𑣲 Michael Jackson .ᐟ.ᐟ

Los Angeles, California — 1979

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The adrenaline of the stage was still humming in Michael’s veins, a familiar feeling that he usually rode all the way home. The Off the Wall tour was pushing him to new heights, and tonight’s crowd had been absolutely deafening. Still clad in his glittering jacket and his curls slightly damp with sweat, he had insisted on a quick meet-and-greet by the barricades before his security team could spirit him away.

That was where the box came from.

A girl with tear streaked cheeks and a trembling smile had pressed a velvet covered box of chocolates into his hands.

”For you, Michael. To keep your energy up,” she had said.

Security had immediately advised him to toss it. Never eat anything from a fan, Mike, you know the drill, they’d warned. But Michael, ever the soft heart, had just nodded, slipped the box into his bag and shrugged off the rule. It was just chocolate, after all…

Now, back in the quiet sanctuary of his Encino home, the roar of the stadium was replaced by the low hum of the refrigerator. He had showered, swapping his stage gear for a comfortable pair of dark sweatpants and a loose white t-shirt. You were due to arrive any minute for your weekly movie night, a tradition you two had fiercely protected ever since the chaotic days of the Jackson 5. You were his anchor, the one person who saw Michael the boy, not Michael the rising superstar.

His stomach gave a sudden hollow rumble. He’d danced and sung for two hours and barely eaten dinner. Wandering into the kitchen, his eyes landed on the velvety box sitting on the counter. He popped the lid. Inside were a dozen beautifully crafted dark chocolate truffles dusted with edible gold. They looked harmless. In fact, they looked delicious. Without bothering to read the cursive label on the inside of the lid, Michael picked one up and popped it into his mouth. It was rich, melting instantly on his tongue with a strange, spicy kick at the end. It was good… maybe too good. Hungry and impatient, he quickly ate a second. Then a third. By the time he heard your familiar knock echoing from the front door, he was swallowing his fifth piece.

”I'm coming!” he called out, his voice light and breathy. Little did he know he would be saying those same words later on but with a different purpose…

He swung the door open, his adorable smile taking over his face the second he saw you. You were holding a stack of VHS tapes and a bag of popcorn.

”Look who survived another show,” you teased, stepping inside and bumping your shoulder playfully against his.

”Barely,” Michael giggled, closing the door and following you into the sunken living room. ”But I made it. I'm so glad you're here. I need to just... turn my brain off.”

”Well, I brought Star Wars and Alien, so take your pick,” you said, dropping the tapes on the coffee table. You turned to look at him, your smile faltering just a fraction. ”You okay, sweetie? Your cheeks are a little flushed.” Michael blinked, bringing a hand up to touch his face. Hmm… his skin did feel unusually warm.

”Oh? Yeah, I'm fine! Probably just residual heat from the stage lights. It takes a while to cool down, you know.”

You didn't push it. You both settled onto the large, plush sofa, side by side, knees knocking together the way they always did. You popped the movie he picked in, killed the overhead lights, and let the familiar glow of the television wash over the room.

For the first twenty minutes, everything was normal. But slowly, an intense and suffocating heat began to bloom in the pit of Michael’s stomach. It wasn't the heat of a fever. It was a heavy, restless warmth that seemed to pool in his center before branching out through his veins like liquid fire. He tugged at the collar of his t-shirt, his breathing growing shallow. The fabric, usually soft against his skin, suddenly felt abrasive. Every nerve ending in his body felt electrified, humming with a sudden agonising sensitivity.

”Mike?” you whispered, your eyes still on the screen. ”You're fidgeting. You sure you're okay?”

”Yeah,” he managed to squeak out, though his voice sounded strained, an octave higher than usual. ”Just... a little hot in here, isn't it?”

”It's like eighteen celsius, Michael,” you replied, finally turning to look at him properly. The sight of him made your heart drop. Michael was visibly sweating, a fine sheen glistening on his forehead and his exposed collarbones. His large, dark eyes were blown wide, pupils dilated so much they nearly swallowed his irises. His chest heaved with uneven, shaky breaths.

”Michael,” you said, your tone shifting instantly from teasing best friend to deep concern. You set the popcorn aside and shifted closer. ”You're burning up.”

”I don't— I don't know what's h-happening,” he whimpered, the sound entirely involuntary.

A sudden, jarring spike of arousal hit him so hard it made his vision blur. It was entirely chemical, an overwhelming rush that made his hips jerk forward on instinct. He let out a fractured gasp, burying his face in his hands. It was agonizing. He felt like he was crawling out of his own skin, desperate for some kind of relief, some kind of friction to ground the terrifying electricity sparking beneath his skin. He shifted his weight entirely, pressing himself face down into the corner of the couch cushions. The heavy plushy material offered a maddening, slight pressure against his aching bulge. Before he could stop himself, his hips rolled into the cushions, a small, desperate and entirely subconscious hump against the furniture just to alleviate the searing ache.

”Oh my god,” you gasped, moving immediately. You didn't judge him, you were just terrified. You’d seen Michael exhausted, sick, overwhelmed, but you had never seen him like this. ”Come here,” you urged softly, gently gripping his shoulders and pulling him away from the corner of the sofa. ”It's okay, lay down. Put your head here.”

You guided his trembling body down until he was lying flat on the sofa, his head resting heavily in your lap. The moment his cheek made contact with your thighs, he let out a loud pitiful whine, his arms coming up to wrap around your waist. He buried his face into your stomach, his breath hot and ragged through the fabric of your shirt.

”Mph,, I-It's too much,” he panted, his voice muffled against you, his hips shifting restlessly against the cushions. ”It hurts, it hurts, I don't know what's wrong with me...” he choked out.

”Shh, I've got you… you’re gonna be okay,” you soothed, your fingers immediately diving into his thick curls, gently scratching at his scalp. The rhythmic motion seemed to keep him slightly tethered, though his body continued to tremble violently, emitting those soft, distressed whimpers that broke your heart.

”I'm gonna get you some water and a cold towel,” you said, your voice steady despite the panic rising in your chest. ”I'll be right back, okay?”

”No—! no, don’t go,” he pleaded, his grip tightening on your waist.

”Just thirty seconds,” you promised, gently prying his fingers away and resting his head on a pillow.

You practically sprinted to the kitchen, yanking the freezer open to grab some ice. As you filled a glass at the sink, your eyes darted around, trying to figure out what could have caused such a rapid, violent reaction. Food poisoning? An allergic reaction? That's when you saw the velvet box sitting open on the kitchen island. Frowning, you walked over. There were five empty wrappers inside. The rich smell of cocoa and strange earthy spices drifted up from the remaining pieces. You reached out, picking up the lid to read the gold, cursive writing on the inside.

Marsh Delights: Artisanal Botanical Aphrodisiacs.

WARNING: Extremely potent. Infused with concentrated Yohimbe, Maca, and Horny Goat Weed. For adult use only. DO NOT consume more than ONE (1) piece in a 24-hour period.

The blood drained from your face. You looked at the box. You looked at the five empty wrappers.

”Oh. Lord...” you breathed out, the realization crashing over you. He wasn't sick. He was currently overdosing on a concentrated aphrodisiac, and you were the only person in the house.

From the living room, another broken, breathy whine echoed down the hallway, followed by the sound of Michael shifting frantically against the couch cushions. You gripped the glass of ice water, taking a deep breath. It was going to be a very, very, VERY long night.