intro ✴︎⸝꙳.˖𖥔݁˖๋ ( 6.2k ) childhoodbsf!popstar!reader x bad!michael jackson.
notes ⁺˚♪º·˚ 𝟏𝟖+ ; sensual onstage duet ⋆ very explicit cum imagery ⋆ semi-public penetrative sex in dressing room, unprotected with creampie
𝟎𝟔/𝟐𝟐/𝟐𝟔: 𝑀𝑖𝑐𝘩𝑎𝑒𝑙 𝐽𝑎𝑐𝑘𝑠𝑜𝑛ˊ𝑠 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑚𝑒𝑟 𝑡𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑠𝑒𝑐𝑢𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑦 𝑠𝑢𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑣𝑖𝑠𝑜𝑟 𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑎𝑘𝑠 𝑜𝑛 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑙𝑎𝑡𝑒 𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟ˊ𝑠 𝑏𝑎𝑐𝑘𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑔𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑐𝑠 𝑖𝑛 𝑛𝑒𝑤 𝑡𝑒𝑙𝑙-𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑣𝑖𝑒𝑤.
“I always found it hilarious whenever they'd report that he was gay or asexual or whatever. There were so many people who assumed that, just because of all the shit the media spewed. I toured with him in the late eighties, and I can tell you now that Michael Jackson couldn't have been any further from asexual. I don't think any of the other guys in his entourage have ever said this before and I probably shouldn't be sayin' it myself, but we had first-hand experience of just how high that man's sex drive was. There'd be times where in that break just before the encore, Mike would rush backstage, take his girl from the wings, and they'd be fuckin' like animals in his dressin' room. No, I'm not kiddin'. We could always hear 'em from the other side of the door. All that adrenaline—the rush from performin', the screamin' fans, those hip thrusts he'd be doin' all the time... it's hardly surprisin'. And he couldn't even wait until the show had finished. Wait, don't go askin' her about this now—I think I've said too much. [laughter] But just know, if you were ever at a show where you thought the encore was takin' forever to start, that's probably what was happenin'."
𝐌𝐚𝐲 𝟐𝟑, 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟖 ╱ 𝓢𝒕𝒂𝒅𝒊𝒐 𝓕𝒍𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒊𝒐, 𝑹𝒐𝒎𝒆, 𝑰𝒕𝒂𝒍𝒚…
On a genial spring night in Italy's metropolis, you watched from the sidelines as your husband performed the 55th show of his current world tour. He'd been onstage for almost two hours now, delivering a sensational, top-notch performance as usual, and as you took in the delirious screeches and the incessant fainting in the crowd below, you realised that if you were to be truly honest with yourself, in that moment you weren't feeling all too different to those women. Having known Michael since the age of eleven and having been in a relationship with him for ten years, one might take the assumption of most marriages: the belief that the longer an individual spends their life with somebody, the less likely they are to maintain thrill and satisfaction in that shared life.
In your case however, you never for one moment took for granted the fact that you were married to the sexiest man alive. You saw him in his softest, most vulnerable moments, cared for him in the times where sex was the last thing on your mind, but it really wasn't possible for the wife of Michael Jackson to ever 'get used' to the way he looked and behaved onstage (and in the bedroom). No, you weren't screaming or fainting, but you sure as hell felt like doing so. Those girls in the audience had no idea that even owning the man they yearned for didn't calm the insatiable desire. Your urge to jump him was constant.
So instead of displaying your emotions in that humorously frantic way, you were leaning against a wall with a glass of white wine, lip bitten between your teeth, freshly applied gloss already semi-faltering as you stood restlessly. You were wearing a champagne pink satin dress, adorned with a silver crystal trim tracing the neckline and running in curved lines down the bodice. The back was mostly left open, crossed with delicate strands of crystals, an image coordinated with the silver platform heels on your feet. Smoky blue-grey eyeshadow dressed up your striking eyes, contrasting with the opposing colour structure of your dress; and your lips were a glossy nude, highlight shimmering on your cheekbones.
Just after Michael entered the stage at eight thirty, your makeup team had carefully dolled you up, because tonight you would be performing The Way You Make Me Feel with your husband during the encore. Initially you were going to perform your collaboration, I Just Can't Stop Loving You, like you had done in the past, but due to prior engagements you couldn't get to the stadium on time for a song so early in the setlist.
As Michael's forever muse, you starred in every single one of his music videos, for he felt it a disservice and a strong level of disrespect to ever consider casting another woman—even when you were at your busiest and he had to keep messing the director around with constant rescheduling—because you were his star girl. He didn't write all the songs he released, but each one he attached to you—and therefore, it would be incredibly out of alignment if he was to assign the role of leading lady to anyone other than you.
In the music video for TWYMMF, you wore a classic tight black mini dress, a dark look to bode relevantly with the purpose and scenery, but tonight you were wearing the direct opposite, on intention. You'd accompanied Michael for the song several times previously on the tour—whenever you could be in the same city as him, he always convinced you to join him for various performances—and you often liked to switch up your look, never wanting to give the audience the same thing one too many times. You were known for your glittery, colourful numbers, whereby as the world's biggest pop princess, you and your team never chose designs half-heartedly. Tonight you looked breathtaking, and soon enough you would display tonight's carefully crafted look to the thousands of fans beyond. Unless someone caught a glimpse of you backstage, your entrance was always a surprise for everybody, because you liked to maintain the element of mystery regarding when you'd show up. It always made for the best reaction.
But there was something else you and Michael had planned prior to your dazzling appearance, and it was all you could think about as you stood there waiting for the main show to cease. He was in the middle of performing Bad, dressed in his signature black-and-white and dancing across the stage seamlessly, those hips moving with a mind of their own...
God, you were in heat.
You took fast, repetitive sips of your wine almost as a compulsion to calm the overly wild thoughts racing through your mind, but what settled you more than anything was the knowledge that Michael was on your same level of arousal. Performing the way he did, so explicitly sexual, had him aching for you at the end of every single concert—unable to function socially on the nights you weren't there, which unfortunately for him was most nights.
That voice, those grunts in between lines, that long curly hair spilling out of his useless hairtie, those fucking hip thrusts... You sometimes wished he wouldn't do them so much because the impact they had on you was absolutely ridiculous. It was embarrassing how easily soaked your panties became whenever you took in the sight from the wings, because not only were the moves inherently sexy, but you knew exactly what those hips could do during intimacy. All those other girls were down there fawning over their mere imagination, but you knew just how incredible that man was in bed.
You altered between sighing, rolling your eyes in frustration, tapping your heel and fidgeting agitatedly, all while unable to take your eyes off the sensation in front of you. Your baby was a star—so completely captivating, and sometimes you struggled to believe he was real, with an equally stunned reaction to his existence as the screaming fans.
And with regard to the fabric over your nether region, they were indeed entirely soaked. You'd definitely need to change them before going onstage, because of course performing to the public in drenched panties was highly inappropriate. You even felt a little uncomfortable now, in a space with only two members of Michael's backstage team.
The material clung to your dripping folds, already skimpy enough before the sticky mess you'd exuded had transformed it from a thong into something completely useless. You couldn't stop daydreaming about how in just under a minute your husband would rush through, whisk you away and happily make use of that sloppy liquid. There would be no time for foreplay, so the wetter you were, the better. It was pretty reasonable to assume that nobody backstage had any lube hanging around; and so, via that perspective, the embarrassing amount of wetness had quite a necessary positive use in such an environment.
Through a little more frustration you waited, feeling as though you'd just been edged for the better part of two hours, but finally you heard the song fading out, watching as Michael skipped up and down, waving.
"I love you!" he shouted to the crowd, and then without looking back, he rushed offstage and into the wings.
Immediately, his eyes locked onto yours, and he pretty much sprinted over, hardly breathless despite all the dancing he'd done that night.
The two men that had been stood near you turned the opposite way as if on cue, knowing that while you and Michael were in fact in public, what the pair of you were about to display would be much too private to bear witness to.
Instantly, you slammed your drink down on the table beside you and collapsed into his kiss, neither of you needing to initiate anything with words. His hands gripped your hips, holding you to him as his tongue wove through your eager mouth.
"Mm, baby, I've been goin' crazy back here," you moaned against his lips, uncaring about the dripping sweat running down his face and onto yours, although you very much should have cared, because if you wanted to spend the break before the encore fucking, there was no time to fix your freshly applied makeup.
But was it really surprising that in your man's arms, you could think of nothing else? In that moment he could've created a tear in your dress and you wouldn't have batted an eyelid.
"I know, honey, jump," Michael murmured against your cheek, running his hands down to your ass and squeezing as you jumped up into his hold. Your arms went around his neck with a happy squeal, legs locking around his waist, and he gave a light smack to your ass before carrying you down the hallway. You didn't appreciate how fast you guys had to be, but you did enjoy that such a small time slot meant you'd be getting fucked hard, with zero teasing.
"My panties are ruined, Mikey," you whined into his ear as he rushed to his dressing room, bouncing you a little in his arms. You felt delirious at the feeling of his warm forehead on yours, and his familiar scent lighting up your senses.
"Thought as much, baby," he whispered back. "'s okay, 'm here now."
You giggled as he sped past the murmurs and knowing looks of his entourage, the whole group so fed up of the pair of you. They all loved you, but it was honestly much easier to work with Michael on the days he didn't have you there as a distraction.
Finally, you were in his dressing room, under fluorescent lights and amongst a scattered mess of items. Michael slammed the door behind you both—not meaning to be so aggressive with the action, but naturally it spoke of the passion within. He reached one arm down to twist the lock, now holding you up with just one, and then before you knew it you were hoisted up against a wall right beside the door, legs still wrapped tight around your man's waist.
You dragged him back into a heavy kiss again, tongues making the most lewd noises, merged with the hums and whines spilling from your throats. Your hands moved up and down from the nape of his neck to his pretty curls, getting tangled in the damp strands, while Michael's hands kept a firm grip on your hips and thighs, keeping you secure. And now, of course you had to be quick, so each of Michael's actions escalated quickly. It stunned you how rapidly he undid his heavy belt and dragged down the zipper of his black slacks to pull out his cock from his boxers. He breathlessly tugged at his aching shaft decorated with streaks of milky-white precum.
And at the mere viewing of his huge length being stroked through his slender fingers, unconsciously your eyes rolled back with a groan.
"Mm, honey..." you sighed, gripping his shoulders with need.
"Just a second, angel," he murmured, still gliding his wetness over the flushed flesh, biting his lip as he did. Miraculously, he'd managed to reserve a hard-on until right at the very end of his performance, despite the fact that he'd been thinking about you the entire time.
But he'd been dancing on thin ice throughout the last ninety seconds of Bad, already half-hard at the excitement of knowing he was about to be backstage with you. He'd spent that part rushing up and down the stage much more than he usually did, because he couldn't exactly stand directly under the lights while that happy problem existed at his lower half.
Finally, he reached a hand under your pretty pink dress, and ran his fingers along the tiny material saturated with your cum.
"Oh, pretty baby..." he whispered, kissing at an erogenous zone on your neck as he slid the futile panties to the side and smeared your cunt with its gushing liquid. "Made a mess while watchin' me, huh?"
You nodded quickly, humming in response.
"'s a good thing y' don't need foreplay," Michael muttered, "'cause there's no time—jus' need to get in this sweet lil pussy..."
He casually smacked the head of his cock over your throbbing clit, and you trembled in his arms.
"Nngh, Mikey… need y—oh!"
Without warning, he bottomed out in one heated thrust and nearly knocked the wind out of your lungs. Your entrance was dripping with natural lubrication, so he knew your body was more than ready for the intrusion, but your walls were always shocked by the extent of his girth, and in that moment your nerves almost seized at the sudden hit of pleasure.
"That okay, ma?" Michael whispered, stilling as he kissed your earlobe while his fingers dug into your thighs. You felt so perfectly full.
"Mhm, baby, fuck me..." you whined back, directing his face back to centre with a hand on his jaw and licking your tongue into his mouth again.
"Alright, sweet girl," he hummed against your lips.
With no time to waste—literally—Michael began harsh and speedy thrusts, hips snapping roughly to direct his flushed tip against your sweet spot every time he moved.
"Love this pussy, baby... drippin' for me... Gonna make her cum b'fore we need to get back out there, yeah? Y'gonna let me make that happen for you, mama? Y’gotta take it hard for me…”
“Yes, baby, fuck me hard—oh, shit!”
You were babbling incoherencies, entirely drunk on his cock, and it hadn’t even been two minutes. The huge, veiny weight of him ploughed relentlessly into your tight cunt, and he grunted with each thrust, face scrunched up in pleasure.
The tell-tale sound of wet slaps of skin echoed through the spacious room and out into the hallway alongside your uncontrollable moans, and the framed photograph above your head was loosening its security on the wall with every rough stroke. Michael had astonishing stamina, so usually he'd indulge in your body for quite a while before reaching his climax, but of course tonight he had to be as quick as possible, while still of course ensuring you came too.
"Yeah, feels good, pretty mama?" he whispered into your neck, beginning open-mouthed kisses with the intention to leave a bruise, before you pretty much yanked his head back.
"Michael, don't you—ugh—dare." There was no way you'd let him mark you up when you would be going onstage in front of thousands in the next ten minutes.
He chuckled against your skin, and that feeling paired with the sight of his big hand squeezing your thigh to hold it in place was driving you insane. You felt as though heaven had made its home within your core.
But suddenly, that heavenly harmony was disrupted by a shout and a knock at the door.
"Hey!" Michael's stage manager called. "Can y'all never wait 'til after? Michael, you care so much about pleasin' the audience until it gets to them waitin' 10 minutes for the encore to start!"
Michael rolled his eyes with a groan born of both pleasure and frustration, still refusing to let up his merciless rocking into you. "Whatever, I'm pleasin' my lady!"
You giggled through an angelic sigh of bliss, high off the adrenaline of your man's cock and the inherently wrong nature of your predicament. The only thing that would ever have the potency to disrupt Michael's attention toward his devoted fans was his own devotion to his wife.
The stage manager shook his head with a chuckle on the other side of the door, half disbelieving the insanity he had to deal with, but all the same being used to it.
"I don't know why I even bother," he replied. "But if you're not done in five, I'm comin' in and draggin' you out myself. Your lady's gotta get ready too, y'know. You better hope the crowd won't be able to tell what you've just been doin'."
You and Michael were only half-listening, he too pussy drunk and you entirely cock-drunk. It was wild the way your husband never stopped or even slowed for a moment while he was being berated and rushed. Neither of you had the willpower to cease this celestially impure activity.
"Yeah, 'm sorry," Michael called back, trying to bite back grunts as he did. "But are y' gonna leave us alone, or what? Y' commentary's not helpin'!"
"Whatever," the man sighed.
You laughed through a high moan, as your sweet spot was perfectly stimulated yet again. Michael was right—if there was such an issue with the two of you wasting time before the encore, then you surely didn't need the stage manager himself to slow things down further. You wouldn't climax any faster with him rushing you on the other side of the door. Really, the man had been hoping you'd put an end to the sex completely and come to your senses, but said senses were much too overcome with arousal to pay any logical reason to your surroundings.
The room felt like it was spinning, every sound feeling muffled where all the spatial and auditory factors were secondary to what your man provided. Over and over he rammed into your soaking pussy, the lewd composite of your shared wetness seeping past your entrance and leaving a pretty glisten on the top of your inner thigh.
Everything was indeed muffled, but in your haze you managed to make out the words of another man who was coming down the hallway.
"What the fuck are they doin'? I've got his clothes here for the encore."
"Just leave 'em be," another man replied. "They should be out in a few minutes."
You couldn't help the series of giggles that spilled from your mouth again, because this really was so ridiculous. Michael's team deserved a pay rise for this.
"Rub your clit f'me, honeybaby," he said softly, between masculine groans, wanting to pleasure your sensitive bud himself but unable to since he had to keep you held secure against the wall. You could tell he was close now, and you were too.
So you obliged, reaching down and rubbing in tight circles, feeling the tightness in your abdomen endeavour closer and closer to your peak.
"Oh, Michael... angel... you were so sexy out there..."
"Yeah? Y'were waitin' a while, huh?"
"So long, honey..."
"Well, y'got me now, mama, and you'll have me back in our hotel room too, hm? Y'want me to give it to y' all night?"
"Yes, all night, oh please baby—" You sounded like a whore on his cock, head almost lolling to the side at the immense sensations. "Mikey, I'm close—"
"I know, I know, y' squeezin' me so tight, sweetheart..."
Suddenly, that photograph that had been gradually loosening made a loud crash on the floor, smashing into little glass pieces. You gasped in shock, but still your husband's attention didn't falter.
"Michael!"
"Jesus Christ..." a man tutted from outside.
"Hm?" Michael sounded against your jaw, of which he was now kissing the length of.
"The photo... oh—"
"'s alright, I'll get it replaced," he shrugged, now lifting your leg higher to get the best angle as you each approached orgasm.
"Mmmmm, yes—" you nearly screamed, nails raking up and down his clothed back while you rubbed rapidly over your clit. "Oh baby, I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna—oh, fuck!"
"That's it, mama, tha's it, cum for me..." Michael hummed, talking you through the overwhelming nature of your orgasm. Your eyes had drooped shut, body feeling so light in his hold, and you briefly wondered if he'd completely knocked the energy out of you.
As you caught your breath, coming down from your heavenly high, Michael's hips were still working erratically against yours, cock pistoning in and out of your core, and finally you felt that familiar, hot seed, the milky spurts fluttering into your womb, painting your insides. He groaned unashamedly into your ear as he decorated your walls, rope after rope of heavy cum shooting into you.
Now his strokes slowed, writhing in the afterglow as he kissed all over your chest. But there was no time for aftercare.
As soon as his body felt remotely calm following the depletion of his spent arousal, he pulled out of you, leaving you whining. And then in an instant, with a quick hand he slid your panties back over into place, where immediately you felt his cum seep out of your entrance and into the material. Your eyes widened, brows furrowing in confusion.
"There," Michael said, with an amused smile and a light smack to your clothed cunt. "Saves y' legs from gettin' all messy. No time to clean y' up, baby."
You choked out shocked laughter, shuddering at the sensation of his syrupy cum oozing into your already drenched panties, as he let go of you so that you now stood on the floor in front of him. "Mic—?"
"What?" he smirked, tucking his softening cock back into his boxers and doing up the zipper of his slacks. "Y'have another pair of panties lyin' around anywhere?"
The answer to that question was of course a certain no, and therefore you had indeed fallen into his dirtily playful trap.
At the realisation, you burst into a fit of delirious giggles. What a cockslut you were, to be going onstage with your husband in panties filled to the brim with an intermingled fuse of your cum and his sticky, heavy seed. It had flooded through as soon as he'd trapped it inside, making a too-audible squelching noise as you adjusted the fabric, and the musky, slightly salty scent of sex filled the air from between your thighs.
That night, those panties were a symbol of sheer erotica, and nobody knew but the two of you. Nothing could have been more adrenaline-inciting, and Michael's eyes darkened at what was before him, but unfortunately he couldn't look for too long.
Quickly, you wiped at some of the excess that had leaked. You were still catching your bearings, in utter disbelief at the night's predicament, when Michael unlocked the door quickly and retrieved his final outfit from the assistant that had been impatiently waiting.
"Thank you," he said politely, in that beautiful, sweet cadence that to the public always automatically negated the filthy side of him that you knew. Although none of his entourage were ever fooled, of course. They were the only ones who knew what he could be like whenever you were present.
While Michael quickly got changed, you smoothed down your dress in the mirror on the opposite wall, and fixed up where your hair had become slightly askew.
Then you heard him open the door again behind you and speak to somebody. "The makeup artists can come in now."
So they did, quickly touching up your makeup and Michael's, where sweat had poured through his vitiligo patches; and then finally, you were both deemed picture-perfect. Really, there would've been no need for a touchup on your part if you hadn't been fucked dumb three minutes prior.
Now it had been just over ten minutes since Michael had left the stage, and from the dressing room you could hear the screeching fans, desperate for his return. You did feel a little bad, and hoped that your surprise presence would be enough respite for their needless wait.
Michael was now wearing a bright royal-blue button down hanging loose over a white shirt, above a new pair of black pants. And as you looked at him, you desperately wanted him to take you all over again. God, your panties were literally dripping with his fertile seed. This truly would test your ability as a performer, to somehow act normal despite what had been bestowed upon you.
Stood arm in arm at the side of the stage, preparing to go out, it was the sexiest thing on earth that your husband could be so fucking filthy with you and then maintain nonchalance as if nothing had happened. His jaw was tight as he looked ahead, mentally readying himself for the second-to-last song, yet you on the other hand were concerned you'd forget every lyric, or forget how to even move. You shuffled a little in your heels, then took a deep breath.
"Michael," you whispered with urgency.
He turned to face you, eyebrows raised in sweet concern. "Y'okay, baby girl?"
You shook your head with a low chuckle. "I can't believe you…”
But Michael only kissed your cheek with a teasing smile, soft lips heating up your already warm skin, and then he was off, with you following behind.
The stage was pitch black, and you moved to one side, while Michael took his place in the centre. Two more deep breaths, and then the spotlights shone.
First it hit Michael, to the wild screams of the audience, and then a second light hit your shining figure, achieving even wilder screams consequential to their surprise.
"You knock me off of my feet now, baby! Hoooo!"
The backing track began, and then followed the beat, where Michael danced solo around the microphone stand, and you watched him in awe. As he started to walk up and down, you began to stroll past in the opposite direction, swaying your hips to the music as you went.
Michael skipped after you, singing the opening lines. "Hey pretty baby with the high heels on..."
You blew a playful kiss to him, winking as you continued to walk, enacting the cat-and-mouse routine from the music video.
"You give me fever like I've never ever known..." He reaches out for you, a wide smile on his face while you feign ignorance, still swaying your hips nonchalantly—still while your cunt felt uncomfortably sticky, and despite how Michael could behave as nonchalant as he wanted, your messy panties were the only thing on his mind.
You noticed as his eyes kept darting to the hem of your dress, although the hem wasn't his focus.
"You're just a product of loveliness... I like the groove of your walk, your talk, your dress," Michael sung, rushing up behind you and taking hold of your hand, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.
The crowd erupted in louder screams, and you returned his kiss with a teasing smile, before swiftly turning and making your way back up to the other end of the stage again.
"I feel your fever from miles around," you begin to sing, looking behind you at Michael as you sashayed.
"I'll pick you up in my car and we'll paint the town," he sung back, stepping beside you now and picking up your hand again. In character, you shook him away, skipping along, before he spun you back by your waist, holding you to him.
Your smile beamed, eyes glowing as you swayed, one hand on your chest while delivering a pretty pout. "Just kiss me, baby, and tell me twice..."
"That you're the one for me..."
"The way you make me feel... the way you make me feel..." You both sung the chorus together, he the line itself and you the echo, coming closer to each other with playful eye contact. Michael's hand remained on your hip, gripping as he grinded his hips into the air.
He reached your arm up by your hand and spun you once, then twice back into him, so that your back was against his chest. The crowd were screeching with excitement now, and you laughed happily as your man held you.
"You really turn me on..." Now he gripped both your hips tight, grinding on you from behind, and you almost ruined your note with a moan.
"You really turn me on..." You swiftly turned to face him, holding his jaw with a teasing smile.
"You knock me off of my feet..." Michael pulled you into his chest and picked you up bridal style momentarily, before setting you back down and spinning you three times.
"You knock me off of my feet..."
Your performance together was akin to ballroom in the manner in which you were twirling around with him, where even though the music video was mere walking up and down after each other, your skill as a professional dancer would never be wasted. No matter the song, you and Michael put on a perfect display.
"My lonely days are gone..."
"My lonely days are gone..."
The second verse began, and with it the physical touch only deepened.
"I like this feelin' you're givin' me," you sung, leaning against him as he smoothed his hands down the satin of your dress just over your ass.
You turned your head with faux-surprise, mouth open in an O, while he smirked and held your hips again, moving in front of you to sing his line, his own hips practically glued to yours.
"Just hold me, baby, and I'm in ecstasy..." The final word was punctuated with a thrust and a hand to his crotch, and you felt lightheaded for a moment.
"Oh, I'll be workin' from nine to five... To buy you things to keep you by my side," he continued before your line, still grabbing at your waist and rocking his hips.
You shimmied and spun, running your hands over your body and letting them linger over your cleavage to tease. "I've never felt so in love before... Just promise baby you'll love me forevermore..." You pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, then circled around him as his gaze followed.
"I swear I'm keepin' you satisfied..."
Now behind you again, pressed up against your back, on 'satisfied' he ran both hands down your silhouette and thrust his hips into your ass. You could hear the immediate gasps echoing across the audience, but more importantly you could feel his bulge at your dress, and you giggled into the microphone dazedly, bringing your hand back to hold the nape of his neck, leaning further into his touch.
Then you stepped forward away from him, turned and pushed his chest lightly, with a beaming smirk across your face. "'Cause you're the one for me..."
In turn, he smirked too, skipping around your figure again. "The way you make me feel..."
"The way you make me feel..."
In the slight gap between your lines, you took the opportunity to say something necessary to Michael, taking hold of his hand again before dropping it sensually. "Be careful," you mouthed, gesturing your eyes downward to his crotch. If he didn't chill out a little, he'd be visibly hard, and you knew he'd never live that down.
But he bit his lip with another sweet smile, raising his brows in typical faux-innocence as he sung the next line. "You really turn me on..."
"Stop it," you mouthed, shaking your head with a laugh.
But he continued to ignore your warning, whereby you were instantly pulled into another intimate dance.
You gasped, although ridiculously betraying yourself as you instinctively swayed your ass over the very crotch you just cautioned him to be careful about.
"Dirty girl," you heard him murmur into your ear as he kissed the lobe, before singing out to the audience again. "You knock me off of my feet now, baby!"
"You knock me off of my feet..."
So now it was your turn to look up at him and shrug in faux-innocence, with a bratty smile and sex-blown eyes. As you moved, you felt more slick dripping into the disgusting mess he'd trapped your pussy in, and it only made you grind harder. Who could've guessed that such a pretty girl all dolled up in pink would have so much filth between her thighs? And the culprit of said filth was dancing right next to her, as unassuming as can be.
"My lonely days are gone..."
"My lonely days are gone..."
Michael detached himself from you now, walking behind as you sauntered ahead for this part of the song.
"Go on, girl! Go on!" he yelled, smirking as you strutted around all pretty in pink, glowing from the inside out. The noise from the crowd was deafening, and you felt on top of the world.
Your husband sung after you, while you smiled with confidence. "I've never felt so in love before... Just promise, baby, you'll love me forevermore..."
As you acted the role of a woman pushing him away, he grabbed your hips again, and rocked his against you from behind, pressing a hot kiss to the side of your neck. "I swear I'm keepin' you satisfied..."
Everything he did tonight was with much more force than the toned-down passion you'd decided on in rehearsals—or rather, what his team had decided on. Neither of you had any problem with being explicit to this degree.
You twirled in his arms, interlacing your fingers with his while your other hand met his warm chest, and as you delivered your line, your eyes bore into his. "'Cause you're the one for me..."
"The way you make me feel!"
Michael sung for the crowd, then without hesitation pressed your lips onto his—a kiss much shorter than he would've liked, but he had to kiss you in some way at least.
You beamed happily, hands on your hips with a flirtatious shrug as you looked out at the thousands beyond.
The next few lines were heard only via backing track, because Michael decided to start murmuring in your ear, at the exact same time as he resumed your grinding motions together. He felt all over your torso, wrapping his arms tight around your waist as your back again collapsed comfortably against his chest.
"Panties feel nice 'n snug, huh?"
You almost choked, but continued to smile and twist your hips for the audience, before then twisting your head to reply in his ear while he continued to sway you in his arms.
"They're a little damp, honey."
"A little?" he chuckled.
You left his hold and gave a playful smack to his chest, as if part of the choreography. And then of course you had to lean in again, to whisper-shout something else.
"Gonna need to take 'em off after."
You both continued to dance on each other as you spoke, delivering quick lines in between your speech to each other.
"I've got a few pairs of your panties in my dressin' room—I take 'em everywhere w' me," he told you—to your amazement.
You knew Michael kept at least one pair of your panties with him at all times, but he'd behaved earlier as if there were no other pairs available. This was so very typical of him—you should've known. Especially since you’d recently been wondering where several of your favourite pairs had gone.
You smacked his shoulder now, giggling as you sashayed ahead, and when he caught up again you held the back of his neck and leaned forward sensually, dragging your platform heel with a pointed dancer's sweep behind you—so graceful in your provocativeness.
"So, you had some panties for me all along," you sighed in amusement.
"Course I did, baby," Michael replied, pecking your cheek. “But y’ don’t need ‘em for the ride to the hotel. You’ll be on my lap.”
At that, your heart was racing while you walked away from him for the final time, turning to blow a kiss with a wink, and your body was aching painfully with how much you needed him again back at the hotel room . You weren't even sure you'd be able to resist him in the limo ride.
You'd spent the entire performance with his viscid, syrupy sperm swimming around in your tiny thong, beneath the ethereal enchantment of a sugar-sweet, petal-soft mini dress. Your perfect man would rip that custom-made material off of you tonight, and lick through the erotic predicament revealed underneath it. He couldn't wait to see just how dirty your puffy sex looked, completely smothered in a mixture born of your two bodies.
As you strolled offstage, you waved and blew several more kisses to the audience, while Michael's backup dancers entered the stage around him. And still, Michael couldn't take his eyes off you, raking his gaze up and down your back profile, giving you his silly attempt at a wink when you reached the wings and took a reluctant seat.
Just one more song, and then he'd be all yours until dawn.
The sound of the phone ringing snapped you out of your sleep. You glance at the clock as you stretch to the phone, it reads 2:04 am.
You reach for the phone, stretching the cord back to your original position, “Hello?” 
“Hey y/n, it’s Michael. Listen, I- I’ve got an idea. I’m down here in the studio and- I need- look I need some real rock and roll behind it.” A familiar voice responds.
You hadn’t know Michael long, you first met him at the 1984 Grammys. He congratulated you on your guitarist work in Easy Money, a competing record on Billy Joel’s An Innocent Man.
Of course, Michael blew the album out of the water with Thriller. Somehow, though, you didn’t leave mad. Michael had charm and a heart large enough to see from your seat with your then team.
- Grammys, February 18th, 1984 -
You stepped out of the limo and were immediately attacked with the cameras. “Is this your girlfriend Mr Joel?” “Are the rumors true?”
All you could see was the harsh white light as you gripped your lovers arm tightly. He led you knowingly through the crowd. He had been here before, many of times. Each time leaving with a large trophy. All you could think about was the cover of the latest tabloid story.
“Billy Joel entangled with his own guitarist”
You covered your face as you entered the door of the Shrine Auditorium. “Miss L/n, who are you wearing tonight?”
“Bob Mackie,” Billy chimed in “she’s premiering it tonight, Icicle, nothing but the best for my lover, if that’s what you call her.”
His Brooklyn accent was strong and sneaky. He sang of devoted love, but truly, he was quite sleazy. You smiled quietly at the reporter, denying to say anything, and shuffled after Billy.
The night creeped by. Michael sat two tables away, playing eye tag all night. You couldn’t help but be entranced by him. His suit dazzled in the light, his bedazzled finger tapped along to every song in support, a large smile across his face.
You glance to your left, Billy’s face is held tight, he rolls his eyes. “These people are clowns, they know nothing about real music.” Your face contorts, “I thought Michaels was pretty goo-“
“What a shmuck… that Michael, look at him, he looks like a disco ball… I can’t believe Quincy even looked his way… I don’t even know why I stopped by in Melbourne.”
You cock your head, “And that was the same day Quincy put the check your ego at the door sign on your dressing room door… so…”
He pursed his lips and looked away.
The night continued to drag. You listened to unsavory conversations between musicians while picking at the hors d’oeuvres on your plate. Billy is loud and full of himself.
Your attention is glued to the stage once the presenter appears. Thriller and An Innocent Man were neck and neck, and deep down, you knew Thrillers sound was superior.
“The Grammy goes too…”
Billy’s grip tightened on your leg, his eyes glanced from the presenter to Michael, his biggest competitor, over and over.
“Michael Jackson’s, Thriller.”
Billy slammed his hands loudly on the table, “You’re fucking kidding me.” you grit your teeth and close your eyes, “I get beat by a zombie?!” Your hands are silent while everyone, other than your band, clap in celebration.
Michael deserved it, after all. He was so kind, he sang of peace in a way that was palatable to every age. Truly, something nearly impossible.
- Grammys after party, 1984 -
“Congratulations, Mr Jackson,” You smile as you shake his hand, “Don’t tell Billy, but you deserve this…”
You glance over your shoulder, Billy is talking up Christie Brinkley. Though it wasn’t uncommon for him to do this, it still frustrated you.
“… Took a lot of time… your guitar work was incredible!” You notice you were only half listening, distracted by his large hand engulfing yours. It was clean, his nails well cared for, the veins bulged. “Oh, well, thank you, it was nothing like what you curated.”
Michael laughs, “You are brilliant.” He pulls you by your hand into a hug, “Are the tabloids true?”
Your breath hitches as he feels the beaded back panels of your dress. “Um, kind of,” you say softly.
“Well,” He whispered close to your ear, his breath smelled of mint, sultry on your skin, “If you ever change your mind, surely Billy knows how to reach me.”
He released you, your mind buzzing. He had gotten much more cocky with his success. His eyes dazzled almost as much as his suit. “About who you’re playing for, of course.”
-Current Time-
“And I kind of need you here, now,” He pleaded.
“Mike… I… alright…”
“Awesome.. I’m excited!” The phone clicks.
You sit up and run your hands over your face. You don’t care too much about what you are wearing, surely, if it is this late, Michael looks just as bad.
You brush your teeth and hair, head bobbing as you try to stay awake. You slip on a pair of sneakers and hop in your car. It purrs under you as you pull out of your apartments parking garage, headed to Havyvenhurst.
You knock on the door of the studio below the spiral staircase, a small warning before letting yourself inside. Michael is beatboxing his vision as Bill sat to the side with a cup of coffee.
“There you are!” Michael smiled.
You were wrong. He was wearing dress shoes, high waisted jeans and an oh so tight white shirt.
“Did you just wake up?” “Yes, Mike, most people are still asleep.”
“Well here’s my idea, it needs to be real mean, real bad… real… sexy…” Michael says, his back turned to you.
“I can do sexy,” You laugh, “It’s kind of my specialty.”
Micheal turns around “I know.”
His eyes meet yours, then fall down your body and climb back up again. Bills face contorts and he glances at the floor.
He explains the concept and story behind the song, Bad. You dig it, and work until the sun rises.
“That’s exactly what I wanted to hear,” Michael says, “It’s all coming together… we need to get Quincy in here as soon as possible.”
Bill nods, “I’ll make a call.” The door shuts quietly behind him.
The birds chirp outside the window. Michael stands from his chair. “Are the tabloids true?”
You purse your lips, “Yes.”
He comes closer to you, “Do you remember our talk at the after party?”
“How could I not?” You say as you look up at him, he’s standing nearly over top of you at this point.
“Well, you changed your mind, did you not?” You blushed, his hand, just as large as you recall, caresses the back of your head, fingers entangling in your hair. Suddenly, you feel much more exposed in your night dress than before. The room is quiet, the air is heavy, and the tension between the two of you builds.
You lick your lips, “yeah… I did…”
His hand moves from the back of your head down your jawline and his thumb brushes over your lips. “Good. You need creativity… room to move… to feel the rhythm… to feel-“
Bill opens the door, both your heads snap to the right. Michael’s hand falls from your face, leaving a burning impression. “Quincy will be here in two hours.” “Perfect,” Michael smiles, “Gives her time to change into something more appropriate.”
- Two weeks later -
You’ve barely seen Michael outside of studio time since the strange interaction the night Bad was born. He pretends like it didn’t happen when you arrive, no wandering eyes, no sultry voice.
Michael wants to film his music video today. Music comes togeather so quickly for him, it is effortless. You have learned that music videos and short films are much different. Short films tell a heart moving story, music videos showcase the skills of the band.
“Alright, let’s go from the top,” Michael tells the crew, “We have it together now.”
You begin to play when the cameras turn on. You’ve almost thrown out the image of Michael standing over you a few weeks ago. You tap your foot to the metronome, your fingers moving skillfully across the neck of the crystal encrusted guitar.
Michael dances to the music, drifting closer to you. Your solo is only a few seconds away, he comes closer. You attempt to focus, but feel his hand snake around your waist. His grip is like fire, leaving a burn in its place. His breath hits the crook of your neck. Quincy, Bill and the rest of the crew look on in curiosity.
SCRATCH
Your arm becomes weak and you pull all the strings at once. The cameras stop in an instant. “What was that about?” Quincy fusses, “Michael, we are here to record, not make love.”
You blush. “I’m not!” Michael fusses right back, “It’s apart of the film… it’s for the film… goodness…”
This happens take after take, the hand, the breath, the light, artistic wimpers in your ear.
“Fuck!” Quincy shouts, “Y/n, Mike, get it under control, Jesus, It’s not that hard.” He is visibly frustrated.
And Michael is visibly hard, you can feel it press into my back with every take. you can’t even think long enough to understand what Quincy is saying before Michael juts in, “Take a break everyone, let me talk to Y/N and get it sorted out.”
Michael puts his hand on the back of your neck and guides you to his dressing room. He slams the door behind him. He urges you to sit down. “Do you have a problem?”
You stall for a moment and try to find your words. You look around the dressing room. He has clothes thrown everywhere, makeup open on the counter, photos of him and his brothers through the years pasted on the wall.
One of his drawers is half open, and an erotic magazine lays on the floor beside it. A box of toys… crops, handcuffs, gags and more is also open on the other side of the chest cabinet.
Curiosity, partnered with jealousy rings through you.
“Who has he had in here? Some kind of slu-“
Your thoughts are interrupted by a sharp “Pay attention,” from Michael.
“No- no.. you just.. i’m… when… i…”
“Turn you on? Do I turn you on?” His hands twitch as he speaks.
“Well…” You press your legs together. He nudges them open with his foot, his sparkly socks catch the light.
His hand returns to the back of your head, following the same path to your lips. He parts them slightly, “Well what? Talk to me. Tell me how I make you feel.”
“Yes… yes you turn me on.” Your entire body begins to burn.
“That’s what I wanted to hear.” He smiles slightly, his eyes full of lust.
He parts your lips with his thumb and slides a finger inside. You can’t help but lean into it, running your tongue up and down his finger. You can feel the spirals of his fingertips on your tongue.
He pulls his finger out with a light pop and leans down, “Is this what you want?”
You breathe hard, “Yes.”
“You’re so confident… if only you could translate that to the guitar.” His lips touch yours.
You kiss passionately. He pushes you down on the chair, looming over top of you. “How long have you wanted this?”
He breath was just as fresh and his touch was just as hot as that faithful night at the Autotorium. “Since the Grammys,” You pant.
“I’ve wanted this since I saw you on MTV playing that guitar like that.. all I could imagine was that beautiful hand wrapped around my cock.”
Your breath hitches, you divert your gaze from Michael’s. “Really?”
“Why would I lie?”
He stands again, his hands snake down his body, stopping at his zipper. He pulls it down methodically, his veins pulsing.
He pulls his cock out, it springs to attention. “You like your mouth played with? Don’t you?”
“Yes, Sir” You nod.
“Then suck it.”
You make eye contact with his dick. His hand still rests to the side of his pelvis, his cock pulses just half a second behind his hands. It has distinct veins, just as you had imagined.
His thumb parts your mouth, your tongue plays with it. He hooks your chin and pulls you close. You barely make contact with the tip, the salty precum spreading over your taste buds. Then-
RING
Michael jumps and stuffs his erection back into his pants. It makes a distinct impression. He runs to the phone before anyone else can bust in.
“Hello?”
“So you stole my grammy and now you’ve stolen my fucking bird?” A thick Brooklyn accent shouts through the speaker.
“Billy- please, you’re interrupting. Do you talk business or bullshit?”
You are kind of taken aback, you’ve never heard Michael talk like that.
“You’re a fraud, always have been,” His mouth sounds full of food, “you’re a stupid cun-“
“Don’t call here until you get the shit out of your mouth,” Michael hangs up the phone with a sharp click.
Quincy busts open the door. “Talk over? Who’s calling? You two get back out there.”
Michael bumps shoulders with Quincy on the way out, you stand inside the room stunned with everything that has happened.
“You’ve got a loud mouth, Quincy, if this ends up on the tabloids i’m firing you, she doesn’t deserve that again.” He says without ever turning around, his voice sharp and serious.
“Maybe I should make you a sign,” Quincy retorts, never looking back to see if Michael was looking, “Y/N, get out there.”
- December, 1987 -
The crowd roars as the stage lights awaken, bright and hot.
You and Michael had established a relationship after the demands of the Bad album had subsided. Now, you tour along side your boyfriend, and you have almost gotten over the stunt he pulls during your solo.
Contrary to what had occurred months prior, you have yet to have sex with him. In fact, you have yet to see his nakedness again.
You play for Michael as he sings and dances, you watch as his body becomes drenched with sweat. He does his iconic crotch grab often, but today, his hand seems to linger longer, rubbing up and down his shaft.
Half way through Bad, Michael begins dancing his way towards you, His hand strays from the usual path. It starts at your hip, wandering around to your ass, up your back, and cups your breast.
His breath was heavy into the microphone, his moans seem less artistic and more primal as the night goes on.
The curtains close and the band comes together in celebration. The first live performance of Bad was a success. The light is still harsh, everyone is hot, but the energy from the crowd continues to pulse through your bodies.
“Oh, you’re bad,” I tell Michael as we hug. The sent of his sweat is intoxicating.
His body tenses, “T- thank you… meet me in my dressing room in ten minutes.”
He pulls away and leaves without following up. The stage lights make him glimmer like an angel. The golden pants make a clear outline of his cock. Using the clues, you understood his motives.
You walk down the backstage halls, dodging groupies and security. Girls faint, they cry and they want you to die, but, at the end of the day, you are the one Michael is holding at night.
You arrive at the door with a large star on it, it displays his name. Though you are next door to him, you lack the star.
- Dressing Room 1 -
When you open the dressing room door, he is waiting on his knees, cock standing, pulsing through the open slot of his pants.
“Michael?”
“Y/N.”
“What are you doing?”
“The force has a lot of power…” He moaned.
“Michael get up,” You say simply.
“Tell me i’m bad.” He pleaded.
“What?” you question, the only sexual encounters you’ve had with Michael have been interrupted, and each time he has been cocky, dominate and in control, not a sweaty mess, undone and erect in the floor in front of you.
“Please” His eyes looked up at you, nearly glossed over with arousal. “Tell me…”
His hand come up off the floor and onto his cock. He pumps it methodically while keeping eye contact. One hand cups his balls, the other pumping steadily as strings of precum drip onto the floor. “Tell me.. take me.. I need you..”
You step forward, “look at you… behaving so badly.”
His hand moves faster.
“You couldn’t even contain yourself on stage… you’re so bad…”
He bites his lip. Sweet moans of pleasure escape from his mouth. His eyes close, “Tell me more, please, y/n, please.”
His dressing room is different now. He has only one photo of his brothers framed and on his counter. The walls are covered in posters of himself. The box of treasures is absent, and the magazines are replaced with photos of you he has taken. He has large photos of you hanging on the wall. One of you in the bathtub at Havyenhurst, looking up at his camera, another of you half dressed doing your makeup.
Safe to say, he is utterly obsessed.
“What a dirty little slut, so needy for something you’ve never had.” You slur.
Michaels breath stops completely, his hips jolt as hot cum sprays onto the floor. Aftershock takes over his body for seconds after.
“That’s all it took?” You think to yourself
“I- um…” Michael says shyly.
“Really needed that, huh?” you say with your brows furrowed.
“Yeah, ha, I guess… I don’t know why… oh wow…”
Michaels words trails off as you lift my dress, he lays his eyes on your pussy. . “wow… it’s… beautiful wow.. what a blessing… can I put my mouth on it?”
You are so surprised by this side of Michael, but you are incredibly into it. You walk over to the couch and spread your legs, “Come here, bad dog.”
He crawls on his hands and knees to you, cock hanging out of his pants. The sequins make a scratching noise on the hardwood floor below him.
You feel his breath on your pussy, and his lips engulf it nearly entirely.
“Oh- Mike-“
“Keep. Talking.” He says between desperate laps, “Tell me. I’m bad.”
“You’re bad-“ You moan out, your breath being stolen by his skillful tongue on your clit.
Much like Michael, it doesn’t take long for the heat to build up inside your body. You grip the leather couch, your freshly done nails leaving scratches on the arm rest.
You look down and Michael is hard as a rock all over again, a pool of precum forming under him. Your hand tangles in his hair, “Mikey- I- fuck i’m-“
Before you can finish his face is sprayed with your squirt. Once he feels the convulsions of your orgasm diminish, he stands quickly, your squirt dripping down his chin, running down his neck, your cream spread on his face. The costumer is going to have a hell of a time cleaning this one up.
“Again, I need it again.” He pleads.
He slips his cock inside of you, feeling your warm walls close around his length. It’s painful, the size of him, but you are so drunk on his passion it ceases to matter.
The leather squeaks, the back of the chair slams against the wall, a loud, wet, slapping sound fills the room as his large, hanging sack slams against you.
He shoves his fingers inside your mouth for the first time in months, you suck on them, letting him gag you over and over again. His fingers slip out and he takes his hand off the wall that was stabilizing him to rip your dress apart.
His mouth falls open and his body begins to shake, “yes… show me those… makes me feel so.. mmm… good.”
You are dumbfounded, the Michael you knew is showing through. His hips rolled into you rhythmically. He leaned down and took one of your breasts into his mouth, pouncing relentlessly into you in this new, tighter, deeper, more intimate position. His sweat dripped onto you as his breathing got heavier.
“Y/n… I’m going to…”
His body froze, all his muscles spasmed at once as he shot thick cum into your pussy. He let out loud, unadulterated moans as the pleasure possessed him.
- Dressing Room 3 -
“What the fuck is that kids problem?” Quincy asked, his leg bouncing relentlessly. He has been waiting to talk to Michael for nearly an hour now.
Bill sits stoically across from him, legs propped up on the coffee table, his head bobs with the rhythm of the couch in dressing room one hitting the shared wall over and over again, “A lot of things.”
Quincy fakes a gag, “I’ve got a lot of stars man, a lot, and usually they wait until they get home. In fact, Michael is the only one i’ve been able to hear lay pipe in the room next to me. Disgusting, really. I have to be in Indianapolis by six tomorrow, he needs to hurry up. Is this normal? Because if it is I need to know now.”
“Before her, sure, every day even,” Bill looks down to light a smoke, annoyed by the fact Quincy so obviously went skiing. “At the beginning? I think I busted them before it ever got like that… recently, yeah, back to every day.”
“Can we get him to hurry up? I mean, how long does this take?” Quincy pushed.
Bill sighed, “That dressing room is like a pent house, I bet they will stay there tonight”
“I have to meet Billy Joel in Indianapolis at Six tomorrow… hurry him up.”
“Not my job, I keep him safe, and he sounds perfect safe” Bill says before a long drag of his cigarette, “Maybe don’t… bring up Joel to him.”
- Dressing Room 1 -
When the shock subsided, he looked down at you. Your makeup was running, your hair wild, and he smiled. “Did that feel good?”
“You are too large to mess anything up, Mikey.”
He laughed and pulled out, his cock slapping onto his leg. He stuck his fingers inside of you, sending a shock through your body. He took it out and lifted it to his lips, sucking the mix of cum clean off. He inserted his finger again and raised it to your lips.
“Come on, be good and take it.”
You sucked his finger, the sweet and salty mix of combined eruption coated your mouth. He pulled his fingers out and kissed you. “Do you know how long i’ve been waiting for that?”
“Probably since I could feel you undressing me with your eyes all those years ago.” You smile.
“Precisely.” He cuddled up next to you, inviting your head to his chest. You follow his lead and fit into him perfectly.
Michael reaches over you to press the call button on the table.
“Mr Jackson?” A voice on the line says.
“Bring Y/N a new, yes, new, sweat suit, and two bottles of cold water, order in dinner as well. KFC, yes, well- y/n is that okay?”
You smile and nod, listening to him list his demands into the phone.
“Yes, KFC then, water and sweat suit, as soon as possible please thank you.” He hung up the phone and held you close. “Incredibly work out there tonight love, keep doing that, do whatever the rhythm tells you to.” He pulls a blanket off the back of the couch to drape over you.
You smile up at him, “Thanks Mikey.”
He smiles back and gives you a small kiss on the forehead, “Do you really think i’m bad?”
“No Mikey, you aren’t bad” You laugh.
“Okay.. I just wanted to check.”
Thank you for reading!!! I haven’t wrote a fic since 2020… bro I was THIRTEEN… anyway I am unc now so enjoy. Let me know what’s good, what’s bad, ect, I want to get back into writing!!
a/n: i know ppl don’t like au’s but i’m sorry i love writing them
vampire! michael jackson x f! reader
t/w: victorian setting, nosferatu inspo, toxic? dark romance, obsession, manipulation, concerning levels of yearning, stalking, blood/gore, 18+ mdni, smut, p in v, blood kink (i mean c’mon), broken bed frames and a lot of biting and hair pulling
wc: 11.6k (sorry don’t kill me)
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The morning sun was pale as it slipped past the curtains, slowly warming up the hardwood floors as much as it could with winter approaching.
You sat on the edge of your bed, your cat brushing up against your legs, impatient to be fed. Leaning down, you picked him up, taking in the soft fur and his warmth as he purred. Trying to gather the courage to get out of bed.
A melancholy had taken hold of your heart the past few months. A weight resting on your shoulders. A presence.
Ever since that night.
Weakness. Loneliness. Desperation. Sin. Whatever it was to be called.
Your mind felt like it was in hell as you called out into the night, teary eyes gazing up at the moon. At an angel. At God. You didn't know, you just needed help. An out. Not knowing how to outrun your mind.
Come to me. You cried, hands clasped so tightly in prayer, your bones shifted beneath your skin. Come to me. Guardian angel. A spirit of comfort. Any celestial being, a sob racked your chest. Come to me. Hear my prayer.
Suddenly it felt as if your breath had been robbed. Stolen. Ripped right from your lungs. The moon too bright and air too still.
But your mind— it was so quiet. Calm.
Something was holding you. The presence greedy.
Your feet carried you across your room, acting on their own accord. Or perhaps someone else's. A string tied around each joint and tugging you along, coiling you up and closer to the puppeteer.
You were brought to the window, the moon so bright. Looking at you.
Oil slipped over you mind as something, someone, he spoke.
I've got you. A caress, enveloping you. Bliss.
You shook your head, begging the memory to go away before it finished.
You always woke up in a sweat despite the long dead fire. Feeling as though you’d been dragged through something. Some sort of unreachable plane.
He was haunting your dreams. Stalking you. You felt like a rabbit running from a wolf. Not a person. Feeling it, Him, crawl beneath your skin like a spider, spinning a web around every vein and heartstring.
The clock chimed and it startled your cat, causing him to leap off your lap and his claws dug into the flesh of your thighs through your nightgown, spotting it with crimson.
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Late.
You pushed through the door with your hip, holding a crate of glass bottles filled with herbs and elixirs. Your spine felt stiff. Your bones not right. You could've sworn you felt Him on your walk to the apothecary that morning.
You were losing it. You knew you were. You couldn't have possibly… it wasn't possible.
But as you turned, the air on the back of your neck stood and it wasn't the cold.
The faintest voice. An echo rattling in your mind.
Come to me.
You blinked the thought away. The daylight was supposed to be safe.
Your boss called your name from somewhere in the back of the shop. Shortly after his head peaked over the shelves, his graying hair a mess. "Have you brought it?"
“Yes, sir." You set the crate down, urging the thoughts of Him, your shadow, to the back of your mind.
You dug the few bottles your boss asked you to order from the crate, the glass cold against your palms, bitter from the atmosphere.
He made his way between tables, his black coat heavy on his shoulders and his glasses perched down his nose as he took one of the bottles from you.
Observing it with scrutiny to see if you’d done a good job. Which you always did. You never messed up.
A slight crease formed between his brows and he set the glass back down into the crate. Barely a nod. That's all you ever got from him. All that you needed. He wasn't one to give thanks or praise. He took a chance on hiring you, you knew that. He didn't owe you anything else but your weekly wages.
He got back to work as you began organising bottles and mincing up ingredients, trying not to let your mind wander as the blade sliced through dried lilac. The sound of the knife hitting the cutting board in tune with your heart.
It began to rain on your walk home, the droplets bitter cold and feeling like bullets of ice. Other city dwellers used what they had as umbrellas if they had none.
You didn't see a point. Your skin was burning, your blood bubbling as if it were trying to claw its way out of your veins. You needed this. The cold.
You didn't mind it as rogue hair stuck to your forehead and neck, water dewing up so heavy on your lashes it was hard to keep your eyes open.
Come to me.
You flinched, turning to the sound, feet picking up pace and frantic to get away. Instincts kicking in as your eyes darted around the bodies rushing to find cover, feet splashing up water.
He was here. In the city. You knew it to be true.
Turning, your world suddenly upended as you collided with someone, black clouding your vision and you felt gloved hands grab hold of your arms to break your fall.
You blinked the rain away, your mind spinning, not understanding and your manners tried to quickly scramble their way forth.
“Apologies," tumbled out of your mouth and you tried to right yourself, but your dress was heavy with water and your skin was tight with the cold.
The hands slowly slid away from you, almost hesitant, and you finally allowed yourself to look up.
Your breath caught, heart skipped a beat, for a mere moment you thought…
“It’s okay."
The man looked down at you. Imposing. Face hidden half in shadow from his hat and the veil of rain.
Your mouth hung open slightly. Your nerves tangled in shock and what might've been trepidation.
The water pounded into the cobblestones beneath him. The rain soaking through his fine coat and hat, water beaded up on his own lashes. His eyes, they looked like the dark side of the moon that kept you company every night. Familiar.
He tilted his head to the side as he watched you, his eyes practically glowing with something you didn't think you’d ever be able to name.
Your heart was thudding in your ears. Or maybe that was just the rain.
Do something.
"I'll be–"
“Have we met–"
You both spoke at once and you couldn't help it as you felt yourself blush, but you blamed it on the cold.
He took his hat off for a moment to push his wet hair back, the locks nearly looked like spilled ink as a black-gloved hand ran through his curls. His eyes met yours again, his expression unreadable and far too encompassing.
“Find a fire, I wouldn't want you to get sick." With that he bowed his head and stepped past you, the sharp click of his shoes fading in with the rest of the crowd.
You looked after him, watching the slight sway of his shoulders, his presence alone towering over everyone else. Men parted for him as he walked, not thinking twice, like he commanded the tides.
His voice...
A crack of thunder startled you and you kept moving, your skin prickling up again.
⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹
Those eyes flickered, blinding you, dancing in your mind. Intent. Obsessed.
You gasped, ripping yourself awake before your mind suddenly eased, like warm water was slowly consuming your body. You were slipping, your mind's chatter easing into quiet as you went under the surface.
You saw him again. That stranger. But not quite. His silhouette was flickering in the shadows but his eyes gleamed of moonlight.
Who are you? You asked, though the air remained still.
The shadows folded, swayed, his eyes tilting. You pulled me out of the dark. His voice was like oil, dripping over the room and staining it.
But who, you stretched your jaw, your common sense fighting its way up, trying to break the surface.
He stepped closer. Your breath hitched. Equal parts frightened and enamoured.
Dark curls suddenly caught the moonlight but it was still difficult to make him out. A shifting phantom. Restless. Crazed as you felt something rough yet soft slide down the side of your neck.
A hand. Possessive.
You are not for the living, your stranger said.
The sharp planes of his face morphed into something tangible as he leaned down. Cool breath hitting your face and you felt in a trance as you looked up at him.
His thumb dragged across your bottom lip. Eyes intent as he followed the action.
You knew you were in the presence of something beyond humanity but you couldn't look away. Couldn't back away. The strings all tangled and too tight.
When you woke up the next morning, your room was empty and your cat sat at the end of your bed, staring at the corner of your room.
⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹
Your mind was muddled as the week went on. He had never touched you before in your dreams. Never... he had never been someone. You wondered if your mind was playing tricks on you. Trying to slot a face into the voice and presence you always felt. Deciding to pick that man you had run into.
⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹
Your hand slipped and the knife tore into your hand, the pain quick and sharp but it was a mere echo.
Wrapping some cloth around the wound, you heard the bell above the door chime.
"One moment!" You called, pulling the cotton tight and weaving your way around the tables and boxes. You wished your boss would let you organize properly. But he had everything where he needed and wanted, peering down his hooked nose every time you asked and sneering, It is organized.
You rolled your eyes thinking about it.
Rounding the corner of some shelves, you stopped short at the sight of a man leaning down, hands in pockets as he looked at some of the medicinals the shop sold.
Dark eyes. Sharp cheekbones.
At your presence, his eyes flicked up, down to your hand, then back up again. Pupils blown a little wide.
"You," you breathed the word without realizing it.
He blinked a few times as he straightened, eyes dancing down to your cut hand again, the blood dotting on the fabric. "You're hurt." His tone held nothing. No worry. No concern. Though, he did sound ever so slightly breathless. Just a bit. Or maybe you were imagining things.
His eyes. He looked hungry.
"I'm fine," you managed to get out, walking behind the counter. For safety, perhaps. Some semblance of security. He was even more overwhelming in broad daylight. In person. Your dream now fading into an even more warped fantasy. Right now he was far too real.
His jaw clenched, the muscles working under his skin. Running his tongue along the inside of his cheek as he seemed to force himself to look away from you and to the wall of bottles and dried goods.
You gnawed at your lip, brows furrowing as you watched him. Taking a breath, you all but ground the words out. "Can I help you with something?"
He sighed, eyes slating towards you, nearly looking pained and it made you feel dizzy. Who was this man?
Your boss snapped your name, appearing from what seemed to be thin air and you flinched. The old man was looking at you like you had grown a second head. "Are you just going to stand there or help him? What do I pay you for?"
You opened your mouth to argue but he was already disappearing into the back of the store. Leaving you blushing and a bit embarrassed. But when you turned back around, the stranger was gone.
You let out a breath of air. Equally relieved but disappointed. In what, you weren’t sure. Curiosity, perhaps. Your eyes looked down at your hand but stopped short when you noticed the dried flowers laying on the table, a black ribbon tied around them with a small piece of parchment. Two letters were drawn in ebony ink.
M.J.
You gently picked them up. Red carnations and Fern.
Your eyes danced to where he had stood, wondering if you focused hard enough he'd materialize like he did the other night.
"Who are you?" You whispered.
⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹
Fresh air. You needed fresh air.
Yanking the sheets off of you, your skin was cold but covered in dew drops of sweat. You could feel it. Feel Him. Crawling over your bones and staining them. An insatiable itch you couldn't reach.
You blindly made your way down the stairs and out into the garden. Your feet silent as they padded across the frost crusted grass. Your body was burning up and you wanted to strip yourself from the cotton, desperate and feeling suffocated as the moon stared down at you.
You yanked at your hair. Strands sticking to your skin. Too much. Too sensitive.
Come to me.
You squeezed your eyes shut, a cry almost leaving you as you felt your feet start to move somewhere. North, maybe.
Your conscience took a step back, a door closing, looking at you with knowing eyes. Wait– you called, but the door locked and oil spilled over again.
Who are you? You asked. You’d always ask till you got an answer, your legs carrying you through the bushes and closer and closer to an unknown. The back of your mind whispered that your parents wouldn't like this. This behavior. Your father nearly sent you off after that first night. Nearly sent you off every night you woke the house with your ramblings of a shadow man.
His voice swirled around you, almost teasing in its lilt— You know.
I do not.
A hand wrapped around the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair. It sent chills down your spine, ravishing your skin.
I... you blinked against the dark, your feet suddenly hitting cobblestone. I know you, don't I?
The hand danced down, leash loosening only a bit and you heard that familiar click of expensive shoes as they walked.
You fell in step with the sound, not feeling the bite of snow on your bare feet. Darkness was folding around you, snuffing out the flames of street lamps. You could faintly make out the sway of his shoulders.
Your head was spinning. Spinning and spinning as you turned down an alley, feet faltering and so bitterly numb you fell to your knees, scuffing your shins and you looked down. Blood. So much. It felt like the earth was pulsing around you from an open artery.
There was a body. A man. Lying stiff a few feet away. Eyes blank and empty. Soulless. Blood poured from his neck.
You should scream.
He knelt at your side, head tilting, brushing your hair away. The blood was sticky and warm against the snow.
What is this insufferable darkness? You felt like you couldn't breathe.
His nose brushed yours. Your phantom. Yours. He belonged to you. His hands twined with your own. Fingers long and much larger than yours. Holding you.
Dream of me. Only me. You felt a chaste kiss against your forehead. Swear it.
The blood was getting stickier. Voices. Approaching steps.
The words left you in a puff of air.
"I swear."
⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹
Your nightmare hadn't ended yet. You were sure of it.
You sat dazed in the chair. Your parents sitting nearby. Your mother clutching her rosary like a vice. Your father wouldn't look at you.
"Father," your father's voice shook with conviction. "Is there anything you can do? Anything we can do?"
You felt dizzy as you stared up at the multicoloured windows. Mother Mary gazed down at you, tears in her eyes.
"Someone has offered to take her in."
Your eyes snapped forward, staring at the priest and he averted his eyes. Right now you were the other. The secret. Fallen. Your mind had been tainted for years now. Your mother said so as she cried into her cross.
"Who?"
"A practitioner… a doctor, of sorts. He's known within a small community for handling rare cases such as these with his treatments." The priest paused, shifting in his chair and removing his spectacles. "However–"
"And what were the results?" Your father asked, inching forward in his chair.
The holy man sighed. "His methods are... are arcane, if any, and I can't–"
"Were they successful?"
The priest rolled his jaw at your father, seeing a lost battle in front of him. "To a degree, but I advise you to think on this, the Church can provide perfectly–"
All you did was stare as the whole... transaction unfolded. That's what it felt like. Being handed off in such a way. The priest's warnings fell on deaf ears. Your mother only bowed her head as the carriage door shut on you. Your father did not say a word.
Your eyes slid to the man sitting across from you. He worked for whoever you were being sent off to. This practitioner. You were hopeless. Damned. No one could possibly fix you. You weren’t sure if there even was anything to be fixed.
The man across from you was not phased at your stare. He returned it tenfold. Gray eyes sharp.
Insightful.
"Where am I going?" You eventually asked, watching the city fade as the wheels turned.
"Somewhere where you know how to be handled."
Your eyes narrowed slightly. "I don't need to be handled."
He settled himself in his seat, crossing an ankle over his knee and forcing you to lean back. "I'm the attendant."
You looked away out the window, your breath fogging up the glass. "I don't care."
"Your father said you could be a handful, he didn't say you were rude."
Clenching your jaw, you looked back at him. He was pale. Strikingly so. His greying hair hidden beneath a cap. "Where am I going?" You asked again.
He sighed as he lit a pipe. The fire from the match lit up his eyes and for a moment they gleamed red. He waited to answer you till he held the pipe between his teeth and smoke plummed out.
"The Jackson Estate."
You raised a brow. You’d never heard of it.
"It's the Practitioner's residence."
⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹
Heels clicked against the polished flooring. It was dark. The only light being candles that flickered along the hall. Illuminating the portraits in a macabre sort of beauty.
You held your breath as the attendant— he still had yet to give you his name, escorted you inside. The estate felt heavy. Dense. The air a little suffocating. You felt Him here. Strongly. Concerned that without the bustle of the city to drown him out he'd be more... loud.
His tour was curt and to the point. Telling you what was off limits and what wasn't. Telling you your schedule, though it was vague. Treatment. He wouldn't elaborate.
Everything was very...elaborate. Elegant. Old.
Refined and styled with thought. Every stitch in the carpet intricate. You felt horribly out of place. And too hot. You had passed by numerous hearths, all of them roaring. Flames licking out onto the marble.
He came to a stop in front of a door on the third floor, turning its silver handle and it popped open with a click. "Your quarters."
You didn't know what you were expecting. A small bed with restraints, maybe. Isn't that what mad people get put through? Bars on the windows. Rats in the corners. Scratch marks on the walls.
But as the door creaked open, you were met with an elegant, albeit ordinary room. Your brows furrowed and looked at him. "What is this?"
"Your room." He said flatly, like you were stupid.
Your jaw clenched and you waved an arm out. "No, what is this? Everything. This house. What treatment? What practitioner?"
He bit the inside of his cheek, looking past you into the room. "You can ask all the questions you want at dinner."
He left before you could say anything else, mouth agape like an idiot as another servant brought in your single trunk. He only nodded briefly at you, not sparing you a glance before scuttling from the room.
You huffed. Confused. A little scared, but your curiosity was winning that battle.
⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹
You weren’t even sure where the dining room was.
Come to me.
The rug softened your foot fall as you walked. Your hand trailing along the wood paneling of the wall. Dizzy as you looked at some very old portraits. They looked like Him. Your stranger. Your ghost. He was haunting you, even here.
The practitioner didn't attend dinner that night.
The attendant said he had a mess to clean up.
Your questions went unanswered.
Jackson. The name was heavy on your tongue. Whispers in your sleep. Restless. Your stomach pooling. Melting. Those eyes. You clenched your thighs together and awoke with a start when there was a sharp knock on your door.
Your breath left you in heavy pants. A shadow could be seen beneath the door. Pulsating. Begging to be let in. Fighting against the moonlight that poured through the tall windows.
You bit your lip, fear crackling in your veins. It was Him. It had to be. You could feel it.
Your name was said lowly from the other side of the door.
You froze. Blinked. Hands moving the covers off of your body before you could think better of it.
You creaked the door open.
Dark brown eyes stared down at you, half swathed in shadow.
Your lips parted. You had a feeling, but lately you couldn't trust your own thoughts. You should've known.
His hands were clasped behind him. Still wearing a suit despite the late hour. He smelled faintly of iron and orchids.
"You." Your brows furrowed. A mixture of disbelief and anger. "How–"
"May I come in? I was told you had some questions."
Let me in.
You nearly fell backward with the force of it. Hands trembling as they opened the door further. He didn't spare you another glance as he walked into the room, shutting the door softly behind him.
"You're in my head," the words tumbled out and you pressed your back into the post of the bed.
His hands were in his pockets as he tilted his head at you. Moonlight glinting off his hair. Looking just like he had that first night you saw him in your room.
"It's... it's you." He was your melancholy. Your darkness. It was him.
"What on Earth are you talking about?"
"Don't deny it!" You bit out, your voice nearly a cry.
He sighed, as if you were being unreasonable. "I see treatment needs to start tomorrow–"
"What treatment? Who are you? You're the one who's been haunting me. I'm not mad, it's you."
All he did was stare at you. Patient.
Pupils wide in the dark.
⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹
You couldn't remember falling asleep. Just the heaviness. Dizziness. Your stranger, looking at you as if you were some sylph.
Your neck was sore and you winced as you moved but hands gently caressed your head.
You faintly heard your name.
You blinked. The world a blur and slowly coming into focus.
You were on the ground, someone kneeling over you, cool breath dusting your face. Thumbs swiping gently under your eyes. "Wake up." The voice. So soft. Smooth and like oil. His. A creature comfort.
You tried to take in the feeling of his calloused hands as he held your face. "What..." early morning light was pooling past the curtains. Your eyes finally found his. The closeness of him was more jarring than anything else had been.
Your brows furrowed. He was infuriatingly complicated.
"I'm not mad." Is all you could think to say.
He hummed, dark hair falling over his eyes as he observed you. This time more clinical. Less consuming than last night.
Had he stayed with you?
You became acutely aware you were sprawled out on the carpet in only your nightgown.
A blush reddened your cheeks and you tried to move but you winced again with the turn of your neck.
"Careful now." He helped ease you up. One hand on the back of your neck, the other around your waist. You were on fire again.
"What happened?"
"You fainted."
"I gathered that much, thank you."
His eyes twitched slightly. You weren’t sure if it was in amusement or not.
Before anything else could cross your mind, such as to push him away, his large hands found your elbows and he hauled you up.
"I'll see you after breakfast."
"What for?"
His hands dropped from you as he walked to the door.
"Our first session."
He left without saying anything else. And if you hadn't been so overwhelmed, you would've noticed the blood on his collar.
Would've noticed the blood on you.
You sat for some time after he'd gone, the faint imprint of his hands still warm against your skin. Your fingers brushed your neck again, wincing but you chalked it up to the faint, perhaps you’d twisted it in the fall. That must be it. You told yourself so twice.
When you did rise, the room seemed too quiet, as if it had been holding its breath. You wrapped your arms around you and padded barefoot in circles around your room, the silence of the house only broken by the occasional tick of the grandfather clock below.
Your eyes then caught on a tray. Not sure when it had gotten there. Maybe he brought it. Though the gesture seemed too...kind.
Toast. A soft boiled egg. Tea that had already begun to cool. You sat, stared at it, then lifted the cup with trembling hands. The tea had a strange aftertaste to it. Iron, maybe? Or the remnants of your own unsettled stomach, but you drank it anyway. You needed something solid in you, or you feared you might float away altogether.
A light knock came at the door, too soft to startle.
The attendant’s voice called your name through the door.
"Yes," you replied, brushing some hair from your face.
He stood just beyond the threshold as he opened it, dressed in proper attire while you were still in your nightgown.
"Your first session," he said. "Mr. Jackson is ready, if you are."
You hesitated only for a moment before nodding.
The disquiet in your chest was not fear, it was something stranger. Curiosity. Longing. Like a moth pressing against a glass. You grabbed a robe hanging off a hook and tied it tightly around you, the softness of it only easing you slightly.
He led you through the house without speaking. The halls were long, lined with portraits you didn't recognize, faces that all seemed to follow you with their eyes. You tried not to stare too long.
The door to the study opened before you’d realized you arrived, the attendant excused himself while Mr. Jackson smiled at you.
The study was warm, fire lit though it was barely past dawn. Curtains drawn tight. A chaise lounge by the hearth and a high backed chair beside it. He gestured for you to lie down.
You obeyed. You didn't know why.
He took his seat, crossed one long leg over the other, folded his hands.
"Tell me about the voice."
So much for easing into things.
You stared at the ceiling, trying to get comfortable if even possible. "I don't remember much. Only that it was... kind. Gentle."
His head tilted. "And familiar?"
"Yes. I think so."
He said nothing. The fire cracked and hissed.
Your eyes fluttered closed for a moment. You could still feel his fingers against your face from earlier, the way he held you like you might vanish.
"It led me to the body, didn't it?"
"That depends. Do you think it did?"
You opened your eyes again. "I thought we were discussing memory, not madness."
He smiled at that, though not unkindly. "And what if they're the same?"
You looked away.
"I didn't hurt anyone," you whispered. "I couldn't have."
"No," he said softly. "You couldn't have."
It was the gentleness that undid you. That and the quiet assurance in his voice. A sudden ache pressed behind your ribs and your breath hitched, though you didn't know why. Not a person, you reminded yourself. A rabbit.
Perhaps you only wanted to believe him.
There was a rustle of paper shortly followed by his voice. "When did this start?"
Your mind wandered back. That night. Your loneliness had swallowed you whole. "Months ago. Dreams."
"Dreams?"
You nodded, twisting your fingers till they hurt. Not wanting him to ask but you knew he would.
"And what happened?"
You couldn't help the blush. The shame. How badly you had wanted comfort that night. "I don't know, it was..." you shut your eyes briefly. "They grew darker. My dreams. The first night felt like the first act. But the rest," you turned her head, neck still aching. "Tell me, does evil come from within us or beyond?"
There was a long pause. The kind that hung in the air like fog, wrapping cold fingers around your throat.
He didn't answer at once. He stood, slowly, the firelight casting long shadows across his face.
He moved toward the window, though the curtains remained drawn. One hand rested lightly on the sill, the other behind his back. He looked like a man waiting for something. Or someone.
"Tell me," he said at last, voice low, smooth as silk but sharp beneath it, "if a wolf kills a rabbit, is the wolf evil for wanting food?"
You blinked. The question struck you oddly, given the allusion he landed on was painfully familiar.
"No," you said carefully. "Of course not. It's the circle of life. The wolf survives. The rabbit... doesn't."
He turned his head, just enough for you to catch a glimpse of him over his shoulder. His eyes were unreadable, but there was a glint there. Not of mischief. Not quite of hunger. Something older. Deeper. You couldn't place it, and it unsettled you more than you liked.
"And what if the wolf enjoys it?" he asked.
You frowned. "Enjoys what?"
"The hunt."
Your mouth went dry. Your tongue felt too large for your mouth.
"I suppose that's natural too," you said, after a pause. "Isn't it?"
He smiled, slow and fleeting. "Natural," he echoed, as if tasting the word.
You drew the robe tighter around you. Your neck still ached, a dull throb now, pulsing with each beat of your heart.
He turned fully then, his expression polite once more, hands folded neatly before him.
"You've done very well," he said. "It takes courage to speak so openly. Especially when the truth feels... inconvenient."
You looked up at him, eyes narrowing slightly.
"Truth is only inconvenient when it frightens us."
A beat.
"Agreed.”
There was something in his tone, just for a moment, something that sounded oddly like admiration.
"I'll leave you to rest. You've earned it."
He moved toward the door, and again, you caught that strange sensation as he passed, like the air folded around him. Like the shadows themselves knew to step aside.
You waited until the door clicked shut before you exhaled.
You hadn't answered his question properly. Not really. Nor had he answered yours.
And you couldn't shake the feeling that he already knew exactly what you were going to say.
⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹
It had been eleven days since your arrival.
Or perhaps twelve.
The house made time feel elastic, stretching and snapping without rhythm. Mornings bled into evenings. Meals arrived without clocks. Mr. Jackson, for all his precision, never gave you a fixed schedule.
You found yourself waiting for him anyway.
You stood now before the long mirror in your room, studying the hollowness beneath your eyes. You weren’t sleeping well. Or you were, but it was the wrong sort of sleep. You would wake with the taste of earth and copper on your tongue, your limbs heavy, tangled in sheets as though you’d been dancing with something in the dark.
He called it suggestion. A method of drawing the subconscious forward.
You called it dreams. Vivid, sickly sweet things that left your skin in a sweat and your mind fogged.
Still, you attended each session.
You told yourself it was part of the process. That the warmth in your chest when he looked at you was merely the result of trust. That the way your skin remembered his fingers long after they'd left was simply... psychological. A trick of the treatment.
Today, the parlour was darker than usual. Curtains half-drawn, the fire low. He waited, standing rather than seated, large hands clasped behind his back. His coat was red today. Velvet, or something like it. It made his eyes almost luminous.
He said your name with the faintest nod. “You're late."
"I wasn't told a time," you replied, chin lifting slightly.
"Even so." His eyes glinted. "You're slipping."
You opened your mouth to protest, then closed it again. He gestured to the chaise.
You lay down without being asked twice.
"You're tense," he murmured. He always knew.
"Let's begin."
He never touched you during these moments. Not really. Sometimes his voice alone felt like a hand resting lightly on your temple. Sometimes you swore you could feel his breath on your throat when he spoke low and close, but when you opened her eyes, he'd be across the room.
"Close your eyes," he said now. "Breathe in. Slowly. Hold it. Good. Again."
You obeyed.
The room dulled. Colours softened. His voice moved through you like music, smooth and lulling.
"You're walking through a garden," he murmured. "Stone underfoot. A chill in the air. You're not afraid. You are guided. Can you see it?"
"Yes," you whispered. And you could, wisteria hanging in curtains, fog coiling at your ankles. And a figure. Tall, blurred at the edges. Watching you.
"Describe him," he said.
"I... I can't."
"Try."
"He's... not a man. Not really. He's shaped like one. But..." Your brow furrowed. "There's something in his eyes. A hunger. He's—"
You jerked as though touched. Your eyes flew open.
The fire was brighter now. Your hands trembled.
Mr. Jackson regarded you with his usual calm. One eyebrow arched slightly. "Interesting."
"What was that?" you asked, breath catching in your throat.
"Your mind," he said softly. "It speaks, if you listen."
You sat up slowly, arms curling round yourself. "I don't like that garden."
"Few like the place where the truth begins."
You looked at him then, properly. The angle of his jaw, the stillness of him. Not a muscle twitched. Not even his breath.
"Do you ever sleep?" you asked suddenly.
He smiled without showing his teeth. "What would I dream of?"
You pondered it, rolling on your side and perching yourself up on one arm. Allowing yourself to really look at him. You knew absolutely nothing about him. He was poised. In control of himself. Calm. At least on the surface. But this estate... this house. It was far too big and too lonely. Daunting. Sometimes you felt like you could hear the portraits whisper at night. There was one in particular you always stopped by. So very old but better maintained than the rest. A woman with eyes like his but warmer. Fresh flowers were always underneath it. A loved one, you could only assume. The rest of the portraits were left to rot.
"The past, maybe."
His fingers tapped a rhythm into his thigh as he watched you. "You think of me as nostalgic?"
You laid back down again, eyes tracing the pattern in the carved ceiling. Thinking back to your childhood. How bright it all felt. The flowers smelled better and the sun shone more. You remembered laughing more, as a girl. Of running down side streets with your friends before they went off to university. Abandoning you.
"Aren't we all?"
It was quiet for a moment. The only sound was your beating heart and the crackle of the hearth before you heard him stand.
Your breath caught at his retreat. The sudden panic alarming but unavoidable.
"Mr. Jackson," you started. His footsteps paused. "Why is it they think you can... fix me. Find answers that others cannot?"
You didn't look at him. Couldn't. Waited for the sound of his shoes to click again with bated breath. A beat of your heart passed before you felt him shift closer to you.
"My reputation, perhaps."
You raised a brow, finally turning. Catching his eyes. Glowing. "Reputation?"
He observed you another moment before bowing his head slightly. "I'll see you tomorrow." And he left without another word.
More of your questions going unanswered.
⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹
You felt rigid that morning as you sat down for breakfast. A maid had come to grab you instead of leaving a tray like usual.
Your appetite was scarce and a trembling hand reached for your tea, the porcelain rattling against the saucer but you paused as soon as he entered the room.
Morning light made everything look hazy. Filtering in through the high windows and catching in the curtains that always remained half drawn.
In the time you had been there, you two had never eaten a meal together. Not even the attendant, technically. That first dinner he just sat there, drinking wine and being infuriatingly unhelpful.
Mr. Jackson sat, though he touched nothing laid out on the table.
"Good morning."
You clenched your trembling hand into a fist as you pulled it away from your tea, deciding it was best to clutch it beneath the table.
You dreamed about him last night. Again. Sinful and wrong. Wretched.
Lovely.
He didn't miss your silence and he looked at you with a brow barely raised.
Time ticked by. You could hear it on the clock.
He leaned back in his seat, adorning it like a throne.
"You don't seem to like practitioners very much."
Your jaw ticked and you looked down.
"Or do you just not like me?"
His question took you off guard and your usual attempt at being polite rushed forth. "No, I—" you bit your tongue. You shouldn't find excuses. Reasons.
You swallowed dryly and tried to focus on your food as you spoke. You couldn't look at him. "I've just had bad experiences, is all. Bags filled with knives. Strange things to measure my skull." All things considered you could at least admit to yourself the relief you felt when you realized all you two would be doing is talking. At least for now.
His fingers thrummed on the table and you finally took note of the ring he was wearing.
"I'm not that kind of doctor."
Your jaw ached as you clenched it. Watching him lean forward on the table by his elbows. His expression unreadable as he spoke.
"Are you afraid of me?"
"I don't know." You didn't. You hadn't the faintest idea how you felt about him. A thousand things. Perhaps nothing. A few. It felt complicated.
The thrumming stopped and he dug into his coat pocket before pulling out a moderately small package and holding it out for you. "This is for you."
You eyed it for a long moment. Taking note of his slender hands. The bones and muscle that made him up. A gift?
With furrowed brows and a cautious hand, you gently took it from his hold and peeled back the wrappings.
Your shaking hands suddenly stilled.
"What?" He asked, voice even, as ever.
You lightly ran your fingers down the cover, over the ridges of the title. It was the first edition of your favorite novel. "Nothing, just...a book?" You looked at him, brows furrowed. Trying to read him but he was written in a foreign language.
He nodded, resting his chin in his palm.
Was this a session?
"And what does it remind you of?"
Your lips parted to ask him how he even knew but the memory from your childhood outshone the rest of your thoughts.
It was Christmas morning when you were a child and your mother had grown tired of you stealing the papers from the neighbors despite them all saying the same thing. You were convinced you’d find something new in them and your father no longer had time to take you to the library.
It had been the first book you were ever gifted. Your own. The first thing you felt like you could truly call yours.
You blinked away tears and set the book down. "I'm sorry, I don't understand—"
"I think you understand me well enough."
So this was a session. He took you off guard. No warning. A change of scenery. You couldn't prepare. You hated it.
"A bookshop." The lie slipped out.
He hummed. He knew.
You thrummed your own fingers now on the table. This whole thing was off kilter. Not right. Your mind trailing back to the hesitancy of the priest.
"Are you a clergyman?"
He blinked. "No."
"Do you have any affiliation with the church?"
There was a moment, brief reluctance. “No.”
Your brows furrowed. Not understanding how your mother would have agreed to this. Not understanding the priest's suggestion even though he did try to warn.
Which brought you to your next question.
Why the warning?
"I'm a practitioner. I work with the mind. Diseases of the mind. I don't deal with fantasies of demons lurking in the shadows or behind closed eyelids."
Science. A man of science. Perhaps that was the reason for caution given the two tended to clash heads. But you still felt like that wasn't enough. Not to mention you weren’t diseased. You weren’t.
You were not mad.
He said your name in a lull, dancing around your throat and tilting your head up. "I'm here to listen to you. To reason." He paused and seemed to consider his next words. "I don't think you're mad. We just need to prove to everyone else that you're not. And that only begins once we stop your... night terrors."
"They're not night terrors." Your stubbornness was still intact, apparently.
He sighed, looking at you through long lashes. "I would like to help you. If you talk to me, I will listen. But—"
"I don't want to go back to the garden."
The words were out and you were holding onto your dress so tight you were sure the threads would rip. Thinking about that night is one thing. Actually reliving it, that was not something you wanted anyone else to witness.
All he did was hum and tap your book with a finger as he stood.
"Until tomorrow."
⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹
You felt heavy. Caressed. Something soft grazing the side of your face.
The pain was sharp and sudden but melted into something alien and blissful. A silent gasp left you and your pulse thrummed. Skipped.
Hazy and opium filled the air.
You looked up through heavy eyes, spotting the now familiar darkness of his hair.
Part of you wanted to touch it. Touch him.
But your limbs were too heavy.
Only as you went to the bathroom later that morning did you finally take notice of the bruising.
⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹
Eyes bore into each other. The tick of the clock matched your heart.
He was so patient.
You were sitting today. Not laying. Not wanting to be that vulnerable, yet.
There was the rustle of fabric as you shifted. Watching him watch you.
"I'm not sure what you want me to tell you."
He shook his head, chin tilting down. "I don't want anything. It's what you want to say that's of interest to me."
You looked down. Your fingers tapped a light rhythm into the book you held in your hands. Since he'd given it to you, you were already about a quarter way in.
Silence stretched and pulsed.
"How's the book?"
You pressed your tongue behind your teeth. "It's fine."
"What do you think?"
Your eye twitched. "Are you laughing at me?"
"No." He leaned forward, elbows on knees. Keen.
"I'm just curious. The book seemed to mean a lot to you."
You shook your head, looking away again. "It's just a book."
"Does it remind you of anything?" That head tilt of his had a habit of slowly unraveling you. "Your childhood, perhaps? If we are to circle back to the topic of nostalgia."
Your skin felt too tight. He somehow knew. Knew too much. Too little. "Not quite. Lots of children want books—"
"And did you? Want books? Want that one?"
"To say so is bad luck."
"Bad luck?"
You hummed. Tracing the letters. "To say what you want does the opposite. It's best to keep it to yourself. Be careful of wanting anything." Your mind trailed to that night. Your desperate prayer. "You may be punished for it."
You hadn't realized he stood, now in front of you. Hands in pockets and staring down. A god deciding to observe mere mortals.
"Do you think you're being punished?"
His eyes. So stunning in their appearance. Their depth. Flickering red for a moment in the firelight.
You were breathless as you spoke. "I think so, yes."
You felt like you were being torn open.
Not like flesh. Not the gruesome tears.
Softly, like fruit. Too ripe and splitting with barely a tug.
Abrasive.
That's what he was. That's what this was.
"Have you had any dreams since being here?"
You paused as you messed with the hem of your sleeve. "I suppose." You didn't dare look at him. The room dark, as always. You debated on running to the window and tearing open the blinds just to see what he would do. "Not that I can remember them, though."
You couldn't help it.
A peek, that's it.
He looked... disappointed.
⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹
You were brought down for dinner.
Snow was coating every window and you couldn't help it as your mind wandered. Watching the gardens from each window you passed. That's the only time the curtains were pulled back. Swathing the estate in moonlight and candles. Fires roaring.
Christmas was nearing. Your first without your family. Your mother.
Every year you were gifted a book.
You wondered what this year would've been.
Your knife slipped at the thought and crimson bled onto your plate.
However, you were distracted from the pain by the sudden intake of breath from someone else at the table.
Your eyes danced up.
The attendant looked... well it was rather concerning.
He looked as if he were about to lunge at something—you, before Mr. Jackson’s sharp tone cut through the air.
"Take your leave." he practically snapped. A warning.
"Michael—"
"Now."
You’d never heard him sound like that.
Michael... so that was his name.
The scrape of wood met your ears as the man left and you looked at the head of the table.
He was sitting perfectly still. Not even blinking.
Pupils wide.
You bit the inside of your cheek. Grabbed your napkin and pressed it to the cut. "Rude not to offer a wounded lady help."
A beat.
"I was under the impression you didn't want my help."
You took a drink of your wine. Annoyed. At him. Yourself. Your life.
"And I was under the impression you were going to give it anyway."
He smiled slightly, into his own glass.
You shouldn't have felt pleased.
⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹
You laid awake as the night droned on. Staring at the ceiling and seeing red carnations in your minds eye.
M.J.
"So that's who..."
⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹
You didn't remember falling asleep.
It was a craving. To know him.
Forbidden.
Insatiable. A lurid glare to it as you tried to claw your way toward it.
Down down down into the pit. Persephone stumbling after Hades.
You wanted to go where you knew you couldn't. Not that you weren’t allowed... it wasn't possible. Shouldn't be.
You shouldn't want to descend.
You shouldn't want to tear into his body like he did yours and look inside.
But you did.
You wanted to claw your way through shadows and flesh and hold the heart of your shadow.
Your affliction.
⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹
It felt as if your skeleton had shifted inside of you.
Evolved.
Adapted.
You watched him more closely.
You knew he was familiar. Knew something wasn't right.
Come to me.
It didn't scare you anymore.
There was no fright.
Just fuel to the fire that was your curiosity.
You remembered all your dreams. You always had.
You wanted to know him.
Whatever the cost.
⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹
The bruises bloomed like lilacs, soft-edged and dusky, nestled in the hollow of your throat and curling faintly at your jaw. They didn't ache like bruises should. They pulsed.
You stood at the washbasin, fingertips hovering above the discolouration. You didn't dare touch them. The skin there felt different, as though it didn't belong to you.
Sleepwalking, you thought. A fall, perhaps. A bedpost knocked in the night. You had no memory of it. Only of... warmth. A heaviness. A dream that left you breathless, as though you’d run from something and forgotten why.
And always, always his voice. Somewhere between a lullaby and command.
You dressed high-necked that day.
Michael— Mr. Jackson, didn't remark on it, though he watched your collar with pointed interest.
⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹
That night, you dreamt of teeth.
Not fangs, not the obvious kind, but rows of them.
Clean, white, perfect. Smiling. Too wide. Set in a face you almost recognized, but the name felt wrong on your tongue.
When you awoke, your bed was cold. You had no memory of leaving it.
The bruises were darker now. Deeper. Like ink stains pressed just beneath the skin.
You no longer believed you’d walked into a bedpost— never believed it in the first place.
⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹
You stopped a maid that afternoon. A girl no older than twenty two, with flaxen braids and red-raw hands.
"Where is Mr. Jackson sleeping?" you asked.
The girl blinked, confused. "He doesn't, miss."
You tilted your head. "Doesn't?"
"Not since I've been here."
You left the conversation colder than you entered it.
⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹
The next evening, you didn't sleep.
You waited.
You left the lamps unlit and the windows cracked to let the night in. Bitter cold with yule on the heels. You let the estate settle into silence, that old, heavy silence peculiar to large houses built to hold the dead. And then you crept from your room, barefoot on the carpet. Soft. Cautious.
Drawn.
The air grew colder the further you wandered. Corridors unfamiliar. Doors you hadn't seen. The paintings on the wall were more distorted here, melted faces, hands too long, eyes that followed.
And then you heard it.
Music.
Low. Disjointed. Like a lullaby played backwards.
It drew you to a door at the end of the hallway, grand, arched, carved with something that might have once been ivy. It was ajar.
You pushed.
Inside was not a room.
It was a chapel. Barely lit. The walls were stone, the air damp. An altar stood at its centre, not with a cross, but with something old, older than the Church, older than scripture. A symbol you couldn't place, carved in ash and bone.
And him.
Not standing. Kneeling.
Michael Jackson, his head bowed, dark curls catching the candlelight. His lips moved. Singing? Praying? You couldn't hear.
You took a step back. The floor creaked.
His head turned.
He said your name plainly. Gaze knowing. His voice was calm. Almost warm. "You ought to be in bed."
You didn't answer. Couldn't.
"Curiosity," he murmured, finally rising to his full height, "is a strange sort of affliction, isn't it?"
You swallowed. Your mouth was dry.
"I heard music."
"Did you?" He approached you slowly, like one might approach a skittish doe. "What did it sound like?"
You stepped back, suddenly afraid you wouldn't remember how to run if you needed to.
"What is this place?"
"A room for reflection," he said. "Or confession. Depending on what you bring to it."
"And what do you bring?"
His eyes glinted. That unreadable thing.
"Hunger."
"Hunger," you echoed, and your voice sounded thin, like stretched glass. "For what?"
He stopped just shy of you. Too close. His shoes almost scuffing against your slippers. Taunting.
"Truth," he said softly, tilting his head. "Is that not what you want as well?"
Your pulse was a staccato drumbeat in your throat. "You don't pray," you whispered. "You said so. You don't believe in demons."
"I don't," he agreed. "But belief is not a requirement for truth."
Your spine pressed against the cool stone of the doorway. He hadn't touched you, not really. Not with his hands. But you felt surrounded all the same.
⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹
You couldn't remember how you got back to bed.
"This isn't treatment," you breathed.
"No," he admitted.
A candle flickered beside you and in that small movement of flame, something shifted in his face. A flash, not anger, not cruelty. A melancholy.
He looked lonely.
He took your hand, gently, like you were spun sugar, and placed something cold in your palm.
A key.
"Next time you walk the halls," he murmured, "don't wait for music. Choose a door."
And then he turned from you, his coat whispering behind him like wings. The candlelight dimmed as he passed, and when you looked down at the key, you swore you felt it hum.
That night, your sleep was not your own.
When was it ever?
You stood in your dream, or in something like it, in the same chapel. Barefoot. There was no roof, only a black sky, the stars like puncture wounds.
Something brushed your collar. Breath, maybe. Wind. Or worse.
When you awoke, your feet were dirty. The key still clutched in your hand.
And the bruises had bloomed again.
⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹
At breakfast, you wore a scarf.
He made no remark — only poured your tea, and added a drop of something from a dark bottle you hadn't seen before.
You didn't stop him.
Treatment, maybe.
"Tell me," he said after a long pause, "has the voice grown louder?"
You froze.
You hadn't mentioned Him in a while.
Had you?
You met his eyes across the table. Something within you said: ask. Ask the thing you don't want to know.
So you did.
"Am I sleepwalking?"
He took a slow sip from his glass, and when he set it down, the reflection in it wasn't quite his.
"No," he said evenly.
⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹
The key was warm in your palm that evening.
It shouldn't have been.
You sat on the edge of the bed, the curtains drawn against the dusk. There was a hush to the estate that night, not silence, not quite, but the sense that everything was listening. The house breathed.
You held the key between your thumb and forefinger, turning it, studying the tiny sigils carved into the metal. Not letters. Not anything you knew. But the more you looked, the more they started to seem... familiar. Like the curl of smoke. Like the bone-white markings you'd once seen drawn in salt outside a chapel. A priest who spoke in tongues. A body buried without eyes.
⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹
You didn't remember leaving your room, only that you were suddenly in the east wing — the one the staff never went near. The corridor stretched long and crooked like a spine. Doors lined either side, tall and narrow, all unmarked. Some had handles. Some didn't.
One door breathed when you passed.
Another sighed.
The third... sang.
A low note. Barely audible. A single violin string beneath the floorboards. A tone that rang behind your teeth and in the base of your spine.
Your key fit that lock.
Of course it did.
Your fingers trembled as you turned it. The door creaked inward and a cold breath of air curled out, kissing your neck.
The room inside was, impossibly, a replica of your childhood bedroom.
Down to the crooked bookshelf. The lavender candle. The missing curtain hook. A pair of scuffed shoes too small to wear now, placed beside the bed.
You stepped in. The air was stale with memory.
"Clever," you murmured. To yourself. Or maybe not.
The candle lit on its own.
There, on the nightstand, was your old hairbrush. The one your mother had broken in half in a fit of frustration the year your hair refused to be tamed.
You lifted it — not a crack to be found.
Something in the mirror moved.
You turned. Nothing there. But your reflection lingered a moment longer than it should have.
You left quickly after that.
⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹
You didn't sleep. Not really. You floated. Drowned, more like.
The next morning, he greeted you with soft eyes and a darker waistcoat. You noticed his cuff was stained with something that looked like wine. But wasn't.
"Shall we begin again?" he asked, voice smooth as ever.
You didn't respond.
He gestured to the settee. You sat, heart stammering, mind fractured from the night before.
"I want to try something," he said. "Nothing frightening. Just... deeper. A guided state. The mind is like a room. Sometimes we must rearrange the furniture."
You blinked. "You mean hypnosis."
He smiled, but not unkindly. "I mean honesty."
Your fingers twitched.
"You're safe," he said, and for one treacherous second, you almost believed it.
His voice dropped into that lulling cadence you now recognized, the one that threaded through your dreams. The one that made the air feel thick and sweet.
"Close your eyes."
You didn't want to.
You did.
He was in the garden again. You could smell roses.
There was blood beneath your fingernails.
And in the trees, something watching. Breathing. Waiting.
He knelt before you.
Not the practitioner. The other him. The version with no shadow. With too-sharp eyes and a mouth that had forgotten how to be kind.
"Do you know my name yet?" he asked.
You tried to speak.
Couldn't.
He leaned closer, whispering into your throat.
"Say it, and I will set you free."
⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹
Something was wrong.
You stared down at your hands as you sat in bed, watching the bones shift as you moved your fingers.
Something was missing. Fading.
But what?
Everything felt as if it were breathing. Too sharp. Too colourful. Too aromatic.
You crawled to the window, desperate for something fresh in this house.
The pane of glass creaked as it slid open and you inhaled winter sharply.
Not enough. Not nearly enough.
You didn't even think to grab your robe or shoes before you slipped out the door.
The gardens greeted you with open arms as if they'd been waiting for you. Lush despite the season. White roses gleaming with ice as they caught in the moonlight.
You felt faint needle pricks in your feet as they crunched through the snow. Your head pounding, a sharpness behind your eyes that made the stars a bit blinding.
Your breath came out in puffs and your skin was riddled in goosebumps but you didn't mind. It was a nice distraction. A needed one.
You did not want to sleep.
Your mind raced as your fingers brushed along the roses.
This treatment didn't seem to be going anywhere. You still had dreams. It felt as if it were getting worse now that you were covered in bruises.
You weren’t sure what was real or not in this place. That chapel, your childhood bedroom... being outside helped ground yourself a little bit.
"Taking a late night stroll?"
You spun around at the voice, your flesh snagging on thorns and blood began to drip into the snow.
The attendant went deathly still and you watched as his carefree smile grew tense. His eyes trained on your hand, the slickness of crimson and how it glinted in the moonlight.
"Sir—"
You weren’t quite sure how it happened. It felt like you had only blinked before you found herself on your back and blinking up at the stars, a silent sort of pained sound leaving you as something burrowed its way through your skin. Your cut opened up even more.
Blood terribly warm against the cool night air.
Someone was on top of you. Pinning you to the earth and snow soaked through your nightgown but you couldn't focus on the cold as hands gripped you tight, securing you in place.
You felt light headed, back arching slightly at the pain and you forced yourself to look down. At what was happening to you.
Your mind couldn't keep up or perhaps it simply couldn't understand.
It looked as if he was kissing you. The visual rather romantic. His mouth open and his tongue sliding against your skin, but his teeth–
They were in your flesh. Buried deep and you felt the pull.
He was there one moment and gone the next.
Ripped from you and only then did you scream as his teeth tore jagged lines from being forced away.
Everything was spinning but you faintly registered shouting.
Your head rolled to the side, trying to make sense of the blurry figures a few feet away from you.
Focus, your mind begged.
It was Michael and the attendant. Fighting. The latter looked like an enraged animal and the former attempted to restrain him.
It didn't take long.
A fist went flying in the air, knocking the attendant right in the temple and he crumbled, not getting back up.
You caught sight of dark eyes gleaming as footsteps crunched through the snow, approaching you.
Michael might've fallen to his knees at your side, but you weren’t sure.
⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹
Dim lighting flickered across the ceiling and you felt strange. Cold despite the fire. Despite being swathed beneath thick blankets.
Your eyes slated to the side, half surprised to see him there. A chair drawn close to the side of the bed, elbows perched on his knees and chin resting in his hands as he watched you.
There was something different.
Either regarding him, or yourself. You weren’t sure.
Something was missing.
“How do you feel?”
You felt… fine. Serene. Grounded in a way that didn’t feel correct.
“Am I dreaming?”
His hand reached out, tentative and slow as if he were approaching a wounded animal and your breath hitched as his thumb dragged lightly along your cheekbone.
“I didn’t think I would have to do this so soon.”
Your brows furrowed, your question dying on your tongue as Michael leaned forward, dark eyes drifting from your mouth to your neck.
The gasp that left you was a soft exhale as you felt something prick, too distracted by the softness of his lips against your throat to take hold of the concern that should’ve been paralyzing you.
You felt a pull, almost as if your soul was being unspooled by the fates and you felt so dazed as you gazed up at the ceiling. Your fingers burying themselves in his hair without thought, his own hand coming up to cradle the other side of your neck while his other arm wrapped around your waist, practically pulling you into his lap.
⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹
You felt him everywhere. The gentle touch of his fingers drifted over your sensitive skin like leaves dancing over flagstone, mere whispers but enough to entrance.
You couldn’t stop staring at him. Finding a different footing on a new sense of madness and yes… yes, you knew him. Knew who he was.
You had known all along.
He was your ghost. Your shadow. All those months… praying to him through the messenger of the moon.
The garden that night…
“It’s you.” Your voice cracked, the realization settling in the cavity of your chest like a revelation worthy enough to be slotted into scripture.
His mouth tugged up at the side, being pulled by an invisible string and you could finally see them— fangs, the tips pressing into his bottom lip like a promise.
Michael’s hand cupped your throat, thumb pressing up beneath your jaw to tilt your head back while his other hand wound in your hair. “Look at you,” he spoke quietly, a dazed expression woven into his features.
⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹
You weren't used to them.
They itched. The kind of itch that was maddening and made your head swim— a lick of hunger curling around your stomach violently as you sat on the ground in front of the hearth, head resting against Michael’s knee as he ran fingers through your hair.
“It’ll pass,” he muttered, voice hiding beneath the crack of fire.
You were half tempted to sink them into his thigh, your eyes slating to the side as you looked at the muscle of his leg—
Michael’s hand tightened in your hair. “Don’t.”
Your eyes flicked up. He wasn’t looking at you.
Jaw tight as he gazed at the fire and eased his hold on your hair. “Once that line is crossed, I can’t—“ he shut his eyes and took a breath. “Just, don’t. Not yet.”
⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹
Your dreams had stopped since then, or perhaps they’d become your reality— your own version of Alice slipping through the cracks of the soil after failing to follow the rabbit.
He had fixed you, his reputation not failing him.
You stood in the gardens. Slippers wet with blue snow and you stared at the frozen body of the attendant. Still crumbled up on the ground like a discarded newspaper.
It had been weeks. Days. Months?
You didn’t know.
Your eyes danced up to the moon. Please, you prayed.
A ravenous hunger hollowed you out and then you finally realized what had been wrong. What had been creeping up your mind like a spider.
You hadn’t heard your heartbeat in a while.
⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹
Your eyes met his in the dark. Breath still as your nail traced a line down his cheek to the corner of his mouth, thumb coming up to press against the tip of his fangs.
A breath passed as you waited for him to pull away. To grab your wrist. Not yet— his two favorite words lately.
Michael didn’t say a thing.
You barely had to try, not a moment later your flesh was pierced like it was ripened fruit. A spot of crimson dewing up and before it could drip, Michael’s lips wrapped around your thumb. Gaze locked on yours and you watched as his eyes flashed red at the taste of you.
You’d never known such longing.
The rawness of it as it consumed you, feeling on fire as he slowly dragged you towards him, pulling your strings because your limbs were suddenly useless.
Say it.
You shut your eyes as his voice blanketed your mind, his soul consuming yours as you straddled his hips.
His grip tightened on your waist, “please.”
Your hands came up to cup his face, taking in the beauty of him. He was sculpted of sharp lines, his creator clearly obsessed with perfection and his eyes— Christ, looking at him felt like damnation. Like Orpheus turning to glance at Eurydice because he just couldn’t help himself.
“Michael.”
His mouth met yours and you saw a burst of multicolored lights dance behind your eyes as they slid shut, melting into him as your hands greedily pulled him close.
He stood up, carrying you easily as you wrapped your arms and legs around him, hardly paying any mind as your back settled on the bed. You couldn’t feel anything but his soul and yours.
Michael’s hips settling between your own and his hand was in your hair again, pulling taught and guiding your mouth lower— “Now.”
One word. That one word sounded like Gabriel’s trumpet— heaven reigning down in a blinding cascade of fire and finally…
Your teeth sank into the side of his throat and the sound that left you wasn’t human.
He shuddered violently, holding you close and chanting your name like a hymn he’d known for thousands of years. A millennia passing before he finally got to taste the sweetness of it on his tongue.
Michael held you close, hips pressing into yours and when you felt him thrust inside— the drag of it felt like a hit of opium.
He pulled your hair, dragging your mouth to his, hot and open— tongue dancing with yours and he groaned at the taste of your blood.
Michael’s arms held himself up just enough not to crush you as he thrusted forward, pushing you further into the mattress and your mouth gaped open at the force of it.
He was dancing on the edge of violence and it was lovely. A macabre beauty to the way his hips rolled and then his teeth dragged along your throat, drawing blood and his tongue flattened over the fresh wound moments later.
Then he was saying your name again— the cadence an ancient lilt as his cock dragged out and back in, hitting something inside of you that teased the entrance to the Elysian Fields.
The orgasm hit you hard and you choked out a cry, legs trembling but Michael kept going, his mouth and teeth digging into your throat so deep you thought he might get carried away and actually start eating you.
“Michael.”
He forced his head back, mouth and chin and teeth covered in crimson and he looked so unraveled— hips slamming into yours and pelvis grinding against your clit.
Michael was kissing you again, the action a complete mess. Wet and tasting of iron and something else a bit sweeter. Dancing between the notes of orchids and ichor.
His thrusts became erratic, the bed slamming into the wall so hard the old oak frame cracked down the middle and the mattress collapsed to the floor like the earth had opened up beneath you.
When he came and your name dripped off his tongue, you knew you’d found it. What you’d been praying for.
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synopsis: he came back different. (part 1.) (part 2.)
warnings. smut and a hint of vampire michael too. best friends to freaky lovers. 70s/80s au don't matterrrr.
CHAPTER ONE. ( NOT THRILLER BUT A THRILL )
"Alright Michael this isnt funny, come out already!"
You guys weren't too far from the city , just in the woods on a random night. It was getting a little cold now, the air brushed passed your half bare legs. You trip up a little as your sock gets stuck, you lean down to undo it and keep walking.
"I swear if you-"
Next thing you know Michael comes out of nowhere. "AH" he says to you with a childish grin. You scream lightly as you backed up into a tree, annoyed and angry with him.
"That wasn't funny you ass," You say lightly getting up from the tree.
Michael extends his hand out helping you get back up, "I scared you?"
"Shut up. And I thought we were finding a way back, not playing hide and seek," you specify while grabbing his hand. You wiped off some dirt off you before turning back to him.
“We were, but you kept draggin’ behind,” he teased softly, reaching for your hand and pulling you a little closer. “You walk too slow.”
You rolled your eyes, trying to ignore the way his fingers felt cold against yours. “Sorry if some of us aren’t built for creepin’ around the woods at midnight.”
A small smile pulled at his lips. “And yet,” he murmured, “you still came with me.” His eyes lowed down on you, “You scared?” he asked lowly, that grin still tugging at his mouth.
“Hard to be scared when you got that Mickey mouse jacket on” you huffed, shooting him a look. “I oughta wipe that smile right off your face.” Your annoyance only made him grin wider.
“Mm, sorry,” he mocked softly, stepping closer. “Didn’t mean to scare you like that.”
You scoffed, shaking your head as you walked past him. “Yeah you did. You’re still smiling.”
Before you could go far, he gently caught your hand and pulled you back again, turning you toward him.
“So,” he said lowly, which that familiar grin, “you don’t wanna play anymore?”
You looked up at him for a moment, pretending to think it over. “One more game, I need to practice for tomorrow,” you said finally. “And don’t cheat.”
"I never cheat, just run fast fa'me alright?" he says grinning.
You hit him lightly, already breaking into a run as soon as your fingers left his shoulder. You were pretty fast compared to others, but not faster than Michael. He stood there watching you run with an amused look on his face, most likely thinking, "20 seconds...tops" on how long it would take to get you. He let you get a good head start, just enough to feel like you might actually get away.
But every time, he caught up. No matter how far you ran, he was always right there, like it was never really a game. Even if you’d never admit it out loud… you didn’t hate when he caught you. You loved it.
As you ran, you passed by a few cars, roads and tall trees, you never worried about running too far because Michael was most likely on your tail already. As you run you hear footsteps behind you, getting closer and closer. You try to take a final run before you feel your legs lift up from the ground. You let out a defeated groan, "That was not 30 seconds Michael"
“You’re right, it was 60,” he said with a quiet laugh. He set you down gently and turned to face you. “Caught you again.”
You rolled your eyes at the obvious, still catching your breath. Your hands resting on your knees for a second as you try to slow your breathing down. “How are you so fast? It’s like I’m running against Carl Lewis or something…”
Michael let out a real laugh at that, shaking his head slightly.
“Don’t know,” he said simply, still smiling. “Just not like others.”
You finally straightened up, still a little out of breath, your chest rising and falling quicker than you wanted it to.
Meanwhile, Michael didn’t even look winded. Like he hadn’t just been sprinting through the woods, like it was nothing. His breathing stayed steady, as he just watched you with that quiet grin still on his face.
You felt something was off, and you hummed slightly. “Sure you aren’t part vampire or something,” you asked. You then walk ontop of some rocks, you made sure to be carefully stable before getting on an old log. Your Reebok's crunched softly against the old wood, white socks scrunched at your ankles as you balanced carefully in the dark.
“Careful on that,” Michael said immediately, following right behind you. “And no, I’m not,” he added a bit too quickly, like the answer had already been prepared.
You glanced back at him over your shoulder. “Mm-hm…”
He just watched you for a second longer than usual, then shook it off and kept walking like it was nothing, matching your pace effortlessly through the uneven ground. "You seriously think I'm some monster? Maybe you should quit the movies" he gently pushes your shoulder.
"No no, they might be real. I would love to see one," you say walking.
Michael’s eyes stayed on you the whole time, following every careful step like he already knew you were one slip away from falling. “Oh really?” he said, a soft laugh in his tone. “Please… you’d be shakin’ outta your shoes in two seconds.”
“Listen, you don’t know nothin’ alright,” you replied, glancing back at him as you kept walking.
Michael smirked to himself, staying right beside you now, his steps matching yours through the uneven ground like it was nothing.
After a while stepping on the sticks and grass Michael spoke, "You wanna head back? It's getting a little late"
It was getting late, but you still didn't wanna leave yet. "Is it time for you to turn into a bat or werewolf yet?" you teased. That made him squint at you immediately, like he was trying to decide if you were serious or just being difficult.
“I don’t wanna go back home just yet,” you said with a small laugh, swinging your hands back and forth as you walked. “Everyone’s probably still asleep anyway. No one even knows I’m gone right now."
“Mine too,” he replied, glancing around the dark woods for a second before looking back at you.
"Plus I haven't seen you in forever, they shouldn't mind" you added, which was true. Michael went away to a University somewhere else, he'd been gone for months now, away halfway across the country while you stayed back in the city. Between schedules, calls that never happened, and time moving faster than either of you expected, seeing him in person had started feeling weirdly rare. He looked different. Not in an obvious way, you still recognized him. But something was different.
A little more put together, a little more calm in how he moved, like he wasn’t in a rush for anything anymore. Either way, you were glad to see him.
“You look… different.”
Michael looked over at you, “Yeah?” he said. “Good different or bad different?”
You shrugged. “I don’t know yet. Still deciding.”
Michael scoffed, “I forgot how much you get on my nerves," he replied. "So what now?”
You looked up at him, still walking slowly, your hands swinging at your sides. “So what now?” you asked as well, like you were actually thinking about it too.
"Movie? That old pizza place?" Michael recommended.
"They started closing early for some reason, I guess they got spooked by whatever," you say shrugging.
Michael thought for a moment, then his eyes lightly lit. "I guess I could show you something"
"Show me what?" you asked confused.
He glanced back at you with that quiet little smile. “Well… I need to take you there first, don’t I?”
Before you could say anything else, he was already walking past you, brushing by like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Come this way,” he said over his shoulder like he already knew you’d follow.
“You’re up to no good, I know it,” you said, quickening your steps behind him anyway.
He let out a quiet chuckle, slowing just enough to catch your hand in his. His fingers closed around yours easily, like it was nothing new.
“Be quiet,” he murmured, giving your hand a light tug to keep you moving. “Before I show you right here." The words hit a little differently than they should’ve. Your heart gave a small, traitorous jump, a heat creeping up your neck before you could stop it. As his back stayed turned, you caught yourself smiling, a quick one. Like you were trying to hide it from even yourself. But just as fast, you blinked it away and straightened your thoughts. He was just a friend.
Nothing more.
Right?
You both walked for a little longer before you let out a small complaint, slowing your steps.
“Michael… my feet are killing me,” you said, shifting your weight as you walked.
“Then I guess we can stop here,” he said quietly.
You both finally came to a halt, your feet aching, exhaustion settling in as you looked around. More trees, thicker this time, a little further from the road than before. Before you could say anything else, he gently guided you forward, turning you so your back met the rough bark of a tree.
Your brows knit slightly as you looked up at him. “What’s this you wanted to show me?” you asked. For some reason your heart started to beat. He stood in front of you, taller, looking down at you.
“Remember your whole little talk earlier?” he asked, voice a little quieter now, like the woods had gone more still around them. “Bout the vampires?”
“Yes,” you replied simply, watching him a bit closer now.
“And remember how I said I’m not like others?” he went on, still calm, but there was something different in his tone now. Not gone, just… more serious underneath the playfulness.
“Michael," you let out a playfully huff. "If you’re gonna tell me you’re a vampire, that’s the most ridic—”
But you stopped mid-sentence as you looked at him properly. He wasn’t laughing this time. He wasn’t teasing. He was still Michael, still familiar, but the smile had softened into something more controlled, more careful, like he was deciding how much to let you see.
"Theres...no way," you mutter out. "Are you trying to scare me again? Because that wasn't funny."
"No it was, but I'm not joking," he replies. "I’m not tryin’ to scare you,” he said quietly, watching your face like he was reading every reaction. “I wouldn’t do that. I just, feel like you should know now."
A small pause hung between you. The woods felt louder than they had a moment ago. Then, a lighter breath left him, like he was trying to ease the moment back into something less scary.
“Besides…” he added, tilting his head slightly, “you’d be runnin’ already if I was going to scare you" he eyed you.
You narrowed your eyes slightly, still not fully believing him. “Prove it,” you said quiet.
That made him pause. Just for a second. Then his expression shifted, subtle, but real. The softness in his face stayed, but something underneath it changed. Like he stopped holding something back.
“Alright, don't run now you hear?” he said simply. "I'll get you" he told you teasingly.
The air around him seemed to still as he stepped back just enough for you to see him clearly. No smile, just an unreadable look as the last bit of distance between “joking” and “serious” disappeared.
You hesitated, trying to keep your breathing steady, your eyes locked on him like you were waiting for him to laugh it off at any second or suddenly break into a grin and go, “Got you!”
But he didn’t.
Instead, you watched as the change slowly began almost easy to miss if you blinked. His eyes caught what little light there was between the trees, and for a second they didn’t look normal anymore. His expression shifted slightly, and you saw it. His eyes glowing faintly in the dark.
Your breath caught.
And just beneath his lips, it followed, slow, like he wasn’t hiding it anymore. Two sharp, white fangs slipping into view as his calm expression stayed completely steady. He kept a straight face, as if he’d done this too many times for the process to even feel painful anymore.
Your stomach dropped , like your brain was still trying to catch up to what your eyes were seeing. The joke never came. The grin didn't return. For the first time since you’d met him out here, you didn’t know what to say.
Your heartbeat picked up, uneven, loud in your ears as you stared at him, still standing there like it was normal, as if nothing about him had just changed at all.
It should’ve scared you more. And it did, just not in a clean way. Because underneath the shock, there was something else you didn’t want to admit. Curiosity. And the fact that he was still Michael somehow made it worse.
He didn’t rush you. Didn’t disappear into the trees or step back like he expected you to run. Instead, he slowly walked closer, hands still by his sides, movements. Like he was trying not to overwhelm you.
The space between you shrank with every step until he was close enough that you had to tilt your head up to keep looking at him.
His voice dropped softer now. Not teasing. Not playful. Just… honest.
“I told you,” he said quietly.
Yeah, he did tell you. But you didn’t believe it, because who would? This was crazy. Halloween wasn’t even close, and it felt like you were getting the scare of a lifetime.
You should’ve been running. Your body was practically screaming at you to move, your mind yelling louder than anything else.
But you didn’t. The quiet, the confusing, and way too curious part of you wanted to see more. Wanted to understand him standing in front of you like this. You swallowed, eyes flicking back to his face again. The glow, the shift, the sharp edges that weren’t supposed to be there.
“Can I… touch your fangs?” you suddenly asked, voice softer now, like you were testing if the words were even safe to say out loud.
He didn’t answer right away.
For a moment, he just looked at you—really looked at you—like he was trying to decide if you were serious or just caught up in the curiosity of it all.
“You don’t wanna do that,” he said quietly. Not warning in a harsh way. Just certain. But Michael didn’t move away. The space between you stayed tight, close enough that the strange calm about him felt even more noticeable now, like he was choosing to stay right there with you instead of putting distance between you. Then, slowly, the tension eased just a little. That familiar spark of him came back, the teasing part, the almost playful tone like he couldn’t stay serious for too long with you.
“You really pick the weirdest things to be curious about,” he murmured, a faint smirk pulling at his lips again. Then, softer, almost like he was letting you decide.
“…You still want to?”
You hesitated for a second, then gave a slow nod. His eyes stayed on you for a moment longer, like he was still making sure. Then, finally, he shifted just slightly, enough for you to see them clearly again.
The faint sharpness, his fangs peeking through like it wasn’t something he was trying to hide anymore.
Your breath caught a little, but you didn’t move away.
Instead, carefully, your hand lifted. Hesitant at first, then slowly you reached out and let your fingertip brush lightly against one of them.
Cold. Sharp enough to dig into your neck if he used enough force. Your eyes flicked up to his, still unsure, but not pulling back. Michael watched you closely, that quiet teasing look returning again like he couldn’t help himself.
Then, before you could fully process it, he gently caught your finger between his teeth, just enough to hold it there for a second.
No pain like it would seem like. Just a soft, playful gesture. Typical. He let go almost immediately after, a faint smirk forming as he looked at you.
“Relax,” he murmured, voice low. “I’m not gonna bite you.”
“You’re still an ass even as a vampire,” you muttered under your breath, pulling your hand back like nothing had just happened. But your voice wasn’t as steady as you wanted it to be.
A quiet laugh left him almost immediately. “Scared now?”
“No, like I said. It's hard to take you seriously in that Mickey jacket” you quickly replied, a little too fast to sound convincing.
Michael hummed softly, still standing right in front of you, not moving an inch. His gaze stayed fixed on you like he was listening to more than just your words.
“You know I can hear your heartbeat?” he said lowly.
Your stomach flipped. “No way.....”
Michael nodded slightly, eyes still on you. "It beats differently,” he added quietly. “Faster when I’m close… or when I call you pretty girl.”
Your chest felt warm again.
Michael watched you for a second longer before a slow grin pulled at his lips. He tilted his head slightly, clearly entertained now.
“You know,” he murmured, “I’m startin’ to think you like me.”
“Shut up,” you said quickly, almost too quick.
That only made him smile wider.
“You’re annoying,” you muttered, trying to hide the warmth still sitting in your chest.
Michael laughed softly under his breath, but after a second the teasing eased a little. He looked at you quietly for a moment, almost thoughtful now.
“…Suprised you didn’t run,” he said.
The joke was gone from his voice this time.
You blinked at him. “Was I…supposed to?”
“I thought you would,” he admitted softly, glancing away for a second before looking back at you. “Most people probably would.”
Something about the way he said it made your chest tighten a little, "Well im not them, im your friend. Thick and thin."
Michael looked at you differently now, not surprised exactly, but relieved. Like he finally stopped waiting for you to run away.
“I’d never run from you, Michael. Ever,” you said softly, and for once there wasn’t even a hint of teasing in your voice. The words seemed to soothe him. Michael’s expression shifted slightly, the playful grin fading as he looked down at you. For a second, he didn’t say anything at all.
“You mean that?” he asked quietly.
You nodded once. Something in him softened after that. You saw it immediately in the way his shoulders eased, in the way he looked at you now, like he hadn’t expected that answer at all.
Then, without really thinking about it, Michael stepped forward and pulled you into him. The hug came gentle, almost careful, like he was still getting used to the idea that you were actually there and not running away from him. And strangely enough, being this close to him now didn’t feel scary at all. His arms wrapped around you slowly, careful but firm enough to keep you there. They were colder than they should’ve been, even through your clothes, but not enough to make you pull away. Just enough to remind you that he wasn’t exactly normal, not human.
Your cheek rested lightly against his chest, and for a second you listened without meaning to.
Nothing.
No heartbeat.
The realization should’ve unsettled you more than it did, but somehow the way he held you made up for it completely, steady, protective, almost relieved.
Michael stayed quiet for a moment before speaking softly near your ear.
“…I appreciate that,” he murmured.
Then, a sharp snap cracked somewhere deeper in the woods.
Your head shot up immediately. “What was that?”
Michael didn’t answer instantly. His body went still, barely noticeable, but different. Like he was listening past the sound instead of just to it.
Then, after a beat too long, “…A deer,” he said quietly, though his voiced seemed on the breaking of laughing. The snap faded deeper into the trees, leaving the woods quiet again. Michael didn’t move right away. His arms were still around you, but there was a subtle change now. Less certainty. More restraint. You could feel it before you saw it, the way his attention kept flicking away from you, then back again like he was trying not to get distracted.
“…Your heartbeat’s still fast,” he murmured, quieter this time.
Your fingers shifted slightly where they rested against him, but you didn’t pull away. That pause stretched between you both longer than it should’ve. Like something unsaid was sitting right there, just out of reach.
Michael finally exhaled through his nose, slow, like he was steadying himself. His arms loosened, not fully letting go, but enough to create space again. You stayed quiet for a moment, thoughts drifting as you tried to process everything that had just happened, him, the woods, the way the night felt like it had shifted into something you couldn’t quite name yet.
Before you could get too lost in it, Michael’s voice pulled you back. Not loud, but just enough.
“…Hey,” he said softly, catching your attention again.
You blinked. “Yeah?”
Michael glanced at you, then nodded toward the path. “C’mon,” he said. “I’ll walk you home.” This time he actually started walking, but not ahead of you. Just beside you, close enough that you matched his pace without thinking about it. Somehow, you ended up holding onto his arm as you walked without really thinking about it. Not tightly, just enough that your fingers rested there like it was natural.
Your eyes drifted down without meaning to.
The way his sleeve was pushed up slightly made his arm more noticeable in the dim light, the shape of it, the quiet strength in it as he walked. You followed the line of his forearm for a second longer than you meant to.
“…You’re staring,” he said after a moment, voice low.
You blinked and looked away quickly. “I’m not.”
You could feel him glance down at you instead, like he definitely didn’t believe that. Michael didn’t say anything though, just kept walking, steady as ever, letting you stay there holding onto him. You both reached your house just as the night started to feel heavier behind you. The porch light flickered on, warm against the dark.
You paused at the door and looked back at him. “Aren’t you coming in?”
Michael stopped just short of the steps, glancing up at the house like he was weighing it. Then a quiet, almost amused breath left him. “Funny thing about this whole… situation,” he said softly. “You need to invite me in.”
You stayed right there at the edge of the doorway, not stepping inside yet. Not moving away either.
“So you just stand out there all night if I don’t say it?” you asked, quieter now, but still teasing him a little.
Michael gave you a look like the answer was obvious.
“If I have to,” he said simply. Then after a beat, a little more serious, “But I’d rather you didn’t leave me out here.”
That made you exhale through your nose, half amused, half caught off guard by how real that sounded.
“That’s kind of dramatic,” you muttered.
A faint smile pulled at his mouth.
“You’re the one making me stand on your porch,” he said.
You rolled your eyes, finally giving in. “Alright, come in,” you said lightly. “Just be quiet.”
Michael gave a small nod like that was fair enough. “Yeah, yeah,” he murmured, a hint of amusement in his voice.
The moment he stepped inside, the air felt a little different. Not bad just… different. That seems to be the common word for tonight. Different.
You didn’t say much after that. Just started walking toward your room a little faster, like suddenly being in your own space made everything feel more normal again.
Michael followed behind you without comment, moving easy, like he wasn’t out of place at all. The hallway was quiet except for your steps and his behind you.
You glanced back at him.
“I’ve been here before, y/n,” he said lightly, like he could tell what you were thinking. “Calm down.”
That made you pause for half a second. “Yeah, when you were like… human Michael,” you muttered, opening your door.
A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “Still me.”
And he stepped in after you like it had never changed anything at all.
You walked in your room first, Michael followed. You locked the door and walked over to close the curtains. You dropped onto your bed with a sigh, finally relaxing a bit now that the door was shut.
“Don’t start judging my room,” you said, kicking off your shoes.
Michael let out a small laugh under his breath.
“I’m not judging,” he said, glancing around. “Just lookin’.”
You narrowed your eyes a little. “That sounds like judging.”
“I see you still like them,” Michael said glancing.
You looked up at him. “Like who?”
He nodded slightly toward something in your room , cassette tapes, something you clearly never got rid of.
“The Stylistics,” he said simply.
You blinked, then scoffed. “Obviously.” You then throw a pillow at him, aiming for his head. Michael blinked for a second, then laughed under his breath as the pillow hit him in the chest. He caught it easily this time.
“Oh, so that’s how it is?” he said, amused.
Before you could even lean back, he tossed it right back at you.
Not hard, just quick enough that you had to catch it, your hands brushing the fabric as you grabbed it.
You looked at him, narrowing your eyes a little. “I thought I told you to keep quiet,” you said, trying to sound serious, but it didn’t really land.
Michael just raised a brow slightly, like he was testing you now. "Yeah?” he said softly.
He took a few steps closer instead of stopping, like he wasn’t taking your warning seriously at all. Before you could say anything else, he tossed the pillow back at you again.
You caught it, narrowing your eyes at him. You were about to kick him before he caught your foot.
“Oh, you’re doing too much now,” you muttered, you tried kicking him again.
Michael just smiled slightly, like he was waiting for whatever you’d do next, “Maybe not enough for you to think you can keep kicking me." Before you could kick again, he caught your leg lightly mid-motion, just enough to stop you, not rough, more like he was preventing the attempt.
You froze for a second.
Michael blinked like he didn’t even think about it. He then pulled you towards him, looking down at you. You eye him. You guys have fought before but this felt like something more. He looked down at you slowly, still holding that small, teasing look, but it wasn’t as loud anymore. Like he’d gone still without meaning to. His eyes stayed on your face for a moment longer than necessary. You on the other knew what to say, which was nothing. You just looked into his eyes, a second later they quickly dropped to his lips where his fangs slowly peeked out.
“Are you…gonna bite me?” you asked him a little quietly, unsure of what was gonna happen. Michael didn’t say anything, but his eyes did trail to your neck. Your neck bare, your pulse slowly speeding up. He leaned closer to your neck, you, a little unsure slowly turned your head. You wasn’t too scared, but the feeling was there. You’ve seen the movies where the vampire gets the girl, so brutal, teeth marks plunged in the neck, blood dripping down, but this didn’t feel like it.
You felt Michael’s breath reach your neck, his teeth slowly scrapped the side of your neck. You didn’t scream, but a reaction left you. One from your mouth and one somewhere else. His fangs slowly scrapped in a little more in the spot before you felt his lips slowly kiss the spot.
“You’re a little jumpy tonight,” he said, a small grin returning to his face like the tension from a second ago had already started to fade.
You blinked at him, then scoffed.
“Jumpy?” you repeated. “You’re a vampire.”
That made him pause for half a second just enough before he let out a small laugh. “Yeah,” he said, like it was obvious. “And?”
You stared at him. “And?” you echoed. “I don’t appreciate you biting into my neck.”
“I kissed the spot”
“That don't mean anything bloodsucker,” you scoffed at him. For moment you relax, then you say, “Do it again”
Michaels eyes slightly widen but he doesn’t hesitate. He leans in against, trailing kisses down your neck, firm but gentle. His teeth traced along your pulse, “Right, here that’s where your pulse is” he says lowly.
“That's where I usually take a bite,” he says lowly.
You didn't know what this was leading to, but you weren't complaining. You let out a quiet hum, your pulse speeding up with each kiss he gave you. He then comes back to you, eyes glowing and focused on you. His fangs gently peeked out from his lips, you stare at them. You then lean in having your lips gently press over his fangs. Michael let out a soft breath as you closed your lips against his. He immediately kissed you back, his lips moved eagerly quickly against yours, almost as if he’s wanted this for so long. His lips, slightly cold, but left the warmest feeling all over your body. It danced up your skin, all just from him. Your hands find their way to Michael’s chest, they rest there as he continues kissing your perfect lips.
His fanged teeth lightly clashed against your lips, “Michael?” you let a quiet gasp. He slowed the kiss, showing your bottom lip extra attention before parting away slowly.
“I should get going,” Michael says close to you.
You hesitated, then leaned back slightly on your bed, looking at him. “Don’t leave yet,” you said, giving that voice you did when you wanted something. “Just… stay a little longer.”
Michael paused, watching you for a second.
“…Yeah?” he said softly. You nod at him, a little needy. Michael felt it.
He finally moved, sitting down beside you. As he did he welcomed you into his lap which you did with ease. The mattress dipped slightly under both of you all’s weight. Your hands found his face as you started kissing again, his hands hesitantly found your waist. Holding you right on top of him, they lightly pressed into you, as a way of trying to keep himself restrained.
“You… you want to?” he asked through the kisses.
“Yeah,” you say nodding. You then start pulling up your shirt , Michael helps you. He lightly tosses your shirt on the floor. His hands moved up your sides, teasing underneath your bra. You slowly grinded ontop of him, his hands pressed down on your hips to feel you some more. You felt his bulge almost Immediately which made you chuckle.
“You’re hard already?” you asked between kisses.
He slowly kisses your bottom lip again before stopping, “When you kiss me like this, I can’t help it’
So you, slide off your panties, leaving yourself bare with just your bra. Michael was lost of words for a moment, which made you chuckle. You then slowly reach for his pants, undoing the belt first before slowly pulling down his pants. Michael bit his bottom lip, trying to keep his composure. You give him one final kiss before going low on your knees, you teasingly rub your hand over his bulge. His hips lightly bucked up feeling your hand.
“Calm down,” you teased him.
Michael squinted at you like he wasn’t impressed, but the corner of his mouth twitched anyway. “Yeah, keep teasing,” he said flatly, leaning back like he was settling in. “See where that gets you.”
You then slowly pulled out his dick, already hard and leaking. You gently kiss the tip, licking up any precum that came from him. You kissed the sides as you looked up at him.
Michael’s breath hitched as he watched you work your mouth on him, “You…you know you don’t have too,” he mumbled out. His chest raised up and down from the sensation on his sensitive tip. “I can just please you”
“Hm, but I want too,” you say eyeing him as you fit his length into your warm mouth. He moans quietly as you do. You bobbed your head up and down on his length, stroking every now n then. His legs tensed lightly, he let out a quiet curse underneath his breath. “Shit, suck it fa’me girl,” he’d say keeping his legs opened.
Your tongue slid over his tip, licking up the taste of his precum, which you oddly loved. So sweet as it oozed out. Michael’s eyes were focused on you, he couldn’t believe this was happening. A small part of you couldn’t believe it either.
You and Michael had been friends for so long, years of teasing each other, arguing, laughing like nothing would ever really change. But here you both were.
“Hm, good job. You’re…doing so good” he praised you quietly. His hand slowly traveled down your side and all the way to your bare pussy. His fingers found your clit, he circled it slowly, applying just a little bit of pressure to it.
“Figure you deserve a little reward,” Michael said to you with a faint smirk. His fingers gently played with your clit which made you arch your back more. You took him more in your mouth, sucking slow and kissing the sides.
“Oh you liked that huh?” he chuckled quietly. So he did it again, rubbing your clit in small fast circles, “There you go, you need to feel good too” he whispers. You tried not to moan too loud, but it was hard. Your pussy continued soak over as Michael rubbed over your clit. You popped his dick out your mouth, you lean right back up to kiss him. Your lips smack over each other again, you feels his fangs lightly bite into you.
You let out a slight hiss, but Michael kisses the feeling away, “M’sorry baby.”
Your hand meets his dick again as you stroke it slow, wet slip sounds fill the room as you do. Michael let out a strained groan as you stroked his length. His fingers, still slipping through your wet folds, occasionally finding your clit again.
“You feel so good,” he gently bites your shoulder. You let out a quiet chuckle to him, pressing him more into your chest. His teeth trailed down to your cleaavge, kissing and licking some spots.
“Stand up for a second,” he said, lightly tapping your side.
“You want me to stand up?” you asked, confused.
“Yeah,” Michael said, already grinning a little now. “C’mon, just trust me, I know you're gonna like it.”
You narrowed your eyes at him, “Alright” you say. What he was about to do next, shocked you. You stand up in front of him, waiting for his next direction. He tells you to lift one leg up and keep it there, which you do. Michael smiles to himself, quickly licking his lips before placing them right on your clit. Your back arched almost immediately as he did, you hold onto the headboard of your bed.
“Oh Michael wait,” you say quietly, tempted to let out a loud moan.
“Mhm, you gotta be quiet,” he replied to you as he stroked himself below you. You clenched your eyes where tears from pleasure threatened to fall. He held onto one of your legs to keep you supported, he teasingly groped the side of your thigh, cold fingers creating small goosebumps along side.
You unknowingly grinded yourself against his mouth, in which he smiled to. “Such a pretty thing, just wetting up my lips,” Michael said in between licks.
You never knew Michael could do this, gosh how was he able to? Did it come with being a vampire? Or was he always just waiting for this opportunity? To please you and make you feel good? You felt his tongue slowly swirl around your clit, it felt so good, all your thoughts turned to nothing but mush. It was perfect. As if Michael had been waiting so long to show you how he felt.
“Hmm, thank you Michael,” you say softly, gripping the headboard.
“Hm, don’t thank me yet,” he gives your clit one final suck and then a kiss.
He then pats your leg again, meaning to sit back down. You do, you laid back for a sec, feeling sensitive from his motions on your pussy.
“Where’d you learn that?” you asked, a little out of breath. Michael looked way too pleased with himself, a goofy grin spreading across his face.
“Mm,” he hummed, shrugging a little. He then got close to you again like before, hovering over, “Natural talent,” he replies whispered quietly against your lips. You moan low as your hands found his hair, gripping it as your legs crossed over his back.
“I wanna feel more” was all you said to him. Michael hummed, he knew what you wanted, but he always wanted to hear you say it.
“Feel what?” he asks looking down into your eyes.
“You, I wanna feel you Michael” you say pleading under your breath.
There was nothing but lust in you all’s eyes. Heavy breathing and pleading against each other’s mouths. Michael hummed again, like he was thinking it over, before finally giving in with a small shake of his head. “I’m too easy on you,” he said. He then strokes himself, giving his dick a few good pumps. He slowly rubbed his tip in between your folds, your slipperiness making him groan quietly. He slowly slips inside you, feeling your warmth close around him. He lets you get used to him slowly slippin in, then he pushed in, inch by inch, letting you feel every bit of him. You gasped, gripping his arms, the same arms you'd been eyeing earlier. You shifted against the bed as he held your legs to go deeper in you, your fingers lightly digged into his arms, the same arms you were looking at earlier. You tried to keep quiet, this whole thing was risky, but it felt so damn good coming from Michael.
“So pretty” he says kissing you softly. His hands kept a good grip on you, helping him thrust you right back against him. You let out a moan into the open, but Michael quickly shuts you up with a kiss. Just as he did, his thrusts slowly slowed.
You let out a whine, “Why’d you stop Michael?” you mumble.
He lifted his head, but didn't pull out, just stayed buried deep inside you, moving slow and careful.
"Heard something," he said low. As he did, he still kept his slow deep thrust in you, slipping in and out your pussy. “Your big mouth’s gonna get us in trouble, you know that?” he whispers, shaking his head a little like he was trying not to laugh. Before you could argue, he picked up the pace, driving into you a little faster. His thumb found your clit, and your back arched off the bed, your chest bouncing as you bit down on your lip to stay quiet. Your hand pressed against his stomach, half pushing, half holding on.
He laughed under his breath. "Thought you said you weren't gonna run from me."
You glared at him, breathless. "Shut up."
He pinned one of your legs down, and then he was moving. Harder, deeper, like he was testing how much you could take. He watched every reaction you gave him, eyes never leaving. Trying different strokes to see which one you loved the most. You felt his nails dig into your skin, sharp and real, and when you glanced up, his fangs had lengthened. That sight alone made you clench around him, a warmth pooling low in your belly. Your eyes started to sting with tears. Michael noticed. He leaned down, pressing soft kisses to your cheeks, catching each tear before it could fall. "I know, baby," he murmured, his voice rough but tender. "Too much?" He asked checking in with you. You shook your head no, desperately wanting him to keep going. To fuck a new feeling into you.
He kissed the side of your face before looking at you, “You think you can cum for me?” he asks you. His thumb finds your clit when you couldn’t answer, he rubs around your sensitive bud making you talk.
"Yeah—I can," you breathe out, the words tumbling from your lips like a half-formed promise. His thumb picks up speed, moving in tight, quick strokes that make your hips twitch and roll against him
“Well good, because I need it baby. I need you to cum on my dick,” he says in your ear. “You can do that for lil ole me right pretty girl?” he asks continuing. His thumb worked fast, and that familiar heat coiled low in your belly.
"Yeah... m'gonna cum for you," you whisper, the words shaky, almost lost in the rhythm of your own breathing. Michael leans in, his lips brushing against the curve of your neck. He doesn't kiss it yet, he just lets his breath ghost over your skin, making you shiver.
"Show me how much you missed me," then he gently bites down, his teeth slowly sink into the tender flesh, just enough to send a jolt of pleasure straight through you. Your inner walls clench around him, and you gasp, arching into him as wave after wave pulses through your body. He stays buried deep inside you, feeling everything you gave him, every moan and every squeeze. He keeps his thumb moving, coaxing every last shudder out of you until you're trembling against him, breathless.
"Fuck, just like that,” Michael repeated. He then kisses over the spot where he bit you. Your limbs feel heavy, your skin tingling. You're still catching your breath when you feel Michael's rhythm falter, his hips stuttering as he groans low in his throat. He pulls out in one smooth motion, his dick slick from your juices. He strokes himself twice before his nut spills across your lower stomach. Streaks of white landed in lazy patterns all over you. He lets out a long, satisfied exhale, his forehead dropping to rest against yours.
For a few seconds, neither of you moves. Your breath mingles with his, slow and unsteady, like you're both still catching pieces of yourselves. The only sound is the soft hum of the room and your own heartbeat, which, you realize, is still racing.
Michael lifts his head first, a lazy grin spreading across his lips. His eyes are darker than usual, the pupils blown wide, but there's a warmth in them that softens his sharp features.
"You good down there, pretty girl?" he asks, his voice rough but playful. "Wasn't too rough on you?"
You shake your head, still catching your breath. "Hm… no." A soft laugh escapes you, giddy, almost shy. Your fingers trace lazily along his jaw, "Is it… a vampire thing? The stamina?" you whisper, a little breathless.
He chuckles, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Not really. Would've been like this before, if you'd asked." You hum, pulling him into a proper kiss, your lips molding to his like they already know the shape of him.
He pulls back just enough to murmur, "Pretty sure the whole house heard us."
@cherrishkissed
Authors note. .✦ ݁˖
I got carried away. Might be some typos but its ok, somewhat proof read. Pls tell me how I did 🥴. BYEEEE
description: a steamy friends-to-lovers romance sparked by a blackout. years of secret longing explode into a shared, guided masturbation session that is equal parts dirty and deeply romantic, leaving them realizing they were each other’s fantasy all along.
a/n; uhhh i’m supposed to be working on story 3 for my series, but i just wanted to throw out something random. (sum sweet fa da kids.)
the room lit up fully, as you watched michael carefully set up the fireplace. you stayed seated on the coach, wrapped in multiple blankets.
just before the power went out, the news explained the quite unexpected snowstorm that was hitting your areas.
you and your best friend michael, wanted some time away from everything, so he practically begged you to come on vacation with him.
most people’s vacation would be the beach, or somewhere tropical. but michael picked a cabin in the mountains, where nature peaked at its best.
after the secluded cabin had been lit with candles and lamps throughout, you and michaels stayed relaxed on the couch.
your eyes glued to the book, that you’d thought would keep your attention. but it doesn’t.
you toss the book on the floor and groan in annoyance. michael who’s melodic thoughts were interrupted by your expression of complaint, raised a brow. “everything alright?”
sighing in defeat, you scrunch your legs up into your chest, like a child; throwing your head back against the armrest you finally explain. “i’m so bored, mikey.”
michael, who hummed in response, brought his legs upon the couch, getting into a cross-cross apple sauce position, faced you.
bringing his hand up to his chin, his eyes stayed on you. “whatcha wanna do?”
curling up against your body, your head relaxed onto your left knee, which watched your hand gently caressing your other knee in thought.
“talk to me.” you state. “tell me somethin’ you’d never tell anyone.”
michael dropped his head down nervously, considering what and what not to say.
the fire crackles softly behind you as snow continues to fall outside the cabin windows. he takes a slow breath, staring into the flames before finally turning those intense eyes on you.
"something I've never told anyone before?" his voice is quiet, almost hesitant. "i’ve been in love with you for years," he admits softly, his voice barely above a whisper.
"like, actually, desperately in love. i thought i could suppress it by staying your best friend, but... being snowed in here with you? It’s killing me."
he finally meets your gaze, his expression raw and vulnerable. "i’ve never told a soul that."
you study him quietly, letting the words sink in. slowly, you raise an eyebrow and tilt your head. "years, huh?" you lean closer, your voice soft but knowing.
"well, might as well share. i’ve had feelings too. might even have been in love longer." you let the words hang between you, watching him react.
"when did you know?" michael stares, his voice strained. his gaze flickers to the fire, then back to you.
you shrug dramatically, playing with a loose thread on the couch. "two years ago at that bonfire party when you got into that fight and defended me without hesitation. i was so hot for you." you pause, biting your lip.
michael lets out a startled laugh, the sound deep and echoing in the quiet cabin. "you were hot for me back then?" you could tell he was amused.
but then his laughter dies in his throat as the realization hits him—you weren't just admiring his character;
you were physically craving him. the air between you instantly grows heavy, charged with sudden sexual tension.
michael shifts uncomfortably on the couch, the fabric rustling as his thighs press together. the image of you, desperately wanting him, makes his cock stir.
"hot for me, huh?" he breathes, voice slightly strained. he clears his throat, leaning back. "well... i’ve been hot for you before too." his eyes meet yours, heavy and dark.
"that one cookout.” michael whispers, his voice softer now, more tender. "we were in the pool, you came out in that tiny bikini, dripping wet..."
he smiles softly at the memory. "you bent over to pick up your towel and i—god, my heart stopped, i hid in my room for an hour." he rambled nervously.
you giggle, leaning closer as you tease him. "so you hid in your room for a whole hour... what exactly did you do that entire time? play with yourself?" you wiggle your eyebrows playfully.
michael’s face explodes into crimson. he buries his face in his hands, his voice muffled and utterly mortified. "that’s—fuck, that's not what i—“
you lean in closer, your voice soft and reassuring. "hey," you say gently, "there's nothing wrong with that. it’s completely normal. i mean, even i—" you pause, feeling your own cheeks flush slightly at admitting it out loud. "even i touch myself sometimes."
michael eyes widen slightly at your admission, his embarrassment momentarily forgotten as he processes the information. "you—you mean, you actually...?" he trails off, his voice growing hoarse as he imagines you touching yourself.
his mind races with new images, his earlier mortification replaced by growing arousal.
you nod slowly, a playful smirk curling your lips. "i think about you when i do it," you admit, your voice dropping to a sultry whisper.
michael freezes completely, his jaw going slack. "you—what?" he chokes out, his brain short-circuiting.
the confession hits him like a truck, instantly turning him on and leaving him in utter disbelief.
as your confession sinks in, he slowly begins to rub his thighs, unconsciously soothing himself. his voice comes out barely above a whisper, laced with equal parts curiosity and arousal.
"so when you're... touching yourself..." michael starts, his hands still rubbing his thighs, his voice strained.
"what exactly do you think about me doing?" he swallows hard, his imagination already running wild. "like... what would you want me to be doing to you?"
the question hangs heavy between you, his cock straining against his jeans as he waits for your answer.
"i imagine you..." you start softly, your voice trailing off as your hand moves to rub your own thigh, mirroring his gesture. you release your legs from the closeness against your chest, spreading them slightly.
your breathing quickens, the air thick with mutual arousal. "i imagine you kissing me... everywhere. your hands all over my body... mouth on my neck..." you pause, your eyes meeting his.
michael stares at you, completely undone by your description. his pupils blow wide, and he squeezes his thighs, clearly struggling. "god..." he groans deeply. "i’m hot for you right now." he lets out a low chuckle.
he shifts his hips, exposing a massive, hard bulge pressing visibly against his jeans. there is absolutely no hiding how turned on he is.
you bite your lip hard, your eyes locked on the obvious tent in his jeans. "touch yourself," you whisper, your voice breathless with want. "tell me what you think about when you jerk off to me... while you do it."
michael’s breathing hitches. he reaches down slowly, his palm pressing against his bulge, groaning at the contact.
his hand stays pressed against his cock, rubbing slowly as he speaks. "usually... i imagine you're under me," he starts, voice strained and deep. "your legs spread—like that—" his eyes flicker down to see you've already opened your legs, your fingers tracing over your pants.
"and I'm tasting you... eating you out until you're dripping all down my mouth.” he breathes. you never knew michael could be so lewd.
a soft moan escapes your lips as you respond. your hand slowly slips under your sweatpants, the friction on your sensitive skin making you shiver.
"mmm... you're turning me on so much," you whisper, your voice thick with need. "your voice alone... just talking like that..." your fingers trace circles around your core, eyes never leaving his.
michael’s hand presses harder against his bulge, his eyes desperate as he watches the movement of your hand beneath the fabric.
"please," he begs, his voice cracking. "take off the sweatpants. i need to see... i need to see exactly what i’ve been imagining for so long." he groans, shifting his hips. "please, baby... let me see you."
you quickly shrug off your sweatpants, revealing your pretty, glistening, throbbing cunt. your core is already dripping wet, shining under the firelight.
michael’s brain completely shorts out. "shit—shit—I can't—" he chokes out, his cock straining violently against his jeans. he fumbles with his pants, practically yanking his hard cock out.
you feel your face heat up as you stare at his exposed cock—thick, veiny, and throbbing with need. "god, you're so big.” you whisper, unable to help yourself.
your hand pauses on your core as you watch him. "stroke it. for me." your voice has a demanding edge. "i want to see you—stroke yourself for me."
michael immediately wraps his large hand around his thick cock, starting slow, steady strokes. his eyes lock onto your wet pussy, mesmerized.
"spread your legs wider, baby," he coaches softly, his voice breathless. "rub that pretty clit... circle it with your fingers. just like that. good girl..." he strokes himself faster. "don’t stop, sweetheart."
you both scoot closer on the couch, the heat between you intensifying with each stroke. your feet now rest at his waist, your legs bent while his are stretched out flat.
his free hand grips your ankle tightly; occasionally traveling up to your knee, while your free hand rests against his shin, both of you connected by touch as you pleasure yourselves.
"faster," he groans, his hand pumping his thick cock quicker.
you grip his shin tightly as you start grinding against your fingers, your wetness coating them.
a sticky white liquid oozes out of your pussy, making soft, obscene sounds as you move.
michael watches with rapt attention, his own strokes becoming jerky and urgent.
"oh, michael," you gasp, holding onto his leg as you grind harder. "i’ve wanted you for so fucking long." your eyes lock with his before looking away, filled with raw desire and something deeper.
"look at me," michael commands suddenly, his voice rough and dominating. "don’t take your eyes off me." you force your gaze to lock with his, the intensity overwhelming you instantly.
your clit throbs violently, your orgasm threatening to crash down any second. "don’t cum yet," he warns instantly, reading your body perfectly. "hold it, baby... hold it for me."
"you’re so beautiful," michael groans, his hand pumping faster. "always have been. ever since we’ve met. i noticed you."
he watches your face contort in pleasure. "even when you dated other guys... i hated it. wanted you so bad." his eyes never leaving yours as he confessed. brows furrowed in pleasure.
you bite your lip, your fingers circling your clit relentlessly. "’michael..." you moan, unable to further elaborate.
"i’m gonna cum," you whimper, your eyes glazing over with tears of pleasure. "i can't— michael, i can't hold it anymore." your body trembles, your pussy twitching.
michael’s control snaps. "cum," he commands, his strokes ragged and desperate. "cum with me, baby. i’m right there... i’m—"
your bodies move closer instinctively, your hands tangled together between your legs as you both explode. michael’s hot cum shoots out, splattering onto your clit and fingers, mixing with your own juices.
you moan his name, your pussy gushing as you cum hard, your entire body shaking.
your breathing slowly steadies, bodies still trembling slightly. michael’s cum cooling on your sensitive skin, your wetness cooling between your thighs.
you both just... stare at each other. no more raw lust—just soft, overwhelming love. he tenderly wipes a tear from your cheek you didn't realize had escaped.
suddenly the tv flickers on and the lights hum back to life. you both jump violently, eyes locking. the silence lasts a heartbeat before michael bursts out laughing, and you follow behind.
he shakes his head, grinning as he stretches. "well... that was fun." he heads toward the bathroom, glancing back with a wink. "let me get you a towel, princess."
The fluorescent buzz of the neon sign above the diner door always sounded like a low, vibrating sigh by two in the morning. It was the kind of heavy, isolated stillness that made you feel like you were the only person left in the county, tucked away in a small bubble of warm light and the smell of stale coffee filters. For the past six months, that stillness had a fixed focal point: the corner stool at the very end of the laminated counter, right next to the faded pie case.
That stool belonged to Michael.
He never arrived before midnight, usually slipping through the door just as the dinner rush grease was being scrubbed from the flat top. He didn't drive a beat-up pickup truck like the other ranch hands in the valley; he rode into the gravel lot on a massive, midnight-black stallion named Midnight.
You made a habit of sneaking out the back door during his first ten minutes at the counter, slipping into the cool night air with a crisp Granny Smith apple stolen from the kitchen walk-in. Midnight knew your step by now.
"Hey, handsome," you cooed, your voice a soft, singing whisper as you approached the hitching post. The stallion huffed loudly, steam rolling off his dark coat, his large ears twitching forward. "Did you miss me? Or do you just miss the snacks?" You held out your palm, the horse gently taking the apple, crunching down happily. You stroked the coarse hair of his muzzle, leaning your forehead against his jaw. "You're much better company than your owner, you know that? He barely speaks. You at least say thank you."
Midnight let out a low huff, nudging your shoulder, making you laugh as you gave him a final pat. "Yeah, I know. Don't tell him I said that."
When you went back inside, the real work began. Because the diner was totally empty during those dead hours, Michael became your captive audience. You absolutely talked his ear off, jumping from random gossip to whatever random thought crossed your mind.
"And then Mrs. Gabe tried to send her soup back because she said it was 'too wet.' Can you believe that? Too wet. It's broth, Michael!" You slammed a fresh mug of black coffee onto the counter, leaning your elbows on the laminate right across from him. "Your turn. Tell me a story. Give me a sentence. Give me a syllable."
Michael sat with his hat pulled low, shadowing a pair of dark, incredibly sharp eyes. He took a slow sip of his coffee, a faint, mocking smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "You ever stop to breathe?" he murmured, his slow, yet soft drawl cutting through your energy. "Or do you just absorb oxygen through your skin?"
"I'm giving this place atmosphere, Michael," you replied, sliding a fresh slice of cherry pie toward his plate. "Since you won't give me anything. Come on. Tell me something about yourself. Where'd you learn to ride like that? Where were you before you bought the ridge property?"
"Before the ridge?" He picked up his fork, giving you a dry, wicked look. "I lived in a place where people minded their own business. It was beautiful, You'd hate it."
"Ha, ha," you rolled your eyes. "You're a vault. A stubborn, sarcastic vault. One of these days, I'm gonna break in."
"Good luck, darlin'," he chuckled softly, his voice low and rich. "I change the combination every night."
The shift in your dynamic came to a head on a sweltering Tuesday night. The air was thick and heavy. Michael had been unusually quiet, his fingers tracing the rim of his mug while you stood across from him. You had been gently pushing him for twenty minutes about an old, faded scar running along the back of his knuckles, your tone soft, genuinely curious.
"Please?" you murmured, reaching across the counter to lightly touch the skin next to the mark. "Just tell me where you got it. I promise I'll stop prying for the rest of the week."
For a second, it felt like you were finally going to break through the wall. He looked up, his dark eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. The teasing, sarcastic smirk was entirely gone. His throat bobbed as he opened his mouth, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly whisper. "I got that scar when I was—"
He stopped. The words died in his throat. A sudden look of guarded panic flashed across his features, the shutters slamming back down over his eyes so fast it left you dizzy.
Before you could say a word to comfort him, Michael stood up abruptly, his boots barking loudly against the linoleum. He tossed a twenty-dollar bill onto the counter. "I gotta get," he muttered shortly, refusing to look at you. "Goodnight."
"Michael, wait—" you called out, but the bell above the door chimed sharply, and he was gone. Through the window, you watched him mount Midnight in one fluid, aggressive motion, disappearing into the dark woods. You stood there for a long time, a cold knot of sadness twisting in your stomach. You had pushed too hard.
The next few night were worse.
One o'clock passed. Then one-thirty. By two in the morning, the corner stool remained completely empty. It was the first time in months he hadn't showed up for awhile. You hurt his feelings. You ruined the one good thing about these late shifts.
When closing time arrived, you felt miserable. You turned off the neon sign, locked the heavy glass door, and stepped out into the night. You didn't have a car, or a horse, usually relying on the short, fifteen minute walk down the unlit gravel road to your small apartment. Tonight, your bag felt heavier, your thoughts darker.
You were barely five minutes down the road when the sky split open.
It was a violent, blinding sheet of freezing water that drenched you to the bone within three seconds. The wind whipped your hair across your face, the heavy drops stinging your skin as the gravel beneath your sneakers turned into slick, treacherous mud. You shivered violently, hugging your arms across your chest, tears of frustration mixing with the rain on your cheeks.
Through the deafening roar of the storm, a sudden, heavy rhythm emerged—the frantic, thudding beat of hooves splashing hard through the muck.
You whirled around, shielding your eyes. Out of the darkness, Michael materialized on Midnight, cutting through the grey curtain of the storm like a ghost. He reigned the stallion in right beside you, the horse huffing loudly. Michael looked down at you from the saddle, his hat dripping water, his dark eyes wide with an immediate, fierce intensity.
"Get up here," he called out, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that barely carried over the thunder, the words conjoining in that thick, slow drawl of his. "Come on, take my hand. Ain't no way you walkin' in this."
Before you could even process the shock, you reached up. His large, calloused hand clamped around yours with an iron grip, his muscles bunching beneath his wet chambray shirt as he effortlessly hoisted you up in front of him. You landed hard against his chest, your back pressed into his solid frame. He wrapped one massive arm securely around your waist, pulling you flush against his heat, while his other hand took the reins. With a sharp click of his tongue, the horse bolted forward, cutting through the dark towards the ridge.
The ride was a blur of freezing rain and intoxicating, overwhelming warmth. Michael’s chest was a solid wall behind you, his breath hot against the shell of your wet ear. You buried yourself into the crook of his neck, breathing in the scent of rain, horsehair, and the deep, comforting musk of his skin.
When the horse finally slowed, Michael eased the stallion into a wide, dimly lit barn. He slid off the horse first, his boots hitting the dirt floor with a heavy thud, before reaching up to catch you. His hands gripped your waist, lifting you down as if you weighed nothing, holding you steady for a lingering second when your wet shoes slid slightly on the packed earth.
"My place is just up the path," he murmured, his thumb brushing against the damp fabric of your waist before he reluctantly dropped his hands. "Let’s get you inside 'fore you catch death."
He led you through a side door of the barn and up a short, covered walkway into a small, rustic cabin. The moment the heavy oak door clicked shut behind you, the chill of the storm was replaced by the deep, enveloping warmth of a wood stove.
"Stay right here," Michael instructed quietly. He disappeared down a short hallway, returning a moment later with a stack of thick, fluffy grey towels. He stepped close, wrapping one around your shoulders and using another to gently, carefully begin rubbing the moisture from your hair. His touch was incredibly reverent. "You're freezing," he muttered, his eyes dropping to your chattering teeth. "Bathroom's right through there. Shower’s hot. Go on and wash up, wash the mud off. I'll leave some dry clothes by the door for ya."
You nodded, offering him a small, grateful smile. Inside the small bathroom, you stripped out of your soaked, clinging clothes, stepping into the steaming spray of the shower.
When you stepped out, drying yourself off, you found a neat pile of clothes sitting on the wicker basket outside the door, just as he promised. It was a massive, faded grey cotton t-shirt that smelled heavily of his cedarwood cologne, along with a pair of old, faded plaid boxers. You slid them on; the shirt hung past your thighs, the sleeves falling over your elbows, and the boxers rode low on your hips, the waistband loose but staying up just enough.
You padded back out into the main room on bare feet. Michael had already changed into a dry pair of dark jeans and a soft, henley shirt. He was standing by the stove, pouring hot water into two ceramic mugs. When he heard your footsteps, he turned, and his breath visibly hitched in his throat. His eyes darkened, tracing the way his massive shirt draped over your frame, exposing the long line of your legs.
"They're a little big," you murmured softly, pulling at the hem of the shirt, your cheeks flushing a delicate pink.
"Comfiest clothes I could find. Looks perfect on ya," he replied, his voice dropping an octave, thick and heavy. He walked over, handing you a mug. "Chamomile. Figure it’d help settle the nerves."
You took it, the warmth of the ceramic seeping into your palms. "Thank you, Michael. For... everything. You really saved me out there. Especially after... after how I pushed you the other night. I honestly thought you hated me."
Michael stopped, setting his own mug down with a soft click. He looked at you, the snark and sarcasm completely drained from his expression, leaving only a profound, heavy sincerity. "Hate you? Baby, I could never hate you. I didn't come cause I was mad at myself. I got scared. I ain't used to anyone carin' enough to look at my scars, let alone someone as sweet as you. I spent the whole night wishin' I hadn't run out on ya. When the storm started, all I could think about was you walkin' down that dark road alone. I couldn't let you stay out there."
"Michael..." you said softly, setting your mug down on the table and turning fully toward him. You reached out, your smaller, soft hand covering his large, calloused knuckles. "I don't want to force you to tell me anything. I just... I like you. A lot. Even if you are a grumpy vault."
A genuine, beautiful smile broke across his face, melting the last of his reservations. "Yeah?" he whispered, his thumb starting a slow, agonizingly sweet circle over the back of your hand.
"Yeah," you breathed.
The distance that had kept you apart for months vanished in an instant. Michael shifted, his large arms reaching out to wrap around your waist, pulling you effortlessly onto his lap as he sat back on the edge of the sofa. You straddled his thighs, the thin fabric of his old boxers providing barely any barrier against his heat. Your hands flew to his chest, fingers anchoring into the soft cotton of his henley as he leaned in, his gaze dropping to your lips. "Can I?" he murmured, his breath hot against your skin.
You didn't answer with words; instead, you leaned forward, closing the small gap between you.
When his lips met yours, it was a deep, consuming pressure, his mouth soft but possessive as he drank you in. You let out a soft, shuddering sigh into the kiss, your heart hammering wildly against his chest. Lost in the heat of his mouth, you began to move, subtly and experimentally shifting your hips, grinding down against his heavy leather belt. It was a tiny, tentative movement—so subtle that Michael almost missed it.
But then, the cold, hard metal of his thick belt buckle pressed right through the thin plaid cotton, hitting your sensitive clit perfectly.
A sharp, breathy pant caught in your throat, slipping out against his lips. Your hips twitched involuntarily at the friction.
Michael froze for a fraction of a second, his dark eyes snapping open mid-kiss. A low, territorial growl rumbled deep in his chest as he realized what you were doing. His hands immediately flew down to your hips, his large, calloused palms wrapping firmly around the meat of your butt.
"You like that, baby?" he rasped against your mouth, his voice dripping with sudden, heavy dominance.
Before you could even gasp, his grip tightened into an iron hold, and he dragged you back and forth across his lap. He didn't let you do it subtly anymore; he controlled the movement entirely, pulling your pelvis hard against his heavy denim and the ridge of his belt buckle with a rough, unyielding force. The intense friction against your center sent an absolute shockwave of pleasure straight to your cunt.
You became a moaning mess instantly, your head rolling back as loud, helpless whimpers broke from your lips. The cold metal hit your clit with every heavy drag of his hands, making your muscles clench up out of pure desperation. You gripped his shoulders for dear life, your body turning completely pliable under his touch.
"Look at ya," Michael murmured, his slow drawl thick with dark satisfaction as he kept dragging your hips in that heavy, punishing rhythm. "Talked my ear off for months, and now you can barely catch your breath. Move those sweet little hips for me. Feel how hard I am under ya."
"Michael—ah! Please," you sobbed out, your face burying into his neck as he gave one more firm, heavy slide that had you throwing your hips against him instinctively.
He pulled back just an inch, his dark eyes burning with an unmistakable, quiet authority. The gentle regular from the diner was gone, replaced by a man who knew exactly how to command a room.
"You're so sweet, darlin', but you talk so much," he murmured, his breath ragged. "Let's see how well you listen."
His hands slid up from your ass to your waist, his fingers digging in gently but firmly as he guided you down off his lap, pressing on your shoulders until your knees met the soft rug at his feet.
You looked up at him from the floor, your breath catching, a wave of submissive heat pooling deep in your stomach. He sat on the edge of the sofa, his long legs spread wide, looking down at you like a king on a throne.
"Right there," he commanded softly, his voice thick with that slow drawl. "Look at me."
You tilted your head up, your eyes wide and locked onto his.
"Unbuckle my belt," he murmured, his hands resting heavily on his own knees. "Nice n' slow, Mama. Let's see those hands work for me."
Your fingers trembled as you reached out, grasping the heavy, worn leather of his belt. The metallic clink of the buckle felt incredibly loud in the quiet cabin. You pulled the leather strap through, your knuckles brushing against the hard denim of his jeans, making him let out a low, ragged breath.
"Good girl," he praised, the dark approval in his voice making a shiver run down your spine. "Now the button. Open 'em up for me."
You worked through the heavy metal buttons of his fly one by one, your heart hammering against your ribs. With every button you undone, his breath grew heavier, until the denim parted, revealing the thick cock, already stretching and dampening his dark cotton briefs to the limit.
Michael reached down, his large hand cupping the back of your head, his long fingers tangling into your hair. He didn't pull hard, but the pressure was firm, grounding you right where he wanted you. "Pull 'em down," he whispered, his thumb brushing the edge of your jaw.
You hooked your fingers into the waistband of his jeans and briefs, tugging them down past his muscular thighs. He freed himself, his cock springing loose, thick, heavy, and fully aroused, beads of moisture glistening at the tip in the dim light. The sheer size of him made you swallow hard, your lips parting in awe.
"Beautiful, ain't it?" Michael murmured, a hint of his old snark returning to his voice, though it was heavy with desire. "Taste me."
He guided your head forward with a gentle, firm pressure of his hand. You leaned in, tilting your head, and let your tongue lick slowly from the base of his thick shaft all the way to the tip. Michael gasped, his hips giving a sudden, involuntary twitch, his fingers tightening in your hair.
"God... yeah, just like that," he rasped, guiding you to take him into your mouth. You slid your lips over the wet head of him, sucking softly, the heat of your mouth enveloping him. Michael groaned loudly, his eyes closed tightly as he began to slowly, rhythmically guide your head back and forth, teaching you exactly how deep he wanted you to take him. He didn't force you, his movements careful but completely dominant, ensuring every slide of his length against your tongue was perfect.
After a few excruciatingly sweet minutes of your mouth working on him, Michael let out a ragged hiss, his hands gripping your underarms and lifting you straight up off your knees.
"That's enough," he muttered, his voice entirely gravel. "You're drivin' me crazy."
He laid back against the sofa cushions, his long frame immediately pulling you on top. He reached up, his hands bunching the fabric of the loose plaid boxers, pushing them to the side, too lazy to go completely bare in the warm light. He paused, his eyes sweeping over your body with an expression that felt almost religious.
He hovered you over his lap, your knees resting on either side of his hips. You looked down into his dark eyes, finding nothing but absolute devotion and a raging fire.
"Take it, darlin'," he murmured, his hands gripping your waist to steady you. "Nice n' slow. Tell me if it's too much."
You lowered yourself down slowly, your eyes fluttering shut as the thick head of him stretched you open. You let out a long, trembling cry as he lifted his hip just a bit, sliding deeper into your tight, slick heat, filling you completely until your pelvis clicked against his. The sheer fullness of him was overwhelming, a beautiful, stretching ache that made your head roll back. Michael let out a ragged hiss, his fingers digging into your hips as he held himself perfectly still, letting you adjust to his size.
"You feel so good... so tight," he groaned, his hips giving a tentative, upward twitch that buried him impossibly deeper inside you.
You opened your eyes, looking down at him, and began to move. You lifted your hips and sank back down, establishing a slow, rolling rhythm. The friction was unbearable, the wet, sliding sounds of your bodies meeting filling the quiet room, competing with the steady roar of the rain outside. Michael’s hands moved from your hips to your waist, helping you guide the pace, his thumbs stroking your lower abdomen as you rode him.
"Ah, Michael... right there," you cried out, your pace quickening as the coil of pleasure in your belly began to tighten rapidly.
"Yeah? You like that?" he rasped, his eyes locked onto yours. He shifted his grip, lifting you slightly so he could alter the angle, his thrusts becoming harder, deeper, meeting your downward movements with an unyielding, powerful force. Every time he drove up into you, his cock hit your sweet spot, sending waves of electrical heat straight to your curling toes.
You threw your head back, your hands gripping his forearms for balance as your chest heaved. The oversized grey shirt rolled up over your ribs, exposing your bouncing breasts to his hungry gaze. Michael reached up, his large hands capturing your soft flesh, squeezing and kneading them, his thumbs flicking over your pebbled nipples until you were sobbing his name.
"Michael, please, I'm gonna—"
"Go on, mama. Cum for me," he encouraged, his voice dropping into a dirty, commanding growl as his thrusts became frantic and heavy. He was panting, sweat glistening on his forehead, his jaw clenched tightly as he drove himself into you with a desperate, wild rhythm. "Let me feel it. Give it all to me."
The tension broke. Your cunt clamped down around his thick cock in a violent, pulsating spasm as your orgasm crashed over you. You cried out his name, your body trembling violently as you collapsed against his chest, your face burying into his neck.
Hearing your cries and feeling the tight, rhythmic squeezing of your walls pushed Michael completely over the edge. He let out a loud, guttural roar, his hands locking your hips down flush against his pelvis as he gave three final, incredibly deep thrusts. He shook beneath you, his body stiffening as he pumped his thick, hot seed deep inside your womb, filling you to the brim with his warmth.
The silence that followed was filled only with the sound of your mingled, ragged breathing and the steady, comforting patter of the storm on the roof.
Michael didn't move for a long time, keeping you securely pinned against his chest, his large arms wrapped around your waist as if he were terrified you would disappear if he let go. His heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. Gently, he began to rub soothing circles into your lower back, his lips pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your damp temple.
"I think," you whispered breathlessly, your voice muffled against his shoulder, "you better start talking to me at the diner now."
Michael let out a low, deeply content rumble of a laugh, his arms tightening around you just a little bit more. "Baby, from now on, I ain't ever gonna shut up."
original req
thank you guys for 400 followers <3 to celebrate, I was thinking of doing another event, asking you guys for more requests, or even doing more for other stories I’ve written. It’s all up to you guys so please lmk what you’d like! ^_^
context : michael’s 21st birthday surprise at the strip club leads to his discovery of dominance he never knew he possessed.
wc: 3.8k
The heavy bass from the jukebox didn't just play; it rattled the cheap wood panelling of the Cadillac’s dashboard, vibrating straight through the soles of Michael’s loafers.
Michael pressed himself deeper into the corner of the backseat, pulling the brim of his oversized hat down until it practically scraped the bridge of his aviator sunglasses. He felt like a fugitive, suffocated by the heat of an August night and the overpowering scent of his brothers' expensive colognes. They were miles outside of Los Angeles, deep in a part of town where the streetlights were spaced too far apart, casting long, skeletal shadows across the cracked pavement. The neon signs of the passing businesses buzzed with a tired, flickering wheeze, painting the interior of the car in brief flashes of sickly green and hot pink.
"Man, Mike, straighten up," Marlon laughed from the front seat, turning around in the smooth leather chair to slap Michael’s knee. "You look like you're heading to an execution. Relax your shoulders, man! You twenty-one today. The big two-one! Ain't no more boys in this car."
"I am relaxed," Michael murmured. His voice was a soft, breathy whisper, almost completely swallowed by the heavy rumble of the engine and the thick funk music pouring from the speakers. He reached up with two fingers, nervously adjusting the stiff collar of his button-down shirt. "I just don't see why we had to drive all the way out here. We could’ve just stayed at the house. Mother made a chocolate cake, and we could've rehearsed that new bridge for the track—"
Jermaine snorted from the driver’s seat, steering the big Caddy with one hand as he turned into a gravel parking lot. The stones crunched loudly under the heavy tires, kicking up dust that coated the bottom of the billboard for The Velvet Lounge. "A cake? Mike, you a grown man now. Joseph can’t say nothing to you about where you spend your nights or whose hand you holding. It’s time you see how the real world lives. Get some grit in your teeth. You can't be singing about love and passion if you spend your whole life locked in a studio or watching cartoons."
"I got grit," Michael mumbled, though his heart was doing a frantic, irregular tap-dance against his ribs.
The parking lot was packed tight with old Buicks, lowered Chevys, and a row of gleaming choppers. A broad-shouldered man in a leather vest stood by the front door of the club, his arms crossed over a massive chest, nodding lazily to people as they slid past him. The thick scent of fried catfish, spilled gin, and stale menthol cigarettes drifted through the air the moment Jermaine cut the ignition, invading the cool sanctuary of the air-conditioned car.
"Look," Jackie said, leaning over from the passenger side to look at Michael through the rearview mirror. "We ain't tryna embarrass you, Brother. But you spend all your time around managers, lawyers, and screaming little girls. Tonight, we just regular guys. No cameras, no press, no Jackson 5. Just music, drinks, and some fine Black women. Now get your tail out the car. Move it."
Michael hesitated, his slender fingers lingering on the chrome door handle. He loved his brothers, but their energy tonight was loud, boisterous, and entirely predatory. They wanted to see him sweat. They liked that he was the sheltered one, the pure one, the one who still blushed and looked at his shoes whenever a woman got too close or spoke too low.
He took a deep, shaky breath, adjusted his jacket, and stepped out into the heavy, humid night air, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm.
Inside, The Velvet Lounge was a sprawling sea of deep red velvet, dark corners, and thick, hazy smoke that caught the colorful beams of light cutting through the room. The air was thick, heavy with the moisture of human bodies, liquor, and perfume. A long horseshoe bar took up the center of the room, lined with men in sharp leather jackets and women with high-combed afros and glittering jewelry. At the far end, a small, circular stage rose above the floor, illuminated by a single, crimson spotlight. A long, polished brass pole stretched from the center of the platform all the way to the mirrored ceiling, reflecting the dim, sexy glow of the room.
"Now this is what I’m talking about," Tito chuckled, rubbing his palms together as a waitress in a high-cut black bodysuit guided them to a booth right against the edge of the stage.
Michael sat down quickly, sliding his slender frame into the deepest corner of the booth, hoping the shadows would swallow him whole. He kept his aviators firmly on, his large, dark eyes darting around nervously behind the dark lenses. He felt completely out of his depth. The men around the bar were laughing loudly, slamming wooden dominoes onto tables with a loud clack, shouting over the music while naked women leaned against their shoulders.
"Get the birthday boy a double of whatever he wants," Marlon told the waitress, flashing a blinding, charming smile.
"Just a Shirley Temple, please. Extra cherries," Michael said quickly, his voice cracking just a bit as he leaned forward.
His brothers burst out laughing, shaking their heads and slapping the table. "A Shirley Temple! Man, you a trip," Jackie laughed, throwing his arm over the back of the booth. "We gotta do some serious work on you, Mike. Seriously. Twenty-one and you still drinking sugar water."
Michael just smiled weakly, his hands tucked safely between his knees, pulling his head down. He just had to survive a few hours. That’s all. Just a few hours of the music and the noise, and then he could go back to his safe, quiet room, his sketchbooks, and his melodies.
The DJ’s voice suddenly cut through the chatter, booming through a pair of large, slightly blown-out speakers that made the bass distort with a gritty, raw edge.
"Alright, y'all. Stop what you doing and lock your eyes on the main stage. We got the baddest girl in the state coming out to show you what a real woman look like. She don't need no introduction, but when she make you weak, don't say I didn't warn you... give it up for Giggles!"
The crowd erupted into a roar. Men started whistling through their fingers, banging their liquor glasses against the wooden tables until the ice rattled. The jukebox switched off, and a heavy, slow, incredibly filthy bassline started pouring out of the speakers. It was a deep, unhurried funk groove—something with a rhythm so thick and heavy you could feel it vibrating in your teeth and settling deep in your gut.
Michael, being a dancer down to his very bones, instinctively caught the time. *One, two, three, four.* His foot gave a tiny, almost invisible tap against the floor, his mind automatically breaking down the cadence of the drums.
Then, you stepped onto the stage.
Michael’s breath caught completely in his throat. You were wearing a shimmering, beaded gold outfit that barely covered your curves, catching every drop of the crimson spotlight and throwing tiny glints of fire across the dark room. Your hair was styled in beautiful, soft curls that framed a face that looked entirely too sweet, too regal for a place like this. But it wasn't just how you looked—it was the raw, heavy sensuality of how you moved.
The moment your heeled feet touched the worn wood of the stage, a fierce, commanding confidence took over your body. You walked up to the pole, wrapping one hand high above your head, and with an effortless, gravity-defying pull that required immense, terrifying strength, you hoisted your entire body up.
Michael’s jaw literally dropped. His sunglasses slipped down the bridge of his nose, but he didn't even think to push them back up. His large, expressive eyes were wide, taking in every single detail. He was a perfectionist when it came to choreography, and what he was watching right now wasn't just stripping—it was a masterclass in rhythm, control, and raw, carnal power.
You spun upside down around the brass pole, your legs extending into a perfect, flawless split, your core holding your body entirely rigid against the metal as you slowly slid downward, inch by inch, keeping perfect time with the dirty bassline. The movement was incredibly sexual, your hips rolling in slow, hypnotic circles that drove the crowd insane. When you dropped down, catching yourself just inches from the stage floor with a soft, cat-like arch of your back, your breasts heavy against the beaded fabric, the entire club went into an absolute frenzy.
"Lord have mercy!" Marlon yelled, slamming a handful of dollar bills onto the edge of the stage. "Gon 'head, girl! Shake it then!"
Money was flying through the air like confetti, green bills landing on your skin, sticking to the light sheen of sweat that made your dark skin gleam under the red light. Men were leaning over the barrier, shouting, completely hypnotized by the fluid, aggressive grace of your body.
But Michael couldn't make a sound. He was totally transfixed, a heavy, unfamiliar heat blooming deep in his lower stomach. He watched the way your thigh muscles rippled, the absolute dominance oozing from your pores, the way you looked down at the screaming men like they were completely at your mercy. You looked like a goddess. Powerful. Invincible. Sexy beyond anything he had ever witnessed in his life.
As you spun around the pole one last time, arching your spine until your head almost touched the floor, your eyes swept across the front booths. For a split second, your gaze landed right on Michael. Even under his hat, his big, wide eyes were staring up at you with a mixture of raw lust and pure, unadulterated reverence.
You didn't break character, giving him a slow, teasing smirk, your hips giving one last, heavy roll right in his direction before the music faded out and you strutted off into the back, leaving the room vibrating with energy.
"Hey," Jermaine leaned over, nudging Michael so hard in the ribs he almost knocked his Shirley Temple over. "Mike. Look at him, y'all. Mike is hooked! Look at his eyes, they about to pop out his head!"
"Man, his tongue is hanging out on the floor," Tito joked, slapping Marlon’s hand. "Lil' Bro ain’t ever seen a woman move like that in his whole life."
Michael felt his face burning hot, a dark flush spreading across his cheeks. He quickly pulled his hat down, trying to look away, but his eyes kept darting toward the black velvet curtain where you had just disappeared. "I-I was just watching the dancing. She’s... she’s got really good rhythm. Her center of gravity is incredible. The control in her core is..."
"Rhythm? Center of gravity?" Marlon scoffed, standing up and pulling a thick, heavy wad of hundred-dollar bills from his pocket. "Man, you don't look at a girl like that for her rhythm. Hold on. I’m gonna fix this right now. It’s time you get a real birthday present."
"Marlon, no! Don't!" Michael pleaded, his voice rising in an anxious panic. He reached out to grab his brother's leather jacket, but Marlon was already waving over the floor manager, a big guy with a gold tooth and a silk shirt.
Michael watched in absolute horror as Marlon whispered something to the manager, pointing right back at Michael’s corner. Marlon shoved a fat stack of hundred-dollar bills into the man's hand. The manager looked over, his eyes widening to the size of saucers as he recognized the famous Jackson features despite the hat and glasses. He nodded quickly, grinning, and pointed toward a row of dim, heavy doors at the back of the hallway.
Marlon walked back to the booth, a triumphant, wicked grin on his face. He grabbed Michael by the upper arm, hoisting him out of the booth with ease.
"W-What are you doing? Let me go, Marlon, I mean it," Michael stammered, his limbs going weak and shaky with anxiety.
"Your birthday present is waiting in the back room," Marlon said, guiding him firmly through the crowd, his large hand on Michael’s shoulder so he couldn't bolt. "Thirty minutes. Private. Just you and Giggles. And don't you dare come out early, or we gonna tease you until you thirty-one."
"Jermaine! Jackie! Help me!" Michael hissed, looking back over his shoulder. But his brothers were just laughing, raising their glasses to him as he was marched down the hall.
Before he could fight it, the manager opened a heavy oak door marked VIP, and Marlon gave Michael a firm, unyielding shove forward.
The door clicked shut behind him, locking with a heavy, definitive thud that cut off the roaring sound of the club.
The room was small, suffocatingly intimate, lit only by a low lit amber lamp in the corner that cast long, golden shadows over the walls. It smelled faintly of sweet vanilla, heavy baby oil, and an expensive, musky perfume that immediately filled Michael’s nose, making his head spin. A plush, circular red leather couch sat against the far wall, facing a clear space of dark carpet where a second, private polished brass pole stretched to the ceiling.
Michael stood completely frozen by the door, his back pressed against the wood. His heart was hammering so loudly, so violently against his ribs, he was certain it was echoing in the quiet room. He felt like he couldn't breathe. He wanted to turn around, knock on the door, and beg Marlon to let him out, but the thought of the relentless mockery kept his hand from moving.
He took off his corduroy cap, holding it nervously in both hands like a shield over his chest, and sat down on the absolute edge of the leather couch, his knees pressed tight together. He squeezed his eyes shut, praying for the thirty minutes to pass instantly.
A few seconds later, a door in the back of the room clicked open.
Michael snapped his eyes open, his posture going entirely rigid. You stepped into the room.
The beaded, glittering gold stage outfit was gone, replaced by a simple, oversized white silk robe tied loosely around your waist. Your feet were bare, your toes sinking into the carpet. Michael braced himself, his muscles tensing as he expected the fierce, dominating woman who had just conquered the stage to come marching over, to throw herself into his lap and dominate him. He prepared to hide his face and apologize for his brothers' behavior.
But the woman who walked in didn't look fierce at all.
As soon as the door closed behind you, your shoulders dropped, the heavy tension leaving your frame. You let out a long, heavy, trembling breath, looking suddenly very small, very soft. You didn't look at him with a predatory smirk; instead, you kept your eyes glued to the carpet, your slender fingers nervously fiddling with the silk belt of your robe.
"Um... hey," you said. Your voice was barely above a whisper, completely different from the booming music outside—it was sweet, hesitant, and laced with a gentle, everyday warmth.
Michael blinked, totally thrown off balance. "H-Hey," he managed to squeak out, his voice cracking.
You finally looked up, your eyes wide and a little anxious as you glanced at him. Because the room was so dim, and because he was sitting there without his glasses, looking so small and holding his hat like a shield, you didn't see a legendary pop star. You just saw a young, incredibly handsome Black guy who looked like he was about to pass out from sheer terror.
A soft, high-pitched giggle escaped your lips, and you quickly covered your mouth with your hand, your cheeks turning a dark, beautiful shade of pink. "I'm sorry," you whispered, your shoulders shaking a little. "I giggle when I get nervous. You just... you look so scared."
Michael felt a strange, sudden shift in the air. The absolute terror he felt a second ago began to melt, replaced by a profound curiosity. He let his hat drop slightly. "I'm... I'm not scared," he said, though his soft voice betrayed him. He cleared his throat, trying to sound a bit more mature, though his fingers still twitched. "I'm sorry about them. Those are my brothers out there. They... they think they're being funny. They paid the man because... well, it's my birthday today."
A soft, genuine smile broke across your face, completely transforming your features. The dominating stage persona was totally gone. Standing here, you were surprisingly submissive, your posture slightly curved inward, waiting for his permission just to exist in the space with him. You weren't a loud, outgoing girl; you were quiet, reserved, letting him dictate the energy of the room.
"Oh. Well... happy birthday, Mike," you murmured, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. "The manager told me your name. I'm... well, they call me Giggles out there, obviously, because I can't keep my mouth shut when I'm stressed. Heh. But my real name is [name]."
"[name]," Michael repeated, his voice dropping into that deep, gentle register he used when he was being completely sincere. He liked the way your name felt on his tongue. He felt a tiny smile tugging at his own lips, his large eyes locked onto yours. "That's a beautiful name. Much better than Giggles. Though... your laugh is very sweet."
You blushed deeply, looking down at the floor again, your fingers tightening around the silk of your robe. "Thank you. Most guys... they don't care about no names. They just want me to get to it." You paused, looking up through your thick lashes, your demeanor completely deferential, yielding all the power in the room to him. "They paid for a private dance, Mike. 30 minutes VIP. I... I can do that for you, if you want. But if you just want to sit here, or if you want me to just sit quiet on the other side of the room, I can do that too. Whatever you want. You in charge in here."
Michael’s heart skipped a heavy, fluttering beat. You in charge.
Nobody ever told him he was in charge outside of a recording studio. In his family, he was the little brother who needed to be guided. In the world, he was the prodigy handled by massive corporate machines. But looking at you—seeing how gentle, how quiet, and how completely submissive you were the moment the stage lights were gone—he felt a sudden, powerful surge of confidence. You were just like him. A creature of pure, explosive fire when the music played, but a shy, quiet soul when the music stopped.
"Can..." Michael swallowed, his eyes growing darker, heavier as he looked at your form. "Can you dance for me? Just... you don't have to do all the wild stuff from out there. I just want to watch you move in here. Close."
You nodded softly, your breath hitching. "Okay. I can do that for you, Mike."
You walked over to a small cassette player sitting on a wooden shelf in the corner, clicking a button. A slow, instrumental soul track began to play—heavy on a weeping saxophone, smooth, and laced with a late-night, deeply intimate rhythm that filled the small space.
You stood by the private pole in the center of the room, just a few feet away from where he sat on the edge of the couch. For a second, you closed your eyes, letting the slow cadence of the music settle into your hips.
When your fingers reached for the silk tie of your robe, Michael’s grip on his hat tightened until his knuckles went white. Slowly, you parted the silk, letting the robe slide down your shoulders, down your arms, until it pooled in a white circle on the dark carpet. Underneath, you were wearing a simple, soft black bra and matching panties that clung tightly to your hips, emphasizing every soft curve of your dark skin.
You turned to the pole, and though your eyes still held that quiet, submissive glance toward him, your body instinctively knew its art. You wrapped one hand around the brass, your skin gripping the warm metal. With a slow, hypnotic arch of your back, you began to move around the pole.
You slid your body down the length of the metal, your smooth thighs rubbing against the pole as your hips rolled in deep, agonizingly sexy circles. You threw your head back, your afro shaking softly as your spine curved into a wicked, supple arch. The exoticism of your movements was breathtaking; you hooked one leg over the brass, hoisting yourself up just a few feet before spinning down in a slow, controlled spiral that kept perfect time with the weeping saxophone.
Michael leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his cap completely slipping from his fingers and falling to the floor. He didn't even notice. He was totally entranced, his throat dry. He watched the way the amber light licked over the smooth, glistening skin of your stomach as you rolled your torso against the pole, the slow, heavy weight of your movements completely synchronized with the music. You were constantly casting quiet, yielding looks over your shoulder to see if he was pleased, Michael found a raw, masculine confidence he didn't know he possessed. He didn't look away for a single second.
You turned your back to the pole, grabbing it high above your head, and dropped into a slow, deep squat right in front of it. Your round, bare cheeks twitched as you rolled your hips against the base of the brass, giving him an explicit, unobstructed view of your curves. Michael’s breath caught, his eyes widening as he stared at the smooth perfection of your skin, the musky scent of your perfume filling his senses until his head throbbed with desire.
Slowly, you stood up, spinning off the pole, and lowered yourself to your knees right between his parted legs. You rested your hands softly on your own thighs, looking up at him with wide, yielding eyes, your chest rising and falling heavily.
"Is this... is this alright, Mike?" you whispered, a nervous laugh escaping your lips as you looked at how intensely he was staring at you.
Michael didn't answer with words. Slowly, deliberately, he reached his hand out. His slender fingers were trembling just a little bit, but he didn't pull back. He gently rested his palm against the side of your face, his thumb brushing over your high cheekbone. Your skin was warm, incredibly soft, damp with a light sheen of sweat.
"You're beautiful," Michael murmured, his voice thick, dropping into a low, raspy register that sent a shiver straight down your spine. "The way you move... it's like magic. You're a wonderful dancer, [name]."
You opened your eyes, looking up at him with a mixture of shock and deep, bubbling warmth. "Thank you, Mike," you whispered, your voice cracking. You reached up, your smaller hand gently wrapping around his wrist, holding his hand tightly against your cheek. "You... you ain't like the other men that come in here. Not at all. You so gentle."
"I don't want to be like them," Michael said softly, his thumb continuing to stroke your skin. His gaze dropped to your lips, and the air between you grew incredibly thick, charged with an undeniable, heavy static.
The music on the cassette tape shifted, sliding into a darker, even slower rhythm—a heavy, repetitive drumbeat accompanied by a deep, throbbing bass guitar that sounded like a heartbeat.
You swallowed hard, your eyes locking onto his. The submissive nature in you wanted to please him, wanted to give him everything his brothers had paid for and more. You slowly stood up from your knees, your eyes never leaving his face.
"Can I... can I get closer, Mike?" you asked softly, your voice trembling slightly.
Michael’s throat was so dry he could barely swallow. He just nodded, his hands gripping the edge of the leather couch, his knuckles turning white again. "Yes. Please."
You took a step forward, sliding one leg over his thighs, and slowly lowered your weight onto his lap. Michael let out a soft, ragged gasp as the heat of your skin pressed directly against him. You sat straddling him, your knees resting on either side of his hips on the couch. Because you were shorter, you had to look up slightly, your chest pressing against his button-down shirt with every breath you took.
You placed your hands gently on his broad shoulders, your fingers gripping the fabric of his jacket. Slowly, in time with the deep, throbbing bass, you began to grind your hips against him.
Michael’s head fell back against the cushions, a low, guttural groan slipping from his lips. The sensation was overwhelming. You were moving in slow, heavy circles, the thin silk of your panties friction.ing against the heavy denim of his jeans. He could feel every bit of your warmth, the soft, heavy pressure of your center pressing directly against the hardening length of his cock.
"Oh, God..." Michael whispered, his eyes fluttering shut as his hands instinctively came up, his large palms settling on the sides of your waist. His long fingers dug into your soft flesh, holding you firmly as you continued to roll your hips against him.
You let out a soft sigh, your own head dropping onto his shoulder as you kept moving. The shyness was still there, but it was melting into a deep, mutual heat. You liked how firm his grip was on your waist, liked the ragged sound of his breathing in your ear. Every time his hips gave a small, involuntary twitch upward to meet your movements, a tiny, nervous giggle would leave your lips, vibrating against his neck.
"You like that, Mike?" you whispered into his skin, your hips giving a heavy, downward press that made him violently shudder beneath you.
"Yes... yes, baby, please don't stop," Michael rasped, his eyes snapping open. They were dark, dilated, filled with a raw, intense hunger that completely contradicted his gentle persona. He gripped your waist tighter, his thumbs rubbing small circles into your skin, guiding the rhythm of your lap dance now, pulling you down harder against him.
You began to move faster, the friction building between your bodies. The heat in the small room was stifling, the scent of your combined arousal mixing with the vanilla perfume. You arched your back, pulling your head back so he could see your face, your lips parted as you panted, your hips grinding against his hardness in a relentless, agonizingly sexy rhythm. Michael’s breath was coming in short, ragged gasps, his entire body rigid as he fought the urge to lose control completely right there on the couch.
Michael’s hands slid from your waist down to your hips, his long fingers resting on the smooth skin of your thighs. He looked up at you, his face flushed, his lips slightly parted. He looked completely undone, his hair slightly wild, his eyes burning with an intensity that made your stomach flip.
The music transitioned again, sinking into a dark, molasses-slow soul groove. Michael’s dark eyes locked onto yours, completely abandoning his nervous demeanor. His fingers slid up from your thighs to the edge of your black silk bra.
"Let me take this off," he whispered politely, though his hands were firm.
You nodded, a little nervous giggle slipping out as he reached behind you, unhooking the clasp with surprising precision. The silk fell away, exposing your full, heavy breasts to the warm amber light. Michael let out a shaky, reverent breath, his large hands immediately coming up to cup you. His long fingers squeezed your soft flesh, his thumbs brushing over your stiffening nipples. You whimpered, your head dropping back as a sudden, intense heat bloomed in your lower stomach.
Michael slid down from the couch, moving you on the carpet. His hands trailed down over your stomach, his fingers slipping beneath the elastic waistband of your black panties. He peeled them down your legs slowly, his eyes locked onto the dark patch of curls between your thighs. You were already slick, a glistening sheen of arousal coating your inner lips.
"Mike..." you breathed, your knees trembling.
He didn't say a word. He slid two long, slender fingers right into your soaking wet cunt.
"Oh!" You arched your back, a loud gasp tearing from your throat as he buried his fingers deep inside your tight walls. Michael started curling his fingers inside you, finding a sweet spot that made you completely lose your breath. Squish, squish. The explicit, incredibly wet sound of his fingers working inside you filled the dim room. You were so slick, your juices dripping onto his knuckles as he pumped you slowly, intentionally, stretching you out.
"You're so wet for me, mama," Michael murmured, watching your face distort with pleasure.
You started getting too loud, a high-pitched scream bubbling up as his thumbs rubbed hard against your swollen clitoris. "Oh God, Mike, right there—!"
"Shh, please, baby, keep it down," Michael whispered anxiously, his protective instincts flaring up. He didn't want his brothers hearing how good he was making you feel.
Without thinking, he pulled his two fingers out of your dripping pussy—thickly coated in your slick, milky juices—and shoved them right into your open mouth.
You choked out a muffled groan, your eyes widening as you sucked on his slick fingers. The taste of your own wetness and the heavy musk of his skin hit your tongue, completely silencing you. Michael watched with a dark, heavy gaze as you wrapped your lips around his wet fingers, his thumb still reaching down to viciously flick your dripping clit.
"Good girl," he rasped, his voice dropping into a dirty, dominant growl. He pulled his fingers out of your mouth, leaving your lips glistening with saliva. "Get on your knees for me. Please."
Your submissive heart slammed against your ribs, and you obeyed instantly. You scrambled around, kneeling directly between his legs. Michael reached down, unzipping his denim jeans with a sharp, heavy zip, yanking his undergarments down to free a massive, violently throbbing erection. It was thick, dark, and already weeping heavy drops of clear pre-cum at the crown.
You let out a soft giggle, entirely mesmerized by the sheer size of him, before leaning down. You wrapped your warm lips around the thick head of his cock, sliding your mouth down his shaft.
Michael’s head slammed back against the leather couch, a low, guttural roar ripping from his chest. Your wet tongue swirled around his tip, your throat squeezing his length tightly. He gripped your curls, his long fingers burying into your hair as your mouth moved up and down his cock, the sloppy, wet noises echoing in the small room. He started pacing his hips, shoving his dick deeper down your throat.
He felt the heavy, volcanic surge of a climax building too fast. True to his sweet nature, he didn't want to ruin the moment by finishing in your mouth before you got yours.
"Wait... stop, stop," Michael panted, his hands gently but firmly gripping your shoulders and pulling you off his cock. He was shaking, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he looked down at his glistening length. "I'm gonna finish. Let me... let me return the favor."
Before you could even protest, Michael grabbed your waist and pulled you down onto the carpet, spreading your thighs wide. He buried his face directly into your soaking wet pussy.
"MMF~!" You shrieked, your hands flying to his hair as his warm tongue made a direct, heavy strike against your swollen clit. Michael was relentless. He lapped at your wetness like a starving man, his tongue sliding deep inside your hole before curling back up to aggressively lick your clit. The wet, explicit sounds of his mouth devouring your pussy were deafening. You were thrashing on the carpet, your hips rolling against his face as he ate you out with a fierce, desperate hunger, driving you right to the absolute edge of a climax.
"I want more," Michael rasped, pulling his wet face away from your thighs, his eyes completely dark and wild with lust. He looked at his throbbing cock, then looked back at your dripping pussy. "I want all of you, [name]. Right now."
The time was running out, and they both knew it. The urgency turned the air completely electric. Michael didn't waste another second. He gripped your hips with an iron strength, flipping you onto your stomach right there on the dark carpet.
He knelt behind you, his large palms smacking your bare hips to force you onto your hands and knees. Your round ass was thrust high into the air, your dripping pussy lips completely exposed and glistening with a heavy mixture of your release and his saliva.
Michael centered the thick head of his cock against your wet opening, and with one heavy, aggressive shove of his narrow hips, he buried himself completely inside you from behind.
You screamed into the floor, your head slamming down as the thick, massive stretch of him filled you to the absolute brim. Your internal walls clenched violently around his shaft, the sheer wetness of your pussy squelching loudly with a heavy, wet sound as he bottomed out inside you.
"Shh... please, love, they're right outside," Michael panted, though his own warning was entirely useless as he immediately began to jackhammer his hips into yours. Slap, slap, slap. The vulgar, explicit sound of his groin brutally colliding with your bare backside echoed off the walls.
"Mike! Oh my God, you're SO deep!" you wailed, your hands clawing at the carpet as he hit your cervix with every single relentless thrust. You reached back, trying to push against his waist to slow him down, but he was completely dominant, his fingers digging into your waist so hard he was leaving bruises.
He was trying to make the absolute best of what little time they had left, shifting your body into every position he could think of. He suddenly reached down, pulling you backward by your hips until your back was flush against his chest, his cock still buried deep inside you as he pounded you in a tight, kneeling embrace. The friction was unbearable. Your wet juices were leaking down his thighs, making a sloppy, loud noise with every deep stroke.
"Ffuck, you're so tight... you're milking me," Michael groaned, his voice a deep, guttural rasp that didn't sound like him at all. Sweat was pouring down his face, soaking his shirt as he drove himself into you with an explicit, primal ferocity.
You couldn't stay quiet. You were screaming into his shoulder, your body shivering violently as your inner walls began to convulse in a massive, shattering orgasm. "I'm cumming! Oh God, Mike!"
Feeling your cunt clench around his shaft broke his last bit of restraint. Michael let out a raw, masculine roar, his hips locking tightly against your backside as he shoved his dick as deep as it could possibly go. His entire body went rigid, vibrating violently as he shot thick, hot ropes of cum deep inside your twitching, climaxing walls.
"Ahhh... fuck..." Michael gasped, his chest heaving violently as he collapsed completely onto your back, his slick, sweating body pressing you down into the carpet.
Inside you, his cock pulsed heavily, leaking a mixture of your juices and his warm semen onto the carpet.
For a long, quiet minute, the only sound in the VIP room was the ragged, synchronized breathing of your two bodies. The air smelled heavily of raw sex, sweat, and vanilla.
Slowly, gently, Michael pulled himself out of you with a soft plop, a heavy sigh escaping his lips. The dominant beast from a moment ago vanished, and the sweet, polite boy returned instantly. He reached down, grabbing your robe, and wrapped it carefully around your shivering shoulders.
"Are... are you okay?" Michael whispered, his large, dark eyes filled with genuine concern as he looked down at you. He reached out, gently wiping a stray curl away from your damp forehead. "I didn't hurt you, did I? I'm sorry if I was too rough... I just lost control."
You let out a breathy, exhausted giggle, your body still tingling from the orgasm. "I'm perfect. You didn't hurt me at all. That was... wow. You really know what you doing with that thing."
Michael blushed furiously, looking down at his jeans as he began to pull them back up, buttoning them with shaky fingers. "I'm glad. I just... I usually have to keep so much inside, you know? Because of my career. it’s nice to just be a man for a second."
You paused, looking at his handsome face, his large, gentle eyes, and the unmistakable structure of his jaw. The name Mike... his brothers... the famous features. Your eyes suddenly went wide as saucers, your mouth dropping open.
"Wait..." you stammered, your voice rising. "Mike? As in... Michael Jackson? The Michael Jackson?"
Michael bit his lower lip, looking a little shy as he rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah. That's me. I hope you don't look at me any different."
"Oh my god! Wow!" you gasped, a loud, thrilled giggle escaping you. "My baby sister loves your music! She got your posters all over her bedroom walls! She gonna lose her mind if she ever finds out about this!"
Michael laughed softly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. But then, a thought caught in his head. His brows furrowed slightly, a sudden wave of curiosity washing over him. He looked at the mature slope of your shoulders, the confident way you carried yourself despite your shyness.
"Wait..." Michael said slowly, his voice dropping. "How old is your baby sister?"
"She's fifteen," you answered easily, adjusting the robe around yourself.
"Oh," Michael nodded. "And... how old are you?"
"I'm twenty-five," you said, completely nonchalant as you began to look for your discarded panties.
Michael froze. His hands stopped entirely on his belt buckle, his jaw dropping so low it practically hit the floor. His large eyes were wide with absolute, utter shock.
"T-Twenty-five?" Michael stammered, his voice cracking violently. "You're... you're twenty-five? A grown woman?"
"Yeah," you laughed, looking at his panicked expression. "Why you look like that?"
Michael felt his head spinning. He was twenty-one today. He had spent his entire life being the sheltered, innocent boy. He had entered this room a virgin, terrified of a girl his brothers bought for him—and he had just completely, brutally dominated a woman who was four years older than him. He couldn't believe it. He had lost his virginity to an older woman.
Before he could spiral any further, a loud, heavy bang rattled the oak door.
"Yo, Mike! Time's up, man! We know you in there chasing a nut, bring your tail out here!" Marlon's boisterous voice echoed through the door.
You let out a giggle, quickly scrambling to your feet. Michael, despite his shock, immediately stepped in to help you. His hands were incredibly gentle as he helped you slide your black silk bra back on, his fingers brushing against your skin with a sweet reverence, before helping you pull your robe tight.
You walked over to the door, unlocking it, and guided him out into the dim hallway.
The moment Michael stepped into the hall, his brothers were waiting, leaning against the wall with massive, wicked grins on their faces. They looked at Michael’s wrinkled shirt, his slightly messy hair, and the unmistakable, clear lip gloss smudge on his jawline.
"Oh, look at him!" Jackie roared, slapping his knee. "He’s glowing! Look at that smile!"
"Man, we heard everything through that damn door," Marlon laughed loudly, throwing his arm around Michael’s neck. "You wasn't being quiet at all, Mike! We thought you was gon break the couch!"
But Michael didn't care. For the first time in his life, his brothers' teasing completely bounced off him. He had a massive, dazed, completely beautiful smile plastered across his face. His large eyes were completely glazed over, staring off into space, entirely deaf to whatever jokes they were cracking. He was literally glowing from head to toe, a man completely transformed.
Two hours later, The Velvet Lounge was beginning to wind down. The crowd had thinned out, the heavy smoke clearing as the bartenders started wiping down the counters. You were in the back room, fully dressed in your regular street clothes—a pair of low-waisted jeans and a soft knit top—packing your dance shoes into your bag.
The door suddenly clicked open.
You turned around, expecting the manager, but instead, your breath caught. Standing in the doorway was Michael. He had gotten rid of his brothers, and he was no longer wearing his hat or his sunglasses. He just stood there, looking incredibly handsome, his large eyes wide and filled with a nervous, breathless energy.
"Mike?" you whispered, surprised. "What you doing back here? I thought your brothers took you home."
Michael took a few hesitant steps into the room, his hands tucked into his pockets. He looked so shy, a total contrast to the man who had commanded your body on the carpet just hours before.
"I made them leave," Michael said softly, his voice trembling a bit. He walked right up to you, stopping just inches away. He looked down at you, his heart practically visible beating through his shirt. "I couldn't stop thinking about you, [name]. I really couldn't. I don't care about the club, and I don't care about the dancing... I just... I want to see you again. Outside of this place. Please... will you go on a date with me?"
Your heart completely melted. Looking at this legendary man, so vulnerable, so completely smitten and begging for a chance to just talk to you, you couldn't help but smile.
"Yes, Michael," you said softly, a genuine smile breaking across your face. "I'd love to go on a date with you."
Michael’s face lit up with a brilliant, breathtaking smile, his entire frame relaxing. "Really? Oh, wow. That's... that's wonderful."
"Let me just finish packing my bag and clock out," you said, turning back to the shelf. "You can wait in the parking lot so nobody sees you."
"No," Michael said firmly.
You turned back, surprised. Michael reached out, his long, slender fingers gently wrapping around your hand, lacing his fingers completely through yours. His grip was warm, strong, and unyielding.
"I'm waiting right here with you," he said softly, his eyes locked onto yours with that sweet, stubborn determination.
And he did. Michael stood right by your side in the back of the dingy strip club, holding your hand tightly, completely indifferent to the staff walking by. Once your shift was officially over, he guided you out of the back door and into the cool night air, walking hand in hand, stepping into a brand new chapter of his life as a grown man.
a/n: y’all wanted a mess involving diana ross so here y’all go (combination of a few different requests) — the moan request is next 🚬
michael jackson x girlfriend! reader
after finding a shrine room in michael’s house dedicated to diana ross, your next stop was 7/11 to buy a few gallons of gasoline and a new lighter
t/w: reader has a taste for arson, fuck diana ross, michael should get slapped, angst? fluff but not really, reader is pissed off, reader can fight (but i suck at writing it), toxic but can we really blame you? michael groveling, nsfw if you squint
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Michael’s house was a maze.
Despite the large handful of times you had been there since the two of you started dating, you still got lost sometimes. Halls winding into a labyrinth of polished wood, decorative paintings, and each door started to look the same.
Your fingers landed on another handle. There was nothing special about it. Polished brass. Stained wood. Ordinary.
You tested the handle. Unlocked.
The door opened, silent on its hinges. Your footsteps were muted on the carpet and your eyes adjusted to the low lighting of the room, a warm glow flickering from an array of candles that were lit.
You blinked, standing in the doorway with your fingers still wrapped around the handle and perfectly still.
“What the fuck?”
You blinked again. Hoping that by some strange ripple in reality, that you had to be dreaming. Hallucinating. Lost your mind.
Pictures of Diana Ross were everywhere. Barely a millimeter of the wall could be seen between each frame.
And for fuck’s sake, the candles.
They covered tables and littered the floor, all lit with wax pooling over old and used sticks bent in charred shapes.
A laugh left you, short and sharp. Completely riddled speechless by what you were seeing because this just had to be a fucking joke.
You took a single step forward, still holding onto the door like it was a lifeline to your sanity.
There were letters strewn across some of the tables. Dates varying back a few years up to right before you two started dating.
Letters from her.
You were pretty sure you started to feel your heart rotting in your chest. The soiled artery beginning to infect the surrounding area, bleeding out and ruining everything and sinking right through you and to the floor.
Another blink as you read one of the signatures at the bottom of a letter.
Your dearest, Diana and the lipstick mark next to it.
“I’m gonna fucking kill him,” you muttered.
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“Baby, just wait a second.” Michael threw a hand out, catching the car door before you could slam it shut.
“I don’t wanna talk to you or look at you right now.” You tugged on the door but it didn’t budge. Your eyes flicked up to his face but Christ, everything was blurry.
“It’s not what—“
“It’s not what it looks like? Really? Then what the fuck does it look like, Michael. Enlighten me.”
He winced at your tone even though you tried your best not to raise your voice.
“I…” he looked away from you, jaw rolling. “Listen, she’s been a dear friend of mine—“
“Oh my god.” You yanked on the door harder, not caring if you squashed his fingers in the process.
“I’ve been meaning to take all that down, I promise. I just haven’t had the time.” He rushed, fingers slipping from their hold and the door finally shut.
Your foot pressed on the gas, ignoring him as he yelled out your name.
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You were fucking seething.
The last few days had been hell. And Michael calling you every other hour made it just a bit worse. You wanted to pick up the phone and yell at him. Wanted to pick up and hear him out.
And then you’d shut your eyes and all of the sudden you were back in that God forsaken room.
Then the flowers started to show up on your doorstep and at work.
Your favorite kind in your favorite color with an apology scribbled on the note.
You crumbled up each one and threw it away.
The gifts piled in afterwards. Books you’d been wanting, all either first editions or signed. Designer bags. Heels. The Burberry coat you’d been eyeing every time you went shopping.
You weren’t stubborn enough to toss all of that away. Telling yourself it would’ve been a waste.
He had even sent Bill. Something that would’ve made you laugh but then you’d remind yourself Michael should be the one crawling to your doorstep, so you’d send Bill away with some strong words he likely wouldn’t repeat.
A tv show was playing and your eyes watched dully, not quite paying attention and the laugh track swirled into mindless white noise. Your thoughts all over the place and scattered into a million pieces.
Albeit, you and Michael hadn't been dating for long. Technically. Seeing each other on and off for a while before officially deciding to slap a label on it three months ago.
Three months for him to get rid of that fucking room.
Three months to at least say something.
Then an idea festered. Burying its claws deep into your prefrontal cortex. Shredding whatever character development you’d garnered over the years because it was incredibly fucking tempting.
You wanted to burn it. All of it. Every photo and letter because fuck her and fuck him for hiding it from you.
With a click of your tongue you stood up and grabbed your purse and car keys.
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The cashier looked between the many empty red gas canisters, a cheetah print lighter, and you.
Many times.
“I’d like to fill these up at pump seven,” you smiled at him. Polite as ever and feeling blissfully calm.
“And you also want the lighter?”
“Yup.” You popped the p.
Again, you really did feel wonderfully calm.
He shook his head, deciding to put any questions he had on the back burner. “Alright.”
“Can I also get a pack of reds, a twelve pack of Budweiser… oh and these trash bags”
“Sure.”
You smiled again and swiped Michael’s credit card.
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Humming as the sound of wood ripped, you threw another frame into the trash bag. Not caring at all as the paint ripped on the wall, nails being bent into jagged shapes and oh how unfortunate, some shattered glass.
It was relatively late and you knew Michael’s schedule. One he didn’t often veer off of, even during a relationship crisis.
Or maybe it was just a crisis to you. And Michael didn’t think it was a big deal so he continued on, business as usual, away in his studio and working.
You ripped another frame off the wall.
You were in and out of there for around two hours. Not another soul to be seen as you dragged trash bags out into the back yard. Not satisfied until all that was left in that room was the scraping of old melted candle wax leaving a faint outline on the carpet.
Everything had been thrown into a pile. Broken wood, jagged glass, ripped photos, and the annoying amount of letters that you ripped as you tossed them around.
You didn’t see a single person as you carried the canisters of gas two at a time from your car. Not a concerned glance as you started to unscrew the caps and walk around the pile in mindless circles, dumping the gasoline until everything was absolutely soaked and your nose and eyes burned from the smell.
You then came to a stop, sighing as you stared at all of it. A deformed and wet slop of memorabilia of a woman you really couldn’t fucking stand.
Your dearest, Diana.
Pulling out the pack of reds, you placed one between your teeth and your thumb struck the sparkwheel of the lighter, a sharp sound meeting your ears and a warm glow gently touching your face as the tobacco started to burn and nicotine coated your mind.
Then you tossed the cheetah print lighter onto the pile and up up up the flames went.
The burst of light so bright it made you squint and the heat hit your face like a shockwave.
Watching in delight as that woman’s face got contorted and charred and the letters curled in on themselves and fell into glowing ash.
You weren't sure how much time had passed but your cigarette was almost to the butt when you started to hear footsteps and shouting muffled behind the crack of flames.
Someone had you by the shoulders, yanking you back all of the sudden and you blinked as Michael came into view. His expression panicked and confused as his eyes flicked over you to make sure you were alright.
How sweet of him.
His hand cupped your cheek, brows furrowed as his eyes then flicked down to all the canisters and you watched in amusement as each puzzle piece fell. You could practically see where they landed for him, all coming together in one dazzling picture of fire.
Then his eyes landed on the Budweiser.
“Since when do you drink beer?”
You laughed. Loudly and deep and yanked right from your diaphragm because of course that’s what he decided to ask you about.
Then you slapped him.
Once.
Sharp and precise, his head snapping to the side and his jaw rolling as his cheek twinged red.
“You’re lucky I didn’t burn your fucking house down.”
You tossed the butt of your cigarette to the ground, twisting it beneath the toe of your stilettos you decided to wear. His favorite pair, because fuck him.
“Let’s get dinner.” Your tone was light and he blinked at you. “Maybe have Bill call the fire department, though.”
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He had been on his best behavior since then.
It’s not like Michael had to try. Despite that little hiccup, he was a wonderful boyfriend and lover. Always doting and attentive. Buying you whatever you wanted and never able to take his hands off of you.
Burying your face in his mattress as he made you come at least twice before he did.
You were at an after party, the hour late off the tail end of an award show. The taste of tequila still on your tongue as you walked back from the bathroom, fingers messing with your M necklace Michael had given you, matching the bracelet he wore that had your own initial on it.
His idea, of course.
He was trying, really he was. You could give him a little grace for that. He wanted you to know you were his and he was yours. Nothing else and nobody else mattered.
But then you heard voices. Two. Familiar and low and your heels came to a sharp stop after you rounded the corner.
There she was.
Diana Ross leaning in and talking with a lilt, “it’s been so long, Michael.”
You blinked as you watched her rest a manicured hand on his shoulder.
He laughed, though it was more of a strained exhale. “I got a girl now, I can’t—“
“Michael, honey it’s me.”
“I knew you were old, but I didn’t know it was starting to affect your hearing.”
They both froze. Michael’s eyes drifting past Diana and landing on you. Not looking shocked, per se. In fact, now this could be the alcohol talking, but he looked relieved at the interruption.
Diana turned around, brow raised and her eyes flicked up and down. Sizing you up and a breathless laugh left her. “Excuse me?”
“I know I didn’t mumble.” You stared at her, arms crossed and wishing the earth would open up beneath her.
“Young lady, I don’t know who you think you’re talking to—“
You didn’t mean to.
Or maybe you did. Who’s to say?
You’d grabbed a handful of her hair, yanking her head back before slamming it against the wall.
“What part of I have a girl did you not understand? And this ‘young lady’ is the same age as that ‘young’ man, so why don’t you start sending letters to men your own age or maybe your own fucking husband.”
You faintly heard Michael say your name, but it was drowned out the moment Diana called you a bitch.
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You sat on the curb, cigarette held between cut up knuckles and you blew a strand of hair out of your face. Watching silently as Michael sat down next to you as you waited for Bill to pull the car around.
He tapped a rhythm into his thighs as you took an inhale of tobacco, the plumes of smoke taking up the silent space.
“You know,” he started, eyes still focused in front of him but he leaned towards you. “You got a mean left hook.”
You couldn’t help it as you smiled. “I had a good teacher.”
Michael’s eyes finally met yours, the skin crinkling around them as he grinned. A knowing glance being passed between you two like a treasure. “I’m sure you did.”
The night wasn’t wasted even though you’d been asked to leave early by security, something Michael found hilarious the more he thought about it. Laughing nearly all the way home.
It wasn’t wasted at all as he laid you down in his bed, pushing your dress up and around your waist, painting a picture only he could see with his head between your thighs and I love you on his lips.
a/n:
i tried and failed to write a fight scene but i’ll work on it for future reference sorry 😭 hopefully this turned out okay but i feel like it fell flat— the request where michael moans diana’s name will hopefully be out soon (gonna need to buy a bottle of wine to write that)
content: written with thrad era in mind but pick your poison, forced proximity, strangers, first kiss into messy makeout, dry humping if you squint, michael is pent up
a/n: man idk what came over me, this is not my usual style. enjoy, i know i did.
Michael was lost in his own head, humming the same four notes over and over, putting emphasis on a different beat each time. He didn’t even see Quincy and the rest of the team leave the studio as he paced back and forth in front of the soundboard, staring at his shoes. He’d heard a smattering of restaurant names and types of food and vaguely remembered nodding his head at one suggestion, then the door slammed. He hadn’t the foggiest idea what he’d agreed to eat for dinner. After humming the melody for the hundredth time, Michael sighed and walked into the soundproof booth. He closed the heavy velvet curtains in front of the large pane of glass separating him from where his team would surely soon return and began to sing to himself, pacing across the colorful layered rugs.
She’d seen the large group of men leave the studio from her spot at the front desk of Westlake Studios. She spent 80% of her job behind that desk, greeting superstars and their entourages, escorting them to their studios, and bidding them farewell when they left. This group hadn’t even turned around when she said good night, but it didn’t bother her. She was used to being invisible, as studio assistants are apt to be. She was also used to working late, but it was damn near 2:30 in the morning, and she wanted to go home. She checked her handwritten schedule and sighed, annoyed, upon reading that the Jackson group was meant to have left the studio around midnight. Stars, she thought with annoyance. But since they’d finally left, she began her closing duties, beginning with the garbage.
She dropped the handful of full garbage bags in the hallway outside the last studio at the end of the hall. Looking around the dimly lit room, she noticed a few scraps of paper and cigarette butts littering the many surfaces and began separating the important documents from the garbage. All documents that seemed useful were to be stored in the client’s file, locked in the front desk, and handed back upon their return; she was not to look at those documents under any circumstances. She had a handful of unreadable chicken scratch when thunder boomed right on top of her, causing her to jump a foot into the air. When she opened her eyes, she was met with complete darkness. Fan-fucking-tastic.
Though she knew her opinion would always fall on deaf ears in the studio, she’d mentioned more than once the need for backup generators at the studio of the star’s choice in Los Angeles, a city prone to extreme weather. A summer thunderstorm, though, was less common. Still, it didn’t mean it was impossible. As evidenced by the situation she now faced. Annoyed, she huffed her anxiety away and went to leave the studio room and find a flashlight. But even after applying her entire body weight, the door would not budge. That’s when she remembered.
The studio executives had installed these fancy automatic locks on all of the studio and exterior doors after a break-in a few months ago. It’d made sense at the time, but now, she wished she’d called in sick to work. “Oh, damn it,” she said aloud to herself, kicking the door lightly. Behind her, she heard a voice.
“Hello?”
She screamed and jumped out of her skin for a second time in five minutes. The voice screamed back at her, equally startled. Then, the voice started laughing. “I’m sorry,” it said, gasping for breath, “I didn’t mean to scare you.” She recognized the voice, but couldn’t place it. “What happened?”
She didn’t respond and instead began walking slowly toward the curtain-covered glass. Subconsciously, she knew the curtains were controlled by the artist, on the other side of the glass, but she thought that if she could get close enough, maybe she would know who was yelling at her from inside a soundproof booth. As she stared at the glass, the corner of the curtain began to lift, and the most recognizable face in the world stared back at her. Well, second most recognizable, next to Princess Di.
The girl staring back at him looked to be about his age and completely shaken, at least, as far as he could tell in the darkness. Michael smiled at her, trying to seem friendly, but her hand flew to her mouth anyway, and she began backing away from the glass, disappearing into the shadows. He laughed; he didn’t know what he expected. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know you were in here. I thought you’d all left,” she was flustered. Michael had grown used to that reaction. Actually, it was kind of cute on her. In her own thoughts, she didn’t know why she’d reacted so viscerally to him. She’d met stars; it was part of her job description. But she’d never been trapped with one.
“It’s alright,” he replied. “I’m not supposed to be in here anyway. Did the storm knock the power out?”
“Yes, I’m sorry. They installed this new security system, and all the doors are locked. And we don’t have generators.”
Michael sighed, sympathetic to her and frustrated with the situation. “So am I locked in here?”
She turned back to him with a thoughtful look. “I actually don’t know.”
It made sense to her that every door in the place locked tightly at the same time, especially given the amount of expensive equipment housed in the recording booth itself. But with the security system being so expensive and relatively new technology, usually reserved for banks, perhaps only the hallway doors had been outfitted. She took a few steps to the door that trapped Michael, hoping, guiltily, that it would be locked. It was less awkward to be trapped with the world’s biggest star behind a pane of glass than it would be to share air with him in the middle of the night, in a blackout. She swore she’d read a fantasy article about this exact scenario. Breathing quietly, she gripped the doorknob and gave it a hard pull. Nothing. She returned to the window, where he had dropped the curtain. She hesitated, shook her head, and knocked lightly. Why didn’t he just open the damn curtains? Now I look crazy, knocking on a window.
To her right, she heard the studio doorknob rattling, and the door swung open dramatically. Suddenly, there he stood, though she could only see his eyes and his smile in the darkness. No more pane of glass to act as a buffer.
“I guess I locked it from the inside,” he seemed embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I can’t think straight when I’m nervous. I don’t like feeling stuck.”
“I can’t imagine anyone enjoys that feeling,” she said, smiling politely.
He extended his hand to her, “I’m Michael.”
“I know,” she gripped his hand only for a moment, a practiced customer service professional. This made him laugh anxiously as he looked around the room.
“You’re sure it’s locked?” He motioned to the main door, and she nodded.
“Be my guest to try. Maybe you have a way with doors.”
He pushed hard on the door, and it didn’t even creak in the frame. He turned back to her, “Guess I lost my special touch.”
He’d managed to get a laugh out of her, finally, but she was still avoiding eye contact. She began to walk around the room, pulling candles and a box of matches out of a cabinet in the corner.
“I’m so sorry about this, Mr. Jackson. We don’t make a habit out of holding superstars hostage,” she apologized as she moved about the room, placing candles in various corners and lighting them.
Michael sat in one of the plush office chairs and watched her. She moved quickly but gracefully. She’d yet to face him again, but he couldn’t say that was the worst thing in the world. He can’t help but notice the romantic lighting the candles brought to the room and laughed to himself. Being trapped in a recording studio with a beautiful stranger is something that would only happen to him. “I told you my name is Michael,” he brought himself back to reality.
“I’m sorry, Michael,” she still doesn’t look at him. Instead, she sits in the furthest seat on the couch in the corner and stares straight ahead, checking her watch periodically, the candlelight casting warm shadows on her face. The rain was coming down in sheets outside, a ten-year rain for this region, filling the room with steady, loud background noise. After a while, Michael couldn’t take the silence anymore and spun his chair dramatically in her direction.
“Where are you from?”
“Nowhere, really,” she continued to stare dead ahead. “Spent some time in New York, Detroit, Seattle, Houston. I got here as quickly as I could, though.”
He asked what brought her to California. Her face dropped quickly, and she began to pick at her cuticles.
“There was a storm in Houston,” she sighed heavily. “Three years ago. I stayed during the worst of it, going around and rescuing animals, but my place was destroyed. So I evacuated to my aunt’s house in Sherman Oaks. Found a job and stayed. It worked out; I’d always wanted to live here.” She spoke matter-of-factly, but Michael could hear the hurt in her voice; she’d gone through a terrible ordeal and come out on the other side. She’d kept pushing. Michael admired her resilience. He heard her whisper quietly, “California is home now.”
Michael studied his hands and found himself admitting, “I never felt at home in Indiana. I guess that’s because I never really got to have a life there.”
She looked up at him, finally, with a sympathetic look in her eye. “I’ve read about your childhood,” she said quietly, and Michael fought the instinct to flinch. “I’m sorry you went through that.”
They fell into a contemplative silence, both lost in their own thoughts about home. Another crack of thunder boomed overhead, shaking the building, and she jumped lightly. Michael thought about comforting her but thought better of it, staying firmly planted in his chair, spinning slowly from side to side. Suddenly, his stomach growled loudly.
“Sorry, the guys went out to pick up dinner. They were going to bring it back,” he smiled sheepishly. She jumped off the couch and unlocked a different cabinet.
“Here, I always keep snacks stocked in the studios,” she placed a grocery bag on the table between them. “Nothing special, just some chips and candy, but you’re welcome to take anything you want.”
Michael smiled a thank you and selected a candy bar while she returned to her spot on the couch with a small bag of peanuts, like the ones you’d find on an airplane. “So,” he started, “you like animals?”
She smiled and seemed to be relaxing, even if only a little. “My grandfather had a farm when I was growing up,” she explained, “Cows, horses, goats, geese, llamas, pigs, you name it, he had it. And they all had names. Macy the goat was my favorite,” she smiled wistfully. Michael leaned back in his chair and admired her eyes while she spoke about growing up surrounded by the love of animals. Michael knew, better than anyone, how pure that love could be. Animals aren’t capable of judgment; that’s why he chose to spend his time with them whenever possible. Realizing she’d been doing a lot of the talking, she hung her head and fidgeted with her hands. “I feel like I should be asking you more questions.”
Michael leaned his head back and laughed. “People ask me questions every single day. I’m happy to be on the other side of it,” he held back I want to get to know you.
“Oh,” she grinned, “well, I had one question, but I’ll keep it to myself.”
He lifted his head and stared at her, worried he’d accidentally hurt her feelings, but she was smiling at him. She was teasing him. He sat up straight, leaned forward, and focused all of his attention on her. “No, please,” he waved a hand, encouraging her to go on.
“Are we going to sit here and talk all night, or are we going to do something?” He wasn’t sure if she’d meant to sound so suggestive, but his chest lurched at the question. He captured his bottom lip in his teeth and allowed himself to search her body with his eyes.
“What do you want to do?”
She leaned an elbow on her knee, resting her chin in her hand, and narrowed her eyes at him. “Did you have a favorite game to play as a child?”
Michael fought the bark of laughter and folded his hands in his lap. He shook his head slightly at himself; he was truly too pent up these days, hoping a stranger had just propositioned him.
Thinking back, he remembered all the time he and his brothers spent cramped in his father’s VW van, traveling from show to show and city to city. When Michael was the youngest, he mostly read or slept on those long drives. He would listen to his brothers make dirty jokes and play games, and he wished he were allowed to participate. But as he got older, his brothers started to include him in some of their activities, including a game in which the objective was to slap your opponent’s hands. What a way to break the tension. “I was actually a Slapsies champion,” he laughed.
She cocked her head and furrowed her brows. Michael pushed down how cute she looked. “What is that?”
“It’d be easier to show you,” he spun the chair next to him around and invited her to sit in it. Leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, he held his hands out flat and stared at her, raising an eyebrow. She stared back, still confused, eyes moving between his outstretched palms and his face. “Lay your hands on top of mine,” he said softly.
She does, and the light touch makes Michael’s fingers tingle. Her skin is warm and soft against his rough palms. He maintained eye contact with her, knowing she was waiting for further instructions. Instead of explaining, he quickly but lightly slapped the back of her hands, causing her to yelp and pull her hands back. “One point for me,” he smiled.
She stared at him in bewilderment for a moment before bursting into maniacal laughter. She shifted to sit on the edge of her seat, suddenly getting competitive. “Okay, I got it. First to five?”
Michael agreed and laid his hands on top of hers. She couldn’t help but note how large his hands were compared to hers, fingers reaching past her palms, but she shook it off. They were playing a children’s game, after all. She fought to continue staring into his eyes, trying to play mind games the way he had, but his gaze was penetrating, making her whole body feel hot. She moved her hands quickly to slap his, but he was even quicker.
“I told you I was good,” his voice became raspy.
As they continued the game, Michael was allowed to forget everything that had been worrying him. He felt comfortable, like he’d known this girl his whole life. Being treated normally, like a human, was rare for him these days. Even more so than ever before. He’d launched himself to the top of the world with Thriller, not thinking of the repercussions he’d have to deal with. He couldn’t go anywhere or talk to anyone for that matter, and that only catapulted his loneliness to an all-time high. For the first time in years, he thought he’d made a friend. She had every right to freak out upon learning she was trapped in a confined space with him, but she didn’t. He respected her for that, for treating him how he’d always longed to be treated by fans. He adored her childlike joy while playing this kid’s game, laughing and being overly competitive. At one point, she even yelled “ref” over her shoulder to the darkness.
“You like sports?” He asked.
“My family are huge college football fans,” she replied, never taking her eyes off their hands.
“You’re full of secrets.”
“You have no idea,” she caught him off guard and tied the game, exclaiming loudly.
Michael couldn’t help but notice that as the game had gone on, they’d both gotten more comfortable. They rested their hands more heavily against each other and slapped harder. As she flinched above him, he grabbed her wrists and laughed wildly, “you can’t be scared!”
He didn’t let go after their laughter died down, too focused on her pulse racing under his thumb. She was smiling at him, the warm candlelight creating a halo around her face, and he swore he saw her glance at his lips, only for a moment. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t been thinking the same thing since seeing her on the other side of the glass at the beginning of their ordeal.
He heard the rain still pouring outside and knew they were still hours from sunrise. Hours from any electrical company to arrive and fix the power situation. Neither of them had noticed, but they’d leaned within inches of each other during the game. Carefully, and excruciatingly slowly, he took her hands in his. He heard her inhale sharply and hold her breath, and his heart raced at her cold rings on his skin. As the candles flickered around them, Michael whispered, “Can I?”
She leaned in quickly and kissed him gently. Her lips were soft and tasted like coconut, her grip on his hands tight. He heard her breathing quickly as she pulled away, a surprised look on her face. He saw her eyes change; she was about to apologize, and he couldn’t let that happen.
Then, all hell broke loose, and all restraint disappeared.
He pulled her back roughly, kissing her so hard their teeth knocked. Her hands flew to his neck; he wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling them both to their feet. They both gasped as they parted; she could taste the chocolate on his breath as she pushed his jacket off his shoulders. He let it fall to the ground and pulled her shirt from where it was tucked into her skirt, his hands finding the bare skin of her waist, grabbing wildly. She smelled like vanilla and sunshine, the beach with a hint of dessert. He groaned, feeling her nails gently scratch his throat, needing to taste more.
“Come here,” he growled between kisses, walking them over to the couch without breaking contact. She nipped lightly at his lip as he fell backward, pulling her onto his lap. With one knee on either side of his body, he pushed her short denim skirt up around her waist, leaving her bottom half exposed to his touch. Forcing himself to slow down, he moved his hands back under her shirt, gripping her skin tightly.
She moved lower and left a trail of sloppy kisses on his jaw before latching onto his neck, teeth scratching and sucking lightly. He moved his hands to her hair and gave a slight tug, tilting her head back so he could return the favor. She moaned quietly as he kissed the soft spot behind her ear, quickly nipped at the skin and kissed again, a perfect balance of hunger and worship. He repeated the move on the sides of her neck, her earlobes, and chest, turning her into a whimpering mess. He was sure he would leave marks, but he simply didn’t care. It made him feel powerful, the way she held the back of his head, pressing his face into her soft skin. He hadn’t breathed in minutes, but it didn’t matter.
He kissed his way back up to her lips and slowed for only a moment, caressing her face. He examined her tousled hair, swollen lips, and glassy eyes and whispered, “You are so beautiful, getting messy for me.”
“Please don’t stop,” she breathed, grabbing his shirt, pulling it over his head and tossing it behind them.
Her hands ran all over his body as she rocked her hips against his. Feeling himself about to lose control, he dug his fingers into her thighs, pulling her impossibly close. Every frustration he’d been dealing with for the last few months, even years, was being released on her body. He gently picked her up and moved her to lie on her back, hovering over her, still kissing and pulling her lip between his teeth. He paused for a moment, tasting her breath, “Do you want to?”
“Yes, please,” she whispered into his mouth, their noses colliding messily.
He kissed down her body again, pulling her shirt over her chest with one hand; the other hand on his belt. Just as the buckle gave way, he heard a low hum and every light in the room flickered on, blinding him.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he gasped, collapsing on top of her, his head landing on her stomach. She laughed loudly, her hand gently playing with his hair. They lay like that for a few seconds, catching their breath, his hands resting loosely on her hips while her nails gently scratched his scalp.
They heard the door's locking mechanism release with a clunk. Michael sat up and took her hand, pulling her up with him. He carefully fixed her clothes and smoothed her hair while she fastened his belt, both of their hands lingering. She kissed him gently and stood. He refused to remove his hand from her thigh until she was out of reach. She returned with his shirt in hand, draping his jacket neatly over the arm of the couch. He reached out to take the shirt from her, frowning, but she snatched it back. He watched her, amused, as she placed one knee between his legs and kissed him one last time, her lips warm and sweet, her hand cupping his jaw.
“I’ll be here tomorrow,” he said, hands wrapped around her legs again, holding her in place.
“Me too,” she smiled and broke from his grasp, heading for the door.
As she walked through the door, Michael noticed finger-shaped bruises forming just under the hem of her skirt. He looked down and smiled to himself, teeth digging into his bottom lip, and tasted remnants of her lip gloss.
He hears her greet his team politely, saying, “You can stay as long as you need. Sorry about the power interruption.”
Quincy and company entered the studio to find Michael staring at his hands in his lap, and tossed a take-out bag in his direction. Quincy examined Michael’s face, confused. “Why are you smiling like that?”
Hi guys this is my first MJ fanfic! I think it would be a long story. I hope you guys like it the way I do.
˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊
Chapter 1
Michael
1982
I was tired of the sun people insisted belonged to me, so I decided to go far away and see sunlight from a corner of the world I had never explored before.
My body ached after hours of dancing without pause. Rehearsals meant to make every movement perfect, one last time for today. I had decided to disappear somewhere still untouched by most people.
I needed an escape.
For months, it had felt difficult to breathe. It wasn't that I hated fame. It wasn't that I hated my fans. They were my family, and I loved them. But sometimes everything felt so suffocating. Every now and then, I wanted to know what life felt like without fame. Without people losing their minds just because I was there. What it felt like to walk quietly, humming to myself, enjoying the cool shade of the wind and the leaves brushing against my face on a peaceful afternoon without being surrounded by crowds.
Journalists.
Fans.
Bodyguards.
The blinding flash of cameras.
The only people who knew about this trip were Marlon and Bill.
I felt like I could trust them a little more than the others.
At first, Marlon had shaken his head in disbelief.
"No, Mike. You can't just do this. Everyone's gonna lose their minds if you disappear without telling anybody."
But after a bit of persuasion—and a bribe involving a beautiful model I'd met during an Off the Wall photoshoot (she was friends with one of the makeup artists who worked on me, and I'd offered to introduce them)—Marlon finally sighed and said with an indifferent smile,
"I'm not promising how long I can keep my mouth shut. You know I talk too much. At least until you get to Bali. Call me as soon as you arrive, Mike."
Bali.
I knew the island from a travel brochure tucked inside a magazine I'd picked up in Los Angeles a while ago.
Paradise Island.
That was what they called it.
The title stretched across the page in large letters, accompanied by photographs that immediately made me sit up straighter. I remember studying every page carefully.
Not many people knew about Bali back then.
I glanced at the clock hanging neatly on my bedroom wall.
Midnight.
My flight left at one in the morning.
Joseph was asleep.
Mama too.
Slowly, I opened my bedroom door and looked both ways down the hallway.
I could hear a television still playing inside Janet's room.
Perfect.
The sound would make my escape even harder to notice.
I tiptoed through the hallway, half-running until I reached Marlon's room and quietly turned the doorknob.
"You ready?" he asked.
He was already dressed, wearing a blue denim jacket, his curls neatly arranged. I had no idea what he planned to do after dropping me off at the airport.
A date, maybe.
I didn't know.
"Yeah," I whispered.
Marlon smiled, grabbed his bag and car keys, then walked over and patted my shoulder.
"Let's go."
We hurried down the staircase that seemed endless in the dark. Sweat gathered at my temples. I was terrified Joseph would wake up. Hayvenhurst felt unusually cold beneath the strong wind outside that night.
Bill was already there, leaning against Marlon's car, waving when he saw us.
"Come on, boys."
We'd intentionally taken Marlon's car. If Joseph woke up and saw a car leaving Hayvenhurst, we'd still be safe. He wasn't nearly as strict with Marlon as he was with me. I wished he could be. Marlon tossed the keys to Bill, who caught them effortlessly. I lifted my large carry bag filled with clothes for a tropical climate and hurriedly shoved it into the trunk.
Marlon and I sat together in the back seat while Bill glanced at us through the rearview mirror.
"Get ready."
The gates swung open.
The fans who spent night after night waiting outside our house immediately erupted into screams.
My name echoed through the darkness.
Ever since Off the Wall, the crowds had become impossible.
Everywhere we went.
I pulled my hat lower, covering half my face.
"MICHAEL!"
"OH MY GOD, MARLON! MARLON!"
"MICHAEL! OVER HERE!"
“MICHAEL! I LOVE YOU!”
Bill pressed harder on the gas.
The car shot forward.
My heart hammered inside my chest as I imagined Joseph waking up because of the commotion at the front gate.
The hour-long drive passed with Marlon firing off jokes, Bill shaking his head at nearly every sentence that came out of Marlon's mouth, and me staring out the window at the city lights that somehow still seemed impossibly bright.
"Hey, Mike."
"Hm?"
I turned toward him. Marlon had always been the brother I was closest to. Maybe because our ages weren't far apart. Wherever Marlon was, there was Michael. And vice versa. Me, overly sensitive. Marlon, drifting through life with an ease I never understood. Sometimes I wondered if he had any ambition at all. But as we grew older, I realized I needed someone like him around me. Someone capable of untangling the knots in my head.
Marlon wrapped an arm around my shoulder and squeezed gently, "I'm gonna miss you. No more than two weeks. Got it?"
I laughed softly.
"Stop being sentimental, Marlon. I'll be back."
"Whatever you say."
He rolled his eyes.
Bill cleared his throat.
"We'll be there soon, son. Marlon, be careful driving back. Watch the road signs. Don't run a red light."
Bill and his fatherly lectures.
And yes, Bill was coming with me.
The truth was, I wasn't brave enough to travel that far alone. Coward. But what if people recognized me there? What if I got trapped in a crowd and ended up crushed beneath all the chaos and panic? Still, from everything I'd read about Bali, Indonesia, it sounded nothing like America.
More traditional.
Slower.
Maybe somewhere on the far side of the island, away from the noise and crowds, nobody would know who I was.
Maybe.
I hoped so.
–
Bali, 1982
I never expected the journey to Bali to feel this long.
Maybe because I was too excited to go. Or maybe because, for the first time in my life, I was going somewhere without a packed schedule, without interviews, without television appearances, without someone constantly knocking on my hotel room door telling me I had five minutes to get ready.
As the plane began its descent, Bill, who was sitting beside me, lifted the window shade a little.
"Michael."
Half asleep, I slowly opened my eyes.
"What?"
"Look."
I turned my head.
And for a few seconds, I didn't say a word.
Below us stretched an ocean whose color I couldn't even explain. It wasn't blue like the one I was used to seeing in California. It wasn't green either. It sat somewhere between the two, like someone had mixed watercolor into clear glass and let the sunlight shine through it from every direction.
The island looked small from up here.
Green.
So incredibly green.
The palm trees looked like tiny dots scattered along the coastline. I could even see the white lines of waves breaking against the shore.
I rested my forehead against the window.
"Wow."
Bill smiled.
"Yeah."
I spent the rest of the flight watching the island grow closer and closer. For the first time in months, my mind wasn't filled with songs, choreography, meetings, or album sales targets.
I was just curious.
Curious about what it would feel like to be there. Curious if the place was really as peaceful as the brochure made it seem. Curious if, for the next two weeks, I could be an ordinary person.
The little airport felt different from the ones I usually visited.
There were no huge crowds.
No reporters.
No people shouting my name.
I was still wearing a hat, sunglasses, and clothes I'd deliberately picked to avoid standing out. Habit. It's hard to let go of that kind of thing.
But a few minutes passed.
Then an hour.
And no one came up to me.
I couldn't help but laugh to myself.
So this is what it feels like.
I even helped Bill carry one of the suitcases for a while without anyone noticing.
That would've been impossible in Los Angeles.
A local man recommended by the travel agency came to pick us up. His English wasn't very fluent, and of course I couldn't understand a word of Indonesian, but he seemed friendly enough.
The drive to the house we'd be staying in took nearly three hours.
At first, I tried reading the book I'd brought with me.
Five minutes later, I gave up.
The view outside was too interesting.
Small roads cut through shimmering rice fields glowing beneath the afternoon sun. Barefoot children ran through the villages. Some people rode old bicycles. I saw women carrying large baskets balanced on top of their heads with a kind of grace that amazed me.
Nobody seemed to be in a hurry.
No endless honking.
No towering buildings.
It felt like I was watching a world moving at an entirely different pace.
I rolled the car window down a little, and warm air brushed against my face, carrying the salty scent of the ocean. The breeze was slightly humid. I closed my eyes for a moment.
And for the first time in a very long while, my chest didn't feel tight.
Slowly, I opened my eyes again and spotted a few monkeys swinging through the trees lining the roadside.
The afternoon was beginning to fade into evening by the time we finally arrived.
The car turned onto a narrower road. Trees grew thick on either side. In the distance, I could already hear the sound of the waves.
Closer.
Clearer.
Until the house finally came into view.
I recognized it immediately.
The same house I'd seen in the brochure.
Or maybe even more beautiful.
A large wooden house stood on a hill overlooking the sea. A wide veranda stretched across the front. Frangipani trees grew around the yard, their white and yellow petals drifting through the breeze.
Bill hadn't even turned off the engine before I opened the car door.
I stepped out slowly.
Then stopped.
Just like that.
Because the ocean stretched out right in front of me.
The late afternoon sunlight reflected off its surface like thousands of tiny shards of glass.
I don't know how long I stood there.
A few seconds.
Maybe a minute.
Maybe longer.
All I know is that I felt very small.
And strangely enough, I liked that feeling.
"Mr. Jackson?"
Someone's voice made me turn around.
A middle-aged man was walking toward me with a warm smile. Beside him stood a woman who seemed to be his wife.
They welcomed me kindly.
I smiled back.
Then, without meaning to, my eyes drifted toward the veranda.
And that's where I saw her.
A girl was sitting on the wooden floor with a large canvas spread out in front of her.
Her black hair was tied up carelessly. I could tell it was long and wavy from the thickness of the ponytail, with a few loose strands framing her face.
Beautiful.
The sleeves of her yellow shirt were rolled up to her elbows.
Her hands were covered in paint.
She looked completely absorbed in what she was painting, so focused she didn't seem to notice I'd arrived.
Or maybe she had noticed.
And simply chose not to care.
I wasn't sure which possibility was more interesting.
I watched her for a few seconds too long.
Until she finally looked up.
Our eyes met.
And unlike most people, she didn't widen her eyes. She didn't smile. She didn't look surprised.
She simply looked at me, her dark brown eyes catching the afternoon light.
Calm.
As though I was just another guest who had arrived and would leave again a few weeks later.
Then she went back to her painting.
Just like that.
I wasn't even sure she knew who I was.
For some reason, that made me smile.
"Please, come in."
"Here's the key you'll be using. We'll be staying in the house out back, so if you need anything at all, don't hesitate to come find us," the middle-aged man who owned the house said. He seemed incredibly kind, and the smile never left his face while he spoke. His English wasn't very fluent.
"Thank you very much," I replied.
Bill accepted the key from the man, who had introduced himself as Bapak Nyoman. He was dressed entirely in white, wearing what looked almost like a skirt, and something wrapped around his head that resembled a hat. I didn't know what it was called. It wasn't familiar to me.
But it was impressive.
I started wandering around the house I'd rented for the next two weeks.
A set of wooden sofas was neatly arranged in the open-air sitting area. The late afternoon sunlight poured over everything beautifully. There were several bungalows scattered around the property. One of them belonged to the owners.
The same house where I'd seen the girl who seemed to be a painter.
I stopped in front of one of the paintings hanging on the living room wall.
Ever since I'd stepped inside this house, my eyes kept drifting toward the paintings displayed in almost every corner. None of them looked carelessly made. Everything seemed to belong exactly where it was. Even the colors felt carefully chosen.
I stepped a little closer.
The painting in front of me showed a vast stretch of ocean. The waves weren't clearly defined, almost abstract. Yet somehow, I could still feel the sea inside it.
I didn't know much about painting techniques, but I'd always believed that good art didn't need too much explaining.
You looked at it. And you felt something. And this painting made me feel something.
Maybe peace. Maybe longing.
Or maybe it was simply because I was standing so close to the ocean myself.
I squinted at the lower corner of the canvas.
A name was written there in small letters.
Nadine Paradisha.
So she was the one who painted all of this.
I found myself thinking about the girl I'd seen on the veranda. The girl with paint-stained hands. The girl who hadn't seemed particularly interested in my arrival.
I didn't know why she kept crossing my mind.
Maybe because I wasn't used to being treated that way.
"Excuse me."
I nearly jumped.
My hand flew to my chest.
"Oh my God!"
I spun around.
She was standing right behind me.
"Oh, I'm sorry."
I let out a long breath before laughing softly at my own reaction.
"No, no, it's alright," I said, shaking my head. "I was just startled."
For some reason, I felt like a little kid who'd just been caught snooping through something that didn't belong to him.
Our eyes met again.
From this close, I could see her face more clearly. She couldn't have been much younger than me.
Her black hair was still tied up carelessly. A few strands had escaped and danced around her face in the breeze. She was still wearing the same yellow shirt.
And her hands were still stained with paint.
I noticed the paint covered nearly all of her fingers. Not just a few tiny spots. Which meant she truly spent her time painting not just as an occasional hobby.
"Welcome to our home," she said.
Her voice was softer than I'd imagined.
"My father's away taking care of something for a while. So I'll be the one looking after you while you're here."
"Oh, I see," I said with a small nod.
I didn't know why, but suddenly I felt a little nervous.
Usually I didn't have trouble talking to new people.
At least, not this much.
But there was something about this girl that made me unsure of how to act around her.
She seemed friendly. But distant.
I held out my hand.
"Michael."
Usually, this was the part where people told me their names.
Or said they recognized me.
Or smiled too widely.
Or suddenly got nervous.
But the girl simply looked at my hand for a few seconds.
As if she were considering something.
Only then did she shake it.
Her hand was cool.
"You're famous, aren't you?"
I frowned.
The question was so sudden that I didn't know how to answer it right away.
Not because I didn't know the answer.
But because I'd never heard anyone ask it quite like that before.
Usually people already knew.
Or at least pretended they did.
"I guess so?" I finally answered.
I didn't even sound convinced myself.
The girl nodded.
"My cousin likes your songs."
That was it.
Nothing else.
No long story.
No overwhelming admiration.
No request for an autograph.
I almost laughed.
For some reason, her answer was funny.
"Ah..."
I rubbed the back of my neck.
I could feel an odd sense of embarrassment creeping up on me. I wasn't sure why.
Maybe because I'd hoped she'd say something more personal.
Maybe because I wanted to know if she'd ever listened to my music herself.
"What about you?" I asked.
"What about me?"
She tilted her head slightly.
Such a simple gesture.
And somehow it only made me more curious.
"Do you like my songs?"
The second the words left my mouth, I regretted them.
What kind of question was that?
I sounded like I was fishing for compliments.
If Marlon were here, he'd never let me live it down.
But now it was too late.
I waited.
And somehow, I really wanted to hear her answer.
Nadine didn't answer.
Instead, she laughed softly, her big eyes narrowing as she smiled.
It wasn't mocking.
It wasn't awkward.
It was more like someone who'd just heard a question they found amusing.
I wasn't sure whether I should feel offended or not.
"Come on," she finally said, turning around.
"I'll show you to the master bedroom."
I followed her.
A little annoyed that I hadn't gotten an answer.
"What's your name?" I asked.
I knew I'd just read it on one of the paintings.
But I wanted to hear her say it herself.
"I'm Nadine."
Nadine.
For the second time that day, I'd heard that name.
And for the second time, I thought it suited her perfectly.
I picked up my pace until we were walking side by side up the wooden staircase to the second floor.
Behind us, I could hear Bill carrying my suitcases.
Nadine glanced over her shoulder.
Her eyes landed on my luggage.
Then back at me.
"You brought a lot of luggage for a two-week trip."
I looked back too.
Bill was carrying one huge suitcase that was already making me feel a little guilty.
Then I remembered there were still several more waiting outside.
I cleared my throat.
"Yeah..."
Nadine raised an eyebrow.
I don't know why, but I suddenly felt judged.
And somehow, I felt like she was right.
She pushed open the bedroom door.
A rush of ocean breeze greeted me through the large windows at the end of the room. White curtains drifted gently in the wind. From here, I could even hear the waves crashing against the cliffs below.
I stepped inside. The room wasn't luxurious. But that was exactly what I liked about it. A large wooden bed stood in the center. A writing desk faced the ocean.
There was no telephone.
No television.
No stack of messages waiting for me to answer.
For the first time in a very long time, I felt like no one could find me.
"It's beautiful."
I nodded.
"Really beautiful."
Nadine leaned against the doorframe.
"My father designed this room."
"Oh?"
"He believes people think more clearly when they can see the ocean."
I walked toward the window.
"And does it work?"
Nadine thought for a few seconds.
"No."
I turned toward her and she looked completely serious.
I laughed.
Nadine smiled a little too.
"At least he tried."
I nodded.
"That makes sense."
Bill set down the last suitcase beside the bed.
"I'll be in the room next door then, Michael."
"Alright."
Bill walked out, smiling at me and now it was just Nadine and me in the room.
For some reason, everything suddenly felt a little quieter. Nadine glanced at my suitcases again.
Then another one.
Then another.
I followed her gaze.
And immediately knew what she was thinking.
"Don't."
"I haven't said anything."
"But I know you want to."
Nadine folded her arms across her chest.
"Are you moving house?"
I closed my eyes.
"Oh, Great God."
"That's a fair question."
"It's not a fair question."
"That's six suitcases."
"Five," I corrected, sounding slightly offended.
Nadine pointed toward the corner of the room.
"There's another one."
I sighed.
Six.
She was right.
I'd only just noticed.
Nadine looked like she was trying very hard not to laugh.
"I like being prepared."
"That's not being prepared."
"It is being prepared."
There went my wounded pride.
For a moment, I found myself thinking about how good Nadine's English was, considering it wasn't her first language.
Her accent was still there.
Very faint.
But noticeable.
Some letters sounded different when she spoke them.
Other than that, though, she spoke effortlessly.
I listened to the way she talked, she didn't seem like someone searching for the right words.
They simply came naturally, as though English had always been part of her everyday life.
It suddenly occurred to me that I knew almost nothing about her.
Other than the fact that she painted.
And that she seemed to enjoy embarrassing me.
Nadine walked farther into the room while I stayed standing near my suitcases.
She opened one of the half-closed windows, and another breeze swept inside. The thin white curtains drifted gently, brushing against her arm now and then.
From here, the ocean looked even clearer.
I could see the waves breaking in the distance.
The afternoon sun was slowly sinking toward the horizon, turning the water gold.
"Did you paint all the paintings in this house?"
The question slipped out before I could think about it.
Nadine looked at me.
"Which paintings?"
"Most of them."
I pointed toward the hallway we'd just walked through.
"The ones downstairs. The one by the living room too."
She followed my hand, then nodded.
"Most of them."
"Most?"
"A few belong to my mother."
"Oh."
I nodded, I thought about the painting of the ocean again.
There was something about it that lingered in my mind, not in a bad way it's quite the opposite, I felt like I'd seen that ocean before. Not a real ocean. An ocean from a dream. It wasn't truly blue. There was gray. A little green.
A color I couldn't quite describe.
I walked toward the window.
"The one by the living room is beautiful."
Nadine didn't answer right away.
"Which one?"
"The ocean."
"That doesn't narrow it down."
I laughed quietly.
"So you paint the ocean a lot."
"I live by the ocean."
"Fair enough."
"Of course it's fair."
I looked at her. Nadine was smiling a little. I was beginning to realize that most of her expressions were impossible to read.
Sometimes she looked serious when she was joking. Sometimes she seemed distant, only to laugh a few seconds later.
I hadn't known her long enough to understand her face.
And strangely enough, that made me curious.
"So, are you really a painter?" I asked.
The question made her laugh again.
I didn't understand why.
"What?"
"You asked that as if I have some special identification card that says painter."
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
I shook my head, smiling.
"Alright. I mean, do you do it for a living?"
Nadine thought for a moment before answering.
"I do it because I like it."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the best answer I've got."
I studied her face for a few moments.
I didn't know why, but I had the feeling Nadine wasn't the kind of person who liked putting herself into neat little boxes.
"Maybe that's the right answer," I finally said.
She looked slightly surprised.
I shrugged.
"I make music because I like it too."
She simply looked at me for a few seconds, then her gaze shifted to the row of suitcases still lined up across the floor.
"So why does a musician who makes music because he likes it bring six suitcases for a two-week vacation?"
I closed my eyes.
"Oh, God."
And for the second time that day, I heard Nadine laugh.
“I’ll let you get settled.”
“Right.”
I cleared my throat softly. For some reason, it felt like there was something lodged there.
Nadine pressed her lips together and offered me a small, polite smile. The kind that didn’t linger. It lasted only a second before she turned and headed toward the door.
I nodded, then watched her leave.
Our shoulders brushed as she passed me. So briefly that maybe it hadn’t happened at all. And yet I still felt it.
My body stiffened for a fraction of a second. Before I could even process what had happened, I caught her scent.
Not perfume. At least, I didn’t think so.
Something softer like freshly washed hair. Like flowers growing wild around the house after rain. Sweet, but not overpowering. Barely there. I wasn’t even sure whether I had actually smelled it or simply imagined it.
The door closed and suddenly I was alone again.
Something was wrong with me.
I stared at the door for several seconds longer than necessary before forcing myself to move.
For the next hour, I pretended to unpack.
Pretended.
Because the truth was that most of my clothes were still everywhere. Several shirts hung carelessly over the back of a chair. Trousers lay piled across the dark brown sofa facing the bed. One suitcase remained completely untouched.
I walked toward the window.
Outside, the afternoon was slowly dissolving into evening.
The sky that had been blue only moments ago was melting into shades of gold. Small birds crossed the horizon in the distance. Beneath the cliffs, the ocean continued its endless rhythm, rising and falling like a steady breath.
I pushed the window open wider, the sea air filled my lungs.
I took a long breath and for the first time in months—I felt like I could breathe.
Really breathe.
“Mike.”
I turned. Bill was standing in the doorway, dressed far more casually now. A navy-blue T-shirt. Shorts. For the first time since we'd arrived, he actually looked like a man on vacation.
“Hey, Bill.”
“Looks like dinner’s ready. You coming?”
I nodded, “What do you think they made?”
“No idea. Something unfamiliar. I’ve been smelling something pretty strong coming from the kitchen for the last hour.” Bill shrugged.
I laughed softly, “That’s a very reassuring description.”
“You’ll survive.”
“You don’t know that.”
“You ate mystery food in Japan.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
Bill shook his head with a chuckle. We made our way downstairs.
The house felt different now that evening had settled in. Warm yellow lamps glowed from the corners, reflecting softly against the wooden floors. Somewhere beyond the property, I could hear insects singing and waves crashing against the shore.
But when we reached the kitchen area, it was empty.
No one was there.
I frowned.
Bill did the same.
Then a voice called out from outside.
“Mr. Jackson! Over here!”
We both turned. In the backyard, on a stretch of green grass overlooking the sea, a long wooden table had been set up, a white tablecloth covered its surface. Large dishes filled with foods I didn’t recognize sat neatly arranged in the center. The fading sunlight mixed with the warm glow of lanterns, making the entire scene look almost like a painting.
Bapak Nyoman waved enthusiastically.
His wife sat beside him.
And Nadine sat across from them.
I don’t know why my eyes found her first.
There were three people sitting there.
Yet somehow, my eyes found her first.
Her hair was down now. Dark waves spilled over her shoulders, moving gently whenever the ocean breeze passed through. One side had been tucked behind her ear, held in place by a white frangipani flower. I had never seen someone look so completely at home in a place.
As though the sea, the wind, the trees, and her belonged to the same story.
Meanwhile, I still looked like a tourist who had arrived with six suitcases.
“Michael?”
I blinked.
“Oh.”
Bill was trying not to smile. I immediately started walking toward the table.
“You’re back, Bapak Nyoman.” Said I.
“Yes!” he said cheerfully. “My wife and I went to buy ingredients. You must try Balinese food. I don’t know whether you’ll like it, but we worked very hard preparing everything.”
His smile was so sincere that I immediately felt guilty for having worried about the food.
“You really didn’t have to do all this. Thank you very much. Of course I’ll try it.”
“Please, sit.”
I followed the direction of Ibu Nyoman’s hand. And only then did I notice a small problem.
The only empty chair was directly across from Nadine.
Of course it was.
I pulled out the chair and sat down. A terrible mistake. Because from this distance, I could see her more clearly. The frangipani flower in her hair. The slight sun-kissed warmth of her skin. And the faint trace of blue paint that still lingered on one of her fingers.
She hadn’t managed to wash it off completely.
I didn’t know why I noticed things like that.
“Mr. Jackson?”
Bapak Nyoman’s voice startled me.
Everyone was looking at me.
Including Nadine.
I blinked.
Then realized I hadn’t heard a single word anyone had said for the last several seconds.
content: otw!michael, michael's pov, second chance romance, implied sexual content (depending on your imagination)
part one here
tag list: @a-dal7490 @darkgreengrl @sarcasmismyfirstlove
a/n: once again thank you anon for the inspiration, i had so much fun developing this story!
1979 had been the worst year of Michael’s life so far. He’d left New York about 18 months ago, and it’d become like that part of his life never existed. Upon his return to California, he was thrown back into every decision being made for him, without his input. He found himself in rehearsals with his brothers every single day; he’d completely forgotten about the Destiny tour while in New York. He had two bright spots in his life now: working on his first solo album and her letters.
Their communications were consistent for about ten months, then they became sporadic. He wasn’t hurt, though; he should have known it would happen as they both went about their lives. The difference was that nothing had changed for him. Everything had changed for her.
In her letters, she talked of working her new job at a national company, trying new restaurants, meeting new people, and missing him terribly. Although the sad side of him said she's just saying that to make you feel better, a different part of him hoped she was honest. She always seemed happy in her letters. That is, until the last paragraph or so, always signing off with Wish you were here.
As her letters slowed, she wrote less of her new life and more of their time together. Places she wished they’d gone, things she wished they’d done. I’m sorry I never took you to the Statue of Liberty, Michael. I know she’s a tourist trap, but I think you’d love what she stands for. I always have.
So, that particular night, he found himself in Philadelphia, wondering what tourist trap she’d take him to if she were here. They’d been on tour for months, but for Michael, it’d felt like years. Touring always did. And he itched, knowing his solo album had been on sale for two months and not knowing how it was doing. Quincy had called a few times to update him, but so far Michael didn’t know whether he’d achieved his goal, and it was driving him crazy.
Elsewhere in the streets of Philadelphia, she made her way toward the arena. She hadn’t written to Michael since she moved; all her time had been occupied with the transfer and starting over for the second time. Somehow, she’d gotten turned around and was coming up on the rear end of the arena, littered with trucks and cops. She kept her head down and continued to walk up the block towards the front doors when she heard a familiar voice.
She slowed and turned around, seeing Bill in an intense discussion with an older man dressed for a night at the disco.
“I hired you; you work for me,” the man said through gritted teeth.
“Michael started signing my paychecks three years ago,” Bill replied calmly.
She couldn’t hear what was said as the other man waved his finger in Bill’s face and stormed back into the arena. Overcome by curiosity, she couldn’t force herself to continue walking. She stood and watched Bill breathe deeply, and then he looked up. Directly at her.
Bill looked as though he’d relaxed a little upon seeing her and began walking over, exchanging a few words with security and pointing at her. As he approached, he politely held out his hand. “Hi, how are you?”
“Hi Bill,” she shook his hand. “I’m great, how’ve you been?”
“No two days are the same,” he smiled. “Can’t complain. Coming to see the show?”
“Sure am.” She grinned as she fished her ticket from her purse. Bill leaned in slightly to read it.
“Come on, I can get you a way better seat.”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t ask you to do that.”
Bill gave her a knowing look and a smile, offering his arm. She laughed and took it, allowing him to lead her backstage.
“For the record,” Bill whispered to her, “you didn’t ask me for anything.”
“He’s really rubbing off on you.”
She stuck close to Bill as they wove through the crowds backstage. She recognized people from local newspapers, TV stations, actresses, and models. To stage right, she saw a large group of people gathered around a smaller group in the middle. A spotlight from somewhere in the arena passed briefly across his face; he was laughing at one of his brothers. Her stomach began to turn as she realized her friend was so close after so long. Bill kept her moving, though, toward a completely different group of people. This group looked official and rugged, most wearing headsets and carrying instruments. “This is the crew area, best seat in the house.” Bill gently grabbed her shoulders and guided her to a specific spot. “Stay here. You’ll be out of the way.”
“Thank you, Bill. This is amazing.”
He smiled at her again and began to walk away when someone stopped him. “Who is she?”
“A friend.”
The show was mystifying, a total assault on the senses. She’d seen them perform on TV, but nothing compared to the real thing. Michael moved like his bones were liquid; it was fascinating. The roar from the audience after each song was deafening. People chanted his name, those closest reaching out as far as they could, like they were trying to grab the moment with their bare hands and take it home. Before she knew it, someone yelled “thank you, goodnight, we love you,” and it was dark. The people around her started moving again, everyone running around at a million miles an hour. She did as she was told and stayed where Bill planted her feet. But she couldn’t help looking around in wonder.
Across the stage, Michael had changed clothes quickly and said goodnight to his family. He found Bill and grabbed his elbow. “Ready to go?” He always framed it as a question, in case Bill wanted to stay longer. But he never did.
“Actually, I have a surprise for you.”
Michael stared at him, confused. He looked around and didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Bill jerked his head to the side and began walking, Michael closely on his heels. As they rounded the corner, Michael recognized her immediately. He would know her in complete darkness.
Her hair was longer, her style had matured, but it was her. When they’d left each other, they’d both been barely 20 and hardly out of the awkward teenage phase. As she turned to face them, Michael saw a woman where his first love had once stood.
“Look what I found outside,” Bill beamed proudly.
She and Michael stood in shocked silence for a moment, looking at each other. He couldn’t find words to say, so he wrapped his arms around her and hugged hard instead. They both began laughing as they parted, staying joined at the hands.
“You look great, Michael,” she breathed, eyes running all over his body. “You’ve grown so much.”
“Look who’s talking; Boston really agrees with you. What are you doing all the way out here?”
She smiled sheepishly and shrugged, “Well, uh, I actually live here now. In Philly.”
Michael wondered why she hadn’t written about this most recent move; then he remembered how long he’d been on tour. For all he knew, that letter could be waiting for him in California. “Then it looks like Philly has been kind to you.”
They fell into an admirable silence, still holding hands, still staring deeply at each other. Then, Bill leaned in.
“So, are you gonna ask her to dinner or should I?”
Michael laughed nervously, his stomach dropping to his shoes. He took a quick breath. “Would you like to get dinner?”
“I’d love to,” she replied happily.
Bill turned and headed toward the exit. Michael placed his hand gently on her lower back and walked alongside her. He couldn’t help but imagine what it would be like to have her at every show, having her consistently in his life. As they turned the corner to the tunnel, he heard familiar hooting and hollering in his direction. His brothers yelled behind them, their chants varying to “About time!” “Look who’s all grown up now,” and “Nice choice, Mike!” He lowered his head and walked faster, desperate to get her away from the inappropriate jeers as quickly as possible.
“I’m sorry about them,” he whispered in her ear. He felt her hand come to rest around his waist.
“Let them think whatever they want.”
Luckily for Michael, he’d already had his team call ahead and book out a restaurant he’d read about; he’d wanted to have a quiet dinner alone. The dining room was cozy, the food reminded him of home, and the live jazz band really completed the experience. As they were shown to their table, Michael noticed the young waitress eyeing his friend suspiciously. She was polite, but he wished he could read minds.
After they were left alone with menus, his friend asked, “So, does Bill ever eat? I feel bad he’s waiting outside.”
“Sometimes I think he survives off of cookies and that’s it,” Michael replied with a grin. She laughed, looked over the menu, and then placed it back on the table, leaning on her arms.
“How have you been, Michael?”
Suddenly, like a wave crashing ashore, his chest burst with admiration. She didn’t ask about the tour, his family, his music; she asked about him. Mulling the question over in his mind, he wasn’t sure how to answer. He only got moments of leisure in the recent past; he didn’t know how to explain his life without touching on the things he hated. “I’m tired, if I’m honest.” He set his menu down and studied her face; she willed him to go on. “But we’re near the end. I think this could be the last. I really hope it is,” he sighed. “Um, I recorded a solo album.”
She smiled wider and rested her cheek against her hand. “I know. I bought it.”
His face got warm, and he had to look away from the pride in her eyes. “Thank you.”
“I would have bought even if it wasn’t yours. The music is fantastic.”
Drinks were delivered, they both thanked the server, and fell into silence again. “I just can’t believe you’re sitting here.” Michael laughed in disbelief.
“Imagine how I feel!”
“How do you like your new job?” He asked, hungry to learn more about her last 18 months instead of talking about his misery. For the first time in a year, he felt joy, sitting across from someone who’d never asked him for anything, except a piece of his heart.
“It’s been great,” she replied. “I have a whole office, my own phone line. I feel so important,” she laughed, and Michael’s heart soared again. She was happy; she’d built a new life for herself by herself. She’d left all of the ugliness of New York behind and come into her own. Michael wondered what that felt like.
After their meals arrived, they spent the next hour talking like they’d never left each other. She told him stories about her new co-workers, everything from the stapler thief to the salesman who kept beer in his office for liquid lunches. He told her about his brothers and their antics, much to her amusement. It was comfortable again; they felt less like strangers with every passing minute.
“Look,” Michael said softly, taking her hand from across the table. “We have two more shows in the next two days.” His voice was weary already, thinking of the next 48 hours that lie ahead of him. He took a deep breath. “Then we have four days off.” He let the statement hang in the air, trying to decide if this was a good idea. He threw caution to the wind, knowing he wouldn’t get an opportunity like this again. “I’d like to spend those four days with you.”
She grinned widely, squeezed his hand, and rummaged in her purse, pulling out a scrap of paper and a pen. She wrote quickly, folded the paper, kissed it, and placed it in his hand. “I’ll be waiting by the phone.”
He opened the scrap and smiled at it; it was the first phone number he’d actually wanted to receive. She quietly excused herself, and Michael tucked the paper securely into his pocket. When she returned, she threw her purse over her shoulder and held out her hand to him.
“I still need to close out,” he said as he stood and took her hand, intertwining their fingers.
“Don’t worry about it.” She smiled mischievously.
“Baby, I cannot dine and dash,” he chuckled. She pulled him close and placed a kiss on the back of his hand, not saying a word. “You didn’t.”
“Have you ever heard that saying ‘you fly, I buy’?”
He shook his head and allowed her to lead him out of the restaurant, both of them waving at their waitress and thanking her again. “It means you got the transportation, so I got the dinner.”
She was unbelievable, but he should have expected it. He should have known that not much could change. He kissed her temple and opened the door for her. “Then at least let me take you home.”
She leaned close to his ear and whispered, “You better.”
She leaned against him in the backseat, their hands in her lap. They didn’t speak; instead, they stared at each other in every passing streetlight and neon sign. In some ways, it was like nothing had changed. In others, everything was different now. They were both different people: older, wiser, more secure in themselves. She’d changed her perfume but kept the same shampoo. He’d worked tirelessly to find a way to move forward on his own, without his father and brothers keeping him tied to what they’d been doing for decades. The time may never be completely right, but Michael thought this would be as close as they’d get.
The ride was over way too quickly, and Bill stepped out to round the car and open her door. But he waited, giving them a private moment. She gently placed a hand on the side of his face and turned him to face her, staring right through him. Without a word, she kissed him gently, hand moving from his cheek to his shoulder to his chest. “You promise you’ll call?” She whispered against his lips.
He used his free hand to softly caress her thigh, kissing her again. “I wouldn’t dream of breaking that promise.”
They parted, both of their skin burning, and she exited the car. She gave Bill a quick, friendly hug and waved to them both before disappearing into her apartment building.
Michael called her as soon as he arrived at his hotel room.
For the next 48 hours, the kiss and dinner were all either of them could think about. Michael zoned out all through soundcheck, makeup, and wardrobe. The corners of his mouth turned slightly upwards when he thought about the coming days. Their first show after Philadelphia, one of his brothers noticed Michael smiling to himself in the vanity mirror.
“Have a good time last night?” The entire family turned to smile and laugh at him.
“Mind your own business,” Michael replied, schooling his face to be neutral.
“Just be glad you did, because if you hadn’t...” The large backstage place filled with mocking laughter.
“Keep telling yourself that,” Michael stood and smiled at his family, holding his secret close.
As he stood next to the stage entrance, he suddenly felt ashamed of keeping her a secret. It wasn’t like he wanted to hide her from the world, but he felt a need to protect her from the madness he lived with every day. He couldn’t stomach the thought of his family descending upon her; he was sure his father would try to find a way to become her manager too and make a star out of her. She enjoyed normality, and he was going to do everything possible to keep it that way, for her. Even if it meant letting her go.
As the musical intro began to play, he took his place, and the lights went down. He steeled himself, becoming the star in a split second. He called her for a second time that night.
The second night, in Pittsburgh, he and Bill drove back to the hotel after the show in silence. Michael’s mind was heavy with his thoughts, doing his best to devise another master plan.
“What time you wanna leave in the morning?” Bill asked as they pulled up to the valet station.
“As early as possible.”
“It’s about a five hour drive, no traffic,” Bill replied, looking intently at Michael’s side profile. Michael stayed quiet, staring straight ahead despite the valet waiting just outside his door. “I’ll be down here at 10. We’ll leave whenever you’re ready.” Bill moved to exit the car and stopped when he heard Michael speak.
“Don’t you think it’d be more romantic to show up with flowers and take her straight to dinner?”
Bill smiled to himself and closed the door. “How romantic are you going for?”
Michael sighed, embarrassed. It’s not like he was new to romance, but it’d been a long time since he’d fallen this hard. “I want her to like me.”
“She already likes you, son,” Bill said in his fatherly way. After a beat of thoughtful silence, he said, “You’ve done a lot to take care of her. I think she’d find it more romantic if you let her take care of you, in her own way.”
“She bought dinner last time we saw each other,” Michael laughed.
“I think that’s her way of saying thank you. You want to show her you’re in for the long haul? Step into her world. If it scares you, let yourself be afraid.”
Michael nodded and thanked Bill. That night, he didn’t call her.
It was early evening by the time they arrived back in Philadelphia. The sun had just set over a cool fall night, and leaves crunched under Michael’s feet as he all but ran into her apartment building. Thankfully, the hallways were empty as he took the stairs two at a time and arrived at her door out of breath. He allowed himself a moment, a deep breath, and one last check over his casual outfit. Then, he knocked and waited.
There was a light crash and a few curse words from behind the door before it opened. Confusion turned to recognition as she took him in. “How do you know where I live?” She narrowed her eyes at him, a hand on her hip.
“You’re on the callbox,” he chuckled.
“Come on in, I made dinner.” She opened the door and stepped aside.
“Hey, that’s my job,” he joked, hoping she’d remember their chore distribution from their short time living together.
“You never cooked.” She laughed loudly, closing and locking the door behind them.
They stood at the counter in her small kitchen and shared a bowl of popcorn mixed with M&Ms, a record playing calmly in the background. “This is what you call dinner?”
“Are you complaining?”
“Never,” he smiled widely, throwing another handful of sweet and salty into his mouth. Before they know it, the large bowl is empty. Michael had recounted every book he’d read since they’d seen each other last, and she’d given him a thorough tour of Philadelphia's hottest clubs, without ever leaving her kitchen. Against his better judgment, and prepared for either answer, he asked the question that’d been on his mind since leaving Pittsburgh. “Are you seeing anybody?”
She stood up straight, taking her arms off the counter and crossing them over her chest, and raised an eyebrow playfully. “No,” she replied with that damn smile. “Are you?”
He laughed, hanging his head. He sighed and looked back at her eyes, sparkling with mischief. “No.”
They stared at each other for an excruciatingly long moment. Michael weighed his options and decided to fight the base urge to jump her and show her how he’d felt since seeing her two nights ago. Instead, he stood and slowly rounded the counter to stand in front of her. She kept her arms crossed and brow arched as he wrapped his arms around her waist. “To be honest,” he lowered his voice, “I’d like to start seeing you.”
She relaxed and rested her hands on his shoulders. “I’d like that too,” she lazily ran a finger down his jaw. “But how would that work, like, logistically? You’re on tour; you’ve been the biggest star in the world your entire life.”
“For you, I’ll find a way.”
Her fingers intertwined at the base of his neck, pulling them even closer together. “That’s sweet. But I don’t want to be one of those girls who just hang around your house waiting for you to come home and have time for me,” she sighed. “I don’t want to just go with you to movie premieres and award shows and walk you back to your car after shows.” Michael wasn’t used to such raw honesty, but he loved it. He loved her analytical approach to their potential relationship, as she tried to find a way for it to work without either of them having to sacrifice too much.
“I don’t want that for us either,” Michael smoothed a strand of hair away from her face. “I’d never stop you from having your own life.”
“But I’m not a movie star or a musician or a model or anything,” she was rambling now.
“I don’t want you to be,” Michael interrupted. He liked her just as she was.
She smiled, took his hand into hers, and led them to her two-seat table under a window. The conversation would be more productive if their entire focus was on the topic at hand. That is, instead of splitting their attention between that and how the other felt under their touch. “That’s not what I’m saying, Michael,” she leaned on the table. “Public people like you usually date equally public people. It’s easier that way, for both parties. You’re both used to the lifestyle, the expectations, the dos and don’ts. I’ve never wanted to be a public person. I just like being me, and I don’t know if I’m ready to give that up.”
Michael felt the weight of her words and took her hand from across the table. “I like you too. A lot, actually,” he laughed nervously. “I’ll be the first one to tell you, I’ve never known what it’s like to not be public. But if we do this, I’ll do whatever it takes to make it work.” He took a deep breath and lowered his voice, searching her face. “Baby, I really want this.”
She rubbed the back of his hand with her thumb for a moment before standing and walking towards him, holding his hand tightly. She placed herself in his lap and wrapped her arms around his neck. She kissed him again, and it felt easier this time. More comfortable, less longing. Less like they’d both been waiting months for it, more like this was their new normal. Michael’s mind shut off for the first time in forever, allowing him to live in the moment. “I guess we will just have to figure it out together,” she whispered as she leaned her forehead against his. Michael took a quick glance around her apartment; he hadn’t noticed it was a studio. She’d made it seem so spacious yet cozy.
“If it’s alright with you, I don’t want to go back to the hotel,” he kissed her again. “Can I sleep on your couch?”
She smiled and connected their lips again for a deeper kiss than before. “Over my dead body, I spent a lot of money on that mattress. I’ll be damned if I’m the only one enjoying it.”
He smiled against her mouth and laughed lightly. “But I’m a gentleman.”
“I don’t expect anything less.”
She stood and began cleaning up the kitchen while he crossed the room to flip the record. He strode over to his bag, which he’d dropped at the front door, and began rummaging through it. She noticed him pulling a pair of flannel pants out of the bag and barked out a loud laugh. “You sneaky dog. You had every intention of staying here tonight.”
“All the more time to spend with you,” he placed a soft kiss on her forehead as he walked to the bathroom to change. When he exited, he found her curled under a blanket, reading a book. He lay next to her and leaned in to read along. Without a word, she wrapped an arm around his neck, and he lay his head on her chest. He’d never been held like that; it made him feel secure, protected. He’d always been the one doing the holding, knowing his arm would fall asleep, but it would be worth it. This was completely new to him, hearing every beat of her heart. If he concentrated hard enough, he thought he could hear the blood rushing in her veins. She put her book down and wrapped both arms around him. “What do you think about the neighborhood?” He found himself asking, feeling an insatiable curiosity about her life.
“It’s actually a lot like New York. Gritty and tough sometimes, but if you’re good to the city, it’ll be good to you,” she replies with a wistful tone, as if she were speaking of an old friend. He felt her face gently nuzzle into his forehead. “Do you want to experience it? Go out and see how the rest of the world lives?”
“We’d have to talk to Bill,” he sighed, chest getting heavy, remembering that he had to jump through certain hoops to live semi-normally.
“That’s fine, I have a friend who can help disguise you both,” she smiled against his skin. There was a quick moment of silence before they both burst into laughter. That night, they fell asleep the way they always did in Michael’s dreams: a tangled mess of limbs, but together.
The next evening, just after sunset, Michael stood in front of her full-length mirror and inspected his reflection. He wore a fake mustache, fake sideburns, a baseball cap, and sunglasses. He even wore muscle padding to disguise his frame, because every part of him was recognizable. He pushed away the sadness of the realization and tried to keep his focus on the night ahead. He still had no idea what they would be doing when he turned around and found Bill in his own disguise, a wig and a fake goatee. The pair doubled over in laughter, pointing at each other’s fake pieces; it felt like they were children playing dress-up. She appeared from the hallway and took in the sight of the childlike joy that had overtaken two of the more stoic men she’d ever known.
“We’re going to be late, you know. I want to place a bet,” she began to laugh alongside them.
“Where are we even going, baby?” Michael asked through his laughter. Bill inhaled deeply and tried to steady himself, but looking at Michael’s painted-on bushy eyebrows sent him spiraling again.
“I know the promoter for a boxing club in the city.”
Both men straightened up and stared at her, wondering if she was serious.
She shrugged, “it benefits charity.”
She gathered her purse and Michael’s hand, making her way toward the door. Behind them, Bill chuckled to himself. “You know, I liked Rocky a lot.”
They arrived at the club to crowds of people outside and spotlights shining through the streets. They exited the cab they’d taken to the city, and she captured Michael’s hand in hers. Michael looked around in amazement; nobody had even looked at them twice. He didn’t even look out of place wearing sunglasses at night, everyone around him had some variation of the same outfit he wore. It’s like it was the uniform of Philly nightlife.
She led them to a side door and hugged another woman. Michael couldn’t hear the conversation over the music and cheering from inside the gym, but the group was then led to three reserved seats in the front row. “I’ll be right back,” she kissed his cheek and walked to a table set up across the room. She handed some cash to a large man who smoked a cigar and smiled at him. For just a moment, Michael felt a pang of jealousy in his stomach. He shook it off, taking another look around the room. He saw all kinds of people mingling, factory workers and men in expensive suits sharing beers and talking about the fighters. She returned and sat next to him, resting her hand on his knee.
“So this is how normal people do it? Personal escorts to front row seats?” He teased her.
“This is my normal,” she grinned, offering him a basket of nachos, which he then shared with Bill.
The trio had a fabulous night, placing bets and cheering for their chosen fighters. They ate greasy food and drank cheap beer; Michael even bought a T-shirt to commemorate the occasion.
Living among the real people of Philadelphia reminded Michael of growing up in Indiana, where people worked hard for what they had and cherished every moment. This night had shown Michael a life he wanted to be a part of, her life. But he knew, deep down, it could never work out the way he wished it would.
They spent their last 36 hours together in her apartment, door locked and lights low. They mostly read to each other, danced around the space, and lay in bed, enjoying each other.
As the sun set on their final night together, Michael held her close to his chest, their legs tangled under her heavy quilt. They hadn’t spoken a word in over an hour, knowing their time was precious and scarce. He tried to fight it, but as he rested his chin on top of her head, tears began to fall from his eyes. She tightened her grip on his waist and buried her face in his skin; he heard her begin to cry quietly along with him.
“This is all I’ve ever wanted, Michael,” she breathed through tears. She sat up and took his face in her hands, her eyes red and glassy. “I know it’ll never be easy, but it feels easy; it feels right.”
“I don’t want to trap you in this life,” Michael sighed, wiping her face with his thumb. “I don’t want to have to hide you. I don’t want to spend our lives inside, stealing moments in darkness.”
She kissed him, their wet faces mingling their tears. “I don’t want to hide either. But we know we will never be normal, love,” she laughed lightly. “We can’t break, so we’ll have to bend.”
“I don’t know how to protect you from all of this,” Michael rubbed her shoulders and arms before bringing her hands to his lips, kissing every inch of skin he could reach.
“You don’t have to protect me from anything,” she leaned close and kissed his lips, his chin, nose and cheeks. “We will find a way, a compromise. I don’t want to let you leave again, not knowing when I’ll see you next.”
Michael knows better than to ask her to come with him again. His base instincts told him to throw her over his shoulder and run back to California, but he knew it would be disrespectful to her wishes. Instead, they did not sleep their last night together. They stayed up all night, staring at each other, trying to memorize every facet of the moment.
The next morning, they stayed in each other’s arms until the very last second as Michael prepared to leave. A sad knock hit her front door way too early, but Bill didn’t even need to come in for them to know what it meant. Michael kissed her passionately as tears began to fall again.
“I can’t watch you leave,” she cried.
“Then don’t,” he replied, “I’ll see you soon. I don’t know how, but I will.”
Michael pulled the worn slip of paper from his pocket and promised to call her every single night as he wiped her tears. He promised he would come back to her.
Michael had kept his promise and called her every single night over the last three months from different hotels. They mostly spoke of their idealistic future, neither of them ever uttering the possibility that it could all be fantasy.
One December night, Michael had locked himself in his home studio, not doing much of anything. He just needed to be alone. Though he had turned the sign on the door, signaling his request for privacy, he heard a light knock. He sighed, sure it was one of his siblings, and threw the door open. He blinked a few times. But there she was.
“Are you real?” He breathed in complete disbelief.
She smiled widely at him. “I’m real,” she nodded and stepped closer to him. “And I’m staying.”
“How can that even be possible?” He reached out and touched her face, assuring himself he wasn’t dreaming.
She wrapped her arms around his waist as he stepped backward into the room, closing the door behind them. “A West Coast office opened; I asked to be transferred.”
Michael felt tears welling up in his eyes, his hands still roaming, like he was trying to find a flaw in his hallucination. “Why would you start over again?” He asked through sobs that threatened his composure.
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