—✴︎ 𝐵𝓁𝑒𝓈𝓈𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝐼𝓃 𝒟𝒾𝓈𝑔𝓊𝒾𝓈𝑒 ✴︎—
ᴘᴛ.1
Summary: You’re a troubled and struggling model who meets thrad/bad era MJ in disguise at a park. It takes some time for your hurt selves to let your guards down. He falls in love, inviting you to work on the “TWYMMF” music video.
Content: Michael Jackson x Reader, second person, love at first sight, fluff, slow-ish burn??, fem reader, kissing, sfw, emotional hurt/ trauma mention
A/N: This’ll be one of two parts. Plz bare with me, I've barely proofread, and it's PRETTY long. Also, English is my second language, so give me some grace!! I tried to give characters some depth, hope it doesn't come off as just rambling. Thx for reading <3
10.5k words
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“If you could just stand here, we’ll be fitting look twelve on you today, ‘mkay?” An assistant’s palm hovers over your arms to direct you. From there, a team of vultures assembled electric-blue sheer tulle over your frame, accentuating your figure with millions of pins the seamstresses pressed against your sides. You caught a glimpse of the designer’s loud garment that he intended you to model in a dusty full-length mirror near the door. ‘This looks ridiculous’, you think to yourself.
Here you were, shaped like a tsunami with legs, to possibly walk the runway for a designer who frames his models as lifeless jesters. You had no choice, though; you were not fussy about modeling gigs merely because you could not afford to be. You lived in a 500-square-foot flat on the outskirts of LA, and you could barely afford the rent. You had moved to LA alone three years ago to pursue your dream of becoming a model, but you had just started making a name for yourself. You appeared in a few commercials and magazines. Though, you were fairly accomplished for someone in your position, having consistently walked for renowned designers. Still, you somehow remained in the background, with casting directors hardly distinguishing you from the others they recruit. As far as you were concerned, though, this was as successful as you could be just three years in the game.
The casting director storms in, nearly spilling the miniature espresso cup in his tight hands. A warm gust of enamel and coffee reached your nostrils, “No, no. Pin the shoulder down.” The group shifted its focus to it. “Try it with the emerald boots,” he shifts his weight onto his leg.
After a half-hour of his hot-headed direction, he surrenders. He rubs the bridge of his nose and holds his palm out to initiate a stop. “Enough. She doesn't have the look. We need more edge.”
The weight of seamstresses is taken off your body, with each instantly gathering their pins and arms before attending the other rooms.
Before giving you half the time of day, he cuts off any response you've prepared: “Sorry, babe, you don't fit what we’re looking for in this piece.” He walks off alongside the remainder of the group, leaving you alone in just your undergarments. The sudden change of heart left a sour taste in your mouth. Not because you care for this designer or the clunky dress, but because you have been rejected ten times just this week and need to make rent. You sigh, get dressed, and pull your shades tight between your eyes.
You walk home along the scenic route to help ease the tension building in your neck, starting from stomach. A wave of heat washes over your face, and you can't hold back the tears. The modeling business was cruel and unforgiving; you knew that and signed up for it anyway. Regardless, you contemplated whether you have made the right choices in life. You found yourself in the middle of a park, minutes away from your apartment. The autumn breeze passes through you, with the cold highlighting your vulnerability. Sadness hit you harder than you expected, with your lips unwillingly curling into a frown. The stream of tears seemed to loosen your knees, giving you no choice but to sit yourself down on a nearby bench. Hands over your cheeks, you sob, fogging up your lenses. The sounds you unleashed were far from composed, too raw to be unleashed in a public setting. You stopped caring long ago, though, as this line of work left you with very little dignity anyway.
Interrupting your scene of self-pity was a tap on the shoulder from a man seated near you on the bench. He was a slender, brown-skinned man wearing an obnoxiously stereotypical baseball cap, sunglasses that were too big for his face, a flannel shirt, and a walrus mustache that seemed out of place.
“You alright?” He set his pencil onto his little notebook and leaned towards your face, maintaining a respectful distance.
“Sure, I am. Thanks.” You peeked from the corner of your sunglasses and folded your arms tight.
“Couldn't hurt to talk to a stranger. Not like you’ll see me again.” He tilted his head in persuasion.
A contradictory smile crept through the corner of your mouth, “I don't have much else to lose. Why not?”
“I'm Michael, by the way,” he holds his hand out.
“Y/N,” you receive his hand. You shake your head, amazed that you gave in to this stranger’s charm without a fight. You chuckle, “It’s just work stuff.”
He raised an eyebrow and shrugged. “Work sucks sometimes. Work’s on my mind even on my days off,” he lifts his pencil and notebook in indication. You give a polite smile and look down at your fidgeting thumbs. “What do you do?” He pushes up his glasses before facing you.
“I'm a model. Usually, runway, but right now, it's whatever my agent throws at me,” you finally look him in the eyes. “What about you?”
“Reasonable.”
“Huh?”
“Just— the modeling thing. You look lovely— even with the glasses covering half your face.” You blush and smile while it compels him to mirror you.
“Thank you,” you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, “What do you do?”
“I’m a performer. I sing.” He attempts to correct himself to avoid giving too much away, “Weddings and stuff. Nothing big.” His flustered mouth thinned to conclude his answer.
You nod, following up with more questions that roll into conversation. You end up oversharing about the industry's heartlessness and your financial situation while living in LA. He listens and advises you not to be so hard on yourself, since you were doing rather well for a beginner in this industry. He also stressed that he believed in you, and even after just a few minutes of conversation, he was convinced you would achieve great success in your career. He even revealed some insight into his own personal life, opening up about his insomnia and the pressure he faced from his family. Minutes turned to hours as we gave each other space to rant and console. The sun dimmed to a muted orange, cueing the conversation’s end.
You wipe the tears off your cheeks aggressively and sit up, “Sorry for all that. Didn't mean to unload all this like onto someone I just met like some weirdo.”
He laughs briefly and tucks a curl under his cap. “I live for these moments. I love to help, even just by lending an ear to a stranger.” He turns his head away, then back towards you with a gentle sigh on its way. “That sounded a lot less cheesy in my head, if I’m being honest.” You flash a smile. Not the practiced one that you’ve given photographers and casting directors, the first genuine expression of joy you’ve had in months.
You fluttered your lashes and looked at your fidgeting shoes, “Anyway, thank you.” You pause, hesitating whether you should even ask, “Will we ever meet again?” You swiped the glasses off your face and folded them into the neckline of your shirt, finally facing him with your swollen eyes. “I know we started with ‘we’d never see—,” he cuts you off before you finish the thought.
“Same time, same place, tomorrow?” He follows by taking off his glasses.
You study his eyes, and he studies yours. Face to face, he can’t help but notice the beautiful blush and glow that followed your tears. He had developed some bit of attachment to you after a few hours of talking. You can’t help but admire his rich black eyes, which capture a youthful and tender spirit. He was charming and drew you in through his comforting nature.
The dimples on your cheek exposed themselves while you failed to hide a smile. You tucked an untamed strand of hair behind your ears and nodded, “Same time, same place.”
Bill picked him up in an alleyway that he designated for discreet drop-offs and pick-ups. Michael spent the short drive back to Hayvenhurst looking out his window and occasionally smiling. The smiles were too audible in the silence, prompting Bill to look over at him through the rear-view mirror. “Someone’s in a good mood,” Bill attempted to fill the silence.
He wets his top lip and makes eye contact with Bill through the mirror. “Had a nice conversation with someone at the park, is all.”
“She's got you all giggly like that?”
“She? How’d you guess?” His gaze drifts towards the window to lessen the embarrassment that warmed the tips of his ears.
Bill responds simply with an ear-to-ear grin.
“We’re meeting again tomorrow.”
Bill shoots him a look that serves as a warning.
“Don’t worry. I didn't say anything too crazy. She doesn't know who I am, and I don't plan on telling her unless it even goes anywhere,” he pauses to inhale and gather his thoughts. “She just feels different. I don't know. I mean, I don't know her, but I feel drawn to her— or something— I don't know.”
Bill seems amused by how flustered he is just thinking about you, brushing it off, and hoping for the best.
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After nine grueling hours of shooting for Glamour magazine, you throw your clutch onto an armchair and kick off your heels, exposing the blisters that have formed over the past few days from standing in positions no feet should endure for hours on end. It didn't help that you speed walked home to make it to the park on time.
Although you had just met the man at the park, there was a ease you had with him that you don't experience with many people. It was as if you had known him of years before the interaction. You also couldn't bear the thought of passing up what seemed like the first genuine connection you’ve had for a long time. Your lifestyle had been particularly isolating, with your work becoming the forefront of all your relationships. You stayed in touch with your mother and talked with siblings here and there, but moving to LA alone had made you tolerant of solitude. Though living was tolerable, it would be nice to have a friend for a change.
You slipped on an oversized leather jacket and jeans before heading towards the park.
There, he waited on the bench with a heel on his knee. He used his calf as a support to hold his notebook up, doodling what he could remember of the sight he absorbed before you left him— your hair a mess and the teary residue accentuating your eyelashes like mascara. He leans in to refine the bridge of your nose and spots you crossing the street. He drops his pencil and tucks it into his book as he lifts his arm to wave. You give an energetic wave back before tugging at your jacket and speed-walking to the bench.
Your magnificence is hard to miss in the crowd; he notices your mood has sweetened, the brilliance in your face beaming a vibrant smile.
“Get up, lazy,” you motion your head towards the path.
He exhales a laugh, “Where are we going?”
“The trail. The leaves look so pretty right now,” you hold a shrug with your hands in your pockets.
“I'm sold,” he gets up without a fight and follows your lead.
“You’re doing better today,” he says, looking around before folding his glasses into the neckline of his shirt.
You maintained that smile from earlier but embraced it now. “I'm not always so negative. Yesterday was just— a lot.”
“I figured as much. What kinda work did you have today?” He leans to listen as if his life depended on it.
“Couple shots for Glamour. Nothing big. A small shoot for a fall fashion editorial,” you twirled a strand of hair.
“Sounds like you're underestimating how big it is,” he picked apart.
“You’d think. What about you, Mr. Wedding singer? What do you do in a day?”
He gulped to buy some time, “Not much. Been trying to get into songwriting. Been writing some stuff.”
A massive lie. He'd spent the day with Quincy breaking down a couple of lyrical issues on “Liberian Girl”. He had been in there for ten hours straight before heading to you. He wasn’t going to give you his identity so quickly, of course. He was hesitant about allowing people into his life (and rightfully so).
Unconvinced, you nod without questioning it. You could tell he didn't want to stick to the subject too long, so you let the conversation drift. You talked about interests and hobbies for some time. You both shared an admiration for cartoons, and you geeked out about Disney Princess movies.
“No way you've never seen it!” You walk backward to face his amusing disgrace.
He points a finger at you, “You never watched Pinocchio, though! That's so much worse!”
“Sleeping Beauty was their best movie! You're not a real Disney buff, sorry,” you teased, mildly elbowing him.
“That's not even remotely correct”, he goes to rub the arm you elbowed, “Besides, Pinocchio had the best soundtrack by far.”
You shake your head, “How ‘bout this? There’s a Sleeping Beauty re-release they’ll be running next Sunday. Are you up for it?” You stood in front of him to face him, stopping in the middle of the marigold and scarlet disarray of leaves. You lean your head upward to eye him down temptingly.
He licks his lips as his throat resists a laugh, “How do you have this information ready like that?”
“I'm always at the movies,” you sounded like a sure and eager child, “Is that a yes?”
“How does nine o'clock sound?”
“Sounds like you’re somewhat of a night owl.”
He scoffs, “That's not even late!”
“That's about an hour before I sleep,” your hands clutch your waist under your jacket.
“You grandma,” he laughs.
“If you're going to peer-pressure me into it, fine. Nine sounds perfect,” you roll your eyes. He tried to contain his grin while writing the plan into his notebook.
“I think you’ll need my number. In case you get lost, you know,” he said, uncompellingly.
You roll your eyes— a habit that’s made itself comfortable in this conversation, ”How kind of you. I wasn’t sure how to get to the theater a block away from here.” You bite your inner cheek to contain your smile, “Where’s your pen?”
He pulls it out while you point to your wrist. Puzzled, he furrows his eyebrows.
“Don’t wanna lose it,” you said without a second thought. Saying the gesture was seducing would be an understatement. He craved your touch. Feeling the blush creep back up from his cheekbones to the bridge of his nose, he held your hand with a gentle grip and wrote it vertically in a neat font. You held it up to admire for a second before burying your wrist back into your pockets. The fact that you didn't think twice about it gave him butterflies to accompany the warmth that settled in him. The stroll felt minutes long, but your watch and the setting sun soon humbled you both once again.
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The day passed as you worked, wondering when it would be appropriate to call. Morning? No, too desperate? Noon? Probably busy. Evening? Kind of weird. You eventually decided on the same time you’ve met him at the park for the past two days, 7:00pm.
It was now seven, and you contemplated waiting a minute to seem more casual. You found yourself impatient, so you rested the phone on your shoulder and dialed the number on your wrist, anyway.
Not even a second passed before the line picked up.
“Hello?” You initiated, testing the waters.
“Hey,” his soft voice came through.
“Wasn’t sure you’d be free this time again,” you admitted.
“I guessed you'd call me now. And you did. Strictly on time,” his breathy laugh travels through the phone.
His laugh loosens your grasp a bit, infecting your face with a smile.
“How was your day, ‘Ms. Never watched Pinocchio?” He leaves no room for awkward small talk.
“Shut up. Can't lie, it was pretty busy, but I can't really complain. I'd rate it a 7/10,” you giggled.
“Did you just do that? I've never heard anyone give days ratings like that.” He shook his head at your ridiculousness.
“Of course, grumpy,” you sneer. “How was yours?”
“Pretty busy too. Had breakfast with my mother and Janet earlier, though. It was a nice way to start the day.”
”Aw, how sweet. I'd love to meet them. Your mom sounds adorable.”
“She’d love you, that's for sure. Maybe you will,” he rubs the back of his neck as his legs crossed over his desk.
You two stayed on the phone until midnight, talking up a storm on senseless topics that you both seemed beyond willing to engage in. You had pointless debates, like which type of cookie was superior.
“They're the most popular for a reason,” you asserted.
“You’re just a sheep!”
“And you just want to be different! Name one bakery that sells ‘maple pecan’?”
“Who cares if they sell it or not?”
“They don't sell it because it doesn't exist,” you accuse.
“What kind of logic is that?” His laughter is so deep it starts in his stomach.
He loved this. You loved this. Conversation came easily— natural. Like you two were a twin flame. Your differences only drew you towards each other. He caught feelings much faster than he’d liked to admit, but so did you.
The phone calls kept up throughout the week, with neither of you missing a day. Some days you called, and some, he did. Some days you called three times, and some were strictly the single 7:00pm appointment. Most calls were casual; a few were a little more personal. Nonetheless, they gave you both something forward to before your movie date.
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“The pictures came out beautiful, darling. Be sure to pick up a copy,” your agent’s babbling voice shakes the telephone receiver.
“Thanks, Chris. I really owe you one. Now, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Bye-bye.” You eagerly hang up the phone before walking across the street towards the magazine stand.
Your fingers scavenged for the latest ‘Mademoiselle’ print where you’d managed to occupy a respectable chunk of pages. Your mind soon became distracted as your eyes caught an image of Michael Jackson on the front of a dehumanizing tabloid. You couldn't go anywhere without seeing his face slapped on magazines, newspapers, and television, but you never paid as much attention as you did now. His face was front and center, an unflattering and zoomed-in image. His eyes were identical to the Michael you’d met at the park. The same Michael who listened to you rant and teased you over not watching Pinocchio. His rich, dark chocolate eyes enchanted you like no others before. They were too distinct not to grab your attention. You scratched your head and shot down the thought. You finally found your copy sitting under another flashy picture of Michael, this time the title praised him for a large donation to charity. You picked up your copy of ‘Mademoiselle’ and stepped back. Your arm visibly hesitated before picking up the magazine above it. You knew it was unlikely, of course, but skepticism took hold of any sanity you had.
You plop both magazines onto your ottoman, subconsciously reaching for the magazine with Michael first. You flip to the first page to find an image of him waving while licking his lips on a flashy stage. A strange thing— that mannerism seemed exactly on point for the Michael you met. The next page— a smile that folded into methodical dimples precisely like his did. You squint to imagine how he’d look with hair tucked deep into a baseball cap and a rugged mustache.
The epiphany came to you like a bus. It all came full circle— why he was so secretive about his ‘singing job’, the hesitation before taking off his glasses, and how he brought his notebook full of lyrics everywhere.
You had befriended a camouflaged Michael Jackson. You nearly forgot to breathe at the thought. Horrified, you took a deep breath and held your blushing face with both hands. You had been talking with this man so casually for a week, not realizing he was THE king of pop. To make matters worse, you had a date with him planned for 9:00pm today.
Contemplating whether you should confront him about it, you read into the cover’s margins. A voice inside you drove you insane with curiosity. You release a deep sigh and flip through the first page, pulling your eyebrows tight together. You read about his co-writing of “We Are the World,” which raised tens of millions for famine relief, alongside others, such as the many personal donations to children's hospitals. You had not been one to gush over celebrities, simply because living in LA has taught you their contradictory, and often repulsive, nature. But you knew him beyond what magazines spewed out, and beyond what public relations molded him into for cameras. It was hard to let go of the magazine. The more you read, a tight sensation formed in your chest while the corners of your mouth unwillingly rose gradually. After some time tracing the outline of his face on a picture, you remember the magazine that should've had this much focus. You shoved the magazine aside to resist its temptation.
You open the ‘Mademoiselle’ magazine to page six, and the earlier expression on your face was replaced by a crooked smile. Each page was dedicated to a different look. You had taken up five pages, each of which looked supported by a page of writing. You felt some bit of pride, particularly because your name was actually cited this time, but your mind wasn’t fully with you. You knew this, which is why you pushed both magazines away and took off to shower before your date.
From across the city, Michael prepared himself for the same date. It took immense effort to practice making his disguise look reasonably convincing without diminishing his appearance. Combing his wet curls away from his face, he stood inches away from the mirror. He narrowed his vision into his faux facial hair, then met his own gaze. He thought about just telling you his identity, since the brief time you've talked has earned you the courtesy. His heart began to race as he contemplated the possibilities of your reaction. Maybe you’d get upset that he hadn’t told you sooner. I mean, you shared rather personal anecdotes early on. He always remained hesitant to share his own, offering you crumbs to ease the tension. Maybe you’d use him for his fame, only pretending you’d like him for money. He was disgusted that his inner monologue thought so low of you and shook the thoughts away. He understood he had to rip the band-aid, and soon.
Visibly drowning in thought, Bill creeps up from the corner of his mirror.
“We don’t want to leave her waiting, kid.”
He bobbed absentmindedly.
“Did she give you an address?”
Silently, he pulled a sticky note from the drawer of his armoire and handed it to him.
“Do I look okay?” He asked quietly, as if he suspected the response to be ‘no’.
Bill straightened the collar on his button-up, “I wouldn't let you leave if I didn't think you did,” he raised an eyebrow.
Michael exhales audibly, heeding Bill’s footsteps to the limo.
He arrives a block behind your apartment in a tight alleyway. He walks to your apartment building and hits the buzzer, head restlessly scavenging for hidden paparazzi.
“Michael, why are you so early?! Give me a few minutes!” Your voice makes his face light up as it shakes the intercom.
“Take your time, I'm waiting out here,” his smile reaches his squinting eyes. His unhurried and delicate voice dampens a few nerves.
“To hell with that, come up!” His face played up his mind’s recalibration, tilting in slight disbelief. “Room 10D,” something thumps behind you while you curse under your breath.
He penalizes his bottom lip for cheesing so hard, biting it into place while he made his way up to your room.
Your eyes widened to remember the magazine you’d bought earlier, sprinting across the flat to tuck it out of sight. You held it in your hands for a second, frantically, then threw it under the couch.
With your hair somewhat disheveled by the chaos, your head turns to a temperate knock on your door. You open the door to find him fidgeting with a single pink Chrysanthemum. Seeing him again in person relieved the remaining apprehension about his identity.
His nervous presentation also softened at the sight of you. You wore a cherry-red form-fitting dress that hugged your curves, yet concealed them modestly. Your seducing perfume had his knees weak, practically dissolving before you. He offers you the bloom, “I found this guy on the way to your apartment— thought you’d like it.” He seems embarrassed about not bringing a proper bouquet. To be fair, he was unsure whether you even considered this a date. He was clueless that this meant more to you, anyway. His words land comfortably within your burning core. You take it, with your thumb circling over its velvety stem.
“Don't be a stranger, come in,” you searched for a reaction in his eyes, and you got it. He had expected only to wait outside your door, but he was not intending to pass this offer up.
“Please, sit! I just need to finish my makeup and grab my shoes,” you stop momentarily to watch him hover over your belongings before you leave him to it. He inspected the art scattered around the wall, the picture frames, and the magazines that silently captured your elegance. His eyes seemed fixated on a few magazines you left open on the dinner table. He could feel his heart rate accelerate at the sight before him. In one, you wore just a miniskirt, Six-inch Louboutins, and a lace balconette bra, with hair being an intentional mess. He pondered on how you emerged so tasteful and elegant while outfitted so raunchy. Deeply allured, he shuts it to avoid lustful thoughts, with the guilt shaming him into walking towards the more wholesome region of the flat.
He traveled through pictures of family and friends. He notices the pattern of a taller man appearing in many photos with his arm around your waist, and a subconscious anger arises. He catches the scent of his own jealousy and shifts, hoping it was nothing, or at least—is nothing now.
Adjusting the straps around your heels, he calls for you, “Y/N!”
“Huh?!”
“C’mere for a second!”
You retreat to your living room, sprouting an inch thanks to the heels.
His long index finger pointed to a picture of your six-year-old self dressed as Charlie Chaplin, trick-or-treating alongside siblings.
“This is the cutest thing I've ever seen.” his eyes switch from the frame to you, looking you up and down. “Oh wow! You've grown,” signaling the heels.
“You've shrunk!” You heckle.
His eyes return to the picture: “I love Charlie Chaplin.” You lean on the stand, scanning his face to predict where he is going with this.
“Yeah, my siblings and I used to watch his movies all the time growing up,” you looked at his lips to read the words forming as his mouth hung open. He noticed your eyes on his lips, prompting a crimson blush across his cheeks. You smile at the ground, now conscious of the effect you had on him.
He continues to soften the atmosphere with questions, “I didn't know you had so many siblings.”
“It looks kind of wild from this angle, but it was nice. I liked the noise and the company.” You pointed each sister and brother out and named them, a faint smile creeping up as you recalled memories. You suddenly realized how rude you were for not reciprocating questions. You paused, “You’ve only ever told me about Janet and Latoya. What about the rest of them?”
He reached out to scratch the back of his neck, “There’s just too many to name so casually, you know?” He looks around the room, searching for a deflecting response. He knew naming his brothers would give his identity away. He at least wanted to have the words prepared to tell you directly who he was. “Well, there's just too many,” you nod, expecting somewhat more of an explanation to fall out. “We should leave now before we miss the movie.” The abrupt shut-down resonated on your face, as you licked your teeth with slightly aggravated eyebrows. He noticed and felt a pit appear in his stomach. You catch your face and shift matters to senseless humor to lighten the mood. Relieved, he plays along, opening the door for you.
At the theater, you insist that a bag of cut-up apple slices you hid in your purse would suffice for the movie, begging him not to buy you anything. You couldn't afford to show up to another shoot tomorrow, bloated with a puffy face. He grabs you a large Diet Coke, and for himself, a large bucket of popcorn and a large Fanta.
Watching the commercials, he munches his popcorn loudly, almost temptingly. You glance over from the corner of your eye, and he catches it. You could not see his eyes through his chunky aviators. You nibbled on a sorry little apple slice, glancing at him here and there. He could not resist the smile that forced itself on his face.
“I see you staring. Have some,” he mocked.
“I'm not staring. I'm enjoying my apples,” you look away.
He takes his glasses off, now satisfied enough with the darkness of the theater to take them off. You catch his beady eyes eyeball your miserable bag of apples. He puts the bucket of popcorn between you. The pressure was unbearable. You couldn't help but reach for one.
“Why do you do this to me?” You asked, defeated.
“A few pieces can't hurt,” he gave a pleased smirk.
Throughout the movie, you grab handfuls of popcorn periodically. At some point, he moves the bucket back into his lap. You just kept grabbing.
“Okay, now you're getting greedy,” he laughs.
“You opened Pandora’s box, Mike,” you shot a helpless glance at him. It was as if he kicked a puppy.
“I'm kidding, I got a large for a reason,” he hums out before putting it in your lap.
His voice being so harmonic to your ears, you curl up into your seat. Your arms were wrapped around your legs, and your head rested on your kneecaps. The oversized popcorn bucket beside you resembled an ant carrying a crumb double its size.
He couldn't help but notice how wholesome you looked as you watched your comfort movie so lovingly. At some point, he had stopped watching the movie altogether and simply watched you. You appeared so at peace. His mind drifted, imagining you as the princess and him as the prince, kissing you out of the curse of your troubled life. You caught on rather slowly, but when you did, you woke him from his delusion.
“This is the best part, please focus!” His eyelids felt heavy with the weight of fondness. The fascination you had for this movie added fuel to the fire burning in his heart.
You both end up dozing off, sleeping through the entire ending. The crowd's stomping in the cinema brings you back to consciousness. Your head rested on his shoulder, and his head over yours. You jumped to realize your position, but it wasn't forceful enough to wake him up. You slightly lift your head deliberately and poke at his chest. He releases a deep exhale, perplexed by what poked him. He looks below to find your weight on his shoulder, smiling up at him. He feels his complexion fill with heat.
“You missed the ending.” You forced an angry tone.
Unconvinced by your tone, he laughs, “WE missed the ending.”
You unhurriedly push yourself away in a stretch as you grab his popcorn bucket. You nod towards its emptiness and narrow your eyes at him, “You’re dangerous, you know that?”
“C'mon, you'll live,” he says, eyeing you with an ear-to-ear grin. You push him playfully with your shoulder. He pushes you back, careful not to hurt your delicate frame. “My god. You're so violent for such a small thing,” he chuckles.
You roll your eyes and giggle.
He walks you back to your apartment, steadily enjoying the brisk stroll under the moonlight. A minute in, he notices your bare shoulders and your sad attempts to heat your arms with your hands. He unbuttons his shirt to reveal a fitted white T-shirt underneath.
“What are you doing?” You watch his moving arms, puzzled.
Without a word, he slips his button-up over you like a cape. You explored his dark eyes from the side, your own cast under an inner brow raise. He can't help but stare back. Your puppy dog eyes were absolutely intoxicating to him. You were intoxicated yourself, with the scent of his cologne hugging around your shoulders, driving you insane.
He sighs, looks towards his moving feet, and back at you.
“I wanted to tell you something,” he starts fidgeting with his knuckles. You give him your full attention, paying no mind to your footsteps anymore.
“Yeah?” You slowly release. You already know what he's going to say, but you force a poker face still.
He adjusts the temples of his glasses and clears his throat. “I know you think I'm somewhat of a closed book,” you bite your inner cheek in the silence. “I don't want you to think I'm weird or I don't like you or something, because I really do.”
Your eyes glisten at the words. ‘He likes me?’, you think, giving the butterflies in your stomach an instantaneous flutter.
He takes off his aviators to rub his tear duct. You can sense his agitation, but don't want to rush his words.
“Why I keep deflecting questions and stuff- I wanted to tell you sooner, but I was just scared that—,” he gulps to gather his words. You nod and look away, hoping it eases some of the pressure. He straightens his posture and folds his arms. “Are you familiar with Michael Jackson?”
“Of course.” You try to sound oblivious, and he buys it.
He hesitantly swipes off his lace facial hair and stands in front of you, stopping you in your tracks.
“I'm Michael Jackson, nice to meet you,” he holds a firm palm sideways between you. You lock eyes and remain unfazed. You can see the confusion in his eyes when your tone and face remain the same as they always have.
“Y/n L/n. Nice to meet you, too.” You gripped his hand, gave it a firm shake, and a smile relaxed your face. He exhaled a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
“You’re taking this much better than I expected,” he admits.
“What were you expecting?” He protruded a lip that read ‘hell if I know?’ and took his place back to your side. He maintained a puzzled look, now with his gaze over the stars.
“Are you sure it isn't weird to you?”
You shook your head and bit your lip, “I mean, you're still you, aren't you?”
He smiles and nods gently, now looking at his shirt, smothering you.
You fought to maintain the same concealed look, but a deep smile crept its way to your face. “Okay, fine. It’s kind of cool.” You breathe out half a chuckle. “I can’t believe I fell for that stupid mustache.”
He gnaws on his bottom lip and joins you in a chuckle.
His smile softens into a contented calm as he walks you up to the doorstep of your apartment building. You reach to pull the shirt off your back when his hand halts yours.
“Keep it. The color brings out your rosy red cheeks.” Those red cheeks made themselves present before he finished the line.
You blink slowly to the ground, “Thank you.” You clutch the collar of your new shirt possessively. “And thank you for tonight. I really enjoyed myself.” Before he could reply, you lifted yourself on your toes and pecked his cheek. Now his cheeks were that ‘rosy red’ he mocked you for a minute ago. He opens the door for you, his fingertips curl at a cautious wave goodbye, almost unwilling to return you. He watched you disappear into the elevator while you were unknowing of it.
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Six weeks passed with occasional and brief strolls anywhere you could meet, with your busy schedules unexpectedly swallowing you up and regurgitating you into spectacles. Regardless, you remained on his mind. Your presence gave him a comfort he couldn't describe, squeezing you in tight gaps for just enough minutes to smell your perfume.
He noticed the insecurity in your voice the first few times you called, so he later picked up the slack and called you before you had the chance. He would start the conversations and make the moves, quietly asserting the fact that he was a gentleman who was willing to weave you into his life. Your calls had become expected, going to work, daydreaming about his decadent voice you'd hear in a few hours. Your number was one he memorized after a week, despite its out-of-order sequence.
He felt compelled to stay closer to you now that he had entrusted you with his identity. He has had his fair share of backstabbing by those who were once close to him, giving him good reason to be hesitant about who he allows into his life. He did not expect it from you, but then again, he did not expect it from others. Women have always left his heart damaged. Growing up, it was Diana Ross who toyed with his emotions and discarded him when she could no longer profit from him. Past girlfriends had often sold him out to tabloids, oversharing and spreading misinformation about his personal life. Relationship after relationship, he built enough barriers that would protect his heart from further hurt. He swore never to let his guard down around anyone, especially not a woman. His mind went back and forth. However, he had never had feelings for anyone so deep, so soon, as he did with you. It was all new. You have also acted so tenderly towards him, expecting so little in return. You were grounded and seemed genuinely interested in his character. After all, you agreed to carry through with plans, believing he had very little to his name and a ridiculous mustache. Something within him knew this wasn’t another instance of his naivety.
Your mind was a similar battlefield for different justifications. You have a strong fear of abandonment stemming from your father leaving you and your siblings behind to be single-handedly raised by your mother. Your upbringing was beyond rough, with most of you and your siblings working to support the family before the age of twelve. Men would slip in and out of your mother’s life, with each man you'd share a fatherly bond with leaving you sooner or later. This trauma wasn't something you openly shared, but it's what's most impacted your relationships. You often prefer being alone over being left behind. It was simple. You suspected Michael would eventually get sick of you, find you insignificant enough for his extravagant lifestyle, and discard you as most stars do to women. The thought of it ached your chest and tightened your throat, often having to convince the negativity out of you. You felt you had a connection like never before, and prayed it wasn't simply the hopeless and broken romantic in you speaking. It was the little things about him that showed he cared—the active listening, the mirrored expressions when you talked, the way he acted like a gentleman without paying it any mind.
You and Michael cared deeply for each other, but each of your barriers had been built so loftily through hurt. It was just a matter of when they would crumble.
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Eventually, his schedule simmered down, giving you enough space to weave yourself into his day.
“You know it's been a while since we’ve seen each other,” he says as if he’s arriving at some point.
”It’s kinda hard when you drown yourself in work all the time,” you rest the phone on your shoulder. “It’s alright, I mean, our calls are wonderful anyway,” you try to sound grateful, but both of you know you’re not.
“You know I fly back in three days.”
You stood up in your chair, a free hand gripping the armrest. “This is news.”
“Surprise,” he exhaled a breathy laugh.
“You’re insufferable,” you groan with a tone that carries a smile.
“Then why do you keep answering my calls?” His smugness sends a wave of heat over your face.
“Because I don’t got nobody else,” you admitted through a snicker, carrying the quiet weight of your pain.
He caught on and went silent for a few seconds. The mood stiffened. “I’m sorry about my schedule.” He exhales. “You sound like you could use the company.”
“I told you before. I know it’s not your fault.” A moment passes, “But I do hope I can see you soon.” Now you twirl a strand of your hair as you melt into your couch cushions.
He tugs the cord of his phone, answering with a careful set of words. “I’ll make it up to you.” A gulp. “Would you come to Hayvenhurst on Monday? I get back sometime in the morning?”
Your eyes haze into a long blink, dimples forming deep craters in your red cheeks. “That’s an offer I can’t miss.”
“It’s only fair, you know, since I’ve been welcomed into your home.” ‘Home’ was probably not the correct term, since his home made yours look comical.
“Great, can’t wait to flip through your stuff,” you playfully fired at him, recollecting how he snooped around every square inch of your living room weeks ago.
A guilty, embarrassed titter passed over the phone. “Be my guest.”
Your cackle initiated his hand at his chest, trying to feel the heat that circulates through him as you speak. The words hovered, blown away by a breeze as a stillness set in.
“I'll send a limo over at 7:00pm.” Seven had become your lucky number by the time you two had entirely opened the period up for each other.
“Seven? No can do,” his heart skips a beat, and you can feel it in his silence. “God, Michael, I'm joking!”
Color comes back to his face, “That wasn't funny,” his face betrays his words as it flashes his pearly whites.
“Mhm,” you hum, “it's a date.”
His breath hitches at the word.
“Anyway, my break’s over, I gotta go. I'll talk to you later, ‘kay?”
He was still high on the thought of it being a ‘date’. Snapping back to reality, he reciprocates the goodbye, “Have fun, see you soon” His ear pressed deep into the telephone a few moments after you hung up. As his thoughts continued to race, he reached for a magazine that was already flipped to a page with you modeling a designer makeup line. He rubbed his chin, tilting his head slightly with a content smile forming.
He had been silently collecting magazine pages you had modeled in, with utter fascination of you. He had always been a fashion nerd, and with the additional (and more promising) modeling gigs being offered to you this month, he analyzed all your looks and movements. The fluidity of your body and the cultivated aura surrounding you resembled that of a swan. To him, the collection was completely justifiable, as he was simply admiring your work. However, something within him made him suspect it was questionable, so he hid them under his dresser and refused to let anybody know about it.
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“Did you look over the final screenplay I sent over?”
“Yep. As a matter of fact, Joe, I just finished. I had a few notes written up, I hoped we’d go over together when I land,” he rubbed his fingers against his forehead and dropped himself into his office chair.
“That shouldn’t be a problem, I’m free noon tomorrow,” the director flips around pages of his calendar.
“That’ll be perfect, see you then,” Michael scratches a reminder on a torn piece of scrap paper and sets the phone down without giving attention to any reply.
Beside the scrap paper were his annotations for the “The Way You Make Me Feel” screenplay that Joe Pytka had sent over. Your name, starred, was in the corner as the vision for the female lead. He etched over your name with a blue pen, echoing how it had etched itself into his mind. He had been meaning to ask if you would be a part of his work, but decided it would be more convincing in person. It was the reason he invited you over today—well, that and his parasitic fixation, ravenous for you.
The ride was quiet, with the limo driver showing little effort in small talk. However, the air carried the weight of your heavy thoughts, which seemed to entertain you during the thirty-five-minute ride to Hayvenhurst. Your fingers kept busy pressing the aluminum foil over a paper plate that sat on your lap. You had raided a stack of old cookbooks for a maple-pecan cookie recipe, the cookie that he swore was superior in a heated debate a few weeks ago. You had nibbled on a test cookie (it had fallen on the floor) and were disappointingly surprised by how tasty it was.
Your eyes widen at the sight of the house, glorious and tastefully immense. Your head rotates to different windows as you pass through the gate.
Your square heel clicks against the pavement as your head lifts to search the premises. In the corner of your eye, you catch a figure in a familiar white T-shirt stepping towards you. Narrowing your eyes, with your free hand serving as a visor to block the polluting sun, your legs shuffle in a rhythm towards him.
Before words could form a greeting, he brings you in for a warm embrace, lasting long enough to give his hand a chance to pet the small of your back. He pulls back to take the paper plate you offered.
“What's this? You didn't have to bring anything,” he peeks inside.
“No, I know, just some cookies,” you fold your now awkwardly unoccupied arms tight under your chest. “My mom would've killed me if she found out I came over as a guest empty-handed,” you babble.
A familiar scent prompts further investigation, with his face buried deeper and the aluminum raised higher. “Is this—?”
“Maple pecan,” your arms unstiffened. “You were right. It was good as hell,” you nodded into a toothy giggle.
He raised his eyebrows in pride, with his white canines making themselves known. For what seemed like a few minutes, his mind had been set into chaos. ‘She remembered’, he thought, failing to conceal the haze that your meticulousness had sent him in.
You can tell he is distracted, and try to bring him back to Earth. “Soo.. Where are we headed first?”
With an anxious hand rubbing his neck, he redirects his attention, “Right this way, follow me.”
He takes you on a longer route to the studio, giving you an informal tour around the plot. Your face lit up at the sight of a zoo scattered about. You were lost in a childlike wonder as your hands sank into Louis’s soft white curls. You then learned that the infamous Bubbles took a strong liking to you, refusing to unhook himself from your arms. However, you failed to keep your cool when he came around to show you Muscles.
“You’re positive he doesn’t bite?” Your eyes cannot seem to look away from the husky python.
He feeds off of your fear and laughs, “I mean— he hasn't bit me yet.” Muscles slithers from his shoulders to yours, transferred through Michael's arms held against you. Muscle’s uncertain direction sent chills down your spine. You closed your eyes, then forced them back open to play off your apprehension. Your heart beats frantically, trying to escape the wrath of the snake. Michael feels your pulse through his arms.
“You call yourself an animal lover? He's friendly, I promise!” His eyes switch from Muscles’s circulation to your eyes, reading your tension before calling the coercion off. “That's enough. You handled it like a champ. His tall fingers delicately lower him into his enclosure.
You shrug, “It wasn't even that bad. He was scared of me, if anything.”
He reached back into the enclosure satirically and taunted you, “In that case, let's ask him what he has to say about the matter.”
You jumped backward, and two surrendering hands hovered over your chest, doubling as a shield of some sort.
You two cackle, his noticeably louder than yours, being so lost in his playful mockery of you.
You stay frozen in laughter for a minute before he redirects you to various other rooms that held no notable significance to you.
Eventually, he takes you to his personal studio, which awes you with its tech-savvy layout. A sheet of buttons and switches stretched into the walls, with its lights resembling a metropolis through an airplane window. The beauty of it caught your attention first, then it's chaos. Discarded sheets, notebooks, and tapes were scattered around chairs and nesting tables.
“Oh wow,” your mind couldn't generate words too complicated right now.
“Sorry about the mess,” he says, picking up crumpled balls of paper and throwing them in a small waste bin. “Sit down, I wanted to show you something.”
You plop down onto a cushioned chair in front of the buttons. He picks through demo and final tapes to find what he came here to show you.
“Here we go,” he slides it into a tape recorder beside you, leaning close enough in front of you where his cologne melts you into your cushions. “This is what I brought you in here for,” he says, sitting back down with his locked arms on his knees.
An upbeat, catchy, charming tune blesses your ears while he focuses on your face and its microexpressions. You seem to enjoy it, your eyes rolling around the ceiling in focus and your head swaying to the rhythm.
“How do you feel about this song?” He narrows his eyes, forcing a legitimate answer out of you. He leaned in fully, with his hands between his lap and his resting head.
You build up the courage to retain eye contact. “I loved it. It's really catchy.”
“Be more specific,” he scooted closer and narrowed his eyes further.
“It's the typa song I'd dance to. I don't know! I don't know much about music!” You cried out.
He retracts some of the seriousness and sits up through a sigh, then a smirk. “Would you dance to it?”
“Where is this conversation going, Michael?” You scrunch your face up in confusion.
He reaches towards his notebook with lyrics and notes, clasping it against his chest. “Would you ever star in a music video?” His eyes pierce through yours, contemplating his own rejection.
Your face softened. “You want me to star in a music video for this song?” Your eyes released their tension, revealing your delighted, wondrous gaze.
“That's it,” his face loosened up as well.
“Then say that!” Your lips curl into a smile.
“Okay! Let's try this again,” he paused to get back into character, “Will you star in my short film for ‘The Way You Make Me Feel’?”
You giggle, briefly glancing at the window, then back at his eyes. “Of course,” your vision seemed indecisive on which of his eyes to focus on.
He released a breath he forgot he held for so long and smiled at his feet, “That’s good to hear. Thank you— really.”
“No, thank you,” you cough up a short chuckle. “Sometimes you forget how famous you are. I’d be an idiot to decline.”
It was true, and he knew it. He knew how influential he was as the king of pop, but often lacked self-assurance in social situations. You were not picky with work, and you certainly wouldn't turn him, of all people, down, but his mind fought against it anyway.
“I've always wondered how you came up with the melodies,” you tuck your bottom lip under your front teeth. “My mom owned Off the Wall and Thriller cassettes, and she watched you guys on TV all the time. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a fan,” you confess.
His eyes and dimples make way for a deeply flattered smile. “This is news to me!”
Your eyes squint into a close-mouthed smile, “I didn't want you to get so big-headed!” He exhales deeply, now stretching out of his chair. You follow, now leaning against the spread of glowing buttons. He paces, running a hand through his curls, as they fight against it to fall onto his forehead.
He runs through the process you would have to go through, noting that the director urged a chemistry test and a few fittings before anything else. He tries to be as descriptive as possible without saying anything too discouraging. After all, he really wanted you there and would feel most comfortable with you being the interest in the film.
Finishing up his spiel, he claps into a concluding hand rub.
“Are we finally free from work, now?” You regretted the harshness of your words as soon as they spilled out of your lips, hoping he didn't assume you were uninterested in his creative process. “I just mean this is your time off, we don't need to always think about work,” you stumble over some words.
Instead of taking offense, he shook his head in a snicker. He actually found the brash phrasing precious. “Fine, I'll show you the rest of the house, now. Have some patience, woman!”
Walking out alongside him, you release the nerves around your previous remark. “How could you keep thinking about work 24/7 with a zoo and a mansion?”
“And a pool,” his sly remark moved alongside his speaking hands.
You audibly gasp with the corners of your mouth raised. “Why are we standing here, then, if the pool is feeling so lonely?”
“It's freezing out, the pool will understand,” he says, and bumps into you intentionally.
“So we’ll warm it up,” you shove him back.
“If I get sick, it’ll be your fault.”
“You’re a big boy, you’ll be alright.”
“You don’t even have a swimsuit.”
“We can skinny dip,” your mouth goes lopsided trying to keep a laugh in.
His heart revs at the thought, and he plays off his nerves by cheesing at a window. “Nah, I'm pulling your leg. Perhaps another day,” your fingers push and rub against the moving walls that pass you by. A few seconds pass before you overshare to fill the silence. You burst, “You know I’m a really good swimmer.”
He snorts into a chuckle, “Yeah? How so?”
“I did competitive swimming for like five years. I was insanely good at it, too.”
“Do you still?” He ceases his walk, facing you and the pool simultaneously. He points a hand towards the sun chairs, and you both take a seat.
“No, I hated it then and hate it now.” You close your eyes, giving a faint grin. Your blunt tone amuses him. “My mom tried to keep me occupied with extracurriculars while she took extra shifts at work. I did piano for ten years.”
He leans his wide-crossed legs towards you on the opposite end of the chair, “Piano is nice, at least tell me you enjoyed that,” he raises an eyebrow.
“Matter of fact, I adore piano.”
“Do you still play?” He notices an irritating strand of hair hovering over your eye and sweeps it behind your ear. You break eye contact to blush, now staring off to the pool.
“Everyday. I have a Steinway Model M that eats up half the space in my room.” The manner in which you present it as a fact you taught him makes his heart swell. He pretends to know what that means, nodding in admiration.
“Maybe I should've snooped in your room then,” he says, side-eying you.
“Maybe I should go in yours now,” you catch his side eye through your own as your grins form in synch.
One of Michael’s hands holds a firm grip on the door’s edge, and the other directs you into his room. “Go ahead and judge my mess. I wasn't expecting anyone to see it today,” he quips.
It resembled your bedroom in its harboring of memories and personality, but lacked the chaos and scattered entities. Everything was organized in its place, with books neatly stacked on the shelf in alphabetical order and figurines arranged in a pattern that made sense. Your eyebrows scrunch in confusion, “I'm not seeing any mess. Are you delusional?” He shakes his head and rolls his eyes in doubt and spirit.
“Oh my god,” you hovered over a corner of his room dedicated to awards. The section was somewhat hidden, exhibiting them in a discreet and modest manner.
His mind is on other things. He admired the way you did your hair today. He thinks to himself that you are the one trophy that would leave him satiated in his success, that without you, this wall meant nothing. He watches the awe in your eyes and the slightly parted lips that gasped so frequently. He simply watches silently, wearing a marveling smirk.
You move on to a set of childhood memories on the bedside table and shift your weight into it. You lean into a portrait of three boys resembling Tito. “Are these the nephews you told me about?”
He follows your gaze onto them, “Tito’s boys, yeah. Love those kids like they’re my own.” You brush your hair over your shoulder and nod.
Your eyes fixate on the next, “Aww, who’s this?” It was a photo of little him embracing a diapered infant against his chubby cheeks.
“Janet. I love this picture,” he lifts it for you to catch sight of, and drops it moments later. You look at him to pout your lips at the cuteness and tuck it back into the same lingering smile. “She threw up on me right after it was taken, too.” A breathy giggle escaped between words. “I didn't mind it, she was my baby,” his face displays the remembrance of joy. Your eyes focus on his lips, and he speaks, with the words rippling through your sight and hearing.
You then pick up a family portrait of himself, his siblings, Katherine, and Joseph. He fidgets with the hem of his shirt.
“I don't love this one,” your smile slipped into thinned lips. “The way he's in the center, like he's the king of something,” you grimace. Michael has told you about Joseph and the abuse he endured at his hands, but Michael’s feelings were always a bit complicated towards him.
“He's not a good man,” he says, attempting to put into words what he felt towards him. “I don't know. He's my father, even if he doesn't like us calling him that. He made me who I am, sort of.”
“No.” You shoot a piercing glare. “You worked to become who you are. All he ever did was try to curb your opportunities. You shouldn't give him the credit you deserve.”
He nods at your stubbornness as your words struck a chord in him.
Waiting for the thick words to dissolve into the atmosphere, you drop yourself onto his bed. He shortly joins you. You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, while his gaze was fixed on your chin. Your hand pats his kneecap and remains there, trying to soothe him through the sudden melancholy. His eyes work their way up from your chin to your lips to your eyes. Feeling his eyes on yours, you follow.
He gives a pathetic smile. His eyes lifted for a split second to put his hand over yours that lay above his knee. Your breaths remain steady and relaxed.
Something must've been in the atmosphere, as the sunlight that broke through the window resembled the amber scene outside. A chilled wind seeped into a room steadily. While the room was a bit cold for your liking, you felt warm and cozy.
He glances again, briefly, to lock his fingers into yours, then beholds your plump, thirsty lips. He cups your cheek, stroking it with his thumb. Your burning cheeks against his hand carried its temperature down his body.
Thinking about nothing but this moment, you each lean into a kiss, lips remaining locked gently, with no rush. There was tension built behind this kiss, but it did not make it tense. It was relaxed and endearing, savoring the flavors of your lips rather than wasting them in a rigid move.
You break free from his lip’s embrace to take in the moment’s influence on his face. Before knowing it, he sucks you back in with more force. You brace yourself by locking your arms around his neck, rolling onto your back at some point—a hand of his held your head, and the other, your waist. The passion and force snowballed, with your tongue and his dancing against each other. Your being became surrounded by his, trapped between his arms, legs, and torso. The chilly stiffness in the air transformed into a passion-filled humidity.
You pulled the collar off his shirt to rest on the bed alongside you without breaking away. Tangled in arms and legs, you sat on your sides, lips tying your souls together. He lifts his head to break it, strumming the strands of hair that lay disheveled on your forehead. A smile squishes your eyes upward, with breath traveling through your teeth. His hands reach to sense your buoyant cheeks. His own close-mouthed grin plumped cheeks formed under the pressure of yours. You peck the tip of his nose and rest your head in the crook of his neck. You two lay there for a while, with minimal movement except for his stroking hands. He felt the walls he had spent his life building up collapsing under the weight of this instant.
“I'll tell Joe to squeeze you in tomorrow,” his arms held a possessive grip around your lower back. “It's just a quick thing, it shouldn't be more than half an hour.”
Your hands were tied around his neck, with your head tilted upwards to receive his conversation. “Just call and let me know what time, kay? I should be out of work by three tomorrow.” He nods.
“Thanks for coming today. I really enjoyed myself.”
“Thanks for inviting me,” you exhale as a whisper.
He bids your swollen lips a goodbye kiss, with his lips championing your lipstick as a souvenir.
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