. His thumb traces lazy circles on your hip, and he presses a kiss to your forehead. "So... we good now?

I, uh, I know I can't fix months of silence in one night. But I'm serious about making it right."

You don't answer right away, your mind still fuzzy from sex, but you could still hear your family's words in the back of your mind.

Don't trust them.

His thumb traces your bottom lip, and you let out a slow breath, your eyes tracing the patterns the city lights make on his sheets. Your body feels heavy, spent, and you know you may or may not regret this later.

"Yeah... we good. For now."

And when he said that he'd make it right, he meant it.

That next weekend, after you officially ended things with the guy you'd been half-heartedly seeing, Michael showed up at your door with flowers. Nothing extravagant or ridiculous, but a simple, thoughtful bunch of your favorites that he somehow remembered.

And the date was a proper one. Dinner at a place where you could actually hear each other talk, followed by a walk through the campus gardens under a blanket of stars. He wasn't even performative when he courted you. He asked about your classes, really listened to your answers, and told you about the pressure of pledging and the brother he'd found.

He made sure you were seen. Not a conquest or a late-night secret, but as the person you really are. The communication didn't stop after that night. Messages throughout the day, just to check in. Late-night calls where you'd talk in all hours of the night.

And after a few months, you realized that the night during homecoming week had been the necessary storm that cleared the air for something genuine to grow between you two.

He kept his promise. He didn't go anywhere, and neither did you.

at first you ignored it, simply giving him the credit where it was due— but michael was asked how he felt about the “feud” fans were creating, which he replied with “i wouldn’t call it a feud,” michael said with a small smile. “a feud requires both people to be involved. i’ve been minding my business. but if she enjoys the attention, i certainly wouldn’t want to take that away from her.”

what the fuck?? “if i enjoyed the attention?” you scoffed loud, did think he you were some kind of.. attention whore? from that day forward you swore you hated his guts.

better believe he felt the same way

a few days later you seated at an award ceremony, nominated for “Best R&B/Soul Album” and of course— he was nominated as well.

which caused nothing but an uproar, the screen panned between you and michael as you impatiently waited for the speaker to call a name.

the crowd bursted into cheers and applause— your name was called, you jumped immediately hugging your loved ones & surrounding celebrities.

days prior your manager coached about what you could say if you won, persistent on not saying anything about you and micheal’s current situation.

buttt— of course you retaliated.

your speech went on about who you thanked and how grateful you were, ending it off with a sweet smile that had absolutely nothing sweet behind it.

“and lastly, i want to thank the people who reminded me that i don’t need to compete with anyone. especially people who seem to think every room has to become a competition just because i walked into it.” you paused, letting the crowd react before continuing. “i’m happy with where i am, i’m proud of what i’ve accomplished, and i’m not going to let somebody else’s insecurity turn my success into a rivalry. i’m far too busy winning awards to participate.”

the crowd absolutely lost it.

your manger was seething, you had done the opposite of what she told you to do.

frankly you didn’t care, you were just happy to see micheal’s annoying smirk falter.

and thats how you ended up here.

sitting in a room with michael sitting across from you and both managers across talking your heads off about this “petty” thing.

your manager was still talking, her voice a low, she was pacing now, heels clicking against the parquet floor of the conference room at the record label's midtown headquarters.

“—and this charity gala is non-negotiable," she finished, “both of you. same table. smiling. the press will be there, and i swear to god, if i see one single headline about a ‘heated exchange’ or ‘tense body language’”

across the room, michael was slouched in a leather chair like he owned the place, one ankle crossed over his knee, sipping on orange juice.

he hadn’t looked at you once since you’d both been herded into this room twenty minutes ago. not a glance, not a twitch, nothing. he was wearing a red varsity jacket with cream-colored sleeves, white striped detailing on the collar, and a large colorful graphic on the front, dark glasses covering his eyes.

his manager — some tall guy and a motorola flip phone clipped to his belt cleared his throat. “the hotel arrangement is already set. one suite at the beverly hills hotel. two bedrooms, obviously, but shared living space. the narrative is that you two have ‘settled your differences’”

your head snapped up. “excuse me?”

“shared.” your manager repeated, her smile tight, looking between you two like you were misbehaving toddlers. “you want to act like children? fine. you can share a room like kids. maybe you’ll actually talk to each other and sort this out instead of airing it in front of millions tonight.”

you opened your mouth to protest, but michael finally looked up. his eyes met yours across the table. he raised one eyebrow, slow and deliberate, and the corner of his mouth curled up in something that wasn't quite a smile.

“sounds fun” he said, voice soft and twice as fake.

and the gala was absolute torture.

the beverly hills hotel was lit up, stretch limos lining the circular drive, paparazzi shouting from behind velvet ropes while holding cameras with massive flash attachments.

you stepped out of your town car in a black slip dress that clung to every curve, your brown skin glowing. your hair was styled into soft, bouncy curls that cascaded past your shoulders, with curled pieces framing your face.

and there he was.

michael was waiting at the entrance, looking unfairly good in a red tailored suit. he offered his arm as you approached, that fake smile plastered on his face, and you had no choice but to take it.

“smile, honey” he murmured, low enough that only you could hear, his lips barely moving as the cameras flashed around you. “y’lookin’ like a sad puppy”

you kept the grin plastered on, leaning into him like you were sharing a secret, your hand resting light on his forearm. “go fuck yourself.”

“already did” he returned, just as sweet, his hand settling at the small of your back,subtle and warm.

the photographers ate it up.

look at them getting along!

the feud is over!

you wanted to scream.

inside, the ballroom was all crystal chandeliers and you were seated at the head table, of course, right next to michael, your knees bumping under the linen as you tried to arrange yourself without touching him.

“nervous?” he asked, his voice carrying that mocking lilt that made you want to dump wine in his lap.

“thrilled actually” you shot back, taking the glass from the server offered and taking a long sip. “i love pretending to like people i despise. it's my favorite hobby”

his laugh was genuine, surprising you, a rich sound that vibrated through his chest. “at least you're honest”

dinner was a blur of speeches and polite applause. you laughed at the right moments, clinked glasses with donors, and all the while felt michael’s presence beside you like a physical weight.

he kept touching you— small, casual brushes of his hand against your arm, his knee bumping yours under the table, his breath warm against your ear when he leaned in to comment on something.

by the time you made it to the hotel room— you were exhausted, immediately kicking your heels off.

the door clicked shut behind your managers, finally leaving you alone, and the silence that followed was suffocating.

michael dropped the act immediately. he loosened his bowtie with a sharp tug, shrugging out of his jacket and tossing it over the back of the floral sofa.

“i'm taking the master bedroom.”

“like hell you are” you snapped, “you think you can just waltz in and take whatever you want?”

he turned, finally, really looked at you. his eyes dragged down your body, slow and insulting, before climbing back to your face. “i think” he said, stepping closer, “that you're used to getting everything you want, and you can't stand that i don't give a shit.”

“you don't give a shit?” you laughed, harsh and disbelieving. “you've been obsessed with me for years. every interview, every passive-aggressive comment—”

“you couldn't just win your little award and shut up. you had to make it about me. you had to get that last word in, didn't you?” he cut in, voice dropping, stepping closer again.

“you said i begged for attention.”

“i said you enjoyed attention.” he was right in front of you now, close enough that you had to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. “and look at you now, still mad that i didn't give you the satisfaction of a fight.”

your chest was heaving, breath coming short and fast. “i hate you.”

“no you don't” he said softly, almost gentle, which somehow made it worse. “you hate that i don't feel into your games. you hate that i see right through you.”

you shoved him. both hands flat against his chest, pushing hard, but he didn't budge. just caught your wrists, his fingers wrapping tight around your bones, and something in his expression shifted.

“careful girl” he warned, voice low.

“or what?”

he stared at you for a long moment, something dark moving behind his eyes. then he laughed, quiet and disbelieving. “you really wan’ to do this?”

“do what?”

" he pulled you closer, suddenly, roughly, his grip on your wrists yanking you against him. you felt him— all of him, hard.

your breath caught in your throat. “you've been asking for it all night. fuckin’ all year”

“i haven't—“

“every time you open that pretty mouth” he continued, ignoring you, “you use it for the wrong things.”

you couldn't speak. your heart was hammering against your ribs.

your knees went weak.

because you couldn't move. you were frozen, trapped in the heat of him, in the smell of his skin. the way his thumb was pressing into the soft spot under your chin.

he kissed you.

it wasn't gentle. it was teeth and tongue and punishment, his mouth crushing yours with a force that made you whimper. he walked you backward until your spine hit the wall, his body pinning you there, his free hand sliding down to grip your hip— hard.

you kissed him back. you couldn't help it. you bit his lip, hard, and he groaned into your mouth a sound, so broken and hungry— before pulling back just enough to breathe.

“bedroom.” he ordered, but he was already dragging you there, hands rough, mouth finding your neck and sucking hard enough to leave marks.

the master bedroom was dark, city lights filtering through the gauzy curtains, and he shoved you onto the bed with a force that should have been insulting but only made you wetter. you scrambled back, but he was on you immediately, crawling over you, his hands pushing your dress up around your waist.

“wait—“you started.

“nuh uh” he caught your chin, forced you to look at him. “no more waiting.”

your breath hitched.

he stripped you efficiently, almost brutally, pulling the dress over your head and tossing it aside. your stockings followed — ripped down your legs, the delicate lace torn by his impatience. you lay there exposed, chest heaving in just your black lace bra, and he stood back for a moment just to look at you.

“prettier when you're quiet”

he unbuckled his belt slowly, deliberately, watching your face as he pulled it free. the sound of leather sliding through loops made your stomach clench. then his pants, his shirt, until he was standing there in nothing but boxer briefs, the outline of his cock straining against the fabric.

you'd imagined this. in the dark, in private, you'd thought about it — what he looked like, what he'd feel like. reality was worse. better.

he climbed onto the bed, kneeling between your spread thighs. his hand wrapped around his length, stroking once, twice.

your mouth went dry. he was thick, heavy, the tip already wet with precum, and he was looking at you like he knew exactly what you were thinking.

shifting forward until he was kneeling over your chest, one hand braced against the headboard, the other guiding himself toward your mouth.

you should have pushed him off, called your manager on the rotary phone sitting on the nightstand.

done something other than open your mouth and let him slide past your lips.

he groaned, low and guttural, his hips jerking forward before he caught himself. “fuck. that's it.”

he started moving, shallow thrusts at first, letting you adjust to the size of him, the weight on your tongue. you tried to pull back, to control the pace, but his hand found your hair, tangling tight, holding you still.

his voice tight. “take it. all of it.”

he pushed deeper, hitting the back of your throat, and you gagged— a wet, messy sound that made him shudder. he pulled back just enough to let you breathe, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, before thrusting forward again.

“you're even prettier watching you gag on my dick” he said, almost conversational, his hips setting a rhythm that had you struggling to keep up.

“look at you. mascara running, drooling all over yourself. this is what you needed, isn't it? someone to shut that smart mouth for you.”

you moaned around him, the vibration making him curse, his grip in your hair tightening to the point of pain. he was fucking your face now, proper and deep, using you exactly how he wanted, and you were arching up into it, your hips rolling against nothing, desperate for friction.

he pulled out suddenly, leaving you gasping, your lips swollen and wet. he looked down at you with something like contempt mixed with awe.

“turn over” he ordered. “on your knees. now.”

you moved, scrambling to obey, and hated yourself for it even as you presented yourself to him, ass in the air, face pressed against the floral bedspread. he grabbed your hips, pulling you back toward him.

you gasped.

he pressed forward, the head catching at your entrance, pushing just enough to stretch you open, the stretch burned in a way that had your vision blurring at the edges.

“hmfg mikey—“

he thrust in, hard and deep, one long stroke that bottomed out and made you scream into the pillow. you were wet— embarrassingly, shamefully wet.

“oh, fuck” he groaned, his forehead dropping to your shoulder, his hips stilling as he pulsed inside you. “fuck, you're tight. been thinking about this? about me filling you up?”

you couldn't answer. you were panting, your fingers clawing at the sheets, your body adjusting around the intrusion.

he was splitting you open, and he hadn't even started moving yet.

he pulled back, slow, until just the tip was inside, then slammed forward again. you jolted forward, a cry tearing from your throat, and he laughed — dark and satisfied.

“that's it mama” he praised, condescending and warm all at once. “take it. good girl. such a good girl for me when you stop running that mouth.”

he set a pace, brutal and relentless, his hips snapping against yours with a force that had the bed frame knocking against the wall.

every thrust hit deep, grazing that spot inside you that made your toes curl, and you were pushing back into it, meeting him stroke for stroke, even as you hated him for making you feel this way.

“if i knew fuckin' you stupid would stop you from being so bitchy” he grunted, leaning over you, his chest pressing against your back, his mouth right at your ear, “i would've done this a long time ago.”

you moaned, unable to help it, and he felt you clench around him.

“you like that? like being put in your place?”

“shut up” you managed, but it came out broken, desperate.

“what happened to all that mouth, girl?” he taunted, his hand sliding around your throat and squeezing just enough to make your breath hitch. “huh? where's all that attitude now?”

he fucked you harder, the sound of skin against skin filling the room, wet and obscene.

you were babbling now, incoherent, your body racing toward something huge and terrifying, and he was right there with you, his breath coming in harsh gasps against your neck.

“gonna cum inside you” he warned, his hips stuttering, losing rhythm. “gonna fill you up s’good, make you take it all. you want that? want me to mark you?”

“yes” you sobbed, the word torn from somewhere deep, honest in a way that terrified you. “yes, please—“

he groaned, long and low, and slammed deep one final time. you felt the his hot pylse, the way he throbbed, flooding you with his release. he kept thrusting, shallow and messy, working himself through it, milking every drop into your cunt.

when he finally pulled out, his seed trickled down your thigh. he collapsed beside you, chest heaving, and you lay there trembling, your body still pulsing with aftershocks.

for a long moment, neither of you spoke.

then he rolled toward you, his hand finding your jaw, turning your face toward his. his expression was softer now, but no less intense.

“still hate me?” he asked, voice rough.

you stared at him, at the sweat on his brow, at the marks you'd left on his shoulder, at the way he was looking at you like you were the only thing in the world.

“maybe” you whispered.

he smiled real this time, small and private.

his hand slid down your body, finding where you were still sensitive, still wet with both of you, and you gasped as his fingers circled your clit.

“then let's see if i can change your mind” he murmured, and pulled you close again.

— ᢉ𐭩 .ᐟ a lil something to keep you guys fed while i work on reqs :p

Baelor Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, stood beside you, his dark hair catching the light from the stained-glass windows, his mismatched eyes fixed somewhere beyond the Septon's shoulder.

He had spoken the vows in a steady voice, the same voice that had once commanded armies and soothed a dying wife. Now it was yours to hear, yet it carried no warmth meant for you.

You had known, of course. Everyone at court had known. Jena Dondarrion's death still hung over him like a mourning shroud that no amount of time seemed able to lift.

The Lady Jena had been his great love, the mother of his children, the woman for whom he had once smiled freely.

You were the political necessity, the alliance sealed in blood and duty after the realm demanded a new mother for the realm's future. Your own house had offered you without hesitation.

You had gone willingly enough, believing that kindness might grow into something more. You had not expected the depth of the void that still belonged to another woman.

The ceremony ended with the exchange of cloaks. Baelor's was heavy with the embroidered three-headed dragon, and when he settled it about your shoulders his fingers lingered for a moment against the nape of your neck.

It was the first time he had touched you with any intention beyond the formal. You felt the heat of his skin even through the layers of silk and wondered, fleetingly, if he felt anything at all.

Then the moment passed, and he turned to face the assembled lords and ladies with the composed mask of a prince who had already given too much of himself to the realm.

That night he came to your chambers as custom demanded. The candles had burned low, casting long, wavering shadows across the carved posts of the bed and the deep crimson hangings that matched the cloak he had placed around your shoulders only hours before.

You heard the soft scrape of the connecting door, then the quiet tread of his bare feet on the stone. He wore only a loose black robe, catching what little light remained and when he drew near, you caught the faint scent of him, clean skin, a trace of the sandalwood soap the royal baths used, and beneath it something warmer, uniquely his.

He was gentle.

He asked permission before every touch, his voice low and steady in the hush of the room.

“May I?” he murmured as his fingers first found the laces at the back of your shift. You nodded, and the fabric whispered as it slid from your shoulders.

The air against your newly bare skin felt cool; his hands, when they followed, were warmer. He traced the line of your collarbone with the pad of one thumb, slow and deliberate, as though mapping territory he was not yet certain he had the right to claim.

You felt the slight roughness of sword calluses against the softer skin of your breast, the careful weight of his palm as he cupped you there, testing, waiting for any sign of discomfort.

He spoke your name softly in the dark, as though testing the sound of it against the silence that still carried another woman’s memory.

The syllables left his lips like something fragile. You answered with his, and the single word seemed to settle something in him.

When he lowered his mouth to the curve of your throat, you felt the heat of his breath first, then the gentle press of lips, the faint scrape of stubble he had not fully shaved away. His beard scraped your cheek, and smelling faintly of the same sandalwood.

You lifted a hand and threaded your fingers through his hair, and he made a quiet sound—almost surprised—against your skin.

He moved over you with the same measured care he brought to everything else. One knee between yours, the solid weight of his body held carefully above, never crushing.

When he finally settled between your thighs, he paused again, eyes searching yours in the dimness.

“Tell me if I hurt you,” he said, and the honesty in the request made your throat tighten. You felt the blunt pressure of him, the slow, careful stretch as he pressed forward, the heat of him filling you inch by careful inch until he was fully seated and both of you were breathing harder than the act alone required.

He held still, forehead resting against yours, giving your body time to adjust. The scent of him was stronger now, mixed with the faint metallic tang of new joining.

Only when you shifted beneath him, a small roll of your hips that drew a low breath from his chest, did he begin to move.

The rhythm he found was unhurried, deep rather than frantic, each stroke deliberate. You felt the flex of muscle in his back beneath your palms, the slight tremor in his arms as he held his weight, the way his breath hitched when you tightened around him.

His mouth found yours once, a soft, open kiss that tasted of the wine from supper and something sweeter underneath. When the pleasure built—slow, almost reluctant, as if your body itself was uncertain it was allowed—he seemed to sense it.

One hand slipped between you, fingers skilled and patient, circling until the tension coiled and broke. You cried out softly against his shoulder; he followed a few heartbeats later with a quiet, broken sound that might have been your name again, or might have been something else entirely.

When it was done he did not pull away at once. He held you for a time, still joined, his breathing slow and even against the damp skin of your neck. One hand stroked the length of your spine in long, absent passes.

You felt the gradual softening of him inside you, the cooling of sweat along your joined sides, the steady thud of his heart against your breast. In that quiet interval you thought perhaps that the holding itself was a kind of beginning.

The candles guttered.

Somewhere beyond the windows the Blackwater moved against the walls of the city. You drifted in the circle of his arms, the scent of him and the lingering warmth of his body the last things you knew before sleep took you.

In the morning he was gone before you woke, already at the small council table, already carrying the weight of the realm.

The place beside you was cool. Only the faint indentation of his head on the pillow and the lingering sandalwood on the sheets remained. You rose alone and told yourself that this was the shape of a Targaryen marriage.

Duty first. Affection later, if the gods were kind.

Baelor was attentive from the first week.

He did not force himself upon you again until you indicated readiness, nor did he retreat entirely into the solitude of his grief. He held your hand when the court expected it. He guided you through the labyrinth of courtly manners with quiet patience.

When you stumbled over the names of lesser lords from the Stormlands or the Reach, he corrected you gently, never with the sharp edge that so many Targaryens carried like a second blade. In the evenings he would sit with you in the solar overlooking the Blackwater, speaking of the day's affairs, asking after your comfort, ensuring the servants brought the foods you preferred from your own childhood table.

He remembered that you disliked over-spiced dishes. He remembered that you preferred honeyed wine to the heavy Arbor reds. He was, in every outward measure, a good husband. A good man.

And yet.

You watched him when he thought no one looked. You saw the way his gaze lingered on empty chairs at the high table, chairs that had once been occupied by a woman with dark hair and a ready smile.

You noticed how, on certain anniversaries—the date of his first wedding, the date of Jena's death, the namedays of the children she had given him—he withdrew to the godswood and remained there until the stars wheeled high above the red leaves of the heart tree.

You heard him murmur a name in his sleep that was not yours. Jena. Always Jena. The love you felt for him grew in the spaces between his kindnesses, fed by every careful gesture, every soft word, every moment he chose to remain near you rather than vanish into his grief.

It was a quiet, desperate love, the kind that asked for nothing and received less than nothing in return. You told yourself that duty was enough. You told yourself that a man who treated you with such consideration must, in time, come to care.

You told yourself many things as the weeks turned into months and the seasons shifted around the Red Keep.

You learned the rhythms of his days.

You learned that he rose before dawn to train in the yard with Ser Gwayne Corbray or whoever of the Kingsguard was free. You learned that he preferred to break his fast alone with reports from the realm rather than in the crowded hall.

You learned that he visited the nursery each evening without fail, speaking to his children of their mother with a tenderness that made your throat tighten. You never intruded on those visits. You waited in the corridor sometimes, listening to the low murmur of his voice, and then slipped away before he emerged.

The love you carried for him became a private thing, something you tended in the quiet hours when no one else could see.

The first petal came on a morning when the rain fell soft against the windows of your chambers. You had woken alone, as you often did.

Baelor rose early for the small council. You had coughed once, a dry tickle in the back of your throat, and something pale and soft had landed upon your palm.

A single white petal, edged in the faintest pink. You stared at it for a long time. You knew the stories. The maesters spoke of Hanahaki in hushed tones when they thought the highborn were not listening, a disease of the heart that bloomed in the lungs of those who loved without hope of return.

Flowers grew where the unrequited feeling festered, and in time they choked the breath from the body. There was no cure save the return of that love, or the surgical removal of the roots, which took the feelings with them and left the sufferer hollow as a drum.

You crushed the petal between your fingers and flushed it away with the morning wash water. You told no one.

Days passed. The cough remained mild at first. You hid it behind handkerchiefs and quiet excuses of the changing seasons, of the damp that rose from the Blackwater after storms. Baelor noticed, of course.

He noticed everything that concerned those under his care. He sent for the Grand Maester on the third day, his brow furrowed with genuine concern as he stood at the foot of your bed.

“It is nothing,” you said, your voice carefully light, though the petal that had risen with the words scraped the inside of your throat. “A remnant of the damp. I will be well soon enough.”

The Grand Maester examined you with the practiced detachment of his order, his chain of office clinking softly with each movement. You met his eyes while the attendant pages were dismissed and, in a voice low enough that only he could hear, you begged him. “Say nothing of this. Not to the prince. Not to anyone. I will not have him burdened further. He has carried enough.”

The old man hesitated. His lined face showed the conflict of a man sworn to truth and healing. “My lady, if this is what I suspect—if the roots have already begun—”

“It is not. And if it were, it is my burden alone. Promise me. Swear it upon your chain.”

He promised, though the reluctance sat heavy in the lines around his mouth. You returned to your duties with a smile fixed in place.

You sat beside Baelor at supper and listened to him speak of the Reach harvests and the movements of the Ironborn along the western coasts.

When his hand brushed yours beneath the table in a gesture meant for comfort, your heart clenched so tightly that another petal rose in your throat.

You swallowed it down with a sip of watered wine and prayed he had not noticed the brief catch in your breath.

The disease advanced with the quiet persistence of ivy climbing a stone wall. Petals became clusters.

The cough deepened from a tickle to a rasp that left your chest aching. At night, when Baelor slept in the chamber beyond the connecting door, you would kneel by the chamber pot in the dark and retch soft white blossoms into the darkness.

They smelled faintly of the gardens at Dragonstone in early spring, or so you imagined. You never knew the true scent of the flowers that grew from unreturned love.

You only knew that each one carried a piece of the feeling you could not speak aloud, and that discarding them felt like discarding fragments of your own heart.

Baelor grew more attentive still as the weeks wore on. He ordered the windows of your rooms sealed against drafts and had the braziers kept burning even on milder nights.

He had the cooks prepare light broths and honeyed teas laced with the herbs the maesters recommended for lingering coughs. He sat with you through long afternoons when the rain kept the court indoors, reading aloud from the histories of Aegon's Conquest or the songs of the Age of Heroes, his voice a low, steady river that soothed even as it wounded.

You loved him more for every kindness. The flowers loved the increase of that love. They thrived upon it, sending finer roots deeper into the soft tissue of your lungs.

One evening he found you in the godswood, leaning against the heart tree with your arms wrapped around your middle, your breath short and your face pale against the white bark.

He crossed the distance in three long strides, his black cloak flaring behind him, and caught your elbows before you could sink fully to the tangled roots.

“You are unwell,” he said. Not a question. His mismatched eyes searched your face with an intensity that made the petals shift and rustle inside your chest. “I have sent for the Grand Maester again. This has gone on long enough.”

“No.” The word tore from you sharper than you intended, edged with a desperation you could not fully hide. “Please. It is nothing. Only fatigue from the long days. I will rest. I promise.”

He did not believe you.

You saw it in the set of his jaw, the same strong jaw that had once faced the Blackfyre rebels across a field of blood without flinching. But he did not press further that night.

He simply guided you back through the torchlit corridors to your chambers, his hand warm and steady at the small of your back, and remained there until you pretended the deep breathing of sleep.

When the connecting door finally closed behind him with a soft click, you curled onto your side and coughed until the sheets were dotted with pink-tinged petals and your throat felt raw as scraped parchment.

You begged the maesters again and again in the days that followed.

The Grand Maester, the younger ones who attended you in secret when Baelor was occupied with the council, even the midwife who had once served your mother in the years before your presentation at court.

All of them received the same plea, delivered in a voice that grew weaker with each telling. Do not tell him. Do not force this knowledge upon a man still grieving the loss of his first love. Let me carry it. Let me die with it if the gods demand it, but do not make him the instrument of my cure or my end.

They agreed, some with tears standing in their eyes, some with grim nods of men and women who understood the weight of a prince's sorrow. You were the princess now, after all. Your word carried the weight of the crown's expectation.

Weeks blurred into a haze of carefully managed appearances and private suffering. The court began to whisper of your frailty. Ladies behind fans speculated about a possible pregnancy that would not take, or a weakness of the lungs inherited from some distant ancestor.

Baelor canceled planned hunts in the kingswood and postponed a tourney that had been months in the arranging so that he might remain near the Red Keep. He brought you books from the library towers, rare volumes bound in cracked dragonhide and written in the elegant hand of long-dead maesters.

He spoke of his children with a careful hope, of how they might come to love you in time if you were patient with their grief as he had been patient with his own. He never spoke of Jena in your presence, though you felt her absence like a third person standing in every room the two of you shared.

You loved him for the silence as much as for the words he did offer.

The flowers multiplied in the dark of your chest.

Then came the night the blood first joined the petals.

You woke choking, the taste of iron thick and metallic on your tongue. Red stained the white blossoms that spilled from your lips onto the pillow in a grotesque scattering.

The pain was no longer a dull, manageable ache. It was a living root system spreading, thorns and fibrous stems twisting through soft tissue with a slow, deliberate cruelty.

You pressed a cloth to your mouth and stumbled to the window, gasping the cold night air that rose from the river. Below, the Blackwater glittered under a thin, indifferent moon.

For a long moment you thought of the drop, of the water that might end the suffering before the flowers finished their work. The thought passed like a shadow. You loved him too much to leave him with another death to carry. You returned to the bed and waited for dawn with blood drying on your chin.

In the morning Baelor found the stained cloth you had tried to hide beneath the mattress. His face went very still when he unfolded it, the pupils of his eyes darkening as he took in the evidence.

He said nothing at first.

He only gathered you against his chest with arms that were strong and careful in equal measure, and held you while the residual shaking worked its way through your frame.

You felt the steady beat of his heart against your cheek and wondered, not for the first time, if that heart still belonged entirely to a dead woman whose name he spoke only in sleep.

“I will not lose you,” he murmured into your hair, his voice rough with something that sounded like fear. “Whatever this is, we will face it together. You are not alone in this keep.”

You wanted to tell him then.

The words rose with another wave of petals that scraped and tore. You swallowed them both down and forced a smile against his tunic. “It is only a chill that has settled deep in the lungs. The maesters will see me through with their teas and their rest. You must not worry so.”

He left for the small council with a promise to return by midday, his hand lingering on the doorframe as though he might change his mind and stay.

The moment the door shut and the sound of his boots faded down the corridor, you summoned the Grand Maester once more. Your voice was raw and thin when you spoke the command.

“You will say nothing. Do you understand me? If he asks after the blood, you will speak of seasonal fevers and the need for prolonged rest. Nothing of roots. Nothing of flowers. Nothing of the true cause. Swear it again.”

The Grand Maester's chain rattled as he bowed his head, the links of silver and gold and iron catching the light. “My lady, the roots are advancing faster than I first believed. Without intervention of one kind or another—”

“Without my leave, there will be no intervention of any kind. Swear it upon the chain you wear and the vows you took.”

He swore.

The words came heavy.

You believed him because you had no other choice. The alternative was to watch Baelor's face when he learned the truth, and that was a pain you were not yet ready to inflict.

That afternoon Baelor returned earlier than expected, the council session cut short by some matter he did not explain. He found you seated by the fire in the solar, a book open but entirely unread in your lap, the pages turned only to give the appearance of occupation.

He dismissed the servants with a quiet word that brooked no argument and knelt before your chair on the stone floor. His hands took yours with infinite care.

“Tell me the truth,” he said, looking up into your face. “I am no fool, and I am no stranger to the signs of a body failing. I see the way you hide your coughs behind your hand. I see the color leaving your cheeks day by day. I have lost one wife already to the cruelty of this world. I will not stand idle while another slips from me into the dark.”

The words struck deeper than any blade forged in the forges of King's Landing. Another wife.

That was all you were in the end.

The replacement.

The duty the realm had demanded when the first love was gone. You pulled your hands free of his and turned your face toward the fire so he would not see the tears that rose unbidden.

“There is nothing to tell beyond what the maesters have already said. I am tired. The season has been harsh. That is all.”

He rose and paced the length of the solar, his black cloak swirling behind him like a living shadow. You watched the set of his shoulders, the way grief and worry warred in the lines of his body, the way his hands flexed and released at his sides as though seeking something solid to hold.

He was a good man. He deserved peace after all he had endured. He did not deserve to know that the woman forced upon him by the needs of the realm was dying for love of him, her lungs filling with the physical proof of a feeling he could not return.

That night the Grand Maester broke his word.

You learned of it only when Baelor burst through the connecting door in the small hours before dawn, still dressed in the dark clothes he had worn to supper, his hair disheveled and falling around a face that looked carved from pale stone.

His eyes were wild in a way you had never seen, not even in the rare moments when the weight of the realm pressed too hard upon him. Behind him stood the Grand Maester, face ashen beneath the weight of his chain, the links clutched in both hands as though they might anchor him against the storm of a Targaryen's wrath.

“Is it true?” Baelor's voice was low, almost gentle, and all the more terrible for the control that barely contained the breaking beneath. “Is it Hanahaki that has taken root in you?”

You tried to rise from the bed. Your legs failed beneath you. You sank back against the pillows as a fit of coughing seized your entire body with a violence that left no room for dignity. Petals and blood spilled across the coverlet in a grotesque bouquet of white and crimson.

Baelor was at your side in an instant, one arm supporting your shoulders with careful strength, the other wiping the mess from your lips with the sleeve of his own tunic. His hands trembled against your skin.

“Answer me,” he whispered, the word almost lost beneath the sound of your struggling breath. “Please. I need to hear it from you.”

You could not speak.

The roots had tightened around your voice as if the disease itself sought to silence the truth. Only a thin, wet sound escaped your lips. The Grand Maester spoke in your place, his voice heavy with the guilt of a broken confidence.

“It is advanced, my prince. Further than I first judged. The flowers have taken deep root in both lungs. Without the reciprocation of the love that feeds them, or the surgical removal of the growth itself—which would take the feelings with it and leave her hollow—she will not last the turning of another moon. Perhaps less, if the bleeding continues at this pace.”

Baelor's face drained of what little color remained. He looked at you as though seeing you truly for the first time, stripping away every careful distance, every quiet grief, every measured kindness he had offered. What remained in his expression was raw and terrified and utterly human.

“You knew,” he said to you. Not an accusation thrown in anger. A broken realization spoken into the space between your bodies. “You knew what was growing inside you and you hid it. You begged them to keep the knowledge from me.”

You managed a single nod.

Another cough tore free of your chest with a force that bent you double. More blood. More petals, now edged in deep crimson as if the flowers themselves had begun to bleed.

Baelor gathered you into his arms fully, lifting you as though you weighed no more than one of the children he still visited each evening. He sat upon the edge of the bed and cradled you against his chest, rocking slightly, the way a man might rock a child through a nightmare or a dying lover through her final hours.

“Why?” The word was barely sound, torn from somewhere deep in his throat. “Why would you do this? Why would you choose silence over the chance of help?”

You forced the answer past the obstruction that sought to choke it. Each word cost blood. “Because you still love her. Because I am only the woman the realm gave you when she was gone from your side. Because I could not bear to make you choose between the dead and the living, between the memory you cherish and the duty you were forced to accept. Because I love you enough to die rather than force your heart to speak words it does not hold.”

Something broke in him then.

You felt it in the way his arms tightened around you, in the full-body shudder that ran through his frame as if a blade had found a soft place between his ribs. He pressed his forehead to yours, his breath coming in harsh, uneven bursts that warmed your bloodied lips.

“You fool,” he said, and the word was the softest, most devastating endearment you had ever heard spoken. “You beautiful, stubborn, self-sacrificing fool. Do you think I have not seen you these many months? Do you think I have not felt the way the very air in a room changes when you enter it? Do you think the kindness I have shown, the care I have taken, the way I have rearranged my days to remain near you, do you think any of it has been only the cold performance of duty?”

He drew back enough to look into your eyes, though the movement cost him. Tears stood in his gaze, bright and unashamed against the dark of his Targaryen features.

“I grieved Jena. I will always grieve her. She was the mother of my children and the great love of my youth, the woman who taught me what it meant to give a heart fully. But grief is not a wall that bars all else from entering. It is a scar that remains upon the skin while the rest of the body learns, slowly and with pain, how to live again. And I have been living again, every day that I have woken to the knowledge that you were somewhere in this keep, every moment I have watched you navigate the vipers of this court with a quiet strength that put seasoned ladies to shame, every night I have lain awake listening for the sound of your breathing through the connecting door and found myself calmed by the simple fact of your nearness.”

His voice roughened further, breaking on certain words. “I did not speak of what was growing in me because I feared it was too soon after her death. Because I feared you would see only the shadow of another woman in every care I offered. Because I am a man who has already failed to keep one wife safe from the world's cruelties, and I could not bear the thought of failing another by offering a heart that still carried such deep scars. But I love you. Gods of old and new help me, I love you with a depth that frightens me more than any battlefield ever did. I have loved you for longer than I dared admit, even in the privacy of my own thoughts. Longer than the first petal ever took root in your lungs.”

The confession struck the roots like a blade forged of pure light and truth.

For a moment the crushing pain eased, as if the flowers themselves recoiled from the honesty that denied their reason for existing. Then it surged tenfold, a final desperate flowering.

Your body convulsed in his arms. Blood and blossoms poured from your mouth in a terrible, unending flood, soaking the front of Baelor's tunic, staining his hands to the wrists, dripping onto the floor in dark pools that mixed petal and vital fluid.

He held you through every spasm, murmuring broken reassurances against your hair, his own tears falling freely into the mess that covered you both.

“I am here,” he said, over and over, the words a litany against the dark. “I am here. You will not die for lack of love. Never again. Do you hear me, my heart? Never again will you lack for it while I draw breath. I will spend every remaining day of my life proving the truth of what I should have spoken months ago. I will speak it until you grow weary of the sound of the words. I will show it in every touch of my hand, every glance across a crowded hall, every breath I take in your presence. You are not a replacement for what was lost. You are not a duty the realm forced upon a grieving man. You are the woman who brought light back into rooms I had believed would remain dark forever. You are my wife. My love. My second chance that I was too blind, too afraid, and too burdened by old sorrow to claim openly when first it was offered.”

The flowers came harder still for a time, as though the disease itself fought the truth that would ultimately starve it of the lie that had sustained its growth.

You choked and gasped and clung to the fabric of his tunic with what little strength remained in your fingers.

Baelor rocked you through it all, his voice a continuous stream of promises and endearments and soft apologies for every day of silence, his hands never still as they stroked your hair, wiped the blood from your lips, pressed gently against your chest as if he could reach inside by force of will alone and tear the roots free with his bare hands.

“Stay with me,” he begged, the prince who had faced armies reduced to a man pleading with the gods. “Stay. I cannot lose you. Not when I have only just found the courage to name what you have been to me all this time. Stay. Please.”

Time lost all meaning in that chamber.

The air filled with the copper scent of blood and the sweet, cloying perfume of dying blossoms that had never belonged in a living body.

Servants hovered at the edges of the room, faces pale, until Baelor's sharp glance sent them scurrying for more cloths, more basins of water, more of the rare herbs the Grand Maester called for to ease the violent passage of the flowers.

The old man worked around the two of you with careful hands, but Baelor refused to release you even for the changing of the soaked sheets.

When they tried gently to take you from his arms, he made a sound low in his throat that was more dragon than man, and they retreated without further attempt.

Slowly, so slowly that you almost missed the turning, the torrent began to lessen. The petals that emerged were fewer, smaller, less heavily tinged with the red of your own blood. Your breathing, though still ragged and painful, no longer carried the wet, drowning rattle that had marked the worst of the crisis.

Baelor felt the change in the same moment you did. He pressed frantic, careful kisses to your brow, your temples, the corner of your mouth where blood still lingered in the cracks of your lips.

“That is it,” he whispered against your skin. “Let them go. They have no place in you any longer. My love is yours. Fully. Completely. Without reservation or the shadow of another memory standing between us. Let the flowers wither for lack of the lie that once fed them. Let them die as they should have died the moment I first knew my own heart.”

You drifted in and out of awareness for what felt like hours. In the moments of clarity you saw his face above yours, wrecked and beautiful in the candlelight, the face of a man who had stared into the abyss of a second great loss and refused with every fiber of his being to let it claim what he now openly named as his.

You managed, once, to lift a trembling hand to his cheek. He turned into the touch immediately, as though the contact itself were a form of salvation he had not dared hope to receive.

“I believed...” Your voice was a ruin of sound, scraped raw by blood and petals. “I believed so completely that you could not... that the space in you still belonged only to her...”

“I know.” He caught your hand and held it against the wetness of his own tears. “I know what you believed, and I know why you believed it. The fault is mine for allowing the silence to grow so long and so deep. And I will spend the rest of the days the gods grant me undoing every hour of that belief. You will never again have cause to doubt the place you hold. I swear it by the old gods of the North and the new gods of the Seven, by the blood of the dragon that runs in my veins, by every precious memory of Jena that I will always carry with honor and every new memory I fully intend to make with you in the years ahead. You will not lack for love. Not for a single hour of a single day. Not for a single breath that leaves your lungs free of flowers.”

The Grand Maester approached with cautious steps once the worst of the bleeding had slowed. “The crisis appears to be passing, my prince. If the love is true and returned without reservation, the roots will begin to wither from lack of the unrequited soil that sustained them. She will need long rest. Careful tending. Time measured in weeks rather than days.”

Baelor did not look away from your face even as he answered. “She will have all three without measure. And she will have me. Every day. Every night. For as long as she will tolerate the sight of me at her side.”

They cleaned the bed around you as best they could while he still held you cradled against his chest. Fresh sheets were brought from the linen stores.

Warm water scented with healing herbs. Soft cloths that would not abrade tender skin. Baelor himself washed the blood from your face and throat and the hollow of your collarbones with a tenderness that made fresh tears rise in your eyes and spill over without shame.

When at last you were settled against clean pillows and beneath a coverlet that did not reek of iron, he lay beside you fully clothed, one arm carefully beneath your shoulders, the other resting lightly over your heart as if to guard the place where the roots had so nearly claimed you.

“Sleep now,” he said, his voice a low rumble against your hair. “I will be here when you wake. And the morning after that. And every morning the sun rises over this keep for the rest of our lives.”

You slept.

The dreams that came were not of choking darkness or the slow unfurling of petals in places they did not belong, but of open skies above Dragonstone and the sound of a low, steady voice reading the histories of the realm beside a fire that never needed tending.

When you woke, the sun had climbed high enough to cast long rectangles of light across the stone floor. Baelor was still there, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion but clear of the wild terror that had filled them in the night.

He smiled when he saw your eyes open, a small, careful smile that held more genuine hope than you had ever seen upon his face since the day of your wedding.

“Good morning, my love,” he said, and the simple words settled into the empty spaces the flowers had left behind in your chest like a balm.

The ache remained, deep and persistent, but it was different now. Healing, perhaps, or the first true beginning of it.

You reached for him with a hand that still trembled, and he came willingly, gathering you close once more against the solid warmth of his body.

In the days that followed, the remaining petals came loose in smaller and smaller amounts, each one a pale reminder of the lie that had nearly killed you.

Each emergence was met with Baelor's unwavering presence, his voice speaking the truth of his heart, his hands offering the comfort you had once believed you would never fully receive. He spoke of his love as if the words themselves were a form of medicine stronger than any the maesters could brew, and perhaps they were.

He told you of the precise moment he had first noticed the way your quiet laughter could ease something tight and long-clenched in his chest. He told you of the nights he had stood outside the connecting door in the dark and fought the urge to enter simply for the comfort of being near the living warmth of you.

He told you of the fear that had kept him silent for so long, the fear of dishonoring Jena's memory by moving forward too quickly into a new love, the fear of offering a scarred and imperfect heart to a woman who deserved far better than the remnants of another man's grief.

You listened to every word. You believed him more completely with each telling, the belief sinking deeper than the roots had ever reached.

The disease, starved of the lie that had given it life and purpose, continued its slow retreat. The Grand Maester confirmed with careful examinations what your body already knew in the easing of its pain.

The roots were dying. The flowers would not return. You would live.

Baelor never left your side for longer than duty absolutely required, and when the small council called him away, he returned as soon as the matters of the realm allowed, often carrying some small token that spoke of his thoughts during the separation, a book he thought you might enjoy, a single flower from the gardens of the keep that was of the ordinary kind that grew in soil rather than lungs, a letter from one of his children in which the young writer asked after your health with the careful formality of a child taught to be polite.

He introduced you to those children properly when next they visited the capital, not as the new wife of political necessity, but as the woman he loved and intended to keep close for all his remaining days.

The children, still young enough to accept what their father told them with open hearts, began to call you by your name with growing ease and even, in time, with a tentative affection that warmed places in you the flowers had never touched.

The court noticed the change, as courts always notice such things. The whispers shifted from concern over your mysterious frailty to speculation about the sudden and obvious closeness between the Prince of Dragonstone and his second wife.

Baelor ignored the whispers as he had ignored so many others in his life. He held your hand openly in the halls. He kissed your brow in the sight of assembled lords and ladies without shame or hesitation.

He spoke of you with a quiet, steady pride that left no room for doubt in the minds of those who heard him.

One evening, weeks after the worst of the crisis had passed and your strength had begun to return in measured increments, you walked with him in the godswood beneath the watchful face of the heart tree.

The red leaves stirred in a soft wind off the river as Baelor stopped beneath the white branches and turned to face you fully, taking both of your hands in his.

“I should have told you sooner,” he said, the words carrying the weight of true regret. “I should have found the courage to name what I felt before the first petal ever took root in your body. For that silence, and for the suffering it caused you, I will always be sorry in a way that words cannot fully express.”

You shook your head, the motion gentle. “You were grieving a great loss. You were trying to be careful with a heart that had already been broken once by the world's cruelty. I understand the caution, even if it nearly cost us both everything.”

“Understanding does not erase the nearness of the loss.” He lifted your hands and pressed a kiss to each set of knuckles. “I will not be careful with my words again. Not where you and the truth of my heart are concerned. You will hear that I love you every day that the sun rises. You will feel the truth of it in every action I take. If the realm demands my presence in some far corner of the Seven Kingdoms, you will know without doubt that my thoughts remain with you. If the years ahead bring new griefs, as the years always do in the game we are forced to play, you will not face them alone. This I vow before the old gods and the new, and before the heart tree that has witnessed so many of my private sorrows.”

You rose on your toes and kissed him then, soft and certain and free of the fear that had once colored every touch. He returned the kiss with a reverence that made the last lingering ache in your chest ease further into memory.

When you drew back, his eyes were bright with unshed tears and something warmer.

“No more secrets between us,” he said. “No more hidden petals flushed away in the dark. No more believing yourself unloved or unwanted in the space of my heart. Promise me that much.”

“I promise,” you answered, and meant it with every part of the self that had survived the flowering.

He drew you against him, and together you stood beneath the red canopy of the heart tree while the sun sank toward the dark waters of the Blackwater Rush.

The future stretched before you both, uncertain as all futures must be in a realm of shifting alliances and old blood, but no longer empty of the one thing you had once believed yourself forever denied.

Baelor Targaryen, once a man defined almost entirely by the weight of his losses and the duty that followed them, had chosen to love again with open eyes and an open heart.

And you, who had nearly died for the lack of that choice being spoken aloud, would live to see every day of the promise he had made in blood and petals and tears.

You would never lack for love again.

In the months that followed the crisis, the memory of the flowers faded into something almost dreamlike, a dark chapter closed firmly by the light of spoken truth.

Baelor remained true to his word in ways both grand and intimately small.

He learned the songs of your childhood home in the riverlands and hummed them under his breath while he worked through the endless correspondence of a prince.

He commissioned a portrait of the two of you together from one of the finer painters in the city, not as the formal prince and his political bride, but as husband and wife sharing a private moment, and he hung the finished work in the solar where he spent his quiet hours.

When the first anniversary of your wedding approached, he did not allow the court to mark it with the usual stiff formality of public celebration.

Instead he took you by ship to Dragonstone for a full fortnight, where the salt wind off the narrow sea and the sight of the ancient stone dragons seemed to wash away the last lingering shadows that had clung to the difficult beginning of your life together.

There, on the high cliffs above the crashing waves, he spoke again of Jena, not with the raw and consuming grief of the early months of your marriage, but with a gentle, settled remembrance that made room for the living without diminishing the dead.

He spoke of how she would have wanted him to find peace after her passing. He spoke of how he believed, in the quiet of his heart, that she would have liked you for your quiet strength and your refusal to demand what could not yet be freely given.

And then he turned from the past entirely and spoke only of the present he shared with you and the future he fully intended to build, day by day, with the woman who had nearly died for love of him.

You listened to every word the sea wind carried, and the love that had once grown sharp thorns and choking stems in your lungs now settled into something steadier and deeper, free at last of the fear that had nearly ended you.

When night fell over the island and the stone dragons kept their eternal watch, Baelor held you close in the chamber that had once been his alone and whispered the words you had once believed you would never hear spoken with such certainty.

“I love you. Today. Tomorrow. For all the days and nights the gods see fit to grant us in this life. You will never lack for it. Not while I draw breath. Not while my heart still beats in my chest.”

And you believed him.

Fully. Completely.

Without the shadow of a single petal left anywhere in the world to cast even the smallest doubt.

There would be councils and conflicts, the growing of children and the slow turning of seasons.

But that particular anguish—the quiet, internal drowning of a love believed unrequited—had been faced in blood and honesty and defeated by the simple, powerful act of a good man finding the courage to speak.

Baelor had learned to name the truth of his heart before it was too late for the woman who carried it. And you had learned that sometimes the most attentive, loving, and caring of men need only the terror of a near-loss to finally give voice to what has been growing in them, quietly and steadily, all along.

You lived. You loved without fear. And the flowers never returned to the light.

The media viewed you and Michael as two peas in a pod. Initially meeting during the set of Smooth Criminal, it was a whirlwind of romance that swept you off your feet. To the private dinners, dates at Hayvenhurst, and consistent trips to Disney, Michael allowed you in his world and never planned on letting you out.

You were a ball of energy he never experienced. Retracting into his own personal shell over the years from the evil eyes of the world, it was a breath of fresh air to have you around. Small acts of joy were an everyday thing for you such as waking him up with a rainfall of kisses, bringing him pancakes intentionally made to resemble a smiley face, and even convincing him to have a pillow fight.

Every single moment only led him to gaining a deep adoration and love for you, and naturally he gifted you the name of, ‘Sunshine.’ Soon the public began to notice the two of you in public settings. Instead of running to hide, you simply smiled and waved towards the wave of flashes. The usual irritation they were used to from celebrities was a contrast against your joyous expression.

A multitude of paparazzi photos captured a smile on your face, rarely a stiff expression or frown. Constantly wearing bright colors, holding hands, hugging Michael, and going as far as answering some of the paparazzi’s question, the media fell for you.

The transition from Michael’s girlfriend to gaining the nickname, ‘Smiley.’ was seamless. You took the name on your chest with pride, living up to it everyday. When someone mentioned puppies and rainbows, you were right along with the image.

Unlike Michael who was usually known as reserved and private, it changed when you were around. Often both caught playing as if you were children. Water guns, silly pranks, and back rides during public outings. The public officially deemed that you were the one for him.

After a few years of dating, Michael finally took the big leap and proposed. He had no clue why he was so nervous when it was clear you had not a single ounce of proof that you would say no.

The world was ecstatic now that their favorite duo was married and of course, you adorned his arm at every occasion. His permanent plus one. If Michael was at an event, you were right beside him.

After Michael’s iconic VMA performance opening that made the crowd go insane—including you—he came to take his spot next to you.

“You excited?” You whispered to Michael with a smile on your face. Dressed in a leather jacket, short hair, and black shades, he looked impeccable.

“Yes, baby.” He whispered back, gently squeezing your fingers. He reached up to move a stray curl out of your face and in thanks, you left a small kiss on his cheek.

“Oh, I left a mark.” You exclaimed with raised eyebrows. “Leave it, sunshine.” He told you with a pat on your bare knee that peeked from the slit of your gown.

They were announcing the winner of best dance video and Michael and Janet were nominated for their music video, “Scream”

Biggie and Bill Belany stood on stage, listing the nominees which consisted of Michael and Janet, Paula Abdul, C+C music factory, Montell Jordan, Madonna, and Salt-N-Pepa.

“And the winner is…” Biggie opened the envelope, “Michael and Janet Jackson!” He yelled. The room erupted into cheers and a smile graced his face. He gave you a quick peck before standing up, adjusting his clothes.

“WOOO!!” You loudly cheered, standing from the seat with the biggest grin, clapping your hands till your palms burned.

He and Janet met on stage, practically sporting matching haircuts. They greeted Biggie and Bill and took the award. As the room quieted down, you truly did try to shut your mouth.

Folding your lips inwards for the smallest moment but as Michael habitually bit his lip, the restraint broke. “THAT’S MY HUSBAND!” You screamed which only caused another round of laughter and applause at your distinctive voice.

After Janet’s heartfelt speech, Michael began his. Thanking God, his sister, staff, and the final thanks after every speech. “And my loving, beautiful wife. My sunshine. I love you.” He smiled, pointing towards you.

The camera immediately shifted to your face and to no one’s surprise you were smiling. You blew a kiss towards the stage, diamond ring glinting on your ring finger, and mouthed ‘I love you’

Aww’s and claps sounded from the audience seeing the loving interaction.

Another win for America’s favorite couple.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                                                       —————

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

          “Check the note.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                                                       —————

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

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

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

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

          “She’s done,” she said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

          “You askin’ me on a date?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

                                                       —————

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE DOVES ARE CRYING Did Michael steal Chanté from Prince?

CHANTÉ WEARS THE PANTS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

          “Chanté? Chanté!” Nia yelled.

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

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

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

          “Hey.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

          Shit.

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

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

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

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

                                                       —————

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

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

          “No,” she said without looking up.

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

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

          “I don’t need to.”

          “Why?”

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

           You shifted in your chair.

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

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

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

          “What if I don’t want to?”

          “Too bad.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                                                       —————

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

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

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

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

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

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

                                                       —————

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

          “Then why are you actin’ like this?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

          “I’m sorry, I—”

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

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

          “Open.”

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

          “Good boy.”

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

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

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

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

                                                       —————

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

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

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

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

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

          “Don’t worry about that.”

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

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

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

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

          “I just wanted to get to you.”

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

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

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

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

          “Yes, Michael.”

          “Thank you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

          “Fuck!” you yelled.

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

          Goddess?

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

          “Keep callin’ me that, please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

          “You see what you do to me?”

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

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

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

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

          “Michael…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

          “I wanna savor you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

          “I’m so close. I can’t—”

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

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

          “Ooh, shit,” you moaned.

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

          “Where can I come, Goddess?”

          “On…on my stomach.”

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

          “You gonna clean me up?” you asked.

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

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

          “Really?” you asked, stroking his hair.

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

          You smiled. “No, tell me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

          “Is that it? Right there?”

          You nodded, unable to speak.

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

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

                                                       —————

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

          “Chanté?”

          No answer.

          Another call of her name.

          No answer.

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

          Gone.

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

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

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

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

          “Chanté?”

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

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

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

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

          “I never said you did—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

          Michael shook his head. “No…no…”

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

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

          She didn’t answer.

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

                                                       —————

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHANTÉ THE ROMANTIC

CHANTÉ DOVE: MOST QUALIFIED PROFESSEURE OF LOVE

THE GREATEST DIVINITY

WE KNOW WHY THE CAGED DOVE SINGS

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

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

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

          They know.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gomez! Michael is always uses pet names for you: sweetheart, love, darling, and my rose. You know you fucked up if he uses your first name.

Gomez! Michael who knows how much you love flowers. He would plant new ones for each child you two had together—Black Iris for Prince, Black Viola for Paris, and Black Star Gladiolus for Blanket.

When it came to the launch of your relationship? Just putting you as the video vixen for "Dirty Diana." His hands were all over you as he couldn't get over what the stylists were putting you in. (Y'all might've gotten freaky later in the dressing room because of it👀)

Gomez! Michael is a dramatic man and is known for the dramatics. He likes to troll the press as they ask stupid questions. When the media said his new wife was a witch after your black-themed wedding? "Hope she don't curse you one day." Which leaves the room stunned while he can finally enjoy the peace he wanted. When the media call you this weird couple that's just surrounded by mystery, Michael amps it up to be petty. Clothes darker, answers to questions even vaguer. It's to the point; it's your two's favorite pastime to read what the newspapers say.

Gomez! Michael who was so happy to find that you have your own group of supporters while going through fan mail. He would nod his head while he read about people gushing about you. "I'll agree with everything said." He might as well be the president of the fan club.

Gomez! Michael had aesthetics that were already rare. Became darker and more gothic from the 'Thriller Era' on, after you influenced him with your own wardrobe.

Gomez! Michael who almost lost his mind when he thought he lost you. He was spiraling cause you just gave birth to Prince not too long ago, thinking the worst. The whole time? You had Bill drive so you could eat a burger cause Michael's vegan meal plan was too much for you.

Gomez! Michael would randomly twirl when he saw you so much that you two created a mini dance that would end with him kissing you.

Gomez! Michael was happy as hell when he got past your neutral personality. When you got a genuine laugh from you, he rode that high for days. "I made her laugh! Can't you believe it!"

Gomez! Michael is a spender. He loves to give you anything you want. When you wanted a flower garden and greenhouse, instantly there. You wanted a darker tone to Neverland? He already has people coming to the property. He has no problem opening up his wallet to you.

Gomez! Michael has a big soft spot for his children. His children knew that out of their two parents, they would have less time convincing Michael. They will also come to him to get out of things. "But look at how cute they are, darling!"

Gomez! Michael likes to steal things but replace them later on. That favorite fragrance you like? He might have used it one or twice. Y'all are basically sharing hair products at this point. "Michael, this is not cheap, love." He kisses your forehead. The next day, all your personal products are refilled. You find a personal note that he bought even more so you don't have to worry. (You're still sharing, though)

Gomez! Michael who can't wash laundry for the life of him. He's mixing the little colors you have in your household with darks. You notice that some of your clothes are missing. "Maybe they just walked away?" That was all he said while you stared at him. (He got a bra and panty stash for personal reasons)

Gomez! Michael whose favorite pastime is to kiss what he loves about you (Which is everything) while in bed. He loves to whisper it in your ear while you smile at him.

Gomez! Michael who loves your morbid way of loving him. The analogy of your love being like a dead rose that still smells sweet and lovely. When you gifted him your blood in a necklace, he just smiled. "That's my sweet girl."

michael stood a little straighter, planting his feet firmly on the floor so as not to move. but you could still see the smirk he was trying to hold back in your peripheral vision.

technically, you weren't supposed to be here at all. you had just finished an eleven-hour day, and tomorrow promised at least ten more. you had three unanswered messages on your answering machine, four appointments tomorrow, and a meeting with some of the girls who worked under you in your company.

and yet, you were kneeling in front of michael jackson, fitting him for a suit he was supposed to wear later that week.

it was for work, or well, mostly.

"what are you doing on friday?" michael asked.

"working."

"saturday?"

"working too."

"you didn't even check."

you sighed, looking up at him, grabbing another pin from the cushion next to you. "i don't have to. i know what i'm doing."

michael bit his bottom lip, silent for a moment before continuing. "sunday?"

you laughed under your breath. "what, you trying to make an appointment?"

"apparently."

you and michael's relationship (or lack thereof) started completely innocent. his team worked routinely with your company, and as the head stylist, you were usually the one working on him.

michael was a total flirt, but you assumed it was harmless. at least that was until he began lingering longer after appointments, 'accidentally' bumping into you or brushing your skin, and finally, one day, kissing you after a three and a half hour fitting.

it was a total breach of conduct in every single way that you guys were hooking up. but you were now twenty-eight, and you, in full honesty, needed some dick or else you'd probably lose your mind.

that's what was so perfect about you and michael. despite being one of the busiest & most famous people on the planet, he was always available when you were free. he'd bend around your schedule. and, on top of it all, he was completely fine staying as hookup buddies.

"how much longer?" he asked.

"i'm almost done."

"and after that?"

"after this, i'm done."

"with me?"

"with work," you corrected.

michael hummed in approval, seeming to appreciate the distinction. you folded a piece of fabric over, sliding the last pin into place. "but i don't need to go home for another two hours."

"two whole hours?" he joked.

"i know, it's basically a vacation."

"let me take you to dinner then."

you rose to your feet, furrowing your brows at him. "i already ate."

"that's not what i meant."

"well, then you should've asked me earlier."

michael tried to smile, but you still caught the small eye roll. "i've been asking you."

"don't get greedy now. i just told you i have two hours."

michael repeated it under his breath. "greedy."

you put a hand on his chest, the same one that was wearing the suit you just carefully fit to him, making a clear distinction between working and being with him. "what? you don't want to?"

he melted under your touch, smiling, and bringing a hand up to wrap around your waist. "of course i do, baby," he said, pulling you in for a deep kiss.

and that's how it always happened. he could never stay mad at you, and anyway, it wasn't ever your fault. you never minded how all your carefully protected free time had become his. that was the whole point.

over the next month, you saw michael four times. once for work, and the other three completely by choice.

along the time you spent together, you started to learn more and more about him. he hated spaghetti. he loved kfc. he got quiet when he was tired, as to not lash out at anyone. he hated being rushed, and would wake up an extra twenty minutes earlier if it meant he could enjoy his morning.

similarly, he seemed to be noting things about you too. you'd bring flats to work just because you knew your feet would be hurting by noon. how you'd forget to eat after long days. how you hated being called before eight, because that's when 'the worst clients call.'

it didn't mean much to you. spending a lot of time with someone meant knowing someone, and knowing someone didn't mean loving someone.

one afternoon months ago, michael had called your work number late into the night.

"hello?" you said through gritted teeth, absolutely exhausted.

"you're still there?"

"i'm always here."

"have you eaten?"

you glanced over at the now-cold coffee cup sitting beside a stack of sketches. "not really- but i was gon-"

"no," michael interrupted. "you need to eat. i'll have my security get you that chinese place you like."

"michael, you don't need to do that."

"i know i don't need to," he paused. "i want to."

you couldn't put up much of a fight, and just thinking about your favorite chinese restaurant had your mouth watering.

so you let him. just like you let him do a lot of things for you; completely voluntary on his part. he was just a nice guy that was looking after you, but you didn't need it.

of course, it wasn't completely one-sided either. you had gotten him a new pair of sunglasses from one of your fittings. when you first saw them, you smiled to yourself. he would love these. the designer had told you he had a whole box of them, and let you keep them. you gave them to michael the following week.

"for me?" he smiled as you showed him the glasses from behind your back.

"i thought you'd like them. i imagined you'd look good in them."

"where'd you get them, baby?" he blushed. he'd always call you that, despite the fact you were not his baby.

"they're versace. i got them from a fitting."

michael smiled, opening them up and sliding them over his nose. "just like you imagined?"

you hummed lowly, coming close to whisper to him. "hmm... almost. i also imagined me riding you with them on."

his breath caught in his throat, fully freezing before his lips crashed against yours. he couldn't let anything you dreamed of stay inside that pretty head of yours.

a friday after your back and forth, michael had called your work number and asked to see you that night. actually, he specifically asked to get dinner with you.

your schedule was suffocating, and from the looks of it, you wouldn't be done until around eleven.

"so no dinner?" he asked through the receiver.

"unless you want to eat at twelve," you laughed, the phone cradled between the crook of your neck and your cheek.

"i would."

you licked your pointer finger, flipping through a stack of paperwork on your desk. "you'd fall asleep at the table."

"no, i wouldn't."

you grabbed the phone from your cheek. "michael, i'll see you another night."

michael paused, silence stretching through the call before finally speaking. "...okay."

"okay?"

"yeah. okay."

"i'll call you," you smiled, even though he couldn't see you. "bye, baby."

"bye" was the last thing you heard before the familiar tone of the other line dropping came through.

you set the phone back down, and got back to work.

as it turned out, eleven was a dramatic estimate. you signed off on the last design that crossed your desk around nine-fifteen, checked the clock, and started packing your bags.

with the now-free time, you decided to head over to neverland to see him.

most of the lights were off in the office; your purse slouched over your shoulder when you grabbed the phone. you knew michael's number by heart.

michael answered on the second ring, and you explained to him that you had finished early. he, very hesitantly for whatever reason, said you could still come over.

once you got there, you knocked on the heavy wooden doors before michael came to open them.

"hey," you smiled.

"hi," he said quietly, opening the door more to let you in.

"what happened to eleven?" he continued.

"i'm more efficient than i thought."

"good for you."

you hung your jacket on the nearby rack, turning to look at him. "what's wrong with you?"

"nothing's wrong with me."

"...you're acting weird."

"no, i'm not, i'm just tired," he said, stepping closer, his hands finding the fabric of your shirt around your waist.

"mhm..."

he softened, even slightly smiling. "what?"

"you're grumpy."

"me? i'm never grumpy."

you smiled, pressing a kiss to his cheek, the skin blooming red afterwards.

he came down, his lips finding yours lazily, before walking you backwards into the wall.

you breathed heavily onto his skin, your hand coming up to run through the back of his curls. his hands moved further down, grabbing your ass and pulling you flush against him.

you could feel everything- the familiar heat pooling in between your legs, as you began absentmindedly rocking against the growing bulge constricted in his pants.

his tongue broke between your lips, messy, but with a precision that alone made you weak. he kissed you with such intensity, as if he was trying to leave your taste on his lips so he could memorize it forever.

he broke away for only a second, heavy breathing. "let's go upstairs."

you nodded intently, your eyes already heavily lidded with lust. you followed him upstairs and down the hall of the home, into his master bedroom.

once you both got into the room, his lips found yours again. he groaned into you, not pulling away until finally tossing his shirt off in one, fluid move.

his hands roamed all over you, first to your ass, then your waist, then to cup your breasts- his fingers feathering your nipples over the fabric, then up to your face to cup your cheek.

you grabbed the bottom of your shirt, pulling it over your head, leaving you in just your bra.

he bit his lower lip, kissing the side of your neck as he unclasped the back of it. once your chest was bare, he stood, admiring, like you were the most beautiful thing on this planet.

"i could never get tired of seeing you like this," he whispered. "you take my breath away every time, my pretty girl."

you smiled, almost a little nervous, feeling his gaze on you. he quickly slid your pants off, making sure to hook his fingers on the edge of your panties, leaving you fully naked.

he did the same for himself, stuttering with his belt buckle and his pants sliding off and pooling on the floor. his boxers came off next, his cock springing free- fully erect and precum sitting atop his tip.

"lay on the bed for me baby. i've been thinking about you all week."

you stumbled back, your knees catching on the edge of the bed as your back hit the mattress. your thighs widened, practically involuntary, as he settled himself in between them.

michael brought his fingers to your folds, lightly grazing them through your wetness.

"baby, you're so wet already. just from me kissing you? you missed me that bad?"

you bit your bottom lip hard, a little shy, your back arching as he teased you. "you missed me more," you choked out.

his fingers stopped, landing just at your hole. "that might be true."

he smirked, driving two fingers directly into you, curling them just to the spot that drove you crazy.

you cried out, your knees buckling as he slammed his fingers into you. he brought his mouth to yours, trying to swallow your moans with a kiss, but you could hardly kiss him back.

he was not letting up, and if anything, his pace ran harder and quicker, even bringing his thumb up to circle around your clit.

you trembled, your hands not knowing where to grab. his back, drawing lines into the skin. his forearm, grasping it as he fingered you. the sheets, pulling at the fabric. nothing worked, and the coil inside you was tightening quickly.

"stay still, pretty," he coaxed, bringing his other hand to hold down your thigh onto the bed.

all you could do was yell out random profanities and his name, all falling from your lips. and then, you came. hard. the coil inside you snapped, your legs trembling, your vision going to stars, and a rush of pleasure filling every nerve in your body.

"you did so good for me, baby. you're so pretty when you come," michael whispered, guiding you through every aftershock that came. he was dedicated to riding this out.

michael slowly came up, sliding his fingers out and sticking them in his mouth. he couldn't let a drop go to waste. he needed your taste on his tongue forever.

he captured you in another kiss, and you could taste the musky flavor of yourself still on his lips, only turning you on more.

his hardness grinded against you as he moved lower, his mouth finding your nipple and lapping it flat against his tongue. his hand came up to roll the other one in between his fingers, his teeth grazing the one in his mouth. god, you could've come right there.

"please-" you whined.

"please, what baby?" he asked between kisses. "i'm going to need words."

"please," you hesitated. "please fuck me. i need you in me."

his hips stuttered forward at your words, finally settling himself fully between your legs and bringing your thighs to wrap around his waist.

he stabilized his hands on the bed, slowly pushing his length into you, letting you adjust to his size. you gasped as his tip bobbed in, filling you so completely in a way no one else had.

he eased in more, quicker this time, before fully bottoming out. he groaned deep, coming down to plant a kiss against your neck.

you two hardly did missionary, as you both agreed it was far too intimate. yet, now that you were, you understood the hype. you wanted to see his face fucking you forever.

"you drive me crazy, you know that?" he said through his heavy breathing.

you moaned as he moved, sliding in and out of you slowly. "i knew i could fix your attitude."

michael didn't reply, but instead showed it in his thrusts. he began pounding into you, his dick curving to your g-spot over and over again. you had, apparently, not fixed his attitude.

and his pace didn't stop. once he started, he couldn't stop. he was addicted to the way your pussy felt squeezing him.

"fuck- you feel so good," he said, his composure breaking, his thrusts becoming inconsistent.

and you got close- quickly. you grabbed hard onto his forearms, your back arching off the bed as you moaned incoherently.

"fuck- michael- please, don't stop, don't stop."

"i'm not gonna, baby. this is all for you. let go."

and as if on beat, you did. your pussy contracted on him, the wave of ecstasy rolling through your entire body. you were practically screaming, your thighs actually shaking around his waist.

michael wasn't far behind you. while fucking you through the aftershocks, it was bordering on overstimulation; he finally released into you. his hips hit yours in a rough slap, bottoming out, his balls hitting your ass.

"fuckkkk," he groaned, his head tipping back towards the ceiling.

he stayed inside you, slowly softening as you both heavily breathed in each other's arms. he finally pulled out, landing one final kiss on your lips. not sexual, but intimate. almost sad.

he stood on the edge of the bed as you stood up, your legs almost giving out on you, as you found your bra on the floor. you grabbed it, throwing the straps on your shoulder before going to hook the back.

michael stood behind you, reaching his hands out to brush your hair out of the way. "let me do it."

you let him, dropping your hands to your side. he hooked the clasp, but his hands lingered on your back.

"have dinner with me tomorrow."

you turned to look at him. "michael."

"i'm serious."

"i know you are."

he shook his head. "then say yes."

you sighed, grabbing your blouse off the floor. "i'm working tomorrow."

"you always are," he scoffed.

"what's that supposed to mean? i have a job, michael."

"so do i. and i still make time for you."

"me coming over after a long-ass day isn't making time for you?"

"no," he laughed bitterly. "you're giving me what's left. you're not really making time." he walked over to the other side of the room and slid his boxers back on. "i'm the one that makes time for you, and guess what?"

the guilt began rising in you. "what?" you said quietly.

"you never ask. you don't know that i have to cancel meetings, or move interviews, or just change my entire schedule to see you. and it's just because you never ask."

"that's not fair. you never tell me."

"and say what?" he laughed again, angrier this time. "'hey, i moved around my entire schedule because you called.'"

"don't say it like that."

he snapped his head around. "like what?"

"like i don't care about you."

"well, what am i supposed to think?"

"that i'm busy!" you raised your voice. "that you've known exactly what my life looked like the moment you met me."

"i know," he said, almost guilty.

"then what? why are you acting like it's my fault?"

"because i fell in love with you."

the words hung heavy in the air. you froze, the breath completely knocked out of you. there was no hesitation from him, no embarrassment after saying it. he looked at you like he had already practiced saying it to you hundreds of times.

"i love you," he repeated, shaking his head. "and i know that's not what we agreed on, but i can't spend another day doing this."

"michael..."

"you don't need to stop working. you don't even need to decide now." his voice dropped. "i just need to know if there'll ever be room for me."

his eyes scanned around the room, finally landing on your hands fumbling nervously with the blouse still in them. "because if there isn't, i don't think we should see each other anymore."

the silence after his words stretched long, weighing heavy on your heart. he had just put himself fully out there, and was prepared to be rejected. that's how much he meant it.

"what time?" you finally said.

michael's brows pulled together. "what?"

"for dinner, tomorrow. what time?"

"you're working."

you looked into his eyes. "i'll move it around."

⋆˙⟡⋆

join my taglist: @cupidslyrics @lapsofthegods @appleheadism @smickeyyy @lostinfogg

Having Michael as your boyfriend has been the greatest blessing that’s even been laid upon you. He’s not like any other man. He’s a man who takes his sweet time with you, asking you what you exactly need and how he could help you feel better. Spoiling you with his tongue on your sweet pussy every now and then satisfies you more than diamond necklaces or shopping sprees. You were so dependent on Michael to make you cum, having your legs shake every time he denied your orgasm to make you beg so prettily for him.

“Beg for it, lovely. Use that pretty voice and beg, mama.” Two of his slender fingers pumped agonizingly slow into you, your thighs twitching as you feel yourself getting closer but he pulls away.

“You didn’t beg for it, sweet girl. You know I had to stop, right? How else would you get your treat without asking, hm? You gotta use that pretty mouth, mama. Be a good doll and ask me, beg for me to help you, okay?” His charismatic tone flowing like molasses has you humping his hand like a dog in heat. Growing frustrated with your lack of talking, Michael pulls his hands away once more causing you to groan.

“You’re so fuckin’ spoiled it’s ridiculous, girl. I’ll leave you high and dry right now, but I know my poor baby can’t cum by herself, can she?” You looked up at him with teary eyes, cheeks stained with tears and your chin slicked with your drool.

“N-no M, Michael. Please let me cum. hurts so much to hold it in, baby.”

“See, it wasn't so hard now was it? You made it more difficult than it has to be. Now, c’mere and let me take care of my sweet girl, okay?”

© michaelcurls ❤︎⁠ ⁠

1995 neverland ranch

The lights felt too bright in the way they settled over your skin and refused to let you forget they were there, pressing in from every angle as if they were watching you just as closely as the cameras would once everything began. You could already feel the weight of it, the quiet hum of attention gathering before a single question had even been asked, and it made your chest tighten in a way you weren't used to, not like this.

You had grown up around attention. It had always been there, woven into the fabric of your life because of your family, because of who they were, because of the way people looked at them and, by extension, you. You had learned early how to exist in it without letting it swallow you whole, how to stand slightly to the side, present but not the focus, comfortable in the background where you could breathe and observe without being picked apart.

But this was different.

There was no standing to the side today. No slipping into the background while someone else carried the weight of being seen.

Today, the attention had settled directly on you, sharp and unrelenting, and it had nothing to do with your work, nothing to do with the films you had helped shape from behind the scenes. It was because of him, because of who you married.

Michael Jackson.

The name alone carried a gravity that shifted everything around it, and now it was tied to yours in a way that the world had only just discovered, a truth that had been yours in private and was now being pulled into the light for everyone to question, to dissect, to decide what it meant.

Your leg, crossed over the other, had begun to bounce without you realizing it, the movement small but constant, an outlet for the tension coiling under your skin. You were aware of it only when it stopped, when the warmth of Michael's hand settled gently over yours, his touch light but intentional, grounding.

The shift was immediate.

You looked at him, drawing in a slow breath as your body followed his lead, easing just enough for you to feel it. He leaned slightly closer, his voice low, meant only for you, a quiet refuge from the space you were about to step into.

"You don't have to do this... You can still change your mind," he says to you.

There was no pressure in his tone, no expectation, only care. The kind that had always been there with him, steady and unwavering, woven into the way he moved around you, the way he paid attention to the things no one else noticed.

You softened at that immediately, your fingers tightening around his as you squeezed his hand, a silent reassurance passing between you.

Michael had always been like this with you. Protective of your peace in a way that felt instinctive, like it mattered to him just as much as his own, if not more.

You had told him early on that you were content where you were, that you didn't need the spotlight the way your family did, that you had chosen a different path for a reason. Producing and directing: being part of the process without standing at the center of it, had always felt right to you. You didn't need applause to feel fulfilled, didn't crave the kind of attention that came with being in front of the camera.

And he had understood that.

More than that, he had valued it. It had been one of the things that drew him to you in the first place, the way you moved through his world without trying to take anything from it, the way you saw him not as something larger than life, but as someone.

"No, you're right here... I'll be okay," you say. The words come out softer than you expected, but they're steady, anchored in the truth of what you feel sitting beside him.

Michael smiles at that, the warmth of it immediate, and he lifts your joined hands without hesitation, bringing them to his lips. The kiss he presses over your knuckles is gentle, unhurried, like he isn't thinking about who might see it, like this moment exists just for the two of you.

"I love you," he says.

Your smile comes just as naturally. "I love you more," you say.

He lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head in that familiar way, the corner of his mouth lifting as his eyes soften even more.

"I love you most," he shoots back.

You can't help the way your smile lingers, the small shake of your head as you look at him, already knowing how easily the two of you could fall into this, how you could keep going back and forth like this without ever really meaning to stop.

But you do stop, gently pulling back before it turns into something longer, something that pulls you out of where you are.

Because you can feel it: the shift in the room, the moment settling into place.

"And with me, of course, Michael Jackson and his wife, Mrs. Jackson. Welcome to Primetime. Glad you're here," Diane says to you both.

The sound of her voice draws your attention forward, back into the space you had almost forgotten about for a moment, and you turn toward her with a polite smile, composed, steady, while Michael gives a small nod beside you.

"Thank you," Michael says softly.

Diane doesn't linger on it, already moving forward, her tone light but purposeful, her gaze flicking between the two of you with a curiosity that feels measured rather than invasive.

"It occurs to me, looking at the two of you, that I have got to start by asking how this marriage took place, how it began. Let me guess, it was not over miniature golf and a hot dog at some point," Diane says.

Michael's smile returns, polite, controlled, the kind that acknowledges the attempt at humor without fully leaning into it.

Yours doesn't shift.

Not because you're uncomfortable, but because the moment doesn't land for you, and you don't feel the need to pretend that it does.

"When did it start? When was the dating?" She asked.

You feel Michael's hand tighten around yours just slightly as he inhales, a quiet breath that you feel more than hear, his thumb brushing over your skin in a small, grounding motion before he answers.

"Um... well, when we first met... it was on the set of Thriller. She had been working with John Landis... they met on American Werewolf in London, and when I approached him about Thriller, he asked her if she wanted to help out too," Michael says.

As he speaks, your expression softens without you trying, your mind slipping back to that moment with an ease that feels almost tangible, like you can step right into it again.

Working on Thriller had been more than just a job. It had been an experience that stayed with you, something that had shaped the way you saw your work and what it could be. Being there, watching everything come together, seeing Michael's ideas take form in real time, it had been impossible not to be drawn in.

And then there was him.

You had known his music before you ever met him. Everyone had. It had been everywhere, something you played over and over again without thinking about it, something that felt larger than anything else at the time.

But meeting him, talking to him, seeing the way his mind worked when he spoke about his music, about what he wanted to create, about the feeling he was trying to capture, it had been something else entirely.

There had been a depth to it, a passion that went beyond performance, beyond what anyone else saw on the surface, and it had pulled you in from the very beginning.

You had been in awe of him.

Not because of who the world said he was, but because of who he showed himself to be when no one else was paying attention.

And somehow, from that moment, everything had grown into this.

"So between takes, we would talk... I knew who her parents were, and I love their movies, so we talked about that. She would ask me about my process when I was making the Thriller album, and I could tell she wasn't asking just to ask, she genuinely wanted to know how my mind worked and how I thought about music," Michael says with a smile.

The way he says it pulls you back into those moments so easily, it almost feels like the air around you shifts, like the studio lights dim just enough for memory to slip in where the present had been sitting. You can see it again, the quiet in between takes, the way conversations with him never felt surface-level, never felt like something you were just passing time with.

You had been drawn in without realizing it, asking questions because you wanted to understand him, not because of who he was, but because of how he thought, how he created, how his mind seemed to move in a way that felt entirely his own.

"So you two kept in contact after the short film was done?" Diane asks, and Michael smiles.

"Yeah... here and there, I had asked for her number, called when I was able to," Michael says, and you turn to him with a quiet laugh already forming, your head tilting as you look at him because that version of the story is far too simple for what it actually was.

"And who first talked about marriage?" Diane started to ask, but you're already cutting in, the correction slipping out instinctively.

"We actually didn't initially stay in touch after Thriller," you started to say, and Michael turns to you, nodding immediately.

"Yeah, we didn't, not at first," Michael says, falling into step with you without hesitation, his agreement easy, natural, like the two of you have told pieces of this story together before.

"He... he—" You trail off, the memory catching up to you mid-sentence as you glance at him, and the second your eyes meet, both of you break into laughter, soft at first but unmistakably shared, like the moment belongs to the two of you more than it does to the room.

"Go ahead, you wanna say what happened?" You ask with a smile, and Michael is already smiling too, shaking his head.

"No, you can say it. You have a good memory," Michael says, his tone light, teasing in a way that immediately pulls another laugh out of you.

"No, you said you were gonna say it," you say, shaking your head as you look at him, and when he turns to you with those wide, exaggerated eyes like he's about to grab you, the laughter spills out fully this time, your chest finally loosening as the tension you walked in with slips away under something far more familiar.

He does that without trying, you think, the way he always manages to pull you out of your own head and back into something lighter, something that feels like just the two of you instead of everything pressing in around you.

"I just... who proposed? Like, how did marriage actually get discussed?" Diane's voice pulls you back again, but it doesn't feel as heavy now, not with the warmth of that moment still sitting between you and Michael's hand still holding yours, steady and grounding.

"Okay, this is what happened. After we finished Thriller, we didn't stay in touch. I started finishing my other short films, Victory Tour, and all of that, everyone knows. She was making more films... around the time we started planning the Bad tour, and I was starting the process of making the Bad short film. I pulled my attorney aside and asked if he knew her. He said, "Well, I represent her parents," Michael explains, and you let out a quiet sigh before you can stop it, the reaction slipping through because even now, the mention of him doesn't sit right with you.

You had never trusted your parents' attorney, not fully, not in the way you were supposed to, and the idea of him being the connection between you and Michael still leaves a faint tension under your skin, something you don't bother hiding because it's honest.

"I go, well, can you get in touch with her? I want her to work on the Bad short film too with Martin and me, and he would laugh, asking me if that was all I wanted," Michael says, and the look you share with him softens into something quieter, something that carries the truth of what neither of you had said out loud at the time.

"So I admitted to him that I think she's beautiful, always have, and he goes, well, I'll do my best... and then he'd come back, and I'd say, "Well, did you find out?" He said, no, there's nothing," Michael says.

"I was working on Top Gun at the time. My brother was starring in the film, and I was one of the producers, because our Dad funded the production of it... a lot of people assumed that's why my brother got the role, but his performance ended that rumor," you say, your tone calm, steady, the way it always is when it comes to your family, because you've spent years learning how to speak about them without letting anyone else define what's true.

Michael's attention shifts fully to you for that moment, his expression softening as he listens before continuing.

"And I kept worrying him about this, so finally he was able to get in touch, and she agreed to come work on the short film, both of us being big fans of Martin... but right before she was about to come, I remember seeing on a big magazine cover that she had started dating someone else, which really tore me to pieces, because I felt that was supposed to be me, I really did," Michael says, and your fingers tighten gently around his hand without you thinking about it, a quiet reassurance that you know he feels immediately.

"As everyone knows, that relationship didn't last that long anyway," you say, the words coming easier now, lighter, shaped by distance and everything that came after, and when you look at him, he's already looking at you, the moment settling between you before it turns into a shared laugh, soft and unforced, something that belongs to you more than anyone else in the room.

"So, what was the countdown to your marriage? Tell me, who said the word marriage first?" Diane asks, and there's something in the way she keeps circling back to it that doesn't go unnoticed, like everything else you've said is just a path she's trying to move past to get to the part the world cares about most.

"I did," Michael says at the same time you say, "He did."

The overlap pulls a small smile from you, your answer instinctive, immediate, and when you glance at him, there's a softness there, a shared understanding that neither of you has to think about the answer because it lives so clearly between you.

"When? Where?" Diane asks. Michael was about to say something, and you could already see it forming: the slight shift in his expression, the way he searched for the right moment, and you knew he was about to mix up one of your dates with when he actually proposed, so you leaned in just slightly, answering before he could.

"On the telephone," you say, and the second the words leave your mouth, Michael's face brightens in recognition, his eyes lighting up as he nods.

"On the telephone, that's right," he says, falling right into step with you, his tone warm with agreement instead of correction.

"On the telephone, he asked me... we had been dating now, for about a year... a year, right?" You ask as you turn your head toward him, not because you need confirmation, but because you always include him in it, always bring him into the moment with you.

"Yes... Well, we were coming up on a year," he says, and the small adjustment makes you smile, the detail settling easily between you.

"Right, and we were spending a lot of time together, I don't know how the press didn't catch on, because we weren't hiding it. He was finishing up the Dangerous tour, and I would fly out to shows. I went to Moscow and São Paulo. I'd go to Neverland. He'd visit me on set. We were everywhere," you explain, and as you speak, the memories don't feel distant, they feel close, vivid, layered with the kind of ease that only comes from something that was real long before anyone else knew about it.

"Bookstores," Michael says, and you nod, your smile widening slightly at the simplicity of it.

"Yeah, we went to bookstores, record stores. We were not hiding it," you say as you shrug, the gesture light, almost amused, because the truth of it had never been complicated to you, even if it seemed that way to everyone else now.

"And you said yes right away?" Diane asks.

"Not right away. We were on the phone; he had called me after a show, and we were in opposite time zones, so I was getting ready to go to set, and he said, "What would you do if I asked you to marry me?" And I said... "Well, I'd say yes, as long as your proposal is better than this," you explain, the memory pulling a laugh out of you before you can stop it, and it blends easily with Michael's, the sound shared, familiar, untouched by the space you're sitting in now.

"And I told her, don't worry, this isn't me proposing, just wanting to know what you would say if I did," Michael says as he laughs and gently grabs your knee, the touch casual but grounding, like he always finds a way to stay connected to you even in moments like this.

You roll your eyes at him, but the smile doesn't leave your face as your hand comes to rest over his, your fingers settling there without thought, anchoring the moment in something that feels like yours instead of the room's.

"I can only imagine the number of lawyers involved in a prenuptial agreement between these two fortunes," Diane says, and you feel the reaction rise immediately, sharp and instinctive, but you keep it contained, pressing it down before it reaches your expression. "Is there one? A careful one?" she asks.

You turn your head toward Michael, and he's already looking at you, the glance brief but loaded with understanding, because the answer isn't simple, even if it sounds like it should be.

There was one.

Not because you had wanted it, not because he had needed it, but because your father had drawn a line you hadn't been able to cross, a condition placed between love and approval that neither of you had been able to ignore completely.

You had never felt like you needed one. You had your own name, your own career, your own money: everything you had built for yourself without standing in front of a camera, without needing the same kind of attention your family thrived in. And Michael had known that, had recognized it from the beginning, had trusted it in a way that made everything between you feel even more solid.

He had spent so much of his life questioning people's intentions, trying to separate what was real from what was wanted from him, and with you, that question had never existed.

He had never had to wonder.

"Well, we worked out things, and we've signed certain things... but, of course, that's very confidential," Michael says, his voice even, measured, giving just enough without letting anything be taken.

"We agreed... we made agreements prior, yes," you say, your tone matching his, just as controlled, just as careful, because some things are yours, no matter how many cameras are pointed at you.

"As you know, the reaction to this marriage, and I know you feel strongly about it, but the reactions have varied. It's varied from astonishment to delight, to suspicion, that it came out of the blue. Mrs. Jackson, even your own family has said—"

"My family didn't understand Michael... they bought into the bullshit... sorry, I probably can't say that on Primetime... but anyway, my family for a while bought into the stuff the tabloids said... when you're at Michael's level of fame, it comes with a bit of disconnection from reality, he's the most famous person in the world, everyone wants to know everything about him, so they take whatever information and say it's a fact," you say as you shrug.

The words come out before you can soften them, more direct than anything you've said so far, but you don't pull them back, don't try to reshape them into something more acceptable, because this is the part that matters, the part that has been sitting under everything else.

And beside you, Michael doesn't pull away from it.

If anything, his hand shifts slightly under yours, his thumb brushing against your skin in a quiet, steady motion that feels less like correction and more like grounding, like he's there with you in it, not trying to stop you, just making sure you don't have to stand in it alone.

"So why not make a statement to correct narratives?" Diane asks.

"Because Michael doesn't owe anybody explanations. A lot of people don't understand that just because we're famous, underneath the fame, we're still people. We still have emotions, we still feel things, and just because we are public figures, that doesn't mean everyone is entitled to know every little detail about us," you say, your voice steady but carrying a quiet conviction that comes from having lived in that space your entire life, and beside you, Michael's hand tightens gently on your knee, his smile soft as he looks at you, not surprised by what you're saying, just proud of the way you say it.

"And how does your family feel now about your marriage?" Diane asks.

"Once they actually met him and spent time with him, realizing that the crap the tabloids make up wasn't true... they love him, and they're very supportive of us. Michael calls my Dad every day," you say as you laugh, the sound lighter now, and Michael's laughter joins yours without hesitation, the moment easing into something more familiar.

You hold onto that warmth for a second longer, because it's real, because you do love how easily Michael fits with your father, how natural it became once the noise fell away and they actually saw him for who he is. And more than that, you're grateful for it, because there's a difference in him when he's around your father, a looseness, an ease that you don't see when Joseph's name is even mentioned, the way his body tightens almost imperceptibly, the way the air around him shifts when his father shows up unannounced. But with your dad, there's none of that. There's comfort. There's safety. And you feel it every time.

"He actually called right before the interview," Michael says, and you laugh again, shaking your head as you glance at him.

"I'm pretty sure now they like him more than me," you say as you shrug, the teasing slipping out easily, the kind that doesn't need to be explained because it's understood between you.

"And how about you? How do you get along with his family?" Diane asks.

"My mother and sisters adore her," Michael says with a smile, and you return it instinctively, the memory of that first meeting settling over you in a wave that feels warm even now.

You remember the way Katherine welcomed you, the way Rebbie, LaToya, and Janet looked at you with a mixture of surprise and curiosity that quickly softened into something genuine, something kind. You had felt it immediately, the shift from uncertainty to acceptance, and it had meant more than you expected it to.

"And your brothers?" Diane asks.

"They love her. They were really impressed with her work, her films," Michael says.

"And what about your father?" Diane asks.

The shift is immediate.

You feel it before you even look at him, the way Michael's hand tenses slightly on your knee, the subtle change in his posture that only you would catch, and your hand moves without thought, covering his, your fingers pressing gently in reassurance before you turn your attention back to Diane.

"I respect Joseph as someone who is older than me, because I was raised to be respectful... I respect him in the way that, without him, I wouldn't have the wonderful man beside me that I have, and that's all I have to say," you say, your voice calm but firm, the boundary clear without needing to be sharp, and it lands exactly the way you intend it to.

Diane doesn't push.

She moves on, announcing that you're going to take a commercial break, and the moment the cameraman calls it, the tension in the room shifts, the performance of it all dropping just slightly as the lights remain, but the pressure eases.

You turn to Michael immediately, the concern you had been holding back surfacing the second you're allowed to let it.

"You holding up?" You ask, and he nods.

"Easier with you here," he says, and the simplicity of it makes your chest soften, your smile coming without effort as he leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple.

You lean into him instinctively, letting yourself have that moment, brief as it is, because you need it too.

You can feel it now, the weight of the interview, the way Diane's questions cut in at times, the way she tries to move past your answers to get to something else, something more, and it sits under your skin in a way you don't like. You're used to media, used to being around it, but not like this, not when it's your life being pulled apart in real time.

You can't wait for it to be over.

The cameraman announces you're coming back from commercial, and the shift happens just as quickly as before, the space tightening again as everything resets, and Michael's hand finds yours, squeezing gently, grounding you as you both settle back into place, leaning subtly into each other as you turn back toward Diane.

"We have some wedding video of the two of you, and I'm gonna let you tell us a little bit about what we're seeing here. We will take you there... a year ago, right?" Diane asks, and you nod, your attention already shifting toward the monitor as the memory starts to rise before the footage even plays.

"Yes, just about," you say, and the moment the home video appears, it feels like the room softens around you, the sharpness of the lights and the weight of the interview fading just enough to let you fall back into that day.

You remember how nervous you had been, how your hands wouldn't stay still no matter how many times you told yourself to breathe, how everything about it felt bigger than it was because it mattered so much. It had been small, private, exactly what you both wanted.

"My god, I look like a nervous idiot," you say as you watch yourself on the screen, the memory of that feeling still lingering somewhere in your chest, and Michael lets out a soft laugh beside you, shaking his head immediately.

"Baby, you don't look like an idiot. You look beautiful, like you always do," Michael says, and when you turn to him, you roll your eyes playfully, but the warmth of his words settles into you anyway, familiar and sincere in a way that never feels rehearsed.

You look back at the screen, your gaze shifting to him in the video instead, and your expression softens without you meaning for it to, because he had looked beautiful that day. His hair was still long and curly then, pulled back loosely with pieces falling around his face, something effortless about it that made him look softer, more like himself than the version the world was used to seeing.

"I do... I do," Michael teases from beside you as you watch, his voice pulling you back into the present as you laugh, the sound slipping out easily.

On the screen, he moves with that same restless energy you know so well, shifting on his feet, rising up slightly on his toes, making small faces as he glances around the room, and you shake your head with a quiet laugh, because even then, even in a moment as important as that, he had still been himself.

The video moves forward, and when it reaches the part where you exchange rings, the heat creeps up your neck before you can stop it, a blush spreading across your face as you watch the two of you fumble through the moment, your voices uncertain, asking the priest to repeat himself because neither of you could quite get the words right the first time.

"So, you, Mrs. Jackson, I know you wanted to talk about this. There were some doubts, suspicions that you were just with Michael for his money, since the marriage came about so abruptly," Diane says, and the shift back into the interview is immediate, the weight of it returning, but it doesn't settle the same way it had before.

You let out a small laugh, more incredulous than anything, because the question feels tired, predictable in a way that almost makes it easier to answer.

"All I can say is... it's crap," you say, and Michael lets out a quiet laugh beside you, the agreement clear without him needing to say it. "I'm sorry, but it is. You all know my family. We're the second M in MGM Studios, we practically built the film industry... why would I need Michael's money? Why would I need to capitalize on his money when I come from old money? I wouldn't get married for any other reason than being in love, and honestly? The press and anybody else can kiss my ass if they think any differently," you say with a shrug, the words landing exactly how you intend them to, unfiltered but grounded in truth, and beside you, Michael laughs again, softer this time, while even Diane lets out a small laugh, the tension easing just slightly.

"What is it you love the most about him?" Diane asks as she points to Michael, and the shift in the question feels different, softer, pulling you somewhere more honest rather than something you have to defend.

You turn to him, and he's already looking at you, that same gentle smile on his face, a faint blush touching his cheeks as he waits for your answer, and for a second, everything else falls away.

"What do I love most about him? His mind... this man is a genius, and I don't just mean musically. Ever since working with him on Thriller, I have always admired how his brain works, how he sees music, lives it, interprets it... He's so creative and kind. I've admired him since 1982. I respect him, I'm in love with him, and we don't sleep in separate bedrooms, thank you very much," you add, the last part slipping in easily, a quiet pushback against something that never should have mattered in the first place. "I love everything about Michael, his mind, his heart, the person he is underneath the person the world claims they know," you say, and the way he looks at you after you finish is softer than anything else in the room, something private settling into his expression even with the cameras still rolling.

"You don't sleep in separate bedrooms, got that... however, there is one question that your fans have been wanting to be asked—" Diane begins, and you can already feel where she's going with it, the predictability of it settling in before she even finishes.

"Do we have sex?" you tease, the words slipping out before she can finish, and the reaction is immediate: Michael turns to you, laughing, his shoulders shaking as he looks at you in disbelief, while Diane stops short mid-sentence, caught off guard.

"We have—you—" Diane cuts herself off as it fully registers, and now you're laughing too, the sound breaking through the tension that had been building, Michael's laughter blending with yours in a way that feels completely unfiltered.

"She didn't ask... she didn't ask that. You don't know what it was going to be," Michael says as he lifts his hand to your mouth, trying to stop you, but there's no real effort behind it, just playful disbelief, his touch light and familiar.

You laugh against his hand, grabbing it and pulling it away as you turn back to Diane, still smiling.

"Is that what you were going to ask?" you ask, and there's a spark of amusement still sitting in your tone, even as she regains control of the moment.

Instead of answering, Diane rolls a clip, and the room shifts again as the screen fills with different voices, different faces, fans asking the same things in different ways, questioning if the two of you are intimate, if you really love each other, if this is real or just something constructed for the public to consume.

By the time it ends, you're already shaking your head, the disbelief sitting heavier now, less amused and more tired.

"I can't believe that," Michael says, shaking his head, and you feel it beside you, the way it unsettles him more than he lets on.

"Wow," you say, the word coming out a little louder than you intend, because hearing it all back like that makes it feel even more ridiculous.

"This is about the skepticism of how quickly this came along," Diane says.

"Yes! Yes, yes. Michael and I have sex, good sex... and this didn't come along 'quickly', that's just what it seems like to everyone else because of the VMAs last year, but Michael and I have known each other for years. We've been married for a year, yes, but we dated for almost 3 years prior," you say, the frustration slipping through now, not uncontrolled, but no longer softened either.

"We also read in the papers that you're expecting a child," Diane says, and this time the reaction is different, lighter, a laugh slipping out of you before you can stop it.

"We're not expecting a child right now," you say, and beside you, Michael shakes his head, the denial immediate.

"And when? We're not gonna say. That's in the hands of the Heavens," Michael says, and you turn toward him with a small smile, the answer so distinctly him that it settles something in you again.

"But not yet?" Diane asks.

"That's what we just said, isn't it?" you respond, the edge in your tone just noticeable now, not sharp enough to disrupt the flow, but enough to show you're losing patience with the repetition.

"Marriage of convenience, that comment was interesting to me, that's very interesting to me," you say at the same time Michael is saying, "It's ridiculous."

The overlap lands in unison, the agreement immediate, and you glance at him for a second, that shared frustration turning into something steadier as you both face forward again.

"Why?" Diane asks.

"Why wouldn't it be? Why wouldn't he and I have a lot in common? That's the question, why not?" you ask, your voice firm, grounded in something deeper than irritation, something rooted in the truth of what the two of you are.

"Like, we're faking this?" Michael asks as he shakes his head, the disbelief clear in the way he says it, not angry, just unable to understand how anyone could reduce something real to something so hollow.

"First of all, we're together all the time. Second thing, how can you fake that 24 hours a day with somebody? Sleeping next to someone, waking up with someone, running around the house. You've been in our house; we have a normal house, we have a maid. He'll be in the studio, I'll be in the kitchen or my office working... I know it's hard to believe, but we are people too," you say, and as you speak, your hand settles more firmly over his again, grounding both of you in the reality you're trying to explain.

"And you go shopping together," Diane says.

"Yes, we go shopping, we go to dinner, we argue... not often," you say, and the slight shift in your tone brings a reaction from him immediately. You feel it before you see it, the way his gaze turns to you, and when you look over, he's already smiling, something playful settling into his expression.

"About what? May I say?" He teases, and you laugh again, the sound softer now, the tension easing just slightly under something more familiar.

You can feel the interview starting to wind down, or at least you hope it is, the weight of it sitting heavier now than it had at the beginning. Diane cuts to another commercial, and when the cameras drop, the room exhales again, but the shift doesn't last long before everything resets.

When you come back, she pivots, bringing up the promotional video for HIStory, and you feel the frustration return almost immediately, sharper this time, because you can hear it in the way she interrupts him, the way she pushes past his explanations before he can finish them.

You watch him try to answer, see the way he keeps getting cut off, and something tightens in your chest, protective in a way that feels instinctive.

When Diane rolls the clip, you don't hesitate.

You lean closer to him, your hand sliding gently over his arm as you pull him toward you just enough to be heard without anyone else catching it.

"I'll shut this interview down if you want me to," you whisper, the offer quiet but completely real, because you would, without question.

Michael shakes his head, turning slightly toward you, and there's something softer in his expression again, something that pushes past everything else happening around you.

"I love you," he whispers, pressing a kiss against your temple, and the moment settles there, small and steady, untouched by the cameras still rolling.

When the video is over, she and Michael go back and forth a little about what it means, and you stay quiet, your hand still resting over his, your thumb moving slowly against his skin as you listen, letting him speak for himself the way you always try to, even when you don't like the direction things are starting to go. You can feel it shifting, though, the tone of her questions, the way she pushes, and it sits under your skin in a way that makes it harder to stay silent.

And then she asks it.

Even with the acknowledgment that he had already addressed it with Oprah, she still asks him if he wishes he were still black, and something in you snaps before he even has the chance to respond.

"Okay, we're done here, I think you have enough," you say, shaking your head, the words coming out firm and immediate, cutting through the room before anyone can redirect it.

"Mrs. Jackson—" you don't let her finish, your attention already shifting away from her as you turn toward the crew instead, your voice carrying in a way that leaves no room for misunderstanding.

"Cut the cameras off, I'm serious," you say, and there's no hesitation in you, no wavering, just certainty, and they hear it.

There's a beat of tension before Diane smoothly calls for a commercial break, the practiced professionalism kicking in, and the moment the cameras cut, the atmosphere changes completely.

You turn back to her immediately, the restraint you had been holding onto gone now that there's no audience to manage.

"Are you out of your mind, asking him a question like that?" You ask, your voice sharp with disbelief, with anger that you don't bother softening.

"Baby, it's okay—" Michael starts, his voice calm, trying to ground the moment, but you cut him off before he can finish.

"No, it's not okay. And we're done. People wanted to know about our marriage; well, now they know. He addressed his vitiligo during his interview with Oprah, and he doesn't owe anyone any explanations. He didn't even owe anyone the explanation he gave to Oprah. You and your crew can pack up and leave our home," you say, each word steady, unwavering, because this isn't something you're willing to compromise on.

"But the segment isn't over," she says.

"Well, we are, so I guess you can figure it out," you say as you push yourself up from the seat, the decision already made, your body following through before anyone else can try to stop you.

You don't look back as you walk off the set, the air feeling different the second you step away from it, like you can finally breathe again, but you hear him behind you, his footsteps quickening to catch up.

You don't have to turn to know it's him.

By the time you make it across the ranch, the distance between you and everything that just happened finally settling, his hand finds yours, warm and familiar, and he gently pulls you to a stop.

You turn back toward him, and the moment you see his face, the tension you've been carrying softens instantly, your expression easing, your eyes losing that edge.

"I'm sorry, baby... I just... that question was not okay," you say, your voice quieter now, the frustration still there but softened by the way he's looking at you.

He shakes his head, his gaze steady as he looks down at you, no trace of anger anywhere in it.

"I'm not mad at you, baby... honestly, the way you took control and ended that interview, it was actually very sexy," Michael says, a small smirk pulling at his lips as he looks at you.

The shift catches you off guard, and you laugh, the sound lighter now as your arms come up around his neck, pulling yourself closer to him.

"Sexy?" You ask, and he nods, not missing a beat.

"Very," he says as he leans down to kiss you, and the moment his lips meet yours, it feels grounding in a completely different way, his touch warm and familiar, but firmer than before, like he's pouring something unspoken into it.

He deepens the kiss without hesitation, his hand pulling you closer against him as his tongue brushes over your bottom lip, and you respond just as naturally, your lips parting for him as a quiet sound slips from you, soft but real, only encouraging him further as he kisses you with more intention, more feeling, like everything from the interview is being left behind in the space between you.

"Take me home," you whisper against his lips, the words barely there but filled with everything you hadn't been able to say out loud in that room, everything you had held in while cameras were watching and questions kept coming.

Michael doesn't hesitate.

His arms hook underneath you in one smooth motion, lifting you like it's instinct, like there was never another option, and you wrap your arms around his neck as he carries you across the ranch, your body pressed against his, the world around you fading with every step he takes. You don't care that you're outside, that anyone could see, you just need him, and he knows it.

By the time he gets you back to the house and up to your bedroom, there's no space left between you that isn't filled with something warm and urgent and entirely yours.

He lays you back on the bed gently, careful even now, even with the way his breathing has changed, even with the way his hands linger on you like he's trying to hold onto the moment as much as step into it. He leans over you, his body settling over yours, and you look up at him, a small smile pulling at your lips despite everything.

"Hmm, should we make a video for your fans?" you tease, the memory of the interview still lingering just enough to make the joke land, and immediately, you see the reaction you were expecting.

Michael flushes, shaking his head as he lets out a soft, embarrassed laugh, his eyes dropping for a second before coming back to you.

"You're so bad," he says, and the warmth in his voice makes your smile deepen as your hands come up to cup his cheeks.

"You love it," you say, and he nods without hesitation.

"I love you," he says, and the words settle into you just as he leans down to kiss you again, softer at first, slower, like he's letting himself feel it fully now that nothing is interrupting him.

His hands move to your blazer, fingers slipping under the fabric as he gently tugs it off your shoulders, taking his time instead of rushing, even though you can feel the way he wants to. He lets it fall to the floor without looking, his focus staying on you as his hands move to the buttons of your blouse, undoing them one by one while your fingers mirror him, working at the buttons of his red shirt.

Your lips don't leave his.

Every movement is shared, every breath brushing against each other as you both take your time undressing one another, not out of hesitation, but because neither of you wants to miss any part of it. When he finishes with your blouse, he slips it off your shoulders, his fingers grazing your skin as it falls away, his touch lingering just long enough to make your breath catch.

His hands trail down your body slowly, intentionally, until they settle at the waistband of your pants, and there's a shift in him then, something less patient, something deeper, like everything you did out there, standing up for him, choosing him without hesitation, is still sitting in his chest.

He doesn't want to hold back anymore.

He pulls your pants down, the movement more urgent now, and you help him, kicking them off once they reach your ankles, leaving you in your red lace lingerie. The contrast makes him pause, just for a second, and when he pulls back to look at you, really look at you, he bites his lip, his gaze softening.

"You're so beautiful," he murmurs, and this time it lands differently, heavier, like he needs you to feel it.

He leans down again, his lips finding your skin, starting at your neck, slower now but no less intentional, trailing downward as your head tilts back, your eyes closing as you let yourself sink into it. His touch follows where his lips go, his hands steady, grounding, and without breaking from you, he pulls his shirt off, tossing it aside to join the rest of your clothes scattered on the floor.

You sit up just enough to reach behind your back, unhooking your bra, letting it fall away without a second thought before your hands come back to him, cupping his cheeks again, pulling him back into a kiss as you lie back down, the moment pulling you both deeper into each other, into something that feels yours entirely.

You feel Michael's hand palm your breasts, and you moan into his mouth, making him kiss you harder as he squeezes your breasts. Two of his fingers are finding your nipple and rubbing over the sensitive area. You run your fingers through Michael's hair as his fingers continue to tease you. Your hand moves down his body, moving lower until you feel the bulge growing against his boxers. You palm him, and Michael moans into your mouth, kissing you harder.

Your movements are slow, wanting to take your time. You pull his boxers down, letting him spring free, and you grip him. Michael kisses you harder as you begin to stroke him, keeping your motions purposely slow. Michael pulls away from the kiss, replacing his hands with his mouth on your breast.

You grip him tighter, and you feel him moan against you, his tongue flicking across your nipple while your thumb rubs over his tip. You feel Michael's body shudder, the warmth of your touch spreading through him like a wildfire. You feel Michael lift off your nipple with a pop, and he moves to your other breast, doing the same thing. Your hand moves faster against him, and his tongue flicks faster across your nipple.

When Michael lifts up from you, you press against his shoulders until he's sitting on the bed. You stay on your knees beside him, gripping him in your hand again, and you lower your mouth onto him. Michael's breath hitches at the point of contact, a soft groan coming from him as he feels the warmth of your mouth wrap around him like a blanket.

You hollow your cheeks as you slowly move down on him, your hand following the pace of your mouth as you move back up. Michael's hands are immediately in your hair, gripping it to keep it out of your face and keep himself steady.

You keep your pace steady, moving just at the right speed to make Michael feel everything without dragging it out too slow. Your lips stop on the tip, lightly sucking as your hand still strokes him, and Michael bucks his hips as you sink back down, pushing him deeper into your mouth.

"You take me so good, baby," Michael moans as his grip on your hair tightens, not in a painful way. It only stirs you up more, making you move a bit quicker. You love feeling Michael coming apart under you, and you love knowing that you're the one who gets this reaction out of him: that it's for you alone and no one else.

Michael guides your head back down, and you take him deeper until you feel him completely in your throat, and then you pull up, softly gasping to catch your breath, and Michael pulls you up, immediately pressing his lips against yours. He stands up from the bed, pulling you with him, and you wrap your arms around him as he gently presses you against the wall.

He pulls back from the kiss and leans toward your ear, and you hear how his breath catches in his throat, uneven and strained in a way that sends a quiet shiver down your spine, your body reacting to the sound of him before anything else. "Baby... I need to feel you," Michael says, his voice coming out low and raspy. You nod as you bring his face back to yours, kissing him again, slower this time, deeper, your lips lingering against his as his hands find the waistband of your panties and pull them down.

You step out of them, and Michael lifts one of your legs, wrapping it around his waist as he grabs his length, lining himself up with you, his movements guided by instinct more than thought. He rubs himself against you, coating himself with your wetness, and your breath hitches sharply, the sensation pulling a quiet reaction from you while Michael bites back a moan, the sound low and strained.

"Michael, please..."

He kisses you again as he slips into you, slowly, letting your body adjust inch by inch, and the stretch pulls a soft, unsteady breath from your lips as your body opens for him, welcoming him in a way that feels both familiar and overwhelming all at once. You part your thigh from his hip, just a little wider without thinking, needing more of him, and when he finally settles fully against you, your fingers tighten against him instinctively, your body pulling him closer like you don't want even a fraction of that closeness to disappear.

Your breath stutters as your body adjusts around him, the initial stretch easing into something warmer, something heavier, settling low in your body in a way that makes it impossible to stay still beneath him. Your forehead presses against his, your eyes falling closed as you let yourself feel it fully, let yourself sink into it instead of rushing past it.

Then he moves.

The rhythm builds slowly at first, deliberate, controlled, like he's still holding onto you even as the intensity begins to rise, and you feel every thrust, every movement pulling you further into him, your bodies meeting and drawing together again and again. Your breathing breaks softly between you, uneven, your chest tightening from how much you feel all at once: how close he is, how present he is, how completely he's here with you.

The deeper he goes, the more the feeling builds, coiling low and tight, your body responding without hesitation, without resistance. Your body trembles against him, your back arched against the wall, and your control slipping with each movement as Michael's voice breaks against your ear, grounding and undoing you at the same time. "You feel so good... You always feel so good," he kisses the skin behind your ear, trailing his lips down, and the warmth of it sends another wave through you, sharper this time.

"M–Michael," your moan comes out with a shaky breath, your voice unsteady as he squeezes your hips, holding you firmly, keeping you right there with him.

"I feel you, baby... just a little more, you can take it," he whispers before kissing you hard, deeper this time, increasing the speed of his thrusts, and the shift pulls you closer to the edge faster than you expect. Heat gathers low in your abdomen, tightening, building until it feels like it might consume you entirely, your body reacting in waves you can't control.

"Let go, mama, come for me," he mumbles against your lips, kissing you again. Your legs shake beneath him, your grip tightening as your orgasm finally breaks through you, overwhelming and consuming, the sensation pulling you under as you cling to him, unable to do anything but feel it.

He slows down his thrusts, not stopping, but steadying you through it, his movements softer now, guiding you through the aftershocks as they ripple through your body, your breathing uneven, your body still sensitive, still reacting in small tremors that take their time fading.

He kisses you again, softer this time, grounding, and you barely have time to catch your breath before you feel the shift in him, the tension building, the way his movements falter just slightly as he reaches his own orgasm. You feel him tense inside of you before warmth spreads, filling you, and Michael moans into your mouth, the sound deeper, fuller, as he releases into you, holding you close as everything settles around you both.

Michael stays close once he comes down from his high, his lips soft as he peppers kisses across your face, your cheek, your jaw, your temple, like he's grounding himself in you all over again as you hold him just as tightly. "I love you... I love you so much," he whispers into your skin, pressing a kiss to your neck as he buries his face there.

"I love you more, Michael," you whisper. He lifts your other leg, fully picking you up, and he carries you back to the bed, gently lying you down before going to the bathroom to grab what he needs to clean up.

When he returns, his movements are tender as he kneels beside you again. He leans in, kissing you slowly, deeply, as he cleans the sticky mess between your thighs. You kiss him back just as deeply, your hands finding him instinctively, the connection between you still strong, still present, even in the quiet moments after.

He takes care of himself as well, before tossing the towel aside once he's finished, his attention shifting back to you immediately, like it never really left in the first place. There's no distance in him, no lingering hesitation, just that same quiet pull back toward you, toward the place he always returns to.

Without a word, he gathers you into his arms, drawing you close against his chest, his body folding around yours instinctively, naturally, like it's something ingrained in him now, the way he fits around you, the way he holds you like that's exactly where he belongs. You go just as easily, settling into him, your face tucking into the nape of his neck as you breathe him in, the steady rhythm of his breathing grounding you as everything else slowly fades.

The adrenaline from earlier, from the interview, from everything that followed, begins to settle, easing out of your body in slow waves as you lie there with him, wrapped up in something far quieter, far more real than anything you had just endured.

"Thank you for what you did today," Michael whispers, his voice low, softer than it had been all night, and you don't need him to explain it, don't need him to say more, because you felt it too, the moment everything shifted and you stepped in without thinking.

You tilt your head up to look at him, your expression softening the second your eyes meet his, and your hand comes up without thought, your thumb brushing gently across his cheek, tracing something quiet and familiar there.

"I'll always stand up for you, Michael," you whisper, and there's no hesitation in it, no weight of what it might mean later: just truth, simple and steady.

He leans down to kiss you again, and this time it's different from before, slower, deeper in a way that doesn't rush, doesn't need to prove anything, just holds. There's something in it that feels like everything he isn't saying out loud, everything he doesn't need to, because you already understand it.

When you pull away, you don't go far, tucking yourself back into him, your body fitting against his as easily as it always does, a quiet exhale leaving you as you let yourself settle fully into the moment.

"I love you," you whisper, the words barely louder than your breath, but they land exactly where they need to.

Michael presses a soft kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering there for a second longer than necessary as his eyes close, his body relaxing more completely now that you're wrapped around him, now that everything has gone quiet.

"I love you more," he whispers back.

The room settles around you, the only sound left the steady rhythm of your breathing, the quiet rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek, his heartbeat soft and constant in your ear. The interview, the questions, the tension, it all slips away, fading into something distant and unimportant.

Here, none of it matters; it's just this... just the two of you.

And the peace that comes from knowing you don't have to fight to be understood, not when you already are.

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