Warnings: Again SMUT!! MDNI!! My freakiest fic yet. PLOT WITH PORN, nawt the other way around. Religious themes. Blasphemy (?). Sexual repression/awakening. Mentions of J*e Jackson. Masturbation (m.). Weak upper body strength described as pasta. (That'll make sense later, I promise). Michael is a nymph, one that's overly easy. Reader is also overly easy. Manipulative!Michael. Mike's a certified freak, you hear me? He's lowkey (highkey) a creep. dom!Michael. Loss of virginity. P in V (protected). Squirting. Oral (f. receiving). Michael puts reader in a headlock. Rough sex. (Mike tears that kitty up sista.) Floor sex.
Summary: Michael notices someone moving in across the street from him. She might be the prettiest girl he's ever seen. By his appearance, you'd never guess he'd be thinking about how many ways he could turn her out before the sun goes down. He'd also like to take her to dinner, but he isn't partial about what comes first. Chicken? Egg? He'll be eating either way!
W.C: 9k (whew! it's hot in here, sista!)
Author’s Note: I've left myself speechless honey. This beast took much longer than I expected (I just kept typing, this could have easily been under 5k. 😭). BUT, im glad it's here. Let me know what you think in the comments, reblog if you love it! As always, happy reading!
-Love, B. 🤍
↪ The Archive.
Michael loves pussy.
That is an undeniable truth about the twenty-year-old man watching his neighbor from across the street. She’s so gorgeous he might cry. From what he can see, her skin is smooth, her hair looks soft, and she has a body that would put a Playboy bunny to shame.
Michael catches his bottom lip between his teeth as he imagines all the ways he would like to have her. On the bed. On the floor. Against the wall. In the shower. By his pool, where the sun would warm her skin and make everything shine. The list keeps going, branching into new possibilities faster than he can follow them, and he doesn’t even know her name yet.
If anyone could peek into his mind this very second, they would find her ruined. Hair disheveled, mascara running, mouth parted around everything he has to give. He imagines her struggling to fit him down her throat, eyes watering while she looks up at him as though he is the most beautiful thing she has ever seen. The fantasy is crude, entitled, and entirely one-sided.
He knows he shouldn’t think this way about a stranger, but he really can’t help it.
For a bit of context, Michael grew up in an ultra-religious home. Church on Sundays and Wednesdays, no celebrations of self, and absolutely no premarital sex. His mother did the best she could to keep her youngest son from turning out like his brothers, or worse, his father. She watched him closely, corrected him often, and treated every question about the body as though it might be the first loose thread in a garment that would soon unravel.
For Michael, even learning about the ugly parts of life was off-limits.
Those years when a person transitions from adolescent to adult were heavily policed in his house. His mother had rules for what he could watch, what he could read, where he could go, and how long he was allowed to stand in front of a mirror. Vanity was dangerous. Curiosity was dangerous. A boy who thought too much about girls was already halfway to ruin.
Michael didn’t give it much thought at first. He didn’t understand what he was missing, so the absence felt natural. That changed when he began touring with his brothers. Away from home and out from under the watchful eye of the family’s matriarch, the world became louder, looser, and far more promiscuous than Michael was used to.
All kinds of women threw themselves at the group. They lingered after shows, slipped backstage, laughed too loudly at jokes that weren’t funny, and touched the brothers as though familiarity could be created by force.
Their father encouraged the boys to indulge in temptation. He spoke about women with the same casual confidence he used when discussing money, contracts, and applause. The older brothers listened, even encouraged one another.
Michael couldn’t do it, though.
He thought the women were dirty. Not because they had done anything wrong, exactly, but because that was the only word he had been given for desire. If a woman wanted his body, she must want something from him. If she flirted with him, she must be trying to use him. He didn’t want to give himself to someone who only wanted his body for brownie points, a backstage story, or bragging rights among her friends.
Still, he couldn’t fight biology.
Tainted or not, the girls affected him. Their perfume followed him into hotel elevators. Their laughter stayed in his head after the lights went down. A hand on his arm could make his entire body tense. He would lie awake in unfamiliar rooms, staring at the ceiling while an ache gathered beneath his waistband, and wonder what was wrong with him.
Coming home after nights like that always left him needy, but he was completely uneducated about how to handle those feelings. He tried to will them away. He focused on work, practiced a new routine, or repeated the same steps until his muscles burned and the ache between his legs finally dulled.
Michael learned to recognize the warning signs.
Restlessness, heat gathering beneath his pants, or his attention snagging on every woman who crossed his path. A smile from a pretty girl could derail an entire afternoon. He treated each symptom like an enemy attack, and spent extra hours rehearsing, took cold showers, and read scripture aloud until the words blurred together.
Anything that cooled the fire burning in his belly was worth trying.
His world changed completely at the ripe age of eighteen when his oldest brother sent him to look for a cassette.
Jackie had been in a hurry, shouting from somewhere down the hall that Michael needed to check the shelves in the spare room. Michael went looking without asking questions. He dug through old equipment, tangled cords, and stacks of records no one played anymore. He checked behind the television, beneath the cabinet, and inside a drawer full of batteries.
The cassette wasn’t there, but the magazines were.
Tucked behind a row of old music books, their glossy covers turned inward as though someone had tried to hide them without committing to the effort. Each one featured a different goddess. Michael noticed the women first, then the title, then the unmistakable reason they had been kept out of sight.
His mouth went dry.
He pulled the booklets from the shelf and settled in the center of the room. Side by side, each edition lay open on the plush carpet, flipped to the center pages while Michael viewed the beauty of women up close. The denim covering his legs grew tighter as he fought (and failed) to keep his composure.
The pictures were more explicit than anything he had encountered. They were arranged with such glossy confidence that he could hardly look away. The women smiled at the camera as if they knew exactly what they were doing to him. They appeared comfortable and unashamed in their bodies, bare skin serving as an invitation.
Michael studied them with the concentration he really only reserved for choreography.
He noted the tilt of a hip, the curve of a waist, and the careful placement of a hand. He examined the way one woman arched her back and how another turned her face toward the camera. He told himself he was merely trying to understand what all the fuss was about.
Naturally, he had been caught.
“Mike!” Jackie called from the doorway. “Did you find th—”
The culprit’s body went rigid, a total deer in the headlights.
Jackie stopped with one hand still resting on the doorframe. His eyes traveled from Michael’s flushed face to the magazines scattered across the carpet. For one precious second, neither of them moved.
Then Michael scrambled to collect the very damning evidence at his feet.
He snatched one magazine, then another. The pages slapped together in his shaking hands. His knee caught the edge of a third, sending it skidding beneath the table.
Jackie’s grin widened.
Michael knew, before Jackie even opened his mouth, that he was finished.
The eldest wasted no time alerting the house about his younger brother’s…private time.
“Man! Y’all!” he shouted, already laughing as he ran through the halls. “Mikey up here touchin’ himself!”
Michael heard his mother scold Jackie from downstairs. He also heard one of the other brothers ask what happened, followed by a chorus of delighted voices.
He didn’t stick around to hear more.
Michael grabbed the magazines against his chest and fled to his room. Once safely inside, he shoved the door closed and dragged a chair beneath the knob. Then he stood with his back pressed against the wood, breathing as though he had just run from the police.
The embarrassment was brutal.
It, however, wasn’t what lingered in his mind.
Instead, it was what his brother had said.
‘Touchin’ himself.’
Michael repeated the phrase silently. The words sounded filthy in Jackie’s voice, but they also sounded strangely ordinary. Jackie hadn’t sounded horrified. He had sounded amused, the same way someone would if you were caught picking your nose.
Sure, this may seem like something Michael should have figured out quite some time ago, but self-discovery had been explicitly named sin, and that principle had been drilled into his head for the last eighteen years.
His mother had never explained what self-discovery meant. She had only warned him against it. The phrase had appeared in sermons, conversations, and stern reminders delivered while she straightened his collar or checked the length of his hair. Do not touch yourself. Do not encourage impure thoughts. Do not let your body lead you somewhere your spirit cannot follow.
The instruction had been simple.
The problem was that no one had ever told him what would happen if he ignored it.
But those magazines, they were there for a reason.
Michael glanced toward the chair beneath the doorknob, suddenly feeling too warm. The magazines sat on his bed, covers turned face down, but he could still feel the women watching him from inside them.
If his older brother knew about them, it couldn’t be that bad, right?
Whatever the answer was, Michael was more than willing to find out.
After all, those women were still at the forefront of his mind, and most of the blood flowing through his body had already rushed between his legs.
He sat on the edge of his bed and stared at the floor, mulling over his convictions. He tried to summon the appropriate horror and imagine his mother’s face. The disappointment in her eyes, or the prayer she would insist on saying over him.
The fear came, but so did the want.
The want won.
Michael decided he could repent later.
Shaky fingers found the button on his jeans and popped it open. Next came the zipper, which he lowered slowly, pausing twice to listen for footsteps in the hallway. When none came, he hooked his fingers in the waistband of his pants and underwear and pulled them down.
A soft hiss left his lips as the head of his dick kissed the air.
There wasn’t really an instruction manual for this kind of thing. No pamphlet had been tucked into his Bible, and his older brothers certainly hadn’t sat him down and explained what to do.
So now, Michael sat on his bed with his dick hard against his stomach, staring at his lap for what felt like an eternity.
He was paralyzed.
It felt as though every sermon and warning had been leading up to this moment. The moment when he would prove himself weak, fleshly, and destined for hell. He could practically hear the congregation singing beneath him, could picture his mother’s hand tightening around his wrist as she led him toward the altar.
His right hand hovered over his heat, fingers curled as though he were about to pick up a raw egg. He didn’t even know how to hold it.
‘Maybe like a microphone?’
He had done that onstage plenty of times, but now he would only be performing for himself. Michael lowered his hand. His thumb brushed across the head, dragging over the slit with delicate pressure.
His body lurched forward, and his breath caught, then an involuntary sound escaped him. It was high, almost anguished, and entirely unfamiliar.
The man froze.
The room seemed to freeze with him. The muted television, hallway creaks, and humming air conditioner all faded behind the pounding of his heart. He waited for shame to descend with the force of a thunderclap, for his skin to burn, for some unmistakable sign that he had crossed a line from which he could not return.
Yet, nothing happened.
His body remained eager, hand still resting where he had left it.
This was what they had been so desperate to keep him from?
This?
Never had Michael felt more cheated in his life.
He tried the movement again, slower this time. The pad of his thumb was slick with the clear fluid that had beaded at the tip. The initial shock gave way to a growing hunger. His hips jerked upward, searching for more, and his left hand gripped the bedspread to keep himself anchored.
What came next?
Michael had no idea.
Memories of his siblings’ crude behavior with bananas and hot dogs at the dinner table flooded his mind. He had always rolled his eyes or pretended to gag, but now he realized he had been taking silent notes. At the time, he thought his brothers were being disgusting for the sole purpose of making him uncomfortable.
Now, with the magazines scattered somewhere outside his locked door and his own body reacting to the smallest touch, their jokes seemed less like jokes and more like instructions he had never been allowed to ask about.
He wrapped his hand around himself, loose at first. Then he tightened his grip to see what felt better.
Everything felt better.
The discovery sent a strange shiver through him. For the first time, he understood that his body wasn’t a test he could fail. He could adjust, pause, start over. He could listen to himself, even if no one had ever taught him how, and there was no fire and brimstone waiting for him after. This was liberating.
His thumb found a sensitive spot just beneath the head, and another whimper escaped. He muffled it with the heel of his palm, eyes widening as though someone might have heard.
He pumped experimentally, grip too tight, then too loose. Every adjustment brought new and unpredictable pleasure. He watched his hand as though it belonged to someone else, fascinated by the simple mechanics of it. The motion became less awkward after a while. His wrist found a pattern, and his breathing began to follow it.
He was panting now. His thighs trembled with both anticipation and confusion. The old voice that reigned supreme in the back of his mind hissed at him, whispering, ‘No! This is wrong!’
But something newer, something louder, screamed, ‘More, more, more!’
He thought of the girls again. The one on the magazine cover biting her finger. The others he had seen on late-night shows, their bodies lit in soft colors while the rest of the house slept. Michael imagined those girls admiring him the way he had admired them.
Would they find him just as beautiful?
The thought of someone looking at him that way deepened the pressure building inside him. It became a growing ache, a warmth that made his eyes roll back. He wanted to lose himself in the feeling and stay lost.
More than that, he wanted to understand what it meant to be wanted.
His family had made desire sound like a trap laid by the devil, something that reduced a person to appetite. Yet, the fantasy of a woman watching him with the same hungry attention he gave her made something inside him unfold.
For once, he wasn’t the boy his family treated as something to be corrected, monitored, and warned. He was a man with something worth wanting.
When he began to move a little faster, it nearly killed him.
He gasped, hips bucking upward, and for a moment he almost feared he might faint. His back fell against the bed, and a loud, whiny groan tumbled from his mouth. The sound startled him, and his hand froze.
Michael stared at the door, certain someone had heard. His whole body went rigid as he listened. The hallway remained silent, devoid of footsteps shuffling up the hall. No knuckles struck the door, and no voice called his name.
Only the hum of family chatter drifted up from downstairs.
Michael swallowed and looked back down.
The fear should’ve stopped him. It should’ve sent him scrambling for his clothes, kneeling beside the bed with his head bowed and a prayer already forming on his lips. Instead, the old warnings rose in him then faltered, still frightening but no longer powerful enough to decide for him.
The interruption only sharpened the feeling.
He had reached the edge of something delicious.
Once the silence assured him no one was coming, Michael continued his ministrations. His palm moved from base to tip as the slickness gathered with each pass. The friction was dizzying. His hips followed the movement in jerky, uncontrolled thrusts. Each new sensation folded into the last until his body seemed to move ahead of his thoughts. He tried to slow down, but instinct carried him forward.
Heat gathered beneath his skin while his pulse filled his ears. It was as if all five senses had sharpened at once. The sheets scraped beneath his fingers, as each beat of his heart crashed through him like a drum. He tried to savor the feeling, but his hand refused to obey. It pushed him further toward bliss.
Michael squeezed himself tighter and moaned louder, sinking deeper into the mattress with every stroke. His mind raced in a panic of lust and disbelief.
He wondered whether anyone could sense his transgressions down the hall. He thought about whether the neighbors across the street could see his silhouette writhing in the window. The embarrassment was nothing compared to the anticipation, which mounted second by second until his thoughts were reduced to static.
The magazines had promised a certain kind of pleasure, all lacquered smiles and theatrical poses, but none of them had prepared him for this. There was no graceful way to experience it. His fingers were clumsy, and his breathing broke apart in his chest. His face felt hot, and his body moved without permission.
This was the moment Michael discovered real pleasure.
He had imagined desire as something a person could control if they tried hard enough, something that could be switched on and off like a light. This, however, was a tide surging through him, indifferent to every rule meant to hold it back.
His free hand twisted in the sheets. The fabric bunched beneath his grip, anchoring his body to the room while the rest of him seemed to float somewhere outside of it. His eyes squeezed shut; closing them only made the images brighter.
He tried to hold on to one fantasy and lost it almost immediately. One girl’s hair became another’s smile. A painted mouth blurred into the soft outline of someone he had seen while onstage. A pair of eyes became a pair of thighs.
The details no longer mattered.
The need was enough.
A broken noise gathered in his throat. Michael squeezed himself a little harder, driven by instinct rather than thought. The pressure coiled low in his body and tightened with every stroke. His muscles clenched. His toes curled. A thin sheen of sweat gathered along his chest and temples, and his hair stuck to his forehead.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he heard his mother’s voice reciting the old sequence: Sin. Shame. Punishment. Hell.
Sin.
“Oh- ”
Shame.
“My.”
Punishment.
“Fucking.”
Hell.
“God!”
His hand moved faster, rougher, and his hips pushed up to meet it. He tried to breathe through the rising intensity, but each breath came out thin and uneven. His chest heaved. His throat worked around another moan, one that escaped before he could smother it.
The pressure climbed higher.
Michael’s eyes rolled back. His shoulders pressed into the mattress, and his fingers lost their careful grip on the bed.
He was close.
He knew that much, though he had no idea what ‘close’ meant or what would happen when he reached his destination. The uncertainty frightened him, but the coil winding in his belly washed the fear away. In its place, it left desperation.
Michael’s thighs trembled as he tensed. His mouth fell open, and the sound that came out was barely recognizable as his own.
Then the band snapped.
For a moment, Michael could do nothing but stare at the ceiling while he crashed into ecstasy. His hand stilled, and his ears began to ring. His overworked cock twitched once, then again, as hot sticky ropes of his essence spilled across his shirt.
He gasped as though he had surfaced from deep water, lungs burning, heart racing, with every muscle quivering.
As Michael came down, the world returned in pieces. The air conditioner hummed. Cars passed outside. Someone downstairs laughed at something on the television. A cabinet opened and closed. The ordinary sounds of life resumed as though nothing had happened.
It was a little jarring. The young man trying to catch his breath on the bed had just undergone a metamorphosis…of sorts, and the world didn’t even notice.
He lay very still, one hand curled beside his hip and the other resting uselessly against his forehead. His chest rose and fell beneath the fabric of his shirt. Sweat cooled along his skin. He felt emptied, stunned, and inexplicably robbed.
Perhaps even offended.
There was no thunder.
No voice from heaven.
No sudden certainty that he was damned.
Only a faint buzz in his bones and the devastating fact that he wanted to do it again.
Even though Michael was in the clouds, shame and guilt still took their places in his mind, much slower than he expected, only creeping over the edges of his satisfaction rather than swallowing it whole.
He thought of his mother and what she might think, which left him feeling deflated. He had let her down, and there was no way to take it back now.
On the other hand, he felt as though she had held this part of life out of his reach for her own peace of mind, not his well-being. Michael thought about everything she had told him over the years and wondered how much of it had been a lie meant to keep him safe.
‘Safe from what? My own body?’
The questions settled uneasily in his chest.
Then his thoughts drifted to his older brother’s laughter carrying through the halls. He imagined Jackie telling the story to everyone they knew. The teasing would be never-ending. Michael might have to change his identity to get away from it.
He covered his face with both hands.
“Oh, dear God,” he whispered.
Michael moved to change, still unsteady, when a different thought entered his mind.
The magazines.
His imagination had served its purpose this time, but he was definitely going to use those prints later.
By ‘later,’ I meant for the next week and a half.
Michael began to build a collection of his own, hiding the issues beneath his mattress, inside old instrument cases, and behind stacks of sheet music. He learned which stores kept their magazines near the back, which cashiers avoided eye contact, and which corners of his room offered the best privacy.
Women quickly became a central focus, second only to music.
The rising star learned that he truly did love every part of a woman’s body. He loved their breasts and curves. He loved the softness of a stomach, the shape of a mouth.
But their thighs…did they leave him weak.
Now, if there were ever a time to admit that Michael, budding connoisseur of skin and silhouette, had never been inside a woman, this would be it.
Despite all his night time rehearsals and the encyclopedic knowledge he had amassed from centerfolds, the truth was that he had spent more hours fantasizing about girls than actually talking to them.
He had never been kissed or touched anywhere worth mentioning.
Not that he hadn’t tried. He had, several times...over the past two years.
But whenever the opportunity presented itself, Michael’s soft demeanor and childlike tendencies led women to believe he only wanted a friend.
He listened too carefully, and smiled too politely. He asked questions and remembered the answers. He could spend an entire evening making a girl laugh and still somehow fail to communicate that he wanted her. By the time he realized she had been waiting for him to make a move, the moment had already passed.
He often found himself mourning the loss of all the pussy that had been thrown his way before he knew what to do with it.
Safe to say, it had been a long, cruel summer.
Now, standing at the edge of his porch, Michael watched the new girl across the street.
She was wrestling with a cardboard box nearly as wide as her hips. The box had been marked ‘KITCHEN’ in thick black letters, though the word had been written at an angle and was partly obscured by a strip of packing tape. She held it against her chest, arms wrapped around either side, while trying to maneuver up the short walkway toward the open garage.
Even from a distance, Michael could see the way her shorts bit into her thighs.
A damp stripe of sweat ran down her spine. Her cropped shirt exposed a narrow stretch of skin above the waistband of her shorts. Her hair was frizzy and moist from the heat, curling around her face and neck.
The same sweat that darkened her hairline ran down the side of her neck, over the swell of her breasts, and disappeared into her very visible cleavage.
Michael’s mouth ran dry.
He told himself he was only watching because she was struggling. That was the neighborly thing to do. A decent man noticed when someone needed help.
A less decent man noticed the way her hips shifted beneath the box.
Fuck.
He needed to think faster.
There were options. He could wait for her to drop the box and rush to her rescue, but that seemed corny, even for him. He could be casual, walk across the street pretending to check the mail, and strike up some neighborly conversation. That seemed too passive.
He could simply cross the street and offer to help.
The idea was so obvious that it immediately became terrifying.
Michael looked down at his clothes. Khakis, Mickey Mouse T-shirt, and his signature loafers. Nothing about the outfit seemed wrong, but suddenly every piece of it felt like evidence. He ran a hand down his face, then stopped when he remembered the girl might still be watching.
She wasn’t. Thank god.
She had shifted the box higher against her chest and was attempting to turn without dropping it.
Michael watched for another minute, psyching himself up. His heartbeat thudded so loudly he worried the girl might hear it from across the street. His palms turned clammy, and he wiped them against his jeans while rehearsing a smile in the dark reflection of the porch window.
The first smile looked strained.
The second looked frightened.
The third looked almost natural.
He settled for the third.
The box jostled in the girl’s arms. She staggered, caught herself against the side of the garage, and let out a curse loud enough to alert the neighborhood to her struggle.
Michael straightened; that was his opening.
The sun was blinding, so he squinted and shaded his eyes with one hand as he stepped off the porch. The girl stopped struggling for a moment and looked up, catching him staring.
For a split second, Michael considered retreating, but something stubborn rooted him to the sidewalk. He offered a wave, then crossed the street in a few quick, awkward strides. Each step felt more deliberate than the last. By the time he reached the curb, he had forgotten every sentence he had rehearsed.
By the time he reached the driveway…he had forgotten how to stand normally.
As he drew closer, the girl readjusted the box and huffed.
“You here to watch me break my back?” she asked, voice sharp.
Michael released an awkward laugh. He wasn’t used to people speaking to him like he was normal.
“No, no, jus’— uh, looked like you needed some help, that’s all.”
The girl raised an eyebrow, squinting at him through the sweat. “No offense, sugar, but you don’t look like you’d fare much better than me.”
Michael glanced down at his arms. Though not particularly impressive, years of dancing had given him strength, but not the kind that showed itself in broad shoulders or thick biceps.
“Well, four noodle arms are better than two,” he replied, surprised by the bite in his own voice.
She laughed, shrugging one shoulder.
“Fair point. Grab that end there, then.”
Michael stepped forward and took the opposite side of the box. The cardboard was warm beneath his fingers, its edges soft from being handled too many times. He leaned into the weight, careful not to crowd her, though the narrow driveway made that difficult.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Unless you plan on standing there all day,” she quipped.
“Right. Yeah. On three?” He questioned.
“Just lift.” She huffed
The box rose unevenly, forcing Michael to adjust his grip. Together they shuffled up the walk, the girl moving backward while Michael tried not to trip over his own feet. He could smell her now beneath the dust and cardboard: soap, sweat, and something sweet he could not identify.
He kept his eyes on the box.
Mostly.
“Left,” she instructed.
Michael moved left.
“No, my left.”
“Right. Sorry.”
“You’re doing great, honey.”
He heard the sarcasm in her voice and felt heat climb his neck.
“I’m usually better with directions.”
“I’m sure you are.”
They made it into the open garage, where the shadows were cool, and the air smelled like dust and old paint. The box thudded to the floor between them.
Michael straightened, breathing hard.
The girl stretched, lifting both arms overhead. Her shirt rose just enough to reveal a lace pattern covering her bosom. Something stirred deep within the man before her.
The girl dropped her arms and caught him looking, but not at her face. Michael's neck burned as he shifted his gaze down to the concrete, then to the rafters, then to a rusted rake leaning in the corner. Anywhere but the lace he had just memorized for…later use.
He had looked at women in magazines, studied them with the concentration of a scholar. Curves, poses, and proportions all committed to memory without any regard for the subject in the photo.
This was different, though. The heat radiating from her skin, the rise and fall of her chest with each breath, the faint pulse visible at her throat, everything about this girl overwhelmed his senses.
Michael had never been this close to a woman before. Alone, with the afternoon sun slanting through the garage windows and his heart hammering a rhythm that had nothing to do with music.
He forced his eyes back to her face. She was watching him with a knowing look, one eyebrow raised, waiting for him to speak.
"My name's y/n," she said, wiping her palms against her shorts. "And you're the neighborhood welcome wagon, I guess?"
"Michael." The name came out cracked, as if he were once again a prepubescent boy. He cleared his throat and hoped she didn’t notice. "Uh, Jackson. I live across the street."
Recognition flickered in her eyes. "Michael Jackson? Like the singer? Jackson five, Michael Jackson?"
Unease settled under his skin. He’d had interactions like this before, and they always seemed to end in the other party being put off or disappointed by his current appearance.
"That's... yeah. That's me."
She laughed, bright and surprised. "Well, I’ll be damned! I move to the suburbs and get a superstar to do manual labor. What a treat!"
Michael chuckled softly and thought about what she said.
"Not a superstar yet," he mumbled, looking down at his loafers. "I’m normal too, y’know."
"Normal, huh?" She said the word like she was tasting it. "S’that what you call it?"
Y/n turned toward the interior door, hips swaying beautifully.
Michael watched the movement without meaning to. Her backside beneath those shorts mixed with the casual power of a woman who had never been taught to shrink herself, and she was doing things to him.
"You comin’ Mr. Normal?" she called over her shoulder. "Still gotta get the box into the kitchen!"
Michael took in a deep breath and grabbed the heavy container. It was a struggle, but it didn’t stop his feet from moving without permission. The house smelled of lemon-scented cleaner and stale air. Boxes towered in the hallway, branded with what he assumed to be her handwriting.
Y/n navigated between them with the confidence of someone who had done this before, many times. She pushed through a swinging door and emerged into a kitchen frozen in 1962.
"Nice, huh?" She asked, leaning against the island and looking out of the window above the sink. As she took in the view, the young woman noticed something, and a small grin formed on her face. "Bet you get a real pretty sunset from over there."
Michael's pulse hammered. He looked at her, really looked, and found her watching him with the same knowing eyes from before.
"I wasn't-" he started.
"Yes, you were." She dragged as she pushed off the counter and stepped closer, close enough that the man could smell something tropical and fruity. “Question is, what were you thinking while you watched?"
Michael's mouth opened then closed, like a fish out of water.
"Just uh— Wondering who was moving in," he managed. "Being neighborly."
"Neighborly?" She laughed, a low sound that vibrated somewhere in his chest. “ Is that right?"
She turned away, opening the box he’d brought in, finding the glasses. "Want some water? It's all I got."
Michael nodded frantically and squeaked out a soft "Please."
She filled two glasses from the tap and handed him one. Their fingers brushed, and Michael, who felt the contact like a spark, fought to control his expression into polite neutrality.
"So," she began, leaning against the counter again. "Michael Jackson, from across the street. What do you do when you're not helping strangers move in?"
He laughed through his nose while his fingers danced against his glass. "Recording. Touring. Trying to figure out what comes next."
"Off the Wall just came out, right? It’s so good!" She assured, trying her hardest not to scare him off.
"Thanks." He felt the familiar warmth of praise, but it was different coming from her. More personal. "Means a lot."
Before too much silence could settle between them, Michael decided it was his turn to ask a question. "What about you? Why’d you move here?"
Y/N sighed, rolling the glass between her palms. "Work. Marketing at a firm downtown. Better pay, better title, less chaos than Chicago."
"Big change," he murmured, keeping his voice light. "Suburbs are quieter."
"That's the point." She laughed, bright and easy. "I needed quiet, and a place where no one knows my business."
Michael nodded, understanding. He understood needing space. He understood the relief of anonymity.
"Must’ve been hard," he spoke softly, "Moving all this way alone with no one to help you get set up."
"I managed." y/n’s chin lifted slightly, almost defensive. "I've always managed on my own."
"I'm sure you have." He paused, let the silence stretch. Then, casually, "But…your man didn't want to come help?"
Y/N's laugh was dry this time, almost bitter. "No man, pretty boy. Just me.”
Michael feigned shock, eyebrows lifting, mouth opening slightly. "Really? I just assumed someone like you— I mean, you must have-"
"Have what?" Her tone carried a playful edge. "A nigga waitin’ in the wings? Someone to carry my boxes and kill my spiders?"
"No! I didn't mean-" Michael’s eyes widened, and he held up his hands, the picture of apology. "I just meant you're— well, you’re beautiful and successful. So, I figured there had to be someone."
"Nope." She popped the P, sharp and final. "My last relationship ended six months ago. He wanted me to shrink myself to fit his lifestyle. I don't shrink for nobody."
Michael held her gaze for a moment longer than necessary. Something shifted in his expression, so subtle she might have imagined it. The boyish charm dimmed. The downcast eyes lifted. The young woman had piqued his interest from the moment he saw her, but now she had his full attention.
"So what's your type then?" he asked, voice low and steady. The question landed between them like a stone thrown into still water.
Y/N blinked. "What?"
"Your type." He repeated, setting his glass down on the counter with a soft clink. "I'm jus’ curious about what kinda man does get to have you."
He began to move, unhurried, almost casual. The way he rounded her form seemed innocent enough. However, there was nothing innocent in his eyes. She saw it just a bit too late. The shift from prey to predator, the moment the mask slipped.
His hands found her waist, and she flinched, surprised by the warmth of him, the sudden proximity. His palms slid down, slow and deliberate, coming to rest on the fat of her hips.
Michael leaned down, just enough for his breath to fan against her ear. She felt caged between his arms and the counter in front of her.
"What's your type, Ms. y/n?"
She choked. Actually choked.
This was not the sweet man who had stumbled across the street with a timbre as soft as dandelions and an awkward smile. This was something else entirely. When she spun around to face him, she found the eyes of a predator watching its prey, patient and hungry.
"I thought-" she stammered, pressed against the counter, his arms bracketing her in. "I thought you were a good boy. Y’know, shy…reserved—"
Michael smiled, already aware of how she’d been viewing him, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
"I might just be the farthest thing from it, mama."
His voice lowered an octave, rough velvet against her skin as he continued. "I'm curious though."
He leaned down again. His lips brushed the spot behind her ear, soft as a whisper, and she felt the contact shoot straight to her core. He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes.
"How good can you be?"
She made a sound-half gasp, half whimper-and then his mouth was on hers.
It wasn’t gentle. It was claiming, demanding, his tongue sweeping past her lips to taste her fully. His hands tightened on her hips and pulled her flush against him, and she felt it then-the hard length of him pressed against her stomach, thick and substantial even through denim. Her hands found his shoulders, gripping hard, and she kissed him back with equal ferocity. It was messy, anything but innocent. An all-out battle of teeth and tongue that Y/n was losing quickly.
"Bedroom," she rasped between kisses.
Y/n grabbed his hand and pulled him through the hallway, past rows of boxes, through a door that led to room barely unpacked. The bed was the only thing she had managed to get together. She turned and pulled him down with her, and they landed in a tangle of limbs and desperate mouths.
Michael pulled back, breathing hard. He looked at her sprawled beneath him, hair wild, lips swollen, and something dark and triumphant flickered in his expression.
"Off." he said, fingers hooking in the hem of her top.
Y/N lifted her arms as he stripped the fabric over her head and tossed it aside. His gaze raked over her, the bra he had seen earlier now fully exposed, her breasts rising and falling with her rapid breaths.
"Oh," he breathed, and the sound was almost reverent. "Oh, you're... you're perfect."
He descended on her again, mouth finding her neck, her collarbone, the swell of her breasts above the lace. He pushed the cups down and took her left nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, and she arched off the mattress with a sinful cry of his name.
"Michael-"
He switched to the other breast, teeth grazing sensitive flesh, and his hands were everywhere. Sliding down her ribs, gripping her waist. Finding the button of her shorts, he popped them open, dragged the zipper down, and pulled the denim off her legs with rough efficiency.
The lace panties matched the bra. He paused, looking down at her, and she saw his throat work as he swallowed. The damp spot at her core pulled a garbled sound from his chest.
"Jesus," he whispered, mostly to himself. "You're so wet. Can you... can you feel how wet you are? All this for me?"
Y/n nodded silently with hooded eyes, begging for him to touch her.
Michael hooked his fingers in the lace and pulled. The fabric tore. She gasped, shocked by the violence of it, and then his mouth was on her, and she forgot everything.
There wasn’t a shred of hesitancy to be found. He feasted on her like a man starved, tongue sweeping through her folds to find her clit, circling it with devastating precision. Y/N's hands flew to his hair, gripping tight, and she ground against his face with abandon.
"Michael, fuck, right there, don't stop-"
He didn't. He actually doubled his efforts, sliding two fingers into her tight heat, curling them to find the spot that made her see stars. No amount of money, or any composition Quincy cooked up, could compare to the sounds falling from her lips. Michael was a goner.
"You're so sweet," he murmured against her, the vibration making her shudder. "So sweet, baby. Knew you would be. Mhmm, knew you'd taste like this."
The man continued to babble on about y/n’s pussy, and how it had to have been a gift from god, but she couldn’t hear any of that. She was close, so close, climbing fast. He felt it in her thighs, the rhythm of her hips, the way her nails scored his scalp.
"Let go," he commanded, looking up at her with dark eyes, her arousal glistening on his chin. "I want to feel you cum on my tongue. Give it to me, mama."
His words cast a spell that left her dizzy. Her back arched off the mattress, and a strangled yelp tore from her throat as pleasure crashed through her in waves. It wasn’t enough for the beast between her legs. He kept going, desperate to drink her up before she ran dry.
The overstimulation caught y/n off gaurd; she wasn’t used to being pushed past her limit like this. In the midst of the aftershocks came another wave of bliss. Her release flooded his mouth and chin, and she couldn't stop, couldn't control it. All she could do was ride out her high as he kept fucking her with his fingers, drawing it out until she was sobbing his name.
"Michael, Michael, please, I can't-"
He finally relented, pulling back with a wicked smile. He wiped his chin with the back of his hand, never breaking eye contact.
"That's one," he cooed, soft and sweet.
‘One?’ She thought, ‘surely that was two.’
Y/N lay panting, boneless, watching through half-lidded eyes as he stripped off his own clothes. The t-shirt went first, revealing a lean torso, dancer's muscles defined beneath smooth skin. Then his jeans, and his cock sprang free, thick and heavy and impossibly long, curving up toward his stomach.
The woman stared with wide eyes. She couldn't help it. He was bigger than any man she’d ever been with, thick enough that her fingers wouldn't close around him, long enough that the thought of taking him fully made her clench with equal parts fear and want.
"See something you like?" he teased, wrapping his hand around himself and stroking slowly, his voice breathy and soft.
"You're going to split me in half," she breathed.
"Godwilling, baby."
He crawled over her, cock dragging against her thigh, and claimed her mouth again. She tasted herself on his tongue, musky and intimate, and moaned into the kiss. His hands roamed her body with possessive hunger, squeezing her breasts, gripping her hips, sliding down to hitch her legs around her waist.
"C-condom," she sputtered. "In my purse, the box by the-"
"I've got it." He reached to the floor, found his jeans and produced a foil packet from his wallet. She watched him roll it on, the latex stretching tight over his considerable length, and felt fresh arousal pool between her thighs despite the orgasms still echoing through her.
He positioned himself at her entrance, the broad head nudging against her slick folds. He didn't push in. He teased, dragging himself through her wetness, tapping her clit until she was writhing beneath him.
"Michael, please-"
"Please what?" He leaned down, breath hot against her ear. "Tell Mikey what you want, baby."
"Fuck me," she gasped. "Please, I need you inside me, I need—"
In one long stroke, Michael buried himself to the hilt, and y/n screamed, back arching, her nails raking down his frame. He was so big, so fucking big, stretching her impossibly full, and the burn of it was perfect, exactly what she needed.
"Oh," he groaned, forehead dropping to her shoulder. His voice was high as he dragged himself out just to the tip, "Oh, God, you're so tight. So tight around me, baby. Feels so good."
He started moving. Slow at first, letting her adjust to his size, each thrust dragging against every nerve inside her. Then faster, deeper, his hips snapping against hers with increasing force. The mattress creaked beneath them. The room filled with the sounds of skin on skin, their ragged breathing, Y/N's desperate cries and Michael's soft, breathy whimpers.
"Look at me," he commanded, gripping her chin and forcing her eyes to his. "Look at me while I make love to you. I want to see your face when you cum for me."
She held his gaze, transfixed by the intensity there, the raw hunger mixed with something almost vulnerable. This was the real Michael, she realized.
He shifted his angle, stomach grinding against her clit with every thrust, and she felt it begin again, that delicious heat licking against her body.
"Michael, I'm gonna-"
"Not yet." He pulled out abruptly, ignoring her cry of protest, and flipped her onto her stomach. "On your knees, baby."
She scrambled to comply, ass in the air, face pressed to the mattress. He gripped her hips and slammed back into her, deeper from this angle, hitting places that made her vision blur.
"Touch yourself," he ordered, one hand fisting in her hair and pulling her head back. "I want to feel you come with my cock inside you. Do it now, sweetheart."
Her hand flew between her legs, fingers finding her clit, circling frantically. The combined sensation-his thick length pounding into her, his grip in her hair, her own fingers working her sensitive flesh-was overwhelming.
She felt it building, a tidal wave of pleasure that threatened to drown her. It was far too much for y/n to handle. She clawed at the edge of the mattress, pulling herself away from the intoxicating pleasure. Her chest met the plush carpet, and she thought she had been granted a moment of peace.
Instead, she’d found that Michael had followed her down. One of his large hands tangled in her curls, while the other pinned her hips to the edge of the bed. Once he had her secured, Michael drove into her walls like a madman. The sounds of their pleasure bounced off the empty walls.
‘Shlick. Shlick. Shlick.’
“No, honey, don’t run.” He begged, nearly whimpering as he continued his assault. “Take it. Supposed to be good f’me, remember?”
Y/n didn’t realize just how much she had underestimated the man above her. Her own pleas fell on deaf ears. It wasn’t until she tensed that he began to listen again.
"Michael, I can't-I'm going to-"
"Now," he growled, removing his hand from her hair and bringing his arm around her throat. Michael’s thrusts were so deep she felt him in her lungs.
"Cum for me now, baby. Let me feel it."
By his command, she exploded. Her release crashed through her with violent force, body convulsing, and inner walls clamping down on him so hard he groaned. Again, y/n soaked them both. Whatever was left of her didn’t even attempt to run from the pleasure again.
Michael kept pounding into her, strokes becoming erratic and desperate. With a brutal snap of his hips, he pulled her completely off the bed. They tumbled onto the floor in a tangle of limbs, Michael landing on top of her, still buried deep inside. The carpet burned against her knees, but she didn't care. He was fucking her into the floor now, hips snapping with renewed urgency, the angle even deeper, hitting places that made her scream.
"Michael-"
"One more," he gasped, breath hot against her neck. "Please, jus’ one more, baby. I want to feel you come apart for me one more time."
His hand slid around to find her abused clit, rubbing in tight, desperate circles as he pounded into her from behind. She was so sensitive, so overstimulated, but his fingers were magic, and his dick was hitting that perfect spot and-
She came again, even harder than before, her vision whiting out, her entire body seizing. She felt him follow seconds later, his thrusts losing all rhythm, becoming wild and uncontrolled. He buried himself deep and came with a cry that was half whimper, half whine, cock twitching inside her walls as he filled the rubber.
For a few uninterrupted moments, the couple lay there on the floor, panting and tangled together. The afternoon sun slanted through the window, painting gold across their skin. Michael rolled off of the woman, and pressed lazy kisses to her shoulder, her neck, the shell of her ear. He promised that she did so good, and gently pulled himself from her core. He tied off the condom, and moved to discard it in a small trashcan near the door.
"So," he murmured, voice hoarse and satisfied. "How's that for neighborly?"
Y/N laughed, breathless and giddy. "I think I need to move more often."
"I hope that was okay," he said softly, fingers tracing patterns on her back, "I've never... I mean, that was my first time. With anyone."
Y/N propped herself up on one elbow, staring at him. "What?"
"I've never been with anyone before." He looked almost shy now, the predator completely gone, the boyish uncertainty flickering back full force. "I just... with you, I couldn't help myself. I wanted you so bad. M’sorry if it was too much."
She stared at him, stunned. "Michael. You just— you rearranged my guts. And you mean to tell me…that was your first time?"
He nodded, biting his lip, and she saw his eyes dart around the room, landing everywhere but on her. He was fidgeting, picking at a loose thread on the sheet, glancing toward the door, the window, the pile of boxes in the corner.
"Hey," she said, catching his chin and turning his face back to hers. "What's wrong?"
He swallowed hard. "I just... I wanted to ask you something, and I'm nervous."
"Ask me what?"
"Will you... would you maybe want to go to dinner with me sometime? Like, on a date?"
Y/N stared at him for a full three seconds. Then she cackled. Full, loud, uncontrolled laughter that shook her whole body and made her clutch her stomach.
"Oh my God," she gasped. "You just fucked me like I owed you money, and now you're scared to ask me to dinner?"
Michael flushed crimson, burying his face in his hands. "I know, I know, it's stupid but-"
"It's adorable!" She poked his ribs, still laughing. "Michael Jackson, international superstar, undercover pornstar, can't ask a girl on a date."
"I've never been on a date," he mumbled into his palms.
She laughed harder. "You've never had pussy either, but that didn't stop you from diving in face first!"
"Hey!" He grabbed a pillow and smacked her with it, his eyes bright with embarrassed amusement. "That's not fair! I was very respectful about your... your..."
"My pussy?"
"Stop saying that!" He hit her with the pillow again, but he was grinning now, the tension broken. "Just answer the question, woman. Will you go to dinner with me or not?"
Y/N's laughter died down to a soft chuckle. She looked at him and saw a sweet, dominant, whimpering, confident boy who had just given her the best orgasms of her life, who was now blushing like a virgin because he wanted to buy her a meal.
‘How backward,’ she thought.
"Yes," y/n said, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his lips. "I'll go to dinner with you. You're spending the night though. I'm not done with you."
Michael rolled his eyes, but his smile was pure sunshine. "I was gonna do that anyway, mama. You think I'm leavin’ after all that? I finally found out what all the fuss was about. I'm stayin’ right here."
He pulled her down beside him, tangling their legs together, and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Besides, someone has to help you unpack all those boxes."
"Four noodle arms are better than two?"
"Exactly." He grinned against her hair. "And just so you know, I'm way better with directions in bed than I am with moving furniture."
Y/N laughed, curling into his warmth. "Prove it."
"Give me five minutes," he murmured, already half-asleep. "Then I'll prove it twice."
She laughed harder, burying her face in his chest. "Michael."
"What?"
"You said 'four noodle arms' when we met."
"So?"
"You tossed me around like it was nothin', Mikey."
He opened one eye, looking down at her with a smug smile. "I told you, baby. I'm the farthest thing from a good boy."
"Yeah, yeah." She yawned, settling against him. "Save it for our date, Casanova."
"Casanova?" He made a face. "Cassanova doesn’t hold a candle to me"
"How about 'Freak', huh?" y/n teased.
"I can work with that." He yawned, pulling her in closer.
Michael fell asleep there on the floor with a smile on his face, and only one thought on his mind.
﹒ ୨୧◞ 。summary .ᐟ what do you do when the man you built your entire life around disappears without so much as a goodbye for another woman? do you love him enough to stay? or do you respect yourself?
﹒ ୨୧◞ 。before you interact .ᐟ divorce, mental health struggles, anxiety, a major panic attack that could be upsetting, self sabotage, minor cuts, scrutiny of michael’s looks, grief, codependency, family conflict, co parenting, jealousy, pining, unresolved feelings, age gap in relationship (reader is now 28-29, michael is 37-38). verbal and physical alterations. mentions of substance abuse.
﹒ ୨୧◞ 。disclaimer .ᐟ this series contains depictions of addiction, substance abuse, and deteriorating mental health. this piece is not an accurate depiction of any real life individuals. — 25k word count.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤJune, 1995.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ╰ㅤ ㅤPrimetime Live interview, ABC News Studios, New York.
The interview had been going beautifully right up until the last subject change. That’s when things reached the point of no return.
Michael and Lisa Marie sat beside one another, close enough that their elbows occasionally brushed whenever either of them shifted. The room was set up in a way that felt purposefully intimate for the Primetime interview to give viewers a glimpse behind the “spectacle” of their marriage. Michael had been relaxed for most of it, occasionally laughing into his hand when he became embarrassed by a question, his answers wandering into long explanations that Diane Sawyer patiently waited through. Lisa had been quieter but comfortable enough, watching him whenever he spoke with an expression that alternated between affection and amusement whenever he did something silly.
They had already discussed the wedding. The public fascination. The accusations that their marriage was a publicity stunt. Their respective families. The scrutiny surrounding their relationship. Michael had even been coaxed into talking about how difficult it was to have something so personal become something the entire world felt entitled to dissect.
Diane Sawyer leaned forward slightly. “I want to ask you about something else, Michael. Before we part ways.”
His expression changed slightly but Lisa noticed. It was the tiniest little thing—his smile didn’t disappear exactly, but it faltered as his heart skipped a beat, putting him in fight or flight mode. Michael hated when interviewers announced their next question as it usually meant the question was going to be invasive or uncomfortable for him. He was often left feeling bare and violated no matter how much he tried to regulate his inner self.
His eyes dropped for a moment and one hand moved against his knee as he braced for the questioning.
“Your previous relationships have been talked about almost as much, if not more than your marriage to Lisa,” She continued. “And obviously, one of the most significant was your relationship with your former wife—(Name).”
Michael’s gaze remained lowered as he quietly processed her words, his expression giving little away. Beside him, Lisa subtly straightened in her chair before reaching over to give his forearm a reassuring squeeze.
“You were together for several years. You were young, her even younger. I understand that you two had a mentor and apprentice kind of relationship in its early stages.” She pauses briefly. “You eventually built a life together, had a beautiful child. But even after the divorce, people have continued to speculate about the two of you.”
Michael nodded slowly. “Ah.. yes.”
“Do you think that’s fair?”
He took a moment. “I think..” His fingers moved against the golden brace on knee some more. “I think when people see something that was very beautiful.. and then they see it end, they want to understand why. They want a reason. They want somebody to blame.”
Lisa watched the side of his face.
“Was it beautiful?” Diane asked. “Your relationship with (Name), I mean.”
There was no hesitation as he spoke. “Yes.”
One word that felt instinctual and so certain in itself that there was no room to argue what he meant. Lisa’s eyes narrowed at his answer though, and Diane smiled faintly before speaking again. “You don’t hesitate on that.”
“No.” Michael shook his head. “No, I don’t. It was. It really was.” He leaned back slightly, his expression becoming more distant.
“We were very, very close. She knew me before a lot of awful things happened and took.. very good care of me during. She knew me before.. everything became so toxic. Before all the craziness. And she knew me as Michael. Not..” He made a vague gesture toward the room. “This. I mean—she’s a beautiful woman and has a beautiful, kind soul. I will always respect her.”
“You seem very passionate about this.”
“You could say that, yes..”
“And do you think that makes it harder to let go of somebody? Passion?”
Michael’s lips parted and he seemed to consider giving the safe answer. He really did. Lisa could practically see him constructing it in his head. There were plenty of things he could say. He could say that people moved on. He could say that he wished her well. He could say that the past was the past. He could say that he was happily married now.
Instead, he said: “You ever completely let go of people you loved.”
Lisa’s face stilled at his words and Diane caught it immediately, deciding to just go for it:
“Do you still love her?”
There it was—the question. The one they both had probably known was coming from the moment they’d agreed to sit down and have this interview.
Michael gave a small, nervous laugh. “Love changes.”
Diane didn’t let him take the cop out answer, continuing to press him. “That’s not really an answer.”
Michael looked down as Lisa stared at him, rubbing his palms together. “I mean..” He sighed. “There are different kinds of love.”
“Is that what you feel for her now?”
“She’s the mother of my son.”
The interviewer raised her eyebrows. “Well, yes.. but I feel like you’re still not truly answering my questions with a straight answer.”
Michael smiled awkwardly as he looked toward the interviewer again, then briefly toward Lisa almost as though he were checking whether there was a way to navigate this without stepping directly onto a land mine. But Lisa’s expression said there wasn’t.
“I’ll always care about her,” Michael said. “Always.”
“Care?”
“Yes.”
“Only care?”
His eyes narrowed slightly, not in anger but concentration. “I don’t know if you can put a word on it.”
Diane smiled. “That’s interesting.”
“How so..?”
“Because you seem very sure that what you had with her was beautiful, that you still care about her, and now you’re saying you don’t know what you feel.”
Michael’s mouth tightened. “I didn’t say I don’t know what I feel.”
She leaned back. “Then what do you feel? Really.”
He was quiet and a second passed then another before Michael’s eyes fell toward his hands. “I think..” He paused again. “I think there are people who become a part of you.”
Lisa’s face hardened as Michael continued, seemingly unaware that every word was making the situation worse. “You can go on with your life. You can meet other people. You can fall in love again. You can get married. You can have a whole different life. But that doesn’t mean that what happened before just disappears.”
The blonde nodded slowly. “So she is still a part of you.”
Michael looked up. “Yes.” But apparently he realized that answer had been too direct because he quickly began trying to soften it, backtracking a bit.
“But that doesn’t mean..” He gestured vaguely between himself and Lisa. “It doesn’t mean anything bad. Lisa and I have our own relationship. This is completely different.”
Michael looked at her and she smiled.
It was a beautiful smile. But it was also the sort of smile that could have killed a man at twenty paces. Diane looked between them, clearly aware that something had shifted.
“Michael, if I’m understanding you correctly, you’re saying that you can still have feelings for someone from your past without wanting to be with them.”
Michael nodded. “Absolutely.”
“And you don’t want to be with her?”
He hesitated feeling his wife’s stare, his lips pressed together. “..No.” Lisa’s expression relaxed by approximately half a millimeter then Michael continued. “It’s about wanting to be with somebody.” And Lisa’s eyes closed just for a second, visibly attempting to regulate herself. Why couldn’t he just stop talking about this woman!
Diane almost smiled. “What is it about?”
Michael looked genuinely thoughtful now, which was.. unfortunate for his wife sitting next to him. “It’s about knowing that if something happened to her, I would..” He stopped.
Lisa opened her eyes.
Michael swallowed. “I would feel it.” There was silence and Diane let it sit. Michael was starting to seem increasingly aware of the fact that he was digging himself into a hole but was apparently incapable of stopping.
“I’d always feel it,” He added quietly. “Because she’s important to me.”
Lisa looked at him again. Not the amused, affectionate look she’d given him earlier—not even irritation. It was a stare so flat and murderous that when Michael glanced over, it startled him.
His eyes widened slightly. “What?”
Lisa’s smile returned, not a damn thing about it was reassuring. “Nothing, Michael. I’m just listening.”
Michael looked back toward the interviewer.
Diane, who had clearly decided she was going to let him continue destroying himself, asked, “And do you think part of you will always be in love with her?”
Michael froze. And this time, he knew exactly what was happening. He could have said no, it would have been easy. A clean, uncomplicated no. He could have laughed and said, “That’s my past. I’m married.”
Instead, Michael’s expression softened.. and that was the answer before he even spoke. “I think,” He took a breath. “I think when you really love somebody, you don’t just stop.”
Lisa’s face fell and Michael looked at her with the smallest flicker of realization in his eyes.
Too late.
The interviewer didn’t move. “So you still love her.”
Michael’s gaze remained on Lisa before returning to the interviewer. “I’ll always have love for her.” Lisa’s nostrils flared and Michael hurried on. “But it’s not the same. It isn’t what it was.”
“Is that because you’re married now?”
“Oh, yes.” Michael looked at Lisa like he wanted to say something and she raised an eyebrow at him.
Michael finally turned toward the camera, his expression becoming comically resigned. “She’s going to kill me later, guys.”
Lisa smiled. “I haven’t that decided yet, maybe torture first.”
The interviewer laughed and Lisa leaned back against the couch, folding her arms. Then after a second, she added casually, “I think he answered the question, Diane.”
Michael looked at her. “I did.”
“Very thoroughly.” She added and Michael shifted in his seat.
The interviewer looked between them, ”Lisa, does it bother you to hear Michael speak about her this way?”
Lisa’s expression changed and for the first time since the subject had come up, she didn’t look angry.
She looked tired. “Well,” she said carefully, “Everybody has a past. I have one. He has one. I don’t expect him to pretend that his life started when he married me.”
Michael’s eyes softened at her words and that somehow irritated her even more. “You know,” She continued, “A lot of people say we went about our relationship the wrong way—which he never cheated for the record, we were friends first—but in the end? He chose me,” She paused, searching for the next few words. “Or at least that’s how I see it. And some people should just get over that instead of crying about it.”
Michael lowered his head.
Diane asked, “And do you think he still has feelings for her?”
Lisa looked at him and Michael looked very suddenly interested in the floor. Her mouth tightened before she spoke. “Obviously. I don’t get why he does, but I don’t completely fault him for it because I know we got into this relationship so quickly.”
Michael’s head snapped up, picking up on the small dig at (Name). “Hey..”
She turned toward him, clearly irritated at him continuing to speak. “What, Michael? Seriously.”
“You don’t have to say it like that.” He lowers his voice, brows furrowed as he watches her.
“Then how should I say it?”
“I don’t know.” Michael’s expression became wounded. “But not like that.”
Lisa looked at him then shook her head. “Honest, he’s in love with everybody.”
Michael stared at her. “That’s not true.”
And that was the moment Michael realized that the interview wasn’t going to be remembered for anything he’d said about marriage, privacy, or fame.
Tomorrow, the headlines would not be about Lisa Marie Presley. They wouldn’t be about their wedding. They wouldn’t even be about whether their marriage was real.
They would be about the fact that Michael Jackson had been asked whether he still loved his former wife and had somehow managed to answer yes without ever actually saying the word. And Lisa Marie Presley was sitting six inches away from him when he did it.
The fallout from the interview began almost immediately it aired. By the following morning, Michael’s comments about (Name) had been pulled apart by every entertainment program and newspaper that could get its hands on them, with commentators dissecting his tone, his pauses, and the particular way his expression had changed whenever the interviewer brought up his former marriage. What might have been a relatively harmless acknowledgment of a complicated past had been transformed into a fresh round of speculation about whether he still loved her, whether his marriage to Lisa was already in trouble, and whether the two women were somehow competing for the same man. Her name appeared beside his in headlines she hadn’t agreed to be part of, accompanied by photographs from years earlier that made the entire thing feel even more intrusive. She’d spent months deliberately stepping away from the spectacle surrounding Michael’s personal life, only to find herself dragged directly back into it because he’d been unable to give a straightforward answer on television.
She watched the interview later that afternoon from the comfort of her own living room, Aladdin playing quietly in the adjoining room while she sat with the remote in her hand and increasingly narrowed eyes. She had expected the questions about his past. She’d known the interviewer would bring her up. What irritated her was the way Michael had answered them, circling around the subject instead of simply acknowledging that they had once been married and moving on. He hadn’t said anything particularly scandalous, but there had been enough hesitation, enough softness in his voice, enough carefully chosen words to give the public something to chew on for weeks. By the time the segment ended, she had muted the television and stared at the blank screen for several seconds, her expression caught somewhere between disbelief and annoyance.
“Michael.”
She reached for her glass, taking a slow sip before setting it back down. She wasn’t angry that he’d remembered their marriage. She was irritated that he’d managed to make their private history relevant to a marriage that had nothing to do with her. She had worked too fucking hard to separate herself from the constant speculation surrounding him, and now she was once again being discussed because apparently, she were an unresolved chapter in someone else’s relationship.
The phone rang before she had fully decided whether she was more annoyed with Michael or with the people who had turned a fifteen minute interview into her problem because of their line of question. She stared at the receiver before answering.
“Hello?” His voice came through.
“Hey.”
“Hi.” There was a brief silence. Neither seemed particularly interested in acknowledging what they both knew the call was about.
Finally, Michael sighed. “..Did you see it?”
Her eyebrows lifted. “Hard to miss.”
He was quiet for a moment. “I didn’t mean for it to.. become all of that.”
She let out a small, humorless laugh. “Michael, what on Earth were you thinking!”
“I wasn’t trying to drag you into anything, Tink..”
“But you did. And I told you not to call me that anymore.” Her voice remained controlled, but the irritation was unmistakable. “I’m not.. angry that you were asked about me. I’m irritated that now everyone thinks there’s some unfinished business between us that needs to be discussed.”
Another pause. “There isn’t?”
The question caught her off guard. She stared toward the window, her expression hardening. “I’m about to hang up.”
He seemed to realize he’d stepped somewhere he shouldn’t. “Please don’t, I’m sorry.”
“Are you?”
“Yes.” His voice was softer now. “I’m sorry, really..”
She believed that he meant it, which somehow made the situation more frustrating. “Just.. be careful next time.”
“I will.”
Neither of them said goodbye, they lingered in the silence for another few seconds, both seeming reluctant to be the one to end the conversation, until she finally glanced toward the hallway.
“I have to go check on Aladdin. He’s too quiet.”
“Okay.”
She hung up first.
A few days later, Michael came to pick Aladdin up for the afternoon and quickly noticed something different about her. She looked sexy, he hates to be crude but she did. Her hair had been styled pretty, her makeup was finished, and she’d chosen an outfit that looked.. like she was intending to show a lot of skin. There was a small clutch sitting on the entryway table beside her keys, and a pair of heel that were clearly meant for going somewhere nicer than the grocery store rested near the door. Michael’s eyes moved over the details unconsciously before he looked back at her face.
“You’re going somewhere?”
She glanced down at herself as though she’d forgotten what she was wearing. “Yeah. I have an event.”
She turned back toward Aladdin, who was struggling to fit one of his toys into a small bag. Michael nodded once.
“Oh.” He bent slightly to help Aladdin with the zipper, his expression carefully neutral. “What kind of event?”
She looked at him. “An industry event.”
“Mm.” He nodded again, pretending that answer had satisfied him. It hadn’t.
He picked up Aladdin’s overnight bag and checked that everything was inside, but his attention kept drifting back toward her. “Who’s going?”
(Name) looked at him with an expression that was nearly amused. “People.”
He blinked. “I meant, are you going with anyone?”
There was a tiny pause before she answered. “I’m going with friends.”
“Oh.” Another nod. “Which friends?”
That was when she understood exactly what he was doing. She studied him, watching the way he avoided looking directly at her while pretending to be intensely interested in the contents of Aladdin’s bag.
“Why?”
“No reason.”
“Michael.”
He finally looked at her. “What?”
She smiled faintly, but there was no warmth in it. “You’re fishing.”
His mouth opened slightly before closing again. “I’m not, I’m just curious.”
“Sure.” She picked up Aladdin’s jacket and handed it to him. “And I’m not telling you.”
He looked away, caught. She could see the faint frustration settling across his face, but she didn’t indulge it. She simply crouched to straighten Aladdin’s collar and kissed the top of his head.
“Have fun with Daddy, okay?”
Aladdin nodded enthusiastically and grabbed Michael’s hand.
Michael lingered at the doorway for a moment longer than necessary. He looked back at her, clearly tempted to ask again, but whatever question had been forming never made it out. (Name) stood there calmly, watching him with an expression that told him she knew exactly what he’d been trying to accomplish. There was no jealousy in her face, no defensiveness, no attempt to make him wonder whether she was seeing someone. She simply wasn’t giving him access to that part of her life anymore. He had once known where she was going, who she was seeing, what she was wearing, and why she was going somewhere before she’d even finished getting ready. Now he had to stand at the door and wonder. She gave him a small wave as he led Aladdin toward the car, and when the door finally closed behind them, she turned back toward the house without giving the interaction another thought. Michael, meanwhile, sat behind the wheel with his hands resting against it, staring through the windshield and wondering who exactly had earned the privilege of seeing her dressed like that tonight.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤJuly, 1995.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ╰ㅤ Neverland Ranch - Main Residence. Los Olivos, California.
The magazine had been open on the same spread for nearly fifteen minutes, although Michael had turned the pages enough times that Elizabeth suspected he had memorized the article by now. They were sitting together in the sunroom at Neverland Ranch, the afternoon light pouring through the tall windows and laying pale gold across the carpet, the gardens outside looking unnaturally serene beneath the California sun. Elizabeth had been enjoying her tea in the comfortable quiet of the room, occasionally watching Michael over the rim of her cup as he shifted in his chair and thumbed restlessly along the magazine’s glossy edge. He had been perfectly relaxed when he’d first picked it up. Now his posture had gradually stiffened, one ankle hooked behind the other, his shoulders slightly hunched forward as he studied the page with an intensity that would have been impressive if the subject weren’t celebrity gossip.
The article was about his ex wife. That in itself wasn't unusual. Her name had been appearing with increasing frequency in entertainment magazines since the divorce, sometimes because of her work, sometimes because of her public appearances, and sometimes simply because the press seemed incapable of allowing a famous woman to exist without attaching a romantic narrative to her. This particular article had taken a more ambitious approach. Rather than linking her to one man, it had assembled an entire collection of them. There were photographs of her leaving restaurants with actors, laughing with musicians at industry parties, standing beside athletes at charity events, and talking with various famous men whose expressions suggested that their interest in her went considerably beyond professional admiration. The article itself was careful enough to acknowledge that not every encounter constituted a date, but the implication was obvious. Since her marriage had ended, men who had spent years admiring her from a safe distance apparently felt free to make their interest known.
One of them had openly admitted to having a crush on her. Another had been caught flirting with her at an awards event. A third had reportedly been trying to get her attention for months. The photographs didn’t always show anything scandalous, which somehow seemed to bother Michael even more. There was no convenient villain here, no obvious indiscretion he could point to and condemn. There were simply men looking at his former wife and realizing she was available for the taking.
Michael turned another page and stopped, Elizabeth’s eyes following the movement. He stared at the photograph before muttering, “This is ridiculous.”
Elizabeth lowered her cup into its saucer with a quiet porcelain click and glanced toward the magazine. “What is, honey?”
Michael’s finger remained tucked against the page. “This. All of this.” He made a small, irritated gesture toward the article. “They’re taking every little thing she does and turning it into somethin’.. she goes somewhere with a man and suddenly they’re dating. She talks to another at a party and they’re flirting. She laughs at something a man says and she’s involved with him. It’s irritating..”
Elizabeth’s eyes moved from the magazine to Michael's face. He was trying very hard to sound irritated with journalism, and there was enough genuine annoyance in his voice that she might have believed him if he hadn’t spent the previous ten minutes reading the same three paragraphs.
“They’re magazines, Michael.”
“I know what they are.” His eyes stayed on the page. “That’s what makes it worse. They know people are going to read this. They know Aladdin is going to grow up and see these things about his mother. They don’t care what they put in here.”
Elizabeth watched him, her expression becoming more thoughtful. Michael sensed the silence and finally looked up. “What is it?”
“Nothing.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “You’re thinkin’ something.”
Elizabeth picked up her tea again, allowing the smallest hint of amusement to touch her expression. “I’m always thinking about something, my dear. You should know me better by now to know.”
Michael’s mouth tightened as he looked back down at the magazine, apparently deciding that the safest course was to ignore her. “This is about Aladdin.”
That made Elizabeth pause and she lowered her cup again. “Oh, is it?”
“Of course, yes.” Michael answered too quickly, and the speed of it betrayed him before he could recover. He shifted in his chair then leaned forward to rest his forearms against his knees, the magazine hanging loosely from one hand. “She’s his mother. That’s what people forget. They can write whatever they want about adults, but eventually.. he’s going to see this stuff. He’s going to have people asking him questions about his mother and who she’s seeing and why.. why she’s always being photographed with different men.” He trails off. “I don’t think that's fair to him.”
Elizabeth nodded slowly. “No. It isn’t.” Michael relaxed a fraction, then she added, “But I’m not sure that’s the only thing bothering you.”
Michael gave her a long look before turning his attention back to the article. “I don’t like the way they’re handling it.”
Elizabeth leaned back against her chair, crossing one leg over the other beneath the table. “The article?”
“The whole thing.”
“What whole thing?”
“The way they’re making her look.”
Elizabeth waited and Michael's gaze remained fixed on the page. “Like she’s going from man to man.”
There was a tiny pause. “Why does it matter if she is?”
He looked at her and Elizabeth kept her expression perfectly neutral.
Michael’s jaw moved, and it looked like he was physically swallowing on something. “.. It doesn’t.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“Because that's what they’re implying.” His eyes dropped toward the photograph again. “They’re exploiting her. She doesn’t—she doesn’t know any better.” He said.
“Michael..”
“Yes?”
“It’s.. it isn’t your job to protect her anymore. She’s a big girl now, I’ve watched her grow and blossom into this.. beautiful flower. She’s not as naive as she was back then, it’s been almost ten years.”
That stopped him.
Michael stared at the page, his fingertip moving unconsciously along the edge of the paper. “You don’t understand. Even these no good rappers thinking they have a chance.. I mean—(Name) isn’t that kind of woman.”
Elizabeth watched him carefully. “You seem to know quite a lot about which men have been trying to get her attention.”
Michael looked up and she lifted her cup and took a slow sip, giving him no satisfaction whatsoever.
The photograph beneath his hand showed her at some industry gathering, dressed elegantly and standing beside an actor whose attention was very obviously fixed on her. He had one hand near the small of her back, not quite touching her, while she laughed at something he had said. The picture wasn’t intimate enough to prove anything, but it was intimate enough for Michael’s imagination to supply the missing pieces, which was precisely why he had looked at it so many times.
He hated that she looked happy.
That was the part he couldn’t explain away.
There was nothing forced about her expression. She wasn’t posing for the cameras or giving them the pretty smile she’d learned to use when she knew she was being watched. She was genuinely laughing, her head tipped slightly toward the man beside her, her entire face relaxed in a way Michael knew intimately.
His thumb stopped moving.
“She looks happy,” He said and Elizabeth’s eyes moved toward him. Michael seemed to realize only after the words were out that he’d said them aloud.
“She does,” Elizabeth answered.
His eyes remained on the photograph. “She doesn’t even know him that well.”
Elizabeth’s eyebrows lifted. “How do you know?”
Michael hesitated. “I know.”
“You know him?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know how well she knows him?”
Michael finally looked at her, visibly annoyed by the direction the conversation had taken. “I’ve heard about him.”
Elizabeth’s mouth threatened to curve and Michael saw it. “Don't.”
She picked up her teaspoon and stirred the tea she had already finished sweetening, mostly because it gave her something to do with her hands. “Michael, you appear to know more about this woman’s social calendar than she probably does.”
His expression changed. “I have a child with her.”
“Yes.” Elizabeth's eyes moved to him again.
“She tells me a little bit.” Michael kept his gaze toward the windows.
The statement wasn’t entirely untrue. On the rare occasions when they had to communicate, usually because of a mutual obligation, an industry event, or some other unavoidable overlap in their social circles, she would sometimes mention offhandedly that she was attending a particular function. He never thought much of it at first. But he started to noticed who appeared beside her in photographs. He noticed who seemed to be attending the same events. He noticed which men were mentioned more than once. He noticed when someone who had never previously been associated with her began appearing everywhere she went.
And, most humiliatingly, he noticed when she seemed to enjoy someone’s company.
Michael closed the magazine halfway and rubbed his thumb against the spine. Elizabeth let him have the silence for perhaps ten seconds.
Then she said, “She’s also single.” And Michael’s eyes lifted. Elizabeth watched the reaction happen. “She can go to dinner with somebody,” Elizabeth continued, her tone remaining calm and matter-of-fact. “She can have friends. She can flirt. She can be photographed with men. She can date if she wants to date. She’s—she’s owed that, honey.”
“I know.” Michael’s response came quietly, defensively.
Elizabeth watched him turn the page. “And eventually she can fall in love again.”
His hand stopped and the page remained half turned beneath his fingers. Michael stared down at it and he carefully flattened the page and lowered his hand to the table. “I know.”
His voice was different now, the irritation had gone out of it as Elizabeth studied him. Michael leaned back in his chair and looked through the windows, his attention moving beyond the gardens to somewhere much farther away. His expression had become unusually still, and the silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable so much as revealing. The afternoon continued around them without concern.
Somewhere outside, birds moved through the trees. A faint breeze stirred the curtains beside the windows.
He knew she was allowed.
He knew that better than anyone.
The divorce had given her the right to rebuild her life without having to explain herself to him. She didn’t owe him solitude. She didn’t owe him a period of mourning that lasted long enough to make him comfortable. She didn’t owe him the courtesy of making sure nobody flirted with her in public. She was allowed to have the dating life that twenty something’s were expected to have.
And yet seeing it was another matter entirely.
Michael finally looked down at the article again. “I don’t like it.” He looked at her. “I don’ t like seeing her with them.” The admission was quiet enough that it disappeared beneath the sound of the teaspoon settling against the saucer.
Elizabeth’s expression softened.
Michael seemed to regret saying it. He shifted in his chair, his fingers returning to the magazine. “I do’'t mean that I think she belongs to me. I don’t. I know she doesn’t. She can do whatever she wants.. And I don’t care who she sees.”
Elizabeth’s gaze dropped to the photograph beneath his hand. She knew well enough that he was trying to convince himself that his words were true.
Michael sighed, then leaned forward and closed the magazine again. He placed both hands flat against it, as though physically restraining himself from opening it again. “I just don’t like the idea of some man coming around my son and acting like he knows her and my baby.”
“That is a different concern.” She said.
“Yes.”
“And a reasonable one.” Michael nodded at her words, feeling a bit of relief.
Elizabeth waited before adding, “But you’re still jealous.”
His head lifted. “I am not jealous.” The answer was fast, indignant enough to be convincing. Elizabeth merely looked at him.
Michael held her gaze for a few seconds before looking away. “I’m not.”
“She was my wife,” He said finally. “We were together for a long time,” He repeated, quieter this time. “For a long time.”
“I know.. and now she’s not.” Elizabeth let the statement sit between them.
Michael swallowed. He looked like he was reminding himself of something he understood intellectually but hadn’t quite accepted emotionally.
“I know she can be with whoever she wants,” he said. “I know that. I just...” His sentence trailed off, and he rubbed the heel of one hand against his palm before settling it back on the magazine. “It’s so strange.” Michael’s eyes drifted toward the photograph again. “It’s strange seeing everybody else suddenly get to have her.. and I can’t anymore.”
Elizabeth went still and Michael realized what he’d said almost immediately, looking back toward the window.
The words had escaped before he could reshape them into something safer, but there was truth in them. Not ownership exactly. Something more complicated and considerably more painful. There had been a time when he could look at her across a room and know that, whatever was happening around them, there was still a private bond between them that nobody else could touch. Even after the marriage became difficult, even after they hurt one another badly enough that divorce became inevitable, he had still possessed the strange security of knowing that the history between them belonged to both of them.
Now the world was moving around her as though that history had become irrelevant. Men who had once admired her from afar could approach her. Men who had always thought she was beautiful could tell her. Men who had watched her marry Michael Jackson could now look at her and see only a single woman.
Michael wasn’t prepared for how much he hated that.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤAugust, 1995.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ╰ㅤ Bluebird Cottage Preschool - Hidden Hills, California
The preschool graduation was held on a warm June morning beneath a white canvas tent on the school’s back lawn, the kind of ceremony that was far more elaborate than any four or five year old could possibly understand and far more important to the parents than they would ever admit. Tiny folding chairs had been arranged in neat rows across the grass, each one decorated with a small paper name card, while a low wooden platform stood at the front beneath a banner congratulating the graduating class in bright, cheerful letters. There were flowers tied to the ends of the aisle, disposable cameras being passed between parents, grandparents whispering excitedly to one another, and a table covered in miniature cakes and fruit waiting for the reception afterward. Somewhere near the entrance, a teacher was trying unsuccessfully to keep a collection of children in tiny yellow caps and gowns from running off before the ceremony had even begun. (Name) stood among the other parents with one hand resting lightly against the strap of her handbag, listening with half an ear as another mother beside her talked about summer plans. She smiled when appropriate, laughed quietly at something she was told, and looked entirely at ease. There was nothing performative about it all, she wasn’t scanning the crowd. She wasn’t wondering whether Michael had arrived yet. She wasn’t thinking about him at all. She was happy and today was Aladdin’s day.
Then the whispering began near the entrance, no need to turn around to know who had arrived.
A few seconds later, she heard the familiar murmur of recognition that followed Michael wherever he went, even when he was trying to attend something as ordinary as a preschool ceremony. She finally glanced over her shoulder and saw him standing with Lisa, both of them accompanied by a small cluster of people who had managed to make a four year old’s graduation look like the president was here. Something inside her tightened, but it was fleeting. Lisa’s presence was not unexpected. Michael had brought her into the life they had once shared, and there was no reason to pretend that history had somehow ceased to exist simply because the marriage was over. Still, seeing them arrive together produced a small, involuntary ache beneath her ribs, the kind of feeling that belonged to an older version of herself. She swallowed it before it could become anything more, turned back toward the stage, and adjusted the sleeve of her dress. That was all. She did not stare. She didn’t react, not allowing the sight of another woman beside her former husband to become the center of a day that belonged to her son.
Michael, however, had been looking at her since the moment he’d walked through the gate.
And for several seconds, he genuinely couldn’t breathe properly.
It wasn’t the sentimental kind of reaction he’d expected from seeing her again. It wasn’t simply that she looked good. She looked absolutely fucking devastating. There was something disorienting about it, because he had spent so long remembering her through the worst period of their marriage that his mind had unconsciously preserved an older version of her. The woman he remembered had been beautiful, certainly, but there had always been tension beneath it. Exhaustion around her eyes. A guardedness in her expression. The faintly distracted look of someone whose thoughts were perpetually somewhere else, usually worrying about him. This woman had none of that. She looked rested. Healthy. Completely present. Her face seemed softer without being diminished, her posture effortless, her clothes elegant without appearing calculated. Her hair had changed, falling around her shoulders in a way he didn’t recognize, and when she laughed at something the woman beside her said, the sound carried across the lawn with such effortless warmth that his stomach actually turned.
He looked away, then looked back.
That was the problem.
He couldn’t seem to stop.
His mouth went dry. A strange pressure developed beneath his ribs, followed by the sudden, almost nauseating awareness of his own heartbeat. He swallowed hard and shifted his weight, as though changing his physical position might somehow restore his composure. It didn’t. She was still there, still laughing, still completely unaware of him, and the fact that she wasn’t looking at him made it worse. He had expected resentment. He had expected anger. He had even expected her to look older, more tired, somehow marked by the time they’d spent apart. Instead, she looked like someone who had been released from a weight he hadn’t realized he’d been watching her carry. She looked happy. The unguarded kind that made him feel as though he were witnessing something he no longer had any right to see.
Michael felt genuinely ill.
It was an ugly realization, because beneath the admiration was something painfully close to grief. He had known this woman more intimately than anyone else in the world. He had watched her wake up with tangled hair and sleep still in her eyes. He had known what she looked like when she was sick, when she was exhausted, when she was furious, when she had just finished crying and tried to pretend she hadn’t. He had once been able to reach across a room and touch her simply because she was his wife. Now he was standing several yards away, watching her laugh with someone else and realizing that he had somehow managed to lose access to a person who had once been woven into nearly every ordinary part of his life.
And she hadn’t even noticed he was staring.
Lisa noticed.
She noticed the direction of his eyes, following his line of sight toward (Name) before looking back at him. She said nothing. Michael seemed to realize only afterwards that he’d been caught staring and finally looked away, rubbing his thumb absently against the side of his hand. He tried to redirect his attention toward the ceremony preparations, toward the people around him, toward anything that wasn’t the woman standing across the lawn, but his eyes kept betraying him. Every time she moved, his attention followed. When she bent down to fix the strap of her son’s little graduation cap, he watched. When she tucked her hair behind her ear, he watched. When she laughed, he watched. He was angry with himself for it, because none of this was useful. Beauty didn’t change anything. Missing her didn’t change anything. Feeling sick over how beautiful she looked didn’t undo the years between them.
Then the children were called forward.
One by one, the little graduates appeared in their miniature caps and gowns, some walking proudly toward the platform while others clung to their teachers or stared blankly at the audience with the solemn confusion of children who had no idea why so many adults were crying. When Aladdin’s name was finally announced, (Name)’s entire face changed. She straightened, her eyes lighting with unmistakable pride as she watched him walk toward the stage with his cap sitting slightly crooked on his head. She looked radiant in that moment, because she was completely absorbed in her son. Michael’s chest tightened again. He watched her applaud, watched her smile, watched the pride spread across her face as Aladdin accepted his little certificate, and something inside him twisted painfully with the realization that this was what she looked like when she wasn’t waiting for him anymore.
Aladdin eventually spotted them in the crowd and waved both hands enthusiastically despite being told repeatedly to keep them at his sides. (Name) laughed, covering her mouth, while Michael found himself smiling despite everything. When the ceremony ended, Aladdin ran toward his mother first, throwing himself against her legs before proudly presenting the certificate he’d been given. She crouched, straightening his cap and kissing his cheek while he talked over himself trying to explain every detail of the ceremony. Michael approached more slowly, giving them space, and when Aladdin finally noticed him, he reached for his father’s hand without hesitation. Michael crouched beside him, his expression softening as his son proudly announced that he was “graduated now.” The years between them seemed to disappear. There was simply a father, a mother, and their little boy standing together beneath the afternoon sun.
When someone suggested taking a picture of Aladdin with both his parents, (Name) agreed without hesitation. She moved beside Michael because it was the simplest thing to do, positioning herself on Aladdin’s other side while the photographer raised the camera. She was completely focused on their son, smoothing down the front of his little gown and reminding him to hold up his certificate properly. Michael stood beside her, close enough to smell the faint perfume she’d worn, and the proximity nearly undid him. He could see the details of her face from inches away now, the little changes time had made, the confidence that hadn’t existed the last time he’d stood this close to her. She didn’t look at him once. She didn’t seem remotely conscious of the fact that he was looking at her.
The camera flashed.
Michael looked at her instead of the lens.
She never noticed.
When the photographer took another picture, (Name) laughed and leaned toward Aladdin, completely unaware of the man standing beside her looking at her stupid because he had just been confronted with the full consequence of his own decisions. Michael’s stomach turned again, that same awful mixture of attraction, grief, guilt, and disbelief twisting beneath his ribs. She was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Somehow, after everything he’d done, after everything they’d survived, after the years they had spent apart, she had become even more beautiful.
And the worst part was that she had no idea.
She simply took Aladdin’s hand when the photographs were finished and walked away with him, laughing at something he said.
Michael watched her go.
She never once looked back.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤ September, 1995.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ╰ㅤ MTV Video Music Awards - Radio City Music Hall, NYC.
The MTV Video Music Awards had the particular kind of chaos that seemed to exist nowhere else. Music blared from somewhere beyond every corridor, production assistants hurried past with headsets pressed to their ears, celebrities disappeared behind curtains only to reappear moments later beneath a storm of camera flashes, and every hallway seemed to contain someone waiting to be interviewed. (Name) had been prepared for the spectacle. She had attended enough award shows to know how to move through them without being swallowed by the noise, how to smile for cameras when necessary and disappear into the background when she wanted to. What she hadn’t anticipated was Michael’s performance. She knew he was performing “You Are Not Alone,” but knowing the title and being emotionally prepared to watch him stand beneath a spotlight were two entirely different things.
She was somewhere in the audience when the lights finally dropped, the noise of the arena dissolving into anticipation. Michael appeared onstage to an eruption of screaming, and for the first few moments she forced herself to watch him the same way everyone else was watching him. He was performing. That was all. It should have been easy to separate the man onstage from the man she had once known intimately, but there were too many small things she recognized. The tilt of his head. The way his hand moved when he became particularly absorbed in a lyric. The subtle shift in his expression when the performance stopped feeling like choreography and started feeling personal. She tried to tell herself that she was imagining it, that years of knowing someone could make ordinary gestures feel meaningful when they weren’t.
Then he turned toward the audience.
His arm extended.
His finger pointed.
The camera immediately cut to the crowd, and the arena erupted all over again.
(Name)’s breath caught.
It lasted barely a second, but it was enough. Her mind betrayed her before she could stop it, instantly searching the direction of his gesture, trying to determine who he had been looking at. She knew there was no rational reason to assume it had been her. Lisa was there. Thousands of people were there. The gesture could have been directed toward anyone, or toward no one at all. It could have been nothing more than part of the performance. Yet something about the timing, the expression on his face, the strange familiarity of the way he had looked into the crowd made her heart begin pounding so hard that she could feel it in her throat.
By the time the performance ended, the audience was on its feet. The reaction was enormous, and within minutes the gesture had become one of the things people were talking about. Cameras replayed the moment. Commentators speculated about its meaning. Someone somewhere inevitably asked whether Michael had been pointing toward Lisa, while another person insisted that the gesture had been aimed somewhere else in the audience. It took nearly no time at all for (Name)’s name to begin circulating alongside his, dragged back into the conversation despite her having done absolutely nothing to invite it.
She lasted several minutes before the room became too much.
The applause, the music, the cameras, the whispers, the people who kept glancing toward her as though they were trying to determine whether she had reacted to the performance, all of it began pressing inward until she could no longer distinguish one sensation from another. She excused herself quietly and slipped into one of the bathrooms, locking herself inside a stall for several minutes while she tried to breathe normally. She pressed her palms against her knees and closed her eyes, furious with herself for being affected at all. She had spent years learning how to live without him. She had built a life that no longer revolved around what Michael was doing, who he was with, or what the public thought of their history. Yet one stupid gesture from a stage could still make her feel sixteen different emotions at once.
When she finally stepped out of the stall, she nearly walked directly into Lisa.
Both women stopped.
It was an absurd coincidence, the kind of encounter that might have been funny under literally any other circumstances. Instead, the air between them became tense. Lisa’s expression changed first, recognition followed by something harder. (Name) straightened instinctively, wishing she had stayed in the stall.
“Are you okay?” The question sounded polite.
(Name) nodded. “I’m fine.”
Lisa studied her. “You didn’t look fine out there.”
Something in her tone made (Name)’s shoulders stiffen. “I said I’m fine.”
Lisa exhaled slowly, but whatever restraint she had been trying to maintain seemed to fray as quickly as she regained her composure. “I watched you during his performance.”
“And?”
“And you looked like you were going to fall apart.”
(Name)’s expression hardened. “I was overwhelmed.”
“Was it because he pointed at you?”
She simply stared at Lisa. “I don’t know who he pointed at, Lisa.”
“This is ridiculous—you think I don’t know that he loves you? You think I want to hear about you every time he’s upset?” Lisa demanded. “You think I wanted to feel like there was another woman standing in the room every time he talked about his past?”
“Then maybe you should ask your husband about this instead of thinking I’m the problem.”
“Do you have a problem with me?” Lisa’s voice was sharp enough to cut through the noise of the bathroom, and (Name) turned toward her slowly, still trying to understand why she had followed her into the room in the first place.
“No. Do you have one with me?”
“Alright. Then have you been fucking my husband?”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
(Name) stared at her, genuinely stunned before the disbelief gave way to anger. “Are you fucking serious right now?”
“I’m asking you a question.”
“And I’m telling you, that you’ve lost your goddammed mind.”
Lisa folded her arms, her expression hardening. “Look, we don’t need to keep having this back and forth. I’m bigger than this. Besides, I’m sure you have somewhere to be. Like taking care of your kid.”
The insult landed exactly where Lisa intended it to and (Name)’s expression changed. “Bitch, where the fuck are your kids?”
Lisa’s jaw tightened. “Not watching me pop pills.”
The silence afterward lasted perhaps half a second?
Then (Name) hit her. Square in the nose.
There was no warning for either woman to reconsider. Her hand moved before the anger had even caught up with it, the impact snapping Lisa’s head back as she stumbled backward before she grabbed at (Name), and whatever thin thread of restraint had remained between them finally disappeared. They collided hard, knocking into the counter before losing their balance and crashing onto the tiled floor.
Someone screamed. Another voice shouted for security.
By the time the bathroom door swung open, both women were tangled on the floor, hair disheveled, clothes pulled askew, each trying to get the upper hand while several horrified staff members rushed forward to separate them. One of the people who had entered froze for a fraction before reaching for the radio clipped to their belt.
“Get security in here!”
“I’ve got them!”
“Don’t fucking touch me!”
The entire thing became chaos within seconds. People crowded the doorway. Someone recognized Lisa. Someone else recognized (Name). A production assistant backed away with wide eyes, whispering into a phone. The bathroom that had been empty moments earlier suddenly became the center of a miniature backstage emergency, with staff trying to pull the two women apart while both continued shouting over one another.
And, because humanity apparently cannot witness a disaster without very quickly turning it into content, someone outside the bathroom had already begun telling people what had happened. Within minutes, the story had transformed from a private argument into the night’s most coveted piece of backstage gossip.
Two women. One man. A screaming match. A physical altercation. And somewhere in the building, a few thousand people were still applauding Michael Jackson’s performance, completely unaware that his unresolved past had just exploded in a bathroom a few corridors away.
The days following the VMAs left a residue neither marriage could quite scrub away. Michael was furious with Lisa for putting her hands on (Name), and while he understood that the argument had escalated on both sides, he could not get past the fact that Lisa had chosen to engage the mother of his child in that way. He made that distinction repeatedly in his own mind, insisting that his anger had nothing to do with lingering feelings and everything to do with Aladdin. She was his son’s mother. She was someone he had once promised to protect. Whatever existed between them now, whatever had been destroyed years earlier, there were certain lines he still believed should never have been crossed. Yet, even as he tried to frame his reaction in terms of fatherhood and basic decency, Lisa began noticing how instinctively protective he remained of (Name), and how quickly his composure changed whenever her name entered a conversation.
Lisa’s suspicion didn’t come from any dramatic confession or one incriminating incident but from accumulation. Michael seemed to know too much about (Name)’s life for someone who insisted their relationship was limited to co-parenting. He knew when she was traveling, which events she had attended, what projects she was working on, and occasionally details he could only have learned through conversations that had nothing to do with Aladdin. Whenever Lisa questioned him, he retreated behind the same explanation: (Name) was Aladdin’s mother, and naturally that meant there would always be some degree of communication between them. It was technically true, which made it all the more frustrating. Lisa could not point to a single thing and call it evidence of an affair. There were no secret meetings, no physical betrayal she could prove, no obvious infidelity. What she could see was the difference in him. He never sounded as though (Name) were simply the mother of his child. There was history in his voice. Familiarity. A tenderness he seemed completely unaware of until someone else pointed it out.
In the following weeks their arguments became increasingly centered around that uncomfortable space between what Michael insisted was true and what Lisa could plainly observe. He continued to reduce the relationship to its most defensible definition, while Lisa became increasingly convinced that the word “just” had never belonged anywhere near (Name). Michael could say that he had moved on. He could insist that his marriage to Lisa existed independently of his past. He could remind her that he and (Name) had been divorced for years. None of it changed the fact that the past remained emotionally active inside him, even if he refused to name it. Eventually, their arguments stopped being about (Name) herself and became about the larger question Lisa had begun asking herself: whether she had married a man who was actually available to her.
The answer became increasingly difficult for both of them to ignore. Their marriage had begun to feel less like a relationship and more like two people occupying the same emotional space while avoiding the obvious emptiness between them. Michael withdrew further into himself, spending longer hours working, retreating into private rooms, finding reasons to be elsewhere whenever the atmosphere at home became too heavy. Lisa stopped pressing as often because she was beginning to understand that there was no question she could ask that would force him to confront something he wasn't ready to admit. Their home became quieter. The arguments became less explosive and more exhausted, which was somehow worse. Anger still implied investment. Silence suggested resignation. Lisa started to contact her ex-husband again, to which, Michael had his suspicions confirmed through a mutual friend.
Meanwhile, (Name)’s life continued moving in a direction that had nothing to do with either of them. She had continued seeing other men casually, without the frantic quality that might have suggested she was trying to replace Michael or prove something to herself. She went to dinners. She accepted invitations. She attended events with people who made her laugh. She allowed herself to be flirted with and, occasionally, to flirt back. Dating no longer felt like an act of rebellion against her past. It was simply something a young woman was allowed to do when she had finally stopped treating her divorce like a permanent state of her love life. She had spent years being someone’s wife, someone’s mother, someone’s partner, and she was beginning to enjoy the novelty of being herself without having to explain what that meant.
Then another magazine appeared, and this one was different than the one he read with Elizabeth months prior.
The photograph on the cover showed (Name) leaving a restaurant beside a man whose face had begun appearing beside hers with increasing frequency—Matthew Lillard. There were no sensational claims about a whirlwind romance, nothing definitive enough to be called a relationship, but the article noted the pattern that had begun developing around them. They had attended several of the same events. They had been photographed together more than once. He had been seen leaving her home. They were no longer simply appearing in the same social circles by coincidence. There was something developing, something sufficiently consistent that even the magazine seemed to recognize the difference between another casual dinner and a relationship that might actually have somewhere to go.
Michael found the magazine and pretended he hadn’t been interested in it. The conversation he has with Elizabeth a while back plaguing his mind—it feels like deja vu.
He sat with it open in his hands far longer than necessary, his eyes moving slowly across the article while his expression remained blank. He read every paragraph. He studied every photograph. He lingered on the ones that showed (Name) laughing, particularly the photographs in which she looked completely comfortable beside this man. There was something about her expression that unsettled him more than the man’s presence itself. She looked happy, genuinely at ease. There was no visible trace of the woman who had once been consumed by their marriage. She looked as though she had reached a point where Michael was no longer the central fact around which her life organized itself.
He kept telling himself the article didn’t bother him.
He turned the page.
Then he went back and looked at the photograph again.
The realization that followed was unpleasant precisely because he could not justify it. He had no claim on her. He had given that up years ago. She was allowed to date whoever she wanted, to fall in love, to marry again, to build an entirely new life if she chose. None of those things belonged to him anymore. He knew that intellectually. What he couldn’t explain was why the possibility of another man becoming familiar with the parts of her he had once considered exclusively his made something dark and possessive twist inside him.
Across the room, Lisa noticed the magazine. She noticed how long he had been holding it. She noticed that he hadn’t turned the page in several minutes.
And, more importantly, she noticed that Michael wasn’t reading the article anymore.
He was staring at the photograph.
For the first time, Lisa didn’t need to ask what he was thinking.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤ November - December 1995.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ╰ㅤ Los Angeles, California.
Thanksgiving arrived with the strange negotiated rhythm that had become normal for Aladdin. He spent part of the holiday with (Name), surrounded by his mother’s warmth, food spread across a table that had been set with far more care than necessary for a little boy who was mostly interested in dessert, and then crossed the city later in the day to spend time with Michael. The arrangement had once seemed impossibly sad to (Name), the idea of dividing holidays into blocks of hours and deciding which parent got which traditions. But by then, she had learned that children did not experience time the way adults did. Aladdin didn’t sit at the table counting how many hours he had left before he had to leave. He was simply happy to be loved in two different homes, and watching that happiness made the arrangement easier to bear. When Michael arrived to pick him up, there was no tension between them. They exchanged the kind of quiet acknowledgment that had become increasingly common, a simple recognition that the day belonged to their son and neither of them intended to make it about the past.
Christmas was more complicated, simply because Christmas had once belonged to all three of them. There were traditions that had survived the divorce accidentally: certain decorations, certain foods, the same ridiculous children’s movies playing in the background while Aladdin tore through wrapping paper with the enthusiasm of someone convinced every box contained the greatest gift ever manufactured. This year, they agreed to spend part of Christmas morning together for his sake. It was surprisingly peaceful. There was no performance of reconciliation and no attempt to pretend they were still a family in the conventional sense. They simply occupied the same room without fighting. Michael sat on the floor helping Aladdin assemble one of his toys while (Name) sat nearby, drinking coffee and watching their son struggle with a piece that clearly did not belong where he insisted it belonged. At one point, Aladdin became frustrated and demanded that both of them help him, and the absurdity of the situation made (Name) laugh. Michael looked over at her, and for a fleeting moment, there was something that felt warm between them. They had spent years doing this together. They knew how to parent the same child. They knew how to communicate without speaking when Aladdin was being particularly difficult. For a few minutes, the history between them seemed less like an open wound and more like something old and complicated that could simply exist without any added drama or attention.
Michael found himself unexpectedly grateful for the memory. He had spent so much of the year thinking about everything he had lost that he had forgotten there were still pieces of the old life that could exist without destroying either of them. Watching (Name) laugh with Aladdin, watching her kneel beside him when he wanted to show her something, watching the three of them occupy the same space without anger, made him briefly understand that divorce had not erased everything they had built. It had only changed what they were allowed to call it. When it was time for him to take Aladdin, there was no bitterness or hesitation. (Name) helped their son into his coat, kissed his cheek, and reminded him to behave for his father. Michael thanked her quietly, their eyes meeting before he turned toward the door with Aladdin’s hand in his.
The contrast became painfully obvious when he returned to Lisa. Their own holiday celebrations were perfectly pleasant on the surface. There were gifts, dinners, photographs, appearances, and all the expected rituals of a couple spending Christmas together. Nothing was outwardly wrong. They could sit beside one another, smile when necessary, exchange presents and participate in conversations with family and friends without anyone realizing how little they were actually sharing. Yet the intimacy had begun to feel absent from everything they did. Michael could be physically present while seeming miles away, and Lisa had stopped trying to pull him back every time he disappeared into his own thoughts. She began noticing how often his attention drifted toward his phone, how easily he became distracted, and how much more animated he seemed when talking about Aladdin than when discussing their life together. Even when (Name) was never mentioned, Lisa could feel the presence of that history sitting quietly between them.
By the end of the holiday season, Lisa had stopped asking herself whether she was imagining the distance. She wasn’t. The marriage had become something neither of them seemed willing to name, but the silence surrounding it had started to feel like an answer. She had once believed that if they loved each other enough, the complications surrounding Michael would eventually become manageable. She had believed there would be a point where the past stopped being present, where his history with (Name) became exactly that: history. Instead, she was beginning to understand that the problem was not necessarily that Michael wanted to return to his former marriage. It was that some part of him had never actually left it emotionally. He had moved forward in every practical sense while carrying pieces of it with him, and Lisa was exhausted from pretending those pieces weren’t taking up space in their relationship.
Christmas ended quietly. There was no dramatic confrontation, no sudden declaration that everything was over. Just two people returning to a home that had begun to feel less like a marriage and more like a place they happened to occupy together. Michael was increasingly withdrawn, retreating into himself whenever the atmosphere became too heavy, while Lisa became increasingly aware that she was waiting for a version of their relationship that might never return. The holidays had given them a temporary illusion of normalcy, but once the decorations came down and the visitors left, there was nothing left to distract them from the truth.
Their marriage was already beginning to unravel. The paperwork would come later. The legal language would eventually give the separation a date, a filing number and a formal ending. But emotionally, the ending had begun long before either of them was willing to call it that.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤ January, 1996.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ╰ㅤ Neverland Ranch - Main Residence. Los Olivos, California.
The separation did not remain private for long. By the first week of January, photographs of Michael and Lisa appearing separately were being accompanied by increasingly confident reports that their marriage was in trouble, and within days the speculation had become an accepted fact in the entertainment press. The moment the separation became public, however, the story acquired a third character. (Name)’s name began appearing in headlines and television segments alongside theirs, usually accompanied by some variation of the same insinuation: that Michael had never gotten over his first wife, that Lisa had finally become tired of competing with his past, and that (Name) was somehow responsible for the collapse of their marriage. The fact that (Name) had been divorced from Michael for years seemed irrelevant. The press had already decided that the story was more interesting if she were positioned at its center.
She was furious—absolutely furious. She had spent the better part of two years rebuilding a life and now strangers were casually assigning her responsibility for the failure of a marriage she had not been a part of. She began seeing her own name in articles she had never spoken to, reading descriptions of her supposed relationship with Michael that bore little resemblance to reality. The more she tried to ignore it, the more absurd it became. Her divorce had already been public enough. She had no desire to become the villain in another woman’s marriage simply because the man at its center had unresolved feelings.
Michael refused to discuss her publicly. Whenever reporters asked whether (Name) had played a role in the separation, he declined to answer. He wouldn’t confirm anything, wouldn’t deny anything, and wouldn’t offer the press even a sentence they could use to close the subject. From his perspective, he was protecting her. He knew that anything he said about their history would be dissected, exaggerated, and turned into another headline, and he had no intention of feeding it. Unfortunately, silence was not interpreted as protection. It was interpreted as confirmation.
(Name) eventually called him and she was far less diplomatic than the reporters had been.
“You need to say something.”
Michael was quiet on the other end. “I’m not talking about you.”
“That’s exactly the problem.”
He sighed. “I don’t want to give them anything.”
“You’re already giving them something.” There was a pause. “They’re saying I broke up your marriage! And you’re letting them!”
“I’m not letting them do anything.” He says through the receiver.
“You are when you refuse to correct them.”
Michael rubbed his forehead, staring blankly at the floor. “If I say your name, they’ll make it worse.”
“They’re already making it worse.” She says. “I don’t need you to defend me by pretending I don’t exist in your life.. I need you to understand that when you say nothing, people fill in the blanks themselves. And they never fill them in with anything kind.”
He knew she was right. He had spent so much of his life trying to control what the public knew about him that he had forgotten there were circumstances where withholding information could create more damage than providing it. His silence was meant to keep (Name) out of the story, but the story had already swallowed her.
On January 18, the divorce filing became official.
The paperwork was filed quietly, but nothing involving Michael remained quiet for long. By that afternoon, the news had spread through the entertainment press and the speculation intensified. The filing gave the rumors a concrete shape. This was no longer merely a troubled marriage or an uncertain separation. It was a legal process now, and once again, (Name)’s name surfaced alongside it.
When she and Michael eventually spoke after the filing, neither seemed to know how to begin.
There was something strangely awkward about hearing him discuss the end of another marriage. She knew she shouldn’t care. She had no claim to his emotional state, no responsibility for what happened between him and Lisa, and certainly no desire to become involved simply because their shared history made everything more complicated.
Still, she worried about him. And she hated that she did.
“You know what everyone is going to say now.”
“I know.”
“They’re going to assume you filed because you want to come back to me.” She almost laughed. “And I’m not going to be your rebound.”
He understood.
She wasn’t talking about dating or talking about whether he would ask her out or whether they would eventually find their way back to one another. She was talking about the emotional vacuum that existed after a marriage ended, the dangerous temptation to reach backward toward something familiar simply because the future was frightening.
When he finally spoke, his voice was soft. “You're not a rebound.”
She looked down at the floor. “Then what am I?”
He had no easy answer, and that silence told her more than she wanted it to.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤ February, 1996.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ╰ㅤ Los Angeles, California.
Michael’s calls to (Name) became more frequent without either of them acknowledging that they had. At first, there was an obvious reason for every one of them. He would call to ask what time Aladdin had eaten, whether he had remembered to bring his favorite pajamas to Neverland, whether he was still insisting on sleeping with the same stuffed animal he had carried everywhere for years. Sometimes it was a question about school or a minor scrape he had gotten during play. Nothing inappropriate. Nothing that could not reasonably be attributed to two divorced parents trying to stay informed about their child. (Name) answered because Aladdin was involved, and that distinction mattered to her. She kept their conversations polite, practical, and deliberately contained. If Michael asked about Aladdin, she answered about Aladdin. If the conversation ended there, she considered it a successful call.
Then the calls began stretching.
A question about Aladdin would somehow become a discussion about something Michael had seen on television. That would become a complaint about an upcoming appearance. That would become him telling her about something that had happened at Neverland, or asking her opinion about a decision he was trying to make, or simply talking because he seemed reluctant to hang up. There were evenings when she would realize several minutes had passed without either of them mentioning their son at all. She began recognizing the pattern before he did. “How’s Aladdin?” had become less of a question and more of an entry point, a socially acceptable excuse for hearing her voice.
Michael rarely seemed to notice when the conversations crossed that invisible line. He would call expecting to discuss something small and then find himself talking to her for nearly an hour. Sometimes he sounded restless before she answered, as though he had been pacing with the phone in his hand and had finally convinced himself that calling her was reasonable. Other times he sounded exhausted, his voice quieter than usual, and she would listen while he talked about his day without ever quite admitting that what he had actually wanted was someone familiar on the other end of the line. There were pauses that lasted too long, times when neither of them spoke and neither seemed particularly eager to end the call. (Name) began noticing those silences. She also began noticing that Michael had stopped finding reasons to apologize for them.
She was careful not to encourage it. She had learned too much about emotional dependence to mistake it for intimacy. There was a dangerous difference between someone wanting you and someone needing you because they had not learned how to stand alone. Michael was freshly divorced, overwhelmed by the press, increasingly isolated, and still trying to figure out what his life looked like without the structure he had built around his marriage. She understood why he reached for something familiar. She simply refused to pretend that familiarity automatically made it healthy.
Still, there were times when she found herself softening despite herself. She knew the sound of his voice when he was genuinely happy. She knew when he was forcing himself to sound fine. She knew when he was tired before he ever admitted it. Years of loving him had left her with instincts she could not simply erase because the marriage was over. The difference now was that she no longer allowed those instincts to dictate her life. She could care about him without making his emotional state her responsibility, and that distinction became increasingly important as Michael began relying on her in ways he had not during their marriage.
Aladdin’s visits to Neverland became another source of contact between them. Michael adored having his son there, and Neverland offered Aladdin an entire world designed around the kind of childhood Michael wanted him to experience. There were rides, animals, enormous gardens, movie nights, games, and enough distractions to keep a child occupied from morning until bedtime. Michael sent (Name) updates constantly at first, almost as though he needed to reassure her that everything was going well. Photographs would arrive of Aladdin riding a carousel, feeding an animal, or asleep beneath an absurd pile of blankets after exhausting himself running around the property. Sometimes Michael called simply because Aladdin had done something funny and he wanted her to hear the story rather than waiting until she picked him up.
Those calls were easier for her to accept.
There was something comforting about hearing Aladdin laughing in the background while Michael talked. Their son remained the one uncomplicated piece of their connection, the one reason they could still occupy the same emotional space without either of them having to explain why. When (Name) visited Neverland to pick him up, she could see how happy Aladdin was there, and that mattered more than her discomfort with the memories the place carried. Michael would walk them toward the entrance, sometimes carrying Aladdin when he was sleepy, and they would exchange a few words before she left. Nothing dramatic happened. Nothing needed to.
But increasingly, Michael seemed reluctant to let those moments end.
He would linger beside her after Aladdin had already climbed into the car. He would find another question to ask, something unnecessary about school or a schedule they had already discussed. Sometimes he would simply stand there, hands tucked into his pockets, looking as though he had forgotten what he had intended to say. (Name) began recognizing that look, too. It was the same hesitation she heard over the phone when he called with no real reason at all.
The irony was that Michael had once spent years insisting that he needed space from her, that her concern felt like pressure, that everyone around him was constantly asking something of him. Now, with the marriage to Lisa ending and the life he had built afterward collapsing around him, he was slowly finding his way back to the person who had once represented the very thing he had tried hardest to escape.
And (Name) noticed.
She simply didn’t yet know what she intended to do about it.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤ March, 1996
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ╰ㅤ Neverland Ranch - Main Residence. Los Olivos, California.
The toys had taken over the living room.
Plastic dinosaurs stood shoulder to shoulder with race cars, brightly colored action figures, and a sprawling train track that had long since abandoned any resemblance to the instructions that came in the box. The afternoon sunlight filtered lazily through the floor-to-ceiling windows, catching on polished hardwood floors littered with tiny pieces that Michael had nearly stepped on twice already. He didn't mind. The mess meant Aladdin was here, and there were very few things in the world Michael treasured more than the weekends he got to spend with his son.
At his age, Aladdin possessed the limitless imagination only children seemed capable of. Every toy had a voice, a backstory, and an important job. One minute they were astronauts rescuing dinosaurs from the moon. The next they were superheroes chasing a runaway train. Michael followed every impossible plot twist with complete commitment, crawling across the floor on his hands and knees, making exaggerated explosion sounds that sent Aladdin into another fit of laughter.
“You gotta save him!” Aladdin squealed, pointing dramatically toward a tiny plastic firefighter lying beneath the coffee table.
“I’m trying!” Michael laughed, stretching his arm beneath it. “He’s stuck! I can’t reach him.”
“You can do it, Daddy!”
The word never failed to soften him.
Daddy.
No screaming fans. No magazine covers. No sold-out stadiums.
Just Daddy.
Michael finally fished the toy out from beneath the table and held it triumphantly above his head.
“I got him!” Aladdin erupted into applause so enthusiastic it was impossible not to laugh with him.
Michael shook his head, smiling to himself as he gathered a few of the newer figures into his lap. They looked expensive. Better made than most of the toys he'd bought in recent months. He turned one over in his hands, studying the packaging that Aladdin had left nearby.
“These are nice,” He murmured.
Aladdin barely looked up, completely engrossed in arranging another battle. “They’re my favorites!”
Michael smiled. “Mommy got you new toys?”
”Nuh.” His answer came so casually that Michael almost missed it.
“No?”
Aladdin continued pushing a toy truck across the carpet. “My other Daddy did!”
...
Everything seemed to stop. The train noises. The laughter.
Even the grandfather clock in the corner of the room seemed to disappear beneath the ringing that suddenly filled Michael's ears. His fingers tightened ever so slightly around the action figure still resting in his palm. He looked at his son, expecting him to laugh, to explain, to correct himself.
Instead, Aladdin simply kept playing.
Children had a remarkable way of saying things without realizing they had done anything at all. Michael forced his mouth into the same gentle smile he'd been wearing all afternoon, though he could already feel it becoming difficult to hold.
“Other Daddy?” He repeated carefully.
“Uh-huh.” The little boy nodded as though it were the most ordinary thing in the world. “He got me the train, too!”
Michael swallowed. The movement felt strangely difficult. “..Did he?”
Another nod. “He said we could get whatever I wanted!”
Michael stared at the toy in his hands, he wasn't hearing the words anymore.
Only those two.
Other Daddy.
Questions crashed into one another so quickly he couldn't separate them. Had she introduced someone? Was this serious? Had Aladdin started calling another man Daddy because someone had asked him to? Or worse.. because it had happened naturally? How long had this been going on? Why hadn't she told him?
He hated himself for how quickly his thoughts spiraled.
He knew children misunderstood things.
He knew they invented names.
He knew they repeated phrases they'd overheard without understanding them. But knowing that did nothing to stop the ache spreading through his chest.
He set the toy down with careful hands. “So..” he began, keeping his voice impossibly soft. “You had fun?”
“The best!” Aladdin beamed.
Michael smiled. “I’m glad.” He meant it.
God, he meant it.
His son deserved every happy memory imaginable.
That didn’t make it hurt any less.
The rest of the afternoon unfolded exactly as it had before, at least on the surface. Michael laughed when Aladdin made ridiculous jokes. He let himself be tackled onto the rug during an imaginary dinosaur attack. He helped build an impossibly tall tower out of plastic blocks only to gasp theatrically when Aladdin knocked it over with a toy airplane. Anyone watching through the windows would have seen a father completely absorbed in his little boy.
Only Michael knew how hard he was working to keep his thoughts from showing on his face.
When Aladdin eventually wandered into the kitchen after announcing he was “starving forever,” Michael remained kneeling on the living room floor.
The silence settled over the house with startling speed.
He stared blankly at the scattered toys for several long moments before slowly rising to his feet. His legs felt heavier than they should have. The cordless phone rested on its charging cradle beside the piano. He crossed the room without thinking, lifted the receiver and dialed a number he still knew by heart despite every reason he had to forget it.
One ring.
Two.
Three.
Four.
The line clicked.
“Hello?” Her voice.
Familiar enough that, for a fleeting second it felt like nothing had changed. Michael closed his eyes because there was going to be no greeting. No polite conversation. No attempt to pretend he'd called for any other reason.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet enough that it nearly disappeared into the receiver. “..Who’s ‘Other Daddy’?”
There was a pause on the other end of the line.
Not the kind that came from a bad connection or someone searching for the right words. Michael could hear the faintest movement on her end, something shifting in the background, and then nothing at all. He opened his eyes and stared at the piano across the room, his free hand curling against his hip.
“Michael..”
“Who is he?”
His voice remained quiet, too quiet.
She exhaled slowly. “What are you talking about?”
“You know what I'm talking about.” His jaw tightened. “Aladdin just told me.”
Another pause.
Michael looked toward the hallway where his son had disappeared into the kitchen. He could hear cabinet doors opening and closing, followed by the unmistakable sound of a child rummaging through things he had been told not to touch.
“He said somebody got him those toys,” Michael continued. “He said his other Daddy got them for him.”
The word sounded worse coming from his own mouth.
He hadn't planned to repeat it. He certainly hadn't planned to give it that much weight. But hearing himself say it made something inside his chest constrict all over again.
“Michael, listen to me.”
“No, I'm listening.” His voice sharpened despite himself. “I'm asking you a question. Who is ‘Other Daddy’?”
“He doesn’t have another father.”
Michael laughed once, but there was no humor in it.
“Then why is he calling somebody else Daddy?”
“What on Earth are you talking about?”
The irritation in her voice finally reached him, and some small, rational part of him recognized that he was being unfair. He knew that. He knew he was calling her without any context, demanding explanations before she'd even had a chance to understand what exactly Aladdin had said.
It didn’t matter.
He had spent years accepting the pieces of fatherhood he was allowed to have. He had accepted the schedules, the distance, the missed mornings, the birthdays he couldn't always attend, the holidays that had to be arranged around his work. He had accepted that there were entire ordinary portions of his son's life happening without him because that was the reality of being Michael Jackson and having a child who needed something resembling a normal childhood.
But there were certain things he had convinced himself belonged to him.
Daddy was one of them.
“Is there somebody you’re seeing?” he asked.
Silence.
Michael's stomach dropped. “Are you?”
“Michael, that’s not what this is about.”
“That sounds like a yes.”
“It’s not a yes.”
“Then tell me no.”
She went quiet again.
Michael turned away from the piano. “Tell me there’s nobody.”
“Why are you doing this?” She asked.
“Because my son told me another man is calling himself his daddy!”
“He said that?” She sounds shocked. “To your face?”
“He said other Daddy.”
“Michael, he’s a little boy.” A sigh.
“I know how old he is.”
“Then you should know better than to take everything he says literally.” That stopped him and Michael’s mouth parted slightly because he knew she was right. That was the worst part.
He knew exactly how children spoke. Aladdin could call a stuffed bear his brother one afternoon and insist the following morning that the same bear was actually his mailman. He could create entire relationships between toys and then forget them by dinner.
Michael rubbed his forehead. “Then what does it mean?”
“It means there’s a man in his life who he likes.”
His eyes closed again. “Somebody you brought into his life.”
“Yes.” The answer was simple.
Michael’s shoulders stiffened. “Does he live with you?”
“No.”
“Does he spend the night?”
“Michael.”
“I’m asking.”
“No.”
“Does Aladdin see him often?”
A pause. “Sometimes.”
Michael stared toward the kitchen. Sometimes. He hated that word. It was vague enough to conceal practically anything.
“How long?”
“What?”
“How long has he been around?”
“I don’t know what you’re trying to accomplish.”
“I’m trying to understand.”
“No, you’re trying to figure out how serious this is.”
Michael went still. Because that was exactly what he was doing. He leaned his hip against the edge of the piano, staring down at the carpet.
“Is it serious?”
She didn't answer and Michael swallowed. “Is he your boyfriend?”
“Don’t do this, please. My therapist said this isn’t good for m—”
Michael’s face hardened as he cut her off. “I have a right to know who’s around my son.”
“I’m not saying you don’t!”
“Then why does this feel like I’s the last person to know?”
“You aren’t! You’d have a fit if you were.”
“Oh, really? Because I didn’t know there was some man buying my kid toys and letting him call him Daddy.”
“He didn’t teach him that! Neither did I!”
Michael stopped. “What?”
“You heard me.”
The anger that had been building inside him faltered slightly. “What does that mean then?”
“It means Aladdin started saying it on his own.”
Michael didn’t speak and the room suddenly felt too large. “He started it on his own?”
“He had to! Because I don’t know anything about this.”
Michael stared at nothing.
The answer should have made him feel better but it didn’t. If anything, it was worse. Because if someone had taught Aladdin to say it, Michael could have been angry at him. He could have blamed somebody for crossing a boundary. He could have told himself that Aladdin didn’t understand what he was saying.
But if Aladdin had simply started calling another man Daddy because that was what felt natural to him.. Michael couldn’t decide which possibility hurt more.
“Does he call him that all the time?”
“I don’t know, Michael. I told you this is news to me..”
Michael’s eyes lowered. “Jesus.”
Another silence.
This time, she sounded tired. “…Matthew is somebody I’ve been seeing..”
Michael’s fingers tightened around the phone. He turned his face toward the windows. Outside, the afternoon was still bright and peaceful. Cars moved down the street. Somewhere nearby, somebody was mowing a lawn. The world had apparently decided that nothing particularly devastating had happened, which Michael found mildly offensive.
“How long?”
“Michael..”
“How long have you been seeing him?”
“A few months.”
He nodded slowly, though she couldn’t see him. A few months. That wasn’t a fling. That wasn’t somebody she’d met last Tuesday and decided to bring around because she was bored. A few months meant Aladdin knew him.
It meant there had been dinners and afternoons and probably weekends Michael hadn’t known anything about. It meant this man had been introduced into the private little world Michael had always felt protective over, and apparently he’d managed to become important enough that a little boy had given him one of the names Michael had spent his entire life believing belonged to him.
“Does Aladdin like him?” She didn’t answer and Michael gave a quiet, humorless laugh. “That’s a yes.”
“Of course he likes him.” Something ugly twisted in his chest. “He’s good with him.”
Michael's expression tightened. “I’m sure he is.”
Michael looked down at the toy firefighter he’d rescued earlier. It was lying on its back near the coffee table, one tiny plastic arm sticking awkwardly into the air. He crouched and picked it up. “Does he love him?”
The question came out so softly that she almost didn't hear it. “What?”
“Aladdin.” Michael swallowed. “Does he love him?”
There was a long silence before she answered. “He cares about him.”
Michael’s face fell. He understood the distinction.
Children loved easily. They loved their teachers, their grandparents, their favorite television characters, dogs they met once at the park. But there were different kinds of love, and Michael knew exactly which one he was afraid of. “Does he know he’s not his father?”
“Yes.”
“Have you explained that?”
“Michael, he knows who his father is.” The reassurance should have helped. Instead, Michael heard the unspoken correction beneath it.
You are his father.
His eyes burned suddenly, and he blinked hard. “Then why did he say other Daddy?”
“Because he’s little!”
Michael looked toward the kitchen again. His son was humming to himself now, completely unaware. and completely happy.
“Michael, You need to calm down.”
“I am calm.”
He rubbed his thumb against the edge of the plastic firefighter. “I just don’t understand.”
“What don’t you understand?” She asked, doing something on the other line.
“How another man got close enough to my son that my son gave him my name.”
There. That was the real thing. Not the toys or the boyfriend. Not even the possibility that she had moved on.
That.
His voice had changed when he said it. The anger had drained out of it, leaving something much more vulnerable underneath. She didn't answer and Michael stared at the little plastic figure in his hand.
“I know I'm not there all the time,” he said quietly. “I know that. I know I miss things. I know sometimes Aladdin needs somebody and I'm somewhere else because I'm working or traveling or doing something I can't get out of. I know that.”
“Michael..”
“But that’s my name.” His voice cracked slightly. “That’s the one thing I don’t want somebody else taking.”
She was quiet as Michael inhaled slowly through his nose and looked toward the ceiling, willing himself back into composure.
“I don’t care if he has somebody else around him,” He said. “I don’t. If you’re happy, then.. fine. If Aladdin likes him, fine. I want him to have good people around him. I do.” The words were sincere, which made what came next harder. “But don’t let another man become his father.”
Michael looked down, his grip loosening around the toy. Then Aladdin’s voice rang out from the kitchen.
“Daddy!” Michael's head lifted. “Daddy, can I have cookies?”
Michael closed his eyes, his expression softened despite everything. “Hold on, baby!” He called back.
Then he brought the receiver closer to his mouth. “I have to go.”
“Michael.”
“What?”
“He’s not replacing you.”
Michael’s eyes opened and didn’t answer.
“He isn’t,” she repeated. “You need to stop thinking that.”
His gaze moved toward the kitchen. Aladdin appeared in the doorway a minute later, holding an open package of cookies in both hands and looking deeply pleased with himself.
Michael stared at him; bare feet and a head of messy hair. Crumbs already on his shirt despite not technically having permission to open the package.
His son.
Michael’s expression softened completely.
“I’ll talk to you later,” he murmured and hung up before she could answer.
Aladdin tilted his head. “Daddy?”
Michael looked at him. “Yeah, baby?”
“Can I have two?”
Michael glanced at the cookies, then at his son. “Two?”
Aladdin nodded solemnly. “Three.”
Michael laughed despite himself. “Three?” He stared at him and there was a beat of silence before he laughed. He couldn’t help it. A real laugh, too, the kind that bent him slightly at the waist and made the heaviness in his chest loosen for the first time since Aladdin had said those two words.
“Come here,” Michael said, opening his arms.
Aladdin ran toward him and Michael caught him around the middle and lifted him off the floor, earning an indignant squeal before Aladdin’s arms wound around his neck.
“Daddy!” Michael closed his eyes, his cheek pressed against his son's hair. He held him longer than necessary. Maybe he was being ridiculous. Maybe he was jealous.
Maybe he was scared of something that wasn’t even happening.
But there was another man in his son’s life now, and Michael would have to learn how to live with that. Aladdin deserved more people who loved him, not fewer.
Michael knew that.
He really did.
Still, as Aladdin curled against him, Michael’s arms tightened slightly. Because whatever else changed, whatever new people came into their lives, whatever names Aladdin eventually invented for the people he loved, Michael wanted his son to always know one thing.
There was only one Daddy.
And Michael wasn’t ready to share that name.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ╰ㅤ (Name)’s POV.
The conversation happens a few days later, after Michael’s initial reaction has cooled enough that the issue can actually be explained to a little boy who thought Santa and the Easter bunny existed. (Name) isn’t trying to make Aladdin feel guilty for liking her friend. She’s trying to explain the difference between someone being important to him and someone being his father, while also making it clear that Michael is sensitive about the name.
The afternoon had been unusually quiet.
Aladdin was sitting cross-legged on the living room rug with a coloring book spread open in front of him, his tongue poking slightly from the corner of his mouth as he concentrated on staying inside the lines. (Name) sat nearby on the sofa, sorting through a small pile of laundry that had accumulated during the week, occasionally glancing down whenever Aladdin asked her to admire something he'd colored.
It had been a few days since Michael’s phone call.
She hadn’t forgotten it.
She also hadn’t forgotten the way his voice had changed when he'd talked about Aladdin calling somebody else Daddy. Michael could be possessive in ways he didn’t always recognize, particularly where his son was concerned. It wasn’t necessarily about distrusting her or even disliking the man she had been seeing. It was something much more basic than that.
Michael wanted to feel irreplaceable.
And, unfortunately for everyone involved, kids had no concept of emotional landmines.
She folded another little shirt and set it aside. “Aladdin?”
“Mhm?” He didn't look up.
She watched him color a dinosaur’s tail purple. “Do you remember what you called Mommy’ friend the other day?”
His crayon stopped and Aladdin looked up slowly. “Which friend?”
She gave him a look.
He immediately knew. “The other Daddy?”
Her eyebrows rose slightly. “Yeah.. that one.”
Aladdin’s attention returned to the dinosaur. She set the piece of clothing in her lap and leaned forward, resting her forearms against her knees.
“I wanted to talk to you about that.”
“Okay.” He didn’t sound worried. He sounded mildly interested, which was very much a child’s response to a conversation that his mother had clearly decided was important.
(Name) tried not to smile. “You know you only have one Daddy, right?”
Aladdin nodded. “Uh huh.. my Daddy's name is Michael.”
“Right.” She reached down and gently smoothed his hair away from his forehead. “Daddy Michael is your daddy. Nobody else is your daddy, okay?”
Aladdin’s brow furrowed. “Why?”
“Because that’s just how it is.” She paused, trying to find a way to explain something complicated without turning it into a lecture. “You can have lots of people who love you. You can have Mommy’s friends, Daddy’s friends, grandparents, aunties, uncles, people who take care of you and play with you. But that doesn’t mean they’re your mommy or daddy.”
Aladdin considered this while coloring another section of the dinosaur. “So he’s Mommy's friend?”
“Yes.”
“Not my friend?”
She smiled. “He can be your friend too.”
Aladdin seemed satisfied with that. “Okay.”
“But,” she added.
He looked up with a pout. The dreaded but. Children could hear a conjunction and suddenly know they were about to be subjected to legislation. She pointed gently at him.
“You shouldn’t call Mommy's friends Daddy.”
Aladdin’s face scrunched. “Why?”
“Because Daddy doesn’t like it.” That got his attention.
His crayon lowered. “Why?”
She hesitated.
Because Daddy is jealous.
Because Daddy spent half a phone call trying to pretend he wasn’t jealous.
Because your father has a complicated relationship with sharing anything that makes him feel like he can be replaced.
None of those were particularly useful explanations for a child.
“Because Daddy is your daddy,” she said instead. “And sometimes when you call somebody else Daddy, it makes him feel upset.”
Aladdin looked genuinely puzzled. “But I don’t mean Daddy Michael.”
“I know.” She reached over and gently tapped his knee. “I know you don't mean him. And I know you probably don’t understand why it bothers him. But you need to remember that Daddy is Daddy Michael’s special name with you. So don’t give it to Mommy’s friends, okay?”
Aladdin stared down at his coloring book his little eyebrows knitted together. “But..”
She knew she was about to regret beginning this conversation. “But what?”
Aladdin put the purple crayon down and turned around to face her properly.
“Mommy kisses him.”
(Name) went still. Gagged.
“What?”
Aladdin’s expression was perfectly innocent. “Mommy kisses Maffew like she does Daddy.”
There was a silence and she stared at him and.. Aladdin stared back.
She slowly lowered the shirt in her hands. “Aladdin.”
“What, mommy?”
“Why are you paying attention to who Mommy is kissing?”
His shoulders lifted. “I dunno..”
She watched her son, trying to decide whether to laugh, panic, or immediately revise her entire understanding of how observant children were.
Apparently, they saw everything. Everything.
And then they stored it away until the most inconvenient possible moment, because apparently childhood came with its own little intelligence agency.
(Name) cleared her throat. “Okay. Well, Mommy kissing somebody doesn’t make him your daddy.”
Aladdin’s forehead wrinkled. “But you kiss Daddy.”
“Yes.” Used to, but yes.
“And you kissed him.”
“Yes.”
“So.. he’s Daddy too?”
“No.” She closed her eyes briefly and could already feel the headache forming. “Aladdin, people can kiss each other without being married or being somebody's mommy or daddy.”
He considered that. “Why?”
“Because adults are complicated.” He waited and stared at him. “That is the explanation.”
Aladdin didn’t look convinced.
She sighed and shifted closer, pulling him gently between her knees so she could face him. “Listen to me. Mommy likes him. He’s Mommy’s friend, and maybe Mommy likes him in a special way. But that doesn’t make him your daddy. And it doesn’t mean you have to call him Daddy just because Mommy kisses him.”
Aladdin’s little face remained serious as she brushed her thumb over his cheek.
“Daddy wants you to know that he’s your daddy. He doesn’t want you to think somebody else is taking his place.”
Aladdin looked toward the floor.
“Okay?” She repeated, gentler this time. “Sometimes grown ups get feelings that are bigger than what they need to be.”
Aladdin thought about this then he asked, “Like when Daddy gets mad when Mommy talks to Uncle Jackie?”
Her eyes widened and Aladdin’s face remained completely serious, she inhaled slowly. “That—we’re not going to talk about that right now.”
“Why?”
“Because Mommy said so.”
Aladdin frowned and she reached for his face and gently squeezed his cheeks together. “Stay out of grown up business.”
“Mommy!”
“You're a very nosy little boy.” She boops his nose.
“I’m not!”
“You are the nosiest little boy I've ever met.” Aladdin squirmed in her arms, laughing. And before long, he's back to coloring and she's folding clothes.
“..Mommy?”
(Name) closed her eyes. “What, baby?”
“Does Daddy know you kiss him?”
Her head dropped back against the sofa. “Aladdin. Color your dinosaur.”
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤ April - May, 1996.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ╰ㅤ Los Angeles, California.
For a while, (Name) decided the only way to keep the boundaries from becoming blurred was to make them painfully simple. If Michael called about Aladdin, she answered. If he wanted to know about school, she told him. If there was a change in the schedule, a doctor's appointment, a birthday invitation, or anything else that directly concerned their son, she was cooperative without hesitation. Everything else was different. If he asked how she was doing, she gave him a polite answer and redirected the conversation. If he mentioned something about his divorce, she told him she hoped everything worked out and changed the subject. If he called without an obvious reason, she found one for him.
“Is something wrong with Aladdin?” became her quiet way of forcing him to admit why he had actually called. More often than not, he would hesitate, realize she had caught him, and find some insignificant question to ask before ending the conversation. She wasn’t cruel about it—wasn’t punishing him. She simply refused to become his emotional landing place while he was still trying to figure out what his life looked like without Lisa.
Michael noticed the distance. He pretended he didn't. That was becoming one of his more reliable habits. He told himself that he respected her boundaries, that she was simply busy, that their relationship was naturally different now that they were divorced and both had their own lives. Yet he found himself checking the phone more often than he wanted to admit. There were times when he would reach for it automatically before remembering that he had no reason to call her. He missed the ease of their conversations. He missed hearing her laugh without having to earn it through a conversation about their son. He missed being able to tell her something insignificant simply because she was the first person who came to mind. None of those feelings were particularly convenient, so he gave them other names. Loneliness. Stress. Habit. Nostalgia. Anything except what they actually were.
They were forced into each other’s orbit again when Aladdin had another school function that required both parents to attend. It was nothing particularly glamorous, just another afternoon surrounded by parents, teachers, and children, but the circumstances made it strangely intimate. They had to sit beside one another during the presentation, exchange quiet comments about Aladdin’s behavior, and coordinate afterward when he insisted on showing both of them the same drawing approximately fourteen times. Somewhere in the middle of it, something shifted. They stopped thinking about how carefully they were supposed to behave and simply fell back into the old rhythm that had once existed between them. (Name) made an observation about one of the teachers, Michael understood what she meant without requiring an explanation, and she laughed when he gave her that familiar look he had used for years whenever they silently agreed about something. For a few minutes, it felt effortless. Not like they were married again, but like the divorce had temporarily stopped being the most important thing in the room.
Michael seemed startled by how natural it felt. He looked at her while she was laughing, and something in his expression changed. He began to say something, then stopped. She noticed the hesitation and turned toward him, waiting. He looked as though he had reached the edge of a sentence he had been carrying around for weeks and suddenly realized that saying it aloud might change everything. His mouth opened slightly, then closed again.
“What?” She asked.
He shook his head and gave her a small smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. “Nothing.”
She didn't believe him, but she didn’t press. Whatever he had almost said, he had decided he wasn’t ready to deal with the consequences of saying it.
What concerned her more was how unstable he seemed becoming. There were days when Michael appeared perfectly composed, charming and professional as ever, and others when his mood seemed to change without warning. He was exhausted more often. Distracted. Increasingly sensitive to criticism. There was a restlessness underneath him that (Name) recognized because she had seen it before, long before their marriage had ended. She knew the difference between someone being upset and someone quietly beginning to come apart. She didn't know whether she had the right to intervene anymore, and that uncertainty frightened her almost as much as his behavior did. She could see the warning signs without being willing to step back into the role of caretaker, and for the first time she understood just how cruel that position could be. Caring about someone did not automatically mean she had to save them.
Meanwhile, Michael’s divorce from Lisa became increasingly ugly in the public eye. What had begun as quiet speculation became a steady stream of reports about disagreements, lawyers, competing narratives, and the reasons behind their separation. Every new article seemed to resurrect the same old question: was (Name) involved? Commentators began revisiting Michael’s previous marriage as though it were evidence in the current one, dragging photographs and old interviews back into circulation and treating every interaction between the former couple as proof that something had been happening behind the scenes. Michael continued refusing to discuss (Name), but his silence only seemed to make the speculation more persistent.
Then Lisa gave an interview.
She never directly accused (Name) of anything. But. There were enough carefully worded comments about Michael’s unresolved past, the difficulty of being married to someone whose previous relationship remained emotionally complicated, and the presence of “another woman” in the background of their lives for the press to do the rest. Within hours, the interview was being summarized in headlines that made the implication far less subtle than Lisa's actual words had been. (Name)’s name was once again everywhere.
She was livid.
She had spent so long refusing to participate in their drama, separating herself from Michael’s marriage and repeatedly making it clear that whatever happened between him and Lisa belonged to them. Yet somehow she was still being dragged into it. She hadn’t married Lisa. She hadn’t filed for divorce from Lisa. She hadn’t given interviews about their relationship. She wasn’t responsible for whatever had happened between them, and she was becoming increasingly resentful that everyone seemed determined to make her responsible anyway.
The worst part was that she knew Michael’s silence would probably continue.
He would avoid the cameras. He would refuse to answer. He would say nothing about her, believing that he was protecting her, while the press continued filling the silence with whatever version of the story sold the most magazines. And she was beginning to understand that there was no clean way out of it. The more Michael tried to keep her separate from his divorce, the more obvious it became that she was still occupying some kind of emotional space in his life.
That realization unsettled her far more than the headlines did. She could handle being misunderstood by strangers. She could handle gossip. What she wasn't sure she could handle was the growing suspicion that Michael's inability to let her remain entirely in the past was no longer something she could dismiss as nostalgia.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤ June, 1996.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ╰ㅤ Beverly Hills, California.
It happened outside a charity luncheon in Beverly Hills.
(Name) had barely stepped beyond the entrance when the familiar burst of camera shutters erupted around her. Security instinctively closed in, guiding her toward the waiting car parked at the curb, but she was used to this choreography by now. Smile. Keep walking. Answer what she wanted to answer. Ignore the rest. Most of the questions were harmless enough, asking about Aladdin, whether she had new music coming, or what projects she had planned for the summer. She answered a few with easy professionalism, never slowing her pace, until one voice rose above the others.
“(Name)! Is it getting serious with Matthew?”
She hesitated, but she nodded.
It lasted no more than a heartbeat, but it was enough for every photographer to notice. The questions multiplied, overlapping one another from every direction.
“Is he your boyfriend?”
“Have you introduced him to Aladdin?”
“Is this your happiest relationship since the divorce?”
Security gently urged her forward again, but she turned with a small, amused smile rather than the practiced expression celebrities usually wore. There wasn't any hesitation in her face now, only a quiet warmth that hadn't existed in public for a very long time.
“What do you like most about him?”
She laughed softly, almost to herself, as though the answer had arrived before she’d had the chance to think about it.
“He makes me laugh.”
The words came so naturally that they caught even her by surprise. She looked down, shaking her head with an embarrassed smile before glancing back toward the reporters.
“I don’t know..” She admitted. “Life got really heavy for a while.”
Her smile softened. “He makes it feel light again.”
Another reporter called after her. “Do you love him?”
She only laughed, ducked into the waiting car, and closed the door without answering, leaving the question hanging in the air as the vehicle pulled away.
By the following morning, the clip was everywhere. Entertainment programs replayed it on an endless loop, magazine columnists commented on how relaxed she looked, and television hosts remarked that it was the happiest they’d seen her since before her divorce. The quote itself wasn’t particularly remarkable. It wasn’t dramatic or scandalous. If anything, its simplicity was what made people believe it. She hadn't spoken about wealth, romance, or grand gestures. She had simply smiled and said, He makes me laugh.
Michael saw the interview before noon.
He hadn’t intended to watch it more than once. Instead, he replayed the clip until he could anticipate the exact minute her smile appeared. It wasn’t the words that stayed with him. It was the expression on her face before she spoke them. There was an ease about her that he hadn’t seen in years, the kind of unguarded happiness that couldn’t be manufactured for cameras because it arrived before she’d remembered she was being watched. He sat motionless, the remote forgotten in his hand, realizing with a dull ache that he couldn't remember the last time he'd made her smile like that.
Not the tired smiles she’d worn near the end of their marriage when she was trying to reassure him everything would somehow be alright. Not the polite smiles they’d exchanged after the divorce for Aladdin’s sake. A real one. Effortless. The kind that reached her eyes before she even seemed aware she was smiling. Once upon a time, that had been him. Somewhere between rehabilitation, lawyers, silence, Lisa, and all the small decisions that slowly became permanent ones, he had stopped being the person who made her life feel lighter.
Now somebody else did.
For reasons he couldn’t fully explain, that realization hurt far more than learning she was dating at all. It wasn’t simply jealousy. It was grief. Because laughter wasn’t something people gave to strangers. It belonged to the people they felt safest around. Watching the interview, Michael understood something he had spent months refusing to acknowledge.
He was no longer the safest place in her world.
Michael told himself it was because the press refused to let it die, replaying the same twenty second clip across entertainment programs and splashing the same smiling photograph across magazine covers for weeks afterward. Every time he walked past a television, someone seemed to be discussing Matthew. Every checkout line carried another headline speculating about whether the relationship had become serious. He tried not to look. Tried not to read them. Yet somehow, every article found its way into his hands anyway. He would skim a headline out of idle curiosity, only to realize several minutes later that he'd read the entire piece, searching between the lines for something he couldn't have explained if anyone had asked.
The fear arrived quietly.
It wasn't the dramatic sort that announced itself all at once. It crept in through ordinary thoughts, through moments that should have meant nothing. He would wonder what she was doing that evening and, for the first time, the answer no longer felt predictable. She might be having dinner with Matthew. She might be watching a movie with him after Aladdin had gone to bed. She might be introducing him to friends, laughing with him in ways Michael had once believed belonged only to them. The life she was building no longer paused when he wasn't there. It continued without him, and the more permanent Matthew became, the more Michael found himself confronting a truth he had spent months avoiding. She wasn't simply recovering from their marriage anymore.
She was moving beyond it.
The phone calls became more frequent after that.
They almost always came late at night, after he knew Aladdin would already be asleep. Sometimes he'd convince himself he had a reason to call. He’d think of a question about school or wonder whether Aladdin had mentioned something during the week. Other nights, he dialed her number before he’d even settled on an excuse. She would answer after a few rings, her voice quieter than usual, softened by the late hour and he often said nothing at all. He simply listened, comforted by the fact that she had answered.
One night, after several weeks of the same strange routine, she finally broke the silence. “Michael?”
“..Yeah.”
“Is something wrong?”
“No.”
Another pause settled between them. “Is this about Aladdin?”
“..No.”
She sighed softly. “Then why do you keep calling me?”
He closed his eyes. And trust, he had asked himself the same question countless times. “I..” He stopped, searching for an answer that refused to come. “I don’t know.”
The confession lingered between them. “You don’t know? And you call me three or four nights a week?” And what she didn't want to say was Matthew was getting a little concerned.
“I'm sorry, really..”
“You sit there without saying anything.”
“I know.”
“So why are you calling?”
He rubbed a hand across his face, exhausted by the truth before he even spoke it. “I don't know.” There was no manipulation in his voice, only confusion.
He genuinely didn’t understand what he was looking for each time he reached for the phone. He only knew that hearing her voice settled something inside him for a little while, and when the line went dead, the quiet in his house somehow felt even louder than before.
(Name) sat in silence, turning his words over in her mind. There had been a time when she would have stayed on the phone until sunrise if she’d thought it might help him. She would have coaxed him into talking, patiently untangled every fear he couldn’t name, and quietly carried pieces of him he no longer seemed able to hold himself. That instinct still flickered somewhere deep inside her, but it no longer dictated her choices.
“Michael,” She said gently, “You can’t keep calling me because you’re lonely.. you have to find someone else to talk to.”
Another long silence. “..Yeah.”
She wished he sounded like he believed it.
Outside of those calls, Michael was becoming increasingly isolated. Friends noticed that conversations with him rarely stayed on one subject for long anymore. Family dinners passed with him sitting quietly at the edge of the room, contributing only when someone spoke to him directly. He seemed distracted even when he smiled, forever somewhere else in his own thoughts. Some days he talked endlessly, unable to let a conversation end. Other days he barely spoke at all. His moods shifted without warning, his patience seemed thinner than it had ever been, and he carried around this restless energy of someone who couldn't find comfort anywhere, even in his own home.
Elizabeth noticed it before anyone said it aloud. She watched him drift through afternoons that should have been beautifully ordinary for a superstar as as himself, catching him staring absently out windows or falling silent in the middle of conversations. More than once she overheard him mention (Name) without realizing he had done it, bringing her into stories that had never been about her in the first place. It wasn’t obsessive, at least she didn't think it was. It was subtler than that. She had become the reference point his mind kept returning to, as though every road eventually curved back in her direction.
The people who loved him began exchanging worried glances when he wasn't looking. None of them were concerned because they believed he still loved his former wife.
They were concerned because he no longer seemed to know how to exist without reaching for her, even after she had spent two years teaching herself how to live without him.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤ August 10, 1996.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ╰ㅤ Los Angeles, California.
The divorce was finalized quietly.
After months of negotiations, headlines and private conversations that had slowly drained whatever remained of the marriage, the paperwork was signed, filed, and completed with the same cold detachment that had defined much of the process. A marriage that had once existed in front of millions of people was reduced to signatures on documents and a date stamped onto a page.
August 20.
Michael had spent months believing that reaching the end would bring some kind of relief. He thought the uncertainty would disappear. He thought the constant tension, the arguments, the questions about whether the marriage could survive, would finally quiet once there was nothing left to fight over. He had imagined waking up afterward and feeling lighter, as though closing one door would somehow make the confusion behind it disappear.
Instead, he woke up feeling exactly the same. The silence in the house felt heavier than before.
He sat alone for a long time, staring at nothing in particular, waiting for some kind of emotional release that never came. There was no sudden clarity. No peace. No moment where everything finally made sense. He had spent months telling himself that the pain he felt was because of the marriage ending, because of the pressure surrounding it, because of everything that had gone wrong.
But with the marriage officially over, the truth became impossible to avoid.
Ending things with Lisa had not changed what he felt for (Name). It had not erased the years they had shared. It had not erased the memories or erased the way his mind still searched for her whenever something felt unbearable.
He had been unconsciously waiting for something to shift. He had convinced himself that once he was no longer tied to Lisa, once the complications were gone, he would finally understand what he wanted. Instead, all he felt was the same ache he had been carrying long before the divorce was finalized.
The problem had never been Lisa. The problem was that he had lost someone he had never truly allowed himself to grieve.
He had spent so much time trying to justify his choices, trying to convince himself that he had done what he needed to do, that he had avoided the simplest truth: he missed (Name). He missed the familiarity of her. The ease of her. The person who had known him before everything became complicated. The person who had been there before the world started telling him who he was.
But missing someone didn’t mean they were waiting. That was the part he struggled with most. Because while Michael remained caught between regret and longing, (Name) had continued moving forward. She wasn’t sitting at home hoping he would eventually figure things out. She wasn’t watching the news for signs that he had changed his mind or preserving the space he had left behind.
She had built a life beyond him.
She had Aladdin.
She had her career.
She had friends, routines, and a sense of peace that had taken years to rebuild. She went to events without wondering whether Michael would be there. She made plans without considering how they would affect him. She laughed freely. She dated someone who made her happy. She existed in a world where Michael was no longer the center of every decision.
And that realization was devastating because it meant there was no grand gesture waiting for him where everything could simply return to the way it was.
There was no going back to before.
He had assumed, somewhere deep down, that because their connection had been so significant, it would remain untouched by time. That no matter how far apart they drifted, some invisible thread would always keep them tied together.
But threads could stretch. They could weaken and sometimes they could break. Michael had spent years believing that losing someone meant they left. Now he was realizing something much more painful.
Sometimes people stayed. Sometimes they loved you. Sometimes they gave you every opportunity to choose them.
And sometimes, after you failed to, they learned how to live without you.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤ September, 1996.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ╰ㅤ Los Angeles, California.
In the hills above Los Angeles, the afternoon settled lazily across the Tuscan estate she had spent nearly a year making her own.
The house no longer felt unfamiliar.
When she'd first walked through its heavy wooden doors, she'd struggled to imagine herself living there. Every room had echoed. Every hallway had reminded her of another house, another marriage, another life she'd mistaken for permanence. Now the stone floors carried the comfortable sounds of everyday living. Children's toys sat abandoned beneath an antique console table. Fresh flowers rested in handmade ceramic pitchers on the kitchen island. Framed photographs had gradually filled shelves that had once stood empty. Music drifted softly from somewhere deeper inside the house, competing with the distant splash of the pool just beyond the open French doors.
She sat cross-legged on the living room rug in a pair of linen trousers and an oversized sweater, helping Aladdin fit the last few pieces into a dinosaur puzzle spread across the Persian carpet. Sunlight poured through the tall windows, warming the room until it smelled faintly of jasmine drifting in from the garden outside. She laughed quietly when he proudly forced a piece into the wrong place, gently turning it in his small hands before helping him find where it actually belonged.
Her phone began to ring and she glanced toward the coffee table. An unfamiliar number and for a minute, she considered letting it go to voicemail.
Instead, she reached for it. “Hello?”
No one answered then a man cleared his throat. “..Hi... is this (Name)?”
She frowned. “..Yes.”
“My name is John. I’m Michael’s manager.”
Everything inside her went still.
The smile disappeared from her face so quickly it startled her. She rose instinctively to her feet, absently brushing invisible lint from her trousers as she stepped away from the puzzle.
“Just one second, sweetheart,” She told Aladdin gently, forcing a reassuring smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes before walking toward the open terrace doors. By the time she stepped outside beneath the warm California sun, her heart had already begun to race. “..Is he alright?”
The hesitation on the other end of the line answered the question before the man ever spoke. “He.. had a difficult morning.”
"What happened?"
“We’re on a commercial shoot.” His voice carried the unmistakable discomfort of someone making a phone call he knew he shouldn't have to make. “He’s locked himself in his dressing room.”
Her grip tightened around the phone. “And..?”
Another pause. “He won’t come out.”
She stared across the rolling hills beyond her property, watching the breeze stir the cypress trees lining the driveway. “What does that have to do with me?”
The production manager exhaled quietly. “..He’s asking for you.”
Silence. “He keeps saying he won't come out until you’re here.”
She closed her eyes.
Behind her, through the open French doors, she could hear Aladdin humming softly to himself as he continued working on the puzzle, completely unaware that the life she'd fought so hard to leave behind had just called her from the other side of the hills.
When she finally spoke, her voice was calm.
“I’m not the person to call.”
“No.” The honesty landed heavier than any apology could have.
She rested one hand against the warm stone balustrade overlooking the gardens, breathing slowly as she looked out over the home she’d built from the wreckage of another life. It occurred to her then that this was the first time Michael had reached for her since she’d finally stopped letting him have access to her.
John spoke again apologetically.
“..Would you be willing to talk to him?”
She didn’t answer.. because despite everything.. some voices remained instinctive, even after they no longer belonged to your life.
Finally, she closed her eyes. “..Text me the address.”
John was quiet for a beat before answering, his voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you.”
The call ended, leaving her standing alone on the terrace with the phone still loose in her hand. The late afternoon breeze drifted through the gardens, carrying the familiar scent of lavender and citrus blossoms as it rustled the hedges lining the property. For the first time since the divorce, she turned her back on the life she’d built and walked willingly toward the one she’d sworn she would never return to.
The drive across Los Angeles stirred memories. Studio lots hidden behind towering security gates. Anonymous beige buildings that concealed million dollar productions behind unremarkable walls. Endless soundstages and parking lots that had once felt as familiar as her own driveway. She had known this world intimately once. Now it felt like someplace she’d visited in another lifetime, familiar enough to recognize but distant enough to no longer belong. Aladdin sat quietly in the backseat, absentmindedly swinging his feet against the leather seat. He only asked once where they were going.
“To see Daddy?”
She caught his eyes in the rearview mirror. “Just—its quiet time, baby. Okay?”
By the time she reached the studio gates, someone was already waiting. The production manager hurried toward her before she’d even shut off the engine, relief written so plainly across his face that it was painful to look at.
“Thank you for coming.”
She stepped out, smoothing a wrinkle from the front of her blouse that hadn’t been there to begin with before opening the rear door for Aladdin.
“Stay right beside me, sweetheart.” He nodded without complaint, slipping his small hand into hers as naturally as breathing.
Only then did she turn back toward John. “Where is he?”
He pointed toward one of the nearby soundstages. “In his dressing room.”
“..Is he safe?”
A nod. “He hasn’t come out.”
“Okay..”
“He hasn’t said much since I spoke to you.” John hesitated, glancing briefly toward the building. “Just.. he keeps asking if you’re here.”
Something in her chest tightened.
Her gaze drifted toward the open soundstage doors where crew members lingered in clusters. Their conversations stopped the instant they noticed her approaching. Heads turned, eyes followed and no one spoke. They simply looked.. relieved. As though her arrival meant someone else had finally taken responsibility for a problem none of them knew how to solve. She hated that feeling. It reminded her far too much of the life she’d left behind.
John led them quietly through winding production corridors lined with costume racks, tangled coils of cable, makeup stations, and crew members who instinctively stepped aside without being asked. The usual organized chaos of a working set had vanished, replaced by an uneasy stillness that seemed to stretch through every hallway. Even Aladdin appeared to sense it, his small hand tightening around hers as curious eyes wandered over the unfamiliar surroundings.
At last, John stopped outside a plain white dressing room door. Two security guards stood several feet away, their presence creating an odd bubble of privacy in the otherwise busy hallway.
“He’s in there,” John said quietly.
She stared at the door. It looked painfully ordinary, yet everyone on the set had apparently spent the better part of an hour staring at it. “..Has anyone spoken to him?”
“He answers occasionally.”
“And he still won’t come out?”
John gave a quiet shake of his head. “No.”
Silence settled over the hallway and she crouched slightly, brushing a gentle hand through Aladdin’s hair. “Sweetheart, would you stay here with Mr. Branca for just a minute?”
He looked from her to the closed door before nodding. “..Okay.”
She smiled faintly, squeezed his shoulder and let his hand slip from hers before walking the remaining few steps alone. Every footfall echoed softly against the polished floor until she found herself standing directly before the door.She simply looked at it, struck by how something so mundane could suddenly feel so heavy.
Slowly, she raised her hand and her knuckles hovered for a heartbeat before tapping softly against the wood.
Once. Then twice.
The hallway fell completely silent.
She swallowed. “...Michael?”
Nothing.
After another moment, she tried again, lowering her voice until it was meant only for the man on the other side. “...It’s me... it’s (Name).”
For a long while, nothing happened. The hallway remained perfectly still. No footsteps. No voices. Just the faint hum of the air conditioning and the quiet anticipation of everyone lingering several yards away, pretending not to listen. Then came the soft click of the lock turning. So quiet she convinced herself she’d imagined it. The door eased open only a few inches, just enough for her to slip through after giving John one reassuring glance over her shoulder. The door clicked shut behind her, sealing her inside.
The dressing room was swallowed in darkness. Heavy blackout curtains covered every window, leaving only the thin strip of light beneath the bathroom door and the faint glow outlining the entrance she’d just come through. It took several seconds for her eyes to adjust, but even then the room remained little more than shadows. Garment racks stood like looming silhouettes, the makeup mirror sat dark in the corner, and somewhere deeper inside she could hear him breathing. Slow. Uneven. Too loud against the silence. A knot tightened in her stomach.
“...Michael?” she called softly. “What’s going on? Why do you have the lights off?” No answer came. Assuming the darkness itself might be making whatever this was worse, she reached toward the wall beside the door, fingertips searching for the light switch. She found it—or almost did.
Before she could press it, another hand wrapped gently around her wrist warm but unsteady as her breath caught. She turned toward the touch. For the first time she could just barely make out his outline standing only inches away, nearly invisible against the darkness.
“..Don’t.” His voice was scarcely more than a whisper. He released her wrist a moment later and she slowly lowered her hand.
“..Talk to me.”
Silence stretched between them before he finally spoke.
“They think I’m a monster.” The words barely carried across the room. She frowned.
“..Who?”
“Everyone.” His breathing faltered. “I heard them. They don’t think I could tell.. but I heard them.” A hollow, humorless laugh escaped him. “I scare them because I don't look right..” His voice cracked on the last sentence, and another long silence settled over the room before he asked, so quietly it hardly sounded like him at all, “..Are you scared of me too?”
She could only look at him, struggling to reconcile the quiet voice in front of her with the frantic phone call that had brought her here. Even in the darkness she could make out the faint rise and fall of his shoulders, the uneven rhythm of his breathing, the way every inhale seemed to catch before it could become a full breath. Whatever had happened before she’d arrived hadn’r stayed behind on the set. It had followed him into this room, wrapped itself around him, and settled into every inch of his posture. He looked exhausted, but not from work. He looked like someone who had spent the last hour fighting himself.
“..What on earth are you talking about?”
He didn’t answer but instead, a quiet laugh escaped him, brittle enough to break apart before it had fully left his throat. “The commercial.”
His voice came out rough and strained. “They wanted..” He swallowed hard, the words sticking. “They said the lighting wasn’t matching. They kept talking about my face.”
She remained silent, letting him continue.
“They brought out makeup.” His breathing hitched. “Not.. normal makeup.”
He lowered his gaze to his hands, flexing his fingers as though he could still feel the brush against his skin.
“They wanted to darken my skin.” The words lingered heavily between them. “And..” Another pause stretched painfully long. “Someone said my nose wasn’t reading right on camera. They started talking about putty. About making it look.. fuller.”
His jaw clenched so tightly she heard his teeth click together. “They kept saying, ‘It'll look more natural.’” His voice cracked on the final word. “Natural.”
He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes until his knuckles turned white.
“I’ve spent years having people tell me I don’t look right. Too dark. Too light. Too thin. Too strange. Too much surgery. Not enough surgery.” He released a shaky breath that sounded as though it hurt to let go. “Every time I walk into a room somebody has an opinion about my face.”
Silence settled over the room again, broken only by the faint hum of the ventilation above them. “When they brought out the putty..” He whispered, “..I just kept thinking.. I can’t fix this anymore.”
His shoulders folded further inward, every inch of him collapsing into himself. “I don't even know what they want me to look like.”
Another long pause passed before he spoke again.
“So I came in here.” Almost unconsciously, his hand drifted toward the uneven ends of his hair. “I found a pair of scissors.” And his voice became so small. “I just.. started cutting.”
The confession lingered in the darkness between them. She didn't answer, there were no words capable of undoing what had happened before she’d walked through that door. Nothing she could say would erase the comments, the makeup brushes, the putty sitting on a countertop somewhere outside this room. All she could do was stand beside him.
“..Is that why you won’t let anyone turn the lights on?”
He nodded once. “I didn’t want them to see.” His hands tightened into fists. “They were already looking at me like I was crazy.” He swallowed. “I couldn’t let them see what I’d done.”
Neither of them moved. The darkness no longer felt suffocating. It felt protective, wrapping itself around him like a blanket, concealing him from the eyes that had spent the day dissecting every feature of his face. She knew him well enough to understand this wasn't about hiding from everyone else. It was about hiding from the version of himself he imagined reflected in their expressions.
She stepped a little closer, careful not to crowd him. “..Can I please turn on the lights, Michael?”
He didn’t respond, his head remained bowed and breathing uneven as though agreeing to something so simple required him to confront every fear that had driven him into this room.
“I won’t laugh,” she said gently. “I’m not here to judge you.”
Another long silence passed, then too faint to notice, he nodded. “..Okay.”
She waited one more heartbeat to make sure he wasn’t retreating again before slowly reaching behind her. This time, nothing stopped her. The switch clicked beneath her fingertips, and warm light gradually filled the dressing room. It softened the shadows instead of chasing them away, revealing the room piece by piece until her eyes finally settled on him.
The breath caught painfully in her throat.
His pretty curls were gone.
Not entirely, but enough that the familiar silhouette she’d known for years had vanished. The carefully shaped layers he’d spent so long growing had been hacked away in uneven sections that zigzagged around his head without any pattern or purpose. Some pieces had been cut so close they barely covered his scalp, while others jutted outward where the scissors had slipped through trembling hands. Dark curls littered the bathroom floor around his shoes, clung stubbornly to his shirt, and gathered around the sink where a pair of silver scissors still rested exactly where he’d abandoned them.
But it wasn’t the hair that broke her heart.
It was him.
He stood with his shoulders curved inward as though trying to make himself smaller, eyes fixed on the floor and hands hanging uselessly at his sides. Tiny cuts crossed several of his fingers where the blades had nicked him in his panic, thin red lines that hadn’t even been cleaned. He didn’t look like someone who’s impulsively cut his hair. He looked like someone who’d spent the last hour trying to carve himself into a picture the world would finally stop criticizing, only to discover there was nothing he could change.
She said nothing, rendered speechless because she could see the fear written plainly across his face. He wasn’t waiting for her opinion of the haircut. He was waiting for confirmation that she’d see him the way everyone else did.
One hand rose instinctively to cover her mouth as her expression softened. “Oh, honey..” There was no shock in her voice—no disgust but only heartbreak.
His eyes squeezed shut. “I know,” he whispered. “It looks awful.” A humorless laugh escaped him before collapsing into silence. “I ruined it.” His chin trembled, and he couldn’t bring himself to lift his eyes from the floor. “I ruined everything.”
She remained where she was taking in the sight of the dressing room. Hair lay scattered across the tile like dark ribbon. Makeup brushes had been knocked onto the counter. A garment bag had slipped halfway from its hook. The aftermath of someone who had simply run out of places to put his feelings and acted outward.
She exhaled quietly. “..Where’s Elizabeth?” The question seemed so obvious that she asked it without thinking. He didn’t answer.
Assuming she was missing something, she glanced around the room. His jacket was draped over the back of a chair. His wallet sat beside an untouched bottle of water. His phone wasn’t visible.
“She should probably be here.” She began walking slowly around the room, looking across the vanity, the small table beneath the television, the sofa. “..Where’s your phone?” She spotted it resting on the far end of the makeup counter and reached toward it.
“I’ll call her.” Before her fingers could close around it, his hand caught her wrist. Not roughly but enough to stop her.
“..Don’t.”
She looked back at him, genuinely puzzled. “What?”
“I don’t..” He swallowed. “I don’t want her right now.”
The sentence landed with a strange and childish simplicity. There was no explanation attached to it. No attempt to soften it. It sounded less like the decision of a grown man and more like a frightened child insisting on one specific person after a nightmare.
She studied his face, her confusion written plainly across her own. “Michael..”
“I don’t want her.” His grip loosened, as though he’d only just realized he’d stopped her at all.
“I want you.” The room fell quiet again.
She spoke carefully “..Where is she? Should I call Lisa? You told me you two were on okay terms after..”
He stared at the floor. “She.. took a trip.”
“With work?”
His jaw tightened. “..With her ex.”
(Name) blinked. “I’m sorry?”
He let out a slow, shaky breath. “She went away with him.” The words sounded surreal coming from his mouth and it seemed like he still hadn’t figured out how to make sense of them himself.
“I haven’t..” He stopped, rubbing tiredly at his forehead. “..I haven’t talked to her in almost a month—she told me she would always be there.. it doesn’t feel like it.”
(Name) felt a tightening around her eyes with slightest hesitation in her breathing. The words had landed somewhere old. She knew what it felt like to wait for the phone that never rang. She knew what it was like to tell yourself there had to be an explanation, because the alternative was admitting the person you loved had simply stopped choosing you. She knew the peculiar loneliness of watching someone slowly hand pieces of themselves to another person while insisting nothing was wrong.
For the briefest moment, those memories stirred.
She remembered sitting alone in rooms that had felt far too large. Wondering whether he was alright. Wondering whether he was thinking about her. Wondering whether she should call again or whether one more unanswered message would finally become too humiliating to bear. She remembered all of it. But then just as quietly as it had come, the feeling passed.
She wasn’t that woman anymore. Healing hadn’t erased the memories. It had simply taught her that they no longer had the authority to decide who she became. She looked at him standing in front of her, shoulders folded inward, hair uneven where panic had guided the scissors, and instead of feeling vindicated, she felt something infinitely more complicated.
Compassion. And no, he hadn’t earned it. She had. Because she had fought too hard to let bitterness become the only language she spoke.
She drew a slow breath. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I really am.”
The words weren’t about Lisa. They weren’t even about the haircut. They were about the unmistakable loneliness standing in front of her.
Michael finally looked up and his eyes were red from crying, his face exhausted in a way that reached far beyond simple fatigue. He took a step forward and dropped to his knees in front of her, face buried in her womb as he held her hips.
Then he finally spoke: “..Can you fix me?” He swallowed. “..Like you always do.”
The sentence hung between them with heartbreaking innocence.
The instinct of someone whose worst times had, for years, always ended the same way. She would sit on the floor beside him. She would talk until his breathing slowed. She would make tea he never finished. She would distract him, reassure him, stay awake with him until morning if that was what it took.
His mind had reached backward to the only pattern it remembered.
“..Please,” he whispered. “I don’t know what to do.”
(Name) felt something tighten painfully in her chest because there had been a time when she would’ve. Without hesitation. She would’ve canceled meetings, ignored her own exhaustion, and stayed until the world felt safe again for him. That version of her had loved him with such complete abandon that she never stopped to ask who was doing the same for her.
She scooped up his face, her expression impossibly gentle as she caressed his cheek. “Michael...” She paused, choosing her words with extraordinary care. “I can sit with you.” Her voice remained soft. “I can make sure you’re not alone today.”
intro ⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ ( 23k ) childhoodbsf!popstar!reader 𝑥 pre-otw!michael 𝓳ackson ╱ with your guidance, your shy and sexually reserved boyfriend makes love to you for the very first time. 𝟑/𝟑 ♡ 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒐𝒏𝒆 ✴︎ 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒕𝒘𝒐
notes ₊˚✧ﾟ. 𝟏𝟖+ { no need to read the series in order! } very soft n fluffy smut. established relationship of 4 months. religious guilt. mention of michael’s sex-related trauma. avoidant!reader. quite graphic description of a rape memory & instances of past sexual coercion. one slight mention of vomit within that ;; { trigger warning is clearly signposted , and is only prior to the smut }. sub!michael. slow n sensual foreplay in a romantic bubble bath. light dirty talk. oil massage. fingering. mutual masturbation. squirting. oral f&m!receiving. premature ejaculation. size kink. experienced!reader. virgin!michael. he’s so shy and nervous! reader talks him through it. but he’s very vocal , naturally talented with his words. . . and his hips of course! } protected penetrative sex. reader is on the pill. 3 m!orgasms. 2 f!orgasms. creampie. emotional sex (!!). like really fucking emotional. . . they both cry. gentle aftercare. nicknames for each other ; tinker bell, bambi, mickey n minnie. yes , u read that word count correctly. . . this is the longest thing ever oh my god. & only proofread once so i hope it’s ok :$ !! im self-conscious af >,<
After four months of constant hesitation and anxious overthinking, Michael Jackson had finally decided that the night of September 1st, 1978, would be his very first time making love. It would be the night he’d lose his virginity to the girl he’d loved since he was eleven years old.
Having grown in comfortability and confidence surrounding sex unlike the sheer disdain he’d felt toward it previously, he was still certifiably terrified—so excited to take this next step with the woman he adored more than anything, but so incredibly nervous that he would do something wrong, paired with the intense guilt that what you would be doing together was also much too sinful. He'd pondered over the question of religious purity relentlessly since you'd first told him in July that he need not take the overly strict rules so seriously, but even while he had calmed down his vehement religious adherence, it still nagged at him. He really hoped that once tonight was over and done with, he'd feel differently. He prayed that he wouldn't feel any worse—that the guilt wouldn't instead increase after the fact, because really, that was more likely—and then he remembered that the God he was praying to obviously condemned the act out of wedlock in the first place. So, again he was stuck, relying only on your insistence and his own self-assurance that the act wouldn't be the disgusting thing he'd always perceived it as. He was an adult now—freshly twenty years old—and he needed his girl so badly. There was no fighting it anymore.
He even began to wonder, if God permitted sex within marriage, surely it couldn't be that sinful outside of it? He knew from you, from his brothers and from his father how rough and aggressive it could be (that particular knowledge existing as part of the reason why he'd been so disturbed and deterred from it in the first place) but he also believed in just how beautiful and gentle it could be. He knew you'd been victim to sex that was on the more aggressive side as you'd grown into adulthood, and he was ever determined to show you that the opposite could also be true in this domineering, patriarchal world. He wanted to love you, not just fuck you; to display to your body his eternal devotion, each touch a promise that he would never, ever hurt you like you'd been hurt before. He'd always known that you were destined to be with him, that even when he was beginning to give up hope because you weren't seeming to show him any romantic interest despite knowing him for so long, something inside of that boy still screamed, "she'll be mine one day."
Michael had planned tonight extensively, down to every last detail of which he was in control of—but of course the specifics within the evening would be instructed by your expertise. He'd decided that it had to happen at your place (even though he would've preferred to take you in his childhood bedroom) because if he did attempt the latter option, precisely it would be a mere attempt and nothing more. His brothers would hear, they'd tease and ruin the moment just like they did with your first shower together; and aside that, there was also the terrifying possibility of Michael's mother finding out.
You lived in a mansion too, with a family half the size of his, and the rooms were all so far apart that you didn't really need to choose a night where the house would be completely empty. But Michael still requested that you did, because for his very first time with you he needed it to be absolutely perfect. The pressure for perfection carried him through his entire life in every sector, and while such pressure helped him to acquire greatness in his creativity and in his career, Michael was mistakenly applying it to something that in fact required zero pressure in order to survive successfully. The more he focused on being the best you'd ever had, and the more he desperately needed every little thing to fit the dream he'd been having for years, the higher the likelihood that he'd be too awkward and unable to relax.
As he walked over to your house, he began to understand that to some extent; but not fully, because even while he tried to calm down through deep, controlled breaths, the underlying yearning for perfection still didn't leave. And to make matters worse, nor did the religious guilt, and the childhood trauma. Every thought—tiny or huge—was piling on top of one another, making his chest constrict so much that he felt he might have a literal heart attack on Encino Avenue. When your family mansion came into view, his head was spinning.
Walking closer, he saw you out on the porch talking to a neighbour, clad in a tight hot pink tank top—the hem riding up to show a glimpse of your stomach—with Daisy Dukes to accentuate your ass, and Converse Chuck Taylors on your feet. Michael tried to stroll normally, but really he felt as though every step he took was mechanical, as though he was dreaming and the freshly-mowed grass would soon transform into quicksand.
You knew he was supposed to turn up around seven, and the time was indeed right on seven o'clock, but you hadn't been paying attention, because you figured he probably wouldn't turn up exactly at the strike of the hour.
Seriously? Did you even know your boyfriend at all? When it came to you, Michael would be nothing short of punctual—especially when he'd been pacing around Hayvenhurst all day before finally allowing himself to leave at 6.30. In truth, he'd been pacing around Hayvenhurst all week.
You didn't notice him walking over at first, because you were busy engaged in a conversation with one of your girlfriends about your upcoming single. It was her that spotted Michael first as he came up behind you. She'd started grinning all of a sudden.
"What is it?" you chuckled. "Have I got somethin' on my face?"
"No—your man's here, girl."
"Hi," Michael said shyly, wrapping an arm around your waist. He was wearing a half-buttoned cream linen shirt that exposed part of his chest, with light blue high waisted bell bottoms, fixed tight on his hips by a thick brown belt.
"Oh, hey baby," you beamed, turning to the side to face him, then pulling him into a quick greeting kiss. Your face nestled into his shoulder, and the girl beside you cooed in adoration.
"I'll leave you two lovebirds," she laughed, giving you a short hug. "See you tomorrow, babe!"
Then she was heading back inside her house next door, and so you turned properly now to face your sweetheart.
"Mm, been waitin' for you all day," you murmured against his lips, wrapping your arms around his neck as you pressed kiss after kiss onto his facial features.
"Yeah?" Michael's eyes lit up a little, as if some part of him was believing that only he was excited for tonight. You'd had sex several times before with other men, so surely this wouldn't be anything special on your end, he thought, and he imagined you'd probably forgotten all about the appointment he'd made before you'd found him standing right next to you.
And yet, he couldn't have been more wrong, where it seemed the memory of your sexual cravings regarding him had since slipped his mind. He was also yet to be aware of just how deeply your love for him ran—how despite your avoidance (of which you were slowly recovering from) you were treating tonight with just as much care and anticipation as the boy who'd never made love before.
"Mhm, let's go upstairs," you smiled, kissing his cheek and taking hold of his hand.
"Nervous, huh?" you asked while the two of you walked up to the front door and into the foyer.
Michael's breath caught in his throat. He'd hoped you wouldn't notice.
"Uh—a little. I guess."
You linked your arm with his and squeezed his hand tighter, leaning comfortably into his side. "You're shakin', honey. You have nothin' to be worried about—really—but would you wanna maybe watch a movie before we, uh—?" You started to giggle, feeling a little shy yourself. "Just to loosen you up a little."
"Um," Michael smiled bashfully, "yeah, that would be great."
"Okay, let's go to my room, Mickey!" you sung with his Disney nickname, reaching the staircase.
"After you, Minnie," Michael chuckled in response.
You both took off your sneakers, and then in an attempt to replace anxiety with playfulness, he sped up as you walked, now skipping up the stairs after you and chasing you into your room while you squealed. As soon as you rushed inside, he wrapped his long arms around your waist from behind and lifted you with surprising ease, then shifted you into a bridal carry as you still continued to whine happily.
"Mike," you sighed, cheeks aching already from how much you'd been smiling. You wrapped your arms around his neck like a koala seeking refuge in its mother.
"Yes, honey?" he smiled back down at you, stroking your thigh as he walked your figure over to your huge champagne-pink king-size bed, enveloped in silk. You'd spent half of your relationship thus far here, and the other half at Michael's place. Really, your bedroom was much more appropriate—with the likelihood of outside intrusion much less—but as stated previously, Michael always thought it was more romantic and more gentlemanly to bring you to his home, rather than to rely on yours.
You were looking up into his eyes now, getting so effortlessly lost in the shining brown orbs, how the pupils dilated the more they locked onto your own, and you'd forgotten what it was you wanted to say.
"Tink," he whispered, urging you to continue your sentence with a kiss to your nose. He was doing something he did quite a lot—standing in the centre of somewhere, carrying your waiting body, entirely lost in the feeling of the holding, so much so that he didn't want to let you out of his grasp. Silly in this circumstance however, because you'd be in an even closer grasp once you got comfy under the sheets and entwined your bodies.
"I forgot what I was gonna say," you giggled. "Um... but somethin' else just came to mind, too. Y'know... the three words..."
You were always too shy to say them, still only four months into dissecting and overcoming your deep-rooted avoidance, but at the same time you often had a strong need to make clear to Michael that you felt the words, no matter how difficult they were to leave your lips.
Michael's smile grew ten times wider, and he leaned his face down to kiss your forehead, rocking you absentmindedly in his arms as though you were in your very own Disney movie, saved by the handsome prince.
"Can I say 'em for y'?"
"What, about yourself?" you joked, reaching up to play with his afro. "Wow, Michael, I never knew you were so self-absorbed."
He chuckled, and upon staring deeper into your fluttering eyes, almost lost his train of thought again.
"Mikey, take me to bed—I don't know what we're still standin' here for," you laughed, suddenly a little shy. He was looking at you too closely, and sometimes you wished he wouldn't be so intimately attentive.
"’m admirin' y', Minnie," he whispered, but now without a smile at all—just an expression that would appear so plain if it wasn't for the heavenly intensity in his eyes, that which gave an eloquent display of his aching emotion. "My Minnie Mouse..." he whispered some more, pairing the words with soft kisses over the crevices of your face.
You had literal goosebumps now, breath hitching imperceptibly at the insane effect he had on you. Michael was just being sweet, like always, but you weren't used to such close attention from anybody, let alone from the gorgeous, soft-spoken man with the sexiest voice. He didn't seem to understand just how sexy he was, and in fact he'd never even thought of himself in that way before—which was yet another reason why he believed the events of tonight would be difficult.
"Michael..." you whispered back, almost gasping in your sheer surprise at just how passionately he was looking at you. His arms stayed holding you so protectively, tucked under your legs, and he still kept pressing his lips over your face and to your jaw, while you shut your eyes and relished in the gift of his affection, no matter how nervous it was making you.
You'd never been this kind of nervous before. Even though Michael had treated you in this way many times over the last few months—where you became slightly more comfortable with it as the time passed—the tenderness had never before contained the subtext of sexual intercourse. Previously, sex and softness had been a separate subject in your mind, unfortunately having never dealt with a man who saw that the two could coexist, but tonight your first boyfriend would be finally combining the two. As opposed to all your other men, Michael Jackson couldn't conceive of performing sex in any other way. From foreplay to the act itself, he would be oh so gentle...
And though he hadn't said that aloud to you, it was clear nonetheless that he would be that kind of lover. The knowledge was what had made you so anxious when you stepped into that shower with him two weeks ago, and as he'd proven himself then to be so thoughtful and tender with your naked body, it had only confirmed further what you'd be experiencing on your first night together.
You were thinking about that now as he swayed you carefully in his arms, somehow his shyness dissipating whenever he could lose himself in your eyes just strongly enough for every other thought and emotion to momentarily pause. As he loved on you, your mind was thinking about later tonight; and not because you were desperate to cut to the sex, but because of that same anxiety surrounding how beautifully he'd treat you. Many girls would deem you crazy for actually worrying about a man treating your body with reverence, but you'd spent so long stuck in an intense fear of vulnerability, feeling so unworthy of a soft love, that now even while you'd made progress, the severity of tonight made you feel as though you would be losing your virginity all over again. Michael might have been the only virgin in the room, but you might as well have been, and therefore just like your boyfriend, you too would be experiencing something so very new.
What you weren't yet aware of in that moment, as you shut your eyes tight, too scared to look into his adoring eyes as he kissed you with more innocence than anybody ever had, was that the night ahead would be the single most beautiful (though equally heart-aching) experience of your life. You could have awarded the birth of all your incredible children the top spot on that list of experiences, but really, those children would have never come to see the light of day had it not been for the man who taught you how to be loved.
"I love you, honey..." you heard him say, snapping you from your daze as your eyelids finally fluttered open.
Your cheeks heated up in an instant. Why were those words still so difficult? It made you even more anxious to think that Michael might be feeling self-conscious at the fact that you'd only ever half-said the phrase (an instance where you'd almost said the 'you' in the middle of a makeout, but had instead craftily cut yourself off with a kiss). You hoped he never took it personally, and truly he didn't, because he could empathise with your situation. While it was so different from his own, as somebody who craved affection and reassuring words, he understood that you operated in the opposite way.
"Take me to bed, baby," you whispered, although feeling guilty for not reciprocating his declaration.
"Mhm," Michael muttered quietly, nodding. "Got distracted." He huffed a laugh.
"I can see that," you giggled, as he began to set you down oh so carefully onto the silk sheets, treating you like a fragile object of porcelain.
Sitting down beside you, he immediately outstretched his limbs for you to crawl in between them, settling comfortably at his chest with his arms wrapped tight around you, and with your smooth bare legs brushing against his pair. You entwined them together, sighing in content into his warm neck.
Then the two of you were sitting in lovely silence for a few moments, before you remembered that you were supposed to be watching a movie together.
"Y'know we need to actually pick the movie, honey,” you pointed out. “One of us needs to get up again to put it on."
Michael groaned theatrically, throwing his head back at the mere idea of separating from your warmth again. "I'll do it," he sighed.
"Okay, what about Bambi for my Bambi?" you grinned, taking his hand and kissing his wrist.
The film had always been one of your favourites, and partly because it did indeed remind you of Michael. Bambi's pretty doe eyes reflected him so much, a mirror image of your sweetheart's own pair, and that similarity had influenced one of your nicknames for him.
Michael blushed, lips pressing together in shyness, and you nudged his cheek with your knuckles.
"Baby, you know you can't be this shy when you're buried in me later," you teased, and Michael's fluster only grew even deeper.
"Minnie," he glared playfully, but there was really nothing playful about the intense tachycardia-like symptoms of his heart.
"I'm just playin', Mickey!" you laughed more, with a soft peck to his nose. "Now, do you wanna watch Bambi or not?"
"Mhm, Bambi's fine," he muttered, a smile growing on his pretty face as he reluctantly stood up from the bed that he'd only just gotten comfortable in, and walked over to set up the chosen film.
"Darlin', where is it?" he called back. "Y' have so many here—which drawer is it in?"
"Oh, the second on the left!"
When he found the cassette, he slid it into the VCR beneath your television, and the screen flickered to life with the opening credits. Eagerly, with the spirit of a child, he rushed back to where you laid in the centre of your sheets, and as before, you were cuddled up so close; cheek-to-cheek, his arms around your waist. Michael always insisted that he be practically glued to you whenever you cuddled, so attached that you could feel his warm breath each time he murmured a soft word to you. As the film settled into the opening scene, he took hold of your hand and interlaced your fingers, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles—though unlike most, with zero absent mind. Every slight touch was deliberate, so deeply thought about, and for Michael, handholding had always been what he deemed 'magical'. He never really needed much more, for he believed that and kisses were celestial in themselves.
With such in mind then, it would've been easy to predict just how insatiable the young man would become after simple physical touch had been elevated to the realm of bodily entwining. He'd never be the same.
But despite Michael's comfort, there was a lot on your mind that evening. Much of the sex you'd had since you'd turned sixteen three years ago had been coercive and at times literal rape—where you'd been so intoxicated and vulnerable that you believed it was all okay, because you'd kissed him back, hadn't you? You'd let him take you to his bedroom, so hadn't you consented to being treated that way? No one had taught a vulnerable girl growing up in both the music industry and the 1970s that real consent wasn't black and white.
Your very first time had been aggressive, where the man four years older hadn't taken a care to the fact that it hurt so badly. He just kept forcing himself in harder. Afterward, you had immediately rushed over to Michael's house and cried yourself to sleep in his arms.
Indeed, Michael then went on to learn of those who came after that horrible first experience, none any gentler or more careful. But you hadn't been a virgin anymore, and you had wanted sex, so at the time you believed that you were an equal participant to the men you engaged in it with. Oh, how wrong you were—but as a young, naive girl with domineering men surrounding her career and personal life in every which way, how were you to be blamed? Objectively, you didn't hold a fraction of the blame of course, although it would sadly be years until you would finally let go of the self-deprecating shame you carried beneath your confident exterior.
And there had been something else, something Michael hadn't known about—a memory you hadn't even registered yourself until just less than two weeks ago, when the realisation had triggered you to projectile vomit in your en-suite. Because while Michael had spent the recent weeks in a both happy and nervous anticipation for your first night together, you had been spending those same days alternating between the studio, the stage, and your bedroom, uncovering the repressed event that your brain was now relaying back to you unsolicited.
It had been a memory from January of that year—almost eight months ago now—and the only reason you could remember the month was because you were beginning to recall the date of the Motown dinner you'd attended on the night. Michael had been there too, with all the Jacksons, alongside most of the record label and a few others. But from what was in the beginning such a peaceful, ordinary get-together, you failed to understand how it had produced such a horrific thing as what you'd come to remember. It was all coming back to you in fragments, and you could only surmise that you had been plied with drugged alcohol throughout the evening, to lead into a dark night of defencelessness. Your brain hadn't yet unpacked the build-up, those missing pieces of information terrifying you further, but indeed you had deliberately been made weak, then at some point taken into an obscured backroom and mercilessly raped. You hadn't the slightest idea who by, because there were so many people at that dinner who you didn't know beyond professional conversation—and you guessed that if you were ever to see the man again, the sight would trigger a horrible panic. He had likely been an executive from another company, perhaps living elsewhere. Hopefully. It terrified you that you might run into him again. In your flashback, he was a mere dark shadow.
After thinking it through some more, you'd realised it must have been the cause of that winter morning in which you'd woken up with zero memory of the night before, attributing the mindlessness to 'what must have been a really good night'. But you'd had bruises on your thighs and on your neck, and for those you fitted the reasoning that you must have had a makeout session with somebody, and that you might have banged your thighs into the edges of a chair or some object similar. Or maybe you'd had sex, but it wouldn't have been your first time indulging in drunken intercourse with no memory of it the morning after. So, with those possible conclusions in mind at the time, you hadn't given it any more thought, despite how deep down it did unnerve you whenever your memory would fail you in that way.
When the attack had first returned into your consciousness, you'd been falling asleep, and therefore had initially hoped that perhaps it was just your very vivid imagination playing tricks on you—that you'd had rough, supposedly consensual sex in the past, so while your mind slipped into slumber, wasn't it reasonable to assume it had been merely a disturbing amalgamation of images in the purgatory of the dream state, stemming from sex’s rougher elements? Perhaps the violence hadn't been real?
But in truth, the feeling had been too deeply visceral. Your body knew what had happened to it as soon as the image had entered your brain, and even after your stomach had emptied its contents, you then spent the rest of the night lying wide awake in nausea, completely drained of all melatonin, unable to process anything deeper than your sheer disgust and terror.
By the next morning, you had forced yourself to do what you did best, and that was to perform. Not on stage, not that day at least—instead enacting a performance of personality, of poise and class and grace despite the shame and repulsion that filled your tormented, shattering spirit. You forced yourself to push through, trying to put yourself in the mindset of the girl you'd been twenty-four hours before, the girl who hadn't yet remembered, and who could stay in blissful ignorance. But that girl had been hurt whether she could remember it or not, and she had been raped and coerced even prior to that night in January. The intoxicated, blacked-out night had been the most traumatising, violent form, but rape didn't look the same every time. Its brutality enfolded in various ways; and really, America's golden girl had experienced each of those even before she had turned nineteen.
Despite the memory only having come to the forefront of your mind a mere two weeks ago, so insistent in its vehemence, you were confident tonight in Michael's presence that you had successfully pushed past it, that it no longer affected you because you would move on and smile through life like you always did. That was what the industry had taught you: to keep on going no matter what might happen, because your very existence as a performer depended on the capital you made, not merely for yourself, but for the industry men who controlled you, and who could drop you without remorse if you put a foot out of line. These men were why you could do what you loved in the first place, but the financial and oftentimes sexual control was what came with it. In your youth, you hadn't realised how deeply it had repulsed your inner being, because in your immediate conscious you received each bit of attention gladly, and enjoyed your career as Michael did even in the forceful nature of it, with no idea you were being taken advantage of.
Deeper than that however, all you truly craved and desired was real love and comfort, from somebody whose intention wasn't to use you for your body and your talent. You just hadn't confronted that part of you before Michael had begun to demonstrate to you his love, and even afterward, you still struggled to believe you deserved it.
It was really no wonder you'd repressed so much of your past, because your very nervous system while growing up in the spotlight had encoded the philosophy that one should repress and quieten the things that weren't so pretty. No, tonight you hadn't simply 'gotten over it'—you were just in the phase of forced ignorance. If you could have been completely true to yourself at the time, you would've understood that your anxiety about the night ahead stemmed not only from the unfamiliarity of the sweet lovemaking Michael would give to you, but from the shame and guilt over how you had previously taken the direct antithesis: that you'd been fucked so aggressively in the past, and that you'd allowed such aggression to take place. That was your standpoint, but in truth it had never, ever been your fault.
Michael was littering kisses all over your face again—sweet, playful kisses that the beat of his innocent heart swam with. He was hardly watching the movie, ready to initiate a makeout session, but your eyes were fixed hard on the flickering scene, pupils following Bambi and his friends. Bambi was so innocent... Oh, how you craved to slip into a sweet Disney film and never come back.
But there was one cherished element: that at least in this reality you had the closest thing to Bambi himself, and the sweetest lover one could ever wish for.
Michael knew you'd had a lot of sex, and he spent a lot of the early days trying to convince you to stop being taken advantage of, yet you never believed in what he said, so you stopped telling him the details. That way he couldn't comment.
But what concerned you was that now, if he found out that such a disgusting thing had happened to your body, would he have still wanted to make love to you? Would he have thought you less an angel and more a whore, a site of nothing other than the most shameful, immoral act? Surely, in his religious ways, he would dismiss you in a heartbeat. He'd waited so long to lose his virginity to a girl he deemed worthy enough, and you almost felt guilty that he'd chosen you. Some days you experienced gratitude over the fact, and others you ruminated over how downright filthy you were, believing Michael deserved way better.
So, you had to make sure he never found out. If you were going to attempt to rebuild your life with this beautiful boy, to hopefully rid your avoidance entirely and live somewhat happily ever after, you were going to have to force your oppressive mind to start afresh. It could no longer keep dragging you into the past—it must belong to only the present, with no influence from who you had been, and what you'd been through. But of course, psychoanalysis had proven long ago that unfortunately one couldn't simply remove the influence of a memory on the present. You had been too young to know.
"Tink," Michael whispered against your cheek, with another kiss to it. "What y' thinkin' 'bout?"
"’m watchin' the movie, baby." You giggled to conceal how your mind had wandered into a dark place.
"Can we kiss instead?" he asked with a slight pout.
You smiled, heart melting at how Michael would always ask and never take based on mere presumption, even with something as small as a kiss. Suddenly, you felt tears well up in your eyes, before you blinked them back harshly, quicker than he could notice.
"Of course, honey," you grinned, moving to straddle his waist while the movie played on. The sweet, happy sounds of childhood sounded behind you both, and you realised right then just how painful it would feel if anyone other than you had taken Michael's virginity. It needed to be you, whether you felt 'worthy' or not.
Settled on his clothed crotch, he wrapped his arms around your waist while pulling you downward so that your lips could meet his. The makeout started off soft and slow, but it grew quickly into one of pure heat, and the denim of your Daisy Dukes slid up your ass each time you ground your hips over him with deeper fervency.
You stayed wrapped up in each other like that for over half an hour, and as the time passed on, the pinks and oranges of sunset bleeding through the half-open Venetian blinds, you began to wonder if Michael was stalling. He somehow was barely hard beneath you, and you put that down to anxiety.
Breathlessly you pulled away, lips slightly bruised with his kiss, gloss smudged everywhere. He chuckled as he looked up at you, and you stroked his cheek.
"Mike..."
"Mhm?"
"How ‘bout that bath now, huh?"
Immediately, Michael's cheeks heated up, and his grip on your ass tightened instinctively. He looked away, then looked into your eyes again, with so much shyness you thought he might burst.
When Michael had asked you last week how you thought the first night should be structured (to which you'd laughed at his mechanistic wording), you'd suggested a bubble bath to begin, before then taking the lovemaking itself into the bedroom. This time you wouldn't be so nervous at something so intimate, because the purpose of the bath would be sexual, not purely romantic like the shower had been.
And Michael was a very big fan of that idea, immediately becoming flustered at the mere suggestion of it. He'd even happily offered to bring over the luxury oils he bought for you, but you assured him you had some of your own. You'd cracked up laughing at his offer, knowing that in his innocence he just wanted to make things as perfect as possible, but how typically boyish was he to offer to douse you in oil so excitedly, with so much eagerness? Your shy baby was planning to rub oil all over your bubble-covered curves, and your own heart started to speed up very quickly once you recalled just how perfect he had been at giving you that unexpected breast massage. God, he really had nothing to worry about if he'd gotten that right on first try. It had been the most perfect sensation a man had ever given you in the field of foreplay—or in the field of anything—and his attentiveness had contributed a great deal to achieving that title.
But then, he'd raised a question. "Honey, how am I gonna eat—uh," he cleared his throat, "y'know, how am I gonna… pleasure y'… down there, with my mouth... if the foreplay’s in the bath?"
You'd giggled and poked his cheek. "That can come after. But don't overthink it now, Mikey—on the night I'll show you everythin' that makes me feel good."
In the present day, you were very amused by his sudden fluster at the simple mention of said bath.
"Michael..." you laughed, feeling over his fro. "You chose tonight; and, may I remind you, were also very eager about this when I first suggested it."
"I know, and 'm ready, I just..." He sighed, pressing his thumb into his temple. "’m just nervous, darlin'. I didn't wanna be and y'know, I've had long enough to prepare, but..."
"Hey," you cut him off gently. "Seriously, baby, there's no pressure. I don't expect anythin' of you 'cause I know it's your first time. And you can be as anxious or as confident as you want, because no matter what, I know we're gonna have a good night."
He began to smile, eyes lighting up. There was something about the way you spoke to him that could always reassure him of anything, at least temporarily.
"You hear me? We're gonna have such a good night..." you whispered sultrily through giggles, leaning forward to say the words into his ear.
Michael shivered, smiling wider, and feeling a rush of blood to his nether region. Now he really needed to get on with things, because he had no intention of ejaculating before you'd even touched him.
"Alright, 'm gonna go run the bath," he chuckled, kissing your shoulder. "I guess you should... y'know... undress... Uh, before we get in."
You scoffed playfully. "Yes, I think that might just be compulsory for a bath, honey."
To that he smiled awkwardly again, and you lightly smacked his cheek, so he clarified.
"I meant... d'y' want me to undress y', or...?"
You bit your lip with a grin, trying not to laugh at how adorably innocent he was, but again it also caused a weird, sad ache inside your chest.
"Of course I do, pretty." You took his hand and kissed it. "And I wanna undress you too. 'N then kiss you," you leaned forward into his ear again, "everywhere... real slow..."
Michael clamped his eyes shut momentarily and exhaled a shaky breath. With more teasing laughter you hopped off his lap, allowing him to stand up and make his way to your bathroom.
He spent the next ten minutes preparing the romantic bath he'd been anticipating for a week straight, and he was grateful that you had a countless array of candles available in the room, because candlelit decor was the final component needed in order to elevate the intimacy to its highest degree. The sun had set, therefore the deep fuchsia and apricot sky would soon be descending into the black of night.
Michael stood staring at the bubble bath for at least three minutes after it was ready, trying to control his breathing and getting fixated on the sight of the various bottles of body oil that decorated a shelf beside a corner of the tub. He couldn't wait to douse your entire body in the scent of your choice, to squeeze the product into your breasts while he sucked on that sensitive spot under your jaw…
"Honey!" The sound of your voice broke him out of his daze. "Y'okay in there?" You were confused as to why he hadn’t invited you in when the water was no longer running.
But then, standing at the doorway, leaning on the side of the wood, Michael appeared. He took one final deep breath and outstretched his arms, grinning. "C'mere, princess."
You laughed gleefully, skipping over to him with hearts in your eyes, and then before you could even process it, you were up in his arms again, in the same bridal carry as earlier, pressed flush within his embrace. He nudged the door open wider and stepped over the threshold with you, before setting you down.
"I don't think I needed to be carried from the bed to the tub," you pointed out with a grin, wreathing your arm into his and leaning your head on his shoulder.
"I just like carryin' my girl," Michael smiled.
You got to work taking off each other's clothes, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses all over the revealed skin—before the final layers were in the process of removal, and at that point Michael was looking away again, as though he hadn't already seen you naked.
"Mikey," you laughed, gripping his jaw so that he'd face you. "Stop lookin' away—and you need to get in first."
"Oh," he huffed a laugh, his entire body burning with nerves and anticipation. "Oh, right, yeah, I'll—mhm."
You couldn't stop smiling as you watched him get in and get comfortable, resting up against the back of the stone resin. His soft dick immersed itself beneath the bubbles, and your heart beat faster at how you knew it would soon poke up hard over the surface of the water, pressing against your back...
But first, before you were to sit between his legs, you needed to demonstrate what he must do. The next few minutes would be a masterclass in female pleasure, taught by a woman who had never even experienced an orgasm outside of her own doing, and who had an inkling that the man before her just might be the first to give her one.
So, you straddled his hips as you'd done before, except now completely naked, bare thighs hitting bare thighs, hands steadying themselves on a gorgeous bare chest. But you weren't in the water for longer than five seconds before Michael had hooked his arms under your legs and pulled you into him sideways, while you giggled in surprise at his confidence.
"Michael! I need to show—"
"Yeah, ma, I know, but I wanna..." His voice trailed off as he began to press the most gentle kisses from your earlobe to your collarbone, holding your body tight to him. "So pretty..." Another kiss. "’m still nervous, honey," he muttered under his breath, as if he didn't want you to hear despite choosing to say the words aloud.
You leaned back and cupped his cheek, moving to straddle him again. "I know, baby," you whispered, smooching his lips, "but you can't keep stallin'."
"Mm." Michael nodded shyly and slowly, pupils dilating further than they already were as he took in your plump breasts before him.
You laughed, cheeks heating up at how reverent his gaze, void of the typical hunger that most men consumed you with.
Gradually and sensually, you brought both hands up to what had Michael so entranced. Shutting your eyes, kneading your palms over the flesh, you began to rock ever-so-subtly back and forth on his thighs, arching your back a little, performing the image of a real-life goddess before him. Michael's jaw was slack, in disbelief at the sight, and he chewed the inside of his cheek as he tried desperately to calm the ache between his thighs. This part was supposed to be slow—he simply couldn't embarrass himself by disrupting the pace with something so boyish.
"Oh, mama... Y'like an angel..."
Without comprehending what he was even doing, he began to grip your hips, hands guiding your movements further, although your speed stayed painfully slow. You wanted to perform for him a little, before getting into the sexual lesson. After all, this was what you knew. Men loved to see you play with yourself, the object of their desires, their living and breathing sex toy—you had essentially existed as the oxymoronic liberated prostitute. Seemingly so free, but in reality deemed to have only one bodily purpose. In the water with your boyfriend, you kept forgetting that he didn't request or expect what those men always had done.
After some moments of solitary foreplay, you opened your eyes again, and started to giggle. Michael had been your best friend long before he'd become your boyfriend and best friend in one, so the fact that you were about to do it with him still made you so nervously shy like a teenager.
"What?" Michael furrowed his brows.
You smacked his cheek lightly, heart racing faster but trying not to let it show. "You look so cute."
He only squinted, looking irritated by your choice of wording. "Cute?"
You rolled your eyes. "Michael Jackson, it's just semantics. I could go on."
"Could y'?" Michael asked anxiously, still squinting. "I don't wanna feel all childish here with y'... if y' sayin' 'm just cute."
"What?" For the second time you gave an eye roll, with a confused laugh. "C'mere."
Cupping his jaw now, you leaned a little downward so that your forehead met his, before giving him the most passionate French kiss you could muster. And then you began to whisper phrases all over his soft skin while he shut his eyes, immediately regretting what he'd asked of you, because he could never behave like a normal person whenever you started praising him.
"So, you're very cute," you began, smirking as your lips brushed his and then endeavoured to brush his every feature, "equal parts sexy... equal parts handsome... and oh so gorgeous..."
Michael was blushing profusely, biting his lip hard. "Minnie, tha's okay, I get the point..."
You chuckled, pulling away and taking his hands in yours. "Michael, you really can't expect to love on me so vocally without letting me do the same to you. And you did just ask me to expand on the list of adjectives."
"Whatever," he sighed, though a small smile betrayed him. "Um, so what do y—?"
You took a deep breath, beaming as you did, and slid your hand below the bubbles, a sight at which Michael almost cursed at. Your sex was invisible to him where the height of the water lay, so you shuffled forward, now hoisted in a straddle over his abdomen, and the moment your glistening pussy came into view—decorated with two manicured nails spreading open the labia—your boyfriend felt like he was going to faint.
"Oh my G—" He shut his eyes tight again, for the millionth time already, and you laughed again softly.
"Aht—can’t say the Lord's name in vain, honey, don't be a hypocrite," you joked, but immediately switched the subject when the boy with the crucifying religious guilt looked up at you with immense anxiety.
"Okay, so—" you moved on, but cut yourself off again because he still looked ridiculously flustered. "Wait, Mikey, seriously—chill."
"I can't, honey, I feel lightheaded."
"Well, maybe you made the bath too hot. I think it's fine, personally, but—"
"No," he exhaled. "It's you, I can't... I can't look at y' without my whole body burnin' up. It's bad enough when y' fully dressed, but now..."
Your own cheeks began to heat, and the air seemed to be full with only the sounds of deep breath after deep breath from each of you.
"You were fine in the shower with me, though?"
"I was forcin' myself to seem fine," he blushed, "but anyway, this is a whole other thing, 'cause y' naked on top of me now. And I can see everythin'..."
"Well, yes, that's kinda the whole point," you chuckled, and that brought a little smile to the cheeks that you then squeezed on impulse.
"Alright, take a deep breath," you advised, performing a slow inhale and an even slower exhale with him, in the comedic tone of a yoga teacher.
But once you'd breathed out together, you both burst into a fit of giggles, with you falling forward onto his chest, splashing the surrounding bubbles into his face.
"Hey!" Michael exclaimed through laughter, already feeling a degree calmer as he splashed you back. This fight went on for about three minutes, hits of jasmine-scented foam flying back and forth, until alas you were both still and catching your breath again, skin decorated in the effervescence.
Now, you finally initiated the evening properly. "Okay, you ready?"
"Mhm," he nodded, but he was mostly still going insane inside.
"Alright, Mr Jackson," you said playfully, "this is your lesson in female pleasure 101."
"’m lookin' forward to it," he smirked boyishly, but his face then assumed the appearance of somebody who just remembered the inner state of their emotions. "As long as I don't... faint first."
You rolled your eyes lightheartedly, then held his chin. "Okay, eyes—down here." You gestured to your soft, already-weeping pussy again, fingers smoothing over the small strip of hair over your pubic mound. "Not at the ceiling, not at the faucets—down here. Yes?"
Michael nodded eagerly, lip between his teeth again as he fixed his gaze where you'd asked him to. Your fingers now slowly ran up and down your folds, stopping momentarily at your entrance to drag slick from there and up your slit.
"So beautiful..." he whispered without even realising, and somehow looking at the thing that made him most nervous actually helped rid the nerves entirely. That was because all he could think about when he stared at your leaking sex was just how desperately he wanted to touch and devour it.
You giggled at his admission of your beauty, now running your fingers up and over your pussy a little more insistently now, but intentionally ignoring your clit—because that was the most important part.
"Alright, so," you started, "I'm not gonna lie, no man has ever brought me to an orgasm before."
Michael flinched at how easily you said such allegedly 'vulgar' words, but then remembered he had to be neutral and normal about all this. More than anything, he was stunned that you'd had so much sex and never achieved release. What had been the point?
"Wait, you've never—?"
"No, I have, but only alone. Um, just when I touch myself."
"Like... like you're doin' now?" His mind was running wild with the image of you nestled privately in your sheets, back arched, fingers dipping in and out of your sex as you writhed...
"Just like 'm doin' now, baby," you grinned, still smearing your slick all over your outer lips. "But 'm not doin' it exactly how I do it alone. And this is the first thing I wanna say. Most men—well, every man I've ever been with—"
Again, he flinched at the mention of the 'other men,' even though he already knew of their existence.
"—has stupidly believed that just mindlessly running his fingers up and down here, is what brings a woman to the euphoric sensation of climax. No, it's more complex than that, because there's one component that changes everything."
"When you… put y' fingers inside?" Michael asked shyly. "And there's somethin' called the... j-spot, or? I can't remember—Jackie was tellin' us all about it..."
You chuckled, the misuse of the term tickling you greatly. "First of all, that's the g-spot, baby," you corrected, free hand playing with his slightly wet afro.
"Oh."
"And that's not what I'm referring to yet. I'm talkin' about just outer fingerin' for now, honey. So, look closely..."
That particular instruction wasn't necessary, for Michael hadn't taken his eyes off the pretty flesh in two whole minutes.
You spread your labia even wider now, and his breath quickened, fingers inching closer along your inner thigh.
"So, you see this right here?" Your thumb brushed lightly over your clit, the focus of the current tutorial, and your breath hitched with his. Michael hadn't even been properly touched yet, beside your legs over his, but every nerve in his body felt alight. He could really feel his member begin to grow now, and he knew that in its size it would soon be pressing up against your lower back. The thought alone made him equal parts anxious and excitable. He hoped you'd be pleased with the sight of his erection.
"This little nub..." you continued. "Feel it..."
His head shot up. "Y' want me to...?"
"I do, honey. Go on. Just take two fingers—your index and your middle... And place 'em just over here... over my clit..."
"Oh, y'know, Jackie mentioned that too—"
"Michael," you laughed, finding it incredulous that he was bringing up the expertise of his brother during such intimacy.
You took his wrist, and slowly brought it down to where you needed him most. Even slower were the moments he took to finally settle the two fingers over your pearl, and he almost choked on nothing when, with hardly more than a slight rub, you let out a soft moan, steadying yourself on his weight. God, this was going to be a real good night...
"Right there?" he whispered, to which you nodded. "And what do I—? How do I make y' feel amazin', mama, tell me..."
"Okay," you breathed out shakily in anticipation, "you're gonna wanna keep pressin' down, but not too hard—ah, Mike, slower—" He had been quietly experimenting, and had provided a beautiful mode of pleasure that was just a little too harsh and overstimulating to begin with. "Just with a light pressure... so pressin' firm but not hard..."
"Like this?" He decreased the strength of the two fingers, moving them up and down, still unsure of what to do.
"Mhm... Alright, so, what I was also gonna say is—mm—"
"Tink, I thought y' said this part didn't really make y' feel nothin'? When the fingers just go up 'n down..."
"Nngh—no, that's what I'm 'bout to say... I think it matters whose fingers—oh—they are, 'cause when I do it it feels real good, but with men it never—"
Now Michael had confidently swept up some of the sticky substance that sat lower, and was rubbing it up and down your folds, while he waited to be told the specifics of your clit.
"Oh, Mike—how are you doin’ th—?"
"Is this right?" he asked, those pretty doe eyes meeting yours for a moment while he continued to smear your slick everywhere. "Y' really makin' a mess down here, mama..."
You smirked, but now you were rocking over his thighs, the water swimming around you and making light splashing noises. "That's what's gonna help me to take you later."
Michael's brows furrowed, and then he understood. "Oh, like a lubricant? Shit!" He shook his head in frustration, rubbing his eyes. "Sorry, um, shouldn't have cursed—Uh, no, I forgot to bring the lube..."
He was continuing to play with you as he spoke, and you marvelled at how quickly he was getting the hang of things despite having never touched a woman's genitalia before a few minutes ago.
"’s okay, honey," you said through another shaky breath. "I'll be o—okay."
In all honesty, you weren't sure if you would be after the glimpses of his soft dick you'd seen in the shower two weeks ago, and it was at the exact moment the thought appeared into your mind that you suddenly felt the hard weight of something up against your ass.
You gasped—louder than just as a result of his fingers—but you still hadn't shown him what magic he needed to direct to your clit. So, you tried to ignore the very insistent thing behind you. It was evident on Michael's face that he was struggling to contain himself already, but all you could think about was how, if he was this good with no idea what he was doing (and touching mostly your inner labia) imagine how incredible he'd be in just a few moments, once he'd been instructed of the workings of a woman's clitoris?
It was a known fact that Michael Jackson could learn dance moves in an instant when the move was presented before him—no additional practice necessary—so it logically followed that the same might apply with bedroom activity.
"So, um, with the—mm—with the clit... Go back up to it, baby, and stay still—just pause a minute while I tell you how I like it..."
Michael paused, ever so attentive, and even just the feeling of his unmoving fingers on your nub made you want to start rocking on him again.
"So over here, I need you to rub slow circles. You could go up 'n down—it wouldn't be wrong—but it feels best when you take the pads of your fingers 'n rub round 'n round in small circles... Watch me first."
You gently removed his hand and replaced it with your own, dragging up more gooey slick and playing with yourself the way you'd described. Your head was thrown back slightly, back arching subtly and hips moving over his abdomen that you were leaking translucence all over—all while you rubbed and rubbed at your aching clit, wrist flicking with each movement.
Michael watched on in awe, taking in each of your whines and moans, so excited now to be the reason they elicited from your eager throat.
"So sexy, mama..." His voice went a little deeper now, and at the praise your clit throbbed further. Reluctantly you paused, reminding yourself that you had to in order for your man to continue the pleasure and show you his yet to be uncovered talent.
"Okay, your turn, handsome," you smiled, whole body entirely alight now, and you really had never felt so embarrassingly horny.
You kissed his nose to initiate movement, and the two of you truly unlocked heaven right there.
Michael had his lip bitten tight between his teeth as he stared down at your pretty pearl, so determined to get this right. No man had ever made you cum this way. How dare they be so careless?
With the slowest, most direct precision, he began to rub the tight bundle of nerves just as you'd demonstrated, brows always furrowed in his ensuring that he was doing it correctly. The way your body responded told him everything—your hips stuttered, lower body grinding over his abs, hands immediately steadying themselves on his chest as whines spilled from your mouth.
"Oh, Mikey—"
"Yeah, is this okay, beautiful?" he whispered in that gorgeous voice of his, and your brain almost short-circuited.
"Yes, yes—oh, so good... Keep talkin' to me, baby, talk me through it, c'mon..."
"Y'—y'want me to say stuff?" he stammered, fingers still rubbing so effortlessly perfect, and as you rocked harder you nodded eagerly.
"Like, talk dirty?" he said almost under his breath, in disbelief of the situation he'd found himself in, even though it should have happened a long time ago.
"Mhm, try it, honey..."
"Uh, okay..." He squinted, trying to think, but you shook your head.
"No, let it come naturally. 'm sure there's some stuff you wanna say to me, baby... Tell me what you think about when you play with yourself."
"How do y' know I—?"
"Michael," you giggled through another moan. "Was I supposed to believe you were sat politely with your legs crossed while you looked at those Playboy bunnies?"
"Um, well I did sit like that sometimes..."
"Sometimes." You sighed in amusement, but again he had your eyes rolling back with more firm, circling pressure.
"Uh, most of the time, when... when 'm playin' with my—y'know—uh, it's not when 'm lookin' at the magazines... It's usually when 'm thinkin' of you."
You almost drew blood from your bottom lip at that comment. Grinding down harder instinctively, you squeezed his bicep to tell him to keep going. The entire time, he managed to both talk and keep up his movements perfectly.
"I look at pictures of y'... ones I keep in the box underneath my bed... and there's this, um, this particular one... Y' wearin' a bikini... sittin' on my lap by the pool at—at home..."
"Mhm, and how does the picture make you feel, baby?"
"Uh," he gulped, never taking his eyes off your gleaming sex. "Real good..."
"Tell me how you play with yourself..."
"Minnie."
"Hm?" You didn't bat an eyelid, losing yourself in the pleasure.
"It's too dirty."
"No, it's not, Mikey," you chuckled, fingernails digging into his arms now to make crescent moon shapes. "I showed you how I touch myself, 'n now I wanna know what you do when you're all alone..."
"Okay..." Michael breathed, eyes flicking now between your pussy and the beautifully erotic expressions on your face. He wondered if this was all a dream—but the reality was that you'd been his for months now.
"Um. So, I squeeze, um, my..."
"Your dick," you happily finished the sentence for him, eager at the mention of what you could still feel pressing harshly against you.
He flinched, but continued. "Yeah..."
Then you leaned over to whisper in his ear, still grinding your hips. "Your big dick, yeah, baby?"
Michael was nearly rendered speechless. "Oh—uh, I guess it's..."
"Well, I haven't seen it hard yet, but d'you know I've been feelin' it against me for the last five minutes?"
"Wh—? Oh, yeah, 'm sorry, darlin'... Y' jus' too beautiful..."
"Hey, don't apologise, pretty baby," you whispered against his cheek, moving slower and sensual now. His fingers had paused their movements, and you frowned, so he continued.
"Mm," he hummed, gripping your ass with one hand to guide you, trying desperately to be more confident. "So, 'm pumpin' myself up an' down, lookin' at the pictures... Pictures of my beautiful girl—I don't need no Playboy models..."
Suddenly your heart ached a little. This was the way Michael would talk dirty—and really, 'dirty' wasn't the correct word to describe it. Each word turned you on just as much as it made you want to cry with profound emotion.
"And what do you wanna do to me when you're tuggin' on your dick, honey?"
"Well..." he began, unsure how much of his imagination to reveal. "First I think about—oh, this is so bad, Minnie—"
"No, go on, tell me..."
"Um, I think about y' mouth..." he murmured. You were feeling giddy now, for he was finally getting more comfortable, and there was nothing sexier and more adrenaline-inducing than your shy, sexually inexperienced boyfriend telling you about the filthy images he'd conducted in his mind.
"Ugh, it's real dirty, darlin', but when my hand goes... up 'n down... 'specially when I put my thumb right over the top of my, um, my dick... I pretend it's your tongue... Lickin' and suckin' me..."
"Yeah?" you beamed, moaning deliberately louder in his ear.
"Mhm," he uttered quickly, "but—that's nasty, mama. A lady shouldn't... her mouth shouldn't be, um," his voice lowered to a tiny whisper, "down there."
"No? Shouldn't she?" you teased sultrily, cupping his jaw again and rubbing over his smooth complexion.
"Definitely not, darlin'," he insisted, eyes still darting from your face to your pussy while his fingers continued to work their magic.
"I think many women wouldn't agree, baby... Sure, we like receivin', but that doesn't mean we don't like givin' too..."
He audibly groaned. "Oh, Tink—don't say stuff like that..."
You chuckled with a tone of sheer tease. Michael's voice was shaky now, and you felt he could be close to orgasm, so you removed his hand and repositioned yourself. At first he was a little confused, but when you gestured him to widen his legs a little more (to the width of the tub), he understood.
But your mouth shot open in surprise, eyes widening with it, when you saw the sheer size of what laid between your man’s legs. He was quite literally enormous. Now fully hard, standing up proudly above the surface of the water, you saw the beginnings of the thick veins running up and down the girthy, dark brown skin, and couldn't help but instantly notice white precum leaking from the mauve tip. Most of his length was obscured by the bubbly sea of water, but the fact that it poked up so high had you stunned.
"Oh my... Baby, are you for real?"
"What?" he asked anxiously, shuffling in his seat as you sat kneeled before him, staring at his major asset.
"This has gotta be like nine fuckin' inches, what?"
"Tink, don't curse," he said firmly, rolling his eyes.
"And it's so..." You gulped in your shock. "So thick..."
Michael suddenly looked panicked, and tried to cover himself with an amalgamation of bubbles, but he wasn't so successful, because they kept swimming away. He felt as though he was an animal in a zoo, on display for all to see and comment on—but you hadn't intended to make him feel like that.
"Honey, I've been real scared that this was gonna be a problem... I don't know how big most guys are, 'n... well, there was no way I could ask my brothers..." He grimaced at the mention of them.
You chuckled. "Yeah, let's not talk about them right now. And don't worry..." You placed a hand on his warm thigh, craving desperately to hold what rested right beside it, but pacing yourself for now. "’m gonna be fine, Michael. You're not gonna hurt me. I just... well, I was taken aback, that's all."
Michael still didn't look too pleased. "I want tonight to be perfect."
"I know you do, baby." Now you positioned yourself between his legs, back against his bubble-clad chest. Comfortably settled, much of your torso submerged itself into the water, and you sighed in content, shutting your eyes happily. "It is going to be perfect."
Michael wrapped his arms around your waist and kissed the side of your neck, before talking lowly into your ear. "But what if I really hurt y', baby? You've obviously never taken anyone as big as me before..."
You started to giggle, despite Michael's genuine anxiety, because the way he worded that line was very amusing. "Oh, look who has an ego 'n we've not even started!"
"Angel, 'm serious," he pressed on, holding your waist tighter, and you clenched your thighs together at the feeling of his hands.
You turned your head a little to press kisses into his neck. "And I'm serious when I say that everything's gonna be fine. The only thing that might ruin it is your anxiety, honey." You picked up his hand and smooched his palm several times, but you smelled your cum on his fingers and blushed to yourself.
"Okay, I'll shut up now," Michael chuckled shyly. "I hope you're right."
You smacked his bicep playfully, cuddling deeper into his chest and stretching your legs out. "Positive attitude, please. You seem to have one with everything else."
"True," he whispered, shaking his head of the worry.
You shuddered even in the scalding heat as you felt his thick member pressing up and twitching against your skin, and to that your voice dropped an octave, resuming the moment.
"Make me feel good, baby... I want you to make me cum..."
"I'll do whatever y' body needs, mama..."
Michael's whole body ached with desire, and as before, his anxiety didn't take too long to dissipate. Fondling your waist, your hips, and then your thighs, one hand crept to where it had previously been, and below the bubbles he resumed the earlier pace, rubbing in sweet circles.
"Mmph—oh, baby..." Instinctively, your hand reached back to his jaw, then up further to his afro, playing with the wet coils at the ends. "Keep rubbin' just like that..."
It was at this moment that Michael decided he would set aside all hesitation and display his entire devotion, unrestricted.
"Yeah, y'like that, pretty mama?" he whispered into your ear, warm breath and his beautiful tone coursing through your veins.
You were stunned that such confident words could be born of your Michael, and he only kept on going.
"Yeah, tell me, baby, I wanna know..." His fingers slid down your folds again, before dragging back upward, and then—to your pleasant surprise—he used his palm to direct three sudden smacks to your clit. Gentle of course, but he'd wanted to experiment with the movement because he expected that it would arouse you to jerk and shake in his arms. And that you did.
"Thank you, honey," he whispered, tilting your chin up so that your head could turn slightly and your lips could meet his. Immediately, he engaged you both in a hot makeout, as steamy as the bath itself. Your tongues wrestled, lips smacking into each other's over and over, throats swallowing moan after moan; and just as the kiss began, Michael slipped the first of his slender digits into your entrance.
"Mm, honey—" you whined against his lips, but he silenced you with more lewd kisses, the pleasure of which met with the thrust of his middle finger against your inner walls. He kept slightly hitting your g-spot (where it wasn't difficult given how long those gorgeous fingers were) but then on the next thrust he'd inch a little distant from it, and repeat; so after a minute or two you gently broke from the kiss.
"Baby," you gasped for breath. "Lemme show you somethin'."
"Hm?" His doe eyes widened in intrigue, but also in the worry that he was doing something wrong.
He removed his finger from your sopping entrance, and you smiled, before taking hold of his wrist and bringing the digit up to your lips. You sucked down the length of it, drinking it clean, and Michael's mouth dropped open.
"Minnie, tha's nasty..." were the words that came from his lips, but his cock—leaking still against your back—twitched at the sight.
You giggled in your mischief, and then, bringing his hand back down under the water, went on to teach him another lesson in female pleasure. "Okay, so you reached my spot perfectly," you began.
Michael grinned, very pleased that he'd gotten something right on first try, without even needing your instruction.
"But—"
He started to frown.
"—There's a specific way of doin' it. People often describe the movement of the fingers as a sort of 'come hither' motion. See?" You demonstrated what you meant with your fingers, and instantly he nodded.
"You have to do it that way so that when you thrust in, it's hittin' my spot each time, not just half the time," you explained. "Yeah?"
"Mhm, I get it."
"Okay, try again, honey. But I can't keep kissin' ya 'cause my neck is gonna break in this position," you laughed, sadly having to refuse any continuation of the makeout session.
Michael frowned again, but understood, and he was much too pleased already with your soft body in his hold, feeling your tight walls clench around him as you sighed; and he could still kiss your neck even if he didn't have access to your lips...
To your surprise, he now slipped in two fingers at once, stretching you out perfectly. You were incredibly wet, so it was no trouble, and as soon as you felt the sweet intrusion, sure enough the digits were up at your g-spot, curling exactly as you'd taught.
"Like this, ma?" Michael whispered, pressing wet kisses along your neck and up to your jaw.
"Yes, Mikey—just like that, oh baby, hittin' my spot so good..."
Michael was beyond ecstatic. "Yeah?!"
"Yes, honey, it's perfect, oh—"
"You're so pretty, angel girl..." he murmured against your skin. "Love hearin' y' moan for me. Don't hold nothin' back, oh baby, I wanna hear ya..."
Your moans naturally did increase in volume, loud whines hitting the air while you writhed in the tub, lower back rubbing against Michael's hard cock each time you moved, only adding to the white-hot pleasure coursing up your spine.
Now you began to tug at your breasts, kneading them the way you liked—the way Michael had so miraculously been able to knead on first try. You rolled your nipple between your fingers, eyes rolling into the back of your head as your boyfriend never let up the pace and careful direction of his fingers. He was speeding up now, knuckle deep, and the squelching noises were mixed with the continuous ripple of water sounding with each movement. You were feeling a sensation that before tonight only you had been able to give yourself.
"Pretty baby, let me," Michael urged, removing one of your hands off of one of your breasts and replacing it with his own. You sounded like a pornstar now, unable to speak coherently as Michael somehow managed to talk, thrust his digits, and massage your breast at once. It seemed he really was perfect at absolutely everything.
"Mm, they're so full, mama... Love feelin' em... Is this good too, huh?" He kissed your temple so gently, so contradictory to the supposed 'dirtiness' of the scene by Michael's estimation, and your heart felt that strange ache again.
"So good, baby... so, so good... oh, I'm close, Michael—"
"Yeah, y'are?" His voice lit up with hope and happiness, eyes widening as he anticipated an event he never comprehended would be his reality.
"Mhm—rub my—oh, mmphh—now rub my clit with your thumb while you keep thrustin', honey..."
Michael internally cursed himself for not thinking of that without your advice, and then, insanely he was doing four things at once. The previous list, now including clitoral stimulation too.
"Oh, baby!" you whined.
Michael strangely felt just as emotional as he felt aroused. He'd waited so long to hear these sounds spill from your lips, and he had been every bit satisfied. The fact that so many disgusting men before him had experienced the very same made his blood boil with both jealousy and a bitter sadness.
But in truth, they hadn't experienced the 'very same.' As you'd told Michael, no man had ever made you cum, therefore no man had ever heard your real, unfiltered, natural moans, nor felt the way your body now shook and trembled in Michael's grasp as you approached climax.
And another necessary thing to mention, was that you were also secretly experiencing that same fusion of arousal and emotion, close to literal tears even—and not just from the sexual pleasure.
No, you were close to tears because of the man providing you that pleasure. Michael loved you so much—you could tell, and of course you hadn't needed tonight to understand the extent of his love, but what struck you forcefully was how entirely different each touch and each whisper was to all the other men. You didn't even like that the comparison was appearing in your mind, because you wished that in this timeline it had only ever been Michael—only ever your sweet angel boy, who loved you more than anything, and would do anything to keep you safe...
"Baby girl, hold my hand," he murmured so softly.
Still squirming and moaning, you took his free hand, and even though the force of his fingers was relentless now, speeding faster and faster, he interlaced your digits with the most gentle nature.
"That's it, honey, cum for me..."
He was testing the waters with each phrase that left his lips, and because it was all coming so naturally in his adoration and aching arousal, he was doing perfectly.
"Oh, Mikey, I'm gonna—"
"Yeah, I gotchu..." he whispered, pressing feather-light kisses over your neck.
"Ugh, baby! Ohhh—"
Finally, you squeezed your boyfriend's hand tight as the coil in your lower abdomen broke, the pleasure building to its peak, before crashing down while you trembled against his chest. You shuddered and shook with the force of it, and certainly it was the very best release you’d ever had.
Except, something strange had happened instead. Rather than experiencing a normal orgasm as you usually did, you saw before you spurts of thin, translucent liquid—similar to... pee?—shoot up from beneath the water. Too fucked out to speak, your head lolled back onto Michael's shoulder in exhaustion, trying to catch your breath against the strength of your orgasm, but you were beyond confused at what had just happened.
Michael, not understanding a thing about the female body before tonight, had no idea that anything was unusual. He thought he'd just made a woman cum as many men did; but much more than that, he'd actually produced something of a woman that only a very small percentage of those men ever could.
"Wow, mama, that was amazin'..." he gasped in shock, taking his fingers out of you and discreetly wiping them on the bottom of the tub. Never before had he seen such a beautiful sight as his sweet girl getting an even sweeter release.
"You were amazin', Mikey," you said through erratic breaths, playing with his fingers. "But I don't know what just happened..."
"What do y' mean, Tink?" he asked in confusion, kissing each one of your fingers absentmindedly. He blinked hard at how painful his cock was now, shuffling again to relieve the ache, but only orgasm would do it. And it didn't help that you kept unintentionally moving around against him—he really thought he might cum in a moment.
"The... the liquid—that's not... normal..." you tried to explain.
"Huh?"
"No, that's..."
And then suddenly you understood. "Oh my God. This is what Whitney was tellin' me about a couple months ago... I just squirted?!"
Michael was even more confused, but in all honesty he couldn't think about much outside of his twitching, leaking dick that was really about to embarrass itself if he wasn't careful. "Uh, Minnie... I—"
"No, Michael, listen." You turned your head to look up at him. "I just squirted. Most men don't even know how to make a woman cum, let alone squirt."
Now, he was intrigued. Still shuffling and biting his lip out of frustration, his eyes had widened. "For real?!"
"For real," you beamed, kissing his cheek. You were still consciously aware of the weight of his member behind you, and you did wonder how he was holding on so long. You'd have preferred to linger on the incredible moment for longer with him, but it took one close look at his expression to see that he was struggling.
"Michael, y' holdin' on really well for a first timer..." you giggled, writhing your hips back on him deliberately now.
"Yeah, well, it's not easy, girl... Please—um..."
"Please, what, baby?" You batted your lashes.
"Uh... I can't—No, I shouldn't ask..."
"Oh, but your girl thinks you should."
"No, Tink, I don't think it's worth it anyw—I'm gon—ohhhh—"
Your eyes shot wide open in complete and utter astonishment as Michael's face contorted into the most gorgeous expression of sheer pleasure. His eyes were clamped shut, face scrunched together, harsh while soft moans eliciting from his throat... And in equal timing, you felt several hot spurts of liquid hit your lower back.
Michael had climaxed unwarranted; prematurely but in truth he should've been proud for getting through the evening so far without succumbing to orgasm earlier—although of course he was incredibly embarrassed about it. His cheeks were burning now, eyes so anxious. How could he have been so dirty? He was only supposed to cum in a condom, or in his hand or on his own stomach to wipe it off immediately after. Never on a beautiful lady's skin. He felt he had tainted you.
"Oh, mama, oh no, 'm so sorry—lemme, uh—lemme get the soap," he stuttered, reaching forward to pick up the bar. "Oh no..."
But you only giggled—mouth still open in shock of course, but you were only both amused and aroused. You shifted slightly to cuddle into his chest, then looked up at him.
"Mikey. Calm down."
"Huh? Um, honey, y'need to move so I can wash, um... wash it off." He was feeling lightheaded again, so overcome with embarrassment and shame that he almost didn't want to continue.
"Shut up, silly," you scolded playfully, with a light smack to one pectoral muscle. "Are you gonna actually ask me how I feel about what just happened? Rather than make assumptions and give yourself a panic attack?"
"No, darlin', that was so dirty," he squinted, scrunching up his eyes in disgust, as if willing the memory to exit existence. "Just lean forward so I can wash y'. 'm so sorry..."
"Michael."
"What?!"
"Let me speak," you said firmly.
His voice quietened, but his whole body was still tense. "Okay."
Now you grinned wide, peppering light kisses all over his neck and collarbone. "I liked it," you murmured against the skin.
"Huh?" Michael's brows furrowed instantly, in complete confusion.
"It was sexy, honey," you murmured again, licking over an erogenous zone before biting down with suction to create a hickey.
Michael got a little lost in the feeling, leading him to moan softly, and you smiled over the soon-to-be-bruise. You were so good with your mouth that it had distracted him from your words, even though that wasn't your intention.
But then he came back to earth, and his head shot back in surprise. All of a sudden you actually grew a little self-conscious yourself, concerned that Michael, in his reserved nature and religious guilt, might have a problem with what you’d found sexy.
Truthfully, that was to an extent how your boyfriend was feeling. You couldn't blame him or yourself, for he was incredibly new to all this, and the fantasies he'd naturally been dreaming of always carried immense shame if they crossed into the territory of anything he deemed 'too dirty'. So, while you were by no means kinky, to Michael most sexual things appeared that way. If the specific act didn't involve a reverent display of love to your body, he wasn't interested. You decided that at this early stage in your relationship it was pretty futile to convince him that not everything needed to be delicate, because you felt that he'd understand in time, the more comfortable he became with sex.
"Michael," you whispered, looking up into his eyes and playing with his wet frizz. "It's okay if... you're not into stuff like that. Y'know, doing that on my—"
Michael cleared his throat awkwardly. "Can we jus' move on, baby? I don't know how it can be sexy that I came on y', um... uncontrollably."
Oh, he had no idea.
You bit your lip. "But don't you wanna know why I found it sexy? I think it would make sense to you if I explained."
He raised a brow, but allowed you to continue.
"I feel that way..." a kiss to his lips, "because you coming apart so unrestrained for me, shows me exactly how I make you feel. And I love that a lot. You might think it's embarrassing, but honey, I'm just surprised you lasted this long, seriously."
A small smile etched itself across Michael's lips.
"You get it a little more now?"
"Mhm," he muttered, and there was a pretty twinkle in his eye. "A little."
You giggled and brought him into a deep kiss; then when it ended, you had to remind him of something.
"Mikey..." you pouted. "Aren't ya gonna use any of my oils on me?"
Michael's mouth widened, surprised that he'd somehow forgotten. It had slipped his mind during your enticing tutorial of female pleasure.
"Oh—uh, the oil..."
"Mhm," you nodded. "I like my body to be nice 'n moisturised, baby," you sighed, bringing your hands up to your breasts again, where your nipples were still erect. You rubbed your palm over one of them, moaning as you began to rock yourself back on your sweetheart again.
As intended, you quickly began to feel his milked cock re-stiffen against you, and the feeling made you grind down harder, kneading your breasts with an ever-increasing ferocity. Michael wrapped his arms around your waist slowly, so enthralled by you that he almost forgot your request, and what he so badly wanted to do too.
"Pick up the vanilla and almond oil for me, handsome..." you whined, still kneading your soapy breasts, head thrown back against him.
Michael nodded eagerly, reaching forward to select the correct bottle. He screwed off the lid faster than he'd done anything all evening, and you chuckled through another whine at his enthusiasm.
Before you could register it all he was squeezing the liquid out into his palm, and then both of his hands were slick with the oil. You took a deep, excited breath as you rested further back into his chest, and a moment later you felt both hands steadily, leisurely make their way down from a short massage of your shoulders, to the plump shape of your breasts.
As soon as he made contact with them, you both shuddered with a shaky exhale. Night had fallen now, and the candles lit you both up in a golden shine, highlighting the erotic look on your face and the attentive, mesmerised look on Michael's. His mouth was half-open, studying your every response to each touch, and he realised he was actually fairly confident at this part, because he'd received such a positive response last time.
"Oh, that feels so good, baby..." you gasped softly, reaching down to rub your clit, because Michael could no longer do it for you with two hands full.
"Yeah, mama?" he whispered directly into your ear, and that warm cadence shot a hit of pleasure right to your throbbing bud.
Taking his eyes off your breasts for a moment finally—while still massaging with perfection—he noticed your hand moving beneath an expanse of bubbles, and audibly moaned at the realisation that you were rubbing yourself.
"Oh, Minnie—does it turn you on when I touch y' like this?"
"Mhm," you murmured, eyes clamping shut in disbelief at how magical his hands were. "Love how you touch me, oh Michael..."
This moment was the perfect example of something that simply couldn't be done at the Hayvenhurst household. Had you been moaning your boyfriend's name like that in his own ensuite, there would have been close-by mock-echoes of the sounds by at least two other Jacksons. You were both so grateful now that you were completely alone together, cut off from the outside world in what rare chance you got; and really it was as though nothing else existed but your passion in that bathtub, under the twinkling moonlight.
Every minute or so he gathered more oil, relishing in the scent and the sight; spreading it up and down your arms, your neck, your stomach down to your navel, back up to your breasts, and then...
"I wanna rub y' clit too, ma," he whispered. "Let me..."
Already growing again in confidence, he swiftly removed your hand by a hold on your wrist, and replaced it with his own that had run down from your breast and your torso to your swollen pussy.
"Oh, Mike—"
With the precision of an expert, Michael began to massage circles over your bundle of nerves, while kissing your neck and murmuring sweet nothings that vibrated against your skin, and still he somehow managed to keep running his oiled hand over your upper body.
"Honey, y' so pretty for me... Wanna make you feel so, so good inside..."
"You're already makin' me feel perfect, Mikey, mmphh, keep rubbin' it just like that..."
"Yeah, jus' like that? Want y' to cum for me again, baby, y' looked so beautiful the first time... So wonderful, I wanna get y' there over 'n over..."
Now, you shuffled a little so that you could reach behind and return the favour. You'd been in this bath together for so long already and somehow your hand hadn't even brushed his cock yet. You'd been saving that for the bedroom, but your brain had just reminded you of how fucking gorgeous and well-endowed he was down there...
Squeezing his shaft and running your thumb over the head, your hand had dipped beneath the water so discreetly that it rendered the action a complete shock to Michael.
"Ah—Tink!" he whined, stopping his movements and almost taking his hands off of you in surprise. His thighs and his dick twitched in tandem, and you giggled, tapping the hand of his that had paused over your aching clit to get him to continue.
"What, baby?" you asked with faux-innocence, stroking up and down his fully hard member, gladly feeling over every thick vein and ridge. "Couldn't wait til the bedroom to play with your pretty dick, 'm sorry..."
"Nngh—tha's so good, baby... Just how I—oh—no, better than I ever imagined... Mm..."
"Yeah, baby boy?" you teased, pumping slowly, and your own body twitched in pleasure when Michael slipped his middle finger inside you again, curling it up to meet your sweet spot instantly.
"Oh, honey—" you moaned loudly, free hand holding his thin wrist tight.
"Girl, I love how warm y' are in here..." he whispered, sliding in his ring finger now too. Every single time the digits thrust in they'd hit your spot with ease, and you were writhing and gasping like a whore against his body, hand faltering over his slick cock.
"Honey, I just wanna... mm—wanna feel this sweet pussy all night... Forever, baby, I need to feel y' like this forever..." Michael was already committing eternal loyalty to your sex and he hadn't even felt what it was like to be inside of you yet.
"Oh, Mike, we need to get out of this tub, baby..."
"Why?" Michael frowned against your shoulder, squeezing more oil onto your chest, before going in again with an eager hand; gripping, grabbing, squeezing, kneading your sensitive tissue, all while his two astonishingly long fingers curled up inside your tight walls, over and over again.
"’Cause—oh, mmphhh, Michael..."
Every time you moaned his name like that he felt he had ascended to heaven. How was he this lucky? So much else in his life was troubling, but to be able to have the most beautiful lady on planet Earth wrapped up in his hold, squirming and whining for his touch... He had been awarded such a blessing.
"Wait, honey, I wanna..." He cleared his throat, slowing the pace of his fingers before pulling them out. "I wanna taste y'," he whispered against your cheek, where he pressed a kiss.
"Yes, that's what I was gettin' at," you laughed, ceasing your movements over his dick. "I was tryna say we need to get out of the tub 'cause I won't let us have sex before I've had your head between my thighs."
Michael's cheeks heated up for the millionth time that night, and his entire body was consumed with a giddy excitement. "Okay," he grinned.
You turned your head, giggling into his neck, and then in an instant you were up in his arms for the third time, swept up off the stone resin, arms instinctively wrapping around his neck while he held you protectively.
"Mikey!" you squealed, the water splashing around at your sudden exit. His dick poked up hard against your ass, and God, you needed him so badly…
"C'mon, mama," he laughed warmly, leaning down ridiculously to blow out the candles, then kissing your nose as he stepped out over the edge of the tub, taking you with him. He quickly brushed his feet against the plush rug, then began to skip in the direction of the door, without a thought other than how much he desperately wanted to taste his girl for the first time, and then make sweet, sweet love to her and let the night chase all his fears away...
But he was made to stop before he could reach the doorknob.
"Boy, are you crazy?! We need to dry off first! 'm not gonna let you drip water all over my bedroom!"
Michael sighed, chuckling to himself. "Oh, right, yeah, I got a lil carried away. Let's..."
And so he carried you back over to beside the tub, where fresh cotton towels were lined up. He set you down gently, before taking a body-length towel and running it over you, drying each droplet of bathwater and every glisten of oil.
Your heart raced as you watched him. Of course you were already so horny, but this was a different feeling—a stronger version of what had been underlying everything else all evening. He was so tender with the way he rubbed the towel over your skin, so slow and careful even though he had no reason to be, and even despite how his nine-inch dick was pressing up proud against his navel.
You stroked his afro when he leaned down to dry your legs, and then after he'd dried himself, you kissed him so softly.
"Baby, 'm so excited," you whispered, holding his jaw. Michael tentatively held your ass, and then decided to hold it firmer in the remembrance that you were his girl and you wanted his firm touch.
A huge smile spread on his face at your expression of excitement; and really, the two of you were as enthusiastic as two children exploring a candy store.
"Let's go, Minnie Mouse," he whispered, outstretching his arms so that you'd jump up into them. You grinned, letting him hoist you up so that your arms and legs were wrapped tight around him—that insistent weight between his thighs still so prominent against you—and then he was off, skipping again to the door and out of it into the dark room ahead, while you squealed and you each giggled.
He let you fall gently onto the silk sheets, and immediately you found yourself wrestled in a tickle fight, Michael's hands lightheartedly exploring your torso, so effortlessly able to switch from sensual to playful from one moment to the next.
"Baby, stop it!" You laughed until your chest and your cheeks hurt, after having rolled over each other's bodies to win the silly fight. Neither of you won in the end, because you both stopped in the interest of desire.
"Tink, wait," he said breathlessly through more laughter, lying beside you now, trying to return his breathing to normal.
You both laid in silence for a couple of minutes, content smiles on both your faces in the excitement. Momentarily, it hit you again how intimate this was about to be, after the oral sex (which in fact would likely be just as intimate given the way Michael had been with everything else so far), and so of course that same underlying worry and strange discomfort regarding the unfamiliarity hit you again.
But you brushed it off. You physically shook yourself of the thought, then turned to your beau and slowly interlaced your fingers with his.
Michael smiled softly, heart beating faster when he felt your fingers initiate handholding with his much larger ones. It confused you how he could take things so slowly despite his erection, how he could be so erect but willingly spend time tickling you and then choosing to lay side-by-side in an embrace of only hands. Every other man had always jumped on you as soon as they got the chance, with no room for romantic pause.
"Tonight's been so beautiful already, honey," he whispered into the dark.
"It has," you nodded with a smile, playing with his pinkie.
Some more silence, and you watched as Michael looked to the ceiling, with the most adorable smile plastered on his face. Your heart melted, even though you were still left confused about why everything had suddenly paused, past the necessary point of catching your breath.
From Michael's perspective, yes, his dick was currently throbbing like crazy, but his love for you was so passionately deep that he really had no urgency to speed past the quiet romance of it all.
"I can't believe you want me like this, Minnie," he spoke again, but despite the sad statement, he continued to smile in both gratitude and happy disbelief.
You frowned however, and squeezed his hand. "Why wouldn't I, baby?"
"Well, 'cause there's so many others y' could have chosen to be with. I'm so inexperienced 'n shy, 'n... uh, 'm not the best lookin', either."
"Oh, shh. Don’t talk that way around me, I’ve told you so many times," you scowled playfully, leaning on your elbow to face him. You pinched his cheek, before speaking sultrily again.
"Don't you want your dick sucked, honey baby?"
Michael's breath caught in his throat, and his head snapped in your direction. "What does that have to do with what I just said?"
"It has to do with the fact that you've been hard for like ten minutes, 'n you obviously need a release." You began to stroke his thigh, inching closer and closer to his throbbing member.
His eyes widened, and he stuttered in his response. "Um. Honey, I don't... I don't think y' should do that."
"Why not, Michael?" you pouted, climbing on top of his body to plant kisses onto his torso and grind your leaking pussy over his leaking dick.
"Oh—" Michael whined. "Um, well, 'cause like I told y' before, baby, it's way too dirty. A lady's mouth shouldn't be down there. It would be real bad... I mean, 'm already committin' sin by makin' love to y' in the first place, but that—"
You cut him off with a finger to his lips. "Shh. What if the lady would like to have her boyfriend's dick in her mouth?"
Immediately, Michael squinted at the filthy wording. "Oh, mama, y' can't be sayin' stuff like that, really..."
"Well, honey..." you began, as you leaned down and started to lick and kiss down the expanse of his body, from his chest to his happy trail, to the mound of dark pubic hair. He lay pliant beneath you, lip between his teeth, eyes shut tight.
"...It's either I give you a blowjob..." Another shy squint from the boy below. "Or you deal with accidentally climaxing too early again, on my expensive silk sheets while you eat me out."
You sat back up on his thighs again, smirking happily. "So, what's it gonna be?"
There was a pause, some hesitation, and then you got your answer.
"Um... You can..." Michael gestured down to his cock, taking it in his hand for a moment, and you didn't have to be told twice.
"I thought so," you grinned. Instantly you were on your knees before him, hand squeezing his shaft, rubbing the leaking tip against your cheek.
Michael was in utter shock. "Oh my—"
Even in the darkness, there was a very clear stain of his precum on your face, and he barely had time to register that before your mouth was on him, applying perfect suction over his tip.
"Oh, mama, nngh—!" His hand flew to your hair, gripping your head tighter than he meant to, hips bucking upward.
"Yeah, baby, that feels good, huh?" you murmured as you licked along the veins from base to head. "Such a pretty dick, Mikey... Been hidin' it from me for so long..."
The prettiest noises were spilling from his throat endlessly, filling the quiet air beside the filthy schlick-schlick sound with each pump of your hand, or suck of your tongue. And you knew that moaning around his length would increase the pleasure, so you did that too, exaggerating each to create the perfect vibration. Michael had never felt such ethereal pleasure. He wondered if he was still existing here on earth.
Licking one long stripe upward before kitten-licking the mauve tip and sucking his sweet 'n salty cum, you counted an estimate of his measurements.
"’m thinkin' it really is nine inches, honey. Eight at least... but 'm really thinkin' nine..."
Michael could hardly speak in the immense euphoria—not that he would know what to say to a comment like that even if he was able to. All he knew was that you seemed to be very pleased with what you were passionately fondling.
"Oh, Mikey, my pretty, pretty boy..." You enveloped as much of his dripping length in your mouth as you could, until you felt the thick head at your throat and gagged far from quietly. Your eyes brimmed with tears.
Michael's hips bucked up harder in both shock and arousal. "Baby girl, be careful down there." He reached a hand down to stroke your cheek, wanting to influence you to pull off of him, but you wouldn't, still attempting to draw him in further, therefore still producing those choking noises so insane to Michael's ears.
And so he pressed on. "Mama, stop chokin'—y' can just lick 'n suck the tip, 'm okay. I don't need y' to go all the way down it."
You finally came back up for breath, saliva dripping in a lewd mixture with his gleaming precum, scattered all over every inch.
"’s okay, baby, 'm fine," you murmured, tongue tracing the upper half of him while you twisted your wrist to pump what you couldn't reach. "I love doin' this, it's okay..."
A pang of horrible jealousy hit Michael's chest as he remembered all the other men you'd done it with. They were probably the ones who'd taught you how to deepthroat, who'd encouraged you to go further and further until you could barely breathe. Sure, the sensation felt great, but Michael would never want you to go that far just for his pleasure.
And what he surmised about your past experiences hadn't been too far from the truth. You had been pushed too far before, been made to feel like you should do anything and everything to pleasure a man, so over time your body had accepted the act as something normal, even though nothing was normal about being involved in aggressive sex with men who treated you like shit. You felt completely safe with Michael, so a breath-restricting blowjob didn't feel the slightest bit dangerous like you had to admit it had felt with other men, but even if you were enjoying it, the point persisted that the reason you'd even become used to such ferocity in the first place had been due to coercion. Michael wanted you to unlearn the harsh parts—to perform passion with him but in a romantic interpretation, rather than the roughness you always equated it with.
So, when you pushed your head down again to take as much as possible, Michael tapped your cheek and gently pulled you off. You swallowed quickly, and furrowed your brows in frustration. "Michael?!"
The boy was chewing the inside of his cheek. He sat up against the headboard now, cock still painfully hard and twitching, but he was thinking mostly about something else.
"Angel, I don't want you to do that."
You sighed.
"Um, I don't... I don't know what those other guys had you doin' but, you're my girl now 'n I just want y' to do it gently, okay? I don't get off on seein' y' strugglin'."
Biting your lip, you leaned down to rest your head on his thigh, and started stroking slow circles. "I didn't... I don't think they meant it that way. Uh, I never considered that, actually."
"You didn't?" Michael whispered.
"No, I... um," you shook your head, "y'know, it doesn't matter anyway, because I'm here with you now and I just wanted to make you feel good. It wasn't any sort of power imbalance thing. Um, not with you, at least."
He took a deep breath, cradling your cheek in his hand. "Pretty girl, it's real sexy to watch y' take me, but I'd feel much better if y' didn't push y'self. Please? 'm gonna feel y' warmth when we make love—I don't need y' to suck every inch too, just to make me feel good."
Suddenly, you were beginning to understand something very crucial, and it influenced a question that you'd never before asked yourself. How much of sexual activity did you truly want to do? You'd been so accustomed to the rougher, more meaningless kind of sex since the age of sixteen, that you hadn't considered if perhaps you'd actually been conditioned to only enjoy it that way. Tonight's sensual bath had been a big indicator of that, because you never expected to enjoy something so romantic and slow, but indeed you had enjoyed it very much, and very easily—instinctively even, as if it was all you ever truly needed.
But that was too much to unpack right now, so you simply nodded, and kissed his inner thigh. "Okay. No, I understand."
"Y' do?" He furrowed his brows hopefully. "I don't wanna spoil y' fun or nothin', but I really just like to be gentle with y'."
That pressing anxiety of the unfamiliar had returned again, but you masked it with a smile, jumping up on your knees to kiss his soft lips. "I know. Thank you, baby."
The next couple of minutes were spent with Michael in total ecstasy, laid down against the silk again with his head thrown back against the pillows, squirming, groaning, gasping... And as you loved on his pretty cock, relishing in how effortlessly you could draw out those beautiful sounds, for the first time in your life you weirdly saw the romance in oral sex. Strangely enough—but it made sense, because you'd never before given a blowjob to a man who you loved. It had always been in return for something else, or because you felt like you had to, and since you didn't mind the act you'd performed it without thought. But with Michael, nothing could be thoughtless. Care and reverence was woven into his veins.
"Oh, honey, 'm gonna—mmmhhh, 'm close—" he suddenly groaned, thrusting a little, but without intention.
"Yeah, handsome?" you moaned over his slit, before continuing your expert suction. His hand had never ceased to thumb your cheek, in awe at how beautiful you looked doing something so inconceivably dirty. He'd heard his brothers talk about blowjobs before, and he'd vowed to himself that he'd never allow his girl to be on her knees that way. Of course, there had been many purity vows broken tonight.
"Aw, baby girl, pull—mmph—pull off of me, honey, I don't wanna dirty y' pretty face..."
You only giggled as you continued to suck and pump him, ignoring his protests.
"Mama, 'm serious," he gasped quickly, hips bucking ferociously, hand moving to the back of your head to try to pull you off—but Michael could never be anything other than gentle, so his attempt failed.
"Nuh-uh, honey, 'm good right here," you muttered into his flesh, and then, as one final trick you'd been saving for his climax, you dragged your eager tongue down to his heavy balls, still playing with his shaft as you did.
As soon as that warm lick registered in his system, Michael let out the most unrestrained, ecstatic half-moan half-groan, somehow both high and low in tone at once. "Oh, mama, 'm really 'bout to—oh, baby, mm, keep doin' that, but I need y' to get y' mouth off of m—"
You only smiled, sucking his balls into your mouth one by one, never letting up the pace of your hand over his slick length. "Cum for me, Mikey... All down my throat, c'mon..."
"No, baby, I can't—oh, y' can't let me..." he whined, writhing senselessly, one hand tightening in your hair and the other gripping the sheets.
"Your body wants it, my love," you whispered, and then, with two more pumps, your mouth back over his ever-twitching member, he was there, gasping louder and stuttering further, body shaking with the effects of orgasm. Several hot jets of salty-sweet cum shot down your throat, and you swallowed greedily, still stroking the flesh but slower now as you brought him through it.
"Oh, that's it, honey... So beautiful..." you cooed to him, speaking the way he loved to speak to you. After kissing over his thighs, you licked your lips and wiped your cheek to rid the excess of his release.
Michael was motionless against the sheets following his very intense climax, and you shuffled up the bed to meet his body with yours. Lying on your side, propped up by your elbow, you turned his face to yours with a finger on his chin. His expression was dazed, hairline decorated with a sheen of sweat, mouth half-open in amazement.
You giggled, kissing his nose. "How was that?"
He shook his head slowly, in disbelief. "Incredible, baby... More wonderful than I could've ever imagined. I can't believe y' let me do somethin' so nasty with y'..."
"Mm, well..." you chuckled, bringing his hand up to your mouth, resting the knuckles against your lips as you played with his fingers. "Are you excited for the next part?"
Michael bit his lip again, soft doe eyes brightening. "Mhm."
You beamed, probably looking forward to this part more than anything, and so you rested up against the headboard, getting comfortable. Now, as Michael stood up from the bed and repositioned himself between your thighs, your entire body was on display right in front of him, stretched across the silk like a modern take on a Renaissance painting. He couldn't believe his eyes, almost cursing at the sight.
"Wow, honey. Y' really such a goddess, I swear..." he praised in awe, settling himself on his forearms and then wrapping them around your thighs. "These thighs... ugh, baby..."
He was unashamedly yearning for you, leaning his head on the soft vanilla-scented skin of one inner thigh, gazing at the glistening organ that lay between it. Your heart was fluttering in your chest, and the more he stared into your intimacy the more flustered you became. You shook your head, trying to appear normal, because you were supposed to be doing the teaching; but then it suddenly occurred to you that perhaps Michael wouldn't need any more teaching. He knew where the clit was, he knew how to reach the g-spot... He had a perfect tongue that was extremely skilled where makeouts were concerned, and a perfect nose that would feel amazing if he...
"This is the part I've been real nervous about," he murmured, still taking in the sight of your swollen folds, running his fingers up and down them for the second time that night.
You chuckled, with a light smack to his head. "Michael, you've been nervous about every part."
"True," he admitted, smiling as he pulled your thighs further apart, looking up into your eyes now to ask for permission. "Sweetheart, can I?"
"Yes, you can, baby," you laughed, reaching down to play with his fro. "Please do, actually. I'm achin'..."
"Yeah?"
You nodded.
"Tell me if 'm doin' everythin' right, please..."
You were noticing that Michael's voice, while always soft, became quite a bit deeper during intimacy, and that made you feel even more insane over him.
Having been given the green light, he dove right in, with first a gentle kiss to your clit—at which you shuddered—and then he licked one long stripe from there to your entrance, before dragging his tongue back up and enclosing your pearl in his lips. He figured that it was best to follow the structure of using his lips and tongue in the same way he did during makeouts, with the added component of paying particular attention to your clitoris, since that part of your anatomy was what you'd emphasised earlier.
"Taste so good, baby…" he groaned into you. "Heaven on earth…"
Even though he'd asked you to let him know if he was doing everything correctly, you'd completely forgotten about that request, so lost in the pleasure from that very first kiss to your clit. He was perfect, and you'd been right; there had been no need for specific instruction. If the foreplay hadn't been going on for so long already, your only extra advice would've been that he should kiss over your thighs before beginning, but you figured he’d do that himself the next time you were intimate, given how much he loved your curves.
As soon as he began he had you moaning and squirming exactly how he'd craved, and he took that as a positive sign, thinking himself silly for how nervous he'd been about it before.
But of course, Michael still requested verbal praise, confirmation that he was up to standard.
"Am I doin' it right, mama?" he asked, licking another stripe up to your clit, before sucking again. You arched your back instinctively, gripping his fro, grinding your sex over his face. The pleasure was everywhere, and his big hands always kept their place on your thighs, as though he were a seasoned expert.
"Don't doubt yourself, baby," you whined, hand tightening in his hair. "You're doin'—oh—amazin'... I can't believe—mmphhh—this is your first time—God, I told you..."
Michael tapped your leg in a scolding manner. "Y'shouldn't use the Lord’s name in vain, honey."
"Shut up, hypocrite," you giggled, smacking the back of his head.
Michael didn't appreciate that, but it made him laugh into your pussy, and the vibration had you whining louder.
"Baby, I like it when you talk to me while you do it..." you whispered.
"Mm?" he hummed, spreading your labia wide with his fingers before diving back in.
"Yes, please talk to me, Mikey..."
It didn't take long for him to decide what to say. So overcome by the incredible cosmos of your beautiful body, so in love with every tiny element, he didn't think he'd experienced a better indulgence in his entire life. He lapped at you like a man starved, slurping up the incessant juices that swam from your entrance to your inner thighs.
"Thank you—thank you so much, baby, for treatin' me w' this..." he whispered between sucking your clit, lips carrying a string of saliva and slick each time he pulled back. "’m gonna cherish y' body this way forever... mmph..." He licked another stripe up the expanse of your sensitivity. "My baby girl, y' so, so unbelievably beautiful... 'm sorry we waited so long. I need to pray when 'm home 'cause this is all so bad but I can't get enough... I can't wait for us to make love..."
Your tense nervous system was in complete disbelief at how a man could say such words, and about you of all people. Michael had made it so clear over the months just how much he treasured you, and why he did, but it still seemed so unreal, especially now that he was between your thighs, speaking each word thoughtfully into your weeping cunt. For some reason, you wanted to cry, and it wouldn't be the last time you'd feel that way tonight.
"Um, can we now, honey?" Michael asked, but you'd forgotten what he was referring to.
"Can we what, baby? Ohh, right there! Mmmm..."
Now he had plunged his middle and ring finger inside your entrance, gently but with a desperate pressure, and he was thrusting them in and out as he lavished attention on your clit. Using what you'd loved earlier, he was experimenting through educated guesses.
"Um, I mean can we make love now?" he asked shyly, still curling his fingers while you writhed. His pretty doe eyes looked up into yours, but you could barely look at him without wanting to cry and orgasm at once.
"Minnie, it's 'cause 'm really 'bout to cum again, 'm sorry. I wanna keep eatin' y'—I wanna get y' to cum again like this—I mean, I could do it for hours 'n hours, I promise, but um... 'm just really achin' down here 'n I don't wanna dirty y' sheets by accident."
"Yeah, you need to be inside me now?" you smiled through the insane pleasure, taking his hand and trying to take deep breaths.
"Mhm," he hummed, a little absentmindedly, pulling out his soaked fingers. "Should I get the—? Uh, well, are y'... um, wet enough first?"
"Michael." You raised your brows in amusement, speaking flatly. "My cum is dripping down your face, and you’re asking me if I’m wet enough?"
He brought a hand to his cheek quickly, and felt his whole body heat up in a flush as he realised how your wetness had very much completely adorned the lower half of his face. "Oh—um. Oh yeah." He started to chuckle in his awkwardness, wiping the glistening liquid with the back of his hand. "Yeah, but I was just... makin' sure, y'know. 'm real nervous about," he visibly cringed, "ugh, y'know what I mean. I don't want y' to tear down there, 'cause I've heard that can happen when girls aren't prepared enough."
You smiled, heart aching evermore. "No, trust me, baby. This..." You ran your fingers down your slit and dipped them into your sopping cunt, before drawing them out to display how they dripped with endless slick. "...is as wet as a girl can be. You have me soaked; 'n I'm not gonna lie, the only thing that could make me dry up is if you continue to take forever to touch me. My body couldn't be more prepared, I promise."
Physically, you were correct. But mentally, emotionally, you couldn't have been any less prepared, and deep down you knew that.
Michael laughed softly. "Um, okay, so I'll... 'm gonna go get a condom, it's in my jeans..."
"Oh, that's not necessary, Mike. I'm on the pill."
"You are?" His brows furrowed at this new information.
"Mhm—I've been on it for a while, so, we don't need any other protection," you smiled.
"O—okay," Michael stuttered, even more excited now, that revelation being the last thing he expected tonight. He took two deep breaths before standing up from the bed, but then proceeded to walk off into the bathroom, much to your confusion.
"Michael—?"
Thirty seconds later, he returned. In his hands were the candles from the romantic bath, and you felt a strange pang in your heart again.
"I wanted to make it special," he smiled awkwardly. "I know it's not your first time, and it's not even about it being mine... It's just that I like to make things special for you."
"For my beautiful girl..." he hummed to himself under his breath as he began organising the candles around your furniture.
Now, a tear did slip from your eye while you watched him prepare everything, his soft face portraying how important this all was to him. You brushed the salty liquid away before it had a chance to be recognised, and soon enough your honey was back between your legs.
Except, he did notice one thing, and that was the visible change in your eyes.
"Why d'y' look so sad, Tink?" he asked anxiously, guiding you to lay back while he positioned himself over you.
"’m not sad, silly," you played it off. "My eyes are a little watery 'n I probably look a little dazed 'cause of what you've just done to me... You’ve been amazing."
You squeezed his arm comfortingly, bringing him into a soft kiss. The room was candlelit now, illuminating the two nervous bodies on the king-size bed, playing their part in a scene that would be the most intimate either of them had ever experienced.
"Okay," Michael giggled, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. "Um, what position do y' want? I was thinkin' just... missionary, like this. But I wanna make sure you're as comfortable as possible."
"Um, yeah, either this or cowgirl is best," you answered, playing with his fingers. His other hand came up to hold your jaw, and your eyes flickered down to it nervously, before you forced your expression to retain neutrality. "You're real big—you know that," a small laugh, "but I think we'll be okay like this."
"You think?" Michael asked anxiously. "You don't know? You sounded certain earlier."
"Mikey," you sighed with a lighthearted eyeroll. "How can I know for certain when you've never been inside me before? We'll just have to try it 'n see."
But somehow, he only looked even more anxious. "Minnie, don't mess w' me—I thought you were wet enough."
"I am, Michael!" you giggled, flicking his forehead. "I'm just bein' realistic, 'cause you asked me, so..."
Michael bit his lip and, following a silence, spoke quietly, in a tone more gentle than ever.
"Baby, 'm gonna be so careful, I promise."
More emotional silence, and you felt your heart split into two, despite the moment being nothing but beautiful. All you could do was think back to the other men, how they always treated you the exact opposite. Suddenly it occurred to you that it wasn’t only Michael who was learning the inherent beauty and innocence of sex, outside of its commonly rougher and vulgar connotations. You too had never understood until now that sex didn’t have to be a filthy dopamine hit to feel ashamed of immediately after. It was likely that you wouldn’t have discovered that understanding with anybody else.
Your voice almost cracked audibly with the intensity of your emotion, and he hadn't even started making love to you yet.
"I know you will," you whispered, looking into his sweet, sweet eyes.
He began to smile, and you did too, trying so hard not to let any more tears fall. It was a seriously difficult endeavour.
“Okay, ’m gonna… uh, I want us to be skin-to-skin, is that alright?” He kissed your collarbone, running his thumb over the side of your neck.
“I’d love that, Bambi,” you smiled softly, bringing your arms up around his neck.
Michael grinned wide, then returned his concentrated demeanour as he carefully dropped his body downward so that he was pressed flush against you; chests held against each other, foreheads touching. His hand immediately took its place at the back of your head, where it would remain for the duration of the session.
“Like this?” he whispered, kissing your nose and your lips. “I want us to be as close as possible.”
“Mhm, me too,” you whispered back.
“Uh, okay, so I guess I should…” he uttered bashfully.
You nodded, taking two more shaky breaths. Michael didn’t notice your nervousness, because he was way too nervous himself. He couldn’t believe he’d finally reached this point, and with you, his dream girl.
He leaned back just a little, enough to stroke himself a few times, before sliding the weight of himself up and down your soaked folds. You gasped, holding his bicep, and slowly, eyes on you the entire time, he finally inserted the tip.
“Oh my—nnghh—” you moaned at both pain and pleasure, his thick girth beginning to stretch you out.
Michael’s brows were knitted in pure anxiety, unable to relish in the pleasure just yet, but already knowing that your tight heat would be the best thing he’d ever feel.
“Does it hurt, baby?” he asked, rubbing your lower abdomen with his thumb to soothe you.
No man had ever asked that thoughtful question before, and you gulped at hearing it now.
“Um, just a little. Keep goin’. It’s just—she’s takin’ a little longer to get used to a size so foreign,” you chuckled softly, to break the ice.
But Michael was still concerned. As he pushed himself further and further inside, he watched your face intently, and your fingernails were digging into his bicep now. You gasped and groaned, wrapping your legs around his hips.
“Mm, Mikey, you’re so big—mm, ugh—“
“Is it feelin’ any better?”
“Yes, oh God yes it is, push in a little deeper…”
Michael gave you a quick look of disapproval at the blasphemy, and then finally, he bottomed out in one go. You nearly screeched at how good he felt, and he let out the most animalistic groan you’d heard from him thus far. Your eyes rolled back and so did his, and then before you knew it his chest was flush against yours again, forehead to forehead as before, so close you could feel his breath with every exhale…
“Hi,” he whispered shyly, taking your hand in his, while his other stayed holding your head protectively. This was how he’d always envisioned it.
“Hi, pretty face,” you giggled, hooking your legs tighter around him, your free hand moving to play with the coils of his afro.
“Feel like ‘m in heaven, mama,” he whispered, and in response you initiated a passionate kiss, tongues exploring each other’s mouths while you both hummed into the warm and wet expanse softly.
“Me too, baby… You feel amazin’ inside me…”
“You feel the best,” he argued.
“Nooo, you.”
“Shh…” he sighed with a teasing smile, resuming your kiss. He remained resting still inside you for the next two minutes, despite how much he ached to move, because he wanted to ensure you were definitely comfortable enough.
So, in those two minutes you kissed and gazed at each other in silence, a silence so vulnerable you felt slightly lightheaded, heart pounding. And then your faces were brightening at each other, beaming; Michael began to kiss all over your face while you sighed in content, his lips sucking marks from your jaw to your neck.
“Oh, Mike…”
“You want me to start movin’ now, baby?”
“Mhm,” you nodded quickly. “Mm, please.” You pushed your heels down where your ankles met at his back, urging him to begin his thrusts, but first, he interlocked your fingers carefully. After pressing a sweet kiss to your knuckles and then your lips, he nudged his hips forward, and hit your sweet spot in one clean stroke.
“Mmm,” you whined high and soft, squeezing his hand hard.
“You feelin’ good, honey?” Michael whispered against your lips, before capturing them in his and thrusting deep again.
“Uh-huh, yes baby, feels so good…”
At your confirmation, and upon seeing how your eyes rolled into the back of your head with each movement, he set a slow and steady pace, rocking his hips into you in the most passionate dance. Admittedly, since you knew how talented Michael was with his hips onstage, you’d expected him to be just as naturally skilled in the bedroom too, and my God were you pleasantly satisfied.
“Oh, this is amazin’, mama, y’ so tight around me…”
Everything was so, so beautiful. You were both cuddled up, snuggled into each other’s warmth, as close as two people can be, and despite the coziness, each thrust nearly knocked the wind out of you. The sounds you produced were celestial to Michael’s ears, and the way you tugged at him and kept trying to pull him closer (whether by his hand or his hair) had his heart aching with happiness.
Meanwhile, your own heart was aching with both happiness and sadness, still for those same reasons previously discussed. He kept asking how you felt, if you were comfortable, overall portraying to you exactly how much he wholly adored you with every fibre of his being…
“Pretty baby, I love you so much,” he moaned against your lips, aside another deep, tender stroke, and as your eyes rolled back again, you kissed him hard, trying desperately to push away the tears that still threatened to emerge. You absolutely couldn’t let him see you cry during sex. He’d either think you were in pain, or think you were plain crazy.
But as you kissed deeply, tongues swirling over each other’s, hums vibrating into each other’s mouths, you were so immersed in each other that you didn’t realise what was happening on Michael’s end. You didn’t want to pull away from his lips because you wanted him to stop triggering your tears with his sweet nothings—way too difficult to deal with when paired with the most sensual thrusts—but all of a sudden, you felt something wet on your cheek, where your face was just below his.
Immediately, your eyes shot open in confusion, and sure enough, the wet droplet was a tear—not from one of your eyes, but from Michael’s. He was crying as he moaned, as he displayed his bone-deep infatuation and devotion to you with each heavy stroke, cradling your head in his hand, decorating your lips with his hot kiss. This moment all seemed so surreal for him—that he was truly, in this present moment, sinfully losing his virginity to the girl he’d wanted for so, so long, but in the most innocent, most serene way. Religion might have previously permitted him against the decision, but the universe itself was surely compelling you both, encouraging this cathartic meeting of your bodies. Somehow Michael had overcome fears that he never expected to, and as a reward he got to love and dote on every inch of the girl that had always needed a soft love so badly. She hadn’t known before, but it was all so very clear now.
“Mama, ‘m sorry, I’m—‘m an idiot…” he chuckled self-consciously, wiping at his eyes while his pace never faltered.
You gasped and whined, biting your lip very hard to keep your own emotions in check. Then you reached up to cradle his jaw, and whispered softly.
“Honey… Don’t—oh—don’t apologise… I know. I understand.”
“I just love you so much, my angel girl…”
“I know, baby, I know…” you moaned, eyes brimming with more of the annoying liquid that you continued to force back, hoping that your watery eyes would appear nothing more than a product of pleasure.
And still, you couldn’t say those three words back to him. It was all too much intimacy at once. You loved it, while equally you feared it. How could that be?
“My beautiful lady, I just wanna protect you forever…” Michael continued, rocking into you with the softest fervour as he did, chest so warm and comforting against your bouncing breasts. “Wanna keep you so safe… Always wanna hold you… just like this, forever… Or not even in a sexual way, I just… mmph—Oh, baby girl, you deserve everythin’ wonderful…”
“Michael—” you gasped, unable to take such attentive words.
“Yeah, honey?” he exhaled into your ear, kissing your cheek.
“No, I—I’m just—ohhh—I can’t believe you see me that way…”
“Oh Minnie, I think you’re the single most precious thing on this earth…” he groaned, eyes clamping shut in pleasure and emotion as he began to speed up, while still prioritising careful sensuality.
“Baby,” you cried out, “I’m really nothin’ specia—“
“Shhh…” He kissed away your speech, hitting your spot faster now, and nearly reaching your cervix. The sound of the headboard banging against the wall with the other lewd sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, and you were very grateful Michael had demanded you choose a night where not a soul would be around.
“You mean so much to me,” he continued. “Nobody gets me like you do… and I don’t think anyone ever will… ‘m so lucky…”
You were lost for words, and all you could do was emanate pornographic noises that Michael only interpreted as angelic.
A few moments passed, but finally you decided you must say something. You needed to. If not now, then you’d feel so guilty for allowing the exhibition of love to be so one-sided, Michael as the only giver.
And what was more, you had surprisingly started to actually want to say something. Despite your avoidant nature, in this very moment you absolutely had to let your baby know how much he meant to you. He was reconstructing the arrangement of your nervous system in real time, with every push of his sex and every word from his lips.
“No, you don’t understand, Michael,” you moaned out, voice breaking. His hips were snapping ferociously now. “I’m the lucky one… Me falling in love with you isn’t—mmph—isn’t as insane as you think it is… Because—oh—“ He was gazing deeply into your eyes now, smoothing his thumb over your lip. “Because I—nngh—I swear to you, you’re the most beautiful boy I could ever dream of. You’ve shown me the softness I’ve never known…”
“Oh honey…”
“You brought light into my life. I need you way more than you need me, and I—mmhh—resent that it’s almost always only you tellin’ me of your love. Oh, Michael—” you cried out, digging your nails into his palm, your other hand scratching at his shoulder.
“Sweetheart…” His face was contorted in pleasure, another tear falling, and he let it drip onto your cheek again.
“I love you, baby,” you gasped. “I love you, I love you… There, I said it—‘m sayin’ it…”
Michael almost choked on his own saliva, pupils so dilated as he took in the sight before him. You were completely undone, almost crying over him, hair and makeup a mess, lips and neck bitten, and finally, you had said the words.
“Tink, I—oh, I love you, my baby girl…”
“Mikey,” you giggled, a tear finally slipping but you knew he’d think it was only induced by arousal. “You’re puttin’ me through the mattress ‘n still callin’ me Tinker Bell.”
Michael smiled wide, pressing a soft peck to your nose, strokes slowing momentarily while you both laughed.
“You don’t stop bein’ my Tinker Bell just ‘cause we’re makin love… In fact, y’ more magical than ever right now, honey…” A heated kiss. “’s never been more appropriate, really…”
You couldn’t help but smile at him, but your face instantly began to contort as before when the thrusts sped up again. The bed was creaking like crazy beneath you, and you were both so close to climax now.
“Baby, ‘m close,” Michael groaned, followed by sounds resembling whimpers.
“Yeah, me too, I’m—mhm—baby, I’ve never felt this good in my life…”
With every word you uttered, Michael was even more utterly astonished, and overall so wholly glad that this night had gone the way he wanted it to. It truly had been perfect—even in its little imperfections, too.
“Honey, can I, uh—inside?” he asked hesitantly, soft grunts hitting your ear as his thick cock pounded your gummy walls over and over.
“Yes, mhm, please baby…” You let out a pornographic moan as his strokes began to take on an erratic force, but still hardly faltering in rhythm.
“Oh, I gotchu baby girl, ‘m gonna get y’ there… I love you…”
“Mm, Michael, I love you,” you whined again, licking your tongue into his mouth. You engaged in a passionate embrace of locked lips, interrupted only a few times momentarily to murmur a sweet nothing.
Your orgasm came crashing over you suddenly, having built to a perfect peak, and the unfamiliar sensation of experiencing one at the hands of penetration was otherworldly. Your body went taut, muscles tensing, and before you could try to stop yourself, there were tears streaming down your face. Michael had talked you through it all, cooing at you through the comedown, although he looked entirely perplexed at the realisation that you were crying all of a sudden.
“Minnie, wha’s wrong?” he asked gently, stroking your cheek and slowing down a little despite how he was so close to his own orgasm.
“No, nothin’, Michael—it’s just…” you sniffled, wiping your face rapidly, “um, this happens to us women sometimes… An orgasm is like an emotional release as well as a sexual one, y’know, um…” That wasn’t an incorrect statement to make, so you hadn’t exactly lied, but you felt silly nevertheless.
“Okay, yeah, I thought you were hurt or upset, but I get that. It was beautiful anyway,” he smiled, kissing you and rocking into you fervently, a little harder again to approach his release, but he also didn’t want to overstimulate you so he tried to keep it not too distant from slow and sensual.
Your eyes rolled back with erratic inhales and exhales as he thrust a few more times, before you suddenly felt the gorgeous heat of his cum gushing through you, painting your walls with his seed. Thank God you were on the pill… And oh, Michael looked so beautiful when he came…
His groans continued as his head fell forward on your chest, cock gradually going limp while still nestled inside your core.
“Oh, you’re so wonderful, baby… I’m so happy,” he whispered into your neck.
“I’m happy too, pretty boy,” you smiled back, playing with his hair again.
But Michael wouldn’t let himself linger too long, already pressing up on his elbows. “Need to clean y’ up, honey.”
You both groaned in frustration as he slowly pulled out of you, and you stayed lying flat while you watched him blow out the candles and head off into the bathroom. He returned with a cloth, and with the most gentle touch and the most gentle expression of concentration, patted over your sex and your inner thighs. You lifted your hips to let the liquid ooze out into the cotton so that it wouldn’t sink into the sheets later, and Michael felt incredibly ashamed at how the sight made him feel. That alone was the first glimpse of a kink that would follow the two of you through the rest of your lives.
When he was done, you cuddled up on your sides facing each other. Michael wrapped the comforter around your body protectively, burying your bodies beneath it, tightly bundled; and then he wouldn’t stop staring at you, so you covered your face shyly.
“No, don’t do that, baby,” he giggled, trying to get you to move your hand.
“You’re makin’ me shy!” you exclaimed, but when he tried to get you to drop the hand again, you obliged, and rushed a little further forward into his embrace, nestling your head in the crook of his neck.
Some comfortable silence, and then Michael was whispering to you again, playing with your hair and drawing circles over your skin.
“You told me y’ loved me. Multiple times, y’ said it.”
“I did,” you whispered back, with certainty. Saying the words so ardently had really highlighted to you how much you never needed to hesitate ever again.
“Minnie?” Michael said into the quiet, intertwining his legs with yours, and resuming the handholding that had carried you through most of the night.
“Yes, Mickey?” you hummed into his skin.
“Tonight was the best night of my life.”
“Mine too,” you smiled. “I’m fallin’ asleep, honey, I’m sorry, but I promise we can talk all about it tomorrow. Orgasms always knock me out.” You yawned with a quiet laugh, tugging him impossibly closer, and he repositioned the comforter around you again, so delicately.
“Yeah, ‘m tired too.” He kissed your forehead several times. “Sleep tight, I love you.”
“I love you, baby. So, so much…”
You fell asleep only minutes later just like that—warm bodies merged, hands interlocked, your ear pressed directly over Michael’s steadily beating heart. For once tonight, it had calmed. Finally you had both crossed that monumental line, the feeling different for each of you—emotional in unique ways—but born of the same bone-deep, eternal love.
SWEAR I’M KEEPIN’ YOU SATISFIED? ; thrad!michael jackson / f!reader
⭒ ݁ . LADY IN HIS LIFE! MASTERPOST
summary; After an… enlightening talk with his drunken brothers, Michael realizes sex can be more than this one thing he’s had hammered into him for years. Too bad the only thing that makes him act on it is green and ugly…
word count; 14.4k
warnings/tags; 18+ mdni. picture in the banner is purely aesthetic (zero racial descriptors) !!! established relationship (engaged), childhood best friends, industry artist!reader, the jacksons being the jacksons (i have no idea how to characterize them, help), jealousy/possessiveness, extensive prince cameo, arguing & angry michael, explicit sexual content: fingering, mike's first attempt at softdom, spanking, doggy style, unprotected sex, condescending praise, manhandling, overstimulation.
A/N; here’s our poll winner, & officially the longest installment of the series so far!!! requested by my lovely moot @szalipcombo <3 for the sake of this making sense, let’s pretend that prince won an ama in ‘86, ok? suspend disbelief for me kittens 🩷 also. in this ‘verse bird-michael doesn’t exist, he’s not real, he can’t hurt you… (p.s. i saw that clip of his brothers calling him big daddy and i ran with it, it’s so cute 😭) fun fact, the outfit in the banner is edited by meee! here’s the original julia roberts look heheh <3
⭒ ݁ . read on ao3. my masterlist. based on this ask. leave a reblog & a comment for my eternal love !!!
Michael’s having a shit time. His right hand’s still sprained, his brothers are idiots, and he’s just having… a shit time.
Tito’s drunk. And Jermaine, and Marlon, with Randy not straying too far behind. But if Michael were to say something right now, they’d deny it, of course. Probably tease him further about the champagne flute he’s been nursing for the past hour, only halfway through his mimosa that’s eighty percent straight orange juice.
On The Rox is alive around him, the Sunset Strip just waking up for yet another night of LA-elite debauchery. The air is thick with cigar smoke and alcohol, hardwood floors sticky under his loafers. The sting of cheap gin and burning tobacco scratches at his throat, and the large fish tank in the corner is nothing more than a sharp blotch of light that’s cutting through the haze. More than once he’s zoned out of the conversation, letting his eyes focus on the slow kaleidoscopic dance of the fish.
It all faintly reminds him of New York, Studio 54 its own groovy microcosm amidst the concrete jungle. Reminds him of that night he saw you there across the floor, his bleeding heart clutched tightly in the mercy of your hands.
God, you’d looked ethereal… Like time froze around your frame until the only thing Michael could hear—nineteen and stupid and in love—was his own traitorous heart. The memory-scented heat of your form is sweet as he takes another half-hearted sip of the mimosa.
But, you’re not here right now, and it’s made abundantly clear by the nature of the conversation he’s only now snapping back into.
“That thing’s probably all stale by now, Mike,” slurs Tito, nodding at Michael’s glass.
They’re all jam-packed onto one of the countless sofas in the lounge, Michael in the middle, his brothers forming a wall of broad shoulders and sharp laughter around him.
And they’re only outside because of him, to celebrate the wrap of his filming for Disney’s Captain Eo. It’s the end of July, 1985, and Michael wishes nothing more than to finish this damn drink and take the drive down to Mid-Wilshire. The drive down to you.
Your voice whirs around his head from earlier, when you’d urged him to have a fun night with his brothers wearing that shiny smile of yours. Ain’t nothing worth his time in Sunset Boulevard right now more than the girl who convinced him to go out in the first place.
“Man, worry about yourself,” Michael bites back with a small smile.
He takes a swing, swallowing with a gulp. It’s not like he can even taste the alcohol, really; it’s more psychological. Chasing the placebo rather than the actual thing, much like he’s trying to convince himself that going out tonight was better than spending time with you after hardly seeing you for weeks. Disney had demanded a lot from him, and apart from that one time he’d brought you and Elizabeth to hang out on set, the only times he spoke to you were over the phone.
He sours, taking another sip.
His neck is warm and flushed from the swirling haze of the bar, the hairs on his nape rising with each glance someone pins him with in rum-dipped recognition. But he’s not here to be recognized no more than anyone else, so the phantom glances remain just that. Phantoms.
Although, hm… There’s a soft, grating dissonance that’s making Michael’s lip twitch in annoyance. Somebody—whose face he can’t make out under this lighting—is sitting at the white spinet piano, fingers idly striking the keys in a whole different rhythm than the song playing. It’s a goddamn mess and it’s pissing Michael off, which is the only reason he rejoins the conversation around him.
“Yeah, Tito… You leave Mike alone, now…” laughs Marlon, shoulder nudging Michael’s. “He can’t go crawlin’ back to Tink all drunk and disorderly—”
“And why’s that, Mike?” asks Jermaine, lips curling around the whiskey glass he’s refilled thrice by now. “Afraid you’ll get too tipsy an’ accidentally call her sugar instead of sugarpie honeybunch?”
Like the song, I Can’t Help Myself. Get it? It’s funny, or so his brothers think. It sends a wave of rumbling, tipsy laughter throughout the sofa, and Michael bites the inside of his cheek with a hum. They’re always pulling this mess. Calling him soft and vanilla for loving on his girl. What’s new?
(They don’t do it to Marlon, though, no. It’s Michael who’s the softie, the sensitive one, the pussywhipped. He’s a grown man with a whole engagement ring on his finger, but to them he’ll always be that little boy who got caught red-handed leafing through a Playboy mag on camera.)
“God forbid, God forbid!” cackles Marlon.
“I keep saying it but nobody listens,” Randy starts, leaning in conspiratorially as if he’s about to let them into secrets about the female sex previously untapped in. “That sweet-talkin’ game? I swear, ladies dry up faster than the Sahara. Wanna get her sweating like a sinner in church? You have to be a little cold with it—”
Michael’s left hand—his good one—bypasses Marlon and flicks Randy’s ear, making him howl and spit up bubbles of his drink. It just makes them laugh harder, though.
“Calm down, big daddy, damn!” Jermaine chuckles and pats him on the shoulder. Michael’s lips curl down to a frown, the citrusy mimosa now bitter on his tongue. “Hit a nerve?”
“You’re all fools,” Michael groans, grabbing his aviators from the coffee table and pushing them up the bridge of his nose. Now they can’t see him and he can’t really see that well either, but it’s something he can make peace with. It’s not like he’s aching to stare into their mugs any longer than he needs to.
Damn, he misses you.
“No, no,” Tito pipes up. “He’s not too far off.”
“Why would I cuss out my girl? In what world is that supposed to turn her on?” Michael asks, mind flooding with your face.
Back when you were still teenagers and that… boy had broken your heart. Your first boyfriend, the one before Michael. You’d call him sniffling, asking if you could come over and hang out in his room because your house felt too small and your body felt too wrong. The look in your eyes would tear him apart, every single time. Cleave him in two, root and stem. That asshole made you feel that way, because he was mean and stupid to a flower he had no business holding. Michael’s flower.
He never wants to make you feel this way, ever. So, what in the world are these fools on about?
“Look, Mike, we know you’re all about that tender lovin’ care of yours, alright? Nobody talked about cussing a girl out,” sighs Randy. “But sometimes… A lady needs to get her world rocked, you get what I’m saying?”
“I—” He stutters. “What do you know about treatin’ a lady, Randy? Please. I take care of my girl just fine, not that it’s any of your business to be talking about anyway—”
“Is that right, Mr. Big Shot? You do? Marlon, what about you? What d’you say?” chuckles Jermaine, raising his empty cup in a salute.
Marlon all but chokes. “Uh-uh, nah. No way. We’re not bringing Carol into this. Full stop.”
“Oh, okay!” jumps Michael, jaw tightening. “So you’re fine talking about my girl then, is that it? I oughta lay you out—”
Marlon raises both hands in a surrendering shrug, and Tito says: “Look, look, look, Mikey. Mike, man, nobody’s trying to be disrespectful. We love Tink, you know that. But it’s true! You know… it’s the same with mine. She loves it when I get a little rough, a little wild. Says it makes her feel… small, or whatever. Women love that stuff. They love knowin’ they got the power to make you lose control. Randy’s onto something—”
“I don’t need to know ‘bout your wife like that.” Michael’s shoulders clench, bottom lip lodged under his teeth, neck flushing. Even so… Tito’s words linger, taking root inside Michael’s brain, making him chew his lip in thought.
‘Love knowing they got the power to make you lose control.’ But lose control, how? He already does lose control, doesn’t he? When he’s sweating, slurring, panting above you, his thrusts sloppy and his mind a blissed out haze. When he’s under you, letting his hands grope and squeeze on every bit of softness that’s just begging to be touched. When he tells you how much he wants to… make you a momma.
Making love with you is beautiful, sweet, gentle; exactly how it should be. It’s so good it makes him lose his mind. That’s losing control, isn’t it?
He’s about to engage—actually engage—in the conversation when Jermaine somehow ruins it.
Because, of course he does.
With a barely-contained grin, sly and dumb and utterly Jermaine-like, he slurs: “Uh, yeah, you do!” He winces, as if what he’s about to say next is a duty imposed on him that can’t be avoided. “Sorry, sugarplum… Y’know, maybe, the reason that wedding ain’t happened yet is because of all that vanilla TLC—”
There it is.
(It’s a goddamn miracle the peace lasted so long already.)
It all happens in under a few seconds, and Michael’s glad he’s no longer the scrawny little kid they could mess around in their brotherly spats. He’s real glad.
When Michael gets Jermaine by the nape in a death grip, his brother only howls between his choked and drunken laughs. The sofa’s in disarray as Marlon’s hands fall on Michael’s shoulders to try and push him back; Randy and Tito are clicking glasses over the chaos, downing the rest of their drinks as the entirety of the lounge eyes them in barely-concealed interest.
“Woah–oh! Oh, oh, oh, I got big daddy mad—!”
“Stop saying that, you,” Michael squeezes him when he laughs harder, “schmuck—”
“Just saying! Hey–aye! Just saying, even sweet PYT’s need their world rocked once in a while, Mike! Or you might end up in a cuckho—”
“That’s it,” Michael exhales.
With his tight grasp still on Jermaine’s nape, he pushes himself off the couch, using his brother as momentum and sending Jermaine’s head between his knees before letting him go. Jermaine’s so drunk he only cackles in response, clutching his ribs as if he hasn’t had a laugh this good in years.
Michael’s fuming. His right hand starts to pulse painfully from all the jostling, making him wince, bearing his teeth in a hiss as he cradles it close to his chest. And, to Marlon’s credit, he notices.
Unsurprisingly. If anyone was to notice, it’d be Marlon.
“Shut your mouth, man,” he hisses to Jermaine, whose laughs have dwindled down to giggles, few and far in-between. “Mike, c’mon, sit down. Finish your drink.”
Michael clicks his teeth, catching Bill’s gaze from the bar where he’s been nursing a beer for the past hour or so. With a nod from Michael, Bill picks up his hat and leaves a few crisp dollars on the counter, crossing the lounge as Michael levels his brothers with a clenched jaw.
“I’m going to see her, since she’s the one y’all wanna talk about anyway. Bill?”
“I’m right here, joker.”
“Biiill—!” Jermaine echoes, dragging out the syllable and pitching his voice higher to mimic Michael’s cadence. His voice drops into laughter again. “Go rock Tink’s world, joker. She’ll be thanking us!”
Good Lord.
Michael’s not a violent person. Never wants to become one, never has been. Not when he was still a Witness, green and desperate to keep his mother happy because someone in that house ought to have, or when he started introspecting and dismantling the warped values that’d been making his life harder, nor when his relationship with God became a personal journey outside of institutions. No, Michael’s not a violent person at all.
But, shit, if he doesn’t want to sock Jermaine straight in the jaw right now.
“Mike, nawww, c’mon!”
“Are you really leaving? It’s your night!”
“Just sit back down!”
But, Michael’s already off. Bill is close on his trail, giving the rest of the brothers a hat salute with a smile before he follows after the boy that’s been giving him the best hell for fourteen years now.
It’s just past 12AM when you hear keys jingling in the door.
Your apartment’s been quiet for the past few hours. There’s an old lady next door who always stays up late to watch Jeopardy reruns, the volume cranked up so high it’s almost like Alex Trebek’s in your living room. You don’t really mind, though. It fills the silence; almost makes you feel like you’re back home.
You’re lying in bed when the door opens. Freshly showered, smelling of vanilla and citrus, your damp skin making the AC feel heavenly against your skin. You’re lucky the apartment is laid out the way it is; it allows for the unit you have installed in the living area to cool off the entire house. Courtesy of Mike, of course; he wasn’t about to let his girl stew in a non air-conditioned studio.
“Baby!” you call out, jumping off the bed with a quick stretch of your limbs. But he intercepts you on your way to him, big arms closing around your shoulders and pushing you back towards your room. You giggle: “Mikey, what’re you doing? Did you guys have fun?”
You both fall onto the king sized duvet with an unceremonious plomp, a breath punching its way out of you as he starts pecking you softly up the neck and to your cheeks. His weight on you is grounding and delicious, making you sink into the mattress as his sprained hand lies softly by your side.
“Jus’ missed you,” he murmurs against your ear, kissing it in a way that tickles. “Missed my lady… Did you miss me?”
What, like you’d say no? You click your teeth, making him raise his head, staring at you expectantly. “Yes. I missed you. Let me just… Here, let me scoot back to the pillows. C’mon.”
You do, the silk bedding offering sweet friction as you lie back on your plush assortment. Opening your legs, you beckon him to you with a smile. He returns it tenfold.
And, he just looks so… handsome. His curls are still shiny and perfect (and a bit grown out now at the back, something you adore), smile pushing up against his cheek apples, doe-eyes crinkling as he finds home between your thighs. His head lies gently on the softness of your stomach, breath hot on your pajama blouse.
And, fuck, his hands… Big as they are, slim and pretty and downright eye-candy. His good palm slides around your waist, curling around you from behind, squeezing you close and making butterflies flit around your stomach.
But your eyes land on his right hand, still sprained and aching. A frown weighs down your lips, and you let your own hands drift down to it. Both of your palms close around it, bringing it closer, and you don’t miss the tiny sigh he lets out.
If his discomfort wasn’t currently tugging at your heartstrings, you’d linger more on the sight that always leaves you pulsing and dumb; the way it takes two hands of yours to cover one of his. No, that’s a lie, both your hands combined aren’t big enough to cover it. God, the things it does to you…
Girl, shut up. Jesus. Fuck.
“You’ve been doing the stretches the doctors gave you, haven’t you?” You swallow around nothing, hoping to keep your thoughts from straying even though it’s too late.
“Mhm, every day,” he murmurs, voice low and featherlight. It looks like he’s about to elaborate, but another thought takes hold of him. “Baby, it’s like, real cold in here—”
“What’s the point of having AC if it’s not cold?” You bend down, kissing his—huge, lean, salivating—fingers still in your hold. “Means we can cuddle more…”
“Well, when y’ put it that way…”
The quiet that washes over you is comfortable. His hand is still in your hold, growing limp as your fingers begin a tender massage near his wrist. Nothing more than a soft rubbing of his skin, but it has him exhaling a gasping moan of relief into you. It affects you more than you’d like to admit.
“You didn’t answer me.”
“Hm?” he hums, staring up at you sideways beneath his lashes. From this angle, his eyes look even rounder. He looks cute as shit.
“Was it fun?”
His groan is so loud and deafening, even your neighbor must’ve heard him over Alex Trebek. You sputter a confused laugh, raising your brows in a question.
He elaborates with a stiff lip. “Oh, Lord… You would not believe the mess these fools were talkin’ tonight. It was just… too much.”
You snort. “Try me.”
“Okay. You asked for it…” He takes a deep breath, exhaling an awkward laugh that makes you even more curious. “They started going on about me being too… soft with you. Talking about how women love,” he gestured halfheartedly with his fingers, wrist still being softly massaged in your hold, “feelin’ small, or… Damn, I don’t even know, just things like that—”
Oh.
Your brain short-circuits. Worse than that one time the TV gave out on a movie night, sputtering its last breaths in painful bursts of static. Maybe even worse than he had years and years ago, that one time you accidentally stumbled on his Playboy stash behind the headboard of his bed. God, he’d been so mortified. Absolutely blown a gasket; wouldn’t let you in his room for near a week.
Well, that’s how you feel now. Dumb and horny and… Full of possibility.
“…Right.” Good one, girl.
“It’s just crazy! You think so, too?”
“Uh-huh.” Don’t even worry about it.
“I mean… I just don’t see it like that,” he says, voice dropping an octave, shifting from where he’s lying and balancing up on his elbows, his calves curling up behind him. Round Bambi-eyes find yours, searching your face for reassurance. “Makin’ love… it’s a beautiful thing. ‘S supposed to be an expression of passion. Complete passion. You’re not supposed to try and make someone you love small. That just sounds so backward to me.”
He pauses, sprained hand turning over in yours so his palm meets your skin, fingers lightly curling around your own.
“It’s supposed to make your heart feel bigger,” he continues, a little breathless, the earnestness in his chest making his words rush out a bit faster. “Like you’re so full of love for a person that you just… you just melt right into them. Y’know? It’s not about being mean or trying to show who’s got the upper hand. It’s about being gentle. Safe. That’s how it’s supposed to be with us.”
Oh, God. You might cry. He’s just so… lovely! And you, you’re—
“Yeah,” you say dumbly, eyes wide like saucers, breaths tighter. “Or, y’know…” His brows furrow in disbelief so quickly it sends you spiralling for a response. “No, I agree! That’s not what I meant. Um. Baby, sorry, but,” your palms come up to his face, clutching his cheeks as you thumb at the hairs on his upper lip. “D’you know how much I love this?”
It’s true, you’re weak for the mustache. It wakes something primal inside you, making you hide his shaving cream in the morning and ‘accidentally’ throw the spare razors he’s stocked up in your cabinet. It’s perfect and it’s yours.
It doesn’t matter that you brought it up just to pivot. Doesn’t matter at all.
“Why’re you changin’ the subject?”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I literally agreed with you.”
“No, no, you said,” his voice raises in pitch, mimicking you, “‘Ooor, you knowww—’”
You laugh, jaw hanging open, palms letting go of his hand to fall flat on the duvet. “I don’t sound like that!”
“You do,” he insists, a stubborn, beautiful grin breaking through. His long fingers gently hook under your wrist. “You absolutely do. And then you gave me that… look.” He tilts his head, dark eyes narrowing with a mix of curiosity and pure mischief. “Elaborate on that for me,” he hums, his voice dropping back down, soft but demanding. “‘Or, I know’ what, mama? What were you gonna say before you started sweet-talkin’ my stache? Hmm? Tell me.”
He’s going to be the death of you one of these days. Six years of having him like this, and he still makes you feel like that floundering nineteen-year-old girl with all the false bravado in the world. Your fingers curl around his own again, careful not to jostle his wrist too much as you bring it to your lips. You give a peck to each finger, watching as his lashes flutter.
“Okay. You know how much I love your hands, too, don’t you?”
He chuckles. “I’m havin’ a bit of trouble, actually…”
He’s so full of shit. He knows it, you know it, and yet it still makes heat flush down your belly. Your teeth get buried on your bottom lip, because two can play this game.
“Mhm, I do. I love how big they are… when you hold me,” you whisper. Your free hand grabs his other palm, bringing both in front of you, thumbs tracing his knuckles and feeling the stark contrast between your size and his. “Makes me feel like I’m right where I belong. Like nothing can touch me…” You bend down, giving him a lingering kiss that has him sighing into you. “…Except you. ‘Cause I’m yours.”
He lets out a low, shaky breath, the playful smirk completely dropping from his face. His long fingers move to spread out against your waist, the heat of his palms burning right through your clothes as he pulls you just an inch closer. You’re giving a valiant battle against the twitching of your thighs, but it’s futile. Michael can tell.
“Yeah?” he asks, a breathless little syllable against the softness of your stomach he’s now burying his face in. Fingers slowly trailing up and past the hem of your pajama, he raises the fabric up your midriff until he’s free to pepper kisses over your skin.
“What I meant was, was just,” you swallow, because his lips are hotter now, “um… I wouldn’t… mind it, y’know? Not really. Not… at all, even.”
He pauses, looks up at you, lips still on your skin. “Mind… what?”
You gulp, clenching your eyes and looking at the heavens. He’s going to make you say it out loud and there’s nothing you can do about it. You kind of brought that all upon yourself.
A shy grin pulls at your lips, twitchy and nervous. “Feeling small.”
There’s a pause, a crackling sort of silence that washes over the room.
“Oh,” he says simply. And, it’s kind of funny. The look on his face. His lips just barely parted, eyes beady and brows raised, mind whirring so loudly you can tell just by looking at him. “Oh—?”
“I–I mean,” you rush, “what you said is true. All of it. And I love you, I love us just the way we are, I’m not saying otherwise.” You pause. “I’m not saying I want anything to change. You get that, right?”
“I do.”
You laugh awkwardly, endearingly, cupping his burning cheek. “Doesn’t look like it.”
“No, I–I hear you, baby,” he stammers, palm coming up to completely dwarf yours on his cheek, his skin scorching hot against your own.
Oh, God, you can’t shut up now. “It’s just… y’know, being a little rougher or whatever, it doesn’t change how we love each other. It doesn’t mean you’d treat me bad, or make me feel less, or anything. Or, God forbid, unsafe! I trust you, Mike. More than anybody in the world. It’d be… it’d be good, because it’s you. Because of the trust.” You’re flustered and spewing word-vomit, heart clawing dangerously up your throat as you heave out: “Ohmygosh, I’m totally blowing this, aren’t I? Am I makin’ any sense? I feel like I’m not makin’ any sense—”
“Shh, just look at me.” His curls tickle your midriff.
Laughing breathlessly, it feels like inhaling for the first time after a dive. “Mike, I—”
“No, look at me. You’re makin’ perfect sense, baby.”
You listen, looking down at him while your heart pounds harsher than a bassline. “I just don’t want you thinking—”
He shakes his head. “I don’t think anything bad. I swear, I don’t.” Biting the inside of his cheek, he asks: “You really mean all that?”
“Yes,” you nod, eyes softening while your thumb strokes his cheek. “More than anything.”
“And you, you wanna feel… small with me? Like what they were sayin’?”
You giggle, looking away before meeting his gaze again, smile so wide it hurts your cheeks to maintain. “I wouldn’t… be opposed. Only with you, though.”
“Oh… Okay. Okay, sweet baby,” he nods, diving back into kissing down your belly. One palm trails to the small of your back to push you against him, making you arch, and the other slowly cups your breast. Cups it whole. “Thank you for tellin’ me, mama…”
Oh, God… “Mike,” you gasp, thighs trembling as his kisses move lower with intent. He squeezes you, just the way you love, not too harshly but just strong enough to leave you hot. Your hand clutches his over your tit, for no other reason than to feel anchored.
Your shorts are flimsy and airy, nothing but a flowy piece of fabric meant for summer, just so you don’t walk around in your panties all day. It takes zero effort for Michael to push it aside and give you a hot kiss, your lacy underwear sporting an embarrassingly wet patch as he takes a deep inhale.
You shudder, locking eyes as his fingers rub over your slit, the feel of it combined with the lace against you making you huff and twitch your hips. “Don’t tease me…”
“But I love teasin’ you,” he grins. “You like that? Hmm?”
“Mike—”
“No, no… You were just talking all that good stuff. Sayin’ how much you love my hands.”
“Well, I do…” God.
“Tell me again. Tell me what you love about ‘em.” His teeth flash in a smile. One hand’s burying itself in the meat of your thigh, gripping so hard you’ll be feeling it tomorrow. The thought shouldn’t send an aching pang down your middle, but it does.
You swallow, gently pushing a stray curl behind his ear, fingers lingering on his forehead. “They’re big… And pretty. Just like you.”
He nods feverishly, as if he can’t even hear you through the haze in his head. Eyes locked on where you need him most, his palm drifts down to cup you.
You jump, goosebumps razing on your skin, a whimper fighting its way out of your throat as your brows furrow. The very tips of his fingers are reaching over the panties’ waistband, tickling the tufts of hair peeking over. He’s cupping you whole and it’s making you dizzy. It’s not something you weren’t aware of before, but fuck. It never gets old.
“They do look big on you, don’t they? Look how small you look under me right now. Look…” he trails off, pressing chaste kisses on the inside of your thigh, lips dancing over your stretch marks, close enough to where you’re aching but far enough to keep you on the edge. Just for him.
“I’m looking, M–Mikey…” You fumble a bit, grinding against his unmoving hand, choking on a hiccup when he suddenly peels the damp fabric off of you and the cold air hits you.
And, when he enters a finger inside? He does so slowly. Then a second, lungs heavy as he sneaks glances at you from beneath his lashes, watching you writhe with a hung jaw and that cute little furrow you get on your forehead.
(You get it when you’re thinking, or when you’re angry, or when a stubborn Letraset sheet just won’t rub off for the dry-transfer. Or… in situations like right now, when the pleasure is gut-deep and visceral. When he makes you feel this way.)
His pace is slow, filling you gently, rhythm a steady push-and-pull as he… Oh, God… As he bottoms out.
You gasp. He shushes: “I’m sorry, baby, I’m sorry, I’ll go slower… It feels good?”
You feel so full. Stuffed to the brim, even though you’ve taken his fingers a thousand times before. It still feels new, sacred, special. You moan a pretty sound that makes him hum appreciatively, fingers unbreaking the brutally delicious pace. It must go on for at least ten minutes, that deep stretch of him driving you crazy, your bedroom filled with nothing but the squelching noises of your slick, his fingers soaked with you.
At some point, you look down and really focus on the sight; Michael, on his stomach, the thickness of your thighs hugging him. His curls shiny and a bit wind-swept, his bottom lip between his teeth, his eyes hooded and drunken.
And, his fingers. Pumping in-and-out of your soppy warmth, like… Like you’re a ragdoll, something he needs to pull apart, helpless against him. Fuck. Fu—
When he lays a tiny kiss on your puffy clit, you wheeze: “Mi–Micha–el—!”
“You’re so pretty…” he whispers, that soft voice of his coming from deep inside his throat, making him sound like he’s just woken up. “Such a pretty mama for me. You need to come, baby?”
“Y–ye–ah, yeah, yeah, yeahyeahyeah—”
You’re chasing it, hips shifting in place, grinding up into nothingness as his pace stays steady, sweat trailing down the dip of your back as you choke on a hiccup.
He gives your clit another swirling lick, and you’re gone.
It washes over you dizzyingly. And after weeks of (unwanted but unavoidable) abstinence, it’s leg-curling. Catastrophic, even. It leaves you mumbling nonsense onto the side of your pillow, hands splayed around your head powerlessly, like a halo.
And Michael’s right here for you—whispering sweet-nothings from down below—but for the half-minute it takes for you to come down, it sounds more like static. Grazing your ears but not truly sticking.
You’re panting when he comes up for a kiss, your taste on his tongue potent. You exhale a sigh into him, and he swallows it down with a smile. You don’t miss the tiny wince that jumps out of him, the way he softly twists his wrist in place, fingers curling and uncurling.
And, there, right on his cheek: streaks of brown makeup that’re washing off, leaving behind the milky beige exposed to the warm light of your lamps. It tugs at your heartstrings. You wish he’d just ditch the makeup altogether; you’ve said so in the past, many times. But public scrutiny and decades of insecurities can’t simply come undone by his girl’s sweet words only, no matter how much you wish they could.
It doesn’t mean you’ll stop trying, though.
“Baby, c’mon,” you urge him, fixing your underwear and shorts as you slip out of bed. Your thighs are shaky, something that doesn’t go unnoticed by either of you. “Up, up, up—”
“Girl, where are you goin’?”
You roll your eyes playfully, grabbing him by his good wrist and making him follow you to the small cramped bathroom. It’s a tight fit—nothing like his family’s at Hayvenhurst—but it’s intimate. Cozy. You love that you have to brush up against each other every time someone wants to move past.
The toilet’s facing the door, and the vanity is right beside it. You flick the lightswitch and make Michael sit on the closed toilet lid, facing you as you rummage through the cabinet for your makeup-removing cleanser and cotton pads. All the while, he’s watching you with this loving, faraway look in his eyes. A tiny grin pulls at the corners of his lips the more you huff.
You turn to look at him, just for a second, fighting back a smile of your own. You’d pay good money to be inside his head sometimes.
(The world would, too. When they call him eccentric, closed-off, peculiar. Strange and wacky. Someone to be cracked open and picked clean from the inside-out just so they can be the first to report on it. He’s had to put up with it ever since you met him, and it still feels like the world’s hang-up on that version of him they wanted to keep frozen; before he grew up, took agency of himself, stopped giving them everything they wanted. Before the vitiligo, the lupus, the accident. Before he skyrocketed himself so high they could only claw at his feet to drag him down.)
But, that’s not who’s sitting in front of you now. Michael Jackson, the superstar. It’s just Mikey, your fiancé. Your childhood sweetheart. The boy who made you realize that love doesn’t have to hurt to be life-changing.
You jump on your tiptoes to perch yourself on top of the vanity, pedicured feet landing on the inside of Michael’s spread thighs on the toilet lid. Your knees lock, and Michael leans forward to rest his chin on top of them. You’re still sensitive from the orgasm, but it’s a quiet and warm sort of ache. You can see that he must be half-hard too, his pants sporting the tiniest tent, but he doesn’t say anything.
“Look up?” you gently instruct as his lashes flutter.
“You don’t got to do this,” he murmurs while you pour the solution on a cotton pad and begin wiping at the brown foundation that’s caking his skin. It comes off in thick strokes, the pad twisting and turning around your hold as you try to utilize every drop.
“I know,” you answer, and continue anyway.
His skin looks pretty, brown and pinkish pale. Your thumb brushes his cheek, dumping the used cotton pad on the vanity behind you before kissing on his vitiligo patches. You pull back with a sigh, hands wordlessly closing around the cleanser as you pour another pad. You don’t stop looking at him, not even for a second.
“You’re staring,” he huffs, chin moving against your knees with his words. You wash more makeup off, on his other cheek and down his jaw.
“Am I makin’ you nervous, playboy?” You smirk, wiggling your brows.
“A bit,” he giggles.
You snort, shaking your head. “Only you could finger a girl to oblivion and act all shy when she looks at you, Mike!”
He chokes out a high-pitched flustered laugh, warmth creeping up his neck and cheeks as his large hand reaches up to squeeze your calf. He hides his face back down against your knees, broad shoulders shaking.
“Hush up—”
“Are you gonna make me?” You raise your brows suggestively, bursting into a giggle-fit when he raises his head from your knees. “What? Had to make you look up somehow. You still have makeup left.”
“You’re something else, baby. You really are.”
“Ditto,” you murmur in concentration as you remove the last bits of leftover foundation coating his neck. Then, you do his hands, careful of his wrist, across both palms and up his forearms. “All doneee,” you sing, pecking his nose before climbing down the vanity.
“C’mere, girl…” He clicks his teeth. You’re halfway to the door before you feel his hand curling around your waist, resting on your lower belly that’s still fluttering from his touch. He comes up behind you, lips softly grazing against your ear, body flush on yours. “You think we’re done? I missed you too much…”
Your heart licks up your ribs, a smile creeping up your face. “Aye, aye, captain…” you drag out seductively, fighting to swallow down your giggles.
He pulls his head back, just a bit. “What now?”
You snort: “Get it? Like, Captain EO?”
He squeezes you, but you can tell he’s fighting back a laugh. “Baby, if you don’t get your behind on that bed right n—”
He doesn’t have to tell you twice.
Your words stay with Michael for months.
‘It’d be good, because it’s you. Because of the trust. I wouldn’t be opposed. Only with you.’
Every time he touched you, every time he made love to you, there’d be a tiny voice on the back of his head. Whispering your words back to him on repeat, telling him to manhandle you the way you said would feel good, have his way with you in a manner he’s never done before. Telling him to… fuck you.
But, every time, he’d chicken out. His hold would loosen into a gentle caress, words spilling out like honey on your skin; soft and sweet and familiar. Safe.
And, the worst thing is? You wouldn’t say a thing about it. As if that conversation never happened. As if it hasn’t been plaguing his mind for months on end, making him feel inadequate, undeserving. You never claimed as such, he knows. He knows he’s not being fair to himself, but he feels like he’s been letting you down spectacularly. He feels like a joke, or a fraud, or both.
He hates it. Hates himself for it. What kind of man is he if he can’t keep you satisfied?
Maybe his brothers were right…
The months slip by quickly, and soon enough, January 27th of 1986 arrives in all its starstruck glory. You’ve been waiting for this day for over a year. For Michael’s achievement, sure, but for yours as well.
Last Christmas—at the end of December of ‘84—you’d been approached by none other than Prince. Yes, that Prince, with whom Michael was convinced he’d have to fight for God’s bestowment of divine inspiration. And, really, you shouldn’t have been as surprised as you’d been.
A lot of things had changed since that time you were waxing paste-ups for LA Weekly in Sunset Boulevard, just barely dipping your toes in the industry. Since that first job of yours in 1979, you’d moved on to bigger things.
It must’ve been late 1981 when you were approached by a music promoter from Slash Records, then still operating out of a tiny office above a shop in West Hollywood. They offered you cash under the table to quit the paper and design graphics full-time for their label, and the look on Gina’s face when she found out why you were quitting?
Oh, priceless!
What followed was a fun job filled with eye-gouging neon-inked concert gig flyers, which you’d go out and staple onto Hollywood telephone poles with Layla, the only other artist on the team. God, you loved Layla; you got each other through some really frustrating times. You’ll forever be grateful to her.
Half of your days were spent doing actual design, and the other half answering phones, wrapping promotional brochures in mailers, and avoiding the landlord who loved to corner you near the elevator about whatever the label’s owner did to piss him off that day. But, what took up most of your time was hand-crafting typographic logos for the bands.
By that point you’d already worked with Michael, though. Just a little bedroom project that turned into one of your most important collaborations to date. You’d made the lettering on his album cover for Off The Wall. Just the letters! Handwritten and chalk-like, and Epic Records’ official art directors had handled the final layout.
The letters, though? They were yours. Plastered all across the world. Over twenty million copies! You never told anybody at Slash. Nobody except Layla. You hadn’t been approached for the letters on your boyfriend’s album, you’d been approached for you and you alone. You weren’t about to give them something to talk about; you’d learned that lesson from Gina.
But, well… It became a harder secret to keep once Thriller came out. You free-handed the golden cursive on that cover, too. And, holy shit. Highest selling album of all time. Of all fucking time! With your letters on it! Sure, Epic Records credited their corporate art team, but to anyone who matters? Your name got around a bunch.
It was bound to. After all, you were the short film’s leading lady. Not only that, but you worked on its storyboards alongside an incredibly talented creative team that younger-you would’ve only dreamed of being a part of. Your raw sketches felt amateur in comparison to theirs, but their praise and assurance more than accounted for the imposter syndrome that’d almost paralyzed you.
The making-of documentary crew shadowed you extensively during the whole process, and somehow—in some inconceivably mind-numbing way—you weren’t just a young, scrappy, self-made illustrator anymore. You’d wormed your way up the ranks of pop culture’s royalty. Carved a spot right beside Michael: completely different circles, but next to him anyway.
In the beginning, you kind of hated it. Ever since you’d graduated HS and decided to pursue an artistic career without further schooling, you’d sworn to yourself you’d never grasp at Michael’s influence. When the fruits of your labor started bearing fruit, well, self-doubt was only natural.
Because ultimately, your success had come from Michael.
Or, at least, that’s what your insecurities screamed at you. It was something Michael shut down very quickly, and you’re deeply grateful for it. ‘That’d only be true if you weren’t good,’ he’d told you. ‘I jus’ gave you a platform. It’s networking, nothing else. Quit that thinking, baby, okay? I’m not joking.’
You did. Exorcised it quickly and without much further thought, because you had no other choice. Once the Thriller film hit the streets, you skyrocketed from obscurity to… whatever you are now.
You still don’t know how to feel about that. It all had spiralled out of your control, out of Michael’s as well. He knew you never wanted this; being recognized, photographed, analyzed. You didn’t want… what he had. And he never blamed you for it, just how you never blamed him either. Things just… are what they are. Nothing you can do about it except smile and look pretty for the cameras, for people you don’t know that call out your name.
In early 1984, you landed a marketing position for Intralink Film Graphic Design; Anthony Goldschmidt was a brilliant man to work under. To learn under. He and his team had created the E.T. poster in 1982, which blew your mind. You were working with these guys? Like, holy shit.
And then, enter Prince. Circa December of the same year, reaching you through Michael of all people, asking you to make the album cover art for Around The World In A Day. The project would require at least four weeks of nonstop work, and you took a leave of absence from work to take it on.
Prince described his vision as a ‘surrealist psychedelic mindfuck;’ his words, not yours. Working with him was kind of the same. A mindfuck, all throughout. An incredible, unbelievable mindfuck.
Michael had been… weirdly civil about the entire thing. Okay, maybe not ‘weirdly,’ per se. There was no real animosity from his side, and after those eight Grammys and the Thriller sales? They weren’t in the same sphere anymore, and it was a fact they were both painfully aware of.
It is now a little over a year later. Prince is up for three categories in the AMAs, Michael’s up with Lionel for Song Of The Year… And here you are.
Walking inside the Shrine Auditorium hanging off Michael’s arm, the red carpet outside a pandemonium of flashing camera-bulbs and cloying perfumes. It was just you, Michael, and Elizabeth Taylor in the limo; the rest of the Jacksons have their own ride, and you got no idea if they’ve already arrived or been seated or still on the way.
Your eyes grow hazy from the cigar smoke swirling all around, Michael’s arm wrapped tightly over your shoulders as he leads you inside. Elizabeth is trailing behind you, well-accustomed to the white wall of light and dizzying shouts from the attention-getters.
“I get that it’s their job,” you huff as you walk through the doors, relieved from the screaming crowd even though the energy inside is still buzzing, “but can’t they just… be better at it? My ears damn-near burst.”
Michael’s fixing the collar of your bedazzled blazer-dress, black with striking gold accents to match his own military-esque suit. It cuts off just at the first quarter of your thighs (a bit longer at the back so as to avoid any accidents), giving way for the glittering sheer tights you’re wearing underneath. A thick gold belt is wrapped around your waistline, buckle shiny and squared.
Standing next to Mike, it’s clear who you came with. If the matching engagement rings aren’t any indication.
“Are you trying to reason with the sharks, sweetheart? Oh, they’ll eat you alive unless you treat them like the scum they are,” Elizabeth laughs.
You chuckle, gently shooing Michael’s fussing hands away, grabbing onto the inside of his elbow and joining the rest of the crowd deeper into the lobby. It’s cavernous, with intricate chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, the carpet a deep maroon under your heels.
As you walk past people you never would’ve imagined seeing, let alone knowing, a pit forms in your stomach. An ugly, scraping feeling of imposterism; hollow, but familiar. What the fuck are you even doing, waving at Whitney Houston and smiling at Cyndi Lauper?
Who are you next to them? Michael’s arm candy? A fellow creative?
Both? Neither?
It’s not like you haven’t interacted with celebrities before. Paul McCartney, Elizabeth… Diana Ross. (You are not getting into this right now, no way. It’s bad enough that she’s hosting this shit). Many others, too. But you were always introduced as Michael’s girl, not someone they could work with; someone on equal footing.
Gosh, you hate when you get like this. They’re nothing more than people, you know that, but still. Your mind’s running faster than your feet can keep up with.
Giving your head a shake, you turn to look at Elizabeth. “Don’t know how you’ve been putting up with it as long as you have.” Squeezing Michael’s arm, the smile he sends you makes you warm. “Both of you.”
“Thick skin, darling,” she sighs, moving to step beside you. “Thick skin.”
You hum. Glancing at Michael, you ask: “D’you know where your family’s sitting? I wanna say hello. They’re presenting, aren’t they? Janet and La Toya?”
“We should jus’ find them after, baby,” he sighs, looking around aimlessly. “Yeah, Rebbie too—”
A voice butts in from the side: “If it isn’t my lucky charm.”
Huh?
All three heads turn at the same time, searching for the interjector.
Oh! Prince.
His hair is slicked down in thick rivulet-like waves, and it might just be the tamest you’ve ever seen him dress. He’s in a simple black tuxedo, polished dress shoes, black bowtie to match. His makeup is mild, too; just a striking smokey-eye over red-blushed cheeks. He looks good.
“Who?” you ask once your mind catches up, a grin pulling at you. “Me?”
“Who else?” Prince retorts, his voice that smooth suave drawl you became accustomed with. He’s standing in front of you, nodding politely at both Michael and Elizabeth. “Good evening.”
You feel Michael’s arm tense when he returns the nod. Giving his bicep a squeeze, your eyes don’t leave Prince. “I think you’re overestimating me,” you grin.
“No such thing,” he waves you off. “You look beautiful tonight.”
“She does, doesn’t she?” Michael smiles, tight-lipped as he kisses your temple.
“Thank you,” you flush, but you don’t really know who you’re answering.
“Wish me luck?” Prince raises his brows, smile wide and eyes hooded. He always has that look, like every woman he speaks to unravels something inside him. You learned quickly not to take it to heart.
“You don’t need luck,” you laugh, sneaking a look behind him at the quickly-moving crowd spilling inside the auditorium seats. “But I think if we don’t hurry, they might close the doors on us.”
“You’re right. I’d love to catch up after, though.”
“We should really get to our seats,” Michael cuts in smoothly, tightening his grip on your arm. “Have a good night, Prince.”
“Oh,” you murmur, taken aback by the coldness in his voice. You look at Prince, noting the sly look he wears. Ugh. Men and their dick-swinging contests. “Yeah, we’ll, uh, see you on the other side. Good luck.”
He clicks his teeth, stepping to the side as Michael starts nudging you forward, Elizabeth following. “Thought you said I don’t need luck?”
“Can’t hurt!” you sing out, and just like that, Prince gets swallowed by the crowd.
The three of you are seated at the front row center orchestra. It takes a while to reach it, but once you do, you sit cross-legged down next to Michael—whose palm finds your knee immediately—with Elizabeth on your right side.
Just a few feet in front of you is the lip of the humongous stage, and the countless towering screens on the backdrop are lit up in radiant red-blue scribbled stars. The scale of the room is massive, the balcony on the back packed with thousands of people. And when you look over your shoulder, you’re met with a sea of the most famous faces on earth, all waiting for the broadcast to go live.
It’s hard to keep your expression neutral once the show actually starts. Because she’s up there, presenting, smiling and swaying and being her usual unbearable self.
Diana. That bug-eyed bitch.
You’re not one for a cat-fight—you’re too self-respecting—but her? Her, you’d gladly slap the dentures off of. Well, it might be petty of you, but can anybody blame you? She hasn’t stopped drooling after Michael ever since both of you were teenagers (and she was pushing retirement). Even after Michael’s rejections and avoidance, the woman just won’t let up: offers to co-write her songs, come on her shows, to entertain a flirtation that is downright perverted.
Michael respects her artistry and mentorship too much to tell her to go to hell. You have no such qualms. You’re choosing to remain civil, though.
As much as possible.
She’s still bitter about her exclusion from We Are The World, you’re sure. It’s clear in the way she spots Michael in the front row, giving him a wide smile. It falls hilariously flat once her eyes catch on you, palms entwined with Michael’s on your lap, your fingers caressing up his arm.
God damn, woman, you think. Didn’t she just get married to some Swede? Ugh, you can’t keep up.
She doesn’t matter, though. The show must go on, and soon enough, Janet’s on stage. She looks really pretty, red-lipped with a bold black eye, the silver details on her dress glittering under the stage lights. She’s excitedly presenting the award for Favorite Pop/Rock Male Artist. And—
“Prince!” Janet reads from the card, the auditorium bursting in a loud explosion of cheers and whistles.
“Oh! O–oh, my gosh! Yay! Wooo–oh!” you laugh in surprise, clapping until the flesh of your palms hurt, twisting your neck to spot Prince as he gets up from a few rows back and struts towards the stage.
But, instead of walking past you, he stops. Smiles down at you, sly and confident, extending a palm with raised brows. You short-circuit for a second too long, the moment extending and twisting in slow-motion out of your control, because this is live, you’re on air, fucking move—!
Michael’s palm falls from your knee as Prince effortlessly tugs you to your feet and leads you up the stage, not even looking back. Michael’s hand twitched instinctively, but before he could even think of reacting, you were halfway across the stage.
What the fuck? Why’d he bring you up? Oh, God, is he going to make you speak? You’re not prepared, this was not a fucking part of—
The spotlights are even worse from up here. All six and a half thousand faces of the crowd blend into one big, amorphous blob of shadow; a whispering sea of faces that’s analyzing your every move as Prince accepts the award and the theater grows louder for him. You manage to give Janet a shoulder rub before she’s ushered backstage with the rest of the presenters, and now she’s gone too.
Oh, what the hell? It’s not just thousands watching you, it’s millions. You’re being telecasted, breathless beside Prince, smile so wide and plastic it makes your jaw ache. You don’t know how to stand without looking awkward, out of place, like someone who doesn’t belong.
Your hands are shaking. Fuck. It’s a fluttering sensation, tingles flitting just under your skin. You try to clench them, but it just looks weird, so you press them flush against your thighs. It feels like your whole body’s shivering, and it’s fucking mortifying—
Prince notices.
He wraps an arm around the dip of your waist, pressing you flush against his side. You exhale a breath so shaky it makes him rub his thumb on your side, your palm finding purchase between his shoulder blades. He gives you a small nod of assurance, moreso a question than anything else. His eyes drift all across your features to make sure you’re fine, and you nod back with a gulp.
Smiling comes easier this time around.
It’s better like this, thank fuck. The feeling of another body is grounding. In the front row, you search for Michael. He’s right where you left him, fists clenched at his sides, lips pursed and eyes so dark they border on furious.
What—?
“Thank you…” Prince starts, leaning forward to the microphone stand. He’s holding the heavy glass trophy on one hand, you on the other. “They give you these little statues to tell you that you’ve done a good job.” He smiles subtly, arm slightly tightening around your waist. “But music is a lonely room, ‘til someone comes along and paints the walls for you. This… beautiful creature right here, she took the sounds inside my head and painted them for the whole world. She learned my colors.”
He pauses, turns to look at you completely. You don’t know what to do other than laugh incredulously, shy and flushed under the praise. Your mind’s scrambling to digest everything, but you think it’ll take several days for tonight’s events to sink in.
‘Thank you,’ you mouth to him.
He continues: “Some people want to keep the brightest stars locked away in a cage, but genius belongs to the world. And tonight, she belongs up here. With me.” He says your name, first and last, nodding: “Thank you. And thank you to Dick Clark, and to LA.”
The auditorium erupts in thunderous applause, and it almost knocks you clean out. You’re slack-jawed amidst the cacophony of the cheers, jokingly grimacing before an excited howl of a laugh rips itself out. (God, you hope the mics don’t catch it). Untangling from Prince’s side, your arms shoot open, and he accepts the hug earnestly.
“Oh, my God, you’re crazy. You have no idea how much this means to me,” you whisper to his ear, squeezing before you let him go to step back.
“What’d I tell you?” he asks as he motions you down the stairs. “Lucky charm.”
It makes you laugh, and it feels as though you’re walking on a cloud. You plop onto your seat wearing your happiest and most radiant smile, waving at the camera operator that’s aiming for you. And, Michael is…
Oh.
Uh-oh.
He’s mad. As in, mad-mad.
It’s easy enough to tell. It’s not rocket science, especially with him; Michael can’t poker-face for shit. It looks like he’s entirely clouded over, darkened and closed off, lips tight and eyes glazed over in focus as he rubs his thigh. You’re intimately familiar with that look: he’s fuming.
Fucking Prince. Jesus. Why’d he have to bring you up there, and hold your waist, and flirt despite the ring on your finger, and—
And—
And… Say all those beautiful things about your art. Praise your talent. Shout you out publicly, by name, to millions of people, at one of the most important events in the industry. Huh…
Oh. Hell no. What does Mike have to be fuming over? Because Prince touched you? Because it’s the 1800s and you’re property, only allowed to be celebrated behind-the-scenes? Is that it?
Michael’s hand curls around your wrist, and his hold is bruising. You almost comment on it, something snarky and biting, but it gets caught behind your teeth and you swallow it down. It’s not the time, nor place.
Just sit, look pretty, yada-yada-yada.
The AMAs slip by quickly after Prince’s win. You smile, and clap, and cheer. You lean over to Elizabeth, whispering commentary and coughing to mask your snorts. You hold Michael’s arm, even though you’re getting pins and needles from the way he’s squeezing you.
And, when We Are The World wins Song Of The Year (an inevitability, an outcome as sure as the sun rising every morning), you set aside your irritation to kiss him deeply as congratulations. The cameras catch it, and even though you didn’t intend for it, it makes you giddy. His hand is on your nape, reaching all the way across your jaw. You grin into him before you break apart. Softly, you brush your thumb on his cheek, giving it a pat.
He smiles at you, but it’s not his smile. It’s the cameras’.
Of course, that’s when Diana calls him up to the stage. He pulls you up with him, though. Grip tight as ever, you walk up the stairs for the second time that night. It’s significantly less nerve-wracking, although you feel your nerves snapping for an entirely different reason.
Diana moves to hug and kiss his cheeks, but he maneuvers around her, giving her a half-hearted shoulder pat in thanks. Her eyes close in on you, and you need to remind yourself of the millions of viewers currently watching you and Diana Ross hovering around each other like a pair of panthers. You give her a tight nod, and nothing more.
She’s still the host, which means she has to snap out of it quicker. Michael’s holding the glass statue, smiling out into the world, the cheers from the audience’s standing ovation reaching a crescendo.
Diana screeches: “Why don’t we try to get aaall the performers that were there that night, one year ago, so we can sing We Are The World together? La Toya, the Jacksons, c’mon up to the stage! Alright, is everybody comin’ up? Yeah! We are the worlddd, we are the chiiildren… Elizabeth? We are the ooones who make a brighter dayyy, so let’s start giviiing…! Sing along, would you?”
(Like you said. Still bitter.)
Quincy came up after Lionel, just as the opening notes began filling the space. You locked eyes with Elizabeth, and with a quick work of your wrist you ushered her up. From both wings, people started spilling in, and when you spotted Janet, you waved her over with a smile.
“Felt like I was dying up here,” you tell her, wrapping your arm around her shoulder and burying her to your side as everyone starts swaying to the rhythm.
“I saw,” she giggles.
You click your teeth at her. Michael wraps his arm around your waist, bringing you close, rocking you to the melody. Liz is on his other side, and Diana’s somewhere to your left, begrudgingly sharing a mic with Whitney.
The moment is beautiful. The song is too, and what it stands for, what it’s brought out in people. You’re no singer, but you sing your heart out regardless. Michael’s smiling, his real smile, looking down at you and his sister as the lyrics echo through the theater and thousands of people sway.
He kisses you on the temple, lingering, hot, sharp.
Yet, loving. Always, always loving.
You should’ve known the momentary ceasefire of We Are The World wouldn’t have lasted any longer than the song itself.
“Can’t believe you,” you mutter, unbuckling your golden belt and tossing it on the bed. Michael’s somewhere behind you, stepping out of his loafers. Your heels were tossed at the door, and you’re making quick work of the buttons on the blazer.
The apartment’s quiet, your neighbor next door probably asleep due to the distinct lack of Alex Trebek-ness in the air. The central heating’s buzzing something soft, but the homey warmth does absolutely nothing for the prickling down your nape.
It’s like a minefield in here. One wrong move and you’ll both blow up into pink mist.
“Can’t believe me?” he echoes, undoing his tie and letting it hang around his neck messily. “What’d I do, baby, huh?”
“You were practically boring holes in the side of my head the entire night, Mike. From the moment he called me up.”
He leans against the door frame, unbuttoning his sleeves and suit. “Oh, so I’m supposed to jus’ sit back and smile while another man puts his hands all over you on live TV? While he’s up there acting like he owns you just ‘cause you painted some canvas for him?”
Your jaw falls, fingers stilling mid-button. “He was thanking me! Praising my work in front of the whole industry, and you looked like you wanted to lay him out right on the stage—”
He clicks his teeth, shaking his head dismissively. It makes your jaw clench. “He was being too touchy. You know it, and I know it. He had no business pulling you close like that, saying what he said. It was disrespectful to you, and it was disrespectful to me.”
“It wasn’t like that, at all! You’re completely blowing this out of proportion. You were so tense in the car, y–you wouldn’t even look at me!” Hands shooting out, you gesture animatedly, blazer popped open to reveal your matching underwear. The glittery pantyhose elastic is digging into your waist. “You’re being insane. You’re actually being insane!”
His eyes track down your frame, and he sighs before snapping out of it, beady gaze locking on yours. “No, no,” he shakes his head angrily, “I’m not being insane. I’m bein’ your man, there’s a difference.”
Your entire face sours, lips pursed in disbelief as you walk over to the vanity to remove your bracelets. “Right, riiight, right. So, your version of being my man is icing me out because another artist showed me some appreciation?” A humorless laugh trickles out of you. “You’re just jealous, and I don’t get it, because if we wanna talk about impropriety—”
He tosses his gold belt on the ottoman near the closet along his own blazer, groaning: “Uh-uh, we’re not spinnin’ this old tale again—”
Your silver bangles clang harshly against the catchall bowl. Sucking in a breath, you try to keep your voice steady. It’s a futile battle. Pivoting harshly, you point an accusatory finger, not even certain who you’re blaming. “It’s not old if the bitch still wants you!”
He clicks his teeth, eyes falling shut as he shakes his head. “Don’t talk like that, baby, c’mon—”
You gasp; half a laugh, half a sneer. “Are you kidding me? Are you actually joking right now? You think I don’t see the way she still looks at you? You cut her off years ago, Mike, and she acts like she’s just waiting for a slip-up! So don’t you dare look at me sideways because Prince gave me a hug on-stage. It’s fucking embara—”
“That’s entirely different and you know it. I don’t give her the time of day, I don’t let her get close to me. You, you just let him do it!”
Your eye twitches. “Because we were on-air! What’d you want me to do, make a scene? Shove him off?”
“I don’t care about the cameras!” He gestures out into nothingness, nerves and frustration catching up to him and threatening to blow over. “I don’t care ‘bout making a scene. If a man is putting his hands on my woman, I want him off you. It’s that simple. But you jus’ stood there like it was nothing.”
You pivot back again, clenching your eyes. The rest of your bangles slide off your wrists like water, but your fingers twitch. “It was nothing! Just a congratulatory hug, that’s it! You’re only looking for an excuse to stay mad—”
He’s closer now, you watch him from the mirror. He looks undone; white dress-shirt half open, hair ruffled from running his hands in it, eyes wide and round. He’s breathing heavily, chest panting, and… For a moment only, you forget what you’re arguing about.
“Yeah, okay,” he exhales, nodding to himself. “You’re right, I might be. I am jealous. I, I’m heavily jealous. I don’t want his hands on you, is that so crazy? I don’t want nobody’s hands on you but mine.”
You can’t help it, an incredulous snort jumps out. Twisting to face him, you lean your weight on the vanity, the edge digging into the meat of your ass. You don’t miss the way his eyes jump down: at the fat of your thighs stretching out the pantyhose, on the softness of your stomach still half-covered by the tights. At the way he can only catch a peek of your breasts between the lapels.
He scowls at the sound of your snort. It makes him look… Hm. You have to fight a smirk, biting on the inside of your cheek. It makes him look sexy. All fired up because another man touched you, touched what’s his. It makes heat flash somewhere deep down, causing you to shift in place.
Well. They do say anger is an aphrodisiac…
Crossing your arms, you raise your brows. “Oh… So, now you wanna talk like that? Where was all this mouth when we were at the lounge? You just stood there and stewed, and then you bring all this heavy energy back home to me. How do you think that makes me feel?”
His whole body shakes with his exhale. “You think this ‘s just mouth? You think I’m talkin’ just to talk right now?”
Shrugging, you tilt your head. “I don’t know, Mike. Are you? Because, normally, we’d just tell each other to hush up and walk away, and talk about it later. You don’t ever get like this.”
His eyes, beautiful and glassy, narrow into slits. He squares his shoulders, chest puffing out. Oh? “Maybe I’m tired, baby, huh? Maybe I’m tired of everybody thinkin’ I’m too soft to hold onto what’s mine.”
Oh.
Oh… Dear. God.
That’s what this has been all about? Jesus. He’s always been insecure like that, and it’s just worsening by his brothers’ constant teasing. Prince might be no more than a blotch on Michael’s map now, but it still stings. You dread to think about what Jermaine’s going to say when he sees you both next. No matter how much you reassure Michael, reassure his masculinity, this is what it always boils down to: men and their goddamn dick-swinging contests.
How does that make any sense? Why is every male on the planet incapable of listening to what the objects of their desire actually like?
It’s a fucking mystery.
You don’t mean to sound patronizing, but a smile slips onto you. As if the past four hours hadn’t happened at all. Like it’s just a game you’re playing; a tug-of-war you’re forfeiting on purpose, the mouse mocking the cat.
“Fine,” you shrug, giggling, shaking your head and raising your hands in surrender. “Fine! Prove it then.” You lean back, wrists landing on the vanity as you rest your upper body. “If you’re so mad about how he touched me, what’re you gonna do about it?”
You didn’t know it was possible, but his eyes?
They get deadly. Lids hooded, brows in a knot, thumb and forefinger pinching the bridge of his nose. He scoffs with a smile that never reaches past his cheeks. “Oh, no. No, no, no… You don’t get to play like that, ma. You don’t get to… poke at me and just laugh it off.”
Your brows pinch together, an unsure grimace on your lips. “Michael—”
“Get on the bed.”
Pause…
…What?
“E–excuse me?” you sputter, a chuckle getting stuck up your throat. “Michael—”
Clicking his teeth, he unbuttons the rest of his white shirt, pulling it out of his waistline, rolling up the cuffs up his sleeve to his elbows. Slowly, one by one, as if you’re boring him.
“Don’t ‘Michael’ me, baby. Get on the bed. Right there,” he points with his nose, like it’s a nuisance.
Your brows constrict, mouth hanging open. A breath gets stuck somewhere past your lungs. You make no move, and neither does he. And, here you both are: half undressed, panting, suspended mid-air in a standstill that threatens to crumble your resolve completely.
“…You’re serious.”
“Dead serious. Turn around.”
What the fuck? Did you die on the ride back? Is this some sort of purgatory? Heaven, hell, both?
This time, you do move. Slowly, like a fawn caught in a trap, unsure on shaky feet. You stop right at the foot of the bed, the mattress coming up just below your midriff. Eyes studying the frilly pillows, the baby-blue patterns on the duvet, you suck in a breath once you hear his feet moving behind you. Your head tilts to the side. “…Like this?”
“Yeah… yeah, jus’ like that. Stay right there, and don’t move.” His hands land on both your hips, the sensation so sudden that you jump. Your own hands fall on top of his, feeling his tiny twitches immediately.
“Mikey, you’re shaking a little bit,” you whisper, words trailing off into a moaning sigh as he leans down over your shoulder. His body’s flush against yours, soft lips nipping your ear.
“‘Cause you do this to me,” he murmurs, accent thick, curling around you like a net, “you make me lose my mind…”
“I d–do?” you echo. Yes, you do. You’re well-aware. Have been, for near a decade.
His wide palms dance across your front, one splaying over your lower stomach, the other sneaking past the blazer lapel and cupping your breast. All the while, he’s constricting you against him like a boa, until your ribs are stuttering with each breath.
“You, you, always you.” His tongue is licking at your neck, drawing you in, sucking softly where you’re always left squirming and desperate. He nips just at the junction of your jaw, and suddenly untangles himself completely, his warmth a memory. “B–bend,” he clears his throat, your heart flutters, “bend over. Right here.”
“Oh… Okay,” you murmur, lips bruising with the way you’re biting them. Your hands land on the softness of the duvet, feet still on the ground, body falling into the 90° angle effortlessly. The blazer rides up, and Michael gasps hard at the sight of your ass; you’d chosen a silky black thong, your sheer tights still glistening despite the warm dimmed lights of the vanity.
His hand comes up, groping your flesh over the pantyhose, and the sensation’s dizzying.
“No,” he breathes, and your eyes widen in confusion. “Not like this…” His palm finds purchase at the small of your back, pushing you forward, causing you to raise your knees to climb up the mattress on all fours. He pushes on your back, making you fall on your cheek, arching for him until he’s satisfied.
You’re still at the edge of the bed, but now… Now, you feel exposed. For him.
Your breaths are shaky. “How…” You swallow, lips puffy against the comforter, heat swirling inside you like tendrils. “H–how do I look?”
“Beautiful,” he punches out.
His hands are still shaking. They drift up your ass and latch onto the elastic band, peeling the tights off you slowly. Torturously. Goosebumps wash over every inch of skin he exposes to his hungry eyes, the friction with the nylon leaving behind tingles. He snaps them off your feet, rubbing your calves once he tosses them on the floor.
The gasp that claws its way out of you when he buries his head into your pussy is broken.
The angle makes everything more intense, makes you feel helpless in the most delicious way. And Michael is breathing in your warmth, inhaling you like you’re the sweetest perfume, big palms digging into your hips and ass.
“Mike,” you whine.
“Always playing,” he says against you, kissing you over the silky fabric. It makes you gasp. “Always… testin’ me. Do you get like this for anyone else, lovey?”
“No,” you mewl as he continues licking. His tongue is hot, making you light-headed, toes curling as he eats you through the panties. He’s making a mess… You’re making a mess. You feel it; the hot gush of wetness slowly leaking out as he has you spread like this, mouth sloppily working you until you have no idea where you end and his spit starts. Oh, God. “Only you, o–only y—”
The slap on your asscheek is sharp, and stinging. It wasn’t harsh, barely stronger than a smack, but it has your eyes popping open like corks.
You gasp, voicing breaking into a whine as his big hand rubs lovingly over the spot.
“How’d that feel?” Michael asks. He sounds winded. Honeyed. With that soft lilt you could recognize in a sea of voices.
“G–good,” you cry, heart threatening to spill up your throat. “Really, really good…”
He peels away your panties in the same slow, agonizing manner. By the point they’re past your ankles, you’re shaking like a leaf. You hear his sharp intake of breath, and something compels you to turn. To look at him. When you do?
Holy. Sh—
“OhmyGod,” you mewl, jaw nearly unhinging. You clench around nothing.
He’s got your panties in his mouth by the gusset, inhaling and pressing and licking, eyes closed in bliss.
“Mmh…” his shoulders fall, and he leans down close to kiss your cheek, near your jaw. From the corner of your eye, you see him pocketing them. He pecks your ear, fingers expertly undoing his pants. “I want… to fuck you, baby. Like this. Can I? Will you let me?”
You’ve never… Never like this. He always likes to look in your eyes, or be draped across from you, that way you’re connected completely. Deeply. So he can kiss you and shower you with his loving care, and you can get lost in it together. He’s never called it fucking, either. It’s always making love or loving on his lady, always sweet, hot, intimate. Beautiful.
But this… This is dirty. It’s debased, and lewd. Pornographic. So, so hot. Fuck, fu—
“Please, please, please, Mike,” you sob. It actually hurts, his absence inside you. The sensation is so hot it’s jumped right back into freezing. You’re drowning in it, the angle intensifying it into a crescendo. You need him.
“You’re doin’ so good for me right now, baby. I mean it.” Oh, there he is… Solid against you, rubbing his flushed tip in your wetness, catching against your puffy clit and making you keen.
You gasp, one breath and another: “M–Mikey, please…”
Another slap. Same controlled intensity as the first, same delicious sting that makes your feet curl upwards. You choke around a breath.
“See? You listen so much better when you ain’t running that mouth.” He hums in appreciation, voice suave and dripping with condescension. But his hands on your hips are still shaking. “I’m really proud of you.”
“I always listen to you,” you pout. Lie.
But that, ‘I’m proud of you?’ God… It always leaves you melting. Now? Now, you’re drunk on it.
He chuckles, soft and airy. “No, you don’t. But you’re bein’… a real good girl for me now. Keep staying just like that.”
He’s teasing you. He’s fucking patronizing you. He’s making you… feel small. And, damn it, it leaves you hotter than you’ve ever felt before. It’s a brand new dizzying rush, and you can’t take it anymore. He’s tapping himself against your clit, and you push your hips back, crying: “Jus’ put it in, put it in! Mmnnhhh–oh m–my God—”
He does, slowly, and you both gasp.
It feels so… different. Michael’s already big, but in this position, it feels like he’s about to split you in two. And your baby’s breathing so hard behind you—hands strong and big and shaky—the shape of him making you sting and ache deliciously. He moans something broken, facade slipping, his pace bruising. He’s fucking you like he’s got something to prove, and you’re writhing with every sharp and deep thrust, hands clutching the duvet until your knuckles shake.
It hurts a bit. Or, rather, stings. Stretches you. Makes you moan deep down your chest with every stroke. You’re oversensitive, be it from the unfamiliar position or everything else, so you can’t help it when a high-pitched, deep-throated wail rips out of you.
It sounded different from all your other sounds. It sounded pained. And Michael stilled like a statue almost immediately, planting his knees on the mattress and falling forward. His hands land next to your torso, caging you in and supporting him as he kisses your shoulder.
He breathes, anxious: “You alright, ba—?”
You nod, hot black tears mixed with mascara streaking down your cheeks. You push your hips back against him to no avail, heaving a sob: “I’m fine, Mike, just—”
One palm shoots back, digging into the meat of your hip, stilling you. “No, hold on, stop movin’ for a second. Talk to me, baby. Did I hurt you?”
“Mike!” you punch out, frustrated because he just won’t fucking move. “It felt so g–good… I wanna come so bad, pleeease, please just keep going—”
His hips twitch against you, almost imperceptibly, but not near enough. Breath hot against your cheek, he stays in place, burying his face in your neck and planting his hands again. “Okay…” he sighs around the kisses he’s peppering on your nape. “Okay, I’m right here. I got you. Just breathe for me, mama.”
Oh, his pace is brutal. Unrelenting once he starts, and you want it to last forever. He’s utilizing every bit of those dancer’s hips of his, the squelching wet sounds milking you for every moan you’ve got. You never want this ache to end, it hurts so goo—
Michael’s hand moves. You have half a millisecond to register the blur in your periphery before you feel it. Sneaking under you, past your stomach and your mound. Landing a slap against your swollen clit.
You choke, sputtering, shaking, writhing. “Mike–ah, ahh—!”
No, no, not yet, notyetnotyet…
“Yeah, ‘s good? Your man’s giving it good, baby?”
You’re coming, and it’s scathing. Body folding in on itself, a stinging pleasure spreading from your pussy up your belly like a hot wave, reaching up your eyes and falling into fresh tears. Your shoulders are shaking, and you’re left raw.
But, Mike’s still going.
“D–did, d’you just—?” His sentence gets cut off by his whimper, the feeling of you squeezing him too much, too good. You’re pulsing, milking him, keeping him where you need him most.
You’re still shaking, chest caving in. “Yeah,” you hiccup, “yeah, yeahyeahye–ah… A–ahh!”
When Michael comes inside you, he does so brokenly. His hips drive into you one last time, squeezing you so tight you might be left with marks, flush against you. Deep, snug. Making you feel full with him, his cum warm and sticky. You can’t really feel it right now, but you know you’ll do once he pulls out.
He exhales against your throat. His hands, pretty and veined, sneak beneath the blazer you’ve surely ruined by now, unclasping your bra and wrapping around your tits. And, right now, it feels grounding and soft. Something dragging you back from the ledge as he pulls out, and you feel more like a leaky faucet than a woman.
“Oh, my God…” you groan, thighs twitching as both your releases trickle down. Your pussy makes a valiant effort to keep them in, clenching and puffing, but to no avail. She might be broken. “Oh. My. God.”
Michael falls down on the bed, his head landing on the pillow. You’re not too keen on moving right now, so he has to grab you by your still-raised hips and maneuver you around so you can lie your head on his chest. He wraps one arm over your waist, hugging you close. You have one foot draped between his, ear listening to the drumming beats of his racing heart, the push-and-pull of his lungs almost a lullaby.
“What jus’ happened?” he pants, in awe.
“Mike,” you giggle, just as breathless. “You happened. Where the hell did all that come from?”
“I–I don’t know,” he exhales. “It just… did.”
“Yeah, I’ll say. I think you broke me. Like, officially.”
His eyes clench, and when you twist to look at him, the sight leaves you with cottonmouth. He’s sweaty, forehead glistening, makeup ruined to reveal his small patches of that face you love so much. His curls are sticking to his skin, and those lips look awfully kissable.
“Don’t say that—”
You catch his words just as they slip out, the kiss open-mouthed and soft, tongues caressing each other for a moment before breaking apart. “Why? It’s true. You’ve broken me.”
“Now you’re makin’ me feel bad…” His arm tightens around you, his other palm coming up to rub soothing strokes on your clothed forearm.
He pecks your forehead, and you ask: “Baby, why? Why would you even say that?”
He sucks in a breath, avoiding your gaze. You can tell it takes a lot for him to find the words, let alone say it out loud. “It’s just… We’ve been together for so long, and I jus’… I never saw you give in like that before. Have I… been leaving you wanting?”
Oh, this stupid, stupid boy.
“Hey, look at me. Look at my face, Mike.” You love him so much. It’s clear by the beam that works its way up your cheeks, pearly whites flashing as you lift your head and use one palm on his chest for balance. “Is that what you’ve been thinking about? Ever since… we talked?”
Fingers catching on his jaw, you make him look at you. Really look at you. At your puffy eyes and destroyed makeup, the bruised and pretty lips that would love nothing more than to speak his name always, your cheeks that ache from the smiles he’s pulling out of you.
“Yeah,” he nods, arms tightening.
“Let me make something abundantly clear, alright?” You school your expression into a deadpan. “I’ve loved you since we were sixteen. We could stop having sex tomorrow, and I’d still be the most satisfied woman on Earth. It took a lot to get where we are. There isn’t anybody, not one in the whole world, that makes me feel like you do. Okay? Not some philandering guitarist whose album I worked on, or whoever fucking else. D’you get that?”
Jokingly, you jab a finger on his temple. And, there’s that grin. Slow and sly, pulling at the apples of his cheeks.
“I get that,” he echoes.
“Kiss me,” you urge, eyebrows raised in a challenge. He does, a soft and lingering peck. You smirk. “Now tell me again.”
He rolls his eyes, smile blinding. “I’m your one.”
“Good,” you nod, giving him a kiss before wincing. You weren’t kidding when you told him he might’ve broken you. “Now… Is my one, who loooves meee, gonna run us a bath? With those, um, bathbombs I like? The black raspberry vanilla?”
“I spoil you too much,” he groans playfully, giving your ass a soft smack before getting up.
Undressing right here in front of you, he discards his ruined shirt and pants and underwear on the floor in one fell swoop. As he walks out of the room, you curl over on the bed, eyes following his ass like a moth to a flame.
He’s doing it on purpose. Please, what are you supposed to do? Not stare?
You wolf whistle. He shouts out a, “Hey!” that’s half-muffled by the bathroom door, and you burst into postorgasmic giggles; the kind when everything’s warm and gooey and fun, muscles tired and syrupy.
In the end, you end up falling asleep while waiting for the bath. When Michael comes back in the room, he smiles; eyes softening, heart thundering. With gentle hands, he removes the blazer from your body, draping it over the chair at the vanity. He cleans you up with a warm towel he damped in the bathtub, and climbs into bed with you once he’s done.
He falls asleep with you inside his arms, lulled by the tiny snores you always deny making. (He always indulges.)
(Two weeks later, you’ve just clocked out of work. Sadly, you’d made the mistake of stopping by your local supermarket that always stocks Michael’s favorite OJ.
You’re leaning on your kitchen island, sipping on a glass of store-bought orange juice, the phone receiver balanced between your shoulder and ear. Michael picked up on the first ring. “You’ll never believe how I got recognized at Ralph’s. I’m giving you three tries. Go.”
“Well, obviously from Thriller? A kid or teen?”
You gulp another mouthful of juice. “‘Obviously,’ huh? Humblebrag much? Nope. Try again.”
“The AMAs?”
You mimic an incorrect game-show buzzer. “Close, but no. One more for the million.”
“Girl, jus’ tell me.”
“Forfeiting… Wasn’t expecting that.” The tabloid paper crinkles as you fix it in your hold, clearing your throat. “Does ‘Michael tells Prince to beat it after the on-stage display’ give you any hints? No wrong answers, babe, I believe in y—”
The laugh on the other side of the line is gut-deep. “No way—!”
“Mhm. Fucking paps didn’t even get my good side.”
“Naw, that can’t be right. All you’ve got is good sides, baby.”
You bite your cheek, snorting. “Awe, tha—”
“Right, left, front… Ohhh, that back…”
Your smile falls, neck flushing. “Alright, now. Well, Bernice and her friend don’t seem to think so.”
“Who the hell’s Bernice and her friend?”
“Two old ladies with very strong opinions about my waistline and blowout. Yeah,” you snort when he howls on the other side, “a–apparently, apparently! I look like I haven’t slept since the bicentennial. Whole reason I stopped in the damn market was for your juice, too! Mikeee, stop laughi–iiing—!”)
﹒ ୨୧◞ 。summary .ᐟ what do you do when the man you built your entire life around disappears without so much as a goodbye for another woman? do you love him enough to stay? or do you respect yourself?
﹒ ୨୧◞ 。before you interact .ᐟ divorce, emotional infidelity, substance abuse, addiction, mental health struggles, medication, anxiety, panic attacks, grief, codependency, public scrutiny, paparazzi harassment, family conflict, legal disputes, custody proceedings, fainting, unhealthy coping mechanisms, weight loss, weight depiction, and complex relationship dynamics. age gap in relationship (reader is now 27, michael is 36). “im your freaky nikki :)” reference for the girls!
﹒ ୨୧◞ 。disclaimer .ᐟ this work contains depictions of addiction, substance abuse, and deteriorating mental health. this piece is not an accurate depiction of any real life individuals. — 22k word count.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤ January, 1994.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ╰ㅤ An Undisclosed Location - Los Angeles, California.
Two weeks after the divorce papers arrived, (Name) found herself standing in the back corner of a Rite Aid, lingering near the pharmacy counter with a basket hanging loosely from one arm. Nothing particularly special in it; a little bottle of ibuprofen and some pads. Things that made this visit feel a little more normal. She was wearing a baseball cap pulled low over her eyes and a pair of oversized sunglasses, and scarf wrapped loosely around the lower half of her face.
It was funny. She’d become strangely good at blending in during the years she was with him. Michael had turned disappearing into an art form: fake noses, oversized jackets, wigs, and absurd disguises that left them both giggling in parking lots of a grocery store. She indulged him in all of it—somehow beneath all of it, they felt freer than they ever did as themselves at times. It was nice. But this visit didn’t feel that way.
Her managers would’ve insisted on sending an assistant if they’d known where she’d gone. Security would’ve cleared the counter and surrounding areas before she ever reached the pharmacy. Hell, someone else would’ve picked up the prescription, tucked it into a brown bag, and spared her the errand entirely.
But no one knew the perscription existed, and she intended to keep it that way.
Two weeks ago, a stranger in a suit had handed her a stack of papers and it felt as though something had climbed off the page, and directly into her body the moment she’d touched them. It burrowed through her the way an illness does, until it had rooted itself in places she couldn’t reach. It seeped into her bloodstream, threaded itself through her nerves, and nested behind her ribs.
The symptoms hadn’t arrived all at time, they spread slowly.
It fed on sleep and turned the simple act of hearing her own phone ring into something her heart interpreted as danger, taking several minutes to recover. Her appetite disappeared. Her pulse developed a mind of its own even when she was resting. She’d lie awake convinced something terrible was about to happen, only to realize the terrible thing already had.
It was astonishing how quickly grief could colonize a body.
She couldn’t scrub it off in the shower or outrun it. It had settled into the wiring beneath her skin, quietly rewriting instincts she’d trusted her entire life. Silence became suspicious. Even breathing sometimes felt like work.
The prescription was proof that whatever had entered her that afternoon had progressed far beyond heartbreak. A doctor had looked at her and seen something treatable. The shock of the impending divorce had lingered long enough to leave a trace in her nervous system and soil it, leaving behind disorder that wasn’t there previously.
The papers were still sitting somewhere in a drawer, she hadn’t signed a single one or read even a page. Yet somehow they were already changing her from the inside out. Truth be told, she physically couldn’t look at, touch or even be in the vicinity of the documents. Staff handled them that afternoon, locking them in a secure room because they seemed to be a trigger. Understandably so.
The woman beside her was buying children’s cough medicine and cartoon bandages. An older man stood quietly comparing two different bottles of vitamins before deciding on one. Somewhere near the greeting cards, a little girl begged her mother for a chocolate bar while the cashier laughed and told her she’d have to ask permission first. It was painfully, offensively ordinary. The world had gone on with its errands and grocery lists, with all the beautifully mundane rituals of ordinary life, as though her life hadn’t split neatly in half just fourteen days earlier.
(Name) stood among strangers holding the little numbered ticket she’d been handed at the counter and when her name was finally called, she walked forward on legs that didn’t quite feel like her own.
The pharmacist never looked up long enough to recognize her. He simply asked for her date of birth, confirmed her address, and then disappeared briefly before returning with a small amber bottle sealed inside a white paper bag. The exchange lasted less than two minutes. He explained the directions carefully, his voice slightly deadpan from saying the same sentences hundreds of times a day. Take one as needed. It may cause drowsiness. Avoid alcohol while taking this medication. Contact your physician if symptoms worsen. She nodded at all the appropriate moments, signed where he pointed, thanked him with a smile and accepted the bag with both hands.
As she turned toward the exit, her eyes drifted down to the bottle visible through the folded paper.
Twenty seven.
Twenty seven years old, and she was walking out of a pharmacy with medication because she could no longer convince her own body that it was safe. How pathetic is that? Because somewhere between her husband’s legal troubles, hospital visits, rehabilitation, to weeks upon weeks of silence, Lisa Maria, and an envelope full of legal documents meant to separate her from the love of her life, her hands shook for no reason at all. Sometimes she forgot to breathe until her lungs forced her to remember. The physician had called them panic attacks in the same exactly manner someone might use to diagnose seasonal allergies. He’d spoken gently, kindly even, explaining that her nervous system had been under extraordinary strain for a very long time. There was no shame in needing help, he’d said. Plenty of people needed help. She’d nodded then, too.
But there wasn’t a dosage for losing your husband.
There wasn’t a pill that could make her forget the sound of his laugh echoing through hallways he no longer walked. Nothing printed on that prescription label could explain how to wake up in a bed built for two people and remember, every single morning, that only one of the was laying in it. No pharmacist could fold that kind of grief into an amber bottle and slide it across a counter.
She placed the paper bag on the passenger seat beside her and drove home in silence.
That evening, after Aladdin had finally fallen asleep and the house settled into the stillness she had grown to despise, she wandered into the living room carrying a dusty cardboard box she’d pulled from the back of a closet. Inside were home videos she hadn’t touched in ages, each cassette labeled in her own pretty handwriting. Christmas. Aladdin’s birthday. Neverland. 1990. Valentine’s day. Paris. Wedding. Her fingers lingered over the last one before she carefully slid it into the VCR. The mechanical click sounded into the room, followed by the soft hiss of static before the image steadied into brilliant color.
There he was.
Happy. Smiling. Alive in a way that had nothing to do with breathing at all—it feels like watching a dream.
He turned toward the camera for only a second before looking back at her, his entire face brightening with that shy little smile she’d once believed she would spend the rest of her life watching. She saw herself laughing beside him, adjusting the sleeve of his tuxedo before he leaned down to whisper something that made her throw her head back with another laugh. The footage wobbled as the cameraman moved, catching fleeting moments no photographer ever could. His hand finding hers beneath the table. The sweet way he looked at her when he thought no one else was paying attention. The gentle brush of his thumb across her knuckles while guests applauded somewhere in the background.
On the coffee table sat three things.
The remote.
The small amber prescription bottle.
A bottle of vodka.
She stared at them as the television continued playing. Michael fed her a bite of wedding cake before laughing at something she couldn’t hear over the music. She remembered exactly how it had tasted. Sweet vanilla. Buttercream. The kiss they’d shared afterward, both of them giggling because they could still taste the frosting. She remembered believing with complete certainty that this was what her forever looked like.
Her thumb found the rewind button.
The tape whirred backwards.
She watched it again.
Then again.
Every replay felt less like remembering.. and more like searching. She thought that if she studied his face closely enough she’d find the exact frame where everything that came afterward had already been waiting. Some tiny hesitation. Some shadow behind his eyes. Some warning she’d somehow missed.
There wasn’t one.
Only a man hopelessly in love with his wife.
Only a woman who looked back at him as though nothing in the world could ever separate them.
The room grew darker as the evening wore on, lit only by the glow of the television. The prescription bottle opened, as well as the bottle of vodka. They sat side by side beneath the flickering light like two different promises, both offering relief in their own quiet, dangerous way. (Name) rested her elbows on her knees, her tired eyes fixed on the screen as tears slipped silently down her face.
She pressed rewind one more time.
Inside the television, Michael smiled at her as though he still couldn’t believe she’d said yes.
Outside of it, she couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked at her that way at all.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤ February, 1994.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ╰ㅤ Spago Restaurant - West Hollywood, California.
It had taken nearly three weeks before anyone managed to convince (Name) to leave the house. Not for a recording session, an interview or for a rehearsal. Just lunch. Her manager had called it a ‘change of scenery’, speaking as though she were balanced on the outside of a twenty story window ledge, and they were all desperately pretending the conversation was about the weather. He’d gently suggested that four walls and perpetually drawn curtains weren’t doing her any favors anymore. Elizabeth had agreed immediately, squeezing her hand across the kitchen table and telling her that the world hadn’t ended just because it felt like it had. A few other members of her team quietly echoed the sentiment, though no one pushed very hard. They’d all learned over the past few weeks that this situation had made her extremely fragile. One wrong sentence and she’d retreat upstairs for the rest of the day, emerging only to check on Aladdin before disappearing behind another closed door. Eventually, more out of exhaustion than willingness, she’d nodded. Arguing required energy she simply didn’t have anymore.
Getting dressed felt very odd considering for the past few weeks, she’d only changed clothes out of basic necessity, and even then, it usually took gentle encouragement from one of the older women on the Neverland staff. She’d knock softly before letting herself in, lay out fresh clothes, and patiently coax (Name) through the motions of showering and getting dressed. The same woman reminded her to eat most days, lingering at the kitchen table until she’d managed at least half of whatever meal had been placed in front of her. Somewhere along the way, she’d stopped feeling like an employee and started feeling more like the maternal presence everyone assumed was needed due to the situation at hand.
(Name) stood in front of her closet for several minutes before reaching for an oversized cream sweater that used to fit comfortably, only to watch it slip a little loosely over her shoulders now. The sleeves swallowed part of her hands which was the normal fit but the neckline rested lower against her collarbone than she remembered. She caught sight of herself in the mirror for only a second before looking away again. Her cheekbones had become a bit more angular. The gentle fullness that had always softened her face had disappeared a bit, replaced by a hollowness she hadn’t noticed was there. Makeup covered the worst of the dark circles beneath her eyes, but it couldn’t disguise the fatigue settled deep behind them. She tucked loose strands of hair beneath a baseball cap, slipped on oversized sunglasses despite the gray afternoon sky, and reached for a scarf.
As she stepped downstairs, someone offered a gentle, well meaning, ”Miss! You’re getting out? You look nice.” Someone else remarked without thinking, “Oh! ..You’ve lost a little weight..” And the room fell awkwardly silent. (Name) only smiled politely, adjusted the strap of her handbag and pretended she hadn’t heard the comment. She would be back later she said.
The restaurant had been chosen carefully, tucked away from the busiest streets behind rows of old palm trees and expensive storefronts where celebrities occasionally managed an uninterrupted meal if they were lucky. It wasn’t impossible to find, just inconvenient enough that most photographers didn’t bother waiting outside on speculation alone. For a little while, the plan actually worked. Warm afternoon light spilling across white tablecloths through tall windows, silverware clinked softly against porcelain plates and conversations drifted lazily between nearby tables without anyone paying them much attention.
It felt ordinary, getting out like this. She.. she enjoyed it admittedly. Her team made a conscious effort to avoid the subjects hanging over everyone’s heads. They talked about work, albums other artists were releasing, Aladdin’s newest words, and whether he was going to inherit her stubbornness or her sweetness—perhaps even both, he’s a taurus after all. Elizabeth carried most of the conversation herself, launching into one of her wonderfully meandering stories that somehow involved three countries, two dogs, and an actor whose name she’d completely forgotten before arriving at an absurd punchline that made the entire table laugh. Against her own expectations, (Name) laughed too. It startled her more than anyone else. The sound felt rusty, like something her body remembered doing even if her heart hadn’t caught up yet.
For one fleeting hour, she almost believed she’d survive this.
Then somebody recognized her.
She never found out who it was. Perhaps another customer quietly excused themselves to make a phone call. Perhaps a waiter mentioned her name to someone outside. Perhaps word simply spread the way it always seemed to whenever famous people tried to exist in public. It hardly mattered anymore. Fame had long since taught her that privacy leaked away in tiny, ordinary moments exactly like this one until suddenly there was nothing left.
(Name) noticed the shift before anyone said a word. Her head of security, who until then had been standing comfortably near the entrance pretending not to watch the room, suddenly pressed two fingers against the earpiece hidden beneath his jacket. His expression tightened imperceptibly as he listened, eyes drifting toward the front windows where flashes of movement had begun gathering beyond the glass. Another member of security quietly stepped away from the wall to reposition himself closer to the table. Her manager stopped mid sentence, following their line of sight without turning his head too obviously. Even Elizabeth noticed, her smile fading as she reached instinctively for (Name)’s hand beneath the table, giving it one reassuring squeeze.
“They’re outside,” The head of security said quietly.
The words settled over the table like the forecast of an approaching storm everyone had secretly been hoping would pass them by. Conversation dissolved almost immediately. Chairs slid softly across the floor as everyone rose, years of navigating celebrity life taking over without discussion. (Name) lowered her gaze, adjusted her sunglasses with fingers that suddenly felt clumsy, and drew a slow breath that caught somewhere halfway inside her chest. The scarf was pulled a little higher. Her baseball cap lowered a little further. None of it would matter. It never really did. She fell naturally into the middle of the group as they began walking toward the entrance, surrounded by security without feeling particularly protected.
The restaurant door hadn’t even finished opening before the noise—her name hit her before she even saw the cameras.
It came from every direction at once, shouted over itself until it no longer sounded like her name at all, just noise. The moment her foot crossed the threshold, the sidewalk erupted into movement. Photographers surged forward as one body, camera shutters firing in relentless bursts that sounded almost mechanical, flashes exploding even beneath the overcast sky until the world dissolved into violent pulses of white. For a split second she couldn’t properly see where the curb ended or where her security team began. People jostled shoulders, stepping into one another’s paths in a frantic effort to get closer, lenses stretching over heads, microphones thrust forward like weapons. The air itself felt crowded.
“(Name)! Over here!”
“(Name), is it true Michael left you?”
“Were you blindsided by the divorce?”
“Is the marriage beyond saving?”
“Who’s getting custody of Aladdin?”
“Are the reports about your health true?”
“Did Michael cheat on you?”
“Do you still love him?”
The questions were invasive. One voice crashed into the next before she’d even understood the first, each reporter trying to shout just a little louder than everyone else, convinced theirs would be the question that finally cracked her open. Camera lenses crowded so close she could see her own distorted reflection staring back at her through polished glass, sallow beneath oversized sunglasses and thinner than she remembered. Someone stumbled against her shoulder. Another photographer leaned so far over the security barricade he nearly fell. Hands reached into her path holding tape recorders, notepads, microphones bearing television station logos.
Somewhere beside her, one of the security guards repeated, “Back up. Give her room. Back up,” in the same firm voice over and over until it blended into the rest of the chaos.
Nobody listened, but nobody ever did. There was money to be made from other people’s misery, and her nightmare had become one of the biggest stories in the world.
Her heartbreak had stopped belonging to her weeks ago. Every grocery store checkout aisle carried another magazine promising the “truth” behind the separation, each issue displaying a different photograph beneath another confident headline written by someone who had never once stepped inside their home. Anonymous friends appeared everywhere, speaking in quotations she’d never heard before, somehow claiming to know exactly what had been said behind closed bedroom doors, exactly how she’d cried, exactly why her marriage had failed.
Daytime television hosts dissected their relationship between celebrity gossip segments and cooking demonstrations, nodding thoughtfully as if they had been invited to the wedding themselves. Entertainment programs replayed years of interviews, slowing footage to half speed in search of glances that supposedly predicted the divorce all along. Fans filled call in shows arguing over which one of them deserved sympathy. Radio hosts joked about whose breakup album would sell more records. Newspapers printed diagrams of their relationship like timelines from a criminal investigation, reducing years of shared memories into neat columns of dates and speculation. Complete strangers debated custody arrangements over breakfast. Opinion columnists confidently explained why the marriage had collapsed despite never having spent a single minute inside it. Every person with a newspaper, a television, or a microphone suddenly believed they understood the most intimate years of her life better than she did.
Everyone had an answer, but no one had been there.
She kept walking because there was nothing else she knew how to do. Her shoulders curled inward beneath the oversized sweater, she thought that making herself physically smaller might somehow lessen the attention. One hand clung so tightly to the strap of her handbag that her fingers had begun to ache, while the other remained tucked close against her body, hidden beneath the loose knit of her sleeve. She didn’t lift her head. She couldn’t. Looking at them felt too.. it was just humiliating. So instead, she fixed her eyes on the black sedan waiting just beyond the crowd, wishing that they parked closer. Every step seemed to take forever.
The flashes refused to stop. They illuminated every new hollow beneath her cheekbones, every collarbone now visible beneath the sweater she’d chosen specifically because it hid how much weight she’d lost in such a short period of time—the difference was noticeable considering where she was before, to where she is now. Tomorrow those photographs would be everywhere. Side by side comparisons from six months earlier. Headlines asking whether she was eating enough. Television doctors offering diagnoses they’d invented from still images.
HEARTBROKEN STAR SPARKS HEALTH CONCERNS. FRIENDS FEAR SHE’S WASTING AWAY. THE PRICE OF DIVORCE?
They would speculate about stress, exhaustion, dieting, overwork. Nobody would write that she’d begun measuring her nights by how many drinks it took to fall asleep. Nobody would know about the little amber prescription bottle tucked inside the kitchen cabinet behind the coffee mugs, or how some evenings she’d stand in front of it with a bottle of vodka in one hand, trying to decide which one might finally quiet her mind. Nobody would know she’d stopped looking into mirrors for more than a few seconds because the woman staring back looked unrecognizable every single morning.
A security guard opened the car door just as the crowd pressed forward again. She slipped inside without speaking, her manager climbing in behind her before another photographer managed to wedge a camera between the narrowing gap. The door slammed shut with a heavy thud, muffling the shouting almost instantly. For one second, there was silence. She let out a shaky breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and leaned her head back against the leather seat, closing her eyes as if the darkness behind them might finally offer somewhere to hide.
Another flash burst through the tinted window.
Then another.
Even with the door closed, even with the engine starting, even as the car slowly pulled away from the curb, they were still taking pictures.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤ Early March, 1994.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ╰ㅤ The Valley - Los Angeles, California.
The strangest part about looking for a house was that she had no idea what she was supposed to be looking for.
She knew how to stand beneath stage lights and deliver a performance perfectly timed down to the second. She knew how to walk into a room full of executives and hold her ground. She knew how to negotiate contracts, handle interviews, memorize choreography, and carry an entire career on her shoulders without letting anyone see how heavy it became. She had spent years making decisions that affected millions of people.
But standing inside a potential home with a realtor asking her what she wanted, she felt completely lost.
The woman showing her around was kind it was sickening. She had the bright, professional warmth of someone who had done this hundreds of times before, moving through each property with an enthusiasm that felt untouched by the fact that this was not an exciting new beginning for her. This was something else entirely.
“This room would be perfect for entertaining,” The realtor said, opening the doors to a wide living space with tall windows overlooking the backyard. “I can already picture family gatherings here. Holidays, birthdays…”
(Name) smiled politely.
She could picture them too.
That was the problem.
She could picture Aladdin running through the room. She could picture toys scattered across the floor, little shoes abandoned by the doorway, Christmas decorations covering every surface. She could picture a piano sitting somewhere near the windows, music filling the house in the evenings.
She could picture a life, but she just couldn’t picture herself living it.
The first house was beautiful.
So was the second.
The third had a kitchen larger than her first apartment and a backyard big enough for Aladdin to spend entire afternoons outside. The fourth had everything people dreamed about when they imagined a perfect home: marble floors, a sweeping staircase, a pool that reflected the sky like glass. A tuscan estate, she called it.
Every realtor’s dream.
Every magazine’s dream.
None of them were hers. Because she wasn’t really looking for a house, she was looking for something that didn’t exist—the life she had lost.
The realization came quietly, somewhere between one perfectly decorated room and another. She stood in a bedroom listening as the realtor explained closet space and bathroom renovations, but all she could think about was how, when she was twenty and signing the lease for her first apartment, Michael had been there.
He had known what questions to ask.
He had noticed things she hadn’t.
He checked the cabinets. The windows. The water pressure. The little details she never would have considered because she had been too young and too excited to care about anything except making the place feel beautiful.
He had laughed gently when she admitted she hadn’t even looked at the lease terms before signing. The whole time he had sat beside her, patiently explaining everything.
Now she was twenty seven, standing in a big empty house with a stack of paperwork, realizing she had no idea what she was supposed to be looking for. It unsettled her more than she wanted to admit.
For as long as she could remember, there had always been a man standing beside her when life asked for grown up decisions. First her father, patiently explaining mortgages, insurance, and contracts but she was too young to care about. Then Michael, who she’d fallen in love with. From then on, the practical parts of life had become shared things.
And neither man believed she was incapable of these things, but they loved taking care of her. And she’d loved letting them.
Now, for the first time in her adult life, no one was reading the fine print before she signed it. No one was pointing out what she’d overlooked or assuring her she was making the right decision. Every choice landed squarely in her lap, and she found herself staring at them longer than she should have because she’d never had to make quite so many of them alone.
It wasn’t dependence she was grieving. It was the absence of the person she’d always instinctively turned toward whenever life became too large to carry by herself. No one warned her that the hardest decisions wouldn’t be the ones in front of cameras. They wouldn’t be the interviews or the performances or the moments where millions of people watched her and expected her to be perfect.
It would be this; mortgages. Insurance. Paperwork.
Choosing where her son would sleep.
The small, ordinary things that somehow felt more terrifying than standing in front of thousands of screaming fans.
After the fourth house, the realtor finally turned to her with a hopeful smile. “Would you like to make an offer?”
(Name) looked around the room. It really was beautiful. Perfect, even. She could imagine Aladdin growing up here. She could imagine birthday parties in the backyard. Christmas mornings. Family dinners. A piano in the corner.
Everything.
Everything except herself.
Her fingers tightened slightly around the folder in her hands.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly. The realtor’s expression shifted, waiting. (Name) looked once more around the room before lowering her gaze. “I think..” Her voice caught for just a moment. “I’d like to keep looking.”
And the heartbreaking part was that she didn’t know what she was waiting to find.
Because no house was going to feel like home when the person who had made it one was the very person she was trying to learn how to live without.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤ Late March, 1994.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ╰ㅤ Neverland Ranch, Los Olivos, California.
The closet was the worst.
She had avoided it for days, finding reasons to be anywhere else in the house whenever she walked past it. The kitchen needed organizing. Aladdin’s things needed sorting. There were phone calls she needed to make. Meetings. Interviews. A thousand little responsibilities that were easier than standing in front of the closet they had shared.
Because the closet didn’t look like their marriage that had ended. It looked almost exactly as they’d left it. As though they had simply stepped out for dinner and forgotten to come back.
His clothes were still there—jackets arranged by color because he’d insisted it somehow made getting dressed easier (a majority of his clothing was either red or black). A few empty hangers interrupted the line where assistants had quietly removed some of his things weeks earlier, but enough remained that her eyes continued filling in the gaps automatically. Her mind refused to accept absence. It kept correcting it. He’ll need that tomorrow. He always wears that one when it rains. That sweater belongs in the wash. It was astonishing how stubborn memory could be, continuing to perform little acts of love long after there was nowhere left to put them.
Those were the things that hurt the most.
She stood there for several minutes holding a sweater in her hands without realizing she had stopped moving. It still carried the faintest trace of him, his skin, his favorite perfume. It wasn’t strong enough that anyone else would notice—but she did. She had spent years knowing him in ways nobody else did. The smallest details had become part of her understanding of him. The way he smelled after a shower. The way his clothes felt softer after being washed too many times. The way he would leave things in places without realizing it because he always assumed he would come back to them.
Because he always had.
Until he didn’t.
She reached for one of his long sleeves almost without thinking. The fabric slipped easily between her fingers. Time had already begun doing what time always did, stealing little pieces first. But there was still something there. Something warm and familiar that immediately transported her to sleepy mornings where he’d wander into the kitchen wearing this exact shirt, his hair a complete mess, asking if she’d already made coffee before remembering he didn’t actually drink it. The memory arrived so vividly she had to close her eyes. When she opened them again, she caressed the material gently, honestly too tenderly. As if being gentle with it somehow meant she was being gentle with him. Even after all of this, she couldn’t help but to enately want to be careful with him.
She sat down on the floor beside the open boxes, surrounded by pieces of a life she had never imagined having to separate. Photographs. Letters. Small gifts. Things that had once represented years of love and now felt like evidence from another lifetime.
The strangest part was that she didn't know what she was supposed to take.
What belonged to her? What belonged to him?
At some point, there stopped being a difference. That was the entire point of marriage. You stopped keeping score. You stopped remembering who bought what, who brought what, who contributed which piece. Everything became theirs.
Packing was supposed to feel productive.
People packed because they were moving. Because they had accepted that one chapter had ended and another was waiting somewhere ahead of them. There was supposed to be a rhythm to it. Empty the drawers. Fold the clothes. Tape the boxes shut. Write a label. Carry them to the front door. Repeat until the room no longer belonged to you.
It wasn’t that simple with her.
By the afternoon, boxes had begun appearing throughout the bedroom in uneven little clusters. Some were half full. Others still sat open and untouched because she kept finding reasons not to decide what belonged inside them. Marriage had a funny way of blurring ownership until it barely existed. Nobody warned you about that part when you said your vows. They told you everything became ours and they neglected to mention what happened if one day someone asked you to separate it all again.
She knelt beside a lower cabinet near the back of the closet, reaching into the corner where they had spent years absentmindedly shoving things they didn’t know what to do with.
Old photographs. Ticket stubs. A disposable camera neither of them had ever developed. Then her fingers brushed against something soft.
She frowned and pulled it free.
It was a plush frog. A ridiculously oversized frog wearing a tiny sequined tuxedo and an equally ridiculous little top hat that sat crooked over one stitched eye. One arm had gone limp where the stuffing had shifted over the years, giving it the permanently exhausted appearance of someone who had simply accepted life was happening to them.
For a long moment she just stared at it. Then a giggle escaped her lips. Small. Breathless.
“Oh, my goodness..” She pressed her fingertips against her mouth, shaking her head as another quiet laugh slipped out before she could stop it.
She remembered.
They’d been wandering through a carnival years ago after insisting they were “just going to walk around.” He’d spotted the frog hanging from the top row of prizes and become completely determined to win it for her despite the teenage employee repeatedly explaining the game was nearly impossible.
Michael refused to believe him.
Twenty dollars later he’d won exactly nothing.
Forty dollars later he’d accused the game of being rigged.
Sixty dollars later she’d been laughing so hard she’d nearly fallen over.
Eventually, the poor teenager had sighed, looked around to make sure his manager wasn’t watching, quietly taken the frog down himself and handed it across the counter.
“I can’t watch this anymore,” He’d whispered.
Michael had accepted it with complete seriousness before turning to her as though he’d conquered Everest.
“For my beautiful lady,” He announced, presenting the frog with both hands.
She’d looked between him and the absurd stuffed animal. “You spent sixty dollars on this thing.”
“It was an investment.”
“In what?”
“Our future.”
Now she sat alone on the closet floor with the same ridiculous frog resting in her lap. The laughter disappeared almost as quickly as it had come. Her thumb absentmindedly brushed over the crooked little hat.
“You were so stupid, kind of looks like you too..” (Name) whispered affectionately with the kind of fondness reserved for memories that hurt because they had once been so wonderfully ordinary. She smiled through tears that had begun gathering without permission.
The smile trembled, then it broke as she folded forward slowly, hugging the ridiculous frog against her chest hoping that a hug might somehow fix the pieces of her that had been broken for months.
The gift itself was absurd.
Cheap.
Completely impractical.
By every reasonable standard, it should have been one of the easiest things in the room to throw away. Instead, she reached for an empty box, placed the frog gently inside by itself, and wrote only one word across the lid.
KEEP.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤ April, 1994.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ╰ㅤ Ashford Mediation Group, Beverly Hills, California.
The drive there felt like purgatory, honestly. The engine hummed beneath them, steady and smooth as it carried the car through late morning traffics. Buildings drifted past the window in slow succession, interrupted every so often by a red light or a pedestrian crossing. Somewhere in the front, her manager kept his voice low over the phone, discussing arrival times, entrances, making sure the press hadn’t caught wind of the meeting.
Beside her, her attorney rested a leather portfolio across his lap, turning over neatly tabbed pages as he reviewed everything one final time. Custody. Financial agreements. Property. Confidentiality. His voice remained calm and almost comforting in its neutrality, pausing now and then to reassure her that nothing unexpected would happen today. They had prepared for this. They had been over every document until he could practically recite them from memory.
She should have been listening. Instead, the words dissolved somewhere between his mouth and her ears, losing their shape before they ever reached her. She answered where she thought she was supposed to, nodding faintly, murmuring quiet acknowledgments she wasn’t entirely aware of making, her eyes fixed on the stitching of the seat in front of her until it blurred into a single uninterrupted line. Her hands rested in her lap, fingers woven together so tightly the joints had begun to ache. She loosened them forcibly and a minute later they were locked together again without her realizing.
Outside, the world continued. A florist arranged fresh bouquets beneath a striped awning. Two businessmen laughed together over paper cups of coffee as they crossed the street. A young mother stopped to kneel in front of her little girl, zipping her jacket before taking her hand and disappearing around the corner. Everyone seemed to know exactly where they were headed. Everyone still belonged to someone or something. The thought settled somewhere beneath her ribs before she could stop it. Once upon a time, she would’ve been driving toward Michael. Toward home. Toward the man who reached for the door handle before the car had even come to a complete stop because he couldn’t seem to wait the extra few seconds. Now she was driving toward paperwork that would ask her to untangle years of her life into paragraphs and signatures.
A quiet pressure began blooming beneath her sternum. It was so faint at first she mistook it for hunger. She straightened in her seat and drew in a deeper breath, holding it for a second before letting it out slowly. It helped, until it didn’t. The feeling returned, just a little heavier this time, spreading through her chest like something patiently unfolding. She swallowed against the sudden dryness in her throat and reached for the bottle of water beside her, taking two careful sips before placing it back exactly where she’d found it. The relief lasted only a moment before her coat suddenly felt heavier than it had when she’d put it on that morning. She slipped the top button loose then adjusted the scarf at her neck. The air conditioning whispered steadily through the vents, yet warmth had begun creeping beneath her collar, collecting behind her ears and along the back of her neck until she wondered if she was getting sick. She crossed one leg over the other. Uncrossed it. Pressed both feet firmly against the floor instead. Nothing seemed to settle the strange discomfort growing quietly inside her.
Her attorney had stopped speaking. “...Mrs. Jackson?”
“Of course.” He offered her an understanding smile, glancing back down at the papers. “I was just saying that, if at any point you need a break, Mrs. Jackson, we can—”
She blinked. “I’m sorry,” She said, her voice quieter than she’d intended. “Could you.. could you repeat that?”
For a second, she simply stared at her own hands.
“Don’t call me that, please.” The words came out and silence settled over the car. She hadn’t raised her voice. She hadn’t snapped, really. But the sentence landed with enough uncomfort that even her manager looked back over his shoulder.
Then, softer this time, embarrassed by how quickly the words had escaped her, she whispered, “Please.”
No one corrected her.
Her attorney gave a small nod, closed the folder for a moment, and apologized before continuing, avoiding the title altogether. She wanted to thank him, but the lump in her throat had grown too large to speak around. She hadn’t realized how much those two words still belonged to him until hearing someone else use them.
Mrs. Jackson.
A name she’d once worn with so much pride it hardly felt borrowed anymore. A name that had come to mean waking up beside him, dancing barefoot through the kitchen with a baby balanced on one hip, signing birthday cards together, whispered “I love yous” after midnight when the house had finally gone quiet. Now it sounded like someone describing a woman who no longer existed.
Not on a television screen.
The realization struck her so suddenly it stole the breath she’d only just managed to steady: in a matter of minutes, she was going to see him.
Not in photographs.
Not through lawyers.
Not through headlines.
Him.
The pressure beneath her ribs tightened and she inhaled, the breath stopped halfway down. She frowned and tried again, slower this time, but it still wasn’t enough. Her lungs worked. She knew they did. They simply refused to feel full. Without thinking, she lowered the window an inch, letting cool air drift against her face. It should have helped, but it didn’t. And she kept her eyes fixed on the road ahead, willing the sensation to pass if she ignored it long enough. It had to pass. She wasn’t going to lose herself in the backseat of a car. Not before she’d even laid eyes on him. Not before she had to sit across from the man she’d loved since she was twenty years old and somehow pretend she knew how to discuss the end of him in legal terms.
The realization struck her all over again, fresh enough to steal the air from her lungs.
She wasn’t driving to see her husband.
She was driving to negotiate the end of him.
Her breathing changed before she realized it had.
It came shorter now, each inhale still stopping halfway down her chest like there simply wasn’t room for the rest of it. She swallowed once. Then again. The knot in her throat refused to move as more heat crept up the back of her neck despite the air conditioning humming quietly through the car, settling beneath her collar and behind her ears until she felt almost feverish.
She cracked the window some more but the rush of outside air hit her face wasn’t enough.
Her attorney noticed first, lowering the papers into his lap and studying her for a moment before speaking carefully. “Are you alright?”
The car slowed for another light and she stared straight ahead. The nausea arrived sudden without a kind warning—not the vague discomfort she’d been sitting with all morning but something imminent and violent. Her stomach lurched so suddenly she jerked forward in her seat, one hand flying instinctively to her mouth because she could physically hold herself together.
She nodded before he’d even finished asking, too quickly that movement made her dizzy. “I’m fine.” The lie came. She’d become frighteningly good at saying it these days.
“I..” She swallowed hard. “Could we..” Her voice disappeared. She tried again. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
The conversation in the front stopped immediately and her manager turned around so fast his seatbelt caught against his shoulder. “Pull over,” He told the driver.
The car eased toward the curb and before it had even come to a complete stop, she was already reaching for the handle with shaking hands.
The cool morning air hit her the second she stepped onto the sidewalk, but it did nothing to steady the awful rolling in her stomach. She bent forward, one hand braced against her knee, the other pressed flat against her chest somehow attempting to slow the frantic pounding beneath it.
Nothing came up. Only dry heaves.
Again.
Again.
Her body kept trying to rid itself of something that wasn’t there. Tears burned behind her eyes from the force of it. She hated this. Because she knew exactly why. She knew. It wasn’t the meeting. It wasn’t the lawyers. It wasn’t even the divorce.
It was him.
In a matter of minutes she would be in the same building as the man she’d spent the better part of six years loving with everything she had, and she had no idea which version of him would be waiting on the other side of that door.
The husband who used to kiss her forehead before leaving for rehearsals. Or the stranger who had disappeared without saying goodbye. For the first time since leaving the house that morning, she allowed herself to think the one thought she’d been avoiding.
What if I look at him.. and I don't recognize him anymore?
The possibility frightened her more than the divorce itself.
Her manager was beside her before she even realized the car door had opened. “Easy,” He murmured, one hand settling carefully between her shoulder blades. “Easy, sweetheart. Don’t fight it, alright? That’s it..”
She wanted to tell him she wasn’t, wanted to tell him she had stopped fighting weeks ago. Instead another dry heave bent her nearly in half, her fingers curling tighter against her knee as tears sprang unwillingly to her eyes. Still, nothing came. Nothing except the violent ache in her stomach and the humiliating sound of her own body insisting it had something left to give.
His hand never left her back. Slow, steady circles the same pace every time. He didn’t rush her. Didn’t tell her to breathe like people always did when they had no idea what breathing felt like anymore. He simply stayed there, letting her have.. whatever this was without making it feel like a spectacle.
The attorney lingered a respectful distance away, quietly telling the driver they’d need another few minutes. Traffic continued behind them. Cars rolled past. People walked by without sparing more than a curious glance. The world refused to stop.
“That's it,” Her manager said softly. “You’re alright.”
She laughed, or tried to. It came out broken, somewhere between a cough and a sob. “No,” She whispered hoarsely. “I’m really... really not.”
“I know.” Those two words nearly undid her. Because no one had said them. Everyone else had spent months asking if she was alright, telling her she’d get through it, reminding her how strong she was.
He simply acknowledged the truth.
She wasn’t.
Her breathing refused to settle. Every inhale felt jagged, stopping halfway before she had to pull another after it, her chest tightening with each attempt until it became difficult to tell whether she was breathing too much or not enough.
“I can’t..” She swallowed hard. “I don’t think I can do this.”
He waited. “I can’t look at him.” The words came quietly. So quietly she almost wasn’t sure she’d spoken them aloud.
“I know,” He repeated. “But you have to.”
“What if..” She stopped, squeezing her eyes shut. “What if he looks at me like I’m just..” She couldn’tfinish.
Just someone else.
Just another meeting.
Just another signature.
Just another chapter he’d already closed.
Her manager stepped a little closer, careful not to crowd her, his hand still resting reassuringly between her shoulders. “Listen to me.” He started, she kept staring at the pavement as he spoke. “You don’t have to be brave in there.”
She frowned. “I feel—“
“No.” His voice remained calm, unwavering. “You just have to get through today. That’s all anyone is asking of you.”
Fresh tears slipped down before she realized they had. “I don’t know who I’m walking in to see.”
His expression softened. “Yeah, I understand that. Trust me, I do..”
“The man I married wouldn’t..” Her voice broke. “He wouldn’t have let it get here.”
Silence settled between them.
After a long moment he reached into his pocket, withdrew a neatly folded handkerchief, and held it out without a word. She took it with trembling fingers.
“I keep thinking..” She whispered, dabbing uselessly at her face, “That maybe he’ll walk in and it’ll be him again.” She hated how childish it sounded. As though the husband she’d fallen asleep beside for years had simply gotten lost and might suddenly find his way back.
Her manager looked at her for a long moment before speaking. “You’re young.” Her eyes lifted. “But.. don’t walk in there expecting the past to meet you halfway.” He gently squeezed her shoulder. “You’ve already survived every day that brought you here.”
She let out a slow, trembling breath, the first one that felt as though it reached the bottom of her lungs.
“I’l walk in with you,” He said gently. “I’ll stay until I can’t. Your attorney will handle the rest. And if you need a break, you stand up. I don’t care who’s talking. I don’t care what's being discussed. You stand up, and we’ll take one.”
She nodded faintly. And no matter how desperately she wished the car would simply turn around and take her home, there was no road left that led back to the life she’d been trying so hard to keep.
He waited until the trembling in her hands had eased enough that she could uncurl her fingers.
“Come on,” He said quietly, offering his hand instead of reaching for her. “Let’s get you sitting down.”
She looked at it for a second before slipping her own into his. Her grip was weaker than usual, cold despite the warmth lingering beneath her skin. He steadied her as she climbed back into the car, one hand lightly supporting her elbow until she settled against the leather seat once more. Before closing the door, he leaned down just enough to meet her eyes.
“You don’t have to say anything in there until you’re ready—or anything at all for that matter.”
She nodded, the door clicked shut and no one spoke for the rest of the drive. The attorney quietly returned the papers to his portfolio, deciding against continuing whatever explanation he’d been giving before they stopped. Her manager remained turned slightly toward the window in the front seat, giving her the rare kindness of not watching her every few seconds to make sure she was still holding together. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It was respectful, really.
She kept her eyes on the city as it slipped past. Every block carried them closer. Every red light felt shorter than the last. She found herself counting them without realizing she was doing it.
One.
Two.
Three.
Anything to keep from counting the minutes instead.
By the time the car slowed for the final turn, the nausea had settled into something quieter. It hadn’t gone away. It had simply become part of her, resting heavily beneath her ribs like a stone she’d accepted wasn’t moving anytime soon.
The building came into view through the windshield.
Large. Modern. Too much glass. It reflected the gray afternoon sky so perfectly it almost disappeared into it. The driver eased to a stop beneath the covered entrance and for a moment, no one moved.
Her manager glanced back. “We’re here.”
The words hung in the air as she stared through the windshield at the revolving glass doors ahead of them, watching strangers pass effortlessly through them. A man in a navy suit exited while adjusting his tie. A woman carrying a briefcase disappeared inside without slowing her pace. Her attorney stepped out first. Her manager followed, circling around to open her door before she had the chance.
When she didn’t move immediately, he crouched slightly beside the car. “You alright?”
She swallowed. “Yeah.” Another deep breath, this one reached a little farther just before she stepped onto the pavement. The cool air kissed her face, carrying with it the faint scent of rain that hadn’t quite arrived yet. She smoothed invisible wrinkles from the front of her coat and adjusted her heel.
Her manager gently rested a hand on the small of her back. Together, they crossed beneath the overhang and approached the entrance. The glass doors slid open with a mechanical hum, revealing a lobby that was painfully pristine. Marble floors reflected the overhead lights in muted pools across the room. Everything smelled like polished wood, fresh coffee, and expensive cleaning products. It was immaculate in the sort of way places often were when difficult conversations happened inside them every day.
The receptionist looked up almost immediately. “Good afternoon.”
Her attorney quietly introduced them, speaking in the same composed voice he’d maintained all morning. The receptionist nodded once after checking a schedule on her desk, offering a polite smile that stopped well short of familiar.
“They’re expecting you.”
Of course they were. She hadn’t.. considered the possibility that they could had already arrived. She was under the impression that they would have been there first and she could at least prepare herself before..
The thought tightened something in her chest again.
“This way.” The receptionist stepped out from behind the desk and led them across the lobby toward a bank of elevators tucked against the far wall. The walk wasn’t long, but it felt endless, their footsteps echoing softly against the marble with each measured step. No one spoke. The only sounds came from the gentle chime announcing the elevator’s arrival and the muted conversation of strangers somewhere deeper inside the building.
The doors slid open and they stepped inside, the receptionist pressing a button near the top of the panel.
As the doors closed, the lobby disappeared behind brushed steel, leaving only the gentle vibration of the elevator climbing floor by floor. She watched the numbers illuminate one after another above the door, each soft chime settling lower in her stomach than the last. When the elevator finally came to a stop, the receptionist led them down a corridor lined with frosted glass offices and framed artwork she couldn’t have described a second later. The hallway seemed impossibly quiet, the thick carpeting swallowing almost every footstep until the only thing she could hear with any clarity was the steady beating of her own heart.
They stopped outside a closed wooden door and the rreceptionist turned toward them, offering another small, professional smile.
“They’re ready for you.” Then she stepped aside.
The hallway fell silent.
(Name) couldn’t move.
At some point it stopped being hesitation. It stopped being indecision, grief, fear, or any emotion she could neatly identify and tuck away beneath a sensible name. It became something far older than that. It was instinctive. Something buried so deep inside the part of the human body that recognized danger long before the mind had time to reason with it. Every muscle seemed to arrive at the same conclusion without consulting her first. Don’t go in there. Don’t open that door. Turn around. Leave. Run if you have to. It wasn’t a thought she was having anymore. It was a command her body had already obeyed, planting her feet so firmly into the carpet that it almost felt as though the floor itself had grown around them.
The trembling began again, just the faintest vibration in her fingertips where they’d been laced together in front of her and subtle enough that no one walking past would’ve noticed unless they were looking for it. She wasn’t herself, even. Not until she felt the tiny, involuntary quiver travel into her knuckles. She instinctively pressed one hand over the other, squeezing hard enough to leave crescent shaped marks in her skin, hoping the pressure might somehow force the shaking to stop.
It didn’t—it spread. Slowly, with nowhere else to be. From her fingers into her wrists. From her wrists into her forearms. Tiny muscles fluttered beneath her skin without permission, a low, constant vibration that made her feel strangely disconnected from her own body. Her body had long since decided it was no longer taking instructions from her and she stared at her hands with detached confusion, willing them to be still.
They refused.
A careful breath caught somewhere halfway down her chest. She frowned. Tried again. Another shallow inhale. Another unfinished exhale.
It still felt like her lungs had abruptly forgotten how much air they were supposed to hold, every breath stopping just before it became satisfying, forcing another after it and another after that, until she couldn’t tell whether she was breathing too much or not nearly enough. A dull pressure settled beneath her sternum, expanding outward until it wrapped itself around her ribs like tightening wire. She swallowed hard against the dryness gathering in her throat, but even that simple movement felt strangely difficult, like something invisible had lodged itself there.
Then came the heat but not the ordinary warmth of nerves. It crept upward beneath the collar of her blouse in slow waves, spreading across her chest before climbing her neck with alarming speed. She shifted uncomfortably, fingers instinctively reaching toward the irritated skin just beneath her throat. It felt hot to the touch. Too hot.
She looked down.
Angry red blotches had already begun surfacing across her collarbone, blooming beneath her skin in uneven patches that spread almost as she watched them, climbing toward her neck like watercolor bleeding through paper. Another appeared just below her jaw, then another.
Stress hives.
She hadn’t broken out like this since she was nineteen, and she could only stare at them strangely fascinated by hrr own body was rejecting this.
Not even metaphorically but,
Literally.
Every system inside her had reached the same conclusion at once. Her pulse had accelerated. Her breathing had shortened. Her muscles had begun shaking. Her skin was erupting in protest. She felt like an animal standing at the edge of a forest fire, every instinct screaming to flee before she could even see the flames.
Run.
The word echoed somewhere deep inside her.
Run.
Her manager noticed before she managed to hide it. His eyes drifted from her face to the spreading rash creeping over her neck, then softened almost immediately with the concern of someone watching another person come apart in slow motion.
“..Hey.”
She didn’t answer but she wasn’t sure she could.
He stepped closer, careful not to crowd her, lowering his voice until it barely carried beyond the space between them. “Look at me, (Name).”
She tried.
God, she tried. But every time she lifted her head, her eyes found the door instead.
It seemed to pull at her attention with force, everything inside her understood that on the other side of it sat the dividing line between the life she’d had and the one she would be forced to live afterward.
“I can’t,” She whispered, voice distant.
“You can.”
She shook her head before she realized she’d moved. “No..” The word barely escaped her lips. “I can’t.”
Fresh tremors rippled through her arms. She tucked them tightly against herself, folding one over the other in a futile attempt to hide the shaking, but it only made it more obvious. Her shoulders had begun trembling too.
“I can’t go in there—I can’t even..” A breathless, broken laugh escaped her, so close to becoming a sob it frightened her. “I can’t even stop shaking.”
He reached up with careful hands, gently smoothing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The gesture was so grounding it nearly undid her. “Just stay with me for a second.”
She nodded and his voice remained slow. “Can you feel your feet?”
She blinked at him, confused. “..What?”
“Your feet.”
She frowned, attention reluctantly leaving the door. “..Yes.”
“The floor underneath them?”
Another swallow. “Yes..”
“Good.” His hand rested lightly against her upper arm. “You’re here.”
Fresh tears blurred her vision almost immediately. “I don’t want to be. I want to go home.” The confession escaped before she could stop it. Raw. Childlike. Entirely honest. “I just..” Her voice cracked so completely she had to press her lips together before trying again. “I want to go home.”
His expression shifted—a flicker. Gone as quickly as it appeared. Because they both understood the thing she’d just said was nonexistent. There wasn’t a “home” waiting for her anymore. Not the one she meant. Not the one built around shared mornings and baby giggles and a man whose absence had hollowed every room he’d once occupied. There was only whatever came next.
“I wish I could come in with you,” He admitted quietly.
Her head snapped toward him so quickly the movement made her dizzy. “What! You can’t?” The panic returned with astonishing speed. Her knees threatened to give beneath her.
“No. Sweetheart, I told you that.” He hated the answer as much as she did. “They’ve only approved legal representation.”
She stared at him. “No..”
“But I’m staying right here.”
“No..”
“You’ll walk back through these doors, and I’ll still be here.”
“No!” Her voice rose just enough to tremble around the edges. "Please.. please don’t make me go in there.”
For the first time all morning, he looked completely helpless.
Helpless.
If there had been any way to walk through that door instead of her, he would’ve done it without hesitation. She knew that, and he knew she knew it. Which somehow made standing there feel even lonelier. Before either of them could speak again, her attorney’s voice drifted gently down the hallway.
“(Name).”
Neither of them turned.
“It’s time.”
The hallway seemed to narrow around her and air felt heavier. Even the lights overhead appeared suddenly too bright. Her manager’s hand squeezed her arm once, a reminder that when she came back through those doors, someone would still be waiting to catch whatever pieces remained.
She closed her eyes and drew in the deepest breath her body was willing to give her but it still wasn’t enough. Then, with legs that felt borrowed from someone else and a heart that seemed determined to escape her chest before she reached the handle—she took the first step toward the door.
One moment she was standing in the hallway, every muscle in her body pleading with her to turn around, and the next the door had already begun to swing inward beneath the quiet push of a palm.
The room was larger than she’d imagined—too bright from the large floor to ceiling windows and so sterile. A long conference table stretched through the center, polished to the point it reflected the overhead lights in muted streaks across its surface. Leather chairs sat neatly arranged around it, folders already opened, glasses of water placed with almost mathematical precision. Everything had been prepared hours before she arrived, every seat assigned, every document waiting patiently for signatures that would dismantle a life.
She felt them before she saw them.
Eyes.
They settled over her the instant she crossed the threshold, not invasive, not intentionally cruel she thinks, but impossible to ignore all the same. His team was.. ridiculously large: Lawyers who paused mid conversation. Assistants quietly setting down pens. People who had been expecting her arrival and now watched it happen in real time, each carrying the uncomfortable awareness that they were about to witness something far more intimate than legal.
She kept her gaze lowered.
One step.
Then another.
The carpet swallowed the sound of her heels, leaving only the dull rush of blood filling her ears. Halfway across the room, another sensation reached her.
Familiar.
Warm.
The faint trace of cedarwood, bergamot, and something softer she had once associated so instinctively with home that she’d stopped noticing it years ago.
His cologne.
It hung lightly in the room, barely perceptible to anyone else. But to her, it was overwhelming. The smell struck with such force that her stomach lurched before she could brace for it. Every memory attached to it arrived all at once, uninvited. Jackets borrowed on cold nights. Sleepy embraces before dawn. The hollow of his neck beneath her cheek. She had spent years breathing it in without thought.
Now it made her feel violently ill.
She swallowed hard as the nausea climbed steadily into her throat.
Don’t look up.
The thought repeated itself with quiet desperation.
Don’t look.
If she looked too soon, she was afraid everything holding her upright would simply.. stop. So she fixed her eyes on the table instead. On the grain of the wood. On the edge of an unopened folder. On her own hands, clasped together tightly enough that the faint tremor running through them almost disappeared beneath the pressure.
Someone quietly pulled out a chair for her and she thanked them automatically, though she couldn’t have said who it was.
The leather creaked softly as she sat. Her knees felt a sense of reliving beneath the table, bouncing once before she forced them still. She rested both palms against her thighs, pressing down as though she could anchor herself.
A glass of her favorite juice had already been placed in front of her and she stared at it. The condensation gathered in tiny droplets along the outside, slowly slipping toward the polished wood beneath.
It was something to look at.
Something that wasn’t.. him.
Silence settled over the room for one lingering moment, heavy enough that even the quiet rustling of paper sounded intrusive.
Then a chair shifted, a folder opened and the mediator cleared his throat: “Thank you all for coming.” His voice was carefully emptied of emotion. “We’re here today to discuss the terms that remain outstanding and, if possible, reach an agreement that serves the best interests of everyone involved.”
The words floated somewhere above her. Professional. Orderly. Clean. She heard every one of them but none of them felt real. Because all she could think was how absurd it was that the end of seven years could fit inside a folder no thicker than an inch.
The attorney on Michael’s side spoke first, sliding one of the folders forward.
“On the matter of custody,” He began, voice even and courteous almost, “Our client is requesting a standard shared arrangement. Equal time. A fifty-fifty split, alternating weeks, with flexibility for travel schedules given both parties’ professional commitments.”
The words landed in the center of the table, balanced and reasonable on paper—designed to sound like cooperation.
She kept her eyes fixed on the edge of her glass.
Fifty-fifty? As though fathers simply disappeared for weeks at a time, served their wives divorce papers through attorneys, built new lives somewhere else, and then returned expecting to divide a child neatly down the middle. Like time with a child could be weighed out evenly, as though it was something that could be portioned and exchanged without consequence. She never thought her own child would be subject to this kind of thing—life was cruel.
He wanted equal time. Equal responsibility. Equal claim. After everything he’s done.
Her own attorney shifted beside her, glancing once in her direction before responding. “We’ve reviewed that proposal,” He said calmly, “And at this stage our client is not in agreement.”
A pause.
The room tightened slightly.
Then he continued. “Given the current circumstances, she is requesting primary custody, with structured and supervised visitation.”
There it was, out in the open. Her stomach twisted again slower this time, bracing for impact long after the words had already been spoken. But she still didn’t look up—didn’t trust herself to see him yet. She wondered what his expression was..
Across from her, pens stopped moving. Someone exhaled quietly, the kind of sound people make when they’re pretending not to react.
Michael’s attorney adjusted his posture. “Supervised visitation is a.. significant limitation,” Je said, carefully choosing each word, “Especially in cases where both parties have been primary caregivers. On what basis is that being requested?”
Her pulse ticked harder beneath her skin.
Her attorney didn’t look at her, only answering immediately. “Stability,” He said. “And continuity of care during a period of documented instability.”
Documented instability.
A clinical phrase for something that felt anything but clinical when it lived inside her.
The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was dense. Heavy with everything no one wanted to say directly in front of everyone else. She could feel it then, faintly, the shift in the room’s attention. Not hostility but something more complicated. Assessment. Quiet recalculation. The way people looked at decisions when they realized they were about to become precedent.
Her fingers tightened under the table again.
Fifty-fifty.
Supervised visits.
The phrases repeated in her mind without sound, colliding against each other until they stopped meaning anything at all except conflict.
Michael’s attorney spoke again, softer this time, “Our client has no intention of being removed from his child’s life. If anything, he is requesting increased consistency. Predictability. Equal access to daily care, schooling routines, and—”
“He’s not being removed,” Her attorney interrupted gently. A pause followed by: “He’s being structured.”
She felt the nausea return in a slow wave, not as sharp as before, but deeper. More settled. Something that sat under her ribs and refused to move.
Across the table, paper turned softly. Someone marked a note. Another cleared their throat. And the discussion continued anyway, the shape of their child’s life simply another item to be negotiated between professionals who had never once had to hold him when he cried.
The attorney on his side spoke first, sliding a neatly tabbed folder toward the center of the table with practiced ease.
Her attorney shifted almost imperceptibly beside her.
“As stated before, we reviewed the proposal,” He said. “My client cannot agree to that arrangement.” The room remained silent as he continued. “She is requesting sole physical custody, with supervised visitation until a consistent pattern of stability has been established.”
Across the table, Michael’s attorney folded his hands together. “Could you clarify the basis for supervised visitation?”
Her attorney answered without hesitation. “The events of the past year.”
“I’m going to need something more specific than that.”
“As documented,” Her attorney replied evenly, “Mr. Jackson entered treatment following prolonged substance dependency. There were also extended periods of physical absence from the child, interrupted communication, and the abrupt dissolution of the marriage.”
His attorney gave a small nod.
“We don’t dispute treatment. In fact, your client voluntarily sought it. Rehabilitation is generally viewed as evidence of recovery rather than evidence of parental unfitness, that isn’t a factor in this.”
Michael attorney spoke again. “Our position is that whatever difficulties existed between husband and wife should remain separate from the child’s relationship with his father.”
Husband and wife.
As though those were just words.
As though the marriage had ended because two people had simply grown apart.
As though she hadn’t spent months bathing him when he couldn’t stand long enough to bathe himself. Feeding him because he forgot to eat. Sleeping beside him through endless nights when every phone call brought another problem. Holding together a household, a career, a child, and a man who no longer had the strength to hold himself together.
As though she’d stayed through every unbearable moment only to be discarded the second he was strong enough to leave.
And now..
Now he wanted fifty fucking percent.
(Name) didn’t want to keep a father from his son. But somewhere in the midst of disappearing, serving her with divorce papers through strangers, and forcing every conversation to happen through attorneys, he had somehow convinced himself he was entitled to walk back into fatherhood like nothing had broken in between? The thought was so staggering she wasn’t sure whether she wanted to cry.. Or stand up and leave because she felt offended.
Her attorney let the silence settle for a moment before folding his hands neatly atop the folder in front of him.
“We appreciate the sentiment,” He said, his tone remaining unfailingly courteous. “But respectfully.. we find that position difficult to reconcile with the circumstances that brought us here.”
Across the table, no one interrupted.
He continued. “My client has been the child’s primary source of consistency throughout the better part of the last year. She has maintained his routines, his medical appointments, his education, his home, and his day-to-day care while simultaneously managing an unprecedented level of public scrutiny surrounding the dissolution of this marriage.”
He glanced briefly toward the documents. “During that same period, your client voluntarily entered treatment, ceased regular communication for an extended length of time, and elected to initiate divorce proceedings through legal counsel rather than direct communication with his wife with another woman in his life.”
His voice never rose. “Against that backdrop, requesting an immediate fifty-fifty custodial arrangement is, ridiculous and not a proposal we consider realistic.”
The discussion continued for another two hours.
Nothing changed. Every proposal was met with another counterproposal. Every compromise unraveled the moment someone followed it with, “However..” Custody schedules became calendars spread across polished wood. Holidays were divided before they had even happened. Birthdays were discussed in alternating years. Christmases became odd numbered and even numbered. Every sentence sounded perfectly reasonable on its own.
Together, they sounded grotesque.
The conversation had long since stopped being productive. It was two immovable objects politely colliding with one another over and over again, dressed up in professional language and careful tones.
Finally, her attorney closed his folder, “I don't believe we’re making meaningful progress.”
No one disagreed. Across the table, opposing counsel gave a small nod. “I think a brief recess would be appropriate.”
“Perhaps twenty minutes,” Another someone added. “Give everyone a chance to speak with their clients privately and reassess before continuing.”
There was a quiet chorus of agreement.
Pens were capped. Legal pads were gathered. Someone reached across the table to collect a stack of exhibits that had slowly migrated into the center during the discussion. Chairs eased backward with soft scrapes against the floor, the room immediately feeling larger now that everyone had permission to move.
(Name) didn’t Her hands remained folded tightly in her lap. Her eyes stayed fixed on the untouched glass of water in front of her, the same glass she’d been staring at for nearly two hours. She heard the rustle of jackets, the quiet exchange of voices, the metallic click of briefcases closing. The meeting was ending, at least for now.
Then, for the first time since she had walked through the door.. Michael spoke: “..One moment.”
The room stilled.
It wasn’t that his voice was loud. It was almost the opposite. It was quiet enough that everyone instinctively stopped moving to hear him.
“I have a request.” Every eye shifted toward him and he wasn't looking at the attorneys. He was looking at her. “If everyone is comfortable with it..” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “I’d like a few minutes alone with my wife.”
Silence settled over the room.
One attorney glanced toward another and (Name)’s attorney looked toward her, saying nothing as he wasn’t answering for her this time. He was waiting for her to speak while the request lingered between them.
Finally, opposing counsel spoke. “Well.. provided both parties consent, I don’t have an objection.”
Her attorney remained still for another moment before turning slightly toward her. “You don’t have to.”
She swallowed. Her throat felt painfully dry. “I know.”
"If you’d rather I stay, I stay.”
She closed her eyes briefly. This was the conversation she’d spent weeks dreading. It had been waiting for her whether there were lawyers in the room or not.
Slowly, she nodded. “It’s okay, Mark.”
Her attorney studied her face carefully, making sure she wasn’t agreeing out of pressure or obligation. Then he gave a small nod. “We’ll be right outside.”
One by one, the attorneys gathered their files and made their way toward the door. Their footsteps were quieter than before, everyone understood they were leaving behind something no legal training could prepare them to witness.
The door opened, then closed and the latch clicked softly.
And for the first time in months, there was no one left in the room except the two people whose names had been written across every page of the divorce file.
The silence that followed was worse than the situation at hand had been. At least that had given them something to hide behind: numbers, schedules, legal terms, the careful language of attorneys who could take something unbearably personal and reshape it into something that fit neatly inside a folder. Now there was nothing between them. No one interrupting. No one redirecting. No one stepping in when the weight of everything they had avoided finally settled into the room. For several moments, neither of them moved. (Name) remained exactly where she was, her posture still rigid from the hours she had spent forcing herself to stay composed. She didn’t need to look at him to know he was there, and that was the part she hated most. After months of distance, after everything that had happened, some part of her still recognized his presence before she ever saw him.
The quiet scrape of his chair shifting made her body react before her mind could. Her shoulders tensed, her fingers tightening together in her lap, her breath catching slightly. She wasn’t afraid of him, but some part of her was afraid of what would happen if she finally allowed herself to see him. The anger she had carried from a distance felt much easier to hold than the reality of having him sitting only a few feet away. Anger did not remember the good mornings, the private jokes, the years of knowing someone so completely that their absence felt like a missing piece of your own body.
“Can you..” His voice stopped.
An uncertain pause.
Her eyes remained fixed on the untouched glass in front of her, watching the faint reflection of the room distort across the surface.
“Can you look at me?”
The request was painfully simple. Almost too simple for everything that existed underneath it. Her fingers tightened further, but she didn’t answer. For a moment, neither did he. He didn’t push. He didn’t repeat himself. He simply waited.
That somehow made it harder.
“Please.” The word was quiet. Not a demand or even an expectation. A simple request of her.
She hated that he still had the ability to reach the parts of her that wanted to soften. She hated that one small word could pull at years of memories she had spent so long trying to bury beneath anger, paperwork, and silence. She had convinced herself that enough distance would make him easier to face, that time would turn him into someone she could look at without feeling everything at once.
But she was still sitting there, unable to lift her eyes. Because looking at him meant admitting he was real—that this was real. That the person who had once felt like home was sitting across from her, and she had no idea what to do with that anymore.
Her silence stretched for several seconds longer, but it wasn’t peaceful. It was the kind of silence that came when too many things were being held back at once, when every sentence she wanted to say had been swallowed before it could reach her mouth because none of them felt big enough to contain what she was actually feeling.
Her hands had started shaking again and she noticed it before he did. A faint tremor at first, barely visible beneath the table, her fingers twisting together. She pressed her thumb against the side of her hand, grounding herself, reminding herself that she was sitting in a room, that she was safe, that she was not back in those months of waiting for a phone call that never came.
It didn’t work, because the truth was she wasn't afraid of the room. She was afraid of the answers.
She finally lifted her eyes, but only for a moment. Long enough to see his face. Long enough for the anger and hurt she’d been carefully organizing for months to collide with the reality of him sitting there.
And then the question came out before she could stop it.
“Did you sleep with her?” Her expression changed the moment the question left her mouth, she looked exhaustion and wounded—the question itself had reached a place he had been desperately trying not to confront. For a moment, he simply stared at her, and when he finally spoke his voice was quiet enough that it almost disappeared beneath the weight of the room.
“(Name).. oh, God, please.” He looked down, his fingers shifting slightly against the edge of the table as he was searching for the right words and finding none of them. There was no defensiveness in him, no attempt to turn the question back on her. Somehow, that made it worse. She had prepared herself for anger. She had prepared herself for him to tell her she was being unfair or emotional or that she didn’t understand. She had prepared herself for a fight because a fight would have been easier than this careful, painful silence.
“Why are you asking me this?” The softness of it made something inside her crack. Her hands tightened together in her lap, feeling the frustration building beneath her ribs-she couldn’t.. she couldn’t fucking believe he didn’t understand why she needed to know. After months of unanswered questions, after watching her entire life collapse through headlines and whispers and conversations she wasn’t invited into, hearing him ask why felt unbearable.
“..Why am I asking you?” Her voice came out quieter at first, almost disbelieving. She looked at him for a moment, tears already gathering in her eyes, before shaking her head. “Why am I asking you?!”
“You know why I'm asking you, Michael!”
“(Name), please..”
“No!” The word came quickly, sharper than she intended. She swallowed, trying to steady herself, but the effort was useless. The control she had walked into the room with was gone, stripped away piece by piece until there was nothing left but the person underneath it.
“No, no, nonononono! Don’t do that!” She stood suddenly, a detached smile pulling at her lips. “I thought this was going to be an honest conversation! Don’t say my name like I’m the one being unreasonable!”
He went quiet and looked away as she pressed her lips together, she trying to keep herself from falling apart in front of him. It was almost humiliating how much she was still affected by him. How after everything, she was still sitting across from him hoping he would say something that made any of it make sense.
“I spent months trying to figure out what happened—look at me!” She snapped, her voice shaking as she watched him reluctantly look. “I spent months wondering if you were okay, wondering if you hated me, wondering if I did something wrong. I was trying to understand how we went from what we were to this, and then suddenly everyone else seemed to know things I didn’t!”
Her fingers curled against the table. “So yes, I am asking you.” She looked back at him. “Because I deserve to know!”
He inhaled quietly, but before he could respond, she continued.
“Tell me.” Her voice rose, the restraint finally snapping under the weight of everything she had been carrying. “Tell me!”
Her palm struck the table before she even realized she had moved. The sound startled even her, echoing through the empty conference room. Aggression and rage, yes. It was desperation. The kind that came from someone who had spent too long swallowing every question because she was afraid of what the answer might be.
“You at least owe me that much.”
The anger vanished as quickly as it appeared, leaving only the grief underneath. Her shoulders shook, tears spilling freely now as she looked at him. “You owe me the truth.”
Michael didn’t say anything. Then his expression shifted, and when he finally answered, his voice was barely above a whisper.
“No.”
She blinked. “What?”
“No.” He shook his head slightly. “Nothing happened.”
The answer should have relieved her. It didn’t. Instead, it created an entirely new kind of confusion. She stared at him, almost unable to process the words. “Nothing?”
“Nothing happened between us.”
Her brows furrowed as she searched his face, waiting for the rest of the explanation. Waiting for the part that would make everything fit together again. But there wasn’t one.
A small, broken laugh escaped her. “What the fuck? Then what am I supposed to do with that, Michael?”
He didn’t answer. Because that was the question neither of them wanted to confront.
If nothing happened, then why?
Why had everything changed?
Why had she been left behind?
Why had another woman become the center of every conversation surrounding the end of their marriage?
Her breathing became uneven as she looked at him, her anger slowly shifting into something much more painful. “What does she have?”
His expression changed slightly. “(Name), please don’t do this right now..”
“Shut up!” She shook her head, tears continuing to fall. “What does she have?” She pressed. “What has she done for you that I haven’t!”
He looked away.
That movement broke something in her. “I was there! I was there!” Her voice cracked. “I was there when things were difficult! I was there when nobody else understood what was happening! I stayed when it was hard—I stayed when it wasn’t convenient! I stayed when I had every reason to walk away! I love you!”
She wiped at her face, but it did nothing. “Tell me what I didn't give you!” He remained silent. “Tell me what I wasn’t!” The room seemed to shrink around them. ”What did she have that I don't, Mikey? Please!”
Michael couldn’t look at her. And that silence was its own answer. Not the answer she had been expecting. Her expression slowly changed as another realization began settling into place. It wasn’t sudden but a quiet, horrible understanding that arrived piece by piece.
If nothing happened between them.. then something else had.
Something before.
Her voice lowered. “Were you were talking to her before all this? Is that why you were coming home late?” He went still as she stared at him, watching his reaction. “You were.”
A pause. “You had to have been.” The tears blurred her vision, but she didn’t look away. “Because people don’t just wake up one day and end up here.”
Her voice trembled. “She didn’t just appear outta nowhere.” And for the first time, the thought that had been circling her mind for months finally became something she could say aloud. “You—you were already letting her into your life while I was still trying to save ours! To fix you!”
He was quiet for so long that she felt the answer before he ever spoke it. She searched his face desperately for the instinctive denial that never came, for the immediate shake of his head that would let her believe she had spent months torturing herself over nothing. Instead, he lowered his eyes, his jaw tightening subtly as though the effort of choosing his next words had become physically painful. It was such a small movement, so insignificant to anyone else, but to her it felt catastrophic. She had spent the better part of eight weeks replaying every conversation, every silence, every headline, trying to identify the exact moment she’d stopped being enough. Now she was watching it happen in real time, watching the man who had once answered every fear before she could even voice it suddenly become incapable of giving her the one reassurance she needed most.
“Yes.” The word landed with almost no force at all and her expression didn’t change. He swallowed before continuing, unable to meet her eyes for more than a second at a time. “Yes.. we were spending time together. We were friends.” He said it carefully, almost cautiously like there was a version of those words that existed without causing harm. “It wasn’t..” He paused, rubbing absently at his thumb with the opposite hand. “It wasn’t anything you’re making it out to be, honestly.”
She stared at him for several long seconds, trying to reconcile what he’d just said with the reality she’d been living. Friends. Such an ordinary word. Such an innocent word. It almost made her laugh. Months of silence. Months of unanswered phone calls. Months of waking up alone, wondering whether her husband still remembered she existed, only to discover that while she’d been clinging to the ruins of their marriage, he’d been building a “friendship” with another woman. The same friendship he and her once shared seven years ago? Oh, she bets, Whether he believed it had been innocent no longer mattered. Innocent things didn’t grow in secret. Innocent things didn’dmt survive only because one person had been left completely in the dark.
“It wasn’t anything I’m making it out to be?” She repeated quietly, her voice trembling with anger and disbelief. “Michael, I’m your wife!” The last word nearly caught in her throat. “I was sitting at home wondering why you wouldn’t speak to me while you were talking to somebody else, and you’re telling me I'm making something out of nothing?” She laughed then, but it was a broken sound, one born entirely out of exhaustion. “Do you even hear yourself?”
He opened his mouth to answer, but she was already shaking her head.
“No, no, don’t explain it away. Just answer me.” She leaned forward slightly, “Are you planning to be with her?”
The question lingered between them.
He didn’t answer, of course.
He tried. She could see him trying. His lips parted, his chest rose with a slow breath, and for one impossible second she thought he was finally going to give her something, anything, that she could survive. Instead, nothing came. His eyes drifted away from hers again, settling somewhere over her shoulder, as though even the possibility of speaking the truth aloud was more than he could bear.
She felt the air leave her lungs.
“If the answer was no,” She whispered, “You would’ve said no—is that what you do, Michael? You fuck all your girl friends?”
Still nothing.
The room seemed to tilt around her. She could hear the faint hum of the air conditioner somewhere overhead, the muffled footsteps of people passing outside the conference room, the sound of her own heartbeat pounding so violently in her ears that it drowned out almost everything else. It was astonishing, she thought, how quickly a person’s entire world could be rearranged by someone refusing to answer a single question.
“Do you love her?” She hadn’t meant to ask it.
It escaped her the way all the worst truths did, before pride had the chance to stop them. There was no anger left in her voice now, only desperation. It was the question beneath every other question she’d asked since sitting down. Not whether he’d betrayed her. Not whether he’d lied. Simply whether there was still anything left of the man who had once loved her so completely she had built her entire life around it.
Michael couldn’t answer that one either. His eyes closed for the briefest moment, and when he opened them again, they still wouldn’t meet hers. “I..” He stopped, swallowing hard. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
(Name) simply stared at him, then something inside her gave way. A short, breathless laugh escaped her, so hollow it barely sounded human. She sat back in her chair as tears spilled unchecked down her face, looking at him not with hatred but with a kind of horrified disbelief, as though she no longer recognized the person sitting across from her.
“You don’t know?” She repeated, almost whispering. “After everything.. after seven years.. after everything I gave you, everything we survived together, you don’t know?” She shook her head slowly, wiping at tears that refused to stop falling. “You’re a psychopath.”
“I have spent so long convincing myself that I missed something. That I wasn’t enough. That maybe there was something she could give you that I couldn’t.” Her breathing had become ragged now, every sentence interrupted by the effort of trying not to break completely. “So tell me.” She looked at him then, really looked at him, her eyes red and glistening with grief. “What has she done for you that I haven’t? What does she have that I don’t? I stood beside you through everything. I loved you when the rest of the world decided you weren’t worth loving. I built my life around yours because I believed we were building something together.”
Her voice cracked so sharply she had to stop and swallow before continuing. “And now you’re sitting across from me telling me you don’t know if you love this bitch?”
The realization arrived almost imperceptibly, settling over her in slow, unbearable pieces. If nothing physical had happened, if he was telling the truth about that much, then there had still been something. Something that had begun long before the divorce papers arrived, long before the headlines, long before she had any reason to suspect another name belonged in the story of her marriage. She lowered her eyes for only a moment before lifting them again, and when she spoke this time, her voice had become frighteningly calm.
Neither of them spoke after that.
The silence that settled over the room no longer felt tense. It felt exhausted. There was nothing left to argue about, nothing left to explain. Every question she had carried into that building had either been answered or answered by omission, and somehow the omissions hurt more. She sat motionless in her chair, staring at nothing in particular as tears continued slipping down her face, too emotionally spent to wipe them away anymore. Across the table, he remained just as still, his hands folded together in front of him, his gaze lowered to the polished wood between them. Whatever words either of them might have found earlier had long since abandoned the room.
A soft knock broke the silence.
Neither of them responded.
Another knock followed, more tentative this time, before the conference room door opened just enough for one of the attorneys to lean his head inside.
“I’m sorry,” He said carefully, his eyes moving between the two of them almost immediately. It didn’t take legal training to recognize that whatever had happened during the recess had not gone well. “(Name).. Michael.. are we interrupting something?”
She blinked once, she’d forgotten where she was. The conference room slowly came back into focus. The legal folders. The glasses of water. The yellow legal pads scattered across the table. Her attorney stood just beyond the doorway with her manager beside him, both of them studying her face with immediate concern. She could almost watch the realization spread across their expressions as they took in her swollen eyes, the mascara beginning to gather beneath them despite every attempt she’d made to hold herself together.
Her manager instinctively took a half-step forward. “(Name)..”
She lifted a hand before he could come any closer.
It wasn’t to stop him. It was because she couldn’t bear for anyone to fuss over her right now. She drew a slow, uneven breath that caught halfway through her chest before finally managing to speak.
“..Could I..” Her voice disappeared as she swallowed hard and tried again, this time barely above a whisper. “Could I have.. just a few minutes?”
Everyone remained still.
She looked toward her attorney, unable to quite meet anyone’s eyes for more than a second. I just..” She pressed trembling fingertips against the corner of one eye, frustrated when another tear escaped anyway. “I need to.. get away from him.”
No one said anything immediately.
There wasn’t anything to say.
Her attorney gave a small nod first. “Of course.”
She pushed her chair back carefully, surprised that her legs still worked beneath her. They felt disconnected from the rest of her body, numb, and she had to steady herself against the edge of the conference table before taking her first step. No one tried to stop her as she crossed the room, though she could feel every pair of eyes following her. Her manager instinctively moved as though to accompany her, but she offered him the smallest shake of her head.
“I’ll be alright,” She lied quietly.
He knew it was a lie.
She knew he knew.
Still, he respected it.
The receptionist looked up from her desk just in time to see her emerge, immediately rising from her chair with the professionalism of someone accustomed to recognizing distress without drawing attention to it.
“The ladies' room is just around the corner,” She said gently, gesturing toward the end of the hall.
(Name) managed a faint nod. “Thank you.”
Her heels echoed softly against the marble floor as she walked away. She kept her chin lifted until she rounded the corner and disappeared from everyone’s view.
Only then did she let herself unravel.
The hotel suite was unnaturally quiet.
Michael hadn’t spoken once during the drive back. His attorney had attempted conversation exactly twice before recognizing the futility of it, and the remainder of the ride had passed in silence, broken only by the dull rhythm of tires against pavement and the occasional crackle of the radio that nobody bothered to turn off. By the time he let himself into the room, the exhaustion settling over him wasn’t physical. It lived somewhere much deeper, clinging stubbornly beneath his ribs. Lisa looked up from the sofa when she heard the door open, quietly closing the magazine resting in her lap the moment she saw his face.
“How’d it go?” she asked softly as he slipped his jacket from his shoulders without answering, hanging it carefully over the back of a chair before rubbing both hands over his face. Every muscle in his body felt tight.
“..I don’t wanna talk about it.” There was no irritation in his voice. Just fatigue. A kind of emptiness. She watched him for a moment before giving a small nod.
“Okay.” That was all. No questions. No, What happened? No, What did she say? No, attempt to coax the conversation out of him. She simply returned the magazine to her lap, allowing the silence to settle naturally between them. And somehow… that had become unhealthy for him.
Michael lowered himself onto the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees as he stared absently at the carpet. He wasn’t thinking about the meeting anymore. Not entirely. He was thinking about everything that had happened before it, about the strange way memory had begun rearranging itself somewhere between the intervention and the weeks he spent in rehabilitation. Rationally, he knew the people around him had been trying to save his life. The doctors. His attorneys. His family. Even (Name). She had wanted him sober, healthy, present, alive. He knew that. He truly did. But memory was rarely interested in fairness. But looking back, he didn’t remember feeling protected. He remembered feeling cornered. Every concerned expression had become another reminder that something was wrong with him. Every difficult conversation became another decision someone else was making on his behalf. Doctors telling him what he needed. Lawyers explaining what was best. Friends watching him with careful eyes, silently evaluating whether today was a good day or a bad one. Even the woman he loved most had slowly become another voice asking him to stop, to change, to get help, to fight harder. She hadn’t been wrong. That wasn’t the point. Pain had a remarkable way of convincing people that love and pressure were the same thing, and by the time he left rehabilitation, he could no longer separate the two.
Then Lisa had called. She hadn’t asked whether he’d been taking his medication. She hadn’t questioned the decisions he’d made or reminded him what his doctors wanted. She never looked at him with that quiet mixture of hope and worry everyone else seemed unable to hide, as though they were all waiting for him to fall apart again. When he complained, she listened. When he sat in silence for minutes at a time, she never rushed to fill it. When he admitted he was tired, she didn’t tell him how to fix himself. She simply stayed. Around her, he didn’t feel like a patient. He didn’t feel like someone everyone was desperately trying to repair before he broke again. He didn’t feel like the center of another intervention. He felt like himself. Or at least, the version of himself he had been before every conversation became about what was wrong with him. He could breathe. The realization should have frightened him. It didn’t. Because nowhere in his mind had he labeled it betrayal.
When (Name) had looked across the conference table that afternoon, tears streaming down her face as she asked, Did you sleep with her? the answer had come effortlessly. No. Nothing happened. He believed it. He still believed it. There had been no affair. No kiss. No stolen night hidden from the world. Nothing physical had crossed the line his conscience had always considered unforgivable. To him, fidelity had always lived in actions that could be seen, touched, named. By that definition, he had remained faithful until the end. What he refused to examine were the things that couldn’t be photographed.
The phone calls that gradually became longer than the conversations he had with his own wife. The fears he confessed to another woman because they somehow felt easier to say aloud there. The loneliness. The frustration. The parts of himself that had once belonged inside his marriage but had quietly migrated somewhere else. He hadn’t chosen another woman in one catastrophic moment. He had simply stopped choosing the first one in hundreds of tiny, forgettable ones, each decision so insignificant on its own that none of them had felt capable of ending a marriage until they had all accumulated into exactly that.
His jaw tightened as her voice returned to him with startling clarity.
“What has she done for you that I haven’t?”
He closed his eyes.
Because there wasn’t an answer. Not an honest one.
Lisa hadn’t sacrificed more. She hadn’t stood beside him through years of scrutiny, impossible expectations, and relentless public judgment. She hadn’t watched him crumble and stayed anyway. She hadn’t built a home with him, celebrated birthdays with him, learned the invisible ways he unraveled when the world became too loud, or spent years believing in him when believing had become difficult. (Name) had done all of that. She had given him years. Lisa had given him relief. Those were not the same thing. Yet somewhere inside him, relief had quietly begun masquerading as understanding. It had become easier to sit beside someone who expected nothing from him than to face the woman whose expectations existed only because she had spent years believing he could survive. He had mistaken the absence of conflict for peace, the absence of accountability for acceptance, and by the time he understood the difference, it was too late to explain it without sounding like he was searching for excuses.
He leaned back against the headboard, staring blankly toward the ceiling as the room settled once again into silence. For the first time since leaving the conference room, he allowed himself to hear her final words exactly as she’d spoken them.
“You don’t even know if you love her.”
He wanted to tell himself she was wrong. He wanted to believe the distinction mattered. That friendship was friendship. That nothing physical had happened. That he hadn’t crossed the line she believed he had. But lying alone in the quiet, stripped of attorneys, explanations, and carefully chosen language, he found himself confronting a possibility he had spent months avoiding. Perhaps the cruelest betrayals were never the obvious ones. Perhaps they happened so gradually they were almost impossible to notice while they were occurring. Conversation by conversation. Confidence by confidence. One ordinary day after another, until the person who had once known you better than anyone else slowly became the last person you allowed inside your heart.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤ June, 1994.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ╰ㅤ 1994 MTV Video Music Awards.
It hadn’t been one thing that made her spiral. If it had been one thing, maybe she could’ve gotten through the night.
But walking into her first award show since the divorce and realizing every hallway, every dressing room, every stretch of red carpet carried memories she hadn’t asked to revisit, was a lot. It was seeing him again for the first time not as her husband, not even as someone she could still pretend belonged somewhere in her future, but as another woman’s husband. It was watching them move through the room together with the kind of love she remembered once belonging to her. Then came them taking the stage. The applause. The cameras. And when they kissed beneath the lights, the room erupted around them as if the entire world had collectively decided to celebrate the life she’d spent months grieving.
That was her melting point.
Her manicured nails fumbled with the tiny bottle in her clutch, the bathroom lights too bright as they glinted off the pill caps. The celebrity style mirror mocks her—this is supposed to be a night of rebirth for her, and yet here she is squeezing five little white lies into her palm like they’re candy. A shaky breath hitches in her throat as she dry swallows them one by one, tasting salt and dissolving on the back of her tongue.
She stares at herself in horror through the mirror because who would cry for someone else’s husband? He wasn’t hers anymore. Her reflection wavers when a knock sounds at the door: “Two minutes ‘til hair and makeup, Miss (Name)!” calls an assistant whose name tag she didn’t remember reading.
There was a point where she stopped feeling like she was in the room at all, like her attention had slipped a few inches behind her actual body and was now watching everything happen from slightly off angle, delayed just enough that nothing lined up cleanly anymore. Voices reached her, but they didn’t land where they were supposed to. They skimmed across the surface of her awareness and kept going.
Someone said her name and she thought she answered, but she wasn’t entirely sure she had.
Her hands were being touched, adjusted, moved into place. Nothing aggressive, just corrective like she was a product on a conveyor belt that needed alignment before being sent forward. The feeling that accompanied it wasn’t panic yet. It was something flatter and an uncomfortable absence of ownership, because her body was no longer something she was directly responsible for managing.
There was a mirror somewhere near her, and she caught herself in it without meaning to. The reflection looked correct in the way costumes look correct on mannequins, everything in place without necessarily belonging to anything living. She stared at it for a second too long, waiting for recognition to catch up, but it never came.
There was just a murmur of thought forming underneath everything else.
I don’t feel well enough to be perceived right now.
But there was no space to say it out loud, and even if there had been, it felt like the kind of statement that wouldn’t change anything. The show would still happen. The lights would still open. The audience would still exist on the other side of whatever threshold she was being pushed toward.
A voice near her said something about timing, something about cues, something about being ready, and she tried to attach meaning to it, but the words kept arriving too late, like subtitles out of sync with dialogue. She focused instead on breathing, because breathing was still something she could technically confirm was happening. In and out. In and out. A system she didn’t have to negotiate with. But even that started to feel slightly detached, like it was happening near her rather than inside her.
From somewhere beyond the curtain there was applause again. It didn’t feel like it belonged to her world anymore. It felt like it belonged to people who still had consistent access to themselves. She wondered, distantly, what that must be like. To be fully inside your own life while it was happening.
A curtain shifted.
Someone said her name again, closer this time, like they were trying to bring her back into range. She tried to respond properly. Tried to find the version of herself that was supposed to be here, ready, contained, professional, whatever word people used for being intact in public.
But she’s not there tonight. The fact is, she’s fucked up on medication no one even knows she’s taking.
The backstage corridor felt so congested, everything moved in a delay. Voices came through water. Hands touched her arm and didn’t fully register as contact until after they had already let go. Someone said her name more than once before she realized it was directed at her and not the general atmosphere of panic forming quietly around her.
She was sitting, or maybe she had been sitting and was no longer, it was hard to tell where one state ended and the next began. The dress was already on. Hair fixed. Makeup finished in a way that looked correct under stage lighting and slightly unfamiliar up close, but it belonged to someone she had seen before but didn’t fully recognize as herself. The award show monitor down the hall flickered with rehearsals, applause, other people’s certainty.
There were voices around her that had shifted from instruction to hesitation.
“She’s not—” Someone started.
“She can’t go out like that,” Someone else said, lower.
A hand adjusted something on her shoulder. Another voice asked if she could hear them. She could hear them. She just couldn’t decide what hearing meant anymore. Words arrived, stayed for a moment, then dissolved before they could attach themselves to meaning. Everything felt slightly out of sync with itself, her body had agreed to show up but her awareness had not signed the same contract.
Someone was talking about timing.
Someone else was talking about canceling.
Her name again, more urgent this time. She blinked slowly at the floor as if it might offer instructions. The thing was, no one was really looking at her like she was a person anymore. That was the first thought that came through clearly enough to hurt— a distant, clinical recognition that she had become a variable in a situation that needed to be resolved.
Another mirror caught her reflection when she turned her head slightly. It looked like her. That was the most confusing part. Everything was correct but nothing matched.
Someone said, “We can push it. We can stall—”
Another voice cut in, “No, she’s on next.”
And that was when the room changed shape again. A stage manager appeared at the edge of her vision, speaking carefully, like approaching something that might break or bite or simply stop responding if handled too quickly.
“You’re up in a minute.” … “Do you understand?”
She tried to answer again. The attempt happened somewhere between thought and speech and didn’t fully complete as either. Instead, she nodded, or thought she did, or maybe just moved her head in a way that could be interpreted as agreement.
The corridor tightened around that decision immediately.
Someone stepped closer, checking her posture, adjusting her position like she was something that needed alignment rather than reassurance. There were words about marks on stage, about timing cues, about breathing. None of it landed in sequence. It came in fragments that refused to assemble into instruction.
Then there was the sound of applause from beyond the curtain. Not for her but for whoever had just finished.
A hand touched her back lightly.
“You go when it opens,” Someone said. “Just follow the light.”
The stage manager looked at her for a long moment longer than necessary, like there was still time to reverse something if enough certainty was introduced quickly enough.
There wasn’t.
The curtain up ahead shifted.
And her body, whether she agreed with it or not, began to move.
Michael almost didn’t attend.
The invitation had been sitting on his desk for weeks, accepted more out of obligation than enthusiasm. Industry events had become exercises in endurance lately. Smile when expected. Shake hands. Congratulate people whose names blurred together before the conversation had even ended. He had become remarkably good at appearing present while feeling entirely elsewhere. Lisa sat beside him as the lights dimmed, the auditorium gradually sinking into darkness as conversations softened into scattered murmurs. Applause rippled through the crowd when someone stepped onto the stage to introduce the next act.
Then her name echoed through the theater, carried through the speakers with practiced enthusiasm. Michael felt his stomach tighten before she had even appeared. He hadn’t seen her since the mediation. Not really. Not outside the memories that seemed determined to replay themselves whenever the world became quiet enough for him to hear them. He still heard her voice sometimes with startling clarity, still heard the accusation she had leveled at him across that conference table.
You dont even know if you love her.
It had followed him home. Followed him to bed. Followed him into every quiet moment since. The curtains parted. She stepped into the spotlight. For one fleeting second, she looked exactly as she always had. Beautiful. Poised. Elegant. Untouchable. The kind of performer capable of commanding an arena simply by standing still. Then the music began, and almost immediately something felt wrong.
Not obvious. Not enough that anyone unfamiliar with her would have noticed. The audience certainly didn’t. To them she was mesmerizing. Magnetic. Yet Michael found himself sitting forward almost instantly. She missed a mark by half a step. Barely noticeable. The kind of mistake most people would never catch. But he did. Then she remained still during a transition where choreography should have carried her across the stage. Her eyes drifted beyond the audience for a fraction of a second too long, lingering somewhere far away before she seemed to remember where she was and continued. Even her smile appeared delayed, arriving a beat late before disappearing altogether. Around him, thousands of people watched in complete silence, captivated by what they believed was an extraordinarily emotional performance.
Michael knew better. This wasn’t artistry. This wasn’t a creative choice. Every movement felt detached from her body, it looked like she was remembering the cues rather than inhabiting it. There were moments where she seemed–drunk. This was not a part of the performance. The realization settled heavily in his chest as the song continued, growing more devastating with every passing verse. Her voice never faltered. If anything, it became stronger. But strength wasn’t what made it unbearable. It was the rawness beneath it. The feeling that every note carried something she had never managed to say aloud. For the first time since the divorce meeting, he wasn’t hearing lyrics. He was hearing everything she’d swallowed. Every unanswered phone call. Every night she’d spent waiting. Every apology he had never given her. Every question he’d never truly answered.
By the middle of the performance, unease had settled so deeply beneath his skin that it became impossible to ignore. He shifted forward in his seat without realizing he’d done it. Beside him, Lisa noticed immediately.
“You okay?” she asked quietly. He didn’t answer right away. His eyes remained fixed on the stage. Something was wrong. The sensation crawled through him with growing certainty.
“I’m gonna go backstage for a minute.” Lisa frowned slightly, glancing toward the stage before looking back at him.
“Michael..”
“I’ll be right back.” He was already standing, beneath reason and logic, an older instinct had begun sounding an alarm he couldn’t ignore. He had spent years beside her. Years learning the subtle signs most people never noticed. The shorter breaths. The thousand yard stare. The way she’d lock her knees when she was trying not to collapse. The tiny changes that happened before panic arrived. Before exhaustion arrived. Before she admitted she wasn’t okay. He knew them all. His body recognized them before his mind could fully process what he was seeing.
The applause erupted behind him as he slipped through the auditorium doors. The sound followed him down a maze of unfamiliar hallways lined with security personnel, production staff, equipment cases, and cables taped neatly across the floor. He walked quickly at first, then faster. The muffled sound of the performance echoed through the walls until, somewhere near the dressing room corridor, the music stopped altogether. Then came shouting. Panicked. Urgent. Sharp. The kind of voices people used when something had gone wrong and everyone was trying not to make it worse. Someone yelled for a medic. Another voice shouted for space. Footsteps thundered down the hallway as crew members rushed past carrying equipment, forcing him against the wall. Security began converging toward a dressing room farther ahead. Michael’s stomach dropped instantly. He didn’t think. He started moving faster. Then running. By the time he reached the doorway, a crowd had already formed. Security personnel. Production assistants. Crew members speaking rapidly into radios. Two medics knelt somewhere beyond the bodies he couldn’t see through. He caught only the briefest glimpse of her sequined fabric disappearing beneath someone’s shoulder before another person stepped into his line of sight.
“What happened?” he asked.
Nobody answered.
The hallway was chaos. People moving in every direction. Radios crackling. Equipment being carried inside.
“What happened?” he repeated, louder this time.
A production assistant glanced toward him only long enough to recognize who had spoken.
“She collapsed.”
The words struck him with almost physical force.
“What?”
“She passed out after she came offstage.”
For a moment everything else seemed to disappear. The hallway. The noise. The people. His feet were moving before he’d consciously decided to move.
“I need to see her.” He barely managed three steps before someone intercepted him. Her manager stepped directly into his path firmly enough to make it clear he wasn’t getting through.
“I’m sorry.”
Michael stared at him in disbelief. “I need to see her.”
“I can’t let you in.” The words sounded unreal. His voice cracked despite himself. “Please.”
For the briefest second, sympathy flickered across the other man’s face. Sympathy. Regret. Understanding. Then it vanished. “She doesn’t need this right now.”
The sentence landed harder than anything that had been said during the divorce meeting. Because for years, he had been the first person people called when something went wrong. The first person through the door. The one sitting beside hospital beds. The one holding her hand. The one making decisions. The one people automatically looked toward in a crisis. Now he wasn’t even allowed inside the room. His gaze drifted instinctively past her manager’s shoulder, searching desperately for some glimpse of her through the crowd moving around the doorway. He saw nothing. Only medics. Only crew members. Only a closed circle of people trying to help her. A circle that no longer included him. His hands hung uselessly at his sides. There was nothing to argue. No legal language to hide behind. No compromise to negotiate. No loophole to exploit. The divorce had quietly altered something he hadn’t fully understood until this exact moment. He still possessed every instinct that had once made him her husband. Every urge to protect her. To sit beside her. To make sure she was okay. But instincts and rights were not the same thing. He no longer had the right. After a long moment, his shoulders sagged.
He lowered his eyes. “..Okay.” The word barely escaped him. Then he turned and walked away, each step feeling disconnected from the last. Behind him, the dressing room door remained closed. The people inside continued working.
┊ ♡ ﹒ as told through bad to dangerous eras 𖹭
┊ ♡ ﹒ summary : what do you do when the man you built your entire life around disappears without so much as a goodbye for another woman? do you love him enough to stay? or do you respect yourself?
┊ ♡ ﹒ byi : power imbalance (mentor and apprentice), age gap (reader is 20 / michael is 29), slow burn, mutual pining, celebrity romance (reader is a popstar), hurt/no comfort, cheating, marriage, divorce, addiction & substance abuse, rehab, depression, michael is in a lot of pain from his accident (reader helps him wash his hair at some point), anxiety, panic attacks, codependency, emotional neglect, themes of loss, abandonment, media harassment, public scrutiny, character study, ”right person wrong time.” extremely heavy angst, smut, intercourse, creampie, pregnancy. third person pov. use of petnames. no y/n, reader is (name).
┊ ♡ ﹒ disclaimer : this work contains depictions of addiction, substance abuse, deteriorating mental health and discussions the 1993 allegations (fictionalized within an alternate universe narrative). this piece is not an accurate depiction of any real-life individuals. 28k word count.
The studio had long since settled into the comfortable quiet that often accompanied afternoons spent in Michael’s company. It wasn’t ever completely silent because there was always music somewhere at Westlake, but he did like to keep it dark in the room mostly. A distant melody leaking beneath a door, muffled sound of a playback from another room, occasional burst of laughter from a hallway before fading away. Yet neither seemed particularly aware of any of it as hours had a tendency to disappear whenever they occupied the same space, each of them retreated into their respective work while somehow remaining deeply attuned to the other’s presence.
There was just something about the space they shared that neither of them ever learned how to explain. It was unlike the awkward silence that settled between strangers with nothing left to say, or lovers too consumed by one another to speak. This felt beyond either of those things because somewhere beneath language itself, beneath the music, even the friendship, they had stumbled into a frequency only the two of them seemed capable of hearing. They rarely interrupted one another, but every so often one of them would glance across the room to simply bear witness to the other’s existence. It felt spiritual.. it felt strangely.. devotional. As though the simple act of creating in each other’s presence had become its own form of intimacy. They each protected the other’s solitude with the same care another person might protect a confession. There was an unspoken understanding that whatever was happening inside the other’s mind, deserved to arrive in this world undisturbed.
The thing was, truly knowing another person is a remarkably rare experience. Most relationships are built upon performance initially, a person will unconsciously arrange themselves into someone easier to understand, to admire and love. But there are extraordinarily rare occasions people who seem to step past all of that. People who see you and understand you before you have a chance to disguise it. And there are very few things in life more sacred than finding another soul who your own can finally share company with.
Michael and (Name) were just that.
She sat on the floor between two couches in the corner, surrounded by the clutter of an artist’s mind. Open notebooks, loose sheets of paper and pens scattered across the flooring. One notebook housed lyrics and the other contained.. literally everything else from fleeting observations, fragments of conversations and questions she found herself unable to stop thinking about. The thoughts that were too insignificant to piece together in the moment but had too much potential to ignore. Every so often she would pause, chewing thoughtfully on the end of her pen as she stared down at a page, scribbling another line with furrowed brows. Across the room Michael worked through notes of his own, occasionally adjusting something on the mixing console or replaying a section of music.
Neither of them spoke or even seemed inclined to.
This could go on for hours upon hours and it was maybe the most unusual aspect of their friendship:
How easy it was.
Because most people approached Michael Jackson with some level of a mental obstacle he couldn’t look past to see them, even if it wasn’t conscious. Some people became nervous, others became overeager.. but many spent entire conversations attempting to impress him.
But somehow she had skipped every single stage of this discomfort and awkwardness entirely.
Their first meeting months earlier had been brief, a polite little exchange at a charity event attended by dozens of entertainers and industry figures. Neither had anticipated seeing the other again, and yet something about that initial conversation had really stuck. A second meeting followed. Then another. Phone calls became commonplace. Invitations to studio sessions no longer required formal asking. Somewhere along the way, what should have remained a casual acquaintance turned into one of the closest friendships either possessed.
Michael often attributed it to recognition, she felt less like someone new and more like someone he’d forgotten he already knew. He had met plenty of people in his life, but very few made him feel this way in particular and it was intriguing—intoxicating, even.
He couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d seen that kind of ambition before. The way she carried her lyric books almost everywhere she went. The way she dissected her own work with such a relentless scrutiny. The frustration that overtook her whenever an idea failed to match the version she had envisioned in her head. He recognized it because he had spent his entire life battling the same instincts. While others saw a young entertainer on the verge of stardom, Michael saw pieces of himself reflected back at him with this startling clarity. The perfectionism. The sensitivity.
The inability to leave “good enough” alone.
For (Name), the friendship had begun from an entirely different place. Admiration, certainly. How could it not? Michael Jackson had occupied such a permanent space within popular culture that separating the man from the legend often felt impossible. He felt like a deity. But what surprised her most was how quickly the legend disappeared once they were alone. The Michael she encountered in studios, hallways, and late night phone conversations bore little resemblance to the larger than life figure the public imagined. He was thoughtful. Curious. Shy. Nosey. And far funnier than anyone ever gave him credit for. He asked questions and genuinely listened to the answers. He remembered details from conversations months earlier. More importantly, he understood the strange loneliness that came with building a career at a young age in an industry that did more harm than good. Few people in the world could comprehend that reality and fewer still had survived it unscathed.
Which was probably why he felt so protective of her. It wasn’t that he didn’t think she was incapable of protecting herself, but.. he knew exactly how cruel the industry could be. The media, too. At twenty, she was still vulnerable in ways she didn’t even recognize yet, still young enough to believe talent and hard work would shield her from the uglier parts of success. Michael remembered being twenty himself. Bright eyed, eager and convinced that if he gave enough of himself, people would give something back. He wished someone with good intentions had been there to guide him through it all, someone who wanted nothing from him except to see him make it through in one piece.
Granted, their youth had looked nothing alike. Michael had never really been afforded the luxury of a childhood. By the time he was her age, he’d already spent years belonging to the public in one way or another. She meanwhile, had stories. Endless stories. Sleepovers and school dances and family vacations and embarrassing teenage crushes. Entire chapters of ordinary life that Michael found himself fascinated by.
That more than anything, surprised him. He wasn’t a naturally curious man when it came to other people in general. Most conversations with industry stars and such felt like a chore.. But he could sit and listen to her talk for hours, chin propped in his hand, completely engrossed as she recounted some insignificant memory from when she was twelve. To anyone else, the stories would have sounded so pointless and boring. But to Michael, they were so captivating. Hearing someone describe a childhood that had actually belonged to them felt almost miraculous. He never seemed to tire of it, always asking another question, always wanting another detail, as though he could piece together an entire world he had never gotten the chance to know himself.
He’d always be a dreamer, dreaming his life away.
The longer (Name) stared at the notebook in her lap, the more hopeless the page had become. What had started a few hours ago as a verse she was genuinely excited about had since become a shit show of crossed out lyrics, scribbled replacements, and arrows leading to ideas she wasn’t even sure she liked anymore. Entire sections had been rewritten only to end up exactly as they’d been before. Others had been abandoned halfway through, casualties of a train of thought she’d lost somewhere along the way.
The frustrating part was that the song wasn’t bad.
If it had been bad, she could’ve walked away from it. Started over. Scrapped the whole thing without a second thought. But, unfortunately there was potential in it. Every time she read the verse back, she could feel it. The song was close to becoming what she wanted it to be, close enough to keep her chasing it but not close enough to cooperate with what she feels on the inside. Every attempt to improve a line only seemed to draw her attention to another one that suddenly wasn’t working. A word would feel wrong. Then the rhythm. Then an entire section she’d liked five minutes earlier.
Eventually, she stopped making changes altogether and she just sat there rereading the same few lines, hoping that if she stared at them long enough, the answer would appear on its own. It never did.
Without thinking, her fingers drifted toward the rubber band looped around her wrist. The sharp sting against her skin followed a second later. It was a habit she’d picked up years ago and never quite managed to abandon, a small physical interruption to break the endless cycle of thoughts whenever she became trapped inside her own head. Usually she barely noticed herself doing it. Another minute passed. She stared at the page. Read the same line again. Hated it for an entirely new reason.
The rubber band snapped once more, harder this time.
Across the room, Michael’s attention slowly drifted away from the notes spread across the mixing console. They had spent enough afternoons together by now for him to recognize the various stages of her creative frustration. There was the concentration that came with the beginning of an idea. The excited rush that followed whenever she felt something falling into place. Then came this stage. The stage where progress slowed to a crawl and every sentence had her itchy and uncomfortable to be in her own skin. He watched her stare down at the notebook, reading the same section repeatedly and the rubber band snapped against her wrist again. Michael found himself smiling despite himself. Some things about artists appeared to be universal.
“Should we take a break?”
Her head lifted immediately, brows furrowed. “Why?” The response came far too quickly.
The moment the word left her mouth, embarrassment followed close behind. Because what she heard in his question wasn’t an invitation—it was recognition that she was struggling. She was suddenly hyper aware that he saw how she’d spent the better part of an hour trapped on the same verse and hadn’t written anything in quite some time. The realization that he maybe noticed everything bothering her made heat creep into her face almost immediately. Creative frustration was difficult enough in private but being perceived in it felt infinitely worse.
For a brief moment, Michael simply looked at her. Then understanding settled across his features. He knew exactly where her mind had gone. Knew she thought he’d been commenting on the fact that she’d been losing patience with herself for the last forty five minutes.
His expression softened like she was being silly. “For lunch,” He clarified.
The relief came so quickly. “Oh.”
A smile tugged at the corner of Michael’s mouth. “Unless your plan was to be like Louie and eat your notebook..”
A small laugh escaped her before she could stop it and the tension that had wound itself so tightly around her shoulders throughout the afternoon loosened ever so slightly. Somehow he’d managed to offer her a way out without drawing attention to the song or pointed out her frustration. Michael didn’t like offering advice when she didn’t ask for it because he never cared for it himself. Instead, he’d simply given her an excuse to step away from the problem for a little while.
It was one of the things she appreciated most about him, though she rarely said so aloud. Michael understood creative obsession because he lived with it himself. He knew the difference between helping and making someone feel watched. Knew that sometimes.. the kindest thing you could do for another artist was pretend not to notice the battle they were fighting with their own work. As he gathered a few papers from the console and prepared to leave the studio, (Name) found herself looking down at the notebook once more. The lyrics still weren’t right and they probably wouldn’t be right when she returned. And yet they felt less daunting than they had a few moments earlier.
Sometimes all it took was being reminded there was a world beyond the page.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ ㅤㅤApril, 1987.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤㅤ╰ㅤ American Music Awards - Manhattan, New York City.
“Oh my god, you were amazing!”
“Did you see the crowd out there? That pop was insane!”
“You did the damn thing, kiddo. Congratulations.”
The aftermath of her performance felt louder than the actual performance itself. The air backstage was bustling with movement, people calling her name from different directions and hands reaching out to touch her shoulders, squeeze her arms, telling her she had done it—she had really done it. Someone pressed a bouquet into her hands and more people were already talking about reviews they had overheard in the hallway. There were congratulations layered over congratulations until none of them sounded real anymore, just overlapping noise dressed up as celebration. (Name) stood in the middle of it all with the bouquet held tightly against her chest, nodding at the right moments, smiling when it was expected, saying thank you in a voice that felt detached from her own body.
She’s disassociating.
All she could think about was the note.
The one she had nearly missed.
It’s ridiculous, really. It wasn’t noticeable for anyone to catch or enough to interrupt the direction of the set, but she knew it happened. It wasn’t even her fault, it was due to technical slip making her slightly off beat before the problem fixed itself. She had handled it so well that no one even suspected anything, only a note alteration but that was very common during live performances. But she wanted perfection.
(Name) could feel it still sitting wrong in her throat, the memory of it stood out like a thorn more than anything else from the entire night. It replayed behind everything people were saying to her, the praise going in one ear and out the other. She nodded again on cue adjusting her grip on the flowers and tried to keep her face fixed into something that resembled gratitude instead of frustration.
She only noticed Michael when he appeared at the edge of the crowd by the doorway. Unlike everyone else, he didn’t immediately make his way over. He lingered near the back instead, allowing managers, producers, executives, and well wishers to reach her first. It was a habit she’d observed countless times before. Michael understood better than most how quickly a room could change around his presence. One appearance was often enough to redirect an entire conversation. Two steps into a crowd and suddenly every eye belonged to him whether he wanted them or not. Fame had taught him many things over the years. One of them was when to take up space. Another was when to surrender it.
Tonight wasn’t about him, nor did he want it to be. So he remained where he was but not out of indifference, quite the opposite. It was her night. Her performance. Her achievement. The last thing he wanted was for the attention she had earned to quietly shift elsewhere. Michael had spent enough of his life accidentally becoming the center of things to recognize when someone else deserved the spotlight. He knew what it had taken for her to get here. The years of work hidden beneath a handful of minutes onstage. The rehearsals nobody saw. The disappointments. The self doubt. The relentless pursuit of something just out of reach.
From a distance, he looked almost detached from the celebration, standing just beyond its center with his hands hidden in his pockets and sunglasses on while the crowd continued to orbit around her. Yet his attention never wandered very far. Every so often his gaze found her through the sea of people gathered around her, watching with the satisfaction of someone who had believed in her long before the rest of the room had caught up.
There was pride in his expression, yeah. But it wasn’t quite the same pride everyone else seemed intent on expressing. Theirs was loud and straight to the point, entirely built upon the performance they had witnessed.
Michael’s was quieter and more attentive. And perhaps because he knew her so well by now, there was something else beneath it. He knew.
While everyone else saw success, he found himself watching for her reaction to it. The smile that never quite reached her eyes. Watching the way her grip tightened around the bouquet each time another person congratulated her. Watching her nod at conversations she didn’t seem entirely present for.
And unfortunately, he knew exactly what this was.
When her eyes finally met his shades, something in her shoulders tightened without permission. She could feel his stare.
Of course he would have noticed.
Of course he would know.
(Name) looked away first, because looking at him felt like she was acknowledging something she didn’t want to yet. A producer pulled her into another conversation, someone else asked about upcoming plans and she answered on autopilot, the words coming out in trained fragments while her attention kept slipping back toward the same place in the room where he stood.
Eventually, she found herself drifting toward one of the side hallways, retreating from the crowd. The noise softened the moment she crossed the threshold, the cheers and conversations dissolving into something distant and more manageable. For the first time all evening, nobody was speaking to her. Nobody was congratulating her or asking questions. The sudden absence of attention settled around her and she let out a long overdue exhale, leaning against the wall and adjusting the bouquet in her arms before realizing she’d been gripping the stems so tightly that a part of her palm had begun to bleed from a throne that pricked her. Slowly she loosened her hold, watching a few crushed petals spring back into place as she drew in a deeper breath than any she’d managed all night.
“Tinker.” His voice came from behind her.
She didn’t turn right away. “Hi, Michael..”
He stepped closer, not looking at the flowers but he looked at her face instead. “It went well,” He said. “Please, stop.”
“Stop what?” She replied too quickly. “It went okay.”
The silence that followed made it worse because he had seen right through her bullshit. She adjusted the bouquet again and her fingers had started picking at the ribbon
“I messed up.” She said suddenly, like stating it out loud would keep it from growing.
Michael blinked once slowly, as if processing whether she was joking or not. Then he shook his head, removing his shades. “Do you think anyone in there noticed except you? Honestly?”
“I noticed it, Michael..” She says. “I did.”
“Mm.” That sound Michael liked to do. It wasn’t dismissive but he wasn’t really agreeing either. Just acknowledging that her mind had already made a decision and was now refusing to let it go.
She stared down the hallway instead of at him. “I shouldn’t be fucking up on things.”
“Language..”
“I’m sorry. I’m frustrated.”
“You’re allowed to be human,” He said, and there was something faintly amused in it. “Y’know that right?”
“Says you.” Her mouth tightened anyway. “Michael, I rehearsed for weeks..” Her voice had changed. Slightly smaller but tightly bound in a tone that wasn’t aimed at him, even if it sounded like it might be. “I rushed the transition. I came in late on the second verse and I felt it. I felt it and I still did it anyway.”
Michael watched her for a long moment without interrupting. When he spoke again his tone had shifted, less performer observing another performer. “I used to do that,” he said. “All the time. I would finish a show and all I could think about was the one thing I didn’t do perfectly. Not the rest of it. Not what people were screaming about. Just the thing I knew I could’ve done better.”
She finally looked at him then and he wasn’t smiling now.
“I would go over it in my head so many times I’d forget the rest of the performance happened at all,” He continued. “And nobody ever told me what I’m about to tell you now, so I’ll say it because someone should have said it to me when I was your age.”
He paused, just long enough for her to feel it. “People don’t come to see you be flawless,” He said quietly. “They come because of what it feels like when you’re up there. There’s a difference. You’re the only one who turns it into a test.”
Something in her expression shifted, but she didn’t speak yet. Michael tilted his head slightly, studying her like he was trying to make sure the words actually landed where they needed.
“One little thing doesn’t undo the fact that you just held the entire world in your hands,” He added. “But I can already tell you’re not going to believe that tonight.”
A faint, reluctant exhale left her.
The bouquet drooped slightly in her hands as her grip loosened again. The silence returned, but it felt different now, less like pressure and more like space she didn’t know what to do with yet.
Michael didn't push further. He just stayed beside her, letting the noise of the celebration belong to another version of the night, one neither of them was currently living.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤ May, 1987.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤㅤ╰ㅤ The (Surname) Residence - Los Angeles, California.
The phone call had long since outlived whatever purpose it may have originally possessed. Not.. that either of them could remember what that purpose had been to begin with. Hours earlier, one of them had called the other for a reason that had likely seemed important at the time. A question about a song. A conversation about an upcoming appearance. Some minor detail neither could recall now. Somewhere along the way, the original subject had disappeared entirely, replaced by the sort of aimless discussion that only seemed possible after midnight, when the rest of the world had gone quiet (Name) sat on her bed painting her toe nails, a mess of different colors of polished, acetone and cotton balls spread out on her silky comforter. Outside her bedroom window, the city stretched into darkness with a pretty skyline and the hallway beyond her bedroom remained still.
Across Los Angeles, Michael was awake too. That part hardly surprised her anymore. Artists seemed to exist on entirely different schedules than everyone else.
The conversation drifted lazily between subjects. Music. His upcoming tour. Childhood. Movies. Family. Stories neither had planned on telling when the call began. There was no urgency to any of it, or destination they appeared determined to reach, just the comfort of two people who genuinely enjoyed speaking to one another. The thing was, neither had expected this. Not the friendship and certainly not the ease of it. When they had first met nearly a year ago, both had assumed the interaction would be brief. Another industry introduction. Another polite conversation destined to disappear among countless others. Instead, somehow, they kept finding reasons to talk. Then reasons to call. Then reasons to stay on the phone long after they should have said goodnight.
Michael understood loneliness in ways most people didn’t. And it wasn’t because he lacked company—quite the opposite. His entire life existed beneath constant observation. Crowds. Interviews. Audiences. Fans. Managers. Family. There were always people nearby. Yet very few of them knew him. Really knew him. And the older he became, the more difficult that distinction seemed to grow.
“I think people have a strange idea about what this is like.” His voice arrived unexpectedly through the receiver.
(Name) glanced up from her polish. “What?”
A brief pause followed. “Everything.” The answer sounded almost sheepish, as though he was aware of how vague it was. “This stuff.”
She smiled despite herself. “Very specific.”
Michael laughed softly. “You know what I mean, Dumbo.”
She did. At least enough to answer. “The music thing?”
“The fame thing.”
Something in his voice had changed slightly. The difference was subtle, but she had spent enough time around him to notice it. Most people spoke about fame as though it were a reward, a finish line, something achieved. Michael always sounded as though he were describing weather. Something that simply existed. Something unavoidable.
“I think people imagine it’s.. exciting all the time,” He said. “They think you’re constantly doing something. They think you’re happy because you’re successful.”
(Name) looked down at her toes. For some reason, she found herself listening more carefully. “Are you not happy?”
The question slipped out before she could stop it and silence followed. A thoughtful silence.
Then Michael laughed quietly. “I didn’t say that.”
“No, but you didn’t answer either.” That earned another laugh, slightly louder this time. For a moment she wondered whether he’d change the subject. Instead, his voice returned softer than before.
“I think sometimes people get confused.”
“About what?”
“Being loved.”
The words settled heavily between them—they sounded like something he’d spent a very long time thinking about.
“They think being loved by millions of people means you never feel alone. But most of those people don’t know you.” A brief pause followed. “They know who they think you are.”
Something tightened unexpectedly in her chest because she understood exactly what he meant. Not entirely on his scale, but enough. Enough to know what it felt like when strangers decided things about you. Enough to know what it felt like to become a version of yourself people preferred over the real thing.
The line remained silent for several moments. Neither seemed in any hurry to fill it.
Eventually Michael spoke again. “You know what I mean?”
His voice carried something unusual now, hope. The kind people rarely admitted to.
“Yeah,” She answered quietly. “I do.”
When Michael spoke again, his voice had softened even further. “That’s why I like talking to you, girl.”
The confession arrived casually, absentmindedly and (Name) forgot how to respond. Her eyes shot immediately toward the window looking at the city, toward anything except the warmth suddenly spreading through her chest.
“Why?” She asked quietly.
A brief pause followed long enough for her to wonder whether he'd answer at all. “Because you talk to me like I’m Michael.”
His voice carried the faintest trace of amusement. The faintest trace of gratitude. “Just Michael.”
Neither of them realized it then or understood that something had shifted. A shift into something infinitely more dangerous than romance.
Trust.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ ㅤㅤAugust, 1987.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤㅤ╰ㅤ Motown Records Summer Party - Los Angeles.
The thing that unsettled (Name) most was not that Michael was speaking to Diana Ross. It was that she seemed incapable of treating the sight with the level of indifference it deserved. Rationally, there was nothing remarkable about it. If anything, the opposite was true. So why.. why is she feeling like this? Michael and Diana occupied such a permanent fixture in one another’s lives that seeing them together should have registered as background noise. Expected. The sort of thing a person acknowledged before moving on, like fork found in kitchen. Yet for reasons she could not seem to control, her attention continued returning to them. Like.. often enough for her to notice and often enough for the realization to become uncomfortable.
The problem was that the feeling refused to cooperate with any explanation she attempted to give it. Jealousy implied desire, and desire implied a level of honesty with herself she had no intention of entertaining. Besides, jealousy suggested competition. A rival. An obstacle. Something to overcome. Diana Ross was none of those things. Diana belonged to an entirely different category of person. She represented history. Foundation. Permanence. The part of Michael’s life that existed before (Name) and would almost certainly continue existing long after her.
There was something deeply humbling about the realization. Entire chapters of him remained inaccessible to her. Entire versions of him and his life she would never know. The young boy Diana had met. The young man she had enough influence on to shape at least some way in his thinking whether it be his music preferences or.. his type in women. The memories they shared had nothing to do with her at all. It shouldn’t have mattered. Yet standing there, watching them laugh together across the room, she found herself confronted by an uncomfortable awareness of just how thoroughly Michael existed outside of her.
Perhaps that was the true source of her discomfort. Not the conversation itself, but what it revealed. Somewhere over the past year, Michael had ceased being a person she knew and quietly become a point of orientation. The distinction was subtle enough that she had failed to notice it occurring. Yet now, under the harsh spotlight of self awareness, evidence of it seemed to surface everywhere. He had become the person she saved stories for. The person whose opinion she sought before fully trusting her own. The person she instinctively imagined beside her during moments of success, disappointment, boredom, excitement. And not because she was in love with him. At least.. she didn’t think that was the reason. The truth felt simultaneously smaller and more alarming. Michael had simply become woven into the architecture of her daily life. So gradually, so naturally, that she had mistaken his presence for part of herself.
And that was what made the feeling ugly. If this was romance, it would have been easy. Romance was flattering. Romance transformed emotional dependency into something poetic! and socially acceptable!
This felt.. less noble than that. More selfish. More childlike.
It was deeply embarrassing about realizing how accustomed she had become to occupying a certain place in another person’s world. More embarrassing still was discovering the small sense of entitlement that accompanied it. Not entitlement to Michael himself, she wasn’t foolish enough to believe she possessed any claim over him. Rather, entitlement to access. To attention. To significance. The assumption that she would always occupy the same space she occupied yesterday. The assumption that their friendship existed as a fixed point rather than a living thing capable of shifting beyond her control.
The realization left her feeling strangely exposed. As though she had stumbled upon a private truth about herself she had never intended to examine. Because if Michael had become this important to her without her noticing, what else had changed without her permission? How many decisions had begun orbiting him? How many thoughts ended with his name? How much of her emotional equilibrium depended upon a friendship she had spent months insisting was perfectly normal? The questions arrived one after another, unwelcome and impossible to dismiss. By the time she finally set her drink aside and decided to leave, it had very little to do with Diana Ross. Diana merely happened to be standing in the place where the realization occurred.
The truth was that (Name) no longer wanted to remain in the room because she had become increasingly uncomfortable with the person she was discovering herself to be within it.
She offered a few quick goodbyes to people near the exit, accepted a handful of distracted farewells in return, and disappeared into the Los Angeles night feeling vaguely irritated with herself.
The feeling followed her home.
That was perhaps the most frustrating part.
Because by the time she arrived home, kicked off her shoes, and changed into something more comfortable, she had fully expected the discomfort to dissolve beneath the practical demands of ordinary life. Instead it lingered stubbornly at the edges of her thoughts, refusing to loosen its grip no matter how thoroughly she attempted to dismiss it. She washed her face. Brushed her teeth. Wandered into the kitchen for a glass of water she didn’t particularly want. The entire time, some small part of her remained trapped inside that ballroom, replaying a feeling she had already decided was ridiculous.
The thing was, embarrassment has a way of prolonging emotions long after they’re deserved.
Had she been genuinely angry, she could have justified it.
Had she been hurt, she could have examined it.
Instead she found herself confronted by something far more difficult to defend: self awareness.
Because the longer she sat with the evening, the less interested she became in Diana Ross and the more interested she became in herself. Specifically, in the version of herself that had stood across a crowded room behaving in ways she would have found deeply embarrassing had she witnessed them in someone else. The version of herself who had lingered. Waited. Watched. The version who had discovered, quite accidentally, that Michael’s attention mattered more to her than she had previously understood.
By the time she settled onto the edge of her bed, she had almost convinced herself she was overreacting. That the entire thing had been inflated beyond reason. That she’d imagined it.
Almost.
Then the phone rang, and (Name) stared at it for half a second before reaching for the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Hi, ladybug.”
Michael.
Immediately she smiled and the reaction was such an automatic response she nearly laughed at herself. Of course.
“Hi, apple.”
The conversation began the way it always did. Easily. Comfortably. They spoke about the event. About people they’d seen. Gossip. About nothing in particular. The familiarity of it settled around her almost immediately, smoothing over the sharpest pricklies of whatever had been bothering her. This was the version of their relationship she understood. This part was simple, it was safe. There was a reason she found herself reaching for the phone whenever something happened. A reason conversations with Michael never seemed to require effort in the way conversations with other people sometimes did. Being around him had become easy.
Then, after a brief pause, Michael spoke again. “You know..” Something in his tone caused her grip on the receiver to tighten slightly.
“Hm?”
“It’s not like you to leave without saying goodbye.”
The smile disappeared instantly and her pulse jumped. The thing was, she hadn’t considered the possibility that he would notice. The room had been crowded. The event had been busy. People had been coming and going all evening. In her mind, her departure had occupied the same category as every other insignificant thing she’d been trying to forget since arriving home.
Apparently not.
Apparently Michael had noticed.
“At least not saying goodbye to me,” He added gently. “..Is everything okay?”
Heat rushed into her face with alarming speed. Suddenly she became acutely aware of herself sitting alone in her bedroom, staring at the floor as though he might somehow see the expression she was making through the telephone line.
“Oh.” Brilliant. An excellent response. “I—”
She looked down at the blanket gathered around her legs, the embarrassment arrived all at once.
There was something uniquely humiliating about being known by someone observant enough to notice deviations in your behavior before you noticed them yourself. Most people would not have thought twice about an early exit. Most people would have assumed she was tired, distracted, busy. Michael, had noticed she hadn’t said goodbye.
Specifically to him.
“I’m sorry,” She said quickly. “I just.. wasn’t feeling well..”
The lie sounded flimsy even to her own ears but it wasn’t entirely false. She had felt unwell.. just not physically.
Silence settled briefly between them, the sort of silence that suggested Michael was considering the answer rather than accepting it.
Then: “Really?” One word.
Nothing else, yet somehow it managed to unravel every ounce of confidence she’d possessed in the explanation.
Because she couldn’t tell whether the question made her feel relieved or mortified. For the first time all evening, she found herself confronted by a realization every bit as unsettling as the one she’d fled from earlier.
Michael had become important enough to her that his attention could alter the course of an entire evening. And she had become familiar enough to him that he could hear dishonesty in a single sentence.
Neither realization felt particularly great.
ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤSeptember, 1987.
ㅤㅤㅤ╰ㅤD-1 Bad Tour - The (Surname) Residence, Los Angeles, California.
Michael wasn’t supposed to come. He wasn’t supposed to be there. She didn’t want to look at him or even say goodbye because she knew she’d cry! She had spent the entire day surviving on the fragile, pathetic agreement she made with herself that if she didn’t see it, it didn’t happen.
It would make it easier to cope, she thought.
But by the time she realized what was happening, the door was already open. It wasn’t knock she could prepare for.
It was him, standing there.
He was smiling. Shyly, the way he often did. It rested somewhere between hopeful and apologetic as his sunglasses hid his eyes, those oversized dark lenses he’d developed a habit of retreating behind, but somehow they only made him more unmistakably Michael. His curls fell carelessly across his forehead, disturbed by the breeze outside, and for one absurd, fleeting moment she found herself resenting how beautiful he looked standing there. It was unfair. Unfair that he could come here carrying something as painful as a goodbye and still somehow look so impossibly gentle, so effortlessly beautiful.
He had spent the drive rehearsing this visit in his head, wondering whether he should have listened to her when she’d insisted she didn’t want to say goodbye at all. In the end, he hadn’t been able to. The thought of boarding a plane the next morning without seeing her one last time had settled somewhere beneath his ribs and refused to leave. So he had come anyway, with only the softest version of himself to her doorstep, hoping that if he spoke sweet enough, smiled gently enough would grant him some level of mercy.
“I know you didn’t want to say goodbye,” He said, voice calm which only made it worse, “But I just couldn’t bring myself to not see you before I go.”
That was all it took.
Something in her face gave way the instant she heard his voice. It was imperceptible at first, the slightest tremor beneath the fake composure she spent the entire day constructing, but once the first crack appeared there was no gathering it back together. Her expression folded inward on itself with startling speed, her mouth pulling tight as if she could physically keep the emotion from escaping if she held it there long enough. She couldn’t. Her breathing hitched once, then again, each inhale shallower than the last until even that simple act seemed to betray her. She had been waiting for permission to stop pretending she was fine. He had unknowingly given it to her the moment he knocked on the door.
The sound that left her wasn’t graceful or even recognizable as a word. Just a small, fractured noise that seemed to tear itself free from somewhere deep inside her chest before she had the chance to swallow it back down. It embarrassed her almost immediately, but embarrassment had already become irrelevant. There are certain kinds of grief that strip dignity away before you have the opportunity to protect it.
“..Michael..!” His name left her in a trembling exhale. She hadn’t intended to say it like that. She hadn't intended to sound as though she’d been carrying those seven letters inside her all day, letting them grow heavier with every passing hour until speaking them became less of a choice than a release.
Then she moved.
The distance between them suddenly felt intolerable, something instinct refused to negotiate with any longer. She crossed it in two uneven steps, stumbling in her haste, and collided with him before either of them had time to think about what was happening. Her hands found the fabric of his plaid first, gripping it with desperate certainty, fingers twisting into the material as though she needed proof that he was solid, that he hadn’t already become another goodbye she was remembering instead of living.
The moment she felt his arms come around her, whatever fragile structure had been holding her together dissolved completely.
She collapsed into him.
Every ounce of resistance she’d spent days maintaining abandoned her all at once, her forehead finding the space beneath his chin, her weight settling against him with complete involuntary trust. Her shoulders shook violently against his chest, each breath catching so hard it bordered on painful, her fingers tightening almost helplessly against his back every time she tried and failed to steady herself.
It wasn’t only crying. It was relief—relief that she didn’t have to pretend for one more second. Relief that he had come despite her asking him not to. Relief that, for one impossibly brief moment before tomorrow morning arrived and an ocean separated them, she was exactly where she wanted to be all day.
With him.
Michael spoke softer, close to her hair, he said, “Hey now.. you’re gonna make me cry, silly girl.”
He had seen her cry before.
Artists cried. After bad performances. Long rehearsals. Brutal criticism. Creative exhaustion. She had cried in frustration over lyrics that refused to come, over mistakes she believed were unforgivable, over expectations she placed upon herself that no one else ever would. He knew those tears. He knew how to sit beside them, how to remind her that tomorrow would arrive and the music would still be there waiting. This wasn’t that.
This frightened him because whatever this was wasn’t coming from disappointment or failure or exhaustion.
It was coming from him, not something he had done to her—but something he represented as her mentor.
As she shook against him, the realization unfolded slowly. Somewhere over the last year, without either of them ever acknowledging it, he had become the place she returned to. The first person to hear a new melody. The one she called before bed because conversations with him never seemed to have endings. The familiar face waiting in the studio. Her mentor. He had mistaken it for routine. For a simple friendship. Because it had become routine for him too, don’t get him wrong.
But routines are dangerous things.
You don’t notice how necessary they’ve become until someone asks you to live without them.
His hand moved slowly across her back, trying to soothe something that suddenly felt much larger than either of them. She wasn’t simply crying because he was leaving. She was grieving the sudden absence of the person she’d learned to organize parts of herself around. The thought hollowed him. She never asked for that. He had never asked for it either. It had happened the way the most consequential things often do. Gradually.. one ordinary afternoon at a time.
And now he was leaving.
An ocean.
Sixteen months.
Different time zones. Concerts. Hotel rooms. Crowds so large they’d swallow him whole every night.
Michael had always imagined the tour would be difficult because he would miss home. He hadn’t considered that somewhere along the way he had become part of someone else’s.
A strange guilt settled over him.. because he couldn’t remember the moment he’d stopped making sure she would be all right without him. He had spent so long trying to protect her from the industry, from disappointment, from people who wanted too much of her, that he had never stopped to wonder whether she had begun depending on him in ways neither of them understood.
And if she had..
Then leaving no longer felt like boarding a plane.
It felt like walking away from something fragile he’d been trusted to keep safe.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤ May, 1988.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤㅤ╰ㅤ The Bad Tour - The World.
By the time Michael got to London, the tour didn’t really feel like traveling anymore. It just felt like doing the same thing in different buildings.
Wembley Stadium was huge, overwhelming in a way that never really stopped being overwhelming, even after soundcheck. Even after everything was set up perfectly. The lights, the sound, all of it technically correct. He moved through it on autopilot now. The same routine every day and every night. The same dressing rooms that blurred together no matter what country they were in. The same faces orbiting him with clipboards, headsets, schedules, questions. He was never physically alone, that had become impossible years ago. There was always someone opening a door for him before he reached it, someone asking what he needed before he’d decided whether he needed anything at all. And somehow that constant proximity had only made solitude he felt internally feel stranger. Conversation had become increasingly transactional, every interaction serving the machinery of the tour.
People spoke to Michael Jackson constantly. Very few spoke to Michael.
There was a show that night. Then more shows after that. Then another one after a short break that didn’t even feel like rest, just a pause before the next thing started again.
Everything started to blur together a bit.
Hotel. Stadium. Hotel. Repeat.
By the time he got back to the hotel, he could feel the tiredness sitting somewhere behind his eyes. Worn down. The kind that came after weeks of answering questions, making decisions, shaking hands, smiling for photographs, stepping onto stages where thousands of people wanted something from him all at once. He loved performing. He always would. But..
At some point in all of it, he reached for the telephone without really deciding to. The gesture felt so, so familiar, muscle memory from a life a year ago that had become increasingly difficult to return to. The receiver rested in his hand while he sat there for a moment, waiting for his thoughts to catch up with what his body had already done.
Then he stopped.
Because he realized there wasn’t really a correct time anymore. Either it was too late there or too early there, or she was probably doing something, or he was probably about to do something, or it just didn’t line up in any way that felt simple.
So he just didn’t call.
He put the phone back down and just kind of looked at it for a second like it was going to give him a better answer if he stared long enough. But it didn’t.
So Michael moved on with his days.
Because everything always kept moving anyway.
The thing about absence is that it rarely announces itself all at once. It reveals itself through instinct. Through the split second after something happens, before reason has time to intervene. He’d hear a melody and think, She’d like that. Someone would say something ridiculous and for one unconscious moment, he’d already be turning to tell her before remembering she was an ocean and a continent away. The feeling wasn’t that she had left his every day, she was still very much built into it. Every instinct still assumed she was only a phone call away.
Reality was simply taking longer and longer to catch up.
He went to more shows.
Hundreds of thousands people. Noise everywhere. Lights. Movement. Everything loud enough to fill his whole body. And somewhere in the middle of it he thought, kind of randomly, that he heard her laugh in his head. It felt like she was right there saying something to him during a conversation that didn’t actually happen.
It was so quick he almost missed it.
And then it was gone.
The weeks became months so gradually that neither of them could have pointed to the moment things changed. There wasn’t one. No falling out or misunderstanding. No conscious decision to stop calling. Life simply grew larger around them. The tour kept moving. London. Paris. Rome. Cologne. Every city arrived with another airport, another hotel room, another stadium large enough to swallow him whole before sending him somewhere else to do it all again. Days stopped existing as individual memories and became pieces of a routine so rehearsed he barely needed to think anymore.
Wake up. Rehearse. Interviews. Soundcheck. Perform. Sleep. Repeat. Sometimes he’d wake in the middle of the night and have to pull back the curtains just to remember what country he was in.
Meanwhile, thousands of miles away, her own life refused to slow down either. The album she’d spent months pouring herself into was finally becoming real. Recording sessions gave way to rehearsals. Rehearsals, wardrobe fittings, choreography meetings, photo shoots, interviews. Suddenly there were people everywhere, each responsible for a different need of her. Stylists discussing image. Executives discussing singles. Publicists deciding how the world would meet her before she’d fully figured it out herself.
Success had a strange way of convincing everyone they knew what came next. (Name) was simply trying to keep up.
The distance stopped feeling temporary when it became increasingly difficult to find a spot of the day that belonged only to them. He still thought about calling. She still thought about calling. But the thoughts always seemed to arrive at inconvenient hours. He’d reach for the telephone only to remember she was probably asleep. She’d hear something that reminded her of him, glance at the clock, and realize he was probably somewhere beneath stadium lights on the other side of the world. “Tomorrow” quietly became next week. Next week became another country. Months passed before either of them realized how long it had actually been.
And somehow, despite all of it, neither of them doubted the other was still there. That was almost the cruelest part. The closeness itself hadn’t disappeared in their hearts, it had only lost its place in the day. Every instinct remained like when she still found herself collecting little stories to tell him before remembering there was no guarantee she’d reach him that week and when he would pick up little trinkets that reminded him of her.
The pluse was still beating with no place to put it.
Then one afternoon in a random European city, she found him—not in person or through a phone call, if course.
But through a television.
Someone had left it playing in the dressing room while the crew reset equipment between rehearsals. Conversations drifted lazily through the room, a production assistant crossed in front of the screen carrying schedules while a few dancers watched the screen with excited smiles.
Michael wasn’t paying attention until he heard her name leave one of their mouths and his attention lifted almost involuntarily. The screen changed and there she was—he recognized her immediately, his heart skipping a beat as he crossed his arms over his chest.
It was her. Right there on the screen. And she looked so.. different since the last time he saw her. Granted, she was sobbing but in his memory she looked more girlish—childish and juvinile in a way. Always a pretty girl but.
Her eyes were the first thing that got him.
He’d always believed eyes were the only part of a person incapable of lying. Smiles could be mimicked and voices could soften. Hands learned where to rest. But eyes always surrendered something, whether their owner meant them to or not. They were the closest thing people had to a window into the soul, it’s why he enjoyed wearing sunglasses so much.
Hers had always been impossibly easy to read. Open in a way that almost nobody was anymore. Honest. Curious. Entirely without calculation. It had been one of the first things he’s noticed about her, and one of the reasons he’d trusted her long before he’d understood why.
But this..
This was different.
Goodness.. she was pretty—beautiful even.
Her eyes seemed to draw him in, leaving him strangely defenseless. He couldn’t have looked away if he’d wanted to. They were hypnotic now, a kind of beauty that didn’t demand attention so much as command it. Like standing too close to the ocean, knowing full well the tide was pulling at your ankles and realizing too late, that you weren’t interested in resisting.
Michael found himself staring longer than he meant to, then unexpectedly, something sharp twisted beneath the admiration.
Because he knew other people would see them too. Her eyes.
They’d look into those same eyes and find exactly what he had always found there: sincerity so complete it bordered on vulnerable, a warmth that invited trust before a single word was spoken. The thought settled uncomfortably in his chest. He had spent nearly two years selfishly treasuring that openness, foolishly imagining it belonged to the private spaces they shared. Seeing it framed beneath studio lights made him realize it had never belonged to him.
Anyone willing to look closely would have access to the same unguarded soul he’d been lucky enough to know. The realization left him with the peculiar ache of jealousy, irrational as it was. The rest of the world was finally being allowed to see what he’d been quietly protecting in his heart all along.
Then her smile came in and that was worse.
When she smiled, her face softened. Her mouth curved easily, warm and unguarded. It caught him instantly, sitting heavy in his throat. A stupid and immediate response. He didn’t even realize he was smiling until it was already happening.
And the way she moved—
It was just.
The way she shifted her weight, the way her hips carried the rhythm. The camera lingers on a small strip of bare skin peeking above her low slung jeans. The lighting is soft with golden halos from stage lights that catch on her skin just right, a thin silver chain glints around her hipbone as she moves
Close up shots follow every sway and tilt—the way fabric stretches tight over curves when she pivots sharply, then how a breathy laugh parts her lips mid dance before she rolls back into rhythm. Every frame shows movement: one second showing only fingertips brushing that exposed waistline as choreography demands; next frame zooming out to capture full body.
Michael couldn’t stop watching, and beneath the admiration sat something quieter. The realization that this hadn’t happened overnight. This version of her had been forming little by little through weeks, through choices and experiences and conversations he hadn’t been there to witness. Somewhere between hotel rooms and sold out stadiums, she’d continued growing without him.
Someone behind him smiled toward the television.
“She’s got a hit on her hands.”
Another voice agreed.
The room moved on but Michael didn’t. He watched until the video ended, until another artist replaced her on the screen. Only then did he quietly leave the area, thinking about her.
Hours later back in his hotel, he reached for the telephone before he’d fully realized he’d made the decision. His fingers rested around the receiver for a moment. Then he dialed her number. Once. Twice. Three times. The line rang.
“Hello?”
He closed his eyes. It was strange how familiar her voice still sounded after all this time. “..Hi, Tink.”
There was beat of silence, then he heard her smile before she spoke. “Michael?”
“Yes, it’s Michael..” He smiled himself a bit.
She laughed softly, almost disbelieving. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten my number.” She teased.
“I could never, my girl.” Another small silence settled between them, awkward only because it had been so long since they’d heard each other’s voices that they seemed to be readjusting to the reality of them.
It was surprisingly easy.
Within minutes, the months between them began collapsing under the weight of ordinary conversation. They spoke about nothing at first. The tour. Her recording schedule. London weather. Los Angeles heat. It felt strangely miraculous how quickly they found the old rhythm again, as though it had simply been waiting patiently for both of them to return.
Then Michael said, almost casually, “I saw your new video today.”
The other end of the line went unexpectedly quiet. “..You did?”
“Mhm.”
“What’d you think..?”
He smiled to himself. “I loved it a lot.”
When she spoke again, her voice had changed ever so slightly. Smaller and shyer. “I’m glad..”
“I mean it.” He could almost picture her looking down at the floor, suddenly unsure what to do with the compliment.
“You seem different,” He said carefully.
She laughed once through her nose. “Different?”
“Yeah,” He searched for the right word. “Confident, happier..”
She didn’t answer immediately, thinking about how to respond. It’s been hard without his guidance. “I’m trying to be.”
Something about that stayed with him. He leaned back against the headboard, looking absently out toward the London skyline beyond the window. Then, gently he spoke.
“Are they taking good care of you out there?”
The question hung between them. It wasn’t about the video. She knew that. “I think so,” She answered after a moment. “Everybody’s been nice.”
Michael nodded even though she couldn’t see him. “Good.”
He realized that the faint ache he couldn’t quite place wasn’t the video that had made him call after all. It was wanting to hear, beneath all the music and interviews and heavily managed appearances, that she was still there.
Just as herself, as his Tinkerbell.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤ January 27, 1989.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤㅤ╰ㅤ Final Night, The Bad Tour - Los Angeles, California.
(Name)’s body gets ahead of her thoughts and at this point, refuses to wait for permission as she moves through people. She manages to cast a few polite but rushed smiles when she hears someone recognize her.
“Is that (Name)..?”
“Oh my god, I love her..”
Backstage is alive with the chao that usually comes after shows. People moving too fast, voices stacking over each other, the smell of sweat and heat and stage lights still clinging to everything. The energy manages to give her a second hand high as she’s walking through it. She doesn’t even fully register where she’s going, just that she’s checking faces as she passes them because she already knows the one she actually wants to see. But it feels like she’s already passed a thousand people, and she hasn’t found him yet. He couldn’t have left yet, she knows that much.
But then she sees him. And everything stops, she feels like she might just collapse because she feels weak in the knees.
He’s not even doing anything special, he’s just standing there in the middle of it all, still half caught in the post performance state where everything feels like an in between, where it feels like you’re coming down from a high. But it’s a high that only entertainers could get off on. His hair is damp with sweat, curls falling forward in soft and uneven pieces that stick slightly to his forehead and temples. A few strands are clinging near his cheekbone, darker from moisture and framing his face in a way that makes him look more masculine in nature. He takes a little sip of his orange juice, and she nearly giggles at him.
His skin still has that warm sheen from the lights, luminous under backstage fluorescents. There’s a faint flush at his cheeks, exhaustion sure, but there’s something alive in it like his body is still running a little faster than normal. His lips are slightly parted as he breathes, still regulating himself, still coming down from the energy of being in front of thousands of people. He looks.. he looks good.
Michael looks up, and sees her.
It hits him in a very visible shift, that small pause where recognition lands before anything else can follow. His expression changes subtly but immediately as soon as he drinks her in, and the entire room narrows down to just her and suddenly nothing else really matters anymore.
She doesn’t think before she’s moving to him. It’s fast and uncontained, the instinct inside her has been building pressure for too long and finally stops caring about control. The space between them disappears in seconds as she runs straight into him.
It isn’t graceful, it’s full on impact. Her body forgets how to be gentle about it. Her hands land on him first, gripping whatever she can reach, his jacket, his shirt, it doesn’t even matter. She needs something. Her mind hasn’t actually caught up to the fact that he’s here, in front of her. She can’t be sure if this isn’t some cruel dream she’s going to wake up from.
Michael catches her instantly with no hesitation at all.
His arms are around her in the same breath she hits him, pulling her in because that’s the most natural response in the world right now, there was never going to be any other outcome once she got close enough. One hand settles at the back of her neck, fingers spreading there and steadying her that same way he used to. Before work and fame so selfishly separated them sixteen months ago.
Up close, he still smells like the stage. Sweat, heat, fabric and his perfume warmed from movement. His shirt is slightly damp where she’s pressed into it, curls brushing lightly against her temple when she leans in. It’s still soft despite being flattened in places by sweat and movement.
She can feel him breathing, slightly uneven. His heart his pounding against his chest and she isn’t sure if it’s because he’s just gotten done working or if it’s because of her.
(Name) presses closer without thinking, her body trying to confirm he won’t disappear if she holds on hard enough and his hand at her neck tightens just slightly, anchoring her there without question.
And she doesn’t let go, not even a little.
“I missed you so much..”
“I missed you too..”
The cameras are waiting before the doors even open, a loose cluster gathered near the waiting vans, flashes already firing the second movement appears backstage. Security steps out first, then members of the crew, then managers talking over one another as they funnel everyone toward the vehicles.
The lens keeps searching.
Then it finds them.
They’re walking side by side through the middle of the entourage with their pinkies linked. He stays half a step behind, letting her weave through the narrow path security has made. Their fingers never separate. Every few feet someone calls his name, another voice shouts hers, cameras clicking relentlessly from behind the barricades.
When they reach the waiting van, Michael opens the sliding door himself and instinctively steps aside.
“You first.”
She ducks inside with a small smile, still holding his hand until the last possible second before climbing into the back seat. Only then does he let go, following her inside. The cameras don’t stop, the tinted windows are dark enough to hide most of the interior but the open doorway has already given them more than enough.
Michael drops back into the seat with the exhaustion of someone who’s just finished the final show of a world tour. His hair has mostly escaped the ponytail he’d started the night with, damp curls clinging to the back of his neck and temples. A faint line of eyeliner has smudged beneath both eyes, evidence of two hours beneath stage lights that had long since melted away any attempt at perfection.
He exhales through a tired little smile and reaches up automatically, trying to gather his hair back with one hand while fumbling for the elastic still hanging loosely around his wrist.
It catches almost immediately.
He makes a soft face of mild annoyance, trying again. The elastic twists into a knot somewhere in the curls near the nape of his neck.
She watches him for all of three seconds before smiling to herself. “Come here.”
Without a word, he turns slightly in his seat until his back is angled toward her, surrendering the problem without protest. Her fingers disappear gently into his hair.
“Hold still.” A quiet laugh slips out of her as she carefully works the tangled elastic free, taking her time so she doesn’t pull. Every now and then he winces ever so slightly when a curl catches, and she immediately softens her touch.
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
The camera keeps rolling through the open door, the others around unable to hear more than muffled fragments through the glass. By the time she slips the elastic free, a few loose curls have fallen into his face again.
“There.”
He reaches up, gathering his hair into another ponytail while she smooths one stubborn curl behind his ear absentmindedly .
He looks toward the open door toward the camera, his tired eyes meet the lens. A warm smile spreads across his face despite the exhaustion still written across it.
He lifts his fingers in the smallest wave. “Hiii.” It’s quiet and sweet, a greeting that feels less like an acknowledgment of fame and more like someone politely noticing another person in the room.
Beside him, she catches the expression before turning toward the windshield herself. So cute!
She can’t help smiling. After months on the road, after the final show and the noise and the exhaustion, he still somehow had enough gentleness left to greet strangers with the same sweetness he greeted everyone else.
A second later the door closes and driver eases the van into motion and the entourage follows behind.
The footage ends there.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤ March, 1989.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤㅤ╰ㅤ The Children’s Arts Benefit - Manhatten, New York City.
It’s a charity event. Cameras everywhere, flashes going off in little bursts that aren’t really capturing anything interesting, just people standing in groups chatting about anything from business to personal life.
(Name) sees him across the room and her heels click against the marble as she moves to him, steady in rhythm and cutting through the softer noise of the room. One hand gathers her dress slightly, keeping it lifted just enough to move properly through the crowd without it catching as she walks. She’s not really listening to anything people say to her as she passes, only offering small nods and polite smiles when needed.
And Michael sees her before she gets there.
He’s mid conversation, still doing the polite thing and engaging enough so that anyone watching would think he’s fully engaged. But admittedly, his attention shifts the second he spots her coming through the room. And he does something simple.
He reaches out. Not fully stopping what he’s doing nor turning his whole body away from the conversation, he simply extends a hand slightly in her direction because he’s already expected she’ll end up there. This is just how it goes. ESP or something?
(Name) takes it immediately when she reaches him, her hand slipping into his. She’s done it too many times for it to ever feel like a question at this point. His fingers close around hers and squeeze for a quick second in a silent acknowledgement before his hand naturally moves to the small of her back, still half listening to the person he was speaking to like nothing.
That’s the part that would look normal if you weren’t paying attention. But there’s a camera nearby, drifting through the room and catching moments without any real intent. It lands on them right as it happens.
At first, it just looks like a greeting. Two close friends acknowledging each other in a crowded event, nothing unusual.
But the footage holds them longer than that.
It catches her as she leans in to say something to him over the noise. Without thinking her free hand goes up, brushing lightly against his arm and to his collar as she talks, just a small little touch. But she doesn’t fully settle until she’s physically anchored for a moment, her hand resting on the nape of his neck.
He tilts his head down to hear her better, still half in the conversation he was already in, but not really leaving her side either. His hand at her back doesn’t move, and then his expression changes slightly. A small smile caught on camera because of something that sat exactly right in his ear. A joke maybe?
She sees it and laughs a little, quick and soft, still standing close instead of stepping away like most people would after interrupting a conversation. They had the tendency to get caught up in their own world when they were together.
The camera keeps rolling, lingering on them.
The hand still there at her back is rubbing now, and they don’t fully separate even while he turns his attention back to the conversation beside him. (Name) finally walks away
And from the outside, it looks a bit intimate.
All hugged up on each other like that looks too comfortable to be accidental and too natural to question.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ ㅤㅤOctober, 1989.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤㅤ╰ㅤ Media Speculating.
By this point in his career, Michael has stopped functioning in the public eye as a person who is simply “famous.” Fame is too small a word for what he has become. He exists instead as a cultural constant—something closer to an event than an individual. Even people who have never seen him in person still recognize his presence through media alone. He's become a shared reference point across the globe.
Her fame doesn’t build in the same explosive, global rupture that defines his. It arrived gradually at first, through structure—an album cycle, organized, styled, and deliberately positioned to place her at the center of pop culture without ambiguity. But what happens after her latest release is what changes her entirely.
The record doesn’t just perform well. It defines her. It gives the public a version of her that feels fully formed, not developing. There is no “breakthrough artist” period that lingers in perception for long. Instead, there is a quick shift in language: she is no longer introduced as emerging but established. No longer “upcoming,” but “leading.”
And then the media assigns her a title.
“Princess of pop” becomes shorthand because it simplifies what people think they are seeing. Her image is polished enough to feel the intention and she's likable. Sweet, funny, humble, which makes her highly legible to the public in a way that spreads quickly across magazines, television segments, and early entertainment coverage culture. The public does not just consume her music; it feeds off her presence as well.
So, no one can quite agree on when it started. Hell, Michael and (Name) are still dancing around it themselves.
The first few times, it’s easy to dismiss. They’re musicians. Award shows are small worlds dressed up as enormous ones, the same artists orbiting the same ceremonies, after parties, and backstage hallways until everyone’s paths blur together. A photograph of them talking after an awards show earns a few inches in the entertainment pages before disappearing beneath the next week’s headlines. Then it happens again. Another ceremony. Another charity gala. Another industry party where someone swears they arrived separately but somehow spend most of the evening within sight of one another. Cameras keep finding them laughing during commercial breaks, leaning close enough to hear each other over the music, slipping into conversations that seem to shut the rest of the room out without either of them realizing it.
At first, reporters treat it like harmless fun. Two of the biggest young stars in music spending time together is easy copy, and the headlines stay playful.
“Music’s golden pair?”
“Just friends, or music’s newest power duo?”
“The King and Princess of Pop share another memorable evening.”
Neither of them acknowledges any of it. There’s nothing to deny and nothing to confirm. Their publicists call them friends, stating that they’ve always shared a close relationship before (Name) even blew up. A mentor and mentee type of relationship. Their managers smile politely through interviews, explaining that successful artists naturally cross paths. For a little while, people accept that answer. The stories begin growing longer than the events they’re supposedly covering, with journalists comparing guest lists before premieres have even happened, noticing that if one of them is expected somewhere, the other usually isn’t far behind.
Then the photographs change.
They stop coming from red carpets and heavily staged press lines. Someone catches them leaving the same recording studio long after midnight, her laughing at something he’s said while he holds the door open behind her. A week later another photographer spots them slipping through a hotel’s side entrance after an industry dinner, heads lowered more out of habit than secrecy. Neither notices the cameras until a flash suddenly lights the sidewalk. The pictures run everywhere the next morning, and nothing scandalous happened. It was just based off the simple fact that they’re together. Comfortable. As though neither of them considers sharing the same space remarkable enough to.. hide. That’s the thing, it didn’t seem like they were attempting to hide anything which made the story more interesting as it progressed.
Then comes the photograph everyone remembers.
It appears on the cover of three magazines before the week is over. (Name) steps out of his private residence just after sunrise wearing a wool coat hastily thrown over last night’s clothes, her hair only half pinned back with sunglasses pushed onto the top of her head despite the overcast morning. She looks like a time was had, no shade. Five seconds later, Michael follows, fastening the cuff of his shirt as he steps through the doorway, pausing only long enough to hold the door open before letting it swing shut behind him. There isn’t any visible attempt to create distance between them.
The captions practically write themselves.
“Breakfast together?”
“Early morning depature raises questions.”
“Friends don't usually leave the same house at dawn.”
Again, neither of them responds.
Their silence becomes part of the story.
A few weeks later a video replaces the photo. This one is grainy, taken beneath streetlights outside a restaurant after what had supposedly been a private dinner with friends. They’re stepping off the curb when someone suddenly shouts their names. Without thinking, she reaches toward him and his hand finds hers. The photographer catches the exact second their fingers intertwine. It isn’t posed or even particularly romantic. It’s the instinct. The unconscious movement of two people who have long since stopped wondering whether reaching for each other is appropriate. By the time either of them realizes cameras are there, the moment has already happened.
The video spreads faster than any interview ever could.
Television hosts spend entire segments analyzing it frame by frame. Magazine covers become bolder.
“Hollywood’s worst-kept secret?”
“More than friends?”
“Inside music's most talked-about relationship.”
Soon, columnists begin noticing details no one had paid attention to before. The way she instinctively looks toward him before answering questions on shared red carpets. The way he visibly relaxes whenever she walks into a crowded room. The fact that they no longer bother introducing one another because everyone around them already assumes they’ll arrive together. It becomes impossible to mention one without acknowledging the other, their names slowly merging into a single narrative that neither of them ever agreed to create.
The speculation eventually takes on a life of its own. They become fixtures in gossip columns because they keep appearing in spaces between public obligations. Leaving bookstores. Walking through airports without entourages separating them. Slipping into restaurants through side entrances. Visiting recording studios on days neither has publicly scheduled sessions. Always ordinary places. Always ordinary moments. Ironically, it’s the ordinariness that convinces people. If it were publicity, surely, they’d choose grander stages. Instead, every photograph feels stolen from a real life the public wasn't meant to witness.
The press develops its own language around them.
“Close friends.”
“Constant companions.”
“Frequent collaborators.”
“Reportedly inseparable.”
“Spotted together once again.”
Every headline performs uncertainty while quietly arriving at the same conclusion that there’s an elephant in the room. Award shows become dinners. Dinners become weekends. Weekends become early mornings leaving the same address. The explanations grow thinner while the photographs grow more intimate, yet neither of them offers the world anything concrete. No announcement. No exclusive interview. No carefully crafted statement. But no denial, either.
They simply continue living their lives, refusing to reshape something deeply personal into a story the public can neatly consume. Eventually people stop asking whether they're together and begin asking why they just won’t admit it. The truth, of course, is that whatever exists between them has never belonged to the headlines. The magazines can stitch together timelines from grainy photographs and whispered sightings, but the life they’re trying to explain is unfolding somewhere the cameras never quite reach, in the ordinary hours between performances, where love quietly becomes routine long before the world ever manages to give it a name.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ ㅤㅤNovember, 1989.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤㅤ╰ㅤ BET Soul Music Awards - Los Angeles, California.
The BET Soul Music Awards had become one of the biggest nights of the year, but this one felt different before it had even begun.
For weeks it had dominated every entertainment headline. Television hosts spent entire segments speculating about surprise performances, fashion magazines ran prediction pieces on who would wear what, and columnists had somehow managed to turn the seating chart into front page news. The biggest names in music had all arrived beneath the same roof, filling the theater with enough talent, influence, and ego to power an entire city. Diamonds flashed beneath the chandeliers. Satin caught the light every time someone crossed the aisle. Velvet tuxedos, shimmering gowns, polished shoes, expensive perfume, camera flashes. Everywhere she looked was another familiar face, another legend she’d grown up watching, another artist she’d once only dreamed of meeting.
And somehow..
She was the one standing at the center of all of it.
Hosting.
At twenty-three years old, the woman who was declared by the public as the Princess of Pop.
The title still caught her off guard whenever someone else said it aloud. She’d never introduced herself that way and she never would. Yet tonight it seemed impossible to escape. It was printed across rehearsal schedules and cue cards, spoken proudly by producers introducing her to executives she’d already met three times that afternoon, repeated by reporters camped outside on the carpet as though saying it enough would somehow make it feel less surreal.
“Our host for the evening...”
“One of music’s brightest stars...”
“The Princess of Pop herself...”
Every introduction was met with another smile from her, gracious and practiced, even as a small part of her still wanted to turn around to see if they were talking about someone else.
Backstage was its own world entirely.
The polished glamour visible to millions at home dissolved into organized chaos the second someone stepped behind the curtain. Production assistants darted through narrow hallways carrying clipboards thick with revised schedules. Stage managers spoke rapid fire into headsets, pointing toward lighting rigs and camera operators without ever slowing their pace. Stylists hurried after artists armed with garment steamers, lint rollers, powder brushes, safety pins, and enough hairspray to survive a hurricane. Someone sprinted past carrying an entire rack of wardrobe changes. Somewhere farther down the corridor, someone was arguing over a missing microphone.
She barely had time to stand still.
A stylist appeared to smooth the fabric over her hips before disappearing just as quickly. Another adjusted the clasp of a diamond bracelet she’d somehow managed to twist backwards. Someone gently tucked a loose curl back into place before another production assistant slid fresh cue cards into her hands, apologizing because one category had been reordered less than sixty seconds ago.
Everything moved with the frantic precision of people who’d done this a hundred times before.
She inhaled carefully, then exhaled. Ignored the way her pulse refused to settle and then someone counted her down. They were back from commercial break.
Five.
The conversations around her immediately faded beneath the growing roar of the audience on the other side of the curtain.
Four.
The house lights dimmed until only thin strips of blue glowed backstage.
Three.
She rolled her shoulders once, flexing her fingers around the cue cards as the opening music swelled through the auditorium.
Two.
The stage manager pointed toward the entrance.
One.
The curtain lifted and the sound hit her before the light did.
The applause, cheers and screams rolled across the theater like a wave breaking against stone, thousands of people rising to their feet almost instantly. It was loud enough that she felt it vibrate through the floor beneath her heels. Cameras swung toward her from every angle, red recording lights blinking on one after another as she stepped into the spotlight wearing the kind of smile that almost convinced even herself she wasn’t nervous.
Her heart hammered against her ribs anyway.
(Name) welcomed everyone with effortless warmth, delivering the opening monologue exactly as rehearsed, though somehow better than rehearsal ever managed. Every joke landed cleaner once there was a real audience in front of her. Laughter rolled through the theater in waves, interrupted by applause so often she had to pause and let people finish before continuing. She improvised once when a teleprompter skipped a line, earning an even bigger laugh than the scripted joke had been meant to receive.
By the second hour she’d stopped thinking about where the cameras were.
She moved across the stage without thinking about tripping, transitioning seamlessly between presenters, teasing performers with affectionate humor, exchanging quick conversations with artists seated near the front rows that had the audience laughing as though everyone inside the building were old friends. Even backstage, producers were beginning to relax. She could hear snippets of relieved conversations every time she stepped behind the curtain between segments.
“She’s killing it.”
“Best decision we made.”
“She's carrying the whole show.”
Every time the camera found her, she seemed brighter. More comfortable. More confident. The audience adored her, and she returned every ounce of that energy effortlessly, making one of the biggest nights in music somehow feel intimate despite the thousands of people packed into the theater. It was getting closer to towards the end of the show, she had one last award to present.
She glanced down at the next cue card and smile on her face shifted almost imperceptibly. Not smaller, just softer.
Best Male R&B/Pop Artist.
Her french tip adorned fingers tightened slightly around the card.
Michael.
She swallowed before she could think too much about it.
Artists presented awards to other artists all the time. There was nothing unusual about that. It happened every awards season.
But nothing involving the two of them had felt ordinary in months.
Entertainment magazines had practically built an industry around trying to define whatever existed between them. Every charity gala became another cover story. Every award show became another excuse to analyze who looked at whom first. Every blurry photograph of them leaving the same venue within minutes of each other somehow turned into three weeks of speculation.
“Friends?”
“More than friends?”
“Hollywood's biggest couple?”
The headlines changed but the question never did.
(Name) drew one slow, careful breath, lifting her eyes back toward the camera as though there weren’t thousands of people watching and millions more at home. Her smile returned with a sweet ease.
“..And the Soul Music Award goes to..”
She slipped one finger beneath the envelope’s seal; the paper gave way with a quiet tear and the card was unfolded.
The moment she read the name, a grin escaped before professionalism could catch it.
“Michael Jackson.”
The reaction was instantaneous.
The theater exploded.
Applause thundered through the auditorium so loudly it nearly drowned out the orchestra beginning his walk up music. People were already pushing themselves to their feet before the cameras even found him, cheers echoing from every balcony as the entire room seemed to brighten with anticipation. It wasn’t simply applause for another winner.
It was for him.
She turned toward the aisle, the applause still surging through the theater in thick waves that didn’t seem interested in fading anytime soon. The entire room was on its feet, a standing ovation that felt physical force pressing through the air. Cameras tracked the movement instantly, lenses shifting in perfect sync as Michael stood from his seat.
He rose slowly, even with stadiums and decades of history behind him, there was still a flicker of shyness in the way he adjusted his jacket, a subtle dip of his head that softened the image of him. The smile that formed on his face arrived gently and then stayed, warm and unguarded, only growing the second his eyes found hers.
He began walking toward the stage and the crowd only got louder for him, but his attention didn’t shift. Not even once. He moved with his gentle rhythm and then just before he reached the steps, he caught his bottom lip lightly between his teeth, a nervous little habit that always betrayed him. It’s by far the most attractive tick anyone has seen. When he looked up again, his gaze was straight on her as she stood there standing so pretty in her hair, makeup and dress holding his award.
She felt it immediately. That pull in her expression she didn’t have to think about. The smile came before she could stop it, softer than anything she had given the cameras all night, and suddenly she wasn’t hosting anymore, not in any way that mattered.
He climbed the steps and reached her, stopping close enough that the air between them felt charged and uncomfortably aware. The audience was still roaring, but it was fading into something distant. They looked at each other for a moment that stretched just a fraction too long to be stage timing. They’re both blushing, terribly.
She lifted the trophy between them, hands steady in the way she had trained them to be, even though nothing else about her felt steady at all.
“Congratulations.” She smiles shyly.
His gaze softened as it dropped briefly to the award, then returned to her face. “Thank you.”
Their fingers met as he took it, and for a second neither of them let go properly. An unintentional pause where contact lingered longer than necessary and neither of them had decided who was supposed to move first.
Then he did.
Not backward.
Not toward the microphone.
Toward her.
It was small at first, just the shift of his shoulders and the way the trophy lowered slightly between them, but his eyes stayed locked on hers the entire time and whatever instinct normally governed distance simply didn’t show up to do its job.
She realized what was happening a second too late to stop it from mattering.
He leaned in.
Slow enough that it couldn’t be mistaken for anything else, intentional enough that her mind had time to register every stage of it before it actually happened. The space between them narrowed until there was almost none left, and her breath caught somewhere useless in her chest.
For a brief, suspended moment, he stopped just short, so close that she could feel the warmth of him and that the entire stadium might as well have disappeared if it weren’t for the fact that it absolutely hadn’t.
Then he closed the distance.
The kiss was gentle, certain, and startlingly soft as their lips moved against one another in a slow, intimate movement. She froze for the smallest fraction of a second out of sheer disbelief, and then instinct caught up, and she leaned into it before thought could interfere any further. Her hand covered their mouths from the camera as he smiled into the kiss.
Everything outside them dropped away completely. The audience, the lights, the cameras, all of it vanished into something irrelevant and far away. There was only the feeling of it, brief and unreal in the way moments like that tend to be when they shouldn’t be happening at all, especially not here, especially not like this.
Then it ended almost as soon as it fully registered, the two of them separating with the same stunned awareness, like neither of them had fully decided how they had gotten there or how they were supposed to return to reality afterward.
The theater was nuts.
The sound hit like a physical shockwave, screams and applause colliding into something deafening enough to shake the space itself. People were on their feet instantly, cameras flashing so rapidly the stage flickered in bursts of white light. It felt less like applause and more like chaos given permission to exist.
(Name) stared at him for a second too long, completely unfiltered, eyes wide with disbelief as the reality of what he had just done caught up with her all at once.
Then she laughed to herself, just pure shock breaking through and she lifted her hand and smacked his chest lightly, more out of instinct than anger.
“You—“ The word fell apart into laughter before she could finish it. Her cheeks were already burning, and she looked genuinely overwhelmed the way people only do when something insane happens in front of them and they’re expected to continue functioning anyway.
He immediately dropped his gaze for half a second, laughing under his breath, clearly just as thrown by his own decision as everyone else in the building.
The applause refused to settle. Even as he raised the award slightly and leaned toward the mic, “Thank you,” he said quietly, sheepish and grinning at the same time.
She shook her head, smiling too hard to pretend she was anything close to composed, and stepped back just enough to give him space. He took a breath, still grinning himself, then glanced down at the trophy for a second before speaking.
“I.. I wanna thank the creator above,” He began softly, and the room finally started to quiet in response, the energy shifting from chaos into attention. “My family.. everyone who believed in me, who continues to believe in me and everyone who’s supported me over the years.”
He paused, thumb brushing lightly over the edge of the award as if grounding himself, then looked up again. Straight at her.
(Name) was still standing just off to the side of the stage, trying very hard to look like she wasn’t still recovering from what had just happened. His smile returned, smaller now, more personal.
“And.. I’d like to thank the lady in my life.” A ripple of laughter moved through the audience instantly, followed by cheers that started building again like they were just waiting for permission.
“You all might know her.” That earned louder reactions, people already laughing as if the answer wasn’t obvious enough. “She’s been doing a wonderful job hosting tonight. Don’t you think?” His question is followed by cheers of agreement. Oh, she was going to kill him.
“You know, when she told me that BET had contacted her for the role, she said she was honored to even be considered but she was afraid that she was going to trip and fall.” He said, earning more laughs and endeared awes.
“She’s very special to me, and she takes good care of me.” He looks over at her and eyes never left hers, even as the noise swelled again around him. “And I can’t see myself without her.” He held the look for a beat longer than necessary, like he wasn’t speaking to the room anymore at all.
Then he softened into a final smile before raising the trophy to the lights and audience. “Thank you.”
The applause came crashing back harder than before, the kind that didn’t just fill space but swallowed it completely, while she stood there shaking her head like she still couldn’t decide whether to laugh or disappear.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤ 1990.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤㅤ╰ㅤ Neverland Ranch, Los Olivos, California.
By 1990, they’d been boyfriend and girlfriend for a good bit of time. This year was a year of firsts for them, the start of a new and exciting relationship that that been growing from a seed that mad been planted nearly four years ago.
There wasn’t a formal conversation where they decided to spend every spare moment together. It just happened. She found herself leaving more clothes at Neverland because it became easier than packing another overnight bag. Her favorite skincare and hygiene products appeared in his master bathroom right beside his own. A drawer became her own walk-in closet. Her books started collecting on the bedside table, her records found their way onto shelves that hadn’t belonged to her a few months earlier, and somehow half the flowers in the gardens had been planted because she’d once mentioned liking them in passing. She still technically had her own place, but she spent so many nights at Neverland that the staff had stopped asking whether she’d be staying for dinner.
One evening, while they wandered through the house discussing furniture he absolutely didn’t need, Michael glanced at her almost absentmindedly.
“You know…” he said, slipping his hands into his pockets. “I think you should spend more time here.”
(Name) smiled without looking up from the lamp she’d been pretending to consider. “I practically live here already, silly.”
“I know.”
She laughed softly. “So what are you talking about?”
He looked at her then, wearing that shy and gentle smile that always seemed to appear whenever he was about to admit something. “I mean..” He shrugged one shoulder, suddenly fascinated by the hardwood floor. “..Move in.”
She blinked. “..What?”
He finally looked back up, the corners of his mouth lifting just enough to betray the fact that he’d been rehearsing those two words in his head for days. “Move in., with me. Your boyfriend.”
For a long moment, she simply stared at him. The thought had never occurred to her that he could ask so simply, as though sharing a home with her was the most obvious thing in the world.
A smile slowly found its way onto her face. “I think,” She murmured, taking the last few steps until she was standing directly in front of him, “I’d like that very much, boyfriend.”
Michael’s shoulders visibly relaxed, the quiet relief written all over his face before he leaned down to steal a quick kiss.
Things were good that year.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤ January, 1991.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤㅤ╰ㅤ ‘92 Grammys - Los Angeles, California.
“Michael, (Name). You’re both queued next.”
The event manager’s voice drifted in through the open limousine door, nearly drowned out by the wall of sound waiting outside. Camera flashes poured through the opening in uneven bursts, briefly illuminating the dark interior before fading again. Beyond the barricades, photographers were already calling their names, their voices overlapping into an indistinct chorus that rose and fell with each arriving guest.
She blinked.
The ring.
She’d been staring at it again.
Her hand rested in her lap, fingers lightly curled, the diamond catching every stray flash that reached inside the car. It scattered little pieces of light across the satin of her gown, dazzling one second and soft the next. She turned her wrist almost absentmindedly, watching it shimmer. It was beautiful, and expensive. She knows that much. Everything beyond that point dissolved into the background.
She still couldn’t quite believe it belonged there. On her finger.
She was someone’s fiancé? What in the world? She remembers being only twenty years old trying to break into this industry. Love was the last thing on her mind.
The proposal returned to her in fragments. Michael’s hands trembling so badly he nearly dropped the ring before he’d even asked. The way he’d stumbled over words he’d clearly spent days rehearsing until they both fell into nervous laughter. The tears she’d never managed to stop before she’d interrupted him with an answer he hadn’t even finished asking for. In retrospect, she probably should have suspected something was up when he brought out the entire Disney park for the day, even more so when her friends acted like it was so urgent to get their nails done the day before.
Sometimes she looked at the ring and remembered that night.
The soft click of the limousine door opening wider pulled her back.
Michael was already moving as he stepped out first, greeted immediately by another explosion of camera flashes and cheers from behind the barricades. For a moment, all she could see was his pretty silhouette against the sea of white light as he straightened his jacket beneath the photographers’ relentless attention.
Then he turned.
Without hesitation, he reached one hand back into the limousine.
Waiting.
She smiled to herself and her hand slipped into his.
The diamond caught the light the instant their fingers met, sparkling brilliantly beneath the flashes as he helped her toward the door with the same sweet care he’d always shown her when no one was looking. Only this time, everyone was looking.
She stepped carefully onto the pavement, her gown falling neatly into place as she straightened beside him. Their hands remained linked between them, the ring resting perfectly where the cameras couldn’t help but find it. Flash after flash reflected across the stone until it glittered almost as brightly as the lights pointed at them.
She looked around for a second then back up at him but he was already watching her. Not the photographers or the crowd.
Her.
That impossibly gentle smile spread across his face, softening everything about him. It was the same smile she’d seen across breakfast tables, in empty hotel hallways after concerts, during quiet evenings when the rest of the world had finally disappeared.
Without thinking, she smiled back and he leaned toward her just slightly, enough to silently ask for a kiss.
(Name) closed the remaining distance herself, brushing a quick, tender kiss against his lips. When they separated, he was still smiling, his forehead almost touching hers for the briefest second before he let out a quiet, breathy laugh that only she could hear beneath the chaos surrounding them.
His thumb brushed once across the back of her hand, and she gave his fingers the smallest squeeze in return before they turned toward the waiting carpet together.
The photographers erupted all over again, calling their names from every direction as flashes exploded like fireworks around them. Tomorrow’s headlines would talk about the kiss, the ring, the glamour, the fashion, every polished detail the cameras had managed to capture.
Neither of them seemed particularly concerned with any of it.
They simply smiled at one another one last time before facing forward, their joined hands swinging naturally between them as they took their first steps onto the red carpet.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤMay, 1991.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤㅤ╰ㅤ A private estate - Temecula Valley, California.⠀ ⠀ ⠀
It was strange how quickly a wedding day disappeared.
They had spent months planning it, changing little details, choosing flowers, tasting cakes, arguing over songs, finalizing seating charts. Then the day arrived, and suddenly.. it was evening. A bittersweet feeling, really.
The ceremony had passed in a blur of music, sunlight, trembling hands, and promises neither of them had struggled to make. (Name) remembered seeing him at the end of the aisle, looking happier than she’d ever seen him—crying when he saw her. In that moment she remembered thinking, “you are the love of my life.” Everything after that had unfolded was exactly as it was meant to. A perfect day.
Now they were husband and wife. Mr. and Mrs. Jackson has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?
The ceremony had been held on the grounds of a sprawling private estate tucked far enough away from the nearest road that the world might as well not have existed beyond its gates. White roses lined the aisle beneath towering oak trees, their branches stretching overhead as though they had grown there specifically to shelter the occasion. Hundreds of candles waited to be lit for the evening reception, and every path through the gardens had been woven with flowers that looked as though they’d bloomed there naturally.
It had been a large wedding by any measure. Family, lifelong friends, musicians, actors, producers, dancers, people who had watched them grow from children into artists, and others who had become part of the life they’d built together. Nearly every seat had been filled, yet somehow it had never felt crowded. The guest list had been expansive without becoming impersonal, each invitation sent to someone who mattered for reasons beyond status or headlines.
The press, for once, had been left outside.
Security had begun preparing weeks in advance, making sure every entrance to the estate remained private, every road carefully monitored, every helicopter route restricted as much as legally possible. The tabloids had guessed at locations, published fabricated schedules, and parked photographers miles away on the chance they might catch a glimpse of something through the trees.
They hadn’t.
The only cameras inside belonged to people Michael and she had chosen themselves. A handful of trusted professional photographers moved through the celebration, documenting the day without interrupting it, capturing laughter instead of spectacle and stolen glances instead of performances. They weren’t there to chase a headline. They were there to preserve memories. Every photograph would remain theirs before it belonged to anyone else.
And for the first time in years, they had been allowed something astonishingly rare. Privacy.
Not complete anonymity—that would never truly exist for either of them. But peace was achievable.
The vows had been spoken without the click of paparazzi shutters competing against every word. They had slipped rings onto one another’s fingers beneath birdsong instead of shouted questions from behind barricades. When the officiant had finally pronounced them husband and wife, the applause had come only from the people who loved them both, echoing warmly through the gardens before disappearing into the afternoon air.
It had been everything they’d hoped for.
Nothing extravagant for extravagance’s sake, despite how magnificent it all appeared. Every flower, every song, every place setting, every handwritten menu, every candle burning across the reception had been chosen because it meant something to one of them. The elegance wasn’t there to impress anyone. It simply reflected the life they had spent years building together, thoughtful in every detail and beautiful.
As daylight faded into evening, the celebration moved beneath a canopy of lights strung through the trees, casting a warm golden glow over the reception. Music drifted across the gardens while conversations blended into soft laughter, crystal glasses caught the candlelight with every toast, and somewhere beyond the estate walls the rest of the world continued searching for a wedding it would never witness.
Inside, hidden from every telephoto lens and gossip column, they were exactly where they wanted to be. Together and finally, husband and wife.
That same night of course they consummated their marriage.
Her hair is soft, slightly messy from the humidity of the suite as her veil fanned out beneath her like a halo against white silk pillowcases. They were tangled in missionary position: Michael braced above her on his forearms, moving with slow but deep thrusts that made every slide inside her feel endless. She held him close; one hand cradling the back of his neck while fingers threaded through sweat damp strands at his temples.
The wedding dress was long gone—discarded somewhere near their feet—but she still wore that delicate garter belt under sheer stockings, and it drove him wild knowing she’d kept something bridal on for this exact moment. Her heat clenched around him like a vise; the drag of his cock against slick walls made every withdrawal feel like torture before plunging back in even deeper than before.
He slowed, stopped entirely before he pressed their foreheads together instead as they caught breathless air between kisses. The space where their bodies joined glistened—an obscene, beautiful mess of frothy white clinging to the base of his cock like liquid pearls. Precum mixed with her arousal; a thin ring that stretched and snapped every time he pulled back just slightly before surging forward again in those slow, deep rolls. And each time he pushed deeper, that slick little ring got thicker. More abundant.
Then losing himself all over again when she arched up for another kiss mid thrust.
“Lovey—I wanna be a daddy..” A pause where he just stared into her eyes, pupils blown with pleasure as he whispered: “Can I give you my baby? Please?” A kiss. “Please, please, let me—lemme make you a mommy, give you a beautiful baby..” He’s babbling at this point, and she watches him above her with a dazed smile hidden behind a bitten bottom lip. She nods at him, lip popping back into place.
“Fill me up, Michael..” She whispered—soft but insistent, her fingers threading through his sweat damp hair as she coaxed him down against her chest. Her heartbeat pounded beneath his ear; a frantic drum of sound matching the stuttering rhythm of his hips now. Each thrust turned sharper, needier—chasing something neither could name anymore beyond more. She came rather suddenly, her body wasn’t cooperating with her plans of wanting to finish together but he just felt so good.
Then she felt it. A gush so sudden and deep inside that it punched a gasp from her throat—wonder.
“That’s it.. give me your baby,” She breathed out raggedly while cradling him closer like he might vanish if she let go even an inch. Her hands stroked over trembling muscles on back as aftershocks wracked through his body.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤ August 1992.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤㅤ╰ㅤ Neverland Ranch, Los Olivos, California.
A lamp in the corner cast a warm honeyed glow across the living room, softening everything it seemed to touch. It was around 11 PM when she moved through the space, slowly and graciously as she picked up the mess from the day and straightened out things like pillows and throw blankets for the couch all barefoot on the polished floor. Her movement that had become second nature without her even noticing. She had long since had her baby, but her sense of urgency remained the same. There was a gentleness to everything she did now, motherhood had recalibrated her brain around something so small and precious that existed just a few feet away. She paused near the baby holder, lowering her gaze.
Aladdin was asleep inside it bundled neatly, his tiny face relaxed and completely unguarded the way babies only ever managed when they were fully gone into sleep. One hand had slipped free of the blanket and rested near his cheek. The sight made something in her expression soften even further. She reached down carefully, adjusting the edge of the blanket without disturbing him. Her fingers lingered for a second before she straightened again, exhaling quietly.
The estate still felt like Michael, even when he wasn’t there yet. That was the thing she hadn’t gotten used to and she doesn’t think she ever will, the way his absence didn’t feel empty so much as.. incomplete. He’s been coming home late these past few days, recording for a new album.
The front door clicked open and there was a pause, followed by the sound of him stepping inside and the faint shift of movement as he closed the door behind him. Then his voice, already softer than it probably needed to be, careful in the way it always was when he came home late and knew she’d notice.
“Tink? You were supposed to be in bed by now..” He set something down just out of sight before she finally looked at him.
“You’re late..” Her tone carried enough disappointment to make the point without raising her voice, not that she ever felt the need to even raise her voice at him.
Michael stepped further into the room, loosening his jacket as he looked at her. His expression shifted immediately, whatever exhaustion he had softened the second he saw her standing there in the cozy light, hair loose and her face calm but tired the usual way it was after she had a long day with the baby. His beautiful wife.
“I know, pretty mama. I’m sorry.” He crossed the space between them without hesitation and leaned in to press a gentle kiss against her cheek. “Forgive me.”
She tried to hold the expression for another second, the small pout still lingering like she wanted to stay mildly annoyed long enough for it to count but it didn’t last. Her shoulders relaxed, and she gave him a look that was half warning and half surrender before she leaned in and kissed him properly, soft and brief as her hand rested lightly against his chest.
When she pulled back, her gaze flicked past him for a second toward the baby holder, instinctively checking again.
Michael followed her eyes, then back to her, the smallest smile forming as if he already understood everything she wasn’t saying out loud.
He lowered his voice without thinking. “How’s he been?”
She lingered near Michael without moving away from him properly, the space between them had become something her body naturally refused to widen. Her fingers reached up first, adjusting his collar with an absent tenderness, smoothing the fabric where it sat slightly uneven against his neck. Her hand lingered there before sliding down over his chest in a slow, grounding motion.
“Good, but we missed you today..” Her voice came out soft, already slipping into that tired half sleepy tone that followed long days and late nights. There wasn’t accusation in it, just honesty that came from someone who had spent the day stretching herself between routines and small responsibilities and the demand of caring for a newborn.
Michael looked at her warm and apologetic as he leaned closer, the sound of her voice alone gave him a tingly feeling. His hand came up lightly, resting at her waist anchoring himself there. She had him wrapped around her finger, he hoped she knew.
“I missed you too—you both.”
She let out a small breath that almost turned into a sigh, her hand still resting against his chest for a moment before she finally let it fall, only to look up at him properly.
“Where were you today?” Tired curiosity.
For a brief second, something flickered across his expression. Not guilt exactly.. or anything that could be named easily for that matter. It was more like calculation, as if he was deciding how much of the day belonged in this conversation and how much should stay outside it. He shifted slightly, loosening his shoulders trying to make the answer sound simpler than it was.
“Just meetings. A few things came up—met a couple friends.”
It was vague enough that it didn’t invite more questions unless someone was looking for them. But she honestly wasn’t.
(Name) nodded a little, accepting it the way people accept small absences they assume will make sense later, then let her attention drift back to him instead of the explanation. Whatever part of her had briefly reached for curiosity dissolved quickly under the familiar pull of him being close again.
Michael exhaled quietly, tension easing from his posture as he stepped closer, his hand sliding up from her waist to her back. The conversation stopped being about answers and became softer and more physical. Something she desperately needed after the day she had.
“You look tired,” He murmured, brushing his thumb gently along her side as if checking for it himself.
“I am, baby..” She admitted quietly.
He smiled faintly at that, then he leaned in and kissed her forehead first, before letting his hand slide up to cradle the side of her face.
Her eyes softened almost immediately and whatever trace of curiosity she had, let go without resistance. She leaned into him slightly, her earlier concern dissolving into clinginess, folding back into his touch.
Behind them, the baby slept on, untouched by anything beyond his own small world of warmth and baby breath.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤ September, 1992.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤㅤ╰ㅤ Neverland Ranch, Los Olivos, California.
Today had been a fun day for their little family! A cute day out that started with a shopping spree and ended with a nice dinner at their favorite restaurant. But all good things must come to an end.
The bathroom was quiet the way it usually was after a certain time. One of the vanity lights had been left on because she always forgets to do something before she leaves the house. The light reflected softly against the marble countertop and beyond the cracked door, the rest of the house had gone almost completely silent.
She stood at the sink, humming a little melody as she searched through the medicine cabinet for a small bottle of ibuprofen. Her shoulders ached from carrying the baby for most of the afternoon, and she promised herself she would take something before bed.
Michael was only a few feet away, standing in front of the mirror with his sleeves rolled to his forearms, carefully unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt after the long day. She moved a few things aside before her fingers settled around an orange prescription bottle.
Then another.
She frowned slightly and tilted her head. The first one was nearly empty and she picked up the second without thinking, turning it over to read the label.
Her eyes lingered on it for a second. “..Baby?”
Michael looked up from the mirror. “Hm?”
She glanced between the two bottles in her hands. “I thought you just refilled this prescription...” Her voice was gentle, more puzzled than anything else.
She held up the second bottle a little. “..You have another?” The room seemed to pause, and it was so brief she almost convinced herself she’d imagined it.
Michael’s eyes settled on the bottles before returning to her, his expression remaining calm, though something behind it had tightened ever so slightly. “My doctor wanted me to have another one.”
His answer came easily enough. “You know, just in case.”
She looked back down at the label, her thumb brushing across the plastic cap. “Oh.”
A small silence settled between them. “..Have you had them look at it recently?” She looked up again, concern softening her features. “The burns, I mean. Because baby, you shouldn’t be dealing with this kind of pain..”
He gave the smallest shrug, eyes drifting toward the sink instead of meeting hers immediately. “Yes, of course. But they give me the same answers every time.” There wasn’t any bitterness in his voice, just genuine fatigue.
She nodded slowly and accepted the answer without another thought.
She’d seen the scars; it was the very first thing he showed her before they got really serious about one another. She knew how severe the accident had been. Of course, there were days it still hurt but she just hates the idea that he suffers through this. For God’s sake it happened in ’84, it’s currently ’92 now.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “Ignore me.”
He looked back at her then, offering a faint smile that was warm enough to ease the concern from her face. "It's okay."
She smiled back and without another word, she placed the second prescription bottle exactly where she found it, closed the cabinet, and crossed the room toward him. Her hands found the front of his shirt first, smoothing the fabric before they settled lightly against his chest.
“You work too hard.”
A quiet laugh escaped him. “So I’ve been told.”
She leaned up and pressed a gentle kiss beneath his jaw, lingering there for just a moment before resting her forehead against his shoulder. “You should let yourself rest more.”
His arms slipped naturally around her waist. “I know..”
Neither of them spoke again for a while.
The bathroom returned to its comfortable silence, broken only by the faint hum of the lights overhead and the distant creak of the house settling around them.
The prescription bottles remained tucked away inside the cabinet, unnoticed now.
By morning, she wouldn't think about them again. To her, they were simply another reminder that the man she loved still carried pain from injuries the world had long since forgotten.
A year later, she would remember the conversation with an unsettling clarity and wonder if that had been the first time something quietly slipped beyond her reach. At the time, though, it was nothing more than an ordinary night between a husband and wife, ending the same way most of their nights did, wrapped in each other’s arms while the rest of the house slept.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤ October, 1992.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤㅤ╰ㅤ Neverland Ranch, Los Olivos, California.
Steam lingered in the bathroom, fogging the edges of the mirror until only blurred reflections remained. The room smelled faintly of eucalyptus and shampoo, warm from the shower that had been running for the last several minutes. The baby monitor rested on the counter, its tiny green light glowing steadily beside the sink, carrying nothing but the gentle sound of Aladdin’s giggles and Janet’s coos the hall.
Michael sat on the small stool in front of the tub; a towel draped around his shoulders while she stood behind him with one hand resting lightly against the back of his neck. He was 5’9 but she always sworn he was taller than that, he just looked so awkward and lanky especially in this position,
His hair was damp beneath her fingers as she worked the shampoo through it slowly, taking her time the way she always did. The soft curls slipped easily between her hands until she reached the patch of scar tissue hidden beneath the dark strands. Without thinking, her touch became even lighter, fingertips barely grazing his scalp as she carefully massaged around the area instead of directly over it.
Michael drew the smallest breath through his nose, it wasn’t quite a wince, but she did notice.
Her hands stopped immediately. “..Too much?”
He shook his head. “No.”
She wasn’t convinced. “You always say no.”
A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “’Cause you're always worried.”
“I am worried.” Her voice was quiet, matter of fact.
“It still hurts.” He was silent for a moment before giving the slightest nod. “But I promise, it’s not terrible right now.”
She sighed before she resumed, somehow managing to be even gentler than before. Her fingertips moved with careful patience, and every so often she’d pause just to brush damp curls away from his forehead before continuing.
“I hate that it still bothers you.”
He looked down at his hands resting loosely in his lap. “I’ve gotten used to it, mama.”
She frowned. “That doesn’t mean you should have to, Mi.”
Neither of them spoke after that. The only sounds were the slow trickle of water from the faucet and the quiet rhythm of her hands moving through his hair.
When she finished, she wrapped the towel around his shoulders more securely before leaning down to press a kiss against the top of his head, deliberately avoiding the sensitive places.
“There.”
He smiled to himself. “Thank you, pretty.”
She squeezed his shoulder once before turning toward the sink to rinse her hands. Behind her, she heard the medicine cabinet open.
It barely registered at first. She reached for a hand towel, drying her fingers absentmindedly and she glances up just as Michael tipped two pills into his palm.
He swallowed them with a sip of water and she watched him for a second.
Then her brow knit together ever so slightly.
(Name) crossed the room without another thought, slipping her arms loosely around his waist from behind and he relaxed into the embrace as she rested her cheek against his shoulder, listening to the slow rhythm of his breathing.
But the furrow between her brow never left, lost in thought as her gaze fell into nothing in particular.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤ November, 1992.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤㅤ╰ㅤ Neverland Ranch, Los Olivos, California.
The afternoon had settled into one of those slow, sleepy hours where the whole house seemed to breathe a little quieter. Sunlight drifted through the living room windows, warming the hardwood floors in long, golden rectangles that shifted almost imperceptibly as the day wore on. Outside, the gardens were still, save for the occasional movement of leaves stirred by a light breeze.
Aladdin had fallen asleep nearly twenty minutes earlier, the occasional sleepy crackle drifting through the baby monitor on the side table. She’d rocked him until his little fingers finally loosened around hers, laid him carefully in his crib, then stood there for another five minutes anyway, just watching his chest rise and fall because some part of her still couldn’t quite believe someone so small was entirely their responsibility.
His stroller rested near the front door where they’d left it after returning from the pediatrician, a tiny knit blanket folded neatly over the handle instead of where it belonged. A bottle sat forgotten on the coffee table beside a stack of music magazines she hadn’t opened in weeks.
Now, she stood at the window, absently twisting the ring on her finger.
Outside, the gardens swayed gently beneath the breeze. Somewhere farther down the property, she could just make out the stable through the trees, the horses moving lazily in the afternoon sun.
It should have been enough.
But lately, she’d been wondering why it didn’t always feel like enough.
Behind her, Michael sat curled into one end of the sofa with a book open in his lap. Every now and then he’d glance toward the hallway without thinking, listening for any sign the baby had woken before returning to the same paragraph he’d already read twice.
He looked comfortable.
Content.
More at home than she’d ever seen him.
“Lovey, I got a call this morning.” Her voice was so quiet that for a moment he wasn’t sure she’d meant to speak aloud.
He lifted his eyes. “From who?”
“The label.” She didn't turn around. “They wanted to know when I'd be ready to come back.” The words settled into the room without either of them rushing to fill the silence that followed.
Michael lowered the book into his lap. “Oh.”
She watched a pair of birds disappear over the trees. “They’re thinkign about starting another album.”
Another pause. “They asked if I’d started writing anything.” Her thumb absently traced the diamond of her ring. “I told them I hadn’t.”
It wasn't entirely true.
There were notebooks tucked away upstairs with pages she’d filled while Aladdin napped. Half-finished melodies hummed into cassette recorders in the middle of the night. Lyrics scribbled onto grocery lists because inspiration had inconvenient timing.
She just hadn’t told anyone. “I miss it, Mi.” The admission was nearly swallowed by the quiet room. “I miss the studio.”
She then let out a slow breath. “I miss recording until two in the morning because I can’t get something right.” A small laugh escaped her. “I even miss arguing with producers.”
“But.. I feel guilty for missing it.” Michael watched her for a long moment before setting the book he’d been reading aside.
“You don’t have to go back.”
She looked over her shoulder. “I know.”
“You could stay home.” His voice remained gentle. “You don’t have to rush.” He stood, crossing the room until he stopped in front of her. “You’ve got everything right here.” His hand rested lightly against her arm.
“You’ve got him.” Then, quieter. “You’ve got me.”
She smiled faintly. “I know.”
“You could take another year.”
“I could.”
“You could take five.”
A tiny laugh escaped her. “I don’t think my record label would like that.”
“I don’t care what your record label likes.” Michael says, too quickly.
She looked down, smiling for only a second before it faded again. “..I do.”
Silence settled between them.
“I love being his mom.” Her voice caught ever so slightly. “I love it more than I ever imagined I would.” She looked toward the nursery down the hall. “But I love making music too.” She shook her head.
“I don’t know how to be both.”
Michael stepped closer and both of his hands rose slowly to her face, cupping her cheeks with familiar tenderness until she had little choice but to stop staring at the floor.
She couldn’t quite meet his eyes.
“My girl..” His thumbs brushed gently beneath her cheekbones. “You don’t have to figure it out today.”
She let out a slow breath. “I’m scared.” She looked down at her hands. “It feels like I’m supposed to be completely happy just staying home.”
“You are happy.” He starts. “Are you not..?” His brows pinch together.
“I am.” She answered so quickly it almost hurt that he would even question that. “I am, Michael.”
She swallowed and her voice softened. “I love waking up with him. I love feeding him. I love putting him to bed. I love every tiny little thing.”
She smiled to herself, remembering. “When he falls asleep on my shoulder..” Her expression melted for just a moment. “..I don’t think there's anywhere else I’d rather be.”
She looked back up. “But I still miss music.” The confession lingered between them. “I don’t know what that says about me.”
“We need you.” Michael says. The words came so naturally that he didn’t even realize what he was admitting until they’d already left him.
Because he did.
He needed this.
He needed mornings that began with sleepy kisses in the kitchen while a baby laughed from a high chair. He needed evenings that ended with all three of them asleep under the same roof. He needed coming home and finding her barefoot in the living room, humming to herself while folding impossibly tiny clothes.
He had spent his entire life being pulled away by schedules, contracts, rehearsals, flights, interviews, people who always needed another piece of him.
This.. this was the first thing that had ever felt entirely his.
Not fame.
Not success.
Home.
And somewhere beneath all the love he carried for her lived a quieter, more frightened truth.
If she went back.. the world would start asking for her again. The studio. The tours. The interviews. The months apart.
Michael knew that world and he hated what it took from people.
A selfish part of him wanted to keep this exactly as it was. To keep her close. To keep the three of them together inside this peaceful little bubble for as long as he possibly could.
“If it were me..” He hesitated as his thumbs slowed against her cheeks. “I think I’d stay.” The moment the words left him, he saw something shift in her face.
She looked away again and he realized quickly that he’d answered the question he wanted answered. Not the one she’d actually asked.
He knows he’s being selfish, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t care.
Michael stepped just a little closer, trying to catch her eyes again, his hands still cradling her face. “My girl..”
She finally looked back at him, and her eyes were glossy now. “I’m scared, Michael.” Her voice barely carried. “What if I go back.. and I miss all of this?” She glanced toward the nursery. “What if I blink and he’s suddenly five?”
A tear slipped free before she brushed it away herself. “But what if I don’t go back..” She laughed weakly through the tears. “..And one day I don’t recognize myself anymore?”
There wasn’t a real answer.
Michael searched her face for something he could fix.
Anything.
Instead, all he found was the woman he loved trying to hold two equally important parts of herself without dropping either. His hands slipped from her cheeks just enough to brush her hair back behind her ears.
His expression softened. “What can I do for you, baby?”
She closed her eyes for a moment.
Thinking.
Breathing.
When she opened them again, the tears hadn’t disappeared, but they weren’t falling anymore. Her gaze drifted toward the front door, where Aladdin’s stroller still waited from that morning.
“..Can we go for a walk?” She smiled faintly. “With the baby.”
He leaned forward and kissed her forehead, lingering there until she felt some of the tension leave her shoulders.
“Yes,” He whispered. “Of course.”
A few minutes later, they stepped outside together. Michael pushed the stroller with one hand and his other found hers.
The conversation remained unfinished.
It would stay unfinished for months.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤ August - December 1993.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤㅤ╰ㅤ Neverland Ranch, Los Olivos, California.
(Name) genuinely believes her husband died somewhere in 1993. Not in any literal sense, but his soul did. His essence. The spark and light in his eyes dimmed into something unrecognizable and broken by a cruel fucking world that never really let him breathe to begin with.
There’s no clean break to grieve or any one moment she can point to and say this is when I lost him. It’s a slow, nauseating realization that the version of him she fell in love within her early twenties stopped existing in a place she can still reach—a place where she could still kiss and hold. And the worst part is that he’s still here in the physical realm. Grieving a man who’s still alive made her feel.. sick in ways she couldn’t possibly explain in words. It feels like a hole is in her heart, a large gaping hole that only he could fill. He had been her other half in the way people don’t usually mean literally. But it started to feel like she was holding something inside her chest that had been torn into pieces and rearranged wrong. She could picture it so perfectly, her own bloody, beating heart held in her hands, not intact and wrong in shape, pieces pulled out of it and stolen. And somehow, she was still expected to keep living like this? It felt like there was no possible way, but she was living through this.
(Name) never left his side.
The days became measured by meetings instead of hours. Attorneys came and went through the front door carrying leather briefcases that never seemed any lighter when they left, heavier even. Conference tables disappeared beneath stacks of legal documents, newspaper clippings, witness statements, calendars marked over so many times the ink bled together. Telephones rang before breakfast and long after midnight. There were strategy sessions that lasted entire afternoons led by conversations spoken in careful, clinical language that managed to strip every ounce of humanity from the man they were talking about. Publicists discussed disgusting headlines. Security discussed routes before they left the house. Lawyers argued over words, dates, timelines, and statements until they all blurred into one endless conversation that never truly ended, only paused long enough to begin again the next morning. Somewhere in the middle of it all sat Michael, shoulders a little more slumped than the day before, listening as strangers dissected every corner of his life while she stayed beside him, her hand quietly finding his beneath the table.
She became his wife in every sense of the word she had promised on their wedding day. She never let go of his hand. She rubbed circles into the back of his neck during meetings that lasted hours longer than they should have. She smiled for him when he couldn’t find it in himself. She carried the pieces of him he no longer seemed strong enough to carry alone and never once let him feel ashamed for needing her to.
But no matter how tightly she held him together, she couldn’t stop watching him disappear. Never complaining once.
(Name) reminded him to eat when the day disappeared beneath paperwork. She coaxed him upstairs after nights spent sitting in the same chair until dawn, still wearing yesterday’s clothes because neither of them had realized another day had already begun. When sleep wouldn’t come, she stayed awake beside him. When he finally managed to drift off from pure exhaustion, she stayed awake anyway, afraid that if she looked away for too long, he’d wake up.
If the world insisted on putting him through it, then it would have to put her through it too.
And that had never felt like sacrifice.
It had only felt like marriage.
The allegations did something to him that she couldn’t fight with tenderness alone. They hollowed him out in places she hadn’t known could become empty. At first the changes were so small she convinced herself they belonged to stress. A missed laugh. A smile that disappeared a little too quickly. His attention drifting halfway through conversations before he gently asked her to repeat what she’d just said.
Then the spaces between those moments started growing.
His laughter became quieter until she realized one afternoon she couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard it. The brightness that had always lived behind his eyes gave way to a guarded wall, every waking moment for him had become an exercise in bracing for impact. He moved through the house weakly, carrying himself with an invisible weight that seemed to follow him from room to room. Even when nothing was happening, he looked as though he was waiting for something terrible to happen next.
There were days he barely spoke unless someone spoke to him first.
Sometimes she would catch him standing in the middle of a room with no clear reason for being there. One hand resting against the kitchen counter. Eyes fixed on nothing. So still she almost wondered if he’d forgotten why he’d walked in at all. When she’d quietly ask him what he needed, he’d blink once or twice like he’d only just remembered she was there.
“I don’t know,” He’d answer. It broke her every time.
Sleep abandoned him first. Then his appetite, though, he is the first to admit he’s never been a great eater but these past couple years she successfully managed to put a little more weight on him. All of which is gone by now.
There were days when she wasn’t sure he remembered how to take care of himself. Because everything else had become so unbearably heavy that the ordinary things were the first to disappear. Eating. Sleeping. Bathing. Changing into clean clothes. Things like that became things she gently coaxed him toward.
She would find him hours later exactly where she’d left him, a cup of coffee gone cold beside him because he’d never made it upstairs from the night before. She’d kneel in front of him without a word, unbutton his jacket while he watched her with tired eyes, and tell him softly, “Come on, baby.” Most of the time, he’d go.
Then the parts of himself that had always reached instinctively toward life. Music no longer drifted absentmindedly from beneath closed doors. The piano downstairs sat untouched for days at a time. He stopped humming while he wandered through the house. Stopped dancing absentmindedly when a song came on the radio. The little pieces of joy that had always escaped him without thinking seemed to retreat somewhere so deep inside him that even he couldn’t find them anymore.
There were mornings she’d find him awake before dawn, sitting in complete darkness with the television on mute because he hadn’t actually been watching it. He would simply sit there, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor while the blue light flickered across his face. She’d kneel in front of him and take his hands into hers because they were always cold lately, rubbing slow circles over his knuckles until he finally looked at her.
“Did you sleep?” She’d whisper.
“I’m okay.” He answered, and it quickly became the sentence she hated most. Because he wasn’t.
He wasn’t okay.
Michael started apologized for everything.
For forgetting what she had just told him. For staring into space when she was talking. For missing dinner because another meeting had run late. For waking her when another phone rang at two in the morning. For snapping at someone and immediately hating himself for it. For crying. For needing medication. For being tired. For existing and feeling like he no longer resembled the man he thought she deserved.
It was as though guilt had rooted itself somewhere deep inside him and started growing in every direction. No matter what she said, no matter how many times she cupped his face and told him she wasn’t going anywhere, he looked at her with the conviction of someone who believed he had already become too much to love.
And that frightened her more than anything else.
Because for the first time since she’d known him, she couldn’t love him out of his pain.
She could only sit beside it, hold his hand through it, and pray that somewhere underneath all that hurt, the man she’d married was still waiting to find his way home.
Elizabeth found her in the sunroom just after sunset.
The house had become strangely still for the first time all day. Most of the staff had retreated to other parts of the estate, the phones had stopped ringing for the moment, and the endless stream of meetings had finally come to an end. Outside, the sky was washed in soft shades of pink and gold, rainwater still clinging to the hedges from an afternoon shower.
(Name) sat curled into the corner of the sofa with a blanket gathered loosely over her legs, though she wasn’t cold. A cup of tea rested untouched on the table beside her, the steam long since gone. She stared through the floor to ceiling windows toward the gardens without really seeing them, her thoughts somewhere much farther away.
Elizabeth lingered in the doorway for a moment before approaching. “There you are, gorgeous girl.”
(Name) turned her head, offering a tired smile that barely reached her eyes. “Hi.”
Elizabeth smiled back, soft and maternal, before lowering herself onto the sofa beside her. She didn’t sit across from her, she sat shoulder to shoulder, close enough that their sleeves brushed. Without saying anything, she reached over and took one of (Name)’s hands into both of hers, warming it between her palms.
“My goodness” Elizabeth murmured, studying her face. “Sweetheart, you look exhausted.”
(Name) let out a quiet breath that almost sounded like a laugh. “I am.”
Elizabeth rubbed slow circles across the back of her hand. “I know.”
For a little while they simply sat together. It was one of the few things (Name) appreciated about the older woman. She understood why Michael was so close to her, how could you not?
Eventually, Elizabeth inhaled softly. “I need to ask you something.”
(Name) looked over at her. The change in Elizabeth’s voice was subtle, but enough that her stomach tightened instinctively. “What is it?”
Elizabeth’s expression remained kind, though there was a seriousness behind it now that hadn’t been there before.
“I think…” she began carefully, choosing each word with obvious care, “,,I think it’s time we talked about having an intervention.”
The room seemed to lose all of its sound and (Name) blinked once, then again.
“No.” The answer came so quickly it surprised even her.
Elizabeth didn’t react, he simply continued holding her hand.
(Name) shook her head, her brows knitting together. “No. Absolutely not.”
She looked away toward the windows again. “He’s exhausted.” Her voice was quiet now, almost pleading. “Everything that’s happened these last few months..” She swallowed. “Anyone would be exhausted.”
“I know,” Elizabeth said gently.
“He’s under more pressure than anybody should ever have to carry--He isn’t..” (Name) searched for the words, shaking her head again. “He isn’t one of those people.”
Elizabeth tilted her head slightly. “What people, sweetheart?”
(Name)’s fingers tightened unconsciously around Elizabeth’s.
“The people you see on television.” Her eyes stayed fixed on the rain-speckled glass. “The ones whose lives completely fall apart.” She laughed once under her breath, though there wasn’t any humor in it. She knew she probably sounded ignorant, but at this point she didn't care. Her husband didn’t.. he didn’t belong in rehab like some addict. That wasn’t a thing, that wasn’t real. Come on, this was her Michael they’re talking about.
Elizabeth waited.
“He has prescriptions,” (Name) said quickly, as though she’d finally found the argument that mattered. “Doctors gave them to him. He’s in pain, Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth’s thumb continued its slow, absent circles over the back of her hand. “I know, my love. You don’t have to convince me.” Every answer was the same. Never argumentative or dismissive. Just heartbreakingly understanding.
(Name) felt tears beginning to sting behind her eyes.
“He just needs everything else to stop,” She whispered. “If these allegations had never happened.. if everyone would just leave him the fuck alone!” Her voice cracked. “He’d be okay!”
Elizabeth was quiet for several long seconds then she turned just enough to fully face her. “Sweetheart.”
(Name) looked up.
“Do you believe that?” The question settled between them.
(Name) opened her mouth but nothing came out. She wanted to say yes. She wanted to believe it with every part of herself. Instead, she looked back down at their joined hands.
Elizabeth spoke again, her voice scarcely above a whisper. “When was the last time he slept through the night?”
(Name)’s eyes closed. “..I don’t remember.”
“When was the last time he finished a meal without you reminding him to eat?”
Silence.
Elizabeth wasn’t interrogating her; she was grieving with her. “When was the last time you saw him smile because he felt happy..”
She paused. “..and not because he was trying to convince you he was?”
A tear quietly down (Name)’s cheek and Elizabeth reached up, brushing it away with the back of her fingers. “I’m not asking you to pass judgement on him.”
(Name)’s breathing had begun to shake. “I’m asking you to be honest with yourself.”
“I..” Her voice broke completely. “I don’t want him to think I’ve given up on him.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” Elizabeth’s eyes glistened. “This isn’t giving up on him.”
(Name) finally looked at her. “It feels like it.”
“No.” Elizabeth gently squeezed both of her hands. “It feels like you’re admitting that loving him isn’t the same thing as being able to save him.”
Those words struck somewhere so deep that (Name) winced. For months she had convinced herself that if she stayed patient enough, gentle enough, attentive enough, eventually he’d find his way back to himself.
She had loved him harder every single day.. she had stayed awake through the nightmares.
Counted pills.
Run baths.
Held him while he cried.
Sat beside him through meetings.
Reminded him to eat.
Reminded him to sleep.
Reminded him that none of this changed who he was.
If love could have healed him.. he would have been healed months ago. The realization settled over her so quietly she almost didn’t notice herself beginning to cry.
Elizabeth wrapped an arm around her shoulders without another word and (Name) folded into her immediately, burying her face against Elizabeth’s shoulder as months of fear finally caught up with her.
“I just want my husband back,” She sobbed, hiccuping.
Elizabeth closed her eyes, holding her a little tighter.
“I know, sweetheart.” Her own voice trembled. “I want him back too.”
That conversation had been eight weeks ago.
Eight weeks since she’d watched him zip up a suitcase she wished had never needed packing.
Eight weeks since she’d stood in the driveway with one hand tucked into his coat, trying to memorize the feeling of him before he disappeared behind tinted windows and boarded a plane bound for Europe.
Eight weeks he’d been away from home.
Some days she counted them. Other days she tried very hard not to.
The house had settled into a strange quiet without him. His slippers still sat where he’d kicked them off weeks earlier because she couldn’t bring herself to move them. His favorite sweater remained folded over the arm of the sofa. His piano downstairs gathered a thin layer of dust no one dared wipe away. Every room still carried traces of him, little reminders that he belonged there, while the only place he actually was sat thousands of miles across an ocean she couldn’t simply cross whenever she missed him.
She kept herself busy because she had to.
There was still a little boy who needed breakfast every morning. Baths every evening. Stories before bed. Aladdin had begun asking for his daddy in the innocent way only toddlers could, toddling over to the front door some afternoons after hearing a car outside, convinced for one hopeful second that this time it would be him. He was a little over one years old now, she can’t believe how quickly time flies
Each time, she’d scoop him into her arms. “Daddy’s getting better, sweetheart.” The words never became easier to say but she hoped one day they’d become true.
Every afternoon, usually around the same time once Aladdin had gone down for his nap, she’d reach for the telephone. It became part of her routine as naturally as brushing her teeth. She knew the number by heart now.
Sometimes the phone rang long enough that she caught herself holding her breath but when the phone picked up it was never Michael.
The conversations had become painfully familiar.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Jackson. He’s unavailable right now.”
Or..
“He’s resting.”
Another day..
“He’s with his doctors at the moment.”
Then..
“It’s not a good time.”
The reasons changed and none of them made much sense. If he was resting yesterday, surely, he’d be awake today. If he was with doctors this afternoon, why couldn’t he call her back that evening? Once, someone told her he’d stepped outside. She found herself staring at the receiver after the call ended, wondering how someone could step outside and somehow stay there for three days.
She never argued or demanded to be put through. Never raised her voice. She simply thanked whoever answered, hung up gently, and told herself she’d try again tomorrow.
Tomorrow always sounded more hopeful than today.
On the days they did manage to connect, she treasured every minute she was given, even when the conversations never lasted very long.
She’d ask if he was sleeping any better.
If he was eating.
If the doctors were kind to him.
If they were taking good care of him.
She’d tell him about Aladdin learning a new word, or how he’d nearly toppled over trying to chase one of the peacocks that wandered the grounds, smiling through tears Michael couldn’t see as she painted little pictures of home she hoped might make him feel less alone.
“I miss you,” She’d tell him softly. “So does your little boy.”
There would almost always be a pause that felt like listening for someone standing at the other end of a long tunnel.
Then his voice would come back, quieter than she remembered.
“I miss you too.”
Or…
“Give him a kiss for me.”
Sometimes that was all. Sometimes before she had the chance to tell him she loved him, another voice would gently explain that their time was up.
She’d thank them, set the receiver back into its cradle.
Then sit there for a little while longer anyway, her fingertips still resting against the telephone as though somehow it remained connected to him. She never once considered that the distance between them wasn’t only measured in miles. It never crossed her mind that the unanswered calls weren’t always because he was asleep, or in treatment, or meeting with doctors.
She believed every explanation they gave her because she wanted to.
Because the alternative was too painful to imagine.
She didn’t know that, somewhere in Europe, the sound of the telephone ringing had become something he sometimes asked not to hear at all.
The phone remained stubbornly silent for another four days.
By the fifth, (Name) had stopped pretending she wasn’t waiting for it.
She carried the cordless handset from room to room without realizing she was doing it, setting it beside her while she folded tiny pairs of Aladdin’s pajamas, balancing it on the bathroom counter while she washed her face, leaving it on the kitchen island while she picked absently at toast that had gone cold long before she’d taken a second bite. Every sound outside made her glance toward the front windows. Every time the phone rang, her heart launched itself into her throat before sinking again when another familiar voice greeted her instead.
By late afternoon, she felt wound so tightly she thought she might snap.
She stared at the telephone for nearly a full minute before finally dialing Elizabeth’s number.
It rang once.
“Hello?” Elizabeth’s warm, unmistakable voice filled the line. “Sweetheart?”
(Name) opened her mouth to answer, but nothing came out except an uneven breath. She hadn’t even realized she’d started crying until she tasted salt on her lips. “..Hi.”
“Oh, honey,” Elizabeth said gently. “What’s happened?”
(Name) pressed trembling fingers against her forehead, closing her eyes as she slowly sank into one of the kitchen chairs. The room suddenly felt too bright. “I.. I’m sorry.”
“What are you apologizing for?”
“I shouldn’t be calling you like this.”
Elizabeth’s voice softened even further. “You can call me however you need to.” That kindness almost made everything worse.
(Name) laughed weakly through another shaky breath, wiping beneath her eyes with the heel of her hand. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
Elizabeth simply asked, “Tell me.”
(Name) looked toward the nursery down the hallway where she could hear the faint hiss of the baby monitor. “I can’t stop thinking about him. I keep telling myself he’s exactly where he needs to be.” She nodded to herself as though trying to make the words feel true. “I know they’re helping him. I know this is supposed to take time. I know all of that.”
Her breathing caught painfully in the middle of the sentence. “But…” She pressed a hand flat against the center of her chest. “I just…” Her voice dropped to almost nothing. “I have this terrible.. terrible feeling.”
Elizabeth remained quiet. “What kind of feeling, sweetheart?”
“I don’t know.” (Name) stood abruptly from the chair and began pacing across the kitchen, one arm wrapped tightly around her waist while the other held the phone against her ear. “That’s what’s scaring me.” She shook her head. “I don’t know what it is.”
Her breathing had become noticeably uneven now. “It feels like..” She searched helplessly for words. “Like something’s wrong.”
Elizabeth listened.
“I know he’s in treatment and I know this isn’t supposed to be easy. But every time I call..” (Name) stopped walking, staring blankly out the kitchen window. “..there’s another reason.”
Her voice trembled. “He’s resting.” She swallowed. “He’s with his doctors.” Another shaky breath. “They’ll let him know I called.”
She laughed once, though it sounded hollow. “It just.. it never makes any sense.”
Elizabeth’s brows furrow in confusion on the other end of the line. “So, you haven’t been able to speak with him much?”
(Name)’s shoulders slowly slumped. “No..”
“How often?”
“I don’t..” She frowned, trying to remember. “I don’t even know anymore.” She rubbed tiredly at one eye. “When I do get him..” She whispered, “It’s only for a few minutes.” Her throat tightened. “He sounds so far away.”
(Name) continued to speak. “I don’t even care if we don’t talk about anything important.” She laughed through another sob. “I’d listen to him tell me what he had for lunch if it meant hearing his voice for five more minutes.”
Elizabeth’s expression shifted and silence settled between them. Then absentmindedly, (Name) asked, “..When was the last time you talked to him?”
Elizabeth sounded genuinely puzzled by the question. “Honey, we’ve been talking fairly regularly.”
(Name) blinked. “What?”
“I’ve been checking in on him. I actually spoke to him today.. which is why I’m so confused to hear this..”
Everything inside (Name) seemed to stop. “…Today?”
“Yes.” Elizabeth nodded. “We had a lovely conversation.”
(Name) didn’t answer.
“It must’ve been..” Elizabeth thought aloud. “Nearly two hours, I suppose.”
Two hours.
The words echoed through her mind and her grip tightened around the receiver until her fingers ached.
Two hours.
She couldn’t remember the last time Michael had spoken to her for longer than ten minutes.
“…He…” Her lips barely moved. “He talked…” Her heartbeat became deafening. “…for two hours?”
Elizabeth’s heart drops a bit. “…(Name)? My love? Let me give him a call, okay? I’m sure this is just a misunderstanding...”
The kitchen blurred around her. The walls suddenly felt too close. Air refused to reach her lungs no matter how deeply she inhaled. Somewhere on the other end of the line, Elizabeth was still speaking, her voice growing increasingly concerned.
“Sweetheart?”
“(Name)?”
“Talk to me.. Please talk to me, I’m on my way.”
She couldn’t hear anything except the blood rushing through her ears. With trembling fingers, she lowered the receiver from her ear, and she stared at it for one long, disbelieving moment. Then she pressed the button.
The line went dead.
The silence that followed was suffocating as she remained standing in the middle of the kitchen, the disconnected phone hanging uselessly at her side while tears slipped silently down her face.
He had spent two hours talking to someone else.
And suddenly, for the first time since he’d left for Europe, a thought entered her mind that she had refused to entertain before.
Maybe the person he was avoiding…
…was her.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤEarly 1994.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤㅤ╰ㅤ Neverland Ranch, Los Olivos, California.
When Michael was released from treatment, (Name) truly believed the hardest part was finally over. She held onto that belief with both hands because she had to. It was the only thing that had carried her through the endless weeks he’d spent in Europe, through the unanswered phone calls, the sleepless nights, the ache of watching Aladdin toddle around without his dad. She told herself that rehabilitation didn’t end the day someone walked out of the building. He would need time. Space. Patience. She could give him all of those things. God knew she’d already given him everything else. She washed the sheets on their bed before he was due to return. She asked the kitchen staff to stock the pantry with all the little things he’d missed while he was away. She even caught herself smiling one afternoon while folding one of his sweaters, thinking how nice it would feel to complain about finding his socks scattered across the bedroom floor again. For the first time in months, hope felt safe enough to exist. Things would go back to normal.
He never came home.
At first, nothing seemed particularly unusual. A day passed, then another. There were explanations, always reasonable enough that she never questioned them. He was resting. The doctors wanted him to ease back into daily life slowly. Travel would take some time. She accepted every answer with the same quiet understanding she’d carried throughout the last year because that was what loving Michael had often required, faith in circumstances she couldn’t control. Every morning she still called without fail and every evening she called again if she hadn’t heard from him. Nothing changed, it was the same few excuses. She was told he’d stepped out. Other times he’d already gone to bed.
Occasionally she managed to hear his voice, but even those conversations seemed to disappear before they’d properly begun. He sounded distant, exhausted, like every word cost him something to speak to her. She asked the usual, if he was eating. If he was sleeping. If he needed anything from home. She told him she loved him. She told him Aladdin had started stringing little sentences together now, that he’d learned to point at photographs and proudly say, “Daddy.” Michael answered kindly enough, but there was always something absent underneath it all, as though part of him had already drifted somewhere she couldn’t follow. She was afraid of bringing up her concerns about his communication, especially since learning he was present with other people. How could she? He.. he was kind enough to take her call, and besides, she missed him too much to potentially mess up her few chances to talk to him. So, she ignored it. Her time with him couldn't even settle into the comfort of simply hearing him breathe before another voice would gently interrupt, telling him someone needed him, that another appointment was beginning, or something. The line would click dead, and she’d sit there holding the receiver against her ear for another minute anyway, staring into nothing.
Days quietly became weeks. One week became two, then three, until she realized she’d stopped marking the calendar altogether because looking at the dates only made the silence feel heavier. The house had become unbearably still without him. His slippers remained tucked beneath their side of the bed because she couldn’t bear to move them. His piano sat untouched, gathering the thinnest layer of dust no one dared wipe away because wiping it meant they were wiping him away. Even Neverland itself seemed to notice his absence. The laughter that usually drifted across the grounds had disappeared, replaced by long stretches of quiet broken only by the distant carousel or the soft chatter of staff trying not to speak too loudly. Aladdin babbled for him constantly. Every answer she gave grew a little weaker than the last. “Soon,” she’d whisper, kissing the top of his head while silently begging God not to make a liar out of her.
By the fifth week, something inside her had begun to change. Hope unraveled slowly, thread by thread, each unanswered call loosening another piece until she found herself lying awake at three in the morning, staring at the empty space beside her where Michael should have been, unable to silence the dreadful feeling settling deeper into her chest. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t even resentment. It was fear. Quiet, instinctive fear. The kind that arrived without explanation and refused to leave. She couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted while he’d been away, that somehow, she’d lost him without realizing the exact moment it happened. She just didn’t know yet that the silence wasn’t accidental. It was a choice.
By the sixth week, she had stopped asking herself when he was coming home.
Instead, she found herself asking why he wasn’t.
The question followed her everywhere. It lingered while she stood at the kitchen sink washing dishes she hadn’t dirtied, while she folded laundry that still smelled faintly of his cologne, while she rocked Aladdin back to sleep in the middle of the night. She turned every conversation they’d had over and over inside her mind until she could practically recite them from memory, searching for something she’d missed. Had she said something wrong? Had she pushed too hard? Not enough? Had she spent so much time trying to keep him alive that she’d forgotten how to simply be his wife? Every answer only led to another question, each one crueler than the last.
Then, as though the silence itself hadn’t already hollowed her out, the news found her anyway. It wasn’t Michael who told her, not a phone call or even a conversation. It was another headline. Another photograph. Another piece of her life handed to the public before it had ever been offered to her.
Someone had seen him in Las Vegas.
Not alone.
With Lisa.
Eight days.
Eight days that stretched across newspapers and entertainment programs with the same relentless appetite that had consumed every other private moment of their lives. Restaurants. Casinos. Hotel entrances. Smiling. Talking. Walking side by side with their hands held as though the weight of the previous year had somehow become light enough to carry in someone else’s company.
(Name) stared at the photographs until they blurred together.
For eight weeks she’d been told, directly or indirectly, that he was too fragile. Too exhausted. Too unwell to hold a conversation with the woman who had stood beside him through allegations, investigations, lawyers, hospitals, intervention meetings, sleepless nights, withdrawal, and rehabilitation.
Ghosted her for six weeks after his release.
Yet somehow, he’d found eight days for another woman.
Something inside her finally gave way.
The first drink came almost absentmindedly. A glass of wine she poured while dinner sat untouched in front of her, thinking it might finally silence the noise in her head long enough to sleep. But of course, it didn’t.
The second night, she poured another.
By the end of the week, she had stopped bothering with glasses altogether and opted for drinking straight from the bottle. She discovered alcohol did one thing remarkably well. For a little while, it made her numb. It softened the endless loop of unanswered questions. It dulled the image of those photographs long enough that she could breathe without feeling like her chest was caving in. It hushed the instinct that still made her glance toward the front door every time she heard a car outside.
Morning always punished her for it. She’d wake with pounding headaches, swollen eyes, and the same emptiness waiting faithfully beside her the moment she opened them. Nothing had changed. Michael was still gone. The bed was still half empty. The phone still refused to ring.
So every evening, when the house finally grew quiet and Aladdin had fallen asleep upstairs, she’d wander into the kitchen almost without thinking. The bottle had become as much a part of her nightly routine as locking the doors or turning off the lights. She hated herself a little more each time she reached for it.
She drank because it was easier than feeling everything. She drank because the silence was louder sober. She drank because she couldn’t survive every night with the version of him she loved walking endlessly through her memories, while the man still alive somewhere in the world seemed to want nothing to do with her anymore.
It happened on an ordinary afternoon. The moment where she died. If her Michael left her in ’93, then she followed soon after in ’94.
There was no warning. No phone call asking if she was home. No request to meet. No conversation she could cling to afterward and tell herself at least they’d tried.
Just a knock at the front door.
She almost didn’t answer it herself. One of the house staff had been busy with Aladdin, so she crossed the foyer without thinking, smoothing the sleeves of her sweater as she reached for the handle.
The man standing outside wore an apologetic expression she didn’t understand until he asked her name. “Miss (Name)?”
“Yes?”
“I need you to sign for these.”
She accepted the large envelope automatically, thanked him then closed the door.
For several seconds, she simply stood there in the middle of the foyer, turning it over in her hands. Her name was typed neatly across the front in stark black letters. No handwriting. No familiarity. Nothing to suggest it had come from the man who had once traced that same name across birthday cards with hearts and little notes left beside her pillow.
Something deep inside her already knew. Her fingers trembled as she slid the papers free. The first page was enough. She didn’t make it past the title before the packet slipped from her hands, scattering crisp white pages across the polished floor like they weighed nothing at all.
Her knees nearly buckled. “No..”
The word escaped before she’d even realized she’d spoken. “No..”
She shook her head, staring at the papers, hoping they might rearrange themselves into something else if she looked long enough.
This couldn’t be how it happened. Not after everything that’s happened. Not after the allegations. After the meetings. The sleepless nights. Rehab. Not after standing beside him when the entire world had seemed determined to tear him apart.
Not like this.
Her breathing became shallow. Fast. And suddenly she stumbled backward before turning blindly toward the nearest bathroom, one hand clamped over her mouth as panic climbed so violently through her body it made her dizzy. She barely reached the sink.
The first wave came without warning.
A clammy gripped the porcelain so hard her knuckles burned as everything in her stomach came up in painful, emptying heaves. Tears blurred her vision until she couldn’t tell where the sink ended and the room began.
When there was nothing left, her body kept trying anyway.
Again. Again. Again.
She collapsed onto the cold tile floor, coughing so hard her chest hurt, one hand pressed against her sternum as though she could physically hold herself together.
Everything she’d known since twenty. Her mentor. Her protector. Her best friend. Her husband. Her fucking soul.
Her life was seemingly being severed over black and white.
Michael didn’t even give her the respect of a conversation or an explanation. Not even goodbye?
Just a case number.
She curled forward until her forehead rested against the edge of the bathtub, shaking so violently she could hardly catch her breath. Somewhere else in the house she could hear Aladdin laughing at something, blissfully unaware that only a few rooms away, their world had just been split cleanly down the middle.
(Name) had survived watching the world try to destroy her husband.
But she wasn’t sure she would survive discovering he had chosen to leave her himself.
description: you and michael are having troubles spending time together due to his career. a supposed date night turns into a flake, but can michael make it up to you?
syn: established relationship, soft dom!michael, 18+, whole lotta angst, whole lotta smut, sub!reader, bad!era, purposefully lowercase! UM TS IS SO DAMN NASTY LMAO
a/n: y’all asked…y’all received. AND PLEASE IGNORE MY GRAMMAR IDK WDF I BE TALM BOUT 😂😂😂
“ma’am, would you like a refill on that wine?”
the polite voice of the waitress snapping you out of your trance— in which you were staring right at the empty seat in front of you.
you nodded with a smile. as you watched the burgundy-stained liquid pour into your glass, your heart ached at the fact that your boyfriend, michael had been 15 minutes late.
about a week ago, michael reserved this new dining experience just for the two of you. no cameras, no fans, no family, just each other.
due to the consistent work being put in of the making of his new album, bad; the two of you had rarely seen each other. the both of you were so busy. so michael selected this date so you could spare some time together.
finally you notice how your glass had been filled three times, and how the seat in front of you was still empty. checking your watch, now to see that it’s been a whole hour. you don’t say anything but grab some cash out of your purse, placing it on the table for the waitress as her tip.
you step into the car as a sudden weight of sadness fell over you. michael hadn’t came. there were no updates either. tears began to sting your eyes in the backseat of the luxurious car.
you finally arrived home. your driver escorting you into the house, then sending him off with a goodnight and fake smile. just to show that you were okay.
with the clack of your heels dreading through the empty home, you finally make it to your bedroom. undoing the beautiful dress you wore, and tossing it onto the chair beside your bed.
after a warm shower, and putting on your favorite nightgown, you snuggle up into the sheets. the sadness still clawing at your throat, tears slowly began to fall. but despite the emotions that needed to be let out, you were tired. so you went to sleep.
well—you attempted to. your eyes flashed open quickly met with the sound of movement downstairs. you already knew it was michael, because he was humming some sort of song.
the weight of hurt in your chest began aching again. but you didn’t want to face the problem tonight so you just acted as if you were asleep.
a chill goes down your body as michael enters the room. you can’t tell if the chill represents pain or anger, but you know it’s one of the two
michael’s footsteps slow down for a moment, you guess he’s undressing, you can hear the rustles of his heavy belt and his heavy clothing dropping into the laundry basket.
you just sigh as you hear him getting closer. the bed dips beneath you and you can hear him climb in. he wraps his arms around your waist pulling you closely.
you couldn’t keep up the fake sleeping act—you were too upset and hurt not to show it. you removed his arm from around you and scooted away.
“m-mama, you awake?” michael questions softly a bit confused.
you let out another sigh, this time loud enough for michael to hear. the tears are coming back. “just go to sleep michael.” you exhale shakily.
“baby… is everything okay?” michael is clearly concerned. ignoring him you scoot further away. michael sighs and looks around the room despite the dim lighting. suddenly, his eyes land on the chair a few feet away from you. which is a beautiful, deep, red dress.
suddenly everything clicks. “shit.” michael mumbled under his breath. “baby.. oh my goodness, baby i’m sorry.” his hand reaches for your soft skin once again, only for you to reject it.
just the act of michael reaching out alone triggers you. the emotions inside of you begging to be let out. to calm yourself, you rise and sit up with your feet dangling off the bed.
michael follows and slides right behind you. his finger dances into the hair on the side of your head, softly pulling it back to flip over your other shoulder, leaving one side of your neck, shoulder, and ears bare. you stay quiet.
michael can fill the guilt unraveling in his mind, he was worried sick. he hated letting you down, especially when it was so—unintentional.
sweetheart, i’m so sorry… i would’ve loved to eat dinner with you but quincy dragged me to the after party…” he said with his chin now resting along your shoulder.
despite his touch you stayed still as the tears threatened to steam down your warm cheeks.
“baby, say somethin’. he frowned. “your scaring me honey… i know we planned to have dinner, but things got carried away. it’s like everyone wanted a piece of me tonight. i’m terribly sorry. i should have been there.” his hand slowly rubbing your tender arms, which were rested by your sides.
gently shrugging him off, you stand and turn. you just stare at him. it’s like so many emotions want to come out but it hurts. michael looks up in your eyes with worry and guilt, he can feel it soaring through his veins.
“when will i have a piece of you?” you shakily exhale. michaels eyes travel down to his hands which are now picking at the skin on his knees trying to distract the nerves he feels all over.
michael opened his mouth and before he could even speak. “i cleared out my schedule. i wore that dress you love even though the lining pokes at my sides. i sat there with hope, only for it to be lost everytime the waiter continuously asked me where the rest of my party was.” you finally stated.
michael’s eyes, traced every detail of your face. he saw the pain and disappointment in every wrinkle. swallowing nervously, his hands came up to yours, gently cradling them together in his lap.
“you mean so much to me”—
“i can barely tell when you don’t even show up to a dinner YOU reserved!” you snarked.
michael sucked in his bottom lip between his teeth, showing frustration. not with you but with himself.
“sometimes it feels like i’m invisible to you. i know i mean a lot to you. but im beginning to doubt it.” you sigh, trying to calm down.
“baby…we’ve been together for so long. i love you so much. things are changing, the both of our lives are changing.” his hands left yours, cradling your hips.
“but from now on, i will forever keep you first. despite all that’s been happening, and our shared time being cut due to our schedules… i wanna keep lovin’ you mama. n’ i wanna do it right.” he spoke in that soft whisper tone that could’ve put you to sleep right then and there. his hands gently caressed your sides and started to slide up. his slim thumb, sitting perfectly tucked under your boob.
before you could even let out a word he pulled you onto his lap. as your body wrapped around his, he took it all in. your scent, your warmth, your love.
with his face shoved into the heat of your neck, your hands went up to rest in his curls. “i love you too michael. but i’m just so tired… physically and mentally.” you could feel his arms wrapped around your waist softly tightening at the sound of your words.. which were filled with unease.
pulling away from your neck, you felt his warm breath against your lips. “then let me put you to sleep baby, and show you how sorry i am.”
you softly bit your lips… “i ain’t letting you off that easy baby.” your hands now relaxed on his shoulders.
michael let out a low chuckle while his hands traveled sensually down your back and softly groped your behind. his fingertips dancing along your skin mixed with the fabric of your soft baby pink nightgown that was riding up your thighs.
micheal’s lips pecked the corner of yours, then up to your cheek, then towards your ear. catching the sweet skin of your lobe in between his lips. his hot breath spreading onto your skin unevenly.
as he moved his kisses all around the perimeter of your neck, jaw, and ears he softly murmured—despite his words being interrupted by the sounds of his lips on your skin. “vacation. you and me. ireland? sounds fun.”
you could feel his neediness with the way his lips didn’t disconnect from your bareness, and the way his hands continuously caressed the flesh of your ass cheeks.
you weren’t angry at michael. just sad and disappointed. but the way he was holding and touching you, it was hard to remember why you were upset in the first place.
finally giving in, you hum in approval of his plans, while your hands meet both the sides of his jaw. mouths intertwining deeply. the movement of his tongues in your warm mouth, representing his desire for forgiveness. “fuck. mama— i’m really sorry hun.” he whines into the kiss.
your hips begin to move uncontrollably, a slow grind warming up your entire body. a shaky breath “it’s okay baby, i forgive you… but i need you to show me a good reason why” you said with a roll of your hips. michael’s fingers pressed into your backside pulling you in closer as his lips met yours. “alright mama, anything for you my love.” he mumbled, practically into your mouth.
the fingers that danced along your skin, softly and sensually, now rested under your thighs with strength. michael cradled you into his arms and flipped you over. with your back hitting the soft silky sheets, his body towering over you with his curls hanging from his face. after the two of you admire each other for quite long enough, michael readjusted the placement of your body. instead of you being on the side of the bed, your head now laid upon the pillows.
your back arched against the sheets as his long fingers felt the heat between your legs, slowly treading against your thigh. The tension that had simmered between you for days finally snapped the moment he pulled you onto the bed. "I'm sorry” he exhaled again.
michael's fingers tangled in the hem of your thin silk nightgown, yanking it up to your waist without struggle. finding you completely bare underneath, his dark eyes flashed with predatory hunger. he spread your legs wide, his hands gripping your thighs gently as he lowered his head, feasting on your warmth with slick, wet strokes that made you whimper and arch your back.
your soft fingers now stranded within his curls as you feel the electricity being sent throughout your body. “feel good baby?” he mumbled. the vibrations of his breath sent chills up your arched spine. all you could do was nod. the pain and hurt was slowly going away and were replaced with desire and lust.
“i wanna hear you mama. talk to me, i need you to do better baby.” he let out, his soft tone being interrupted by the wet sounds of your core. waiting for an answer, michael’s tongue applied pressure to your clit, circling and then sucking. “yes!— yes michael. it feels so fucking good.” you could feel the hot nerves in your stomach coiling.
it was overwhelming. everything at once, hearing the wetness and groans of approval from michael, feeling his fingertips press into your skin controllingly, and the tickle against your stomach from his hair, which began to unravel from its original style.
michael licked a final, devastating stripe up your pussy before crawling up your body, kissing your inner thighs, stomach, and chest. he hovered over you, the silk nightgown completely bunched around your waist now. his thick, hard cock tapped against your entrance, leaking and desperate. "be a good girl, baby. i want you to feel how sorry i am.” he whispered, behind the lust clouding his gigantic eyes, you could also see the love and sorrow.
suddenly you were distracted from looking into his eyes as you felt his heavy member gently plop down against your belly button. michael had already got rid of the release his boxers had on his hardened cock. “come here baby” you say as your hands cradle his face pulling him into a kiss.
the kiss was desperate and needy—from the both of you. one of your hands glided down from his face to his cock. you could feel the cold leakage of his precum against your tummy. you stroked him softly. “yeah mama. just like that” he groaned as his eye contact dropped from the immediate pleasure being spread throughout his body.
he pushed inside slowly, one excruciating inch at a time, letting you feel every ridge of his thick cock stretching you open. "you still mad at me?" he murmured against your ear, his hips grinding forward as you clenched around him. “i’m not sure yet.” you turn your head, whining against his lips.
michael let out a low chuckle, as he began to pick up his pace. the force of his cock, hitting your walls had you forgetting the gut-punching feeling you had tonight in the restaurant. “yes baby yes—fuck, give it all to me michael, i need all of it, angel.” you moaned.
michael’s face warmed up due to the nickname, but the coil in his stomach was heating up much faster. michael reached for the tender skin under your thighs, then guiding your legs on top of his shoulders. both of them.
you let out a loud cry. it was a lot, but you asked for it. and he was giving it to you, his cock driving into you smoothly due to the wetness of your folds.
“shit girl, i love you—mama i need you” michael whined as he let out muffled moans of pleasure into the warmth of your neck. his pace was steady. almost like a beat, one thrust after the other and you were losing it.
all the air leaving your lungs, head cocking back against the pillow, which one hand was tightly gripping and the other digging nail marks into michael’s skin on his back.
the two of you were so close. you needed this, especially after feeling the distance. “michael baby, i’m gonna make a mess— fuck right there, yes!” you panted out. tears were lingering in the corners of your eyes, the pleasure was too much to bear. you couldn’t compose yourself any longer.
“let go f’me baby, please give it to me mama, i love you and i’m so sorry my baby” he moaned, as his lips shuffled from your neck to now hovering beside your ear.
your thighs started shaking violently as the coil in your stomach snapped, your orgasm crashing over you so hard you saw stars. michael let you ride it out, his name falling from your lips in broken whimpers, but he didn’t stop. he grasped your waist and flipped you onto your stomach effortlessly. "arch that back for me baby, we’re not done.”
his hands gripped your hips bruisingly tight as he slammed back inside, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the room. "i'm sorry, baby," he whispered, mouth hot against your ear while his cock pistoned into you relentlessly. "i know i was wrong... i shouldn't have made you feel like that." each apology came with a deep thrust that hit just right.
you couldn’t even reply, you couldn’t even think, the pleasure being so intense, it felt like your brain was turning into mush. your eyes rolling back, pleasure shooting through your veins like electricity.
he pressed his chest flush against your back, surrounding you completely in a bear hug, his thrusts turning slow and devastatingly deep. "you're my girl," he whispered softly, kissing your shoulder. "never gonna make you feel like that again, i promise." one hand slid around to rub your clit in tight circles, making you sob into the pillow as he fucked the apology right into your guts.
michael wanted to hear you, so his free hand, slid up resting under your jaw, turning your head slightly so he could at least have some sight of your pretty face. his lips lingering over your cheek.
his movements became slower, more deliberate, each thrust drawing out a whimper from both of you. His voice dropped to a husky whisper against your ear, "i love you... fuck, i love you so much." His fingers worked your clit with expert precision as he hit that perfect spot inside you repeatedly.
with a final deep thrust and a tender kiss to your neck, michael came inside you with a shuddered groan that sounded like your name. his hot release triggered your own orgasm instantly, your pussy clamping down on his cock as you both came together in a messy, loving tangle of apologies and pleas.
"stay right there, princess." he tapped your ass, and then he leaned down and buried his face between your legs, licking his own cum dripping out of your pussy. "mm, tastes like us," he murmured, tongue swirling deep to clean up the mess. it was filthy and overwhelming, making your toes curl instantly.
“mmm—baby, oh my goodness.” you shudder, due to the overstimulation charging at your nerves. michael clearly didn’t wanna stop. his nose settled right near your puckering asshole while his tongue slid smoothly against your clit.
michael's tongue became a relentless weapon, flicking and sucking at your oversensitive clit while his fingers pushed back inside you. he was determined to draw out another orgasm, his mouth and fingers working overtime to overwhelm your senses. "too much... too much," the words draw from your lips.
your fingers—which are now shaking as well fly back up to his curls. trying to push him back, but michael’s tongue resists. “no baby, move” he mumbled softly as a white sticky liquid is now surrounding his lips and jaw.
"give it to me," he murmured against your thigh, his dark eyes looking up at you with that hungry glint as his tongue kept its relentless pace. "just one more, baby... you know you want to." his thumb pressed tight against your clit while his fingers curled inside, stroking that perfect spot that made your vision blur. "c'mon, that's it..."
“oh my god, michael” you cried out, and this time it wasn’t so soft. the pleasure rang through you like a loud bell. your eyes in the back of your head as your body became limp against the sheets. nearly numb.
he softly kissed your clit before kissing your trembling thighs and crawling up your body. he captured your lips in a slow, deeply loving kiss, tasting of sex and absolute devotion. pulling your head against his chest as he flipped you back over, he rubbed your back gently. "i am so sorry, sweetheart," he whispered softly. "never upsetting you again. i promise."
you turn your head and look at him in admiration. the padded skin of your index finger now holding up his chin to look at you. “it’s okay my love, i forgive you. you made me feel exactly how sorry you were.” you couldn’t help but display a small smile. michael giggled in response before pecking the corner of your lips and cradling you close.
romaincrisis
amandla
kianamaiart
gracieabrams
