i think my ideal job is being paid 50$/hour to sit on the computer doing whatever i want at an empty rented office space for mysterious employers definitely running some kind of money laundering scheme and just needing me to keep up appearances of one of their shell companies but im not like, in on anything and no one can charge me for anything
starring .✦ ݁˖ fem!reader... later will include pre-otw!michael (reader is inclusive to all races)
summary .✦ ݁˖ It would have been amazing if you visited New York City in better circumstances... Such as not sent to the late-1970s without warning. Suspect 001 was your grandfather's Canon ae-1 and you would investigate the hell out of it, even if it was the last thing you did.
word count .✦ ݁˖ 4.3k
content warnings .✦ ݁˖ swearing, mentions of death.
past exposure masterlist | past exposure playlist
Okay. Hold up. Recap! You snapped a photo of your wall with an old camera that sounded plastic-like and rattly every time you shook it and—somehow—you were now standing in front of the one and only Brooklyn Bridge?!
How on earth did you get here?! Oh, wait trick question, because no one here knows the goddamn answer to that!
Were you possessed for a moment? Possibly slept walked and flew all the way to New York City with a camera in hand… Make it make sense, you cried in your mind to no one in particular, desperately trying to understand the whole situation.
As you scanned your surroundings frantically—dropping the very innocent Canon in the process, as it rolled until it fell on its back—passersby were strolling along a path, few couples hand-in-hand, children running ahead of their parents, and a middle-aged gentleman reading amongst himself, flipping through the gossip-filled newspaper. A sign beside you that read “Brooklyn Heights Promenade” had said all that you needed to know as to where you were.
Despite your eyes having to skitter and dart to every new object within your vision; it, in fact, did not help ease anything and only added to your panic. The possibility of this being a dream had washed over you… However, that reasoning only lasted a second when the horrid sensation of wet socks seeped between your toes. The feeling prompted a quick look to the ground; your feet were soaked inside a shallow puddle. No dream could replicate the squishy discomfort of watery clothing. You quickly hopped out of the thin pool, failing miserably as you shook your feet dry—which rewarded you a glance or two from others.
Noticing the attention you were receiving, you zoomed to the nearest teenager, staring like a deer in headlights as you cried out, “where am I right now?” The startled citizen flinched to the far-out stare in this crazed-looking person and then peeped out the words New York City before fleeing away.
The realization slowly settled—you aimlessly stumbled back to the iron fence and shallow sheet of water—this was not a dream. You were in New York City, no doubt about it. And worst of all—in your pajamas. If there had been a warning, you would have at least tried to pick a better outfit.
Alright, no! That’s not even remotely important right now! Reminding yourself of the actual problem at hand.
Americans and tourists of all ages and generations continued to walk by as you quietly went through a total meltdown; though, something about this atmosphere ticked your brain. It was an effect that made you feel foreign, like you were the odd one out.
That strange hunch gradually became clear as your gaze glanced towards the middle aged man; he wore a gray suit set that paired with his checkered tie and a worn down fedora—that’s such a vintage style, you thought rather impressed with the elder bringing retro back—but it did not end there, leaving your eyes from the man to a group of young women who passed by giggling, most of them rocked a pair of flare jeans and leather boots; meanwhile their feathery blown out hairstyles spoke enough volumes as to when they were dressing…
Was there a festival going on nearby? You wondered if there had been another random American holiday you managed to forget about—maybe a ‘dress like the 80s day.’ “It feels like I just traveled to the past,” muttering your thoughts aloud as a man in hippie clothing passed you by. Jokingly making the thought that you jumped into a Back to the Future timeline, which was literal nonsense. Seemingly forgetting the fact that teleporting more than seven-hundred miles away from your home was not exactly normal either. It’s not like you had an obvious explanation for whatever happened, but no matter what, traveling into the past was beyond crazy.
You needed a change of position, turning to lean your elbows on the fence—it was time to wrap your head around how you’d get out of New York City. Your pockets were empty and to top it off you were only wearing a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie, so by definition you had nothing to your name.
“God, how the hell did I get here?!” You constantly racked your brain for some sort of memory that could explain all this. Ruffling your uncombed damp hair like it had the answers underneath.
Just before all this, you were beside the bed holding a camera, then took a quick picture of your wall and poof! You arrived in NYC. There was that weird already-developed picture in the viewfinder, and it surprisingly had the exact same skyline as the one in front of you right now. As you looked towards the buildings glistening under the afternoon sun, your fingers began to tangle and tug around your hair as you tried to recall the cause of this predicament.
Despite the panic thumping in your throat, the view was breathtaking.
The glittering Manhattan skyline shone with pride as the Brooklyn Bridge arched out towards the city, and distinct car honking sounded in the distance. Not to mention the iconic buildings that could only belong to New York: the Empire State, the Chrysler building, and the Twin Towers rivaling them all—you thought to yourself before your mind blanked.
.
.
.
Every organ in your body felt like they had sunk six feet into the ground.
The Twin Towers?!
The very gone and destroyed Twin Towers! Your knees met the ground before your brain could even load. Life drained from your face as though you had quite literally seen a ghost. There was no way. No how! That the Twin Towers were standing before you like nothing happened! Everything froze at that point, your heart dropped under the pavement, blood ran cold, and goosebumps rose from every possible follicle in your skin.
It was scientifically impossible—actually, physically impossible for them to rebuild the towers within a day, let alone without masses of news channels reporting it on every outlet. As your mind melted against its skull and heart rammed a mile per second, your eyes shifted to different focal points, you needed something to ground you, to explain that this was all a stage built for a play or—or a film, anything! And then the gray suited man on the bench came to view. You scrambled on your feet to ask him the final lingering question.
“Hey, ‘scuse me—what’s today’s date?” Asking like there was a mouse caught in your throat, fear got hold of you, because whatever this stranger said next could alter your entire brain schema. The man peeked from under his hat, closing the newspaper to view the exact date on the New York Times header. “August 18th, a Thursday.” His matter-of-fact baritone voice clarified, which frankly did not make sense because today was a Tuesday “No, I mean—” taking it upon yourself to read the current year yourself. Leaning in to find:
New York, Thursday, August 18, 1977
You wanted to laugh, to scoff at the preposterousness that was time travel. Your mouth was left ajar as you walked away from the confused male, likely noting you as some runaway street-kid who woke up on the wrong side of the bed—and wearing inappropriate clothing in broad daylight.
To your dismay, no one could answer the million questions running in your mind. So many hows and whys that would remain unanswered, because not a soul in this world would believe you had time traveled back to the days of Jazz and face-to-face communication. No social media, zero cellphones, and not a single yoga pant in sight. It was 1977 and you were in denial.
Back to the same iron fence, you stared out to the city. Retracing your steps to find what may have caused this entire situation. Did you offhandedly wish to go back in time like those TV shows and a divine force granted it true?
No, no, no! That wasn’t it.
And like a moth to a flame, a glint attracted your attention. The old Canon left abandoned on the bricked pavement. It was the very camera that held a perfectly developed photo of the 80s—now discovered 1977—city view inside the eyepiece, despite it being unusual and practically impossible for a picture to be naturally burnt inside a camera lens.
Out of suspicion, the camera was not left neglected this time, picking it up from its cobbled spot near the iron fence. Adjusting the device in your hold before peeking through the finder like you previously done in the bedroom. Would you see the New York City view once again?
Like déjà vu, you saw your home, or more specifically the wall of your apartment and the dresser below. Should you laugh at how silly this all feels? Regardless of the overflowing emotions that ran past you all at once, your finger slipped to the trigger and the never-ending sounds of cars and breezy air ceased.
To your relief—gently removing the camera from your sight in anticipation—you were standing in the center of your room, everything was just as it had been before you left, and your very modern phone was resting on the bed covers. In a hurry, you ran to check the date, worried that you were sent too far in the future this time—but thankfully that wasn’t the case. Your screen reading the date that you knew and now loved: August 18, Tuesday, 2026
A breath of sweet respite left your lungs, resting your head on your cool bedding like it had been far too long. You wanted to never part ways ever again.
As your heart and running mind began to calm slowly, it left more room to contemplate the strangeness you had just encountered; the black hued plastic of the camera filled your sight, like it teasingly knew of what it just put you through. Not a minute was wasted when you stood to put the device away. Storing it in the same corner of the box and closing it shut. Who knew what other sorcery objects were buried here, you certainly did not want to wait and find out.
There was a guilt ridden feeling in your gut that held you back from tossing the whole thing away, so you shoved it under the bed and pretended like it was all an elaborate dream. Your life was already in enough haywire; a teleporting camera thingamabob was not something you needed right now. Speaking of needing something; these socks have got to go—hopping on your feet to remove the dirty puddle socks. This didn’t happen and those socks got dirty from a combination of the dusty floors and your just-showered feet… Yep, keep convincing yourself with that.
It had been a week since that time traveling incident, and you were trying your absolute hardest to not even allow it to cross your mind. Were you successful? No, no, you were not. Everything about it had your heart kicking. There was a strange feeling radiating from that box, like it was calling out for someone… And in a way, it felt intimate, warmness meant only for you. But no matter how many times your mind tried to think about the box, you resisted with every nerve.
Not until a random day at work did you finally think to give it a chance.
August 25, once again, another Tuesday. The lovely sound of credit cards being charged on the machine and milk steamers buzzed in the air as coffee lovers and table-hoggers enjoyed their afternoon. Thank god you didn’t receive any of those ‘special order’ customers—they had a tendency of being extra technical with details—for every time you faced one of them, you were a couple iced coffees with twenty pumps of caramel away from a social meltdown.
The ambient piano covers played in the background speakers when another take-out latte had been completed, which allowed a certain Ella to slide into your bubble.
“So~ Camera illusions, huh?” She had mentioned this topic yet again, after you had passionately—delusionally in your friend’s eyes—explained that it sent you back to the 1970s. “If you’re going to make fun of me, then go back to your espressos.”
“I am not making fun of you! Just—what if you had a really bad dream or something? I mean, sent to New York in just socks and sweats? Sounds like a total fashion nightmare to me.”
You wanted to correct her, specify that it was 1977 New York, but what good would that do you—she doesn’t even believe the teleporting part. Honestly, it was hard for even you to understand… This wasn’t some random fluke that could have happened to anyone. You quite literally traveled back to the 20th century with the help of an old rattling camera.
No matter how many sleepless nights you had after constant nightmares of being sent to the witch hunting era, you could never consider it as just a crazy dream or hallucination. If it were a dream, then that was it and any more thinking would be a waste of brain space; but if you were truly sent to the past… Then—
“Maybe it was a dream,” Ella spoke up as she cleaned out the espresso portafilter, “but who’s to say it didn’t mean something?” You blinked at the girl beside you; an eyebrow rose that dared to ask what she was trying to say.
She hummed thoughtfully before continuing on, something that Ella did when she did not want to ramble out silly possibilities, your friend likely felt that you were more hung up on this incident than you let on. “You know I believe things happen for a reason, right? So, what if this was a sign for you to get out of your shell for once?” She slightly lowered her voice at the end. Before you could retaliate with the same word of ‘I’m happy with my life,’ Ella cut you off; “You and I both know you’re not happy with whatever you got going on right now! Don’t tell me you are actually excited to get a degree in the world of boring suits and bowties.” Also known as business administration in English.
“Take a gap year, who cares if you finish later, the job market literally cannot get any more dogshit than it is now. You need to enjoy your life, not speed-run through it like a hedgehog!” She rapped back without a breath and let her frustration by toweling the already dried utensils.
“Hedgehogs don’t speed though—” Attempting to update her information, but received a serious faced Ella instead, tight lipped and all, “I am trying to make a point!”
“Okay, okay! I hear you. I’ll do some ‘soul searching’ or whatever you call it.” Air quoting with a plastic cup and black marker in hand.
“Good.” And to that, the Ella Ted Talk™ has been concluded, leaving you with your own thoughts. Thankfully, the number of customers coming in for their midday cup of Joe would keep you busy from your head for now.
So… Here you were. With your apartment. And the box under your bed. You were fairly sure when Ella said take a gap year, she probably meant to go explore the world or however else people do it… Not trying to go to the past like a conspiracy theorist. You did not completely believe that the camera actually took you back there, but it was the only logical explanation—wait, no! What logical?! Nothing about this was logical! Oh god, now it was messing with your brain.
You paced around your flat for what was five long minutes, which felt like an hour of creaking on the wooden flooring and the strands of your sock getting snatched in the unpolished planks. If… If there was even a 1% chance of that ‘hallucination’ being real—and you actually time traveled, then you would just need to check for yourself… Right?
Sure, the week before that box showed up you were under so much stress, exams were crawling up your shoulders, textbooks were replacing the boogieman in your nightmares, and countless all-nighters were taking up your sleep schedule. So, it wouldn’t be strange that you started imagining the craziest scenarios, like being sent to the days before your parents met—were they even born yet?!
God, you were thinking far too much; it was about time you just ripped the band-aid off. Pulling out the cardboard box from its prison under your bed, swiftly swiping off a week’s worth of dust from the top before opening it up. Revealing the treasures you so hoped to ignore… And was that photo always there—?
The moment you opened up the box flaps, a familiar photo sat atop everything else, like it was purposely waiting for your attention. A perfectly developed picture of the Brooklyn Bridge taken from the Promenade—the same exact image you saw in the viewfinder, meaning the same one that you were sent to in the 1970s. Yeah, totally not terrifying at all… Chills ran down your spine, alarms blared in your mind screaming, that was not there before! Your reflexes kicked the box back under the bed—nope, not doing this today!
“Just take me! That’s it, I know you’re in here, you weird ass boogeyman,” yelling it for the neighbors to hear at this point, “just kill me already! C’mon, quick and painful!” Darting your sight to random corners of your fairly small flat, checking under the bed for some big bad burglar who’s playing a prank on you.
Sadly, to say the least, there was no robber, thief, or gigantic spider coming to reap your soul. How unfortunate… Falling on your back, the fluffy rug below, and staring out to the ceiling. A breath of what one would assume was frustration, maybe confusion, slipped past your lips. Your mind felt like it was racing with questions and possibilities, yet none at all. Thoughts moved far too fast for you to catch them, only making your head overheat from brain abuse caused by that stupid box.
Each inhale expanding your lungs was counting the seconds passing, and every exhale was a reminder of how you had nothing to lose. To your side, you saw the kicked box under the bed, sitting as if it could wait forever. Would it though?
Before your head got all panicky again, you sat up to pull in the box. No time like the present. Still somewhat opened, except with a new folded dent to the outer flap, caused by a certain someone’s quick swift kick. There it was, that photo. The reason for your hysterical week.
From your view, everything was mixed, jumbled, and stacked on top one another. Old captured memories, couple loose ticket stubs stuck between the box and a wooden chest, a curled up newspaper, and many other items that have tested the length of time. Including that camera…
First things first, there was no way you could search this entire pile while it was still a mess. You rolled up your sleeves and mentally cheered yourself on. Turning on a quick song to organize to while time passes by.
...queue background music...
Your shoulders danced as Maxine sang in her soulful melodies, mouthing with the lyrics as you laid each item in groups on your bed. Photos among photos, little trinkets clustered in another corner, papers and newspapers stacked to the side, concert ticket stubs, postcards, a folded paper of pressed flowers, and so many more physical memories in small bits and pieces were given a spot on your duvet.
Love is good, love can be strong! Maxine truthfully sang as you lifted the mini chest from the box and put it on your nightstand, the bed was already covered in groups of memorabilia, it would get too cluttered to add the chest as well. Floral designs were carved into the dark fruity colored wood, and a painted vine of roses greeted you from the top of the lid; caressing this little box that pressed on through time, your finger grazed upon a stuck out metal key. Reeling in your attention, a golden plated hand-crank chilled from a lack of warm touch. You lifted the wooden lid up, finding a glass protecting the musical mechanics of the instrument, meanwhile old dirtied coins and cut-out newspaper articles sat atop the glass. It was a music box, you realized, and cranked the handle to check if it still works. The R&B tunes phased out in the background, your breath held in as you expected a melodious ding.
…queue music box playing over…
And by god it did, magical twinkles and chimes danced around your apartment space. A single note took you back years. A single note surrounded you of memories as grandmother twirled in the kitchen, humming a tune you only knew as hers. Clanks of pots and pans accompanying her melodies, grandfather watching in admiration, a time when you could only be so carefree, so happy, and unaware of anything that was to come.
Hands hovered and stalled around the box, not sure if you wanted it to continue playing. Or to make it stop reminding you of a moment that would never return. How many times have you seen your grandma smile, even when you were a tiring brat, after she choked out an ugly cough, or during the times she waved to you goodbye when you had to leave. “It would be a waste of my life if I spent it unhappy, now wouldn’t it?” Gran had answered you once, asking why she always smiled no matter rain or shine. Had it been you who dealt with your own antics, all the days would be filled with groans and frowns. “The world’s a better place for everyone when you smile,” she added with a calmness over her eyes, holding you close as you hummed to her answer.
Those memories faded away, notes bridging over to another section of the song. Your eyes got lost in the box, fiddling with the souvenir coins grandmother stored and then looking over the torn out articles, it was announcing the opening of museums, gardens, and a new amusement park for couples and families to enjoy. She always loved fun lively venues…
Your eyes caught sight of a beige neglected sheet in the box. The musical box had completely taken over your attention, that the last item at the bottom was almost forgotten. A single paper adorned with folds, dents, and crinkles around the corner, some specs of dirt here and there, along with a big penciled header ‘Bucket List’ in a messy cursive style.
Following the title came a sentence that echoed like you had heard it a million times.
Life’s too short to keep saving for someday.
Something you’ve heard your grandfather say every time you postponed or procrastinated things you kept for later. That man had a way with words, especially for a ten year-old who did not yet understand how philosophical life could be.
A list of activities and plans filled the rest of the sheet. Some were shown complete with a checkmark, while others were left empty. Many were so ordinary, so domestic.
. . .
Learn somebody’s stories. ✓
Watch Manhattan wake up. ✓
Get lost on purpose.
Find a place that feels like home.
Go to a drive-in movie. ✓
Have one unforgettable day without my camera.
Eat ice-cream for dinner. ✓
Fly a kite. ✓
Visit every record store I can find. ✓
Be there for the people I love.
Write a letter I’ll never send.
. . .
The list continued for a few more entries, margins filled with rewritten ideas, while others were crossed out, as if whoever wrote this had far too many dreams and aspirations for life. Unsure of what to put down first. Likely in a hurry to write as well, coffee and an orangy stain colored the edges of the paper. And pen swirls in the top-most corner, something your grandfather did to test a pen’s ink.
. . .
Cook pancakes without setting off fire alarms.
Beat the old man at dancing ← He got moves!
Visit the Statue of Liberty.
Watch the sunset with somebody.
. . .
It hurt. It hurt to see someone who could think of something so small, so simple, and consider it bucket list worthy. Everything about this was filled with love and thought. The paper wasn’t perfect. The handwriting was messy, some words darker than others—caused by too much pressure—and the crinkles, stains, and scratches all said that this could have been thrown away if it were anyone else who wrote this. But here it was. In your hands. Saved in a box of memories, something to look back on.
He lived his life. Grandpa sounded like someone who was happy with even the smallest of moments. Did he have any regrets? Was he surviving on the edge until he saved enough for someday? Did Grandpa go down a path that he never truly wanted…?
He always had something to say, with stories to tell. There were still quite a few unchecked items on this list, yet Grandpa looked satisfied even as he passed away. Could you do the same? If the world had ended, would it be true to say you lived life…?
As your throat clogged with unsaid questions and an aching heart, your mind asked questions only you could answer. The music box gradually reached its end, light dings that rang in your ears, comforting your sadness until you were ready.
PROJECT MOONWALK | 📁 #1: wanna be startin’ somethin’
m. jackson x time traveler!reader [ series ] I'll see you in July. cont. drinking/intoxication , smoking (tobacco) , financial problems , social classes , fluff(?) , existentialism wc. 4.1k
i'm so sorry for the delay, here's a brief exp. since tumblr wanted to ruin my weekend!! i hope this chapter makes up for it ♡
masterlist previous chapter series masterlist
This is Agent 3985 Margot reporting for Mission 829 on Subject #6251. The time is 03:13:05, July 2nd, 1991. I just got home from my shift at Rêve. It's that fancy hotel bar in Beverly Hills that closed down in 2004. That won't happen for a bit, though, so I should be safe here. I've been in 1991 for approximately five months now.
California is nice. Everyone is friendly and talkative. It's especially pleasant to walk around in the early evenings when the sun is half-set and the air's a little cooler. People tend to be happier around this time. All the colors in the sky are so perfect; the lovers kiss on the bench; the street performer thanks me for the dollar I give him; the waves at the shoreline have settled enough that, if I so please, I can sit in the sand with my feet in the water. It's about the only time I can stand to be in the sun. Ever since hitching, I just turn all itchy, which is a shame when you're in the sunny Californian summer of '91.
Besides, I don't often get the chance to enjoy that time of the day. I start work at 9:00, so I get ready at 7:00, which is when the sun starts setting, and sitting on the beach and watching the sky doesn't pay the bills. I've become sort of nocturnal, but I like bartending. It's not the worst job I've had. The downside is the people. Rêve is a luxury hotel that hosts many exclusive guests, which is code for 'ultra-elite, Hollywood, old-money assholes'. I should know; I'm the one serving them.
As for my other work, I have not been as...successful. I...have no report on Subject #6251. His last public sighting was his trip to Bermuda with the Culkin family in June. He's reported to be here in California now, but Mr. Jackson keeps a strictly personal security team, and public appearances are brief and scarce. But for the past five months, something I heard when I hitched has been bouncing around my mind: I'll see you in July. Maybe it didn't mean anything at all. Maybe it did. I guess we'll see.
You groggily stir out of bed at half past five to the unbearably familiar sound of your alarm clock. You unplug it altogether after you miss the button a few times and groan as you're forced to move out of your comfortable position and plug it back in. When the analog numbers appear, a voice crackles through the static.
"-so it's looking like a nice, summer night over here in West LA," the newsman announces as you swing your legs over the side of the bed, "with partial cloudiness around 11:00. Now, to Alice on entertainment."
The station continues on your other stereo in the living room, which you must've accidentally left on last night. Strange, though. You don't remember turning it on. You shrug it off; this forgetfulness hasn't been uncommon lately. Even five months after hitching, your memory still gets a bit fuzzy at times. It comes off as ditzy and air-headed to your colleagues, a role that you begrudgingly play into; you've started to wonder how much longer until the side effects wear off.
You pop a slice of bread into the toaster while flicking a small lighter in your hand. Holding the flame up to the overhead light, you watch as the reds and yellows turn translucent and jagged, crystallizing into the air before your very eyes.
Not all light is different now. Electrical energy holds up just the same, but the sun and fire─untouched by humans and completely, naturally of the Earth─are luminescent in ways you never imagined possible.
When you've finished admiring the flame, you pop a thin cigarette between your lips and . You aren't a smoker─at least, you weren't. But with time in your hands, the reversibility of any harm is enough reason to allow yourself a vice here or there.
Truth be told, you've changed ever since you arrived. You wear your hair a bit differently now, but beyond physical changes, you've had a strange sense of self that the 21st century could not provide, the kind that can only come with a slower pace of life, no alerts and notifications, or mindless, short-form media. You're more mindful of your surroundings, more present in the given moment. Contentedness suits you rather well.
"And this just came in, folks," the newsreader continues, "Earlier today, Michael Jackson was spotted in Tom Toy's, a toy store in Beverly Hills that the popstar is known to frequent. Less than a minute after fans first noticed him, a crowd of approximately two hundred gathered..."
A cloud of smoke surrounds you as you exhale slowly, despite the fever rising in your blood. It quickens your heart and leaves your mind racing.
Tom's Toys in Beverly Hills...You sort through the mental map you've made of the city. Tom's Toys on N Beverly Drive. The very road you pass on your way to the Hôtel de Rêve─with the very man you'd hoped to see. Quite possibly the closest you've been to him, and, dishearteningly, you've just missed him.
That voice repeats itself in your head again. "I'll see you in July."
Nicotine settles into your bloodstream quickly. Out the window, motor vehicles of all kinds─trucks, SUV's, limousines, and taxis─maintain their routes on the city street with blaring bass lines and the periodic, angry honk. Your toast pops into the air, but your stomach is suddenly sour with guilt, and you've lost your appetite.
You leave your flat promptly at 8:34, sparing twenty-six minutes to get to the bus stop. It feels silly to be so adamant over a schedule when you know now that time is so irrelevant.
Try telling that to your boss, you think to yourself as you hurry down the sidewalk, swiftly maneuvering past others moving slower than you. Ever since hearing the news when you first woke, you've been excessively hard on yourself. Self-criticism certainly does nothing to help your case, yet you can't help but give into the overlapping thoughts that race through your mind like the cars on the road.
You wouldn't have missed him if you didn't have this fucking job.
A job that you need to pay rent.
Rent that you pay because you went and sent yourself back in time. Do you even hear yourself?
Contrary to your earlier mishap, you luckily arrive at your stop just as the bus pulls to the side. You and the usual others─a short grandmother who didn't speak English, a moody teenager who always wore black, and a man twice your age with a prosthetic leg; you love to subtly watch these stranger and the intricacies of these small moments you share with them─file onto the bus. You take your seat and recognize the intro of a familiar song playing through the driver's radio.
"Whispers at morning. Our love is dawning. Heaven's glad you came."
You enter the hotel through a back door. It takes you through a hallway lined with fluorescent lights. If you think for too long, you can feel yourself back in those halls they'd led you through. Those last moments of normalcy, though surely there was nothing normal about it.
Nevertheless, you shake off that nasty feeling as you cut through the kitchen, waving hello to the chefs. In the break room, you stash your bag into a locker as quickly as possible and tuck your top into your pants. The uniform is undoubtedly comfortable, but high-end dining calls for high-end appearing staff. "Don't forget, Margot," your manager says to you in the back. "Special guest at 10:00."
Another Hollywood prick to bless your night without leaving a tip. You don't say that part out loud.
Your night continues like any other. Hotel guests linger at the bar, some alone, some with company. Some strike up conversation, though most don't. Around an hour in, you find yourself craving a smoke break, which a coworker encourages you to. In the dark alley behind the building, the two of you briefly talk about his recent engagement to a girl he met in Vegas. He swears that she's the one.
When you come back, you return to the kitchen and bar staff frantically scrambling around as if the place were on fire. Servers are frantically cleaning, the cooks are arguing, and someone runs by with a bag of ice. Your manager asks where you've been and, before you can answer, points to the clock on the wall. The big hand points at 10.
You mentally curse at yourself.
"My other bartender just fucking fainted," your manager complains and tells you to take your partner's spot.
Quick to comply, you messily tie your apron around your waist and hurry towards the bar. The doors push open with ease, and the first thing you notice when you walk out is the silence. The Hôtel de Rêve is not usually a boisterous place; etiquette calls for a low, respectable volume. And it isn't unusual for private guests to rent out the bar to themselves. But this complete quiet that blankets the air envelopes you into the room as if nothing exists outside of it─nothing but you and your guest of the night.
And when your eyes finally land on him, your heart stops.
Because it's him.
Undoubtedly and sublimely him. His raven-black suit jacket is adorned with small, onyx jewels that reflect the bar's amber lighting almost as much as his lusciously dark eyes. Within them is a depth too vast to scale, and when they meet yours, and you feel yourself teetering over the edge. He wears the softest glint of a smile.
And, most profoundly, a thin, lucid line of opalescent light traces his figure─the same light that reached for you five months ago and has touched your soul ever since.
I'll see you in July, you think to yourself.
In his presence─and no one else's─you cannot move. You don't try to. You stand there, behind the bar, in your apron and uniform, completely still. Composing yourself, you move to follow the same formal script you've generated during your time at Rêve: "Good evening, sir" and "What would you like to start with?"
But before your voice can even find itself, his fills the air, soft and quiet as if to himself.
"It's you."
His words debilitate you, and you are utterly and horribly helpless in his gaze. You remain there for seemingly an hour, but what is an hour to a minute in the grand illusion of time?
He doesn't await your reply. He doesn't even appear to expect your professional greeting. The moment is as startling to him as it is to you, and you cannot determine why; but the moment lives on, along with the pulsing glow of his aura.
When he finally notices the confusion in your eyes, he breathily chuckles.
"I'm sorry. That was strange of me to say. I just-" you approach the bar, and he smiles in awe. "I saw you today."
You're intrigued. "You did?"
"I was on Ruemorth," he nods. "You were walkin' down the street. I could see you were in a uniform of some kind, but I wouldn't have guessed it was the Rêve."
I was pickin' at my nails and lookin' out the window. Bill had the jazz station on, which was calming and all, but I still had such an awful feelin' in my stomach. I don't know where it came from, or when, really, but, as I was lookin' out the window, I saw you. And the sun was angled so perfectly on you─y'looked so pretty. Unreal. I couldn't even believe my eyes. It was you...But Bill kept driving, and then you were gone.
"I live on Ruemorth," you concur, fulfilling your commitment to conspicuity. Though you would be lying if you said the truth of the moment wasn't short-circuiting your mind. You'd walked to the bus stop earlier this evening in such agitation that you'd forgotten to mind the cars on the road and the people inside them. But even if you had, would you have seen him? How many times had he been just out of your reach, so close yet so far?
"Well, how about that," he leans back in his seat with one arm rested on the edge of the bar.
You smile, "What can I get for you tonight, Mr. Jackson?"
"Please, call me Michael."
"Alright, Michael," you smoothly muse despite your racing heart. "What would you like?"
"A coke and vodka, please." You gracefully drift further down the bar to the rail and pluck a bottle of Stolichnaya. The crisp snap of a cold Coca-Cola cracked open; the quiet fizz once it hits ice in a crystal glass, the blur of fluids mixing together. But Michael doesn't miss the way your nose crinkles in distaste as you garnish the glass with a slice of lime. He grins, "What, you don't like it?"
You place the drink on a napkin across from him with a small smile. "Vodka is just an...interesting choice," you politely rib.
He hums as he takes the first sip; his eyes never leave yours. "How many Cuba Libre's do y'get asked to make in a night?"
"Quite a few," you reply once you think it over.
"Does it ever get boring?"
You want to disagree. Provoke him a little more so you can talk a little more; God forbid you were having fun. "Actually, it does," you nod, much to Michael's satisfaction. "Thanks, you’ve really made my day." The hint of sarcasm excites him, but you mean every word.
"You're welcome," he raises his glass. “Anything for the pretty girl walkin' down the street.”
Your breath hitches in your throat as a warmth gathers in your cheeks. Your nails dig crescents into your palms to fight the flutter in your stomach. Guests often flirt with you. Most of them are men twice your age who hide their wedding bands in their pockets. You’ve learned to smile and accept their unsolicited remarks without encouraging any more. But with him, you are speechless.
And, by the way he watches your drawn-out reaction, you realize he’s rather accustomed to this.
“What can I call you?” He asks, balancing the glass between his fingertips.
You smile bitterly, hoping he doesn’t notice. “Margot,” you offer; it feels vile to say it so plainly. As soon as it leaves your mouth, you wish to tell him that’s a lie─that’s not your name.
You aren’t who you say you are. You aren’t where you belong.
But he looks at you, and his eyes─deep, velvety voids—are filled with such adoration, you can’t imagine you belong anywhere else than here.
“That’s a lovely name,” he says before taking a sip.
A serene silence falls over the two of you. With no other guests or customers to wait on, no glasses to clean, no mess to sort, you idly stand to the side as Michael continues with his drink, only to stop halfway, his body suddenly stilling.
"Y'know what?" He catches your attention. "I think I will take that with rum."
"Right away," you nod and move towards the liquor rail again before Michael interjects.
"When I got here, your boss mentioned a rare collection in the back. Said somethin' about a bottle of Clément by Tournaire in the back. From 1966, I think?" Michael ponders to himself. Then, he looks back at you with those deep eyes again. "Would y'be a doll and grab it for me?"
Though his words make your knees weak, you internally groan at the request; the rare bottles are kept in a locked compartment whose key belonged to your shift leader. You explain this to Michael, who instructs you to, “Tell him I wanna give him my autograph".
When you warn that it'll take a bit to securely retrieve the bottle, he simply says, "Take your time."
If it were any other customer, you would have─but now, there isn’t a moment to spare. You’ve waited almost half a year for a glimpse, a scrap, and now you’ve been graced with the whole feast. You fetch the key from your manager. You try to ignore all of the fluorescent lights in the hall. The unit hisses open, its crisp air instantly biting your exposed skin. It threatens to freeze your fingers as they nimbly sort through the various bottles before finally landing on the Clément. With it securely tucked under your arm, you lock the unit door behind you and trek back down the awful hallway, through the kitchen, and towards the bar.
As you approach the doorway, your manager barges through with an unsettlingly keen look in his eye. He muttered to leave the keys at the bar.
But before you can question his manner, you enter the dining room and Michael's eyes land on you again.
"There she is," he beams.
You hold the bottle up, allowing him to admire its golden concoction as you prepare a glass with ice.
"Make it a double," Michael interjects your train of thought again.
"Expecting company?" You ask, reaching for another cup.
He shakes his head but waits until you crack two more cans of soda open to speak. "I got good company right now."
The ice crackles underneath the rum as you process his sentiment. Your soft smile soon disappears. You furrow your brows, but Michael's expression is steadily patient. "Oh," falls from your lips as it dawns on you. "I- That's very nice of you, but─I'm on the clock."
"Then don't drink. I'll pay for it anyway." He insists, so you continue with both drinks. "I'd like for you to join me, at least, in conversation."
"Weren't we doing that already?"
"No, you were serving me. I'd like for you to sit with me," Michael affirms. His kindness is perhaps the most unusual part of the night. "And, as of...right about now, y’not on the clock anymore."
"What did you-"
"It's alright," he reassures you. "I told your boss to send everyone else home. They're closin' up for the night right now. And, while I have you here," he reaches over the counter with long, lean arms and grabs one drink at a time, placing one across from himself and the other at the seat beside him, "I wanted t’get to know you."
Your face has undoubtedly gone red by now. Surely, he can hear your heart thumping in your chest. A part of you, buried and unearthed until now, eases into his proposal despite your best efforts.
"Does this work on every girl y'see?" You smirk.
"Dunno," his expression matches yours. "I haven't tried it before."
With that, you slowly untie your apron from your waist and leave it on the counter. Michael's eyes remain fixated on yours as you glide around the bar, meeting him on his side. And now that he's finally up close, you swear your heart stops again.
You can see the layers of color corrector and concealer blended and dusted onto his skin with perfection; the inky black line around his eyes; the way his dark curls have begun to loosely fall in front of his face, shadowing the contours of his cheekbones and nose. He’s unbearably real this close to you.
He asks you where you’re from. About your family, your parents or any siblings. Your favorite album, your first record, your favorite food. Through it all, you remain as loyal to the truth as you can, providing only fragments of it, and Michael’s eyes watch you as if there was nothing else in the world to see.
Eventually, the conversation veers from personal to casual and comfortable. The two of you shift as you talk, soon relaxing into the ease of the moment.
"My mother wanted me t'get rid of him," Michael chuckles to himself. "Said 'it's not right for a monkey to live in a house!' and made a big fuss to Joseph."
You smile as if you'd been there. "And now?"
"Now, she loves him. She won't say it," he points his finger matter-of-factly, "But I know it. I listen to her singin' to him, sometimes, or laughin' while he plays in the living room."
"Bubbles, the Chimpanzee," you smile to yourself with the rim of your glass between your lips. "Now, I want to meet him."
"You should," Michael enthuses.
Conversation comes so naturally with him that you wonder why you ever bothered interacting with any other guests. Occasionally, you crack a small joke, earning yourself a glimpse of his infectious laughter. And despite your earlier hesitation, you allow yourself one drink, which appears to be enough for the words to start spilling out of your mouth before you can stop them.
You don’t try to. You let the evening run its course, whatever it has in store. And, as Michael talks about himself ─a recent feud with one of his brothers or his stress with his upcoming album, which he refuses to speak more of ─you watch him.
The angelic aura surrounding him is no longer reminiscent of tessellated light. In fact, it isn’t reminiscent of anything. Not even the strange light of the sun or fire. His light glows in its own beautiful way, and it suddenly hits you that you aren’t looking at him through a magazine page or the static on your television, and you aren’t seeing him through the tessellation─you’re seated beside him, and however unreal he was to you before tonight is now the opposite.
Yet, there’s still a space between you and the present moment. All of it─the bar, the dining tables, the hanging Murano lamps, the shelves of luxury liquor─is horribly far away from you. Unreal.
Apart from him.
He who sits beside you like starlight, glowing and chimerical, yet present nonetheless. Flesh and blood, just like you. He who draws the same air as you, filling it with his light for you to take in, and from it, you feel an inexplicable sense of euphoria.
And, as hot, heavy tears begin to collect at your eyes, it dawns on you just how precious this moment is. An epiphany.
And a single question rattles around your mind begging for an answer.
How can I save you?
“There’s people out there who need real help, y’know?” Michael says, now rambling. You wish he’d never stop. “And I can reach them all─isn’t that beautiful? They listen to me, they love me…and I love them. I don’t want anyone to hurt. I have the power to really change their lives, to take away all that pain. I should try, shouldn’t I?”
He looks at you then, noticing how your eyes have turned glassy, but he doesn’t question it.
“Of course," you blink the tears away. "Is something stopping you?”
Michael thinks to himself for a moment. "No. I s'pose not."
Any tension you felt an hour ago has dissipated by now, though the shot of rum has certainly helped. His glass is empty, while yours is nearly finished, leaving lumps of watery ice and diluted Coca-Cola swimming at the bottom. It stays quiet for a long moment that fades into minutes, each one extended by the way his eyes remain on yours.
It makes your heart flutter, but you're oddly calm. There's something about it all that feels right─the first comfort you've felt in the past five months─as if you were meant to be here all along.
As you take the last sip of your drink, you realize that Michael has been waiting for you to finish. "Would you like another?" You instinctively ask.
He chuckles, "I told you, you're not serving me anymore."
"So, what now?"
After a few seconds, he finds the words, yet he still speaks them hesitantly. "Well, Ms. Margot, I hope it isn't strange of me t'say that I've had a very pleasant night with you. And-" He cuts himself off, now letting the words find him. "I'd like you to come home with me."
"You only met me tonight."
"I did," he nods. "I want to continue our conversation."
You squint at him.
"Not that kind of conversation," Michael gently laughs, taking your glasses and setting them on the other side of the bar. You watch his slender fingers reach back and offer themselves to you as he offers his hand. You feel yourself swooning, peering over the edge of the void again. This time, one foot dangles above the abyss.
"I can see plain n'clear how beautiful you are on the outside," he says while you place your hand in his; Michael's thumb rubs over your skin. "I'd like to see more of what's inside, if that's alright with you."
He looks so juicy in these pics omg I saw these on twt and they been on my mind nonstop. Like just imagine getting a hug from him, you can feel the thickness of his back through his layers. His arms strong arms circle around you while you rest your head on his chest. His big hands completely covering your lower back. What’s in his pants is probably just as thick.
Conservative beauty standards are back with a vengeance which means it's especially important to go out this summer with bellies out and bodies unshaved. Also be unapologetically disabled with mobility aids and wearable medical devices and stim toys and ear defenders and all that stuff. You need it. People need to see it. Everyone needs to be reminded that life is unquestioningly more enjoyable when you're not living inside an arbitrary set of rules created by people who are offended by all the wrong things.
YES the three musketeers as anthropomorphic animals!
Here's the colored verison:
Fun fact:
I had intended to make Agnes a mice, but I was stuck between that or a fox. I deadass had to research characteristics of Mices and Foxes just so I can pick one. At that point, I picked fox cause I just dgaf 😭
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