ïčâàšà§â âăPairing: mature! michael x f model! reader, age-gap! (michael is in his early 40s and reader is in her late 20s) invincible era
ïčâàšà§â âăSummary : itâs the year 2000, You texted Michael on your flip phone, expressing your deep sense of missing him. This prompted him to decide that it was time for him to visit you⊠It's 2AM in an empty park, and Michael has no intention of breaking that promise of going until the morning. A Break of Dawn inspired fic.
ïčâàšà§â âăWarnings: softdom!Michael, Slightly switch!f reader if you squint, smut, porn with alittle plot, oral sex (f receiveing), morning sex, exhibitonism, extremely detailed description.
Michael strolled beside you along the park path. The night air was cool at this time of the year. His gaze kept drifting your way, lingering in a way that made your heart rate pick up. Itâs been two months since you and Michael have made it official; however, to this day, every time his eyes met yours, heat flooded your cheeks. You attempted to keep your steps steady to mask the nervousness you felt being so close to him, but his teasing glances made your composure unintentionally slip.
"You keep looking away," he murmured, his voice low and smooth. "Something on your mind?"
You gulp, your throat tightening. You bite your lip, a nervous habit you obtained a while back. You managed to let out a shaky laugh, but words tangled in your tongue. The modeling world you had lived in for years felt pretty distant tonight; age creeping closer with every season, and the fear of losing the only life and routine you've ever known was weighing heavily on your chest.
Yet here, walking beside Michael, after one of his recording sessions for his new album, lifted the weight of your worry from his attention.
A wooden bench appeared under the glow of a lamppost. You both slowed down, without saying a word, then sat; way closer to each other than you needed to be. You folded your hands in your lap, trying to avoid his intense gaze, finding the park path way too interesting.
Michael fully turned his body toward you, your knees touching now as he draped one arm along the back of the bench behind your back. He noticed how your shoulder curled inward, how your eyes still refused to meet his. He always noticed everything about you. A slow grin curved his lips.
"Look at me" he said softly.
You swallowed, forcing your gaze up to meet his eyes. His dark eyes held yours for what felt like a century. His grin deepened, making your heart flutter.
"There she is," he whispered. âBeen waiting to see those eyes all night."
"You keep giving me that look. I just mightâ you said under your breath. "Pardon?⊠Did you say something?" he said with a charming tone. âOh, I- I was just talking to myself," you replied with a playful smile, leaning in slightly closer.
"Hold my hand," he said, his voice soft and inviting. Without thinking, you laced your fingers through his. His thumb automatically started drawing slow circles over your knuckles. The park around you faded to shadows and distant leaves. He lifted your joined hands slowly and pressed an almost feather-like kiss to your wrist, then another higher on your forearm.
"Michael, what are youââ you say quickly, looking around to make sure no one appeared out of thin air. âShhhhh, don't worry, I made sure this park is secluded before we got here, so justâ relax," he said as he pressed another kiss just under your jaw. Each press of his lips drew heat lower in your belly.
You finally looked him in the eyes, giving him full eye contact. There was no doubt in your mind that you were in a whole different dimension⊠that's the effect that he has. "Your eyes are so captivating, I canât help but get lost. Itâs like Iâm in a whole different world with you.â You said, biting your lip.
The intense eye contact was actually breaking you; you couldnât help but feel flutters in your heart. His hands slowly started to rise up your thighâŠ
"I want to kiss youâŠ" he whispered. âTouch you, make you forget everything except how good Iâm making you feel⊠Will you let me do that, girl?"
You met his gaze fully now, shyness still present but desire pushing it back. He noticed the shift and leaned in, capturing your lips in a deep, unhurried kiss. You couldnât believe what was happening. All you knew was that you wanted more and moreâŠ
"Stand up for me" he said quietly.
You rose to your feet. He held your waist, turning you so you could be facing him, standing between his spread legs. His hands started caressing your sides gently, his eyes never leaving yours. One of his hands started drifting lower, slipping beneath your short dress to find the damp fabric between your legs.
"Already wet.. is this all for me baby?"
You hum, nodding slightly, every rational thought of you guys literally being in public a distant thought.
His fingers pushed the material of your underwear aside, stroking teasingly through your slick folds, gathering wetness before circling your clit with deliberate pressure. Your hips rocked forward.
"Keep going, Michael. I'm so wet⊠please, please use your fingers-" you said, breathing intensely. He started sliding your panties down your leg and began to glide his finger against your heat, teasing you, which caused you to moan louder than you intended. Blushing, "It's okay, don't apologizeâ. he said
Your moan echoed through the empty park, causing your cheeks to flush.
"I can tell you're enjoying this," he said in a deep, smooth tone. "Oh my god, I'm sorry I didn't mean to be so loud. " You said, giggling. You feel yourself getting more aroused from the way heâs touching and sneaking around at the park. It makes the situation even riskier, but it turns you on even more.
You glance at your watch and realize itâs 2:00 in the morning. "Michael, itâs 2:00 a.m. We completely lost track of time," you said with a shy giggle. âIâm so caught up with loving you that Iâm completely oblivious to how much time has passed,â he chuckled. You then noticed that he had a bulge when you looked down at him. âCan I?" you said seductively. He looked at you, nodding yes, so you gently took your hand and moved it to his waist, then lowered it to his hard bulge. Â
You begin massaging his erect cock before removing it from his black tailored slacks. He instinctively puts his hand on his face, hiding his blushing face because the touch made him feel so vulnerable that he couldnât comprehend what to do. He then took his hands and placed them on your head while you stroke his erect cock, then taking him in your mouth, making him whimper. "I want to make love to you," he said.
You pull back slowly, letting his cock slip from your lips with a wet pop, which somehow makes him even harder. His hands still tremble from where they rested against your head, fingers still tangled in your hair. You look up to meet his eyes, which are blown wide with lust.
"Here? What if someone sees us?" you say in almost a whisper, glancing around the empty park, hoping he says yes. This risk sends a fresh wave of arousal through you, pooling between your thighs where his fingers had been working you earlier.
"Nobody's here," he breathes, voice rough and uneven. "I made sure of it before we sat down. It's just us, baby." He then guides you up softly, almost like you were made out of glass, his other hand reaching for your waist to pull you onto his lap. "I need to feel you⊠Need to be inside you."
You straddle him on the bench, the wood pressing uncomfortably against your knees. His hands slide under your dress to hold onto your thighs, gripping firmly as he helps you position yourself over him. You reach between your bodies, guiding him to your entrance.
The moment his tip brushes against your slick sheath, you both moan in unison.
"Slow," he murmurs against your neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses against it. "Let me take care of you."
You sink down onto him inch by inch, your head falling back as he fills you completely. When you're fully seated in his lap, his cock already deep inside, he holds you still for a moment, both of you breathing hard against each otherâs skin.
"You're so big, Michael. Feels so good," you whisper while his hands roam up your back.
He presses you closer against him. "Mhhâ so perfect around me, almost like you were made for me."
You start to move, rolling your hips in slow, deliberate circles. The friction of him inside you, the way he hits that spot deep within, has you biting your lip to keep yourself from moaning loudly.
"That's it, baby," he encourages. "Just like that, girl. Take what you need."
The bench creaks beneath you as you start bouncing on it faster, inching closer and closer to your release. His hands grip your hips, guiding your rhythm, sometimes slowing you down when you move too fast, not wanting to come undone before you.
"Michael-" you gasp, feeling the pressure build low in your belly. "I'm close already-"
"I got- ah I got you," he assures you, one hand sliding between your bodies to find your clit. His thumb pressing down, circling tight, firm strokes that matches your movements. "Let go for me. I've got you."
"No, I wanna go harder, Michael⊠faster until you cum inside of me. Tell me how good my wet pussy feels." You moaned in his ear. That's all it took for you to come undone with a cry that echoed through the empty park, your body clinging to his as waves of pleasure kept hitting you. He captures your mouth in a kiss, swallowing the sounds of your moans as you shudder in his arms."
âIâm crazy for you, I love you,â he passionately declared as he gave you intense, deep thrusts. You were completely hysterical as you took every inch of him inside you, yearning for this moment to never end. âDonât you dare⊠keep fucking me, please! Iâm gonnaâŠâ you screamed. He was drenched and covered in your wet juices from his hard cock, but you couldnât resist stopping until both of you reached that intense climax.
The sensation of you tightening around him pushes him over the edge. He buries his face in your neck and with a deep moan, his hips jerk upward as he spills deep inside you, holding you close as he rides out his own release.
For a few minutes, both of you stay like that, tangled together on a random park bench, breathing hard and sweating despite the cool night air.
"We should head home," he whispers against your shoulder. "Before the sun comes up and morning joggers arrive."
You giggle, pulling back to look at him, "You're right."
He helps you adjust your dress, his fingers lingering against your skin with loving touches, as you were also helping him tuck himself back into his slacks. Your legs feel wobbly as you stand, and he catches you with an arm around your waist, steadying you with a smile.
"Michael" you say giggling "my legs don't work," you whine playfully, leaning into his touch more.
"Then I'll carry you," he teases, though he keeps his arm firmly around you as you begin to walk back to where the car is parked.
By the time you reached his estate, the first hints of dawn were painting the sky in purple and pink colors. You had intended to shower and then pass out on the bed, but the moment the door closed behind you, Michael's hands were on you again, turning you to face him.
âMichael, what-" you say, but are cut off by him giving you a quick peck. "How about round two?" he asks, backing you against the nearest wall. "I promised you I'd make love to you till the break of dawn, didn't I?"
You don't even try to protest as you let him lift you, wrapping your legs around his waist as he carries you towards the bedroom.
summary ââ àŒŻ you are a struggling college student working on nocturncamz.com. For the right amount, you'll do anything online. But when your new, most secretive client has you thinking of bending your rules.... you must tread carefully
pairing ââ àŒŻ mature! michael x fem! camgirl reader
author's note ââ àŒŻ i wasn't planning on it, but now this is going to be multichapter. i hope u enjoy my little art references and such in here. i did a fair bit of research on the dialogue that occurs.
tags ââ àŒŻ deep conversations, masks, hidden identity, or so michael thinks lmao, intimatacy, eventual smut, oral (f! receiving), soft dom! michael, praise, age gap, cam girl, slight sugar baby vibes but not really tbh, michael is just rich and wants some company, fantasy-esque, michael is dramatic af, idk what to tell u guys,
chapters; one | two
w.c; 10k
The silence after you typed âYesâ was disgustingly menacing. The chat log sat open, mocking you, its dark bolded lettering a digital burn on your screen: 5225 Figueroa Mountain Road, Los Olivos, California 93441.
You stared at it until the letters blurred, the monitor glow drying your eyes, the laptop fan a thin whine beneath the pound of blood in your ears.
The adrenaline that had carried you through the confrontation with your own fear bled away, leaving a cold, hollow dread in its wake, a nausea so unsettling that you thought you might upchuck at any moment.
Youâd agreed. You, a broke college student with very limited prospects, or protection, for that matter; had just agreed to be driven to a remote estate to meet a 'masked' man who paid you thousands of dollars to talk dirty.
You were an idiot. A spectacularly, dangerously stupid idiot.
You were driven to this... you were sure of it. There was only so much you could take of the male petulance; after a shift where a guy spent forty dollars to have you read him a Wikipedia article about car parts in a baby voice, you merely⊠cracked.
The memory of that callerâs dead-eyed request still itched under your skin, the degrading banality of it making this new insanity feel almost like liberation.
But you were also a pragmatist.
And $2,200 was a siren song that drowned out the screams of your better judgment, a neon pulse behind your eyes that said rent, food, sleep.
Before the panic could fully set in, his username blinked back to life in your private chat.
king777tut: I did not expect for you to want to meet me.
SweetViolet: Yeah, well me neither. surprised myself on this one. But i feel compelled to see where this goes.
A pause. The cursor blinked. You could feel the shift, the digital air cooling from the intimacy of before into something more procedural, the warmth of his earlier whispers scraped away to leave bare transaction.
king777tut: We should discuss practicalities. Compensation for your time and travel. I want this to be clear cut. For your comfort, of course.
The phrasing was stiff, awkward. It felt like he was reading from a script, or trying to sound like someone who conducted business, the words too careful, too measured for a man whoâd just come apart over text.
SweetViolet: What did you have in mind?
king777tut: I am not sure what is standard. I do not wish to offend you,,, Please. Tell me what you needâŠ.
There it was. The out.
You could name some absurd number, scare him off, retreat back into the safe, grimy anonymity of your cam room.
But the $2,200 already in your account from very little work was siphoning you.
The power was in your hands, heâd handed it to you.
You had to look like you knew what you were doing, had to wear the armor of a woman who did this daily.
âOkay,â you whispered to the empty, hot room.
âYouâre a professional. Act like one.â
You didn't make yourself sound convincing. You couldn't.
You closed the chat window and opened a blank notes document. The cursor mocked you, sitting in the empty document like a tiny, blinking eye.
For the next three hours, you fell down a rabbit hole of your own making. You combed through shady forums, archived subreddits and the cryptic jargon of âsugar babyâ blogs, the blue light of the screen painting your knees in ghostly pallor.
You learned terms like âPPMâ (Pay Per Meet), âallowance,â âovernight fee,â âtravel companionship.â
You saw numbers that made your head spin; four figures for a dinner date, five figures for a weekend. You read advice columns about safety, about screening and about never compromising your rate.
You felt like a fraud, a kid playing dress-up in a world of hardened courtesans, your dollar-store panties a world away from their elite lingerie drawers.
Every line you typed felt like a lie etched deeper into your soul. You weren't really a professional. You were a scared girl who got slightly more turned on than usual listening to a sad man whisper dirty sweet nothings through a mask on a blurry cam.
But you had gotten yourself into this position and now you had to sell the fantasy. Of confidence. Of experience. For the money. Just for the money.
Make him believe you. Extort this celebrity man for his fortune so you can simply afford the nicer butter in the grocery store.
So, you made a list. A cold, calculated breakdown of your own worth by the hour.
Social Companion (Dinner/Event): $2,000 for up to 4 hours. Includes platonic public or private companionship, conversation. No physical intimacy implied.
Private Companion (In-Call/Out-Call): $5,000 for up to 6 hours. Includes intimate, private time. Overnight stays begin after 6 hours.
Overnight Fee: $8,000 for a 12-hour period (e.g., 8 PM to 8 AM). Requires private, secure accommodations.
Extended Stay (24 Hours): $12,000.
Weekend (48 Hours): $20,000.
You read it over. It was a masterpiece of bullshit. It sounded legit.
If you were completely honest with yourself, you were pretending to be someone you werenât, so the fake price list was just another lie to add to the list.
It was so far removed from what you wanted to do but again... the money.
The guilt was a leaden weight in your gut. You were constructing a persona out of greed and desperation, spinning a web of lies to entrap a person who, for all his fame and wealth, had shown you a semblance of vulnerability youâd never encountered in a man before.
But you needed the money. You needed it. It didn't matter who he was or what he was. You'd take the opportunity.
With a final, shaky breath, you copied the text and pasted it into the chat.
SweetViolet: My terms are below. Please review them and let me know
You hit send.Â
The wall of text, so clinical and mercenary, landed in the space where just hours before youâd typed out how he made you feel. The whiplash was nauseating.
The ellipsis appeared. It pulsed. And pulsed. For five full minutes. You imagined him on the other side, in his silk sheets, reading this cold contract, his masked face unreadable.
Was he disappointed? Was he impressed? Was he even the one reading it, or was it maybe one of his staff? Perhaps the sharp-eyed manager?
Finally, a response.
king777tut: I understand. This is comprehensive,,, The amounts are of no consequence, to me. I would like to begin with the Companion 6 hr option. For this Friday.
You were bewildered at how he had just accepted the terms with no questions asked, like your price list was pocket change.
The fantasy was officially over; the contract had begun.
You had to act like a business woman now for the most part. This was technically business and maybe heâd treat it that way too. Paying for a productâexperiencing what it says on the tin.
Be a companion to him.
The hairs on your arms raised at the thought.
SweetViolet: Agreed. I will need the payment 24 hours prior to the engagement.
king777tut: I will need a few days to rearrange my schedule and ensure security protocols are in place,,, I will have my associate, Mr. Lees, send the car details and the payment. You will hear from him.
SweetViolet: Okay.
king777tut: Thank you. I will⊠see you soon,,, I hope.
He logged off. You minimised the chat and stared at your price list document. You had just sold your first call out; a lump sum of $5,000.
You had lied about literally being a prostitute. And now, through sheer, terrified will, you had become one. The web was spun. You were caught in it too.
You slammed the laptop lid shut in an emotional daze. Was this the right thing to do?
The question hung, unanswered, in the stale, hot apartment air.
.Ëâ ⹠°
The silence stretched for two days, thick and unnerving. No new messages and no log ons. You could see his last active status and it was days ago, a frozen timestamp mocking your waiting.
You went through the motions of your classes, of your shifts, but your mind was fixated on the only thing keeping you afloat.
Friday. The money. Meeting with him in person.
You checked your Wire account a dozen times a day, the balance a taunting, static number, showing no new deposits, the refresh button worn smooth under your thumb.
The dread had changed into a frightening suspicion. Had it all been a bizarre fantasy? A cruel joke played by a man with too much money and too little to do?
Part of you hoped it was, so you could get out of this situation, unscathed and with your dignity intact. It would mean you werenât a liar.
The other, more desperate part of you felt the impact and weight of that five thousand dollars, already spent on tuition, rent and credit card debt in your head, a phantom ledger you couldn't undo.
.Ëâ ⹠°
On the morning of the third day of silence, things changed.
A courier service youâd never heard of was stopped outside of your house; a big unmarked grey van.
After nearly tumbling down the stairs in a fit of excitement, you reached the door, where a uniformed driver greeted you gruffly, and presented a large, rectangular hamper at your apartment door.
It was a woven willow basket, the size of a small suitcase, with a deep, arched handle. It looked like something out of a Victorian fairytale, or for a very expensive picnic. The wicker scratched against your palm as you took its weight.
You hauled it inside, the weight of it fairly substantial for its size, your arms trembling by the time you reached your room.
You got it up into your bedroom and let it rest on your scuffed laminate floor, an alien artifact among your scattered textbooks.
Tied to the handle with a thick, black silk ribbon was a small, cream-colored envelope. Your username was written on it in a looping, elegant script that used too much ink. It was handwritten, the strokes pressing into the paper deeply.
With trembling fingers, you untied the ribbon and lifted the basketâs lid.
A scent bloomed into the air first; a really strong cologne. A spicy, powdery, distinctive aroma of sandalwood, clove, and something floral and expensive, ylang-ylang, maybe.
It was so potent, so present in your teeny room that it felt like an invasion, like heâd actually walked into this place and graced you with his presence.
Heâd sprayed it, liberally, somewhere in this package, the mist clinging to every fold of tissue neatly packed.
Beneath a layer of delicate, black tissue paper, the contents glimmered.
It was lingerie, but not from any store you knew. There was a slip dress the color of moonlit smoke, so fine it was nearly translucent, with straps as thin as spider silk and a hem that would brush mid-thigh.
Next to it, a chemise in a neutral, creamy chiffon, dotted with tiny, hand-embroidered black stars along the plunging neckline. A pair of sheer stockings, black as a ravenâs wing, with seams so straight they looked drawn on. And at the very bottom, folded with care, a robe.
It was black velvet on one side, a pattern of silver-grey damask on the other, heavy and luxurious, with wide, dramatic sleeves.
It was fantasy wear. It was floaty, ethereal, and undeniably sensual. And it was all brand new, the tags on the pieces, tiny slivers of satin from some sort of Parisian atelier youâd only read about in novels.
Where the hell did he get this? Had he flown it in just for you? Or was this something he did often enough that he kept this boutique on hand?
Whichever it was in this moment, you felt you didnât quite care. It completely eliminated you having to stand in front of your small and sad wardrobe and pick out overused lingerie youâd been wearing for well over 8 months on the cam site. Youâd never really had the money to invest in anything better than what you had.
You reached for the envelope next, the paper thick and expensive under your thumb.Â
The cologne was strongest here. You slid out a single sheet of matching cream stationery.
The handwriting was the same as on the envelope, but here it was smaller, more rushed, the letters leaning into each other.Â
The handwriting was in cursive at points, but blended into capital letters; showing a slightly chaotic approach to the writing, like theyâd learned partially how to write cursive but never quite could commit to it.
For Sweet Violet,
A small gift. I hope the colours please you. I imagined you in shades of night and mist.
Youâve never seen me before; for I have remained anonymous. Masked. We truly all wear them. Some are flesh. Some are silk. Some are smiles. Mine is one I have to wear to protect myself.
Wear one for me. Not to hide, but to reveal the truth that only anonymity can grant. True indulgence and enjoyment.
I have taken the liberty of including one I thought would suit the fantasy. I will be masked as well.
The mask does not conceal the soul's intended hue,
It simply lets the hidden self speak true.
So let us meet as shadows, let us meet as art,
every touch, a brushstroke in the dark.
I have also included a dress. Purple. Silk. Wear this when you arrive. Over the other things.
Yours,
KT.
Beneath the signature, in a different, more utilitarian pen stroke, was a postscript:
P.S. The agreed compensation for your engagement with my client has been initiated. Please check your Wire account upon receipt of this hamper. It should be settled by close of business today. â Mr. R. Lees
You dropped the note as if it had burned you. The paper fluttered to the floor, the smell of his cologne rising up through the horrendous California heat like a fire.
Your eyes flew to the hamper. Youâd missed it, nestled in a fold of the velvet robe and just beside the purple dress; a mask.
You lifted it out. It was a half-face creation of black lace and stiffened silk, covering from the hairline down to just above the lips. It was Phantom of the Opera esque, but more elegant, less grotesque.
Delicate silver filigree traced the brow line and curled along the high cheekbones, and a single, tear-shaped black crystal hung where it would rest against your temple and then, some thin, black silk ribbons for tying.
It was beautiful. It was theatrical.
It was exhilarating; playing a part, playing into his hand.
He was building a set, designing a costume, scripting a scene for you to come and slip into.
The note was a love letter to the concept of being someoneâs little secret.
You hadnât really thought of that before; maybe you were his. Maybe he was married?
You knew from stalking the internet that he had kids, so it wasnât far from the realm of reality that he may be cheating on his partner.
The poem was awkward, heartfelt, and very cheesy.
The reminder about the payment, tacked on by the efficient Mr. Lees, was the cold splash of reality in the middle of this perfumed fantasy.
You sat on the floor, the scent of him enveloping you, the gorgeous, impossible fabrics spilling around you like a silken tide.
You had things to sort out now; pruning to do.
Fix your eyebrows, shave, wax, moisturise⊠everything shower to the point you are seeing stars from heat exhaustion.
You picked up the mask from the floor as you stood, holding it up to your face.
In the dim reflection of the plastic make up mirror that sat awkwardly on your desk, you saw a stranger; a mysterious, elegant woman, from a different century. Your own eyes, wide and scared, peered out from the ornate holes.
He wanted to play a game where both players were disguised. The dirtiness youâd sensed was a bit crude and cringe but you had to give it to him, it was well thought out and curated.
It would be a performance within a performance. The intimacy would be mediated through silk and lace, through roles heâd written.
The thought should have revolted you. It should have sent you running to send a cancellation.
But a treacherous, dark part of you, the same part that had gotten turned on listening to his whispered fantasies, stirred.
The sheer audacity of it. How ridiculous he really was, the fact heâd given you hundreds of dollars worth of lingerie, and was paying for you to be a pawn in his little game.
The decadent, obsessive attention to detail, the way heâd sprayed his cologne on the note so youâd have to smell him while you read his words... It was possessive. It was insane.
It was also the most romantic and the most violating thing anyone had ever done for you.
And the money. You grabbed your laptop from where it sat on the desk and pulled it close, your fingers clumsy. You opened internet explorer and found your banking app.Â
You refreshed.
The balance updated. A deposit of $5,000. From an entity listed as MJJ777 Holdings LLC.
Shit. It was all laid out for you now, and suddenly you realised, due to dropping the funds, you wonât be able to get out of it now.
You carefully folded the lingerie back into the hamper, placed the mask on top, and closed the lid. The scent of him lingered in your apartment, in your hair, on your hands.
.Ëâ ⹠°
An unmarked car pulled up at 1pm on the Friday, after an agonising wait. The promised car thankfully wasnât a limo, which was your first relief.
It was a dark, unremarkable SUV with very dark tinted windows. The driver, a large, silent man with a kind face, simply nodded when you gave your name.
The drive north on the 101 was a slow unraveling of the cityâs grip; the surreal blur of the early evening streetlights fading.Â
Youâd asked the driver to have the windows down for most of the drive; it made you feel better. When they were closed, it was suffocating, to not be able to see around you.
The baked concrete and smog gave way to rolling golden hills, then to the lush, manicured green of the Santa Ynez Valley, weirdly untouched by the drought. Vineyards stretched in orderly rows, their leaves a vibrant, almost artificial emerald against the water-starved landscape.
After a few doses, you startled awake, the car pulling into a non-descript road. The driver started to roll up the windows again.Â
âFor security purposes, we donât allow people to see the outside of the property, maâam.â His gruff voice came from the front seat.Â
You gulped and nodded.
Goosebumps rose on your armsâ you were imagining it to be just like the pictures and the TV specials. It was crazy that you were here. On his estate. In his world.
You felt totally disorientated as the movement came to a halt.
the driver finally got out and then opened the door for you.Â
When you emerged, you noticed you were in a clearing dominated by a picturesque, storybook cottage and tall dense trees.
It was made of river stone and dark timber, with a steeply pitched roof and leaded glass windows. It looked like something from a fairy tale.
To the left, a path disappeared into more trees.
To the right, you could just catch a glimpse of something vast and white through the foliage, it had to be the main residence, you presumed.
The cottage door opened before the driver could even get out to let you out of the vehicle. Your heart was in your throat at the thought of him stepping out so casuallyâbut it wasnât him.
A short man stepped out instead; he looked to be in his late fifties, impeccably dressed in a navy blazer and crisp khakis, his silver hair cut with military precision. He had calm, assessing eyes that were roaming over your very formal purple slip dress that was chosen for you. or maybe it was the wrinkles he was looking at, from you sitting in it. Either or, it was a bit intense.
You inwardly rolled your eyes at the fact that he was even eye fucking you in the first place.
âMiss,â he said, his voice neutral, professional. âWelcome. Iâm Mr Lees. You can call me Rich. I handle uh⊠my clientâs domestic affairs.â
Mr. Jackson. You had wanted him to say the name so badly so you could no longer pretend that you didnât know who this was that you were meeting.
However, it seemed your masked cam boy wanted to stay private for a little while longer.
It was perplexing that he would not even think of you going to google his address and finding what you did, but it was besides the point. Youâd go along with the rouse.
âHi,â you managed, your voice thin.
âIâve been instructed to tell you where you are and what is happening this evening.â His phrasing made you cringe a bit.
âThe home owner, and your point of contactâ he cleared his throat again awkwardly, clearly not sure how to deliver his next thoughts. You were beginning to doubt if his client had done this before.
At this point you didnât know what you were either; was this truly prostitution? You got chills at the thought. Getting men off on a cam was very different to this.
â-- Is a multi-millionaire, a philanthropist, a performer, and a humanitarian. He is well known and therefore we have arranged for your meeting with him to be on his property, where no media outlets or outside entities can be aware of your meeting.â
âUhhh. okay thank you for the introduction, i guessâ you mumbled, your voice small. This already felt insaneâyou thought about climbing back into the big fancy car with the kind man and have him drop you back off at your shithole apartment.
âYour bag, Miss?â He took your duffel from your hands without waiting for a response.
âMy client is indisposed at the moment. He asked that you get settled in. This,â he gestured to the sightly cottage behind him, âwill be your accommodation during your visits.â
The use of âvisitsâ threw youâthereâd be more? The mysterious socialite hadnât even met you in person yet. Hadnât given you a chance; how could he know it would go further?
The language Rich was using was so carefully sterile, it sanitised the sheer insanity of the situation.
He then led you inside. The cottage was cool, dim, and smelled of lemon floor polish and old wood.
It was decorated with a kind of expensive, impersonal coziness; overstuffed floral sofas, landscapes in heavy gilt frames, a grand piano in the corner. It was like a stage set. A very beautiful, very lonely stage set.
âThe kitchen is fully stocked. Help yourself to anything. Thereâs a media room downstairs in the basement. The terrace has a view of the gardens.â Rich placed your bag by the foot of a sweeping staircase.
âHe will arrive here, when heâs ready. Is there anything you require immediately?â
Yes. An explanation. A way out. My sanity.
âNo. Thank you.â
He gave a curt nod. âThe house rules are simple. You are not to leave the cottage grounds unaccompanied. You are not to approach the main house unless specifically invited. You are not to take photographs. Your cell will have no service here, but there is a landline in the library for local calls. All other communications are monitored for security.â He said it all with bored efficiency, like heâd spieled this to someone before.
Your stomach was churning at an alarming rate.
âDinner will be served later in the evening.â he moved around you awkwardly and then nodded. âEnjoy your stay, miss Y/LNâ
You froze up out of undeniable shock and fear; your full name?
Heâd clearly had someone look into you. See who you truly were and what you were all about.
It seemed like an unfair power balance; one that you didnât really fully appreciate.
There went your privacy and any kind of anonymity if this all blew up in your face.
And then Rich was gone, the heavy oak door closing with a soft, definitive click.
This was all morphing into some impending doom; you had to take some majorly deep breaths to keep calm and to not cry.
You were alone. In a cottage. On his sprawling grounds with no signal whatsoever.
You walked to the large window overlooking the terrace, embracing the quiet and the sound of the birds. The âgardensâ were less a garden and more a wild, semi-tamed jungle of exotic plants, towering bamboo, and winding gravel paths.
In the distance, you could see the stark white peaks of a roller coaster, motionless against the blue sky.
You were here now; you had to just work through the anxiety and make it to the inevitable. The act that youâd been hired for.
.Ëâ ⹠°
Full dark had settled when the soft tapping came at the French windows.
Knock. Knock-knock.
You walked to the glass, the purple dress you changed into billowing behind you.
Outside, on the flagstone terrace, stood a figure in black velvet. The mask was simple, severe, anonymizing. It was contoured around his face perfectly; all black materials, lace, velour and some leather. It carved out the bottom of his face, leaving lips and a jawline on show, and tied around the back of his head with some lace black ribbon.
Youâd always known what heâd looked like; the most photographed man in the world, but the way this mask sat on his face, and the way his dark hair framed it all, it really was hard to tell who he was.
You knew who this was, though. It was making concentrating on the money, harder.
He lifted a gloved hand and waved, the gesture awkward, then pointed toward the garden path.
You turned the latch and stepped out.
The night air was cool. He looked at you, his masked head tilting.
A soft, breathy sound escaped him. Huuuh-oh. It was a vocalization, pure and surprised.
âYouâŠâ he started, his voice that familiar, breathy tenor, but softer, more present. He seemed to be choosing each word with extreme care.
âYou wore the dress. I⊠I was thinking you might not.â He took a small step closer. âYou look⊠my goodness. You look like a painting. A Laura Wheeler Waring painting, come to life.â The art reference was a shock, and utterly disarming.
âThank you,â you managed, your voice thin and nervous in the vast quiet.
âCome,â he said, his voice light and just⊠lovely. He extended his gloved hand, palm up, a silent, formal invitation.
You hesitated for only a second before placing your hand in his. Goosebumps rose on contact with him. The leather was soft, warm from his skin.
His fingers closed around yours with a gentle, surprising firmness. He simply turned, leading you down the terrace steps and onto the gravel path.
He walked beside you, your hands linked. The formality of it, the old-world gallantry, made your heart stutter.
He was quiet for a moment, then his voice, closer now, floated to you. The words came in a rush, as if heâd been holding them back.
His earlier precision began to soften, the sentences running together.
âI have thought of this. For days. Since you said yes.â
âI would be in a meeting,â he said, the words spilling out, âand my mind would drift. I would wonder⊠will she like the gifts? Was it too much? The mask⊠was it too theatrical?â He glanced at you, the faint light catching the lower curve of his mask that sat just above his lips.
He gave a soft, self-deprecating chuckle, the sound loosening something in his posture.
âI have a flare for the dramatics. I canât help it. Itâs just⊠who I am.â
âIt wasnât too much,â you said, the truth of it surprising you. âIt was beautiful. All of it.â
He squeezed your hand lightly. The gesture was less formal now, more genuine.
âIâm glad. Really. I wanted it to be⊠special. For you.â He paused as you both rounded a bend.
âYou said you study. At UCLA.â
âArt history. With a minor in sociology.â
âSociology!â he exclaimed, the word bursting from him with genuine delight.
The exclamation was less measured, more spontaneous. âThe study of people. That is⊠that is a very smart degree to pursue. And art history⊠tell me, who moves you? Not just who you study. Who speaks to here?â He brought his free hand to his chest, over his heart.
The question was so earnest, so direct, it bypassed your nerves.
âRecently? The Symbolists. Moreau. Redon. The way they use myth⊠itâs not about literal truth, itâs about psychological truth. The monsters arenât out there, theyâre in here.â You tapped your own temple.
âTrust me, I know all about the monsters in the mind,â he said, his voice dropping into a more confidential tone. The âgâ in âgoingâ vanished, a sign of his growing ease.
âIâve been battlinâ someâŠdemons my whole life.â He squeezed your hand lightly again, as if to say I wonât get into that, but I know.
He continued, his speech beginning to flow, losing its stilted over performed edge.
âI read a lot of philosophy. Been blessed to travel, see places with rich history. To learn more about religion and the human condition."
âSo, in other words you⊠you know your stuff,â you finally said.
The mask dipped in a gesture of modesty.
âI have been⊠fortunate. To see many things. To live with art. It has been my teacher.â his voice had gotten higher as he got more excited recalling his experiences. He cleared his throat, and his next words came out much deeper. âAnd, my⊠escape.â
He fell quiet for a few steps.
âBooks, art, my animals⊠sometimes theyâre better company than people. People⊠they want a piece. Iâll only let them see the surface. Nothinâ deeper. Fame is the mask I canât take off.â He said it as a simple fact.
Then he seemed to catch himself, to remember the mask he was literally wearing and stopped abruptly. He let out that soft, breathy laugh again. The laugh was easier now. âI guess Iâm takinâ that quite literally, now, huh?â
He fell back into step beside you, hand still linked and changed the subject.
"This whole place," he said, gesturing vaguely with his free hand at the sprawling dark beyond the trees, "it's bigger'n you'd think. Hundreds of acres. Never really remember how many. You ever seen anythin' like it? Feels like another country right?"
You shook your head, the gravel crunching under your heeled shoes. "Never. I've never even been on a date this elaborate. Hell, I've never left the country."
He slowed, his head tilting toward you. "Never left the country? Not once?"
"Nope. Barely left California, if I'm honest."
Something flickered in himâa soft, saddened crease at the corners of his visible eyes.Â
"That's⊠that's a real shame. A girl like you, should see the world. The things I've seen, the temples, the coast lines, the cultureâŠ" He cleared his throat again, clearly a nervous tick. It was awkward, the sound small in the quiet. "You got a passport, at least?"
You laughed, a little embarrassed. "No. Never needed one."
"Right. Well. Youâll have to fix that, someday." The words landed casual, but his grip on your hand tightened just slightly.
He stopped walking then, turning to face you fully in the dappled light.
The clearing with the table was just ahead.
âI hpe I am not coming across as too much,â he said, his voice dropping, becoming more intimate.
âForgive me. Itâs just⊠Iâm excited. I canât believe you came. And Iâve been really lookinâ at you⊠youâre so young. And so bright.â He lifted his other hand, as if to touch your face, but stopped short, his gloved fingers hovering near your jawline.
âThe days since I found you⊠theyâve settled me. And excited me, in ways⊠you canât imagine. Been missinâ that. Missinâ a real spark.â He said, a lovely smile touching his full lips, the only part of his masked face you could see.
"mhm maybe this ol' man is just being a bit too mushy--"
âYouâre not old,â you said automatically, totally interrupting him.
The mask tilted. âOh, I know, not really,â he said, his voice warm with the hint of a smile.
âSometimes I feel like Iâve lived ten lives. But in hereâŠâ He brought his hovering hand to his own temple.
âSometimes Iâm still that boy, lookinâ at the stars in my hometown, dreaminâ of magic. Dreaminâ of makinâ a difference.â He sighed, a sound of real weariness.
âI tried⊠I really tried to make a difference, you know? But it⊠it pushes people away. All of it. Gets real lonely. Exhaustinâ. So⊠thatâs where you come in, I guess.â
The confession was so vulnerable, so starkly at odds with the grandeur around you, it stole your breath.
âIâm sorry,â you whispered.
âDonât be,â he said, his voice brightening, though it still sounded a little forced.
âTonight⊠I donât feel lonely at all. Câmon. Let me do this right for you.â
He led you to the table and, with a courtly flourish, pulled out your chair.
You sat. He pushed it in gently before taking his own seat. The staff appeared, performed the silent ballet of pouring water and wine, and vanished.
Once alone, he lifted his glass, a shy smile in his voice. âTo art,â he said.
âAnd⊠makinâ some new memories.â
You clinked glasses. The wine was crisp, cold, perfect.
Over the first course, he asked more. He wanted to know about the sociology minor. He leaned in, his elbows on the table now, the last of the stiff posture gone.
âIs it⊠is it âcause you wanna understand why folks do the things they do?â he asked. âWhy they hurt each other? Why they need what they need?â
âSomething like that,â you said.
He was quiet for a long moment, toying with a cherry tomato. He looked up.
âAnd your other work. The cam site. Is that⊠another way of tryinâ to understand? The human condition?â
The question was so piercingly insightful it felt like an X-ray. You fumbled.
âUh. Unfortunately that is not as profound as you think. I just needed the money.â
He nodded slowly. âI get it,â he said softly. âI really do. Sex is⊠itâs a powerful thing.â He took a small sip of wine.
âYou shouldnât be havinâ to give pieces of yourself away like that. You should be free to chase your art, your dreams⊠not worryinâ âbout where the moneyâs cominâ from. You should have⊠real intimacy in your life.â
You shifted in your seat. "It wasn't all bad. Some of them were⊠nice. Like you."
His eyes sparkled through the mask at that. "I donât want to imagine the others, quite frankly," he said sounding amused.Â
"But iâll take the compliment, Sweet Violet.â
After the thoughts crossed his mind about you on there, he continued;
âI mean itâyou are on that site, half dressed, sellin' a fantasy to strangers. That's puttinâ yourself into a box. Trappinâ yourself in something that is pretty hard to step away from. I wanna see you flourish outside of that."
The main course came and went, the conversation flowing easier now. Heâd even started crackinâ little jokes, laughinâ that free, breathy laugh of his. The performance was over. He was, you realised, wildly intelligent, deeply emotional, and starved for a real, unfiltered connection.
As the dessert plates were cleared, he fell silent, looking at you. The fairy lights twinkled in his dark eyes behind his mask.
âGettinâ cooler out.â
He stood, and again offered his hand. âWould you⊠come inside with me? Itâs real warm in the cottage.â
You placed your hand in his and stood. He didnât drop it after helping you up; he held it tightly, his grip sure and warm, and led you back along the path. His pace was slower, more deliberate.
When you reached the edge of the clearing, you blurted, "This is kinda insane. All of it. Iâve had such a good time, it feels like a real date or somethin'."
He glanced at you, mask tilted, that breathy laugh huffing out.Â
"Who said it wasnât a real date, Sweet Violet?" The tease was light, you knew it couldnât be fully true considering his payment. Maybe he wanted to pretend?
When you reached the terrace steps, he stopped. âThe steps are uneven in the dark,â he murmured, his hand shifting to support your elbow. âHere. Allow me.â
He guided you up, his touch firm and sure. At the top, he reached past you to open the French door, ushering you into the warm, lamplit glow of the cottage. He followed you in and closed the door.
Inside, the space felt smaller, more intimate. He turned to you, still holding your hand. He was close now.
You could smell the subtle mix of his cologne, the wine on his breath, the clean scent of his velvet suit.
âThank you,â he said, his voice a husky whisper, all the earlier nerves gone. âFor the most normal⊠and the most extraordinary eveninâ Iâve had in⊠in a real long time.â
He lifted your hand, still enclosed in his gloved one, and pressed his lips softly against your knuckles. The leather was warm, his kiss feather-light and devastatingly formal.
Then he straightened, but didnât release your hand.
His other hand came up, and his gloved fingertips traced the edge of your lace mask, from your temple down to your cheekbone.
âNow,â he breathed, the word full of promise and a tremor of his old shyness.
âCan I get to know you a bit more intimately?â
âIsnât that what you brought me here for?â you tried to sound sultry, but it came out just above a whisper, and more unsure than that.
He let out a sweet, nervous chuckle. âI guess so. I just⊠I wanted to ask you first. Before I⊠before we touch like that.â
The way his eyes were trained on you through the mask was agonisingâit had been a while since you had felt the real warmth and touch of a man.
Your exâs affections felt so far removed from the reality you were living in here and now.Â
He was stood opposite you in his ornate velvet outfit, a vision, really.
His wolf cut was perfectly cut, and framed the mask expertly. As if it had been made just for him, and maybe, you supposed it had been.
Heâd had another on the call. Maybe he hides frequently? Wears masks even into public?
Heâd been entirely gentlemanly all night but now his stance seemed, hungry.
âP-please. Go ahead,â your voice was strained; desperate almost.
Internally you were kicking yourself, you had to make sure in future that you werenât wearing every thought and feeling on your face. You can't give him too much power over you.
âOh, thank goodness,â he whispered, the words rushinâ out on a shaky breath of pure relief. âI wouldâve been tormented if youâd said no.â
After standing so still in an almost stand off, he then, with a tenderness that contradicted the feverish energy you could feel radiating from him, closed the gap between you both, and lifted his gloved hands.
His fingers went to the silk ribbons of your mask. You could smell him even more clearly now as his hands circled you, the sleeves of his elegant blazer right by your face.
The scent he was wearing, whatever it may be, was genuinely intoxicating. He untied the knot with meticulous, painstaking slowness, as if disarming something precious and volatile.
You could hear his breath, soft and rhythmic through his nostrils in the quiet. The mask was loose and he cradled the side of your face with his other hand, his thumb stroking your cheekbone just beside the lace, and then, with infinite care, he lifted it from your skin.
He held it for a second, looking from the ornate lace to your bare face. His eyes behind his own mask were wide, dark, and utterly focused.Â
He was seeing you finally, for the first time in person and not whatever persona you played on your cam profile.
It was so hard to lock up your energy here, you were an open book type of person and this was not a situation you found yourself in often.
He turned and placed your mask on the piano lid, aligning it neatly as if for display. Then he turned back, and his attention dropped to his own gloves.
He pinched the tip of a finger on his right glove and began to pull. The soft black leather peeled away with a whisper, revealing his hand inch by inch. His hands were big.
You'd never noticed on screen, but they wereâlong, slender fingers, yes, but with broad palms and pronounced knuckles.
The skin was pale, almost luminous in the warm light, peppered with darker pigment. He flexed it, tendons standing out, before repeating the process with the left. The gloves joined your mask on the piano.
âThe dress,â he said, his voice lower now, a warm, private rasp. âIt served its purpose. Beautifully.â
He stepped behind you. You felt the heat of him before you felt his touch. His hands came to rest on the very crests of your shoulders, his thumbs pressing into the tense muscles of your neck. âBut Iâd really like to see you out of it now.â
He kneaded gently, and you couldnât suppress a small sigh. He hummed in response, a soft, approving âMmm.â
His fingers found the zipper at your nape. He drew it down slowly, a deliberate, steady pressure. The sound was a long, sighing that seemed to go on forever, punctuated by the quiet click of the tab reaching the end.
He pushed the purple silk from your shoulders, his hands sliding down your arms as the dress fell away. He let it drop, a puddle of vivid color on the dark rug.
He let you stand there in the lingerie heâd chosen, letting him look. You felt his gaze warm, traveling over the sheer chiffon of the chemise, the delicate black stars, the dark seams of the stockings tracing up your thighs.
It was different in person; being admired like this. Usually men were slobbering over you online but their eyes were boring into a webcam, unlike his nowâtransfixed and hungry, looking at your real flesh. No pixels.
He came around to face you. His eyes raked over you, but his expression behind the mask was one of deep, almost painful concentration.
"mhm, you deserve to be worshipped, not drooled over by fools on the internet,"
you shivered at the thought of the word worshipping; what it meant. How total and intense his attentions already were, you couldn't imagine much more.
"they worship me in their own ways, I guess," you breathed out, your voice still uneven from nerves.
"s'not good enough," he brushed your hair off your shoulder and traced your collarbone lightly. "m'gonna give you what you are missingâ
He was sweating, just a little, a sheen at his hairline above the porcelain edge of his own mask. You deduced it was nerves, but not the kind that made a man fumble. It was the nerves of an actor before the curtain rose.
âHere,â he murmured, his hands finding your hips. They spanned your waist easily, his fingers curling around to the small of your back.
He guided you to the couch, his steps small and measured, until the back of your knees met the plush arm of the large sofa. âSit.â
You sank into the deep cushions.
He didn't join you. He stood before you for a long moment, just looking down, his gaze piercing.
You felt out of your depth; him towering, having orchestrated this whole night, practically begged for it, and now he made no move to undress, no move to unveil, no move to close the distance with anything but his hands.
Then, slowly, he lowered himself to his knees on the carpet. The position was shockingly humble, but there was nothing subservient about it.
It was ownership. He knelt like a man who had paid for the right to look.
His hands settled on your knees. His thumbs began to stroke the insides of your thighs, through the sheer stockings. The touch was gentle, exploratory, his head tilted, watching his own hands move.
âSo soft,â he mumbled, almost to himself.Â
His hands moved upward, pushing the hem of the chemise up your thighs. The air was cool on your newly exposed skin. He stared at the junction of your thighs, covered only by the flimsy silk of the panties he'd provided.
You could see the flush of arousal on his neck, creeping up above his collar, but his trousersâblack velvet, strained at the flyâhe made no move to touch himself.
He hooked his thumbs into the sides of the silk and, with a slowness that was agonising, drew them down your legs.
You lifted yourself slightly to let him. He folded them once, absently, and set them on the carpet beside his knee.
Now you were bare to him.
His breath hitched. âHuh-oh.â Soft, involuntary hunger.
His hands returned to your thighs, pushing them gently further apart. He leaned in. He was close enough that his breath, warm and quick, ghosted over your cunt.
Instead of touching, he brought his right hand up.
His fingers, long, elegant; hovered, then he plunged one into his mouth, wetting it.
With that one finger, just the pad, he dragged slowly, so slowly, through your folds.
He came away slick. He held it up to the lamplight, turning his hand, examining the wetness with a deep, fascinated focus.
âSo lovely to not have to imagine what you feel like, watching you on a pixelated screen,â he breathed, voice thick.
âIt's all for me.â
He looked up, eyes dark behind the mask.
âI've thought about this. The taste. The smell.â He brought that wet finger to his lips and sucked it clean.
His eyes fluttered shut. A low guttural groan vibrated in his chestââUngh.â
When they opened, the gentle curiosity was gone, burned into raw, obsessive need.
âGod. Where have you been all this time?â
You couldn't answer. Didn't even try. You felt like you should be paying for this, and not the other way around.
That single taste broke his restraintâbut not toward his own pleasure.
He leaned in, hands sliding under your thighs to pull you to the edge of the cushion, grip firm.
His mouth was on you with gentle kisses that transcended into hungry, open-mouthed desperation.
The first hot, wet lick from the bottom to the top of your heat made you whine, nails dragging the couch.
âShh, shh, I got you,â he mumbled against you, muffled, then dove back in.
He was messy. Starving. Utterly focused on you. His tongue flat and broad, lapping, circling your clit with a pressure that made you see colours behind your eyelids.
He used his lips to suck, gently at first on your clit, tongue moving it back and forth, then he'd suck harder, pulling the sensitive flesh into the heat of his mouth.
His nose pressed against you, his breath hot and rapid. His hands held you in place, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs.
You could hear himâthe wet, slick sounds of his mouth on you, the desperate, ragged pulls of his breathing through his nose, the soft, animal grunts of effort and pleasure he made in his throat.
The feeling of the mask on your skin was slightly foreign, but the scrape of it actually felt good - exciting.. And dark.
He was completely lost in the act of eating you out, but his own body stayed still, kneeling, the strained arc in his trousers ignored, untouched.
He was getting off on thisâon your wetness, your gasps, the power of paying to make you come apart while he stayed clothed, in control.
One of his hands left your thigh.
You felt his fingersâtwo, slick with your wetness and his salivaâpress against your entrance.
"you have the prettiest pussy I have ever seen in my life,"
He pushed inside, deep, in one smooth, unhesitating stroke.
The stretch was perfect, filling. He curled them, finding a spot inside that made your vision blur, and began a slow, relentless rhythm, in time with the devastating work of his tongue.
You were babbling, a stream of âoh god, oh Jesusâ You tangled a hand in his hair.
âLanguageâ He chuckled into your wetness. You tried to kill the laugh in your throat but couldnât.
When he heard it, he didnât stop, but glanced up at you behind the mask with dark eyes. The perfect wolf cut was getting messed up, under the tight knot of the lace holding his mask on. His hair was so soft too, damp with sweat at the root, his baby hairs peeking out.Â
He moaned, a deep, resonant sound of approval at your light touch on his head, and doubled his efforts.
His tongue flicked faster, his fingers pumped deeper, his other hand squeezing your thigh almost to the point of pain. Like he didnât want to let you go.
You looked down, through a haze of pleasure.
The sight was obscene, beautiful. Michael Jackson, on his knees, his half masked face buried between your legs, his shoulders working.
And below, the straining bulge in his black velvet trousers. You wanted to move to touch him; to give him some pleasure in return, as this felt like too much attention. Too much for just you.
Most men in a position like this would have been bucking into thin air, thinking of their next moveâhow to get their dick wet. But he was completely still, almost ignorant of it. He was so precise and focussed on you that he was neglecting himself.
He was paying for this, paying you, and that was the turn-on. Your pleasure was the product he'd bought, and he was consuming the act of giving it.
He could feel you tightening, trembling on the edge. You tried to pull away from him, to prolong the pleasure, so you could start on him as well. However this made him stern.
"Don't you move now. I'm not finished with you."
The way he said it and pushed his fingers in deeper, had you moaning so loud it embarrassed you; but you could not physically hold it in. the pleasure was taking up every single thought in your brain.
He went back to sucking and lightly tugging your clit. The wetness and heat feeling so good to you that it was unfathomable that this was not a dream.
He pulled his mouth away, breathing hard, his lips and chin glistening. âI can feel you gettinâ close,â he rasped, his voice wrecked. âYou are to look me dead in the eye when it happens, okay? I wanna see your eyes on mine when I put you over the edge.â
His thumb replaced his tongue on your clit, rubbing tight, furious circles. His fingers inside you hooked harder, stroking that deep, secret spot with unerring accuracy.
He held your gaze, his eyes wild and dark behind the mask, pupils blown wide.
âYou deserve to be made to feel so good, sweet thing⊠you shouldnât ever have to do this for yourself again. Iâm gonna spoil you rotten with this. Give you everythinâ youâve been wantinâ.âÂ
You were panting and babbling nonsense back to him now; your eyes strangely locked with his.
You couldnât look away. The pleasure you were feeling made you want to cry, the effect it was having on your emotions was profound.
"Aren't you gonna say thank you?" he asked, a playful, breathy tease in his tone.Â
"Thank you for takinâ such good care of you⊠and not askinâ for a thing in return?" He chuckled softly, his hand never stuttering.Â
"Thank you," you squeaked out, writhing.Â
"Ah-ah. Câmon, now. Let me hear it. louder."
"thank you!" you let it expel from your throat louder this time, but it came out like a cry.
âSo lovely watching you squirm from my touch,â he gritted out, lower this time, his own body trembling with the effort of holding back.
âThatâs a girl, come fâmeâ
That statement shattered you, his gruff directions from before, a departure from what youâd seen of him at the dinner table tonight. He changed so much moment to moment, you never really knew what you were getting.
The orgasm ripped through you with a violence that stole your breath, then your scream followed.
It was a full-body convulsion, your back bowing off the couch, your heels digging into his back where they lay over his shoulders, your vision whiting out into a kaleidoscope of pure sensation.
He rode you through it, his thumb never stopping, his fingers holding you firmly inside the maelstrom, his eyes watching every twitch, every shudder, drinking it in.
âThatâs it, thatâs itâŠall over me. Yeah⊠just like that.â
"good girl." he finally murmured, the praise warm and rough.
When the last pulses faded into aftershocks, he slowly, carefully, withdrew his hand.
He was panting, his shoulders heaving but he was almost trying to hide it.
He looked down at his fingers, soaked and glistening, then back at you, collapsed and boneless on the sofa.
A strange, quiet awe settled over his features, replacing the insatiable hunger.
He didn't kiss you. He didn't touch himself.
He just knelt there, catching his breath, the front of his trousers still visibly, painfully strained.
He seemed dazed, as if he wasn't even truly here with you in the room - like this was still in the cam room. He wasn't accessible.
Then, with a sudden, jarring movement, he pushed himself to his feet. He swayed slightly, steadying himself on the arm of the sofa.
He wouldn't look at you now.
He pulled a crisp, white handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his mouth, then his fingers, with quick, efficient strokes.
The shift was glacial and absolute. The man who had just worshipped you with desperate obsession was gone. He seemed sad almost, dejected, even. Like he had realised something.
âItâs gettinâ late,â he said, his voice flat, all the earlier warmth and openness, gone. He sound tired, like all his weary troubles had come flooding back. âIâve taken up enough of your eveninâ, I think.â
He walked to the French doors, his steps measured. He paused, his hand on the latch, his back to you. The velvet over his shoulders was taut with tension and his hair a mess from where your hands had been in it.
âMy driverâs waitinâ in the driveway. Heâll get you home safe ân sound. Itâs all taken care of.â He spoke to the glass on the door, out to the nighttime instead of you. Why couldnât he look back at you?
He opened it, letting in a rush of cool night air.Â
âTil next time, Sweet Violet.â
The door clicked shut.Â
You were alone, sprawled on the couch, the smell of sex and his cologne heavy in the air, your body aching with spent pleasure, and the clinical chill of his departure settling into your weary bones.
From the way your insides clenched with desire, and the pleasure you felt in these moments, you knew you were not satiated.
You wanted to come back and see this through. would he want you back though?
You were hooked on this fantasy now.Â
please let me know if you enjoyed this and want part 3! bc if this flops i am not writing more lol
Michael is shy upon meeting you at first. He didnât think things would get this far. He simply justâgot bored; he saw your number in the mountains of fanmail heâd received and dialed you.
Michael didnât expect for things to go beyond just a phone call. And he definitely didnât expect for you two to plan a full fledged date!
He was so shy, twiddling his fingers, adjusting his bowtie. He even checked his watch a few times, awaiting for you to walk through the restaurant doors.
And when you didâGod.
He was awestruck. The flow of your curls, the way you carried yourself with such confidence. He could practically see your beautiful aura emitting from your divine figure.
He got up from his seat immediately, wiping off his sweaty hands and extending it. However, you were bold.
You engulf him in a brief hug, humming softly against his ear. He froze up, but returned the gesture shortly after.
He may be shy, but he was never one to refuse a hug. Soon afterwards, the date resumed. Though, it was awkward. Michael would clear his throat, avoid eye contact.
But he would light up at the sound of your hobbies, how you take care of yourself, your independence as a woman. It attracted him.
You also expressed a deep appreciation for his music, his message. And his shyness began to fizzle out.
The date was a success. And Michael couldnât help but askânoâbeg to see you again.
You had to hide the smirk that threatened to reveal itself.
âSure.â Was all you said, strutting out the door with that confidence that drew him.
Michael was left in a state of awe, picking up his jaw from the floor, and happily returning homeâto which his dreams were flooded with you.
The next date came. Then another. And another.
Date after date, Michael found himself falling for you more and more. He enjoyed your company, your sultry nature, your intelligence.
He also enjoyed your body. But he was far too shy to admit it.
And the day you came over to visit? Michael couldnât sit still.
For a moment, you two sat in silence, gazing around his room, skimming his books, touching his plushies. You were endeared to be invited into his world. And he was happy to be a part of yours.
Yet, you intended to show him exactly how much you adored him.
It all happened so fast, soft, hesitant kisses forming into heated entanglements. You lifted your dress, only to be stopped by Michaelâs hands.
He shyly muttered that he wanted you to keep the dress on.
He liked seeing you in it.
You grin, slowly grinding against his waist, undoing his belt. Though, Michael grew hesitant; he grew shy again.
He covered his face, giggling bashfully. Yet, you resumed. And the moment you took him in your mouth?
He couldâve swore he saw stars. His long, slender fingers slithered through your hair, hips bucking upwards, making you gag on his length.
You couldnât help but grin at the way he attempted to withhold his noises from you, hoping to not wake the entire estate. Before long, he couldnât hold back.
Literally.
He released down your throat. A lot.
And you made sure that you swallowed every last drop before coming up to catch his lips again, making him taste himself on your lips.
Michael was awestruck once again, face warm, hands reaching up to grip your waist. He lookedâbaffled.
And heavily aroused.
And before long, he chuckled, taking his bottom lip between his teeth and flipping you over, making you yelp.
âNow, itâs your turn,â he murmured, capturing your lips before you could respond.
In this moment? It was safe to say that Michael no longer feltâŠshy.
synopsis: Michael is in the studio recording his song âin the closet,â and youâre there to assist him in crafting the perfect melodies and pitch.Â
warnings: smut, pwp, m!oral receiving, sub!Mj
WC: 827Â
"Mhm⊠that's it, baby," Michael murmured under his breath, his voice low and smooth as his head leans back slightly.
The recording booth was dimly lit, the only glow coming from the mixing board beyond the glass. The instrumental of an unfinished track played softly through the speakers, his own vocals echoing around the room.
This wasn't how the session was supposed to go.
You had come to help your boyfriend Michael with harmonies, maybe give feedback, and help him with vocals. That had been the plan.
Instead, somewhere between playful teasing and glances, and an undeniable tension that always somehow seemed to build whenever you and Michael were together, the atmosphere had shifted entirely as you found yourself on your knees in front of him, leaving barely any space between you both and the microphone.
As Michael's voice filled the room. You slowly stroked and sucked him while he sang into the recording mic. âHmnh-â he whimpered,â âŠ.âShe wants to give it,â he sang, biting his lip trying to keep his composure. âAughh, Dare Me," he moaned loudly into the mic, then looking at you with a sexy look in his eyes. "Michael, I thought we were just working on the track," you teased, popping his dick out of your mouth for a second, still stroking him.
"Ahâ plans change, please stop teasing meâ fuuuuckkk" he cusses, a soft whimper escaping his lips as you moved closer to his aching cock, smiling innocently up at him. "You're such a tease, you know that?" he gasped, his voice a mix of both frustration and intense desire.
"Dare me to stop," you replied, your voice low and seductive, letting your lips brush against his tip teasingly slowly. You could see the struggle on his face as he fought to stay focused on the track, but the pleasure was overwhelming.
"Dare me?" Michael quoted you, almost in disbelief as another moan threatens to slip out. "God, you're killing me," he groans, biting his lip harder. "Just⊠don't stop."
That was all you needed to hear to take him fully back in your mouth, swirling your tongue around the tip first before sinking down deeper, your throat tightening around him. The sound that escaped from his lips was a mix of a moan and a whimper.
"Ouuu, Aoughh" he moaned. Then he starts singing, âbecause there's something about you, baby that makes me want to give it to you." He sung seductively⊠You smile with a devious expression on your face, with saliva dripping from your mouth, from the passionate head you were giving him.
"Fuck, that feels so goodâŠ" he breathed, his hands gripping the base of the microphone in front of him, attempting to steady himself. "I can'tâ"
You pulled back slightly, maintaining eye contact, savoring the way his breath hitched and face slightly dropped at the loss of contactâagain.
"Can't what?" You teased again, a smirk playing on your lips.
"Don't make me beg." he urged, his voice desperate as the tension in the room thickened. Michael was debating whether to beg or say fuck it and pull you up to fuck you against the nearest wall.
His inner thoughts were answered as you increased your pace on his shaft, taking him inside your mouth again, every stroke and suck bringing him closer and closer to his peak. As a result, his whimpers grew louder, echoing and filling the small space as he struggled to keep both his voice and body steady.
"Just like that, baby," he gasped, his head falling back, the pleasure consuming him. âAhhâ I-I'm so close⊠swallow, baby, please⊠please take it all."
You could feel the heat radiating from him, his body tense and ready to explode. "Let go for me, Michael," you whispered against his aching member, your voice urging him on.
"Swallow baby, swallow baby please⊠God, yes I'm gonnaâ" Michael sung seductively multiple times, with his hands on your face now. You try to stay quiet while pleasuring him, but it's so hard to when you see him reacting this way. His voice broke into a series of low moans and whimpers as he finally surrendered, the tension snapping as he reached his peak.
You held his cock tightly, feeling him pulse against your tongue, the sounds of pleasure echoing around the room, mixing with the faint instrumental still playing in the background.
As he came down from the high, he looked down at you, breathing heavily, a mix of satisfaction and "what the fuck did we just do" on his face.
He helped you up, then hugged you, burrowing his face in your neck in the process. "I guess there's gonna be a lot of editing to do," he chuckled as he kissed your cheek tenderly.
summary; đ you are a struggling college student working on nocturncamz.com. For the right amount, you'll do anything online. But when your new, most secretive client has you thinking of bending your rules.... you must tread carefully.
tags: smut, camgirl, p*rnsite, webcam sex, sexting, y2k, michael is a dirty old man essentially, but hes cute about it ig, masks, anonymous identity, mutual masturbation, voice kink, fantasy, age gap, voyeurism, sex work
A/N: y'all anons got me fucked up fr... i think i got about 15 collective asks about writing more for invincible era/mature michael... so here you go! this will have a part 2 if you like the vibes here hehe
18+ mdni... or ill getcha
part two
The drought had settled into the Los Angeles area around nineteen long days ago. The air tasted of hot asphalt and exhaust from passing cars; it clung to the back of your throat.Â
The espresso machine at your 2nd job had been shrieking since five a.m. An unwelcome, piercing shrill in your ears.
You tried to focus on the forgotten sociology homework spread beside the register, the words swimming in the steam.Â
Social constructs of intimacy in the digital age.Â
The irony was so silly to you.Â
A line of customers tapped impatient fingers on the counter, their eyes glazed with heat and caffeine-need, waiting for you to notice them. You really were a bad barista.
Outside, the hills were the color of rusted tin, looking so brittle and skeletal. The news droned on the small TV mounted in the corner: Conserve, conserve. Do your part for your city. It felt like a cruel joke that they were asking US to do our part.
The AC in your apartment was a joke too; a wet, rattling gasp that just pushed the soupy heat from one corner to another. And you were paying entirely too much for the shitty space, just so you could walk to work and college comfortably.
The site loaded with a plum-colored login page, a carousel of girls on the landing; plump lips wrapped around lollipops, collarbones glittering with sweat or sparkle, eyes heavy-lidded and looking somewhere past the camera. Obscene, but prettily framed. A curated gallery speaking to the lonely modern man.
Saturdays were when you sat at your desk after dark and made rent, one anonymous stranger at a time. It wasnât what you had in mind for senior year, nor was it glamorous. It was a cheap headset, a webcam angled carefully to exclude most of your sad box bedroom and the peeling Justin Bieber poster left by some previous tenant.Â
The setup was crude, sometimes degrading, but it was fifty to a hundred bucks you didnât have. Sometimes more. The tips were always better later on in the evening, when the loneliness in other time zones grew teeth.
It was late now. The fan on your desk chittered like insect wings, fighting a losing war against the heatwave bleeding through your single window.Â
Sweat prickled at the small of your back, your tank top sticking to the faux-leather chair. You took a sip of flat Diet Coke that was sat stale in a take away cup, the fizz long dead, just a chemical sweetness coating your teeth.
A new username blinked in your private chat log: king777tut. Unfamiliar.Â
Most men arrived already fired up, demanding the private room link and password, the transaction beginning with heavy breathing and blunt, miserable need. They'd usually be naked when the camera turned on - and that was usually a jumpscare. But this one⊠his typing was slow.Â
Each message appeared with a weight, a pause between sentences you could feel in the silence of your room.
You leaned back, the chair groaning. The ellipsis danced. Disappeared. Danced again.
king777tut: good evening, do you have time to talk?
You almost laughed. Someone being respectful? You started the thirty-minute timer heâd paid for.
SweetViolet: Timerâs on. So talk to me. What do you like? What do you want to do?
A long pause. The fan whirred. Your foot tapped a frantic, nervous rhythm against the desk leg.
king777tut: I like your voice. From your preview. Itâs soft. It sounds like⊠honey.
The breath left your lungs in a quiet, surprised rush. A laugh, mostly air. You pulled your knees to your chest, the chair protesting, your toes curling against the seatâs edge.Â
SweetViolet: Honey, huh? Thatâs new. Most guys say its sultry like whiskey. Or something more⊠dumb or just crude.
king777tut: Whiskey is for forgetting. Honey is for⊠savoring. For whispering sweet nothings that stick.
Your stomach flipped. You pressed your forehead to your knees. The stubble on your legs was rough against your skin. Older, you thought. The cadence of his words, the spaces between themâŠ.they felt considered. Heavy. You typed before the hesitation could crystallize.
SweetViolet: So whisper to me then, King Tut. Tell me what you need.
Another pause. Longer. You could hear the old analog clock on your wall, its second hand scraping a path around the dial. Then, his message came in two parts.
king777tut: I am in my room. It is very late. The house is quiet. I can hear the coyotes howling in the hills beyond my window.
king777tut: I am thinking about what you might be wearing.
Your breath hitched, a tiny catch in your throat. You uncurled, planted your feet on the cool floor. He wanted to sext rather than request photos? Wow. you thought about how unsexy your clothes were right now.Â
Just a pink tank top and old cotton shorts, the hem frayed from too many washes.
SweetViolet: A tank top. Pink. And shorts. Theyâre soft.
king777tut: Is the tank top⊠loose?
You looked down. The thin cotton did drape, hanging away from your body in the still heat, away from your bra-less chest. A slow heat began to bloom outward from your core; lazy, languid, inevitable. Your hand drifted over your stomach, fingers tracing the pronounced ridge of your hipbone through the fabric.
SweetViolet: Kinda. It hangs. I dont have a bra on.
king777tut: I am picturing it. The way it would fall if you moved⊠whether the shift would be revealing, or still so innocent.
king777tut: I am in my bed. I am wearing linen pyjamas. The sheets are silk. They feel cool, but I am growing warm. Warm with want.
You swallowed, your mouth parchment-dry. The Diet Coke was useless; you tried taking a gulp to quench your thirst. Your other hand drifted down, palm resting on your thigh, your thumb making absent, tiny circles on the sensitive skin of your inner leg. Goosebumps rose in its wake.
SweetViolet: What are you doing? Are you touching yourself in your bed?
The ellipsis pulsed. Once. Twice. A slow, tantalizing heartbeat.
king777tut: not right at this moment. My free hand is on my stomach. Just resting. I can feel my heart beating so hard right now It is beating⊠for you, I think.
The run-on sentence, the odd comma, the raw, unvarnished admission, it unspooled something deep inside you. You let your head fall back against the chair, staring at the water-stain shaped like a ghost ship on your ceiling. you still hadnât let your landlord know about that. It was getting worse by the day. black mould wasnât going to do you any good.
your mind drifted back to the situation;
Silk sheets. Still fully dressed. It was a universe away from the grunted demands you usually fielded. This was pure attention. attraction.
SweetViolet: Why is your heart beating so fast?
SweetViolet: You should move your hand lower. Tell me more.
king777tut: I feel⊠an ache. A good ache in the pit of my stomach. Maybe its want? Ive wanted you for several weeks now. I have⊠pleasured myself to your content
King777tut: my head feels fuzzy, like im struggling to form sentences from nerves.Â
king777tut: and my heart is beating fast because I am talking to a beautiful girl and I cannot quite believe it is real.
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
He wasnât just dirty. He was sweet. He was painting a scene and you were being woven into its canvas. Your hand slid up, under the hem of your tank top, palm flattening against the warm skin of your ribs. Your breathing shallowed. you found the tight peak of your nipple already hardened by the cool draft of the dying fan, and you rolled it slowly between your fingers.
SweetViolet: I moved my hand too. Under my shirt. My skin is hot. I can feel my own heartbeat under my palm. Itâs racing. At the thought of you watching me.Â
king777tut: Yes. Yes. Do you⊠do you touch yourself? oftne? Thinking of strangers?
The question was blunt, misspelled, and it sent a jolt straight to your core. Despite him being logged onto this lewd site, there was an innocence to his curiosity, an eloquence laced with hunger. Your back arched slightly off the chair, a silent, delicious answer to you playing with your nipple. There was a sticky wet heat growing in your underwear.
SweetViolet: Sometimes. Not all the time i will admit; i have to fake it, if the person is into something i am just⊠not into. Right now I am. My hand is in my shorts. Just feeling how wet I already am.
You hit send and closed your eyes. The darkness swam with bursts of color. Now you had to follow through. You braced, then let your fingers slip past the elastic waistband, through the soft thatch of hair on your pubic bone. You were already slick, swollen, the sensation so immediately intense you bit your lower lip hard enough to sting. No lying tonight, you were actually going to touch yourself along with your customer.Â
king777tut: I have my hand on my cock now. I pushed my pyjamas down. I am thinking of your hand. How it must look, small and pretty, wrapped around me. Moving for me.
King777tut: it feels so dirty to do this with a stranger but i cant meet people the normal way. And it feels like from your videos before, i already know uoy. And i want you.
His typing deteriorated, and the spelling was getting significantly lazy and it was the most erotic thing youâd ever witnessed.Â
This broken, earnest confession from a man whose words were failing but whose intent was crystal clear. You let one finger slide inside yourself, a slow, testing penetration, and a gasp tore from your throat, loud in the silent room.
SweetViolet: Iâm touching myself. For you. Iâm so wet. Thinking about your hand on yourself. Picturing it. You all alone in your room. Being so dirty telling me about it.
king777tut: Tell me. Tell me how you touch yourself.
So you did. You narrated the slow, circling pressure of your fingertips, the building heat low in your belly, the short, panting breaths that fogged the windowpane beside you.Â
You described the ache, the needy, empty feeling you had, and the sharp sound you made when you finally curled two fingers deep insideâa choked, shuddering ah-ah-ah that you typed out letter by trembling letter. To try give him a picture.
He told you about his rhythm, starting slow, then faster, the grip of his own hand, how he was biting his lip to stay silent, how he was picturing your mouth, your eyes, your honey-whisper voice saying a name he hadnât given you yet. How he was having to stay quiet as he had guests.
It built. A shared, silent symphony conducted through misspelled text and raw desperate need.Â
Your thighs began to shake. Your toes curled until they cramped. Your eyes were struggling to stay open as you reached your peak. But you had to look and see what he was saying back to you
Then, his final, fragmented plea:
king777tut: im almost there thinking of you at the edge. are you there? please cum with me
And so you did. You shattered with a silent, violent convulsion, your body seizing in the cheap chair, vision bleaching into white static. Your fingers, slippery, fumbled the keys.
SweetViolet: yes. god. yes. iâm here. i came to the thought of you. what you look like. who you could be.
The fan chose that moment to choke, rattle violently, and die with a pathetic click. You kicked it over with your bare foot. Your brain couldnt even explore how catastrophic that was for your health in the heatwave and a god damn drought - you were too wrapped up in this unreal man.
It didnât matter though. No machine could cool the furnace now glowing in your chest and belly.Â
This hadnât been a normal transaction on here.. This had been⊠more real. And on top of that, youâd managed to feel pleasure out of it.
king777tut: I have been lurking on your page for a month. Wondering if I should pay for a session.
SweetViolet: Well? Was it good? Will you come back?
king777tut: If I could have you all the time, I believe I would. You have such angelic features. I want to kiss those lips.
king777tut: In short, you are incredible. And I am⊠utterly undone by you.
A stupid, wide, giddy smile broke across your face. A post-coital glow with no right to be this potent from pixels and text.Â
SweetViolet: Youâre pretty incredible yourself. Want to take this to a private cam? I can turn mine on. We still have five minutes.
The ellipsis appeared.
Then vanished.
A full minute of dead, empty space. The glowing timer ticked down. The warmth inside you began to curdle into anxiety.
king777tut: I cannot.
SweetViolet: Why not?
king777tut: My face. I cannot show it. For security. It is not safe.
Of course. Married. A father. A catfish. The old, familiar disappointment, sharp and acidic. The connection which was fragile and electric before, totally diminished for you. Of course it had been too good to be true.Â
SweetViolet: Right. Security. OkayâŠ
king777tut: No, please. It is not like that. I wish I could. You have no idea how much I wish I could see you. To have your eyes looking into mine. But I am⊠known. In certain circles. It would cause⊠problems.
Known. The word sat in the chat box, strange and heavy.. You wiped your damp hand on your shorts, feeling suddenly exposed, foolish for the vulnerability youâd offered.
SweetViolet: Known how?
king777tut: It is better I do not say. It is better for you, this way. You can just be Sweet Violet. And I can just be⊠me. Talking to you.
The sadness in the text was palpable, a loneliness that seeped through the grammar. The knot in your gut softened. It was dangerous that you were so interested.
SweetViolet: Are you famous or something? A singer?
A pause. Then:
king777tut: Perhaps. Does it matter?
You chewed your thumbnail, thinking. Your survival instinct, usually a shrill alarm, was quiet. There was no screaming danger. Just lingering arousal and a curiosity now grown ravenous.
SweetViolet: I guess not. Itâs just⊠you talk different. This whole interaction is different to my others.
king777tut: I am different. And I want to talk to you more. Not just like this. I mean⊠really talk.
SweetViolet: How?
king777tut: In person.
You laughedâa short, sharp bark of disbelief that echoed in the hot room. The rule was absolute, scrawled on a neon sticky note beside your monitor: NO MEET-UPS. EVER.
SweetViolet: I donât do that. Thatâs not what this is.
king777tut: I know. I know what this is. And this⊠what we just did⊠that was not what I usually do. It was my first time.
king777tut: I am obsessed with you. In the best way. I just need more.
king777tut: I feel a connection to you. I would like to explore it.
Hooked. He had you completely. No one had ever been this plain, this disarmingly honest. It was the opposite ofÂ
talk dirty to me, slut.Â
This was intimacy, sexually charged yet serene. It felt terrifyingly real.
Your heart pounded with a new, volatile adrenaline. This was insanity. This was ditch-in-the-desert behavior. And yet⊠your gut wasnât sounding the alarm. It was a low, thrilling feeling. What if?
SweetViolet: No. Not in person. Not yet.
king777tut: Oh.
The single syllable hung there, weighted with a disappointment that physically tugged at you. You typed quickly, before the silence could solidify.
SweetViolet: Hear me out. Iâm not saying no forever. Iâm saying letâs do this right. A cam call. You and me, live. I want to hear your voice. Not just read you.
king777tut: But my face. I told youâ
SweetViolet: So wear a mask. Cover it. I donât care about your face, not yet. I want your voice. I want to see if this⊠this little thing here⊠works when itâs real. On camera. When itâs live.Â
SweetViolet: When you canât sit there and craft every perfect sentence for five minutes before you send it.
The ellipsis stuttered, hesitant.
SweetViolet: If weâve got chemistry on cam, then maybe. Maybe I think about the rest. You have to earn my trust. Show me something real. Tell me about yourself in your own voice. What you like. What you donât. Your age. Anything.
A long pause. You chewed your thumbnail raw.
king777tut: I could wear a mask. I have many.
SweetViolet: Any mask you want. Iâll never see your face until youâre ready. But Iâll hear you. Thatâs the deal.
The ellipsis again. An eternity in three blinking dots. You wondered if youâd finally spooked him, if heâd vanish into the digital ether, becoming just another ghostâ
king777tut: Yes.
king777tut: Yes. I can do that. I want to. Tomorrow? This time? I can try to make myself available.
And your heart, that stupid traitorous organ, did a full, soaring flip.
SweetViolet: Tomorrow. This time. Donât be late, tut.
king777tut: I will not be. Goodbye, Sweet Violet.
king777tut has left the private chat.
The screen reverted to your lobby where another 16 users were waiting for their turn.
You sat for a long time in the suffocating, silent heat, your skin still on fire, every nerve ending alive. Staring at the blank chat window on internet explorer. You couldnât after that interaction ruin it by speaking to a dumb asshole on here asking to see your feet.
A soft cha-ching notification sounded from your payment portal totally disarming your weird thoughts. You glanced over.
$700.00 deposited from user: king777tut.
A memo line below: For you, honey. Until tomorrow.
Your breath froze. Seven hundred dollars. For half an hour of text. Jesus christ. Thats going to cover half of your rent.
You leaned back, the leather sticking to your skin. The dead fan lay on its side.Â
Shit, you thought, a slow smile touching your lips despite the tremor in your hands. You had absolutely no idea what youâd just agreed to. You had no idea who he was.
-
The heat, for the first time all day, relented slightly
There was an orange-y soupy darkness in the sky from the sunset and the city lights looked like supernovas in comparison; that sharp unforgiving LED light against the warmth. It was 9pm on the dot.
Your own room felt like the inside hellâwarm, damp, close.Â
Youâd showered, the water tepid and insufficient, and now sat before your webcam in a simple black lace bralette and matching panties. The fan was dead, so the only sound was the frantic beat of your own pulse in your ears.
Your dashboard showed king777tut was online. Waiting.Â
The private room link glowed on your screen. You took a deep breath that did nothing to steady you, clicked it, and your own face appeared in a small preview windowâeyes wide, lips parted.Â
You hit âStart Broadcast.â
For a moment, there was only your image, and the black rectangle where his feed would be.Â
Then, with a soft digital blink, his video connected.
The breath caught in your throat.
His camera quality was poor, grainy, washed with a faint greenish tint from low light. But you could see enough. He was propped against a massive, ornate headboard, dark wood carved with intricate, swirling patterns.Â
The bed itself seemed enormous, a sea of rumpled white linens around him that stretched into the shadows behind. The room beyond was vast, hints of high ceilings and dark furniture just at the edges of the fuzzy resolution.
And his face⊠was hidden.
It was a mask, but not some cheap plastic thing. It was elaborate, antique-looking, made of what appeared to be pale porcelain and very finely painted.Â
It covered his entire face, a stylized, androgynous visage with faintly rouged cheeks, arched eyebrows, and full, solemn lips. It reminded you of a Venetian carnival mask, or something from a masquerade ball in a gothic novel. Eccentric and beautiful and⊠deeply, profoundly strange.Â
Who the hell has exquisite enough taste that this kind of mask is just laying around?
He wore a simple, loose white t-shirt, the neckline broad, the sleeves covering his shoulders. His hair was dark and long, hitting his collarbones; all curly. It hid his chest, his frame.Â
The laptop was propped to his right, on the bed, giving this angled, intimate view. You couldn't see below his waist. The sheets were pulled up, and most of his bottom half out of the frame. You had no idea what he was or wasn't wearing.
âHello,â a voice said, and your entire body went still.
It was his voice. The one youâd imagined from the delicate words from the chat log. It was airy, almost breathy, but underpinned by a sensual, rustic grain. It was a voice that had known singing, or perhaps shouting and late nights. There was a soft rasp at the edges, like worn velvet. It was shy, hesitant, yet it filled your headphones with an intimate, undeniable presence.
âHi,â you managed, your own voice a whisper. You shifted, and your cheap office chair let out a loud, protesting squeak. You winced. âSorry. The chairâs a piece of junk.â
The mask tilted slightly. âDonât apologize,â he said, his tone softening. âIâm only payinâ attention to you.â
The simple sentence, delivered in that unique, raspy-shy cadence, made your stomach flip again. The nerves were killing you and the awkwardness was there, palpable in the digital space between you, but it was charged, not uncomfortable.Â
It was the tension of two people standing at the edge of something unknown.
âYour room is⊠huge,â you said, glancing at the shadowy expanse behind him.
A slight movementâa shrug? âIt can feel too large, sometimes. Empty.â He paused. âYours seems more homely. better.â
You swallowed during the awkward beat. âWhat do you want to do tonight? Just⊠talk?â
âI would like that,â he said. âTo talk first. May I⊠ask you something?â
âAnything.â
âWhat do you like?â The question was quiet, sincere but very broad. He sensed your awe and then corrected.Â
âWhen you are with someone. What makes you feel good?â
The directness, devoid of the usual crude packaging, threw you. You took a moment, tracing the lace edge of your bralette.Â
âI like⊠anticipation. The build-up. When someone takes their time.â You felt a blush creep up your neck. âI like feeling⊠overwhelmed. In a good way. Like Iâm not completely in control.â
âHow so?â His voice was a low murmur, utterly focused.
You took a deeper breath, committing. âLike⊠being tied up. Gently. With something soft. Or being blindfolded. Not knowing whatâs coming next, just⊠feeling it. It makes every touch louder, you know?â
A long silence. You could see the faint reflection of your own feed in the dark lenses of his mask. Then, a soft, wondering exhale.
âWow,â he breathed, the word full of genuine surprise. âI didnât⊠I didnât really think a young girl like you would be into all that. Thatâs⊠sophisticated.â
There was a note in his voice then, a wistful, almost sad quality. âIt makes me feel old,â he confessed, the rasp more pronounced. âAnd simple. Iâve never tried any of those things. My experiences have been⊠straightforward. Traditional, I suppose.â
His vulnerability was disarming. âTraditional isnât bad,â you offered. âHow old are you?â
He let go of some breath; âIâm 45. Is that bad?â
You laughed a bit, your eyes twinkling, the computer light was reflecting off of them. âNo.. its not. I like older men,â
âhmm,â he agreed softly.Â
âwell hearing you describe your desires from before⊠the trust it requires⊠the artistry of itâŠâ He trailed off. âI think⊠its beautiful. I think I could make you feel good. Even being my simple self. If you let me.â
The promise, so humbly stated, sent a bolt of pure heat straight to your core. âOh yeah?â you challenged gently, your voice dropping. âHow would you go about that?â
The mask seemed to gaze right through the screen, into you. His voice, when it came, was a low, deliberate whisper, painting pictures in the dark.
âI would start by washing your hair,â he said, and the domestic intimacy of it shocked you. âIn a deep, lavish bathtub. I would massage your scalp and then your shoulders, and wherever you needed it for an hour, until every knot in your body was gone. Then I would dry you with the softest towel I own. I would carry you to a bed much softer than that chair youâre on. And I would just⊠admire you. For a long time. memorise every curve, every freckle, the way your breathing changes when youâre nervous.â
You were motionless, captivated.
âThen,â he continued, the words flowing now, âI would kiss the inside of your wrist.â You instinctively looked at your own wrist.Â
âWhere your pulse beats. I would kiss my way up your arm, to your shoulder, to your throat. Learning what makes you sigh, what makes you shiver. I would use my mouth⊠everywhere⊠but so slowly youâd think you were dreaming. I wouldnât touch you between your legs until you were begging me for it, until you were arching up off the sheets, offering yourself. And even then⊠I might just tease you with my breath. To hear the sound youâd make.â
A small, helpless whimper escaped you. Your hand had drifted to your own thigh, squeezing lightly.
On screen, you saw his own hand move. It slid from where it had been resting on his stomach, down, out of the frame. The laptop, perched on the bed, gave a subtle but distinct wobble. A shaky, unstable movement.
A soft, stifled sound; a sharp intake of breath, almost a whimper, came through your headphones. He was touching himself. You were sure of it.Â
The laptop jittered on the rumpled silk; one, two, three frantic stutters that mapped perfectly in your mind to the stroke of his fist around his cock
âWould youâŠâ you gasped, your own fingers creeping under the edge of your panties, finding wet heat. âWould you fuck me then?â
A low groan.Â
âYes,â he hissed, the word strained. âBut not like youâre thinking. Not fast. I would lay you on your side and curl myself around you, behind you. Iâd wrap my arm around your waist, hold you tight against me⊠and Iâd push into you like that, so slowly youâd feel every single inch. And Iâd whisper in your ear the whole time. Tell you how beautiful you are. How perfect you feel. I wouldnât stop until you came around me, crying from how full you were.â
âFuck,â you moaned, your head falling back. Then you refocused, you had to know more.
âAnd then what? When I'm crying and full of you, would you fuck me harder? Would you tell me how much you needed this? How long you've been waiting for my body?â
He didnât even answer, totally undertaken by the sentiment youâd shared.
You couldnât take it anymore. You hooked your thumbs into your panties and dragged them down, kicking them away. You plunged two fingers inside yourself, already slick and throbbing. The sound was obscene. âIâm touching myself,â you panted. âThinking about that. About you filling me up.â
âLet me see,â he begged, his voice cracking. âPlease. Show me.â You moved the webcam so he could see you play with yourself - he was paying for it after all.
You brought your glistening fingers up to the camera, then, holding his gaze, slowly sucked them into your mouth, cleaning them with a long, languid stroke of your tongue.
A raw, guttural sound ripped from him. The laptop shook more violently. âAgain. Do it again. For me.â
You were lost in it now, a feedback loop of his whispered, detailed fantasy and your own frantic touch.Â
You fucked yourself with your fingers, imagining the slow, inexorable push he described, then brought them, dripping, back to your mouth.
âMm good girlâ he whispered behind the mask. You then grabbed your panties and shook them down to your mid thigh so you had unobstructed access. You fingered yourself with your two middle fingers, imaginingg it was his instead. Despite the weird mask, you could tell that he was attractive, his voice alone could probably bring you over the edge.Â
âIâm close⊠Iâm so close,â you chanted, breathlessly.
âYou look so good like that, all hungry for it,â he whispered back, his voice unsteady from the repeated strain of stroking his cock.
âCome for meâ he commanded, his own breath a ragged series of gasps. âCome for me, Sweet Violet. Let me hear you.â
Then it was serene convulsions. Muscles locking. Air stolen. White static behind your eyes. Then a keening sound, high and thin, tearing itself from your throat as the waves battered you, receding and then battering harder again. You were drowning in the thoughts of him.
Through the haze, you heard his finish. It wasnât loud. It was a crescendo of those same shaky, whimpering breaths, followed by a long, shuddering sigh that seemed to hold a lot of loneliness.Â
The laptop on his end gave one final, definitive jerk and then was still.
The timer in the corner of the screen glowed: 08:47. The post-climax haze was a physical thing, a warm, heavy blanket of lassitude that made your limbs feel like lead.
On his screen, he hadn't moved. The porcelain mask stared blankly at the ceiling of his cavernous room. His chest rose and fell in a slow, deep rhythm beneath the rumpled white cotton of his shirt. The fabric had ridden up, revealing a tantalizing slice of his lower abdomen;
a taut plane of skin that, even in the grainy resolution, you could see was mottled with patches of darker pigment against a lighter one. The contrast was stark, intimate, laid bare by accident. You wondered what the rest of his chest looked like.
âThat wasâŠâ you started, voice wrecked.
The mask tilted slowly toward the camera. A soft, almost inaudible sound of affirmation escaped him. "Mmm-hmm." It was a vulnerable, boyish sound, utterly at odds with the grandeur of his surroundings and the intensity of what had just transpired.Â
But then he was moving. Sitting up abruptly, as if electrocuted. The shyness flooded back, laced with panic. âI have to go,â he blurted out.
âWaitââ
âThank you,â he rushed, his voice small and flustered. âThat was⊠more than I⊠Thank you.â
And before you could say another word, his video feed winked to black.
king777tut has left the private broadcast.
The sudden disconnect was a physical slap. You sat in the buzzing silence, the afterglow cooling into a confused, hollow ache. You checked your payment portal. Another deposit. $1,500.
An hour passed. You were lying in your own bed, staring at the ceiling, when the chat pinged.
king777tut: I am sorry. I became⊠overwhelmed. Shy. It was so intense.
SweetViolet: Itâs okay. It was for me too.
king777tut: I cannot get the image of you out of my head. The way you tasted your fingers. The sound you made.
SweetViolet: Your voice⊠I canât get your voice out of my head.
A long, long pause. The ellipsis blinked for nearly a full minute.
king777tut: I need to see you. Not on line. In real life.
king777tut: 5225 Figueroa Mountain Road, Los Olivos, California 93441.
king777tut: Will you come meet me?
Your heart stopped. Then slammed against your ribs.Â
SweetViolet: Who are you? Why are you giving out your address so easily?
king777tut: Come and find out. I will explain everything. I will keep you safe. Please.
You stare at the address in the chat log. 5225 Figueroa Mountain Road.
Every survival instinct youâve honed in this job screams at you. This is how it happens. This is the first chapter of every true crime documentary about girls like you. You meet a sweet, lonely guy online, he pays well, he seems harmless, and then you get in a car and vanish.Â
NO MEET-UPS. The rule is there for a reason.
But⊠the money. The absurd money. $2,200 in total from him for less than an hours work. Thatâs next semesterâs books. Thatâs three months of your shitty rent. Thatâs breathing room and less panicked nights wondering where the fuck youll get the cash from to pay the landlord, or to even buy food.
And the curiosity. Itâs an unscratchable itch. The mask. The voice. The way he talked to you like you were a person, not a fantasy dispenser or some âslut.â
Who is he? What kind of person shares their address that blazenly if they werenât desperate?
The fear and the curiosity are having a fistfight in your chest. The fear is logical and well, the curiosity is a deep, hungry pull.
Screw it. You open Google Earth. You type the address.
The satellite view loads and your breath catches. Itâs an estate, not just a house on a street. Its a huge, sprawling property in the middle of wine country.Â
You zoom in. You see a massive main house, guest cottages, what looks like a⊠is that a Ferris wheel?
A cold, nervous laugh escapes you. What the actual hell?
You open a new tab. You search the address and âowner.â
The results are a mess of weird articles and reviews.
But one link catches your eye: a gossip blog from years ago. The headline makes your blood run cold for a second, then hot with pure, disbelieving shock.
The headline reads: âNeverland Valley Ranch Listed: Owner Seeking Private Buyer.â
You click it. The article is old. It says the property has been on and off the market for years. That the owner was motivated to sell after a brutal, public trial, but that no buyer had ever been deemed suitable or serious enough to finalise the deal. That the place sat in a kind of purgatory.
That place⊠it belongs toâŠ.Â
The pieces click together with a soundless, chilling thud.
All the fear doesnât vanish, but it transforms. This isnât a random creep. This is⊠something else entirely. The risk is astronomically different. You need to go. You MUST go see this through.
You look back at the chat.
Will you come meet me?
Your fingers are steady but sweaty as you type your reply.Â
synopsis: Michael is in the studio recording his song âin the closet,â and youâre there to assist him in crafting the perfect melodies and pitch.Â
warnings: smut, pwp, m!oral receiving, sub!Mj
WC: 827Â
"Mhm⊠that's it, baby," Michael murmured under his breath, his voice low and smooth as his head leans back slightly.
The recording booth was dimly lit, the only glow coming from the mixing board beyond the glass. The instrumental of an unfinished track played softly through the speakers, his own vocals echoing around the room.
This wasn't how the session was supposed to go.
You had come to help your boyfriend Michael with harmonies, maybe give feedback, and help him with vocals. That had been the plan.
Instead, somewhere between playful teasing and glances, and an undeniable tension that always somehow seemed to build whenever you and Michael were together, the atmosphere had shifted entirely as you found yourself on your knees in front of him, leaving barely any space between you both and the microphone.
As Michael's voice filled the room. You slowly stroked and sucked him while he sang into the recording mic. âHmnh-â he whimpered,â âŠ.âShe wants to give it,â he sang, biting his lip trying to keep his composure. âAughh, Dare Me," he moaned loudly into the mic, then looking at you with a sexy look in his eyes. "Michael, I thought we were just working on the track," you teased, popping his dick out of your mouth for a second, still stroking him.
"Ahâ plans change, please stop teasing meâ fuuuuckkk" he cusses, a soft whimper escaping his lips as you moved closer to his aching cock, smiling innocently up at him. "You're such a tease, you know that?" he gasped, his voice a mix of both frustration and intense desire.
"Dare me to stop," you replied, your voice low and seductive, letting your lips brush against his tip teasingly slowly. You could see the struggle on his face as he fought to stay focused on the track, but the pleasure was overwhelming.
"Dare me?" Michael quoted you, almost in disbelief as another moan threatens to slip out. "God, you're killing me," he groans, biting his lip harder. "Just⊠don't stop."
That was all you needed to hear to take him fully back in your mouth, swirling your tongue around the tip first before sinking down deeper, your throat tightening around him. The sound that escaped from his lips was a mix of a moan and a whimper.
"Ouuu, Aoughh" he moaned. Then he starts singing, âbecause there's something about you, baby that makes me want to give it to you." He sung seductively⊠You smile with a devious expression on your face, with saliva dripping from your mouth, from the passionate head you were giving him.
"Fuck, that feels so goodâŠ" he breathed, his hands gripping the base of the microphone in front of him, attempting to steady himself. "I can'tâ"
You pulled back slightly, maintaining eye contact, savoring the way his breath hitched and face slightly dropped at the loss of contactâagain.
"Can't what?" You teased again, a smirk playing on your lips.
"Don't make me beg." he urged, his voice desperate as the tension in the room thickened. Michael was debating whether to beg or say fuck it and pull you up to fuck you against the nearest wall.
His inner thoughts were answered as you increased your pace on his shaft, taking him inside your mouth again, every stroke and suck bringing him closer and closer to his peak. As a result, his whimpers grew louder, echoing and filling the small space as he struggled to keep both his voice and body steady.
"Just like that, baby," he gasped, his head falling back, the pleasure consuming him. âAhhâ I-I'm so close⊠swallow, baby, please⊠please take it all."
You could feel the heat radiating from him, his body tense and ready to explode. "Let go for me, Michael," you whispered against his aching member, your voice urging him on.
"Swallow baby, swallow baby please⊠God, yes I'm gonnaâ" Michael sung seductively multiple times, with his hands on your face now. You try to stay quiet while pleasuring him, but it's so hard to when you see him reacting this way. His voice broke into a series of low moans and whimpers as he finally surrendered, the tension snapping as he reached his peak.
You held his cock tightly, feeling him pulse against your tongue, the sounds of pleasure echoing around the room, mixing with the faint instrumental still playing in the background.
As he came down from the high, he looked down at you, breathing heavily, a mix of satisfaction and "what the fuck did we just do" on his face.
He helped you up, then hugged you, burrowing his face in your neck in the process. "I guess there's gonna be a lot of editing to do," he chuckled as he kissed your cheek tenderly.
synopsis: Michael is in the studio recording his song âin the closet,â and youâre there to assist him in crafting the perfect melodies and pitch.Â
warnings: smut, pwp, m!oral receiving, sub!Mj
WC: 827Â
"Mhm⊠that's it, baby," Michael murmured under his breath, his voice low and smooth as his head leans back slightly.
The recording booth was dimly lit, the only glow coming from the mixing board beyond the glass. The instrumental of an unfinished track played softly through the speakers, his own vocals echoing around the room.
This wasn't how the session was supposed to go.
You had come to help your boyfriend Michael with harmonies, maybe give feedback, and help him with vocals. That had been the plan.
Instead, somewhere between playful teasing and glances, and an undeniable tension that always somehow seemed to build whenever you and Michael were together, the atmosphere had shifted entirely as you found yourself on your knees in front of him, leaving barely any space between you both and the microphone.
As Michael's voice filled the room. You slowly stroked and sucked him while he sang into the recording mic. âHmnh-â he whimpered,â âŠ.âShe wants to give it,â he sang, biting his lip trying to keep his composure. âAughh, Dare Me," he moaned loudly into the mic, then looking at you with a sexy look in his eyes. "Michael, I thought we were just working on the track," you teased, popping his dick out of your mouth for a second, still stroking him.
"Ahâ plans change, please stop teasing meâ fuuuuckkk" he cusses, a soft whimper escaping his lips as you moved closer to his aching cock, smiling innocently up at him. "You're such a tease, you know that?" he gasped, his voice a mix of both frustration and intense desire.
"Dare me to stop," you replied, your voice low and seductive, letting your lips brush against his tip teasingly slowly. You could see the struggle on his face as he fought to stay focused on the track, but the pleasure was overwhelming.
"Dare me?" Michael quoted you, almost in disbelief as another moan threatens to slip out. "God, you're killing me," he groans, biting his lip harder. "Just⊠don't stop."
That was all you needed to hear to take him fully back in your mouth, swirling your tongue around the tip first before sinking down deeper, your throat tightening around him. The sound that escaped from his lips was a mix of a moan and a whimper.
"Ouuu, Aoughh" he moaned. Then he starts singing, âbecause there's something about you, baby that makes me want to give it to you." He sung seductively⊠You smile with a devious expression on your face, with saliva dripping from your mouth, from the passionate head you were giving him.
"Fuck, that feels so goodâŠ" he breathed, his hands gripping the base of the microphone in front of him, attempting to steady himself. "I can'tâ"
You pulled back slightly, maintaining eye contact, savoring the way his breath hitched and face slightly dropped at the loss of contactâagain.
"Can't what?" You teased again, a smirk playing on your lips.
"Don't make me beg." he urged, his voice desperate as the tension in the room thickened. Michael was debating whether to beg or say fuck it and pull you up to fuck you against the nearest wall.
His inner thoughts were answered as you increased your pace on his shaft, taking him inside your mouth again, every stroke and suck bringing him closer and closer to his peak. As a result, his whimpers grew louder, echoing and filling the small space as he struggled to keep both his voice and body steady.
"Just like that, baby," he gasped, his head falling back, the pleasure consuming him. âAhhâ I-I'm so close⊠swallow, baby, please⊠please take it all."
You could feel the heat radiating from him, his body tense and ready to explode. "Let go for me, Michael," you whispered against his aching member, your voice urging him on.
"Swallow baby, swallow baby please⊠God, yes I'm gonnaâ" Michael sung seductively multiple times, with his hands on your face now. You try to stay quiet while pleasuring him, but it's so hard to when you see him reacting this way. His voice broke into a series of low moans and whimpers as he finally surrendered, the tension snapping as he reached his peak.
You held his cock tightly, feeling him pulse against your tongue, the sounds of pleasure echoing around the room, mixing with the faint instrumental still playing in the background.
As he came down from the high, he looked down at you, breathing heavily, a mix of satisfaction and "what the fuck did we just do" on his face.
He helped you up, then hugged you, burrowing his face in your neck in the process. "I guess there's gonna be a lot of editing to do," he chuckled as he kissed your cheek tenderly.
Can you please make one based off Break Up With Your Girlfriend by Ariana Grande??? đđ
Break Up With Your Girlfriend.
Dangerous/HIStory!Michael X PopStar!Reader. Between studio sessions and feelings neither of you should be entertaining, the line between artistic chemistry and something far more dangerous begins to blur. The only problem? He already belongs to someone else.
Note. I wasnât given too much details so I hope you enjoy the plot I came up with! If any of yall like to be on my permanent taglist for future Michael/Jaafar works then let me know. Enjoy, Besos.
The backstage chaos of the Grammy Awards blurred together in restless flashes of gold light, rushing stagehands, camera crews, and voices layered over one another in overwhelming excitement. Yet somehow, the moment you and Michael crossed paths in the narrow corridor backstage, everything softened around the edges. Like the noise simply stopped mattering. You had both only just stepped off stage, adrenaline still lingering beneath your skin, performances fresh enough to still feel unreal.
He had stopped you first. Of course he did, because why wouldnât he? You were the newest face for entertainment across America, he saw you and personally wanted a taste. Then the two of you encountered one another back stage, those dark eyes bright with that unmistakable enthusiasm he reserved for artistry, the kind so sincere it almost felt childlike.
âThat arrangement you didâŠâ he said, almost breathless. âGod, that was beautiful. The harmonies? I mean. . . you can really feel it.â
And somehow, hearing praise from everyone didnât mean anything although from him felt entirely different. He spoke about music like it was alive, like it breathed, like it had a soul.
You smiled, suddenly a little shy despite yourself. âWell. Honestly?â you admitted softly. â âThrillerâ really changed the way I make my music. . . for me at least.â
Something shifted in his expression then.
His breath hitched, his eyes widening slightly as the words hung between you. It was a look of pure, unadulterated awe like a sudden strike of lightning had hit the room. The casual softness completely vanished, replaced by a sudden, intense focus that locked onto you. A faint, almost breathless smile tugged at his lips, his gaze tracking every detail of your face as if he were seeing you clearly for the very first time.
It was a total starstruck fixation. Deep down, a quiet but sharp spark of obsession flared up that thrilling, overwhelming realization of oh my gosh, you are the one.
➻➻➻➻➻➻➻➻➻
So it was only natural that both of you exchanged contact information, and a musical collaboration sparked almost immediately.
Weeks later, the two of you found yourselves tucked away in a secluded Los Angeles recording studio, entirely consumed by production. Hours blurred into nights, nights blurred into mornings. Michael, endlessly meticulous, mapped out harmonies with impossible precision, stopping recordings mid-sentence just to chase the exact feeling he heard in his head.
âNo, no right there,â heâd say softly, tapping the console. âJust like that...â
He spoke in emotion more than instruction.
The air between you grew dense as he suddenly stepped in, his focus entirely consumed by the board. He leaned over your shoulder to adjust a dial, his chest nearly brushing your back. When he turned his head to check your reaction, his face was inches from yours close enough that the rest of the studio seemed to blur out entirely, leaving only the sharp intensity of his gaze locking onto your lips, then your eyes.
The sudden, heavy gravity of the moment seemed to startle him. He snapped away, pulling back into his own space, but his hand slid from the console to your shoulder. His fingers gripped the curve of your collarbone for a lingering, deliberate second. a silent, intense acknowledgment of the shift between you before he finally let go.
And somewhere between endless vocal takes, cold takeout dinners eaten far too late, and quiet conversations inside dim control rooms, something shifted.
Slowly.
Almost imperceptibly.
Conversations that started with music somehow drifted toward bigger concepts.
Like fear, sudden insecurity within the industry, including the strange type loneliness of being deeply seen by millions and somehow misunderstood all at once, philosophy, politics, essentially the versions of yourselves the world thought it knew.
It became rather personal, dangerously personal, and sometimes, without meaning to, moments lingered longer than they probably should have, eye contact held a second too long. A quiet laugh after midnight somehow feeling more intimate than intended.
You started noticing the little things, how his attention sharpened whenever you walked into the room, how he remembered tiny details from conversations you barely remembered mentioning, how sometimes late enough into the night when exhaustion softened both your guards, he looked at you like he forgot the rest of the world existed.
The kind of closeness neither of you ever really acknowledged, just⊠carried quietly which was growing to be unstoppable.
➻➻➻➻➻➻➻➻➻
The reality outside the studio, however, remained impossible to ignore. Michael was married to Lisa Marie Presley. Their relationship lived everywhere across magazine covers, television interviews, impossible headlines splashed across checkout aisles. Despite everything unspoken lingering beneath the surface, he never crossed a line.
Always respectful.
Always careful.
Professional to a fault.
Still sometimes, there was something unreadable in the way he looked at you. The kind of feeling hidden carefully behind those dark aviator sunglasses. Those lingering touches would make you think at home âthis ainât fair.â
And maybe you imagined it. Maybe not. But the day your newest photoshoot with another celebrity started making headlines
Your phone rang.
You stared at it from across the room, already knowing who it was before you reached for it. A ridiculous feeling settled in your stomach, it was something in your gut that you had been trying and failing to ignore for weeks.
You inhale the last drag of your cigarette before stubbing it out in the ashtray, crossing the room to finally answer the ringing phone. âHello? â
For a moment, there was only the faint sound of breathing on the other end.
ââŠHey.â
Then his voice, like you predicted, it was Michael.
Almost like heâd been rehearsing what he wanted to say and immediately forgotten all of it the second you picked up. It made you so annoyed the fact you couldnât help but have a smile creep up on your face. âhi Michael.â
The full name made shivers crawl down his spine, he never got use to the way your voice sounded calling out to him. âAre you busy, perhaps?â
The question sounded a little too casual for your liking, it was like the way people spoke when they were trying to hide the real intention on why they called.
âNot necessarily, why? Something on your mind? â
A few seconds of silence passed before he spoke again. âNo.â The one word answer made you feel rather uneasy, he never got this serious over the phone, you only felt obliged to lighten the mood.
âso thatâs why you called? To see if I was busy nothing else.â You laughed quietly.
âNo thatâs not it, well. . .maybe you can say that.â The silence following after his confession felt oddly intimate that neither of you were quite willing to acknowledge it but no one hanging up either.
He quickly added. âhow was the photo shoot?â Yep there it was, the real intention behind this late night phone call.
Your brows furrow at that unexpected mention â photo shoot? â he quickly shut down at your chance of interrogation. âI saw you in that magazine. . .with whatâs his face. You looked really nice. â He nearly murmured it to himself, his finger slowly following the curve of your face printed on the magazine in his lap
You snicker at remembrance of that day. â âwhatâs his faceâ is just beneath you Michael. â he goes to come up with a rebuttal but heâs cut off with your laugh. âThat evening was so tiring but him being funny made up for it I suppose.â
Michaels teeth at this point were practically grinding at the potential thought of you laughing at his jokes and playfully hitting his shoulder like you have done to him in the past. âOh. Funny was he?â
His sudden change in tone had you in complete disbelief. You blinked and laughed. â wow, attitude much?â
â I donât have an attitude. Iâm just confirming.â His harsh tone now slowly calming down as he adjusts the phone against his ear.
â Correction âIâm just jealousâ more like it.â You seriously couldnât help but almost smile now at this new information.
He let out a low scoff, his voice dropping an octave. âdo you have a problem with that?â The question held so much weight, a quiet admission wrapped in a challenge. The brief silence that followed told you everything you needed to know.
Your eyebrows instantly shot up as you simultaneously sat up on the bed, still clutching the phone receiver with all your might. â excuse you?â
he replied, his tone teasingly smooth now. â I said what I said girl.â
You were in disbelief. â oh my godâŠâ
â please donât start. â
âMichael youâre actually jealous?â
A groan escaped him as he covered his eyes with one hand. âYou sound entirely too happy about this.â
â Iâm not happy at all, frankly Iâm just curiousâŠwhat do you expect me to do about it?â
A low, exasperated chuckle vibrated through the receiver. "Stop fishing," he murmured, though there was a definite softness to his voice now. "You know exactly what it does to me."
You bit your lip, unable to hide your grin. "I really don't Michael . Why don't you spell it out for me?"
He sighed, a sound that was half-defeat and half-amusement. âIâm upset. I expect you to stop talking to him like heâs the one youâre collaborating with.â
âoh so heâs a threat to you?â You teased.
âNobody is a threat to me princess,â Michael replied smoothly, his usual confidence slipping right back into place. âBut I like keeping your attention right where it belongs.â
That comment rather made you amused, you lean back on your bed headboard adjusting the phone. âCan I say the same for you though?â
His brows arched in curiosity. âWhat are you saying?â
You roll your eyes, slowly getting annoyed feeling like heâs purposely being stupid. âYou seem to have a strict program for me but what about you? You still be going home to Lisa every night and I havenât said anything.â
A sharp intake of breath caught in his throat. He clearly hadn't expected you to bring her up, and the sudden reality check seemed to stall him completely. âThatâs different,â he said, his voice dropping into a quiet, defensive murmur. The teasing playful tone was entirely gone now. âYou know thatâs completely different.â
You swallowed hard, the sharp sting of reality settling in. "Right. It's always different," you said softly, your tone pulling back into something distant and formal. "Look, maybe we should just drop it. It's late anyway."
âIs that what you think this is? A subject I can drop so easily?â he asked quietly, the weight of his words pressing heavily through the receiver. âYou think I go home and just... forget about this? Forget about you?â
The words hung heavily in the air, the silence that followed pressing against your chest with a suffocating weight. You gripped the phone receiver so tightly your knuckles turned white, your heart hammering against your ribs. The raw vulnerability in his voice was something you hadn't prepared for. It stripped away all the playful banter and the protective walls you had both carefully built up over the last few weeks.
You let out a bitter, breathy laugh, shaking your head against the pillow. "Then why do you stay, Michael? You know you ain't happy. . Just break up with your girlfriend already."
A soft, breathless laugh suddenly broke through his heavy silence. A sound of pure, exasperated disbelief. On the other end of the line, you could hear the faint rustle of fabric as he covered his face with his free hand, completely overwhelmed by the bluntness of it all. "Girlfriend?" he murmured, his voice muffled against his palm, a sharp trace of embarrassment bleeding into his tone. He let out another quiet, self-deprecating chuckle before clearing his throat, pulling his hand away as his voice dropped back into that same intense, heavy register.
"I mean, that's all she is to me," you added, a sudden, snarky edge cutting through your quiet tone, sharp and entirely unapologetic.
"She's my wife," he corrected softly, the weight of that single word hanging like an anchor between you. "Which makes this a whole lot more complicated than just... breaking up. But it doesn't change a single thing I just told you."
You didn't answer, the heavy silence settling back over the line as you stared up at the ceiling. The truth was out there now, stripped of all the playful banter and studio distractions, leaving nothing but the reality of what was building between you.
â
â â â â â â â â â â â â â â :š ·.· š:
â â â â â â â â â â â â â â `· . đ Skate to Me, Baby!
đৠâč àŁȘ Ë pairing: Off The Wall M. Jackson x Fem!BlackReader
đৠâč àŁȘ Ë type: one-shot
đৠâč àŁȘ Ë genre: fluff
đৠâč àŁȘ Ë summary: You and Michael have been childhood friends for a very long time! Always hanging out together in secret, ducking the obvious feelings going on between one another. Until, one night, at a skating rink, those feelings become too strong to ignore...
đৠâč àŁȘ Ë word count: 13.0k words
a/n: This is my first ever oneshot about michael jackson. So, please be nice. I plan to write more but enjoy this one for now!
âSo, when are you goinâ to tell him how you feel?â
It was the year of 1979âa sweltering summer night, the best kind. The sort of night when people your age slipped into their finest outfits, doused themselves in perfume, and disappeared into the city until dawn.
And, as always, you'd been roped into an outing with your girlfriends. Every last one of them were now crammed into your tiny room, lounging across your bed, leaning against the walls, and perched atop your dresser while they waited for you to finish getting ready.Â
Naturally, conversation had become their source of entertainment.Â
Unfortunately, there was one topic that always managed to surface. One topic you desperately wished they'd leave alone.
"So," one of them began, a knowing smile spreading across her face, "when are you finally gonna tell Michael how you feel?"
You froze. A gasp lodged itself in your throat as you turned to scan the room, finding grins waiting for you in every direction. Slowly, your hands dropped from your hair, fingertips coated with oil from unraveling the days-old braided updo you'd been wearing all week.
âWhy do yâall always ask this question?â You responded, eyes squinted with aggravation.Â
An eruption of scoffs is given in retort.
"Uhâbecause you've been beating around the bush since, like, forever. And we're just wondering when you two are finally gonna tie the knot!" Another one of them voiced, earning a series of nods in agreement.Â
An eye roll is gifted from you. Pushing away from your dresser, you turned to face your âaudienceâ. They watched you expectantly, eager for even the slightest bit of drama.Â
âI donât know how many times I have to say this! Weâre just friends. There are no âfeelingsâ.â You voiced, adding air-quotes with your fingers.
A chorus of doubtful responses answered you. Their responses came in perfect unison.Â
âRight.âÂ
âSure.â
âMhm.â
Your jaw clenched.
It was painfully obvious by their reactions that none of them were buying any of the words you said. Though the frustration soon simmered as you turned away, refusing to entertain their comments any further.Â
Instead, you stared at your reflection, eyeing your current state.Â
Your hair was nearly finished. Only a few stubborn braids remained on the left side, sticking out in every direction. But you'd already envisioned exactly how you wanted to look tonight.
A fitted bell-bottom bodysuit.
A perfectly shaped afro.
And a generous spray of perfume to tie everything together.
Tonight was going to be perfect.
Especially because Michael would be there.Â
You caught yourself before your lips could curl into a shameless grin.Â
You were certain that the âfeelingsâ your friends would spout about endlessly were false. Youâve even engraved that reminder deep into your own brain. Alas, if you had to be honest, they weren't exactly pulling these assumptions out of thin air.
The mere thought of him was enough to soften your mood. His smile. His doe-like eyes. His ability to lighten every room heâd walk intoâ those were the things that tugged at your silly little heartstrings.Â
And when you traced it all back to the beginning, it wasn't difficult to understand why your feelings had grown into what they were now.
In fact, it started when you were a child.
You remembered watching him perform beneath dazzling stage lights, his tiny feet gliding effortlessly across the stage. Every movement seemed effortless, every smile captivating. And those vocals. Goodness.
He would transform the entire stage into his canvasâa young Van Gogh in a room full of Rembrandts.
Back then, you'd convinced yourself he was some sort of angel sent down from heaven. A childish belief, perhaps, but one that felt completely reasonable at the time.Â
After all, how else could someone make people so happy?Â
In any case, one day, your mother had taken you to a concert featuring Michael and his brothersâthe Jackson 5. Even now, years later, you could still feel the excitement lingering in the memory. The deafening cheers. The thunderous applause. The electric energy hummed throughout the crowd. And Michael was shining beneath the spotlight like the brightest star in the sky.
But somewhere amidst all the excitement, you'd let go of your mother's hand. You just wanted a closer look! A foolish decision, youâve realized that now. One moment she was beside you. The next, she was gone. You remembered the panic that settled into your chest once the music ended and the crowd slowly began to disperse. You searched desperately. Called out for her. Waited. And cried.
Then, Michael found you.Â
Against his fatherâs wishes, apparently.Â
Butâhe saw you. All alone.Â
And he stayed by your side.
You could still picture the moment perfectly. The way he sat beside you. The way his small thumbs wiped away your tears, encouraging you to smile. He stayed with you until your mother finally found youâuntil you were safe, until you were smiling again.
Looking back, that was probably the moment everything changed. What had begun as innocent admiration slowly blossomed into something far more serious. Something deeper.
And it didn't fade, especially after he moved into your neighborhood in Encino, California, into the infamous Hayvenhurst estate. And it probably grew when the two of you started hanging out in secret.
But that was just childish puppy love! At least, that's what you told yourself.
You cherished your friendship with Michael far too much to risk changing it in pursuit of some ridiculous romance. Besides, he was a star. A symbol. Someone admired by millions.
Someone far beyond your reachâŠ
So, you buried those feelings where they belonged. Even if it stung a little.
Going back into the present, a quiet sigh escaped your lips as your fingers returned to unraveling your braids. Every so often, a knot snagged beneath your fingertips, drawing a small wince from you. Reaching across your dresser, you grabbed your comb and held it between your teeth while you worked through another section of hair.Â
"Michael's a sweetheart," you mumbled around the comb.
Several pairs of eyes immediately narrowed.Â
"But..." You paused, removing the comb from your mouth, using it to straighten a tangle at the end of a remaining braid. "He's not really my type."
The lie slipped out far too easily. The room fell silent. Dangerously silent. You didn't even need to turn around to feel the judgmental stares boring into the back of your skull.
Slowly, one of your friends rose from the bed and crept up behind you, resting a hand on your shoulder. âWe're all gonna pretend you didn't just lieâŠâ
The room erupted into laughter, immediately prompting you to turn around.
âI'm serious!â you insisted. âWhy don't y'all believe me?â
âGirlâŠâ one of your friends drawled.
âSo, we're just gonna ignore the fact that you run to his house whenever he calls?â Another chimed in. âOr how you two gave each other those cute little nicknames? What were they again? Applehead and Angel Face?â
You stiffen once more. âFriends do that all the time,â you argued. âSometimes they hang out when the other is having a hard time. And Michael is constantly under a lot of pressure. I'm just there to support him.â
Silence. You could almost hear a pin drop.
Thenâ
âSo, you have sleepovers because he's âstressed outâ?â one of the girls asked, earning another round of laughter.
âHeyââÂ
Your sentence is interrupted; another friend leaning against your dresser. âWait. You're telling me that the two of you be all curled up under the same blanket, watching The Three Stooges, and absolutely nothing happens after that?â
A chorus of dramatic "ooohs" erupted throughout the room.
You answered with nothing more than an annoyed stare.
Unfortunately, your friends took your growing embarrassment as an invitation to keep going.Â
One of them even went far enough to place both hands on your shoulders. âNot even when his voice gets all soft,â she teased, her voice dropping to a sultry octave. âAnd he's telling you how happy he is that you came over to see him?â
You could feel heat rushing farther up your neck.
âStop itâŠâ You protested.Â
Alas, it fell on deaf ears.
âNot even when he's got his arm all around you in that giant bed of his? Looking all handsome and smelling like whatever expensive cologne he be wearinâ?â
You shot her a look.Â
She pursed her lips. âCome on, girl. You know he smells good.â
The mental image alone was enough to make you bury your face in your hands, desperate to smother the thought before it could take root.Â
One of your friends even fanned themselves at the thought. âWhew! All I'm saying is, honey, if I were in a bed with thee Michael Jackson, I'd be running my fingers right through that afro and trail them all the way down to hisââ
âOkay! Enough!â you shouted, cutting her off before she could finish. Snickers followed your outburst.
âCareful,â another friend said between giggles. âShe gets real possessive when it comes to her man.â
You sigh.
This was going to be a long night.
~.~
The roller-skating rink was no more than a fifteen-minute drive from your place. All of you were squeezed into one of your friends' carsâa standard Chevrolet Chevelleâwith the music turned up loud to set the vibe for what promised to be a blissful night. The radio flowed effortlessly, from the angelic vocals of Chaka Khan, the smooth grooves of Earth, Wind & Fire, the funky rhythms of James Brown, and the upbeat tunes of the Jackson 5.Â
You chose to ignore the playful grins thrown in your direction from the front and back seats when I Want You Back began to play.
Nevertheless, when the car finally pulled into the parking lot, you could barely wait to jump out.Â
Childish giggles filled the air as you pushed open the rinkâs double doors. Instantly, you were greeted by bright fluorescent lights shining overhead. A glittering disco ball hung at the center of the rink, scattering flashes of light across the polished floor.
The place had been around for decades, first opening in the early 1930s and rising to popularity by the late 1950s. Over the years, countless skaters had glided across its floor, moving effortlessly to the rhythm of unforgettable music. And now, as someone stepping into a roller-skating rink for the very first timeâto experience a spectacular night.
Caught up in the excitement, you and your girlfriends rushed to the rental counter, eagerly rattling off your shoe sizes to the man behind the marble countertop. He looked moments away from losing his patience, likely overwhelmed by the chaos. Regardless, he disappeared into the back and returned with armfuls of skates.Â
One by one, he handed them out, and one by one, your friends slipped them onto their feet.
Well, all of them except you.
As everyone rolled toward the dance floor, you lingered behind. You tugged at your laces, then let them fall to the floor.
How could you forget such a key detail?
You didnât know how to skate.
Still, through the blaring music, you heard your name.Â
"Hey! You comin' or what?" One of your friends waved from the semi-crowded rink, gesturing for you to join them.Â
You flashed a grin and waved her off. "Give me a second! Just tying my laces!"Â
That was your second white lie of the night.
As your friends entered the rink, you just stared down at your skates, fingers absently tugging at the laces before giving up, hiding them beneath the fabric of your bell-bottoms. Around you, the rink buzzed with life. Wheels rolled across polished wood. Laughter echoed from every direction. Somewhere overhead, one song faded into another, the bass vibrating faintly beneath your feet.
You swallowed, anxiously tapping your finger against the bench beneath you. You wrestled with the decision between attempting to stand or staying put.Â
Besides, everybody fell their first time, right?
Then again, the mental image of you falling flat on your ass made you cringe.
Maybe sitting this one out wouldn't be so bad. You thought.
You could still vibe, right? You could just watch your friends skate. Cheer them on from the sidelines. Maybe grab a snackâor a milkshake. Nobody would judge you for that⊠right?
âŠThis is embarrassing.
A sigh slipped past your lips. "Damn it."Â Â
Your eyes fluttered shut, your heart beating steadily as you kicked one skate-clad foot against the carpet floor, then the other, but you still couldn't bring yourself to stand.
Untilâ
A warm, calloused hand settled on your shoulder.Â
You nearly jumped out of your skin, your head whipping around so quickly that it almost hurt.
"Who the hellâ" The words died in your throat, and you gasp. Wide-eyed, you stared at the person standing beside you as surprise and delight washed over your features.
There he stood.
A crisp white button-up shirt peeked from beneath his tailored velvet jacket, its sharp collar framing a glimpse of his partially exposed chest. His perfectly sculpted afro crowned his head, accentuating his striking features, commanding your attention. Around his wrist, a polished gold bracelet gleamed, catching and reflecting the vibrant flashes of the spinning disco lights with every subtle movement.
His navy bell-bottom jeans were equally eye-catching; tiny rhinestones carefully scattered across the dark fabric, they shimmered like scattered stars, creating the illusion that the denim itself sparkled beneath the colorful glow of the dance floor.Â
Even amid the mingling scents of buttery popcorn, sugary soda, and the faint aroma of freshly polished wood, one fragrance stood out above the rest.Â
The familiar scent of his cologneâBal Ă Versaillesâdrifted through the air, rich and warm, carrying notes that were both rich and unforgettable. It lingered in your senses for a moment, drawing you in more.Â
For one brief, embarrassing moment, you nearly forgot how to breathe. Thankfully, you recovered before making a complete fool of yourself.
Placing a hand over your chest, you let out a shaky laugh. "Michael, you scared me."
A soft giggle greeted you in response. "Sorry," he said. "I wasn't sure if it was you. So, I just kind ofâŠwalked up.â
You couldn't shake the feeling that he wasn't being entirely truthful about that. Regardless, you rose to your feet, intending to give him a quick embrace.Â
Unfortunately, you forgot that you were wearing skates.
The moment you pushed yourself forward, your wheels rolled out from beneath you, and because of your untied laces, you toppled forward. You still managed to wrap your arms around his neck, but not before your temple collided with his bony shoulder.
You winced. "Ow."
Michael immediately steadied you, large hands gripping your forearms as he kept you upright. "Whoa, easy! Are you okay?"
A soft curse slipped from your lips, fingers gently tracing at the aching spot along your tender skin. "Shit. I'm sorry."
"No, no, don't apologize!" Michael said quickly, eyes scanning your features with a concern so pure, one would assume you needed a hospital. "Are you hurt? Do you need to sit back down?â His gentle voice was comforting, as always. It was one of his most endearing qualities, even if he never seemed aware of it.
You force a giggle amidst the embarrassment. âItâs okay. I doubt this will leave a bump or anything. Donât worry.â
Regardless of your words, Michael looked you over, his hands still steadying you as though letting go had never crossed his mind. His gaze then fell to your feet before he released a breathy laugh. âYour shoelaces are untied. Here, I got you.â
Before you could protest, Michael dropped to one knee, already reaching for the long laces. He worked them with careful, practiced ease, fingers moving deftly as he pulled them tight and began to tie them properly.
For a moment, your eyes lingered on him rather than what he was doingâthe way his brows furrowed slightly in concentration, the way his hands were steady like this was second nature, like taking care of you didnât require thought so much as instinct. When he glanced up briefly, he caught you watching him.
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
âWhat?â he asked quietly, softer now.
You shook your head, but you didnât look away. âNothing.â
That only made his smile deepen a little, like he didnât quite believe youâbut didnât need you to explain either.
He finished the knot with a final, firm pull, triple-tying it so it wouldnât come loose for the rest of the night. His fingertips lingered for just a second longer than necessary before he finally let go. Then he stood back up, meeting your eyes again like he had never really left them in the first place, his hands settling back around your arms as if that was where they belonged.
A moment later, almost absentmindedly, he lifted one hand from your forearm and reached up, brushing his thumb gently against your temple. He traced the spot with a soft, careful pressure, as though trying to soothe something only he could see.
âI hope this doesnât swell,â he murmured, speaking more or so to himself.
The touch was featherlight, deliberateâlike he was handling something precious, something he didnât want to risk hurting even by accident.
The gesture should have felt ordinary. After all, Michael had always been like this with you. Thoughtful. Protective. Close. The two of you had shared countless moments just like this over the years.
Maybe it was the way his eyes lingered a little too long.Â
Maybe it was the warmth of his hand against your skin, or the way your breath caught when his thumb brushed your temple.Â
Whatever it was, it sent an unfamiliar flutter through your chest and left you suddenly, painfully aware of how close he was. Fortunatelyâor perhaps unfortunatelyâMichael spoke before you could lose yourself in the moment completely.
"You don't know how to skate, huh?" he snickered, flashing a grin that lit up his face with pearly white teeth.
You rolled your eyes. "Wow, what gave it away?" you replied, tone dripping with sarcasm, but your voice lacked any real bite. Michael only chuckled in response.
You straighten your postureâor try to. Soon after, rising onto the tips of your skates, you leaned forward, peeking slightly over his shoulder. "So, you and the boys just got here? Iâm surprised there isnât a whole crowd of paparazzi outside."
Another snicker is earned. "Oh no, itâs just me right now. Bill snuck me in through the back entrance," Michael explained, gesturing vaguely over his shoulder before his hand settled back onto your forearm.
âThe rest of the guys should be here any minute now. I would've come with them, but...â He lifted a shoulder in a small shrug. âI didn't want to be a burden, you know? I want everyone to have fun. Just one night of pure escapism. No cameras, no media.â
You nodded, your gaze drifting toward the front entrance before finding its way back to Michael. The second your eyes met his again, you quickly looked away.
Hopefully, he hadn't noticed.
A thoughtful hum escaped you as you tucked a loose curl behind your ear, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips.
Then silence settled between you.
Your gaze dropped to your skates first, as though you needed something solid to focus on, something steady to anchor yourself. Slowly, your eyes traveled upward, tracing the length of your arms until they landed on Michael.
He was still holding you. His large, slender hands remained wrapped around your forearms, gentle yet firm, as if he hadn't quite realized they were thereâor perhaps hadn't quite decided to let go.
Longer than necessary. Longer than either of you cared to acknowledge.
You swallowed hard, your breath catching somewhere between uncertainty and something warmer that you weren't ready to put a name to. In an instant, your girlfriends' earlier teasing came rushing back, uninvited and impossible to ignore.
Your eyes widened slightly. âUh... Michael?â
The words barely left your lips, soft enough to be swallowed by the music and chatter around you, yet somehow they reached him perfectly.
His attention snapped back to you. One brow lifted in silent question before he followed your gaze downward.
And froze.
For a brief second, he stared at his own hands as though he were only just noticing them. A faint flicker of realization crossed his features. His fingers tightened ever so slightlyâa final, absent squeeze that lingered for a heartbeat too long, like he was reluctant to end the moment.
Then he let go. The sudden absence of his touch felt strangely noticeable.
Michael cleared his throat and stepped back almost immediately, creating a careful distance between the two of you, as though a few extra inches of space could somehow erase what had just happened.
It couldn't. The moment had already settled between you both, quiet and undeniable.
"Sorry. I didn'tâI just didn't want you to fall again andâ"
"No, you're okayâ" You attempt to reassure.
"But I made you uncomfortableâ" He persisted.
Your words overlapped. Both of you stopped. The silence somehow became even worse.
Michael awkwardly wiped his palms against his jeans, pressed his lips together to lick them, and even threw in a fake cough for good measure.
You eventually cleared your throat, and your hands fidgeted together before you hurriedly changed the subject. "So, how's the album coming along? It's been a while since you last showed me your demos."
The effect was immediate. A spark of excitement lit up Michael's eyes, pure enthusiasm brightening his entire face. He looked like a child who'd just been handed a mountain of candy.
"Oh!" He laughed softly before continuing. "It's actually finished now! The release is next week. Hopefully!â
Your eyebrows shot upward. "Already?"
âYeah!â he said, practically glowing, like the thought alone was enough to light him up from the inside out. âThere are ten tracks altogether, and Iâd like to think I put a lot of myself into every single one of them.â
His excitement was contagiousâimpossible not to catch. He practically buzzed with glee, shifting on his feet as though standing still was asking too much of him. Every so often, he rocked slightly forward on his heels, like he couldnât quite decide whether to stay grounded or float away with his own enthusiasm. It was another thing youâd started to notice about Michael. The way music didnât just make him happyâit made him come alive. There was something almost endearing about it, the way his whole face softened and brightened at once, like every thought he had, found its way back to joy.Â
âEscapism and magicâ, as he would phrase it.
And watching him like this, so openly happy, it was hard not to feel a little swept up in it too.Â
"So you've been busy, then?" You ask, placing a hand on your hip.Â
Michael nodded enthusiastically. "Oh yes, very busy. I think I re-recorded one of the tracks almost twenty times. Thirty max!â
You laughed. âTwenty to thirty times? Michael, that's insane.â
âI know,â he admitted with a sheepish chuckle, one hand slipping into the pocket of his jeans. âEvery time I listened back to it, I'd hear something I wanted to change. One note. One harmony. One tiny detail that nobody else would probably notice. I wanted everything to be perfect.â
His smile turned thoughtful. Then, with his free hand, he began snapping softly to an invisible beat, humming under his breath and clicking his teeth in time with a rhythm you didn't recognize. The melody definitely was a part of the final product of his new solo album.
The tune carried a familiar trace of Michael's style, but there was something different about itâsomething fresh. Freeing his other hand from his jeans, his fingers tapped absentmindedly against his leg as he continued piecing together the rhythm, completely unaware that he'd given you a glimpse behind the curtain.
âIâd tell Quincy things like, âPlay that part back,â or âStart from the beginning!â Even if the click was off, I wouldnât stop repeating it until it was perfect.âÂ
You nodded. âSounds groovy. And now you think you've finally perfected it?â
Michael's smile softened instantly. Without a moment's hesitation, he nodded. âI know I did,â he said. âNo doubt!â
For a moment, you simply watched him, absently tapping a finger against your hip. There was something infectious about his confidenceânot arrogant, just certain in a way that made it impossible not to smile.
A soft giggle slipped from your lips. You shook your head. Michael immediately mirrored your laughter, his cheeks lifting with amusement. âWhat?â he asked, grinning. âWhy are you laughing?â
You waved a dismissive hand. âIt's nothing. I justâŠâ
The words trailed off as you found yourself studying him for a moment longer than intended.Â
Your own smile softened. âI like when you light up like this,â you admitted wholeheartedly. âThe way you look like you're about to burst from excitement whenever music is brought up.â
Michael blinked.
You glanced away for only a second before adding, a little more softly, âYou're just so⊠bright to me.â
The words hung gently between you, simple and honest, yet somehow carrying more weight than you'd intended.
Michael stiffened for a moment, his wide smile softening into something quieterâshyer, almost guarded; you could even notice that he subtly bit his bottom lip.Â
He then lifted a hand to the back of his neck, rubbing it lightly as he broke eye contact. His gaze dropped to the tips of your skates, as though they were suddenly far easier to look at than you.Â
Then he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. And then back again.
It was a small movement, but it only gave him away. The way his shoulders seemed to draw in just slightly beneath the weight of his own shyness. The way he looked like he wanted to disappear and stay exactly where he was at the same time.
Yet, despite all his efforts to look elsewhere, his eyes kept finding their way back to you. Just brief glances. A second here. Half a second there. Gone before you could fully catch them. As if he couldn't quite help himself. As if looking away for too long wasn't really an option.
Or maybe that was just wishful thinking on your part.
âYou really think soâŠ?â His voice was quieter now. There was a shyness to the question, a genuine uncertainty.
But beneath it lingered something else. Something warmer. Something flirtatious. The faintest hint of a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he waited for your answer, and suddenly the space between you felt much smaller than it had a moment ago.
You blinked, caught completely off guard by the question.
âY-yeah,â you stammered. âIs that⊠weird to say?â
The words tumbled out more awkwardly than you'd intended.Â
Michael's reaction was immediate. âNoâno, not at allâŠ!â he said, lifting both hands in a gentle wave of reassurance. The motion was quick, almost frantic in its sincerity.
As his hands lowered again, one drifted to his opposite elbow, rubbing absently at the sleeve there. His gaze dipped toward the floor, and for a moment he looked strangely shyâsofter than usual, stripped of the easy confidence and bright energy he carried everywhere else.
The colorful lights of the rink swept across his features, painting brief flashes of blue and gold across his face. Then he glanced up. Only for a second. Just long enough for his eyes to find yours.
âIn factâŠâ The words came quietly. Almost too quietly.
His gaze slipped away again, and a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as though he couldn't quite believe he was about to say it.
âI think you're the brightest thing in this entire place.â The confession barely rose above the distant music and chatter around you.Â
And the words didnât quite make it to you.Â
They were swallowed by the noise, lost in the rhythm and laughter and sound all around youâkept safely between him and the moment, as if heâd meant for them to stay there all along.
âSorry?â You asked, subconsciously leaning forward.
Michael swallowed again, his tongue briefly flicking over his bottom lip like he was trying to find the courage hidden there to repeat himself. âI said⊠that youââ
âMICHAEL!â
âAy! What up, Mike!â
The voices cut across the rink like a sudden whistle, sharp and loud.
Both of you jumped so abruptly it would have been amusing under different circumstances. Michael, especially, was nearly startled out of his skin. His shoulders snapped upward in an instant, his entire posture stiffening as though he'd been caught in the middle of something he wasn't supposed to be doingâa guilty look flashing across his face, like a child sneaking a cookie from the cookie jar.
A group of his friends came barreling over, already laughing before they even reached you. One of them slid in a little too fast and grabbed Michaelâs shoulders for balance, which only made him lurch forward. He nearly toppled overâarms flailing forward for half a secondâbefore catching himself just in time.Â
Thankfully. Otherwise, he mightâve fallen straight into you.
âThere you are!â one of them said, giving his shoulders a firm, teasing shake. âGlad to see you made it, man!â
Michael blinked, his expression shifting from nervous focus to pure shock, eyes big and unblinking. âHuh? When did you guys get here?â
Another friend leaned in over his shoulder like he was inspecting evidence. âWeâve been here for like five minutes. What were you doing?â
âWe were just talking.â Michael blurted out immediately. Way too immediate. That only made them grin wider.Â
âOoooh,â one of them drawled, elbowing the guy next to him. âTalking, huh?â
The grin that spread across Michael's face looked strained, stretched too tight around nerves he clearly wasn't hiding nearly as well as he thought he was. His fingers kept flexing at his sides, opening and closing in restless little movements. Even his posture seemed different. Tighter. Smaller somehow.Â
One of his friends immediately noticed. "No way," he gasped dramatically. "Mikeâs blushing."
"I am not," Michael argued.
"You totally are." Another friend chimed in.
"I'm literally not." He persisted.
His denial came so quickly that it only made the accusations seem ten times more believable.
The entire group erupted into laughter, some doubling over while others pointed shamelessly at Michael. Eventually, the teasing died down enough for their attention to shift back toward you.
âAnyway,â one of them said, still chuckling under his breath, âyou ready to have some fun tonight?âÂ
You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden change in subject, and folded your lips inward before giving a small nod.
A chorus of approving nods met your response. âThat's what we like to hear.â
Before Michael could recover from his embarrassment, several of his friends crowded around him. Large hands landed on his shoulders, kneading them dramatically as they began steering him away from you and toward the skate rental counter.
âCome on, Romeo. Let's go get our skates.â
Michael blinks, lips parting to voice a protest. âHang onâ!â
âYeah, man. I'm tryna get my groove on!â
Michael furrows his brows. âBut Iâ!â
âAnd I already spotted, like, six girls I'm tryna take home tonight!â Another friend chimed in.
The group dissolved into another fit of laughter.
âSix?â someone scoffed. âMan, focus on learning how to skate first.âÂ
More laughter follows, drowning out Michaelâs soft comments; he eventually just fell silent in defeat, making you slightly snicker, hiding your giggles behind your hand.
As they dragged Michael farther away, he twisted around just enough to glance back at you. For a brief moment, he managed to mouth the words âIâll be backâ; a gentle notion of reassurance.Â
You nod, waving in his direction before slouching back onto the bench behind you. A breath that you werenât aware of even holding was released. The moment the noise of Michael and his friends disappeared into the sea of music, the world seemed strangely quieter.
Not actually quieter. The rink itself was alive.
Yet somehow, after standing beside Michael, everything felt a little distant.
You sank further into the bench and exhaled softly. The interaction replayed itself in your head almost immediately.
"I said... that youâ"
And then his friends appeared. Your fingers absentmindedly twisted together in your lap.
What was he trying to say?
You turned your attention toward the rental counter where the group had scurried off to. Across the rink, Michael's friends were still gathered around him like a pack of vultures. Even from this distance, it was obvious he was being playfully harassed.
One of them was talking animatedly while Michael rolled his eyes. Another was laughing so hard he nearly dropped his own rental skates. Additionally, every few seconds, someone would point in your direction, earning an immediate shove from Michael.
You couldn't hear the conversation. But you could definitely see him losing. Badly.
A smile tugged at your lips.
Then, suddenlyâ
Michael looked over.
The distance between you wasn't small, but somehow his eyes found yours immediately. Like he'd been searching. The second he realized you'd caught him staring, he licked at his bottom lip, his hand lifting slightly to give you a shy wave.
You wave back, eyes half-lidded with a look of utter admiration, one would assume that you looked helplessly infatuated with him.Â
But it wasnât like that at all! RightâŠ?
The explanation sounded much more believable in your head than it felt in your chest.
As the colorful lights of the rink swept across Michael's face, he stood back to his feet, bathing in flashes of blue, pink, and gold. Eventually, the group started drifting toward the rink entrance, all loud confidence and competitive energy, already arguing about who would win the first race across the rink. Or who would land their first girl of the night.
Michael followedâpartially. Because halfway there, he slowed. Then stopped. Then turned right back around like it was the most obvious decision in the world. A few steps later, he was back in front of you, hands tucked behind his back like he hadnât just abandoned his entire group mid-way.
âIâm back,â he said, a childish gleam in his eyes.
You glanced up at him. âI can see that.â
That earned him a small laughâsoft, quick, like he didnât mean for it to slip out. It settled between you two easily, like it had been waiting there the whole time. For a moment, neither of you moved.Â
Then Michael tilted his head slightly. âSoâŠâ he started, slower now, almost careful. âDo you wanna skateâŠwith me?â
Your confidence immediately betrayed you. You paused. âI⊠Iâm not too sure, Michael. What if I fallââ
You didnât even get to finish. His hand reached down without hesitation, warm and steady, sliding into yours like it belonged there. He then gave your knuckles a small caress.
âI wonât let you fall,â he said, like it was the easiest promise in the world.
You blinked at him. âButââ
He shook his head once, still holding your hand. âMm-mm. Come on. Letâs go.â
This manâalways so ambitious, it's almost impossible to say no to him. Nevertheless, you tightened your hand around Michael's and allowed him to guide you back onto your skates.
The second the wheels met the floor, they rolled forward before you were fully prepared, sending you into a soft, unsteady wobble. Your legs felt strangely disconnected from the rest of youâawkward and uncertain.
Instinctively, both of your hands shot toward his. A frustrated huff escaped you. Michael answered with a quiet snicker. The worried expression written across your face was impossible to miss. You looked as though you were one bad wobble away from crashing straight into his arms.
Truthfully, he wouldn't have minded. Not even a little. But that thought remained safely hidden behind his teasing smile.
âEasy,â he said, his voice gentler than his grin. âRelax. If you keep overthinking it, you're definitely gonna fall.â
Unfortunately, his advice barely seemed to reach you.
Your eyes kept darting down to your skates as if they were plotting against you, and every tiny wobble only made your grip on his hands tighten.
âMichael...â you whined, your breath puffing out in frustration as your balance faltered again. âI don't think this is for me. I'm definitely gonna fall.â
His response came immediately.
âYou're not gonna fall.â The certainty in his voice left no room for argument. âNot while I've got you.â
His hands tightened ever so slightly around yoursâwarm, steady, reassuring. The simple gesture anchored you in place while the rest of the rink blurred into colorful lights, distant music, and drifting laughter.
Then he gently tugged you forward.
You rolled toward him before you could stop yourself, your chests colliding in a clumsy collision that sent another wave of embarrassment rushing through you.
Michael caught you effortlessly. For a moment, neither of you moved. Then he adjusted his grip. One hand remained wrapped around yours while the other began to drift down toward your waist, stopping just before it made contact. A flicker of hesitation crossed his face.
His eyes lifted to yours. âCan I...â he asked quietly. The question came out softer than before. âCan I put my hand here?â
His gaze flickered briefly toward your waist before returning to your face, patiently waiting for your answer. Your breath caught slightly at the questionânot because it was loud, but because it felt like it changed the shape of the moment.Â
Michaelâs eyes didnât rush you. They just waited, steady and patient. Your fingers were still tangled with his, your balance still not fully yours to claim. Though the warmth of his grip made it easier to think than to panic.
âY-yeah,â you managed after a second, a little quieter than you meant. âOkay.â
The second the word left you, something in his expression softenedâsubtle, but unmistakable. Carefully, he guided his hand to your waist. Not suddenly. Not forceful. Just deliberate enough that you could feel every second of his restraint as he made sure you were still comfortable.
âThere,â he said gently. âNow? Iâm going to move you onto the rink.â
Before you could protest, he began to skate backwardâslow, carefulâmatching his pace to every tiny hesitation in your legs. The soft hum of wheels filled the space beneath you as he guided you away from the carpet just outside the rink. Then, finally, onto the smoother, polished floor bordered by wood. The change was noticeable, like balance suddenly mattered twice as much.
You stiffened almost immediately, your gaze dropping on instinct.
âNo, no. Donât look,â Michael murmured gently, catching you right away. His hand briefly left your waist, rising to guide your chin back up with careful ease before settling again at your side as if it had never left.
âJust⊠look at me,â he added softly. âOnly me.â
You swallow on instinct. There he wasâright in front of youâsteady and unshaken as he skated backward, guiding you with quiet confidence. The teasing had faded from his expression, replaced by something softer⊠more attentive. Like nothing else on the rink mattered except you.
âThere you go,â he murmured, leaning in just slightly, his voice slipping into your ear like a secret meant only for you. âJust like that⊠youâre doing so well.â
Your legs still trembled a little beneath you, but the fear didnât feel as sharp when he spoke. It softenedâdulling at the edgesâlike his words were steadying you more than the wood beneath your skates.
âSee,â he said again, lower this time, calm and certain. âNot so scary anymore, right?â
You scoff. âThatâs debatable.â
A giggle is shared between the two of you.
Soon after, a new song drifted through the speakersâolder, but unmistakably iconic. âNight Feverâ by the Bee Gees. The rink seemed to groove with it, everything easing into the rhythm like the floor itself had decided to heat up.
Michael caught it immediately. His smile widened, something lighter and almost amused slipping in. âOh,â he said, glancing up. âI love this song!â
Before you could respond, his hand adjusted in yours and he guided you into a wider glideâno longer pulling, just syncing. The shift was subtle, but everything changed with it, like you were both finally moving to the same beat.
Around you, skaters blurred past in streaks of motion and color, their laughter bouncing off the walls and folding into the music. One song flowed into the next, then another, until time itself felt less structuredâbefore an hour or two had soon passed. Additionally, something in you began to ease. Michael caught it immediately, his smile brightening once he noticed your pure enthusiasm.Â
Then, a slower song began to ripple through the rink, the shift in rhythm changing the entire atmosphere almost instantly. Around you, the energy softened as skaters adjusted with itâsome gliding more slowly, others moving in closer pairs, their movements easing into the new beat as they drifted and swayed together across the floor.
You both fell silent.
Though the silence between you wasnât empty.Â
It was filledâwith the low pulse of music, the distant scrape of skates against polished floor, the occasional burst of laughter softened by the slower rhythm now wrapping around the rink.
Michael didnât let go of you. If anything, his hold felt a little more careful now, like the shift in tempo had made him more aware of every point of contact between you.
Eventually, Michael swallowed, as the silence had finally gotten too loud for him.
âYou look very beautiful tonightâŠâ It came out softer than everything else heâd said so far. Unplanned in a way that made it feel heavier than if heâd rehearsed it.
You let out a small, nervous snicker on instinct, trying to turn it into something light. Your eyes rolled before you could stop them. âStop it,â you muttered. âYouâre just saying that.â
âIâm not,â he said right away. No hesitation this time. No joke in it either. Your breath caught a little.
Not because you didnât believe himâbut because he said it like there wasnât even room for it to be untrue.
âYour hair, your outfitâŠâ he added quietly, still holding your hand like it was the only stable thing in the rink. âI mean it. Youâre beautiful.â
You opened your mouth, fully prepared to deflectâmake a joke, roll your eyes again, anythingâ
But he didnât stop.
âItâs likeâŠâ He hesitated, licking his lips and searching for the words. âYouâre ethereal, andâŠyou make it really hard to focus on anything else. Thatâs what you do to me.â
That made your steps falter. Not enough to fallâhe adjusted instantly, like heâd memorized your balance already.
âMichael, I donât know what to sayââ you started, but he shook his head.
âYou donât have to say anything backâŠI justâŠwanted to say it.âÂ
That shut you up faster than any fall couldâve.
Meanwhile, across the rink, you finally caught sight of your girlfriends, laughing as they skated with a few of Michaelâs friends. One of them had an arm looped around a guyâs shoulder like sheâd claimed him for the night; another was half-dragging someone forward while pretending she wasnât struggling at all.
They looked like they were right where they wanted to be.Â
And then they saw you.
More specificallyâyou and Michael.
The reactions spread instantly into teasing smiles, exaggerated gasps, and one very obvious âokay, girlââ that was cut off by laughter.
You felt heat crawl up your neck, the doubt creeping into your brain once more.
Michael, of course, didnât notice at first. Or maybe he did and just refused to care. He was still looking at you like heâd forgotten there was an entire rink full of peopleâincluding your friends, watching you two. Soon, youâd had enough. There were too many thoughts and emotions running laps within your brain right now.
âOkay,â you blurted, a little too fast, forcing a smile that definitely didnât match the sweat on your brow. âSoâuhâdo you want a milkshake?â
Michael blinks, tipping his head. âPardon?â
âA milkshake!â You repeated, already gently steering your movement toward the exit rail as if you were suddenly a pro-skater. âI heard theyâre really good here! They have various ice cream flavors, too! Strawberry. Chocolate. Whatever you want! Very important decision-making situation!â
For a moment, he simply stared at you, the sudden mention of milkshakes hanging awkwardly in the air. The change in subject was so abrupt that it was almost impressive.
One second, the two of you had been gliding around the roller-skating rink beneath flashing neon lights and the steady pulse of music. Next, youâre talking about milkshakes as though your heart hadn't nearly stopped the moement he called you beautiful.
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. The disappointment was subtle, but it was there.
It showed in the way his expression softened, as though he were letting go of something he'd finally gathered the courage to say. For a second, it looked like he'd been hoping you would stay in that moment with him a little longer.
Then, he laughed quietly to himself and let it pass. MaybeâŠyou just werenât ready for that sort of conversation yet. And he was more than willing to understand that.Â
That last thing he wanted was to draw you away.
âYeahâŠletâs go.â
~.~
The moment your skates rolled off the rink, the noise softened. The music still pulsed through the building, but the snack bar felt warmer and calmer beneath the glow of overhead lights. Michael stayed beside you the whole walk, or glide, rather, your hand in his to steady you.
By the time you reached the counter, the butterflies in your stomach had finally started to settle.
Then, Michael ordered.
Before you could even open your mouth, he was already asking for your favorite milkshakeâexactly how you liked it, down to the smallest detail. You blinked, caught off guard, and reached instinctively for your wallet. But Michael had already handed cash to the employee.
Completely unbothered. Completely certain. You stared at him, momentarily at a loss, as if trying to understand how heâd knownâor how heâd decided so easily.
Only when he noticed your expression did he glance over. A familiar smile tugged at his lips, soft and effortless, like it always did. âWhat?â
You blinked. âYou ordered my favorite.â
Michael let out a soft chuckle, rubbing the nape of his neck as his gaze flicked away for a second.
âOh,â he said, as if just realizing it. âI did, didnât I?â
There was a brief pause.
Not awkwardâjust warm. Thoughtful.
He shifted his weight slightly, the corners of his mouth lifting again, though this time it came with a hint of something quieter underneath it. âGuess it just stuck in my head,â he added, almost casually.
His eyes found yours again, steadier now. âI pay attention,â he said simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. The milkshake machine hummed in the background, but you barely heard it.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
Then his smile softened, just a little.
âAnd you always get the same thing,â he added lightly, like he was balancing it out. âSo itâs not that hard to remember.â
The employee slid the milkshake across the counter, the cup sweating slightly against the plastic lid.
âThank youâŠâ You murmured, reaching for it first, fingers brushing the cold surface before Michaelâs hand hovered beside yoursâclose, but not quite touching. For a moment, you just looked at it.Â
Then, almost without thinking, you shifted it slightly toward him. âDo you⊠want some?â you asked, trying to sound casual and immediately failing.
Michael blinked, clearly caught off guard. âMe?â
You nodded once, a little too quickly. âYeah. You got it for me. Itâs only fair.â
A small laugh slipped from him, soft and amused, but there was something gentler in his expression as he nodded.
âOkay,â he said simply.
He didnât hesitate after that. Michael leaned in, and you lifted the cup slightly to meet him halfway. The moment felt too small and too big all at once, like the entire world had narrowed down to the space between you and the straw.
He took a sip, eyes meeting yours for a moment before falling to the cup. It was quickâsimple. But your brain still decided to stop working for a second anyway.Â
Because it was your straw.
And nowâ
Your eyes widened slightly as realization hit, heat creeping up your neck before you could stop it. Michael pulled back, blinking as if nothing unusual had happened, then paused when he noticed your expression.
âWhat?â he asked lightly, licking his lips. âDid I take too much?â
âNo!â you blurted immediately, too fast. His smile tilted, slow and knowing, like he was just starting to understand.
âYouâre thinking about it, arenât you?â he teased gently.
âI am not,â you insisted, even as you avoided his gaze entirely. But the word indirect kiss was suddenly very loud in your head. Michael leaned back slightly, clearly amused now, but he didnât push it further. Instead, he just handed the cup back to you with an easy shrug.
âRelax,â he said softly. âItâs just a milkshake.âÂ
But the way he said itâlike it wasnât a big deal at allâonly made it worse. Because somehow, it kind of felt like one.
You took the milkshake back a little too carefully, as if it had suddenly become something delicate.
For a moment, you didnât say anything. Neither did Michael.
The silence between you wasnât uncomfortableâjust soft, stretched thin by the distant music and the hum of the rink around you.Â
You lifted the straw and took a small sip.
It helped. A little. When you lowered it again, Michael was no longer looking at you. His gaze had drifted outward, past the crowdâlike he was watching something only he could see.
You followed his line of sight. The rink was alive in a quieter way now. Couples swayed, friends laughed in slower motion, and even the fast skaters seemed to move like they were floating instead of rushing.
Michael exhaled slowly. âIâm really happy that I came out tonight,â he said after a beat, his voice softer than before. You turned back to him. He still wasnât looking at you yet.
âItâs been hard recently,â he added, almost like an afterthoughtâlike saying it out loud made it more real. His fingers tap lightly along the edge of the counter. âI love being on the stage. I truly do. ButâŠâ
A faint smile tugged at his mouth, but it didnât quite reach his eyes yet. âBeing in the studio. Producing. Performing until I faint.â He let out a quiet, breathy laugh. âSometimes I forget what it feels like to just⊠exist outside of it all.â
That made you look at him more closely. The usual spark he carried when talking about music was still thereâbut it was quieter now. More honest. Less guarded. Then, finally, his eyes shifted back toward you.
âAnd then tonight happened,â he said.
A pause. His voice softened even more.
âAnd I donât know⊠it just felt good. Not performing. Not thinking. Just being here. With you.â
His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer than necessary, steady and open in a way that made your chest feel unexpectedly tight.
A small, almost embarrassed smile crossed his face. âI often forget how fun it is,â he admitted. âJust hanging out. With people who make everything feel like⊠magic.â The words settled between you, warm and unhurried, like they belonged there.
You let his words sit there for a moment longer than you meant to.
There was something about the way he said itâquiet, unguardedâthat made it hard to immediately respond. So instead, you focused on something safer.
âYour album,â you said eventually, lifting the milkshake again just to have something to do with your hands. âWhatâs it going to be like?â
Michaelâs attention shifted back to you fully now. That familiar spark flickered in his eyes again, subtle but unmistakable. âWhat is it going to be like?â he repeated, like he was tasting the question.
You nodded. âYeah. Like⊠what should people expect?â
For a second, he looked like he might answer normally. Like he might slip into the usual version of himselfâthe artist, the performer, the careful explainer.
Instead, he smiled. Slow. A little knowing. And then he shook his head.
âI could tell you,â he said lightly, âbut Iâd rather you be the first person to hear it.â
You blinked.
A small laugh slipped out of you almost immediately, more reflex than reaction. âIn person? Michael, thatâs like⊠the whole album.â
He shrugged, completely unbothered. âAll the more reason to go right now, right?â
Your laughter faded slightly as you studied him. The realization didnât hit all at onceâit crept in slowly, like a song changing key before you notice itâs different.
ââŠWait,â you said, quieter now. âYouâre serious?â
Michaelâs smile didnât waver. âYeah,â he said simply.
A pause lingered between you. Then, his tone softened. âI think Iâm spent for the night. And my place isnât that far from here,â he added, glancing briefly toward the exit. âSo⊠we could.â
Your fingers tightened slightly around the milkshake without you even noticing. Because suddenly, it didnât feel like a casual suggestion anymore. âI meanââ you started quickly, trying to steady your voice. âWe could, Michael. But⊠what about our friends?â
Michaelâs gaze drifted back toward the rink. He scanned it for a moment, as if actually considering it, before his eyes widened just slightly in realization.
Then he lifted a hand and pointed. âI thinkâŠâ he said slowly, âthey wonât notice that weâre gone.â
You frowned, following the direction of his finger.
And nearly dropped your milkshake.Â
There they were. Your friends. Some were wrapped up in warm embraces, swaying gently to the music. Others were a little closer than thatâcompletely absorbed in each otherâs lips, lost in their own world as the rink continued to spin around them.
Michael let out a quiet, amused hum beside you. âWell,â he said lightly, âthat answers that.â
âDefinitely,â you replied.
For a moment, your gaze lingered on himâjust long enough for the shared amusement to settle between you. Then it broke into laughter, soft and breathless, like the tension of the night had finally found somewhere to go.
Together, you finished off the last of the milkshake, tossing the cup before gliding back toward the rental counter to return your skates, hand in hand.
It was all quick and slightly clumsy in the way good nights tended to beâhands brushing, quiet laughs slipping out between movements, the two of you trying and failing to act like anything about this was ordinary.
Your shoes were back on in no time. And then, still laughing under your breath, you slipped out through the back door with Michael beside you, leaving the noise of the rink behind as the night opened up in front of you. Whilst your arm was gently hooked around his.
~.~
The moment you stepped into Michaelâs place, you pressed both hands over your mouth to stifle a giggle, trying your best to stay quiet as you slipped up the stairs.
The house was still, almost too still, every sound feeling louder than it should have been. You moved carefully, like the slightest misstep might wake the entire Hayvenhurst estate.
Michael followed close behind, just as quietâbut far less composed. He even lifted a finger to his lips, though the big grin on his face made it hard to take the gesture entirely seriously. Without a word, he guided you toward his room, easing the door shut behind the two of you as softly as he could.
Once you were safely inside the confines of his bedroom, the quiet energy between you shifted almost instantlyâlike both of you had been holding something in all night and only now had the space to let it out.
Excitement flickered through you in small, uncontrollable bursts, mirrored perfectly in the way Michael moved as he guided you toward the foot of his bed. âSit here,â he said lightly, already halfway across the room as you followed his instructions.
He maneuvered to his portable cassette tape recorders and reel-to-reel machines, fingers quickly adjusting knobs and dials as though he could navigate them blindfolded. The soft mechanical clicks and faint hum of equipment filled the room as he fine-tuned the volume, then paused, turning back toward you with a grin he clearly couldnât hide.
âOkay,â he said, voice soft but bright with anticipation, a quiet laugh slipping between his words. âThere was this one song that I really hope will set the vibe when you roller-skate.â
You settled more comfortably, crossing your legs and resting your chin on your hand, watching him with open curiosity.
âOh?â you prompted gently. Michaelâs eyes lit up at your response like heâd been waiting for the exact opening. Without another word, he leaned over and pressed play.
At first, the room filled with a soft crackleâtape warming to lifeâthen the unmistakable groove began to bloom through the speakers. Smooth, steady, effortless. A rhythm that immediately shifted the air in the room.
Girl, close your eyes
And then, almost immediately, he started moving.
It wasnât polished. It wasnât staged. It was Michael completely unguardedâswaying on his heels, shoulders bouncing lightly, snapping his fingers as he followed the beat. He stepped backward, then forward, then did a little turn that was more playful than precise, laughing to himself as if the song was pulling it out of him.
You couldnât help it. A laugh slipped out, bright and genuine.
âMichael,â you said through it, shaking your head. âYouâre not serious right now.â
âI am very serious,â he replied instantly, already sliding into another goofy little step, pointing at you as if to include you in the rhythm. âThis is the groove I have envisioned. I can almost see it!â
The confidence in his voice contrasted completely with the fact that he was now doing a small shuffle across his bedroom floor like the music had possessed him. That only made you laugh harder. He stopped abruptly, placing a hand on his hip, his grin widening. âAre you laughing at me?â
âNo,â you insisted, still smiling. âIâm laughing with you.â
âYouâre such a nut,â he said, narrowing his eyes playfully. Then, suddenly, his expression shiftedâbrightening with an idea. âCome on,â he said. âDance with me.â
You blinked. âWhat? No, IâMichael, I canât dance like you.â
âYes, you can,â he said immediately, as if it were fact. âItâs easy. Just rock. Enjoy yourself!â
You hesitated.Â
He tilted his head, softer now, but still teasing; his hand now extended, waiting for you. âDonât you trust me?â
That did it. You stand, taking his hand. âAlways.â
The word lingered between you both a moment longer than it should have, suspended in the warmth of the music and the quiet space heâd created around you.
Michaelâs lips parted slightly, like he had something ready to sayâbut it never quite made it out. Instead, he caught his bottom lip between his teeth, a shy smile breaking through anyway, softening his whole expression.Â
And then, gentlyâcarefullyâhe pulled you closer.
Not in a way that demanded anything. Not in a way that rushed the moment. Just enough to close the distance, to fold you into the rhythm of the room where the music hummed low and steady around you both.Â
He stepped backward, then side to side, drawing you with him like an invisible thread tied the two of you together through the music. His hand stayed clasped with yoursâwarm, steady, certainâwhile his other hovered near your waist, careful and restrained, like he was giving the moment room to breathe⊠and giving you the choice to close the distance if you wanted to.
The song rolled on, smooth and unhurried, wrapping around you both like a secret no one else in the room had been invited to hear.
Michael spun you onceâplayful, a little exaggerated on purpose just to make you laughâand the sound of it seemed to light something up in his eyes.
Before you could drift too far away, he was already pulling you back in, like letting you go for even a second had never really been part of the plan. Then, the song ended.
The two of you broke into laughter after that, the kind that came easier nowâlike the awkwardness had melted completely into the music itself.
Michael was still smiling when he finally slowed, letting the movement settle. His grip on your hand didnât disappear, but the playful energy in him shiftedâsubtle, like a light dimming into something warmer.
He glanced past you toward the little sound system near the edge of the room. âWait,â he said softly, as if something had just clicked in his mind.
Before you could ask, he stepped over and flicked through the selections, fingers moving with quiet familiarity. A moment later, a new track filled the spaceâsmoother, softer, almost glowing in its own way.
Itâs the Falling in Love.
The mood changed instantly.
Michael didnât move right away. He just stood there for a second, listening, like the song carried more weight than just sound. Then he looked back at you, a small, almost nostalgic smile tugging at his mouth.
âThis album,â he started, quieter now, âOff the Wall⊠Itâs really important to me.â
You tilted your head slightly, watching him more closely.
âThere was a lot of pressure when I was making it,â he continued. âLike⊠a lot. I had to get it right. People were expecting so much, and I justââ He exhaled, shaking his head faintly, like he could still feel it. âI was in my head all the timeâŠâ
His eyes flicked back to you for a second, then away again, like he was choosing his words carefully. âBut there was always someone I kept thinking about, to keep me going,â he said.
Your brows lifted slightly. âSomeone?â
He gave a small nod. âA specific person.â
That did it. The air in your chest tightened before you could stop it. âOh,â you said, trying to sound casual and immediately failing. Your gaze dropped for half a second before you forced it back up. âI see.â
Michael watched you for a beat too long.
And thenâvery quietlyâhe snickered. Not mean. Not dismissive. Just like heâd seen something unfold exactly the way he expected it to.Â
You frowned slightly, crossing your arms. âWhat?â
He tilted his head, still smiling in that infuriatingly calm way of his. âYouâre jealous.â
âI am notââ you started instantly, too fast to be convincing.
That only made his smile deepen. He took a small step closer, just enough to close the space youâd instinctively tried to create. He then took your hand, lowering you back to the foot of the bed. âYouâre terrible at lying; do you know that?âÂ
Your silence answered for you. Michael shook his head, amusement softening into something gentler, almost fond. He then lowered himself to the floor beside the bed, resting his back against the mattress. For a moment, he simply listened as the song continued to play through the tapes.
"You remember all those fan letters you used to send me as kids?" He suddenly spoke.
Your eyes soften. "Michael..."
"I'm serious." He laughed softly. "Whenever things got stressful, I'd read them."Â He turned his head to look up at you. "You'd always write about the most random stuff. School. Your friends. Some movies you liked. Things that happened during your day." His smile widened. "You were just... talking to me. Like a normal person.â
The certainty in his voice left no room for doubt. Michael looked away for a moment, his gaze settling on the tape player across the room. âWhen I was performing with my brothers, everything felt huge." He shook his head with a quiet chuckle. "Everybody had opinions. Everybody had expectations. I had so much pressure put onto me as a child.â
His fingers drummed softly against the floor, the quiet rhythm nearly lost beneath the music drifting through the room.
Then he looked at you.
"But your letters⊠made me forget all of that." His voice was gentle, stripped of its usual teasing confidence. The air between you seemed to shift, growing warmer, more intimate, as though the entire world had quietly stepped away and left only the two of you behind.
Michael's gaze lingered on yours. "They reminded me that there were people who cared about me even when I wasn't on stage. You checked in; long before you knew me personally. That brought me peace."
A small smile touched his lips, softer than any you had seen before.
For a moment, he glanced away, almost embarrassed by the confession. Then he looked back at you, and whatever hesitation had been there melted into something achingly sincere.
"That person who kept me going throughout the process of Off the WallâŠ" he began, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes searched yours, as though he needed you to understand every unspoken word. "...was you.â
The music continued to play, but it felt distant now, drowned out by the sudden pounding of your heart. Michael smiled thenâa quiet, tender smile filled with years of memories, old letters, and feelings that had been growing unnoticed in the spaces between them.
"It was always you," he admitted.
The words settled between you like starlight. Not dramatic. Not uncertain. Simply true.
His gaze dipped briefly to your lips before lifting back to meet your eyes. Then he moved, his arm brushing lightly against your leg as he reached for your hand. His fingers slipped between yours, warm and steady, and with a gentle tug, he guided you up from the bed as he also rose from the floor.
Then he spoke your name, softly, almost reverently, in that gentle tone that always seemed to find its way straight to your heart.
"I'm a bit nervous to say this right now, butâŠ" The words trailed off as he licked his lips. For a moment, his gaze drifted away, as though he was gathering the courage to voice something he'd carried for years.Â
"I have feelings for you." The confession hung between you, delicate and breathtaking. "I am so in love with you. I think I've been in love with you since I was a kid." A small, nervous laugh escaped him before his expression softened. "But I'm not standing here as that same ten-year-old boy anymore. I'm coming to you as a man."
A lump rose in your throat.
Michael gave your hand a gentle squeeze, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. "And I want to be your man."
His voice was quiet now, but every word carried the weight of absolute sincerity.
"I want to wake up beside you every morning. I want to spend my days loving you and my nights holding you. I want to fall asleep with you in my arms and wake up grateful that you're still there, safe with me." His eyes shimmered with emotion. "I want every ordinary moment with you. The good days, the difficult days, the boring days that don't seem important until years later when they're the memories we cherish most."
His grip tightened ever so slightly around your hand. "I yearn for that more than anything in this world. More than any dream I've ever chased. More than anything I've ever wanted."
For a moment, his voice nearly failed him.
"I just... I want you. God⊠I want you.â
The silence that followed felt endless.
Your eyes remained fixed on him, wide and shining, but no words came. Not because you didn't have an answer, but because every coherent thought had abandoned you the moment he confessed. Your heart was beating too loudly. Your emotions were too tangled.
Across from you, Michael waited. And waited. As the seconds stretched on, uncertainty began to creep into his expression. He released a shaky breath. His grip on your hand loosened slightly, though he couldn't quite bring himself to let go.
"I'll understand if you don't feel the same way," he said quietly. "I mean... we've been friends for so long. I wouldn't want this to ruin what we have."
A nervous laugh escaped him, though there was no humor behind it. "I just..." His gaze drifted downward. "I'd still want you in my life. No matter what. I'd still want you by my side."
The silence lingered. Michael swallowed hard. His eyes fell to the floor, his confidence finally beginning to crack beneath the weight of your lack of response.Â
"I-I'll just..." He took a small step back. "I'll call Bill. Have him pick you up andâ"
"Michael." Your voice finally broke through the room, fragile and trembling.
Instantly, he froze.
Your fingers tightened around his hand before he could pull away. Slowly, his eyes lifted to meet yours. Tears glimmered along your lashes. The sight alone was enough to send him into immediate concern.
"Hey, hey..." His voice softened. He stepped closer, lifting a hand to your face. His thumb brushed beneath your eye, catching the tear before it could fall. "Don't cry."
The tenderness in his voice nearly made you cry harder.
"I'm sorry," he murmured. "I shouldn't have put this on you out of nowhere."
"No." The word escaped you in a breathless laugh. Another tear slipped free despite your smile. "No, Michael." You shook your head, laughing through the tears that refused to stop. "I'm happy." Your voice cracked around the words. "So unbelievably happy." A watery laugh escaped you as you squeezed his hand tighter. "Truly. I am."
For a heartbeat, Michael simply stared at you, as if he were afraid he had misheard. Then the tension that had been coiled through his shoulders began to melt away. Relief softened his face first, followed by something even warmerâhope.
âYou're happy?â he asked quietly, almost disbelieving.Â
You nodded, fanning your eyes with a shaky laugh. âI'm crying because I've wanted this for so long that I don't even know how to process it.â
The confession hit him like sunlight after a storm. His eyes widened, and a breath escaped him that sounded suspiciously close to a laugh. âYou have?â
âProbably since we were kids,â you admitted, your cheeks burning. âI just⊠never thought you felt the same way. I always filled my head with this idea that, given youâre a star and Iâm meâŠitâd never work.â
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The years of friendship, longing, missed chances, and unspoken feelings seemed to settle around you all at once. Then Michael laughed softly under his breath, shaking his head in disbelief. âWe're really something, huh?â
You smiled through the tears. âYeah, we're both terrible at this.â
âNo,â he said gently, stepping closer. âI think we were just scared.â
His hand slid fully into yours again, fingers interlacing this time. The gesture felt different nowânot tentative, not uncertain. Intentional. He lifted your joined hands slightly, his gaze never leaving yours. You look up at him, admiring the height difference between you. He was so tall, yet he was never truly out of your reach.
âI don't want to be scared anymore,â he said. âNot with you.â
Your heart fluttered painfully at the sincerity in his voice. âNeither do I.â
The answer seemed to steady him. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, slow and affectionate. âI wantâŠI want to kiss you. Can I?â he asked.
The question was so earnest, so careful, that it made your chest ache.
You nodded before you could second-guess yourself. âPlease.â
Michael leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. You didn't. His free hands rose to cradle your cheeks, warm and gentle; however, he froze just before reaching your lips, wanting you to seal the deal. So, you did. And when his lips finally met yours, the kiss was soft at firstâalmost reverent.
It wasn't rushed. It wasn't dramatic. It felt like something that had been waiting for years to happen.
When he drew back, his forehead rested against yours. You could feel him smiling.
âHi,â he whispered, a little breathless.
A laugh bubbled out of you. âHi.â
His grin widened. âI've been wanting to do that for a very long time.â
You squeezed his hand. âMe too.â
The two of you fell quiet again.
Your gazes drifted downward almost at the same time, lingering on each other's lips before slowly returning to meet. A shared breath hung between you, warm and nervous and full of possibility.
Michael's eyes narrowed. "Can I..." he began, his voice barely above a whisper. "Can I do it again?"
A rush of excitement fluttered through your chest. "Yes."
That was all the permission either of you needed.
He closed the distance first, and this time the kiss came easier. The nervousness that had accompanied the first one had melted away, replaced by familiarity and years of unspoken affection finally finding somewhere to go. Your hands rose instinctively, cupping his rosy cheeks as he did the same.
You laughed quietly when your fingers disappeared into his curls, catching on a few stubborn tangles.
Michael smiled against your lips, giggling alongside you.
The room seemed to fade around you. The music, the walls, the passing minutesânone of it mattered. All that remained was the warmth of his hands, the softness in his eyes whenever you pulled back for even a second, and the overwhelming realization that this was real.
After all those years of convincing yourself that your feelings were impossible, that someone like Michael could never feel the same way, every doubt began to dissolve.
He wanted you. And somehow, unbelievably, you had always had his heart.
Eventually, the kiss broke, though neither of you moved very far away. Your forehead brushed his, and your hands wandered absentmindedly across the front of his shirt, smoothing wrinkles that weren't really there.
Michael's smile grew shy beneath your attention.
Then, he gently guided you toward the edge of the bed. This time, however, you stopped him. Michael settled onto the mattress first, looking up at you with big, curious eyes. You shifted nervously from one foot to the other.
"Can I..." A breathless laugh escaped you. "Can I sit on your lap?"
The answer was immediate. Michael nodded without a momentâs hesitation, the same yearning reflected in his eyes. "Of course."
Like you needed to askâŠ
Drawn together by something neither of you could ignore, you carefully settled onto his lap, your arms slipping around his neck. His hands found your hips almost timidly at first, steadying you as though he still couldnât quite believe this was real.Â
Then the distance vanished yet again. Your lips met again, and this time neither of you held back. The kiss was fierce yet certain, filled with a devotion that words could never quite capture. Every brush of his lips seemed to linger, every breath shared between you carrying years of unspoken feelings.Â
The rest of the world faded into insignificance as you lost yourselves in one another, savoring each stolen second and making up for all the time that had slipped through your fingers. Michael held the back of your head, pulling you a little closer, and you melted into him just as easily. Both of you content to remain suspended in that perfect moment, where nothing existed except the warmth between you and the kiss that neither of you wanted to end.
The immense make-out lasted for entirely too long, and the music from Michaelâs demos had long ended. Soon enough, you two broke apart, panting from exhaustion.Â
Neither of you spoke a word. You simply sat there, drinking each other in with a fresh kind of yearning, the air between you heavy with affection that neither of you cared to hide anymore. Then a sudden snicker escaped you. Michael immediately lifted a brow, a grin tugging at his lips as his white teeth flashed. âWhat?â he asked, amused. âWhy are you laughing?â
You quickly covered your mouth, tryingâand failingâto suppress the laughter bubbling up from your chest.
âI got my lipstick all over you,â you managed between giggles. âYouâre literally covered in red right now.â
His confusion only lasted a second before realization dawned. Every kiss you'd pressed to him had left its mark behind. Bright lipstick stains decorated his lips, dusted his rosy cheeks, and lingered along his chin. A few particularly shameless prints even trailed lower, staining the skin of his neck. The sight of it only made you laugh harder.
Michael reached up, feeling at his face before huffing out a laugh of his own. âWow,â he muttered, shaking his head. âYou really went to work, huh?â
âYou weren't exactly stopping me.â You teased.
âNo,â he admitted, his voice dropping slightly. âI definitely wasn't.â
And somehow, despite the lipstick covering half his face, you found yourself staring at him all over again, your laughter fading into a smile as the distance between you seemed to disappear once more. Michael stayed close, his forehead now resting gently against yours.
The world around you felt quieter now, distantâreduced to just the rhythm of your breathing and the warmth lingering between you. His fingers hovered near your waist, not quite pulling you in, not quite letting go either, as if he was still learning how to hold something he didnât want to lose.
âIâm so happy youâre here.â
The words didnât rush. They landed gently, like theyâd always belonged thereâlike they were simply being returned to you after too long apart. For a second, all you could do was look at him, the red lipstick still faintly marking his skin, the same face youâd been laughing at moments ago now holding something infinitely more tender.
And then, quietly, like it was the only truth that matteredâ
âIâm so happy too, Michael.â
~.~
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