Zenith of Desire: The Hollywood Incubus

That over $200 million is what Marvin earned alone, not what everyone involved in crisis made combined it’s in billions.

As for the ages of the women around him, Marvin doesn’t really care. In his mind, once he reaches the appearance he wants, he has no intention of aging beyond that point. The same applies to the women around him. In fact older girls would experience reversed aging and remain in their physical prime for as long as he lives and they remain connected to him and they fuck.(Yes it will create a lot of conflicts and news for him and the older girls like Diana who won’t be aging. So I have those in mind don’t worry.)

Because of that, he doesn’t see large age gaps as a real issue. After all, even in Hollywood there have been too many relationships with age gaps of over fifty years. Compared to that, a he’s is just twelve barely registers in his eyes.

That’s also why Marvin dating both younger and older women relative to his own age actually enhances his image rather than hurting it, especially compared to someone like Leonardo DiCaprio.

So Marvin can’t really be placed into only one category like ’dating older women’ or ’dating younger women. Than leaving them after a certain age.’ He exists somewhere outside both labels.

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******

Marvin walked down the concrete steps with the unhurried grace strolling through a garden. He wore his standard navy blazer and jeans—but on him, the mundane clothing looked like bespoke high-fashion armor. His golden-brown hair caught the autumn California sun, and his deep, nebula-blue eyes projected an aura of impossible calm.

Surrounding him, caught entirely in his inescapable orbit, were his friends: Lindsay, Dorothy, Mark, and John.

Mark and John walked slightly ahead, occasionally glancing back at Marvin with a mixture of profound awe and the unspoken respect that young boys reserve for an undisputed high. They didn’t fully understand *why* Marvin was the undisputed king of their social hierarchy; they simply accepted it as a fundamental law of physics.

But it was the girls who were completely, hopelessly lost to the charms.

Lindsay walked so close to Marvin that her shoulder practically brushed his tailored sleeve. Her cheeks were flushed a permanent, delicate shade of pink. She was constantly, nervously adjusting her auburn hair, her eyes darting to his flawless profile, seeking a fraction of his attention. Dorothy flanked his other side, her hands clutching her textbooks to her chest like a shield, completely mesmerized by the subtle, intoxicating waves of the charm radiating from his skin.

To the demon residing within Marvin, the raw, unadulterated affection radiating from the two young girls was a sweet, delicate nectar. It was innocent and pure, completely devoid of the cynical, transactional lust of Hollywood ladies.

They reached the edge of the bus loading zone.

”Well, this is where we part ways for the weekend,” Marvin purred, stopping and turning to face his small entourage. His velvety baritone effortlessly cut through the noise of the idling diesel engines.

”Are you... are you sure you can’t come to my home tomorrow, Marvin?” Lindsay asked, her voice hitching slightly with desperate hope. She looked up at him through her lashes, practically holding her breath. ”My parents are catering it. It’s going to be really fun.”

”I am deeply honored by the invitation, Lindsay,” Marvin smiled, a slow handsome smirk that made both girls physically shiver. He reached out, his fingers gently tucking a stray lock of red hair behind her ear. The contact sent a jolt of electricity straight through her nervous system.

”But alas, the burdens of my extracurricular mind call me away this weekend. You will have to swim without me.”

Dorothy let out a soft, dreamy sigh, entirely captivated by his Shakespearean phrasing. ”We’ll miss you, Marvin. Monday feels so far away.”

”Time is but a fleeting illusion, Dorothy,” Marvin murmured softly, his blue eyes capturing hers, leaving her completely breathless. ”Have a wonderful weekend, gentlemen,” he added, offering a crisp, respectful nod to Mark and John.

The two boys straightened their spines, nodding in return.

Marvin watched with affectionate amusement as the group reluctantly climbed the steps of the yellow school bus.

Lindsay and Dorothy immediately rushed to a window seat, pressing their hands against the glass, their eyes locked onto him as they shook hands until the heavy vehicle pulled away from the curb.

With his scholastic masquerade officially concluded for the week, Marvin turned on his heel. He bypassed the line of standard parent minivans and walked directly toward the sleek, armored black SUV idling quietly in the VIP loading zone.

Gordon, his towering, muscle-bound driver and security chief, stood by the rear door.

”Good afternoon, Marvin,” Gordon rumbled respectfully, pulling the door open.

”Good afternoon, Gordon,” Marvin replied, sliding into the cool, leather-scented sanctuary of the backseat. ”Take us home.”

The SUV pulled seamlessly into the Los Angeles traffic. The backseat was vast and unusually quiet today. Amy, who usually occupied the adjacent seat with her organized leather binders, was currently miles away at the Zenith Trust corporate offices. She was completely buried in the high-stakes preparation for the principal photography of *The Sixth Sense*. As his executive secretary she had her own role to play. This will also provide her with opportunities to learn while networking with professionals in the industry.

Marvin settled into the plush leather, savoring the silence.

But less than two minutes after the doors had locked, the silence was shattered.

*Riiiing. Riiiing.*

The brick-like Motorola International 3200 car phone resting in the center console began to loudly demand his attention.

Marvin didn’t even need to look at the glowing green digital display to know who was calling.

There were exactly three women in the entire world who possessed the specific, obsessive knowledge of his daily high school schedule to call him the exact minute he was clear of the campus gates.

A slow fond smile curved the Incubus’s lips. He picked up the plastic receiver.

”I was wondering how many seconds it would take for my Houston queen to realize I was a free man,” Marvin purred into the mouthpiece, leaning his head back against the headrest.

”It took exactly ninety seconds, little man,” Beyoncé’s bright, rich, and undeniably sassy Texas drawl crackled through the 90s cellular network. ”And that was only because my dad was lecturing me about vocal rest. I was literally watching the clock on the studio wall waiting for your final bell to ring.”

Since the world-altering night of her sixteenth birthday—since that breathless, starlit kiss at the top of the Ferris wheel and the private serenade in the restaurant—the dynamic between them had beautifully shifted.

Over the weeks, Marvin had undertaken the deliberate work of dismantling the iron cage her father had built around her psyche. He recognized that her perfectionism was a survival mechanism, a trauma response ingrained by a man who treated his daughter like a high-yield corporate asset. To heal that dark hurt, Marvin had to systematically break the transactional loop of her childhood.

He created a sanctuary where she never had to perform to earn his affection. If she was too exhausted to speak, if she looked like a mess, or if she simply wanted to break down and cry under the pressure of her career, his devotion never wavered. In Mathew Knowles’ house, love was a paycheck issued only after a rehearsal. In Marvin’s arms, love was an unshakeable baseline.

He flooded the most neglected fractures of her mind with relentless validation. Marvin spoiled her—not just with meticulously planned days or material luxuries, but with the unfamiliar luxury of grace. He gave her the permission to be flawed, to fail, and to rest without the fear that she would be abandoned or deemed worthless.

Because of that unyielding psychological sanctuary, the metamorphosis was staggering.

Beyoncé was no longer the tentative, star-struck teenager trying to guard her bruised heart. She is blossoming into a woman who was wildly familiar, deeply romantic, and unapologetically spoiled by his affection. The starved, exhausted young girl inside her—the one who had run miles on a track just to earn a single, approving nod—finally got all the unconditional love and protection she had never received from her father, and she soaked it in completely. She knew her worth to the man on the other side, and she wielded that knowledge with a brilliant, intoxicating confidence, finally letting go whenever she talked to him.

”I am deeply flattered that I command such prime real estate in your mind while you are locked in the vocal booth,” Marvin chuckled, his voice dropping into a intimate vibration that he knew made her toes curl, even thousands of miles away. ”How fares the grand crusade of Destiny’s Child today?”

”Exhausting,” Beyoncé sighed into the phone, though the underlying ambition in her voice was unmistakable. ”We’ve been running the harmonies for the debut album since eight this morning. Columbia is breathing down my father’s neck for a radio-ready single, but the A&R reps keep bringing us these generic, plastic pop tracks. They have no soul, Marvin. It’s driving me insane.”

”And what of your secret weapon?” Marvin asked smoothly, his mind already calculating the industry chess board. ”What of *The Boy Is Mine*?”

He could practically hear her brilliant, gap-toothed smile through the receiver.

”Oh, my dad is guarding that sheet music like it contains the nuclear launch codes,” Beyoncé laughed, a sound that sent a warm, soothing wave of Incubus satisfaction through Marvin’s chest. ”Mama and Daddy absolutely lost their minds when I finally played it for them. Daddy knows exactly what you handed me, Marvin. He knows it’s a guaranteed Platinum ticket.”

”But he is holding it back,” Marvin deduced.

”Exactly,” Beyoncé confirmed, her tone turning strategic. ”Daddy says the industry is too dark right now. If the label tries to bury our group’s debut album, or if the executives try to play games with our promotion budget... he is going to drop your song as my undeniable solo debut. He’s using it as the ultimate safety net. Or If the group fails and sells failed to reach the expectations, he said ’The Boy Is Mine’ will paint the Billboard charts and make me untouchable from the consequence of failure.”

Marvin closed his eyes, a smirk spreading across his face. Mathew Knowles was a ruthless, brilliant manager. He understood leverage. Having an unreleased, Platinum-guaranteed masterpiece composed by the most famous boy in Music was the ultimate industry shield. It protected her from the gangster-laced politics of the late-90s R&B labels.

”Your father is a remarkably wise man,” Marvin purred. ”A queen should never deploy her dragons in the first wave of a battle. Keep the song hidden until the moment the sky needs to be set on fire.”

”You always make everything sound like a damn fantasy movie, Marvin,” Beyoncé teased, her voice dripping with warm, liquid honey. ”But I love it. Speaking of fantasy... why do you even bother going to that stupid private school?”

”I beg your pardon?”

”I was staring at a chalkboard today, trying to figure out advanced algebra, and I just kept thinking about you,” Beyoncé complained playfully, adopting the exaggerated, dramatic tone of a spoiled, lovestruck girl and she loved every second of it. ”You literally run funds. You write blockbuster scripts. You negotiate with Harvey Weinstein. You know vastly more than the teachers standing at the front of the room. So why do you even sit at a desk like a normal kid?”

”Because, my beautiful, mathematically challenged lady,” Marvin chuckled, ”I must maintain the delicate illusion of a normal childhood for the sake of my parents’ sanity. If I dropped out of the seventh grade to officially run my work full-time, my mother would likely have a heart attack.”

”So what do you even do in there all day?” she pressed. ”Do you actually take notes?”

”Heavens, no,” Marvin replied, looking out the tinted window at the palm trees blurring past. ”I utilize the classroom purely as a quiet drawing sanctuary. The teachers are far too intimidated by scores to ever ask me to answer a question on the board. I simply sit in the back row of Mrs. Gable’s history class and write the screenplays that will eventually win me Academy Awards. It is remarkably peaceful.”

”Ugh, you are so impossibly cool,” Beyoncé groaned dramatically into the receiver. ”And here I am, just a poor, simple girl from Texas who can barely figure out quadratic equations. Woe is me! How will I ever survive without my genius knight to do my homework for me?”

”Do not despair, my sweet Juliet,” Marvin answered smoothly, entirely matching her theatrical, romantic energy. ”Should the brutal tyranny of mathematics ever truly threaten to overwhelm you, you need only whisper my name into the wind. I shall immediately charter a private jet, cross the deserts and the mountains, and slay the dragons of algebra in your name.”

Beyoncé burst into a loud, joyous, entirely unburdened laugh. The sound of her happiness filled the quiet cabin of the SUV, warming the core of his Incubus soul.

They spent the next twenty minutes locked in this beautiful, easy banter. It was a flawless exchange of teenage flirtation and romantic affection. Marvin utilized his supernatural charm, wrapping his words in Shakespearean elegance, ensuring that she felt entirely known, entirely seen, and entirely loved despite the thousands of miles of geographical distance between them.

The conversation eventually lulled into a comfortable intimate silence, the kind that only exists between two people who have completely dropped their armor.

”Marvin?” Beyoncé said suddenly, her tone shifting. The playful, spoiled teasing vanished, replaced by the sharp, focused attention of an elite musician.

”I am here, B. Always.”

”Have you... have you secretly composed any music for anyone else lately?” she asked carefully.

Marvin raised an eyebrow. He had kept his involvement with Titanic completely hidden until the last week before the premier.

”Whatever would give you that idea?” Marvin deflected smoothly.

”Don’t play games with me, little man,” Beyoncé warned, though her voice was rich with awe. ”Did you compose the music for that massive James Cameron sinking ship disaster movie? The one that’s coming out this winter?”

Marvin sat still in the backseat. The mind rapidly processed the variable.

”How, exactly, did you come by that classified piece of information?” Marvin asked, his voice dropping into a register of genuine, intrigued surprise.

”Because I have ears, Marvin!” Beyoncé exclaimed triumphantly. ”I was sitting in the living room last night, and the brand-new TV trailer for Titanic came on during a commercial break. The announcer was talking about Leonardo DiCaprio and the budget, but I wasn’t looking at the screen. I was listening to the background music.”

She took a breath, her voice trembling slightly with the memory of the sound.

”It was just a few seconds of a tin whistle. But the moment those notes hit the air... it completely pulled me right through the television screen,” Beyoncé whispered, her words laced with reverence. ”It did the exact same thing to my chest that your piano playing or the guitar playing did in that private room in Houston. It physically stopped my mind and pulled me into the tune. I didn’t need to see the credits to know it was you. I know the exact frequency of your music, Mr. Marvin Meyers. Only you could compose music that pulls the world into itself like that.”

*****

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