jaafar jackson’s muse

a soft, involuntary smile tugs at the corner of his lips. he adjusts the collar of his red corduroy shirt, his fingers tapping a gentle rhythm against his thigh. he isn't thinking about the vocal arrangements anymore. he's thinking about you.

he’s thinking about how you looked this morning, tangled up in the soft cotton sheets of your shared bed. your rich, brown skin had looked so warm against the white fabric, your hair a beautiful, soft cloud against the pillow. he’d almost stayed. he had actually leaned over, pressing a soft kiss to your bare shoulder, whispering that he’d be back soon, hating the way the morning light demanded he leave your side.

"you alright in there, mike?" the engineer’s voice crackles through the talkback monitor, breaking his trance.

michael blinks, clearing his throat and offering a quick, apologetic wave through the glass of the control room. "yeah, yeah. i'm good. just... catching the vibe. it’s a beautiful song."

"let's take it from the bridge. whenever you're ready to lay those harmonies."

michael nods, closing his eyes as the countdown begins. he takes a deep, steadying breath, letting his chest expand. when the cue hits, he leans into the microphone, his voice gliding effortlessly into that signature, silky falsetto. the layers he adds are pure magic—flawless, airy, and brimming with an emotion that feels almost too heavy for the room to hold.

but behind the technical perfection, every single note is a love letter directed straight to you.

“all i do..is think about you.”

as his own voice blends with stevie's in his ears, michael pictures your laugh. he thinks about the way your hand feels slipped into his jacket pocket when you walk together, the quiet comfort of your presence that grounds him like nothing else in his chaotic world. you are his peace.

his pretty girl, waiting for him at home, completely unaware of how deeply she has him wrapped around her finger.

he wraps up the take, holding the last note until it fades perfectly into the track.

inside the control room, the engineer gives a thumbs-up, looking visibly impressed. "that was the one, man. perfect."

the villa was buzzing with electricity, sun-kissed bodies, fresh tans, and the smell of the girls perfume and the guys cologne. you stepped out of the black truck, with a sleek black two-piece that hugged your curves, deliciously. you skin glowed under the lights of the villa and you face was glowing even more with anticipation and excitement about being apart of love island usa.

the first game ariana madix introduced to the cast members was a kissing booth game that featured three, colorful doors. each had a different text above them saying:

doggy, missionary, cowgirl

the girls were lined up on one side the doors while the boys were lined up on the other side. most of the girls gravitated toward missionary are doggy, as for the guys. but you? you chose cowgirl, smirking to yourself. fitting.

zach stood on the boys side, heart hammering. he is tall, charming, with that cheeky grin and curly dark brown locks with that intoxicating british accent that made you notice him first when he entered the villa with the rest of the boys. he’d picked the cowgirl door without hesitation, lips pulled in a shy grin. miss madix announced the rules: opens the door, meet your match, seal it with a kiss. simple yet deadly.

one by one, the doggy and missionary doors were opening. moans and cheers erupted as the girls behind those door was locking lips with their boys. then it was zach’s turn.

he pulled the door open.

there you were.

your eyes met his and for a second the sounds of the villa went quiet for you. you tilted your head, lips curving into a slow, confident smile. zach’s mouth parted, his usual smooth-talker persona cracking as he took you in, gorgeous, and standing there like you already knew exactly how this was going to go.

“fuck,” he breathed, half-laughing, half-stunned. “this is… yeah. hi.”

“hi zach,” you said, voice low and teasing. the other islanders were hollering, but you only had eyes on him. you stepped forward, hand slid on this chest, and felt the way his breath hitched. “so you like a girl on top, huh?”

he swallowed hard, nodding before he could stop himself. “guess the secret’s out.”

you didn’t wait for him to lead. you cupped the back of his neck, pulled him down to your height, and kissed him like you owned him. the kiss was deep, slow, and a little filthy, your tongue brushing his just enough to make his hands grip your waist like he was already imagining it. when you pulled back, his pupils were blown wide, cheeks flushed darker than the Spanish heat could explain.

the rest of the night blurred into drinks, confessions, and stolen glances. zach couldn’t stop finding reasons to be near you, wanting you to dominate him again like you did with the kiss. by the first coupling, he was standing in front of you, voice a little shaky but certain, very certain.

“Ive wanted to be with you the second i walked through that door.” he confessed

you smiled. “good choice.”

the days that followed were pure obsession on zach’s part. zach was hooked on you. he brought you coffee and pancakes in the morning while you were with the girls, doing your makeup. when he sat the pancakes down he only have a chance to say, “here you go, love.” before you grabbed his neck and pulled him into a steamy kiss. as the kiss progressively got hotter, your hand around his neck got tighter as he started to whimper.

it seemed like both of you forgot there were people around. when you finally pulled away, his cheeks were flushed and eyes blown.

“well that was something.” bea says, dabbing her concealer with her beauty blender as the other girls made their comments and started laughing. zach smiled bashfully before scurrying away back downstairs into the kitchen.

“nah for real, y/n. you have him whipped.” trinity says, as she checked herself out in the mirror. you didn’t reply, just grinned and continued your makeup. meanwhile zach was in the kitchen with the guys, having a mental breakdown over the kiss, cheeks still hot.

kc had noticed the look on zach’s face. “you good, bro?”

zach’s heart quickened at the question, it reminded him of what made him not so good. “uhm yeah, mate.” it wasn’t convincing at all but zach didn’t care.

back to you, though. you on the other hand had one mission: you wanted to ride him, so bad. that’s putting it very bluntly but it was the truth. ever since the first night, you were dying to make zach crumble. you wanted to see that glint in his eye when you take control.

but he was going to have to work for it.

from that moment, the teasing began.

you loved it. loved watching zach’s eyes follow you everywhere, poolside, during group chats, even when you were just stretching on a sunbed in a tiny bikini. you’d straddle his lap during one on one conversations, grinding subtly against him until he was hard and squirming, then pull away with a sweet kiss and a whispered “not yet, baby.” you’d trace your nails down his chest in the morning while everyone else was around, low enough that only he felt it, and murmur, “be a good boy.”

by day three, zach was losing his mind. he was desperate, constantly pulling you into corners for heated kisses, whispering pleas against your neck. “please mommy… I need you.” his thick accent, drowning in your ears.

but you just smile and pat his cheek. “patience.” at that point it was like he could cum just from you patting his cheek.

he tried to flip the script on day four. flirted shamelessly with one of the new bombshells during a group game, laughing a little too loud, touching her arm, throwing you glances like he thought it would make you snap and fuck him right there. it backfired spectacularly.

that night, at the shared bed. you whispered everything you weren’t going to do to him, thighs pressed against his, breath on his ear. he got whiny, hips twitching against you, voice cracking.

“but mommy, that’s not fair. i was just missing around. im sorry, I only want you. please.”

you loved every second of his desperation and the way he whimpered when you denied him again, the way he buried his face in your neck and begged so prettily. “been thinking about this since the the first time I saw you. been so good…”

but you made him wait longer.

by night six, it was safe to say zach was a high mess. the would find himself not being able to sleep at night. this night was another one of those nights. around 3am, he slipped out of the shared bed carefully, trying not to wake you. his cock was painfully hard again, throbbing against his shorts from the hours of teasing. he padded to the kitchen for a glass of water, hoping the cold would help.

it didn’t.

he stood at the counter, downing the water, but the ache only worsened. he started to pace the villa kitchen, bare feet against the cold tile, running his fingers through his messy, dark curls. soft, frustrated whimpers escaped him as he adjusted himself, the denial making every brush of fabric torture. “fuck..”

you woke up moments later, the bed cold beside you. you smiled to yourself, knowing the effect you had on him. you followed silently in just an oversized t-shirt that barely covered your ass, your brown skin catching the dim moonlight filtering through the windows.

there he was, pacing like a desperate man, hard and obvious in his thin shorts, muttering under his breath.

“zach,” you said softly, voice laced with amusement and authority.

he spun around, eyes wide and glassy with need. “I couldn’t sleep. It hurts.“

you stepped closer, and the second your fingers brushed his arm, zach let out a pathetic, needy whine, his whole body shuddering as if even that small touch was electric. any physical contact after days of teasing was driving him crazy; his cock twitched visibly, and he leaned into you desperately.

you cupped his face, pulling him into a deep, passionate kiss. the moment your lips connected with his, he thought he was going to pass away. he started to moan and whimper in your mouth, not minding the other islanders. he kissed you back like a starving man, tongue eager and messy, but you controlled it, nipping his bottom lip and pulling back just enough to leave him chasing your mouth with another desperate whine.

even his hands were desperate, groping the flesh of your ass, pulling you against him and rubbing his hard cock on your stomach through his shorts.

you pulled away, backing him against the kitchen island before sliding down to the floor, tugging him with you. “poor baby. All pent up because you’ve been impatient.” you pushed him onto his back on the cool tile, straddling him immediately. “no more waiting.”

you stripped his shorts off quickly, then your panties, leaving the oversized tee alone. zach’s hands hovered your thighs, trembling. “please.”

you wrapped a hand around his throat, squeezing firmly as you sank down onto his aching cock in one smooth, wet glide. zach’s head knocked back, jaw slacked. his broken moans we’re loud but the islanders must’ve been extra tired. “oh fuck mommy! yes, finally—ahh, you’re so tight, so warm… been dreaming about this for days!”

you rode him hard right away, hips rolling and bouncing with dominant rhythm, nails digging deep into his chest and leaving long red scratches. zach was vocal, the pent-up frustration pouring out in whimpers, gasps, and loud cries.

“mommy—mommy, please—feels too good, I can’t hold it—choke me harder, use me!” his hands gripped your thick thighs desperately, nails biting into your soft skin as he tried to anchor himself, leaving little crescents that only spurred you on.

you tightened the grin on his throat, chasing your release as the band in your stomach was building. as you clenched around him, zach was already reaching his end. “yeah, that’s it.” you cooed, obviously effected by the teasing as well.

zach’s voice cracked into desperate, loud babbling. “mommy fuck, mommy, I’m gonna— shit, I’m so close already—please let me cum, I’ve waited forever—mommy!”

his whole body seized when you rode him through that final deep grind. he came so hard it looked painful—back arching violently off the kitchen floor, a wrecked, loud wail tearing from his throat as his cock pulsed and spilled deep inside you. “mommy! fuck—cumming—oh god, mommy, mommy—yes!” His hips jerked erratically, nails digging bruises into your thighs, toes curling, body shaking uncontrollably through the longest, most intense orgasm the teasing had built up. He kept moaning and whimpering through every wave, completely lost and overwhelmed.

you rode him through every aftershock until you came too, moaning low as you clenched around his pulsing length.

afterwards, zach lay boneless on the kitchen floor, panting and sweaty, pulling you down onto his chest anyway. he pressed sloppy, grateful kisses to your neck and shoulders, voice hoarse. “I’m so obsessed with you, m’ never making you jealous again. I’m yours completely, mommy. use me anytime.”

you hummed, smiling against his skin, nails tracing the fresh scratches on his chest.

“i’m sorry—what are we doing again?” grant leaned over the table, careful of the plate ahead of his folded arms. he was looking down at you, jutting his neck forward and tilting his head to hear you better over the crowded chatter of the texas roadhouse the two of you were currently sat in.

“that cinnamon butter trend, babe,” you had said it like it was the most casual thing in the world—and like it was something he was supposed to know about. you exited out of the recording screen to search up the tiktok trend, clicking on a video you had liked the other day, flipping your phone screen to show him.

it was of a guy holding two small containers of texas roadhouse butter, the text over the clip saying: “can i lick texas roadhouse butter off of them?”, then cutting to a woman nodding yes, and ending with the guy excitedly purchasing some to-go.

grant stared as the tiktok replayed, trying to grasp the concept of how this was going viral, how people made this a... trend at all. maybe he really was getting old. he shifted his gaze back towards you as you tapped away on your phone to go back to the recording screen.

“so,” he cleared his throat, “just, trying to get this straight; you want to ask that, or do that, or whatever—to me?” he asked, face full of confusion and pure desperation to understand, all while pointing a finger back at himself. you refrained from telling him that he looked like the meme of that one guy in a white t-shirt pointing at himself, considering the last time you told him he looked like a meme, he didn’t understand why it was funny, even when you showed him.

you clicked at the top of the screen to adjust the audio and volume of the sound coming from your phone as you spoke to him. “yeah! it’ll be funny and cute! y’know, flipping the script of the original idea, or something like that.” you explained, rather vaguely for his taste. you glanced up at him, seeing him still and staring. you could practically hear the gears in his head slowly try to turn, trying to make sense of it all. it was oddly adorable.

“look, baby,” you started, placing your phone down on the table next to your half-finished drink. “my fans love you. they think you’re crazy hot—and you are—so they’re really gonna love this. especially because it teeters the line of something suggestive about us. and its reversing the original, like, i don’t know—idea? of the trend! not a lot of people are doing it that way, so we can hop on that! plus, its just funny. because... y’know...” you gestured to his puffed out chest that was straining against the size-too-small t-shirt he wore, and bulging out from behind his crossed arms.

grant let out a sigh, his arms falling as he saw that excited smile paint your face. you were really sold on this. there was no backing out now.

“fine. let’s do it.”

and now you were home an hour or so later, roles reversed as you laid naked and sprawled out on the bed. he held up one of the small cups of butter, scooping it out with the fat tip of his pointer finger, curling it inside the plastic to get all of its contents out. your chest was rising and falling dramatically, nipples halfway soft, halfway hardened, the tips a perfect mix in the middle, while your areolas hadn’t scrunched up just yet.

he lathered the peak of one of your breasts with the butter, chubby finger brushing over the softly pebbled nipple. he listened to you moan under his touch, before watching him through lust-lidded eyes as he sucked the butter off of his finger, latching his tongue to your coated skin soon after, toying with you in his mouth.

your phone screen lit up on the nightstand with notifications from your video, having started its gradual ascent in virality. all while grant massaged your other breast with his free hand, continuing to devour you as your own scrunched through his short, greying curls.

Growing up with the Jacksons was full of many adventures, laughs, and good times but beneath all of that was Joseph Jackson’s temper, yelling, and abuse. You were always close friends with LaToya, running around the house after being in the pool all day long and leaving wet footprints everywhere. 

One day, while having a pool day with the Jackson sisters, you had overheard Joseph yelling in his office, coincidentally, in order to get back outside you needed to pass by the office. Curiosity took over you and you couldn’t help but peek through the crack of the door. 

On the other side of Joseph’s desk was a crying Michael, silent tears falling down his face, eyes wide open and staring straight at his father. It looked like Michael wasn’t even aware of what he was being told, his body frozen and mind whirlpooling with thoughts. “You’re selfish Michael, that's what this is. A solo album, solo album you say…selfishness. What about your brothers? Your mother? Me? That never crossed your mind, now did it? You’re sure to scare all those people away with the album cover, big nose.”

Michael remained silent, eyes now pointing to the floor and his lip quivering. “Now get on out. Selfish that’s what this is Michael. Get out!” Joseph laughed. 

“Yes, Joseph.” 

You quickly walked away, trying to keep your feet light. Finally making it out to the pool you heard LaToya, “Y/N! Did you go to Paris for that swimsuit? It took you forever to get changed, we’re basically toast now!”

You let out a little laugh as you dipped your feet into the pool, testing the waters and finally letting your lower body sink into it. “Well it takes time to look pretty, LaToya. Unfortunately this beauty isn’t natural, it’s ten pounds of makeup.”

The door creaked open, Michael walked out of the office while wiping his tears and looking around to make sure no one was around. He walked down to the kitchen to grab some juice and splash his face with water before exiting to the yard. He heard faint laughter and complaints coming from his sisters. 

“Oh please! A little mascara isn’t ten pounds of makeup.” LaToya rolls her eyes, “Who are you even trying to impress? Maybe hmm…oh speak of the devil! Michael, Y/N here-”

“LaToya.” You said as your eyes went wide warning her to not continue her sentence. You turned back and waved to Michael, “Hi Michael!”

Michael’s eyes were at his feet, one foot over the others and switching, a blush creeping on his cheeks, “Hi.” He always kept it short, unlike his brothers, Michael was on the shy side. He didn’t flirt with you or make many jokes, though sometimes you wished he did. In fact, you were close to almost everyone in the house except Michael.

It wasn’t that you both never spoke but when you did, it was just short and straight to the point. Unfortunately for you, even if the other brothers wouldn’t hesitate to get at you the moment you let your guard down, you took interest in Michael, the very brother you barely ever talked to. Moments like earlier were the type that made you realize you had a soft spot for him. LaToya eventually caught on to your little admiration of her younger brother and would tease you right in front of him. 

“Do you mind if I join you all?” He asked hesitantly looking between his sisters and finally to you.

“‘Course not, get in!” LaToya smiled directly at you as she responded to her brother.

── ⟢

Hours had passed, everyone was exhausted. LaToya had gotten out of the pool once the sun had set and was now sprawled on the couch with her arm over her eyes. Janet sat beneath her with her legs crossed and focused on the movie playing. Michael was sitting on the other side of the couch with you just a couple feet away from him. 

As the movie went by, the space between you and Michael was closing. You hadn’t realized that every time there was a jumpscare, you would inch closer to him. Unfortunately for Michael, he had noticed how close you were getting, his body stiff and casual glances to see if you were looking at him but your eyes were stuck on the movie. 

At some point your foot touched his thigh, finally you had realized the distance between you both had disappeared. “Sorry. I didn’t realize I got so close.” You let out an awkward chuckle and brought your ankle close. 

“It's fine, don't worry ‘bout it.” He gave you a smile, “Do you like the movie?”

You silently shook your head, still staring at him, “Not really. I’m not a big fan of horror movies. They give me nightmares.”

Michael laughed, his teeth slightly peeking. “I can see that. You keep getting closer.”

“Was I? Must’ve moved unconsciously.” You held your ankle a little tighter, “You have a pretty smile, you should smile more.” 

A blush was creeping up on his cheeks, as it often does, mouth slightly agape, not knowing what to say. He nodded, “I’ll make sure to smile more when you’re around.”

“Michael, you’re very handsome, you know. You’ve got a pretty smile, a cute nose, and the most dazzling eyes.”

“You’re flattering me, I wouldn’t say all that though.” He looked down, his finger grazing his nose. Looking back up at you with a smile, “I don’t hear that often.”

“Well you should. I’ll be here to tell you whenever you need it and even when you don’t. It’s the truth Michael, I wouldn’t lie.” You smiled at him and looked back to see LaToya and Janet fast asleep. “Y’know I can spot you easily even when all your brothers are around. You’re the most handsome.”

“Yeah…” Michael looked into your eyes, down to your lips and back up. He hadn’t kissed anyone before but right now, right now it felt right and apparently so did you because you leaned in and pressed a quick kiss on his lips. He turned his head with his fingers pressed to his mouth, trying to conceal that the redness had now reached his neck and a big smile was on his face. “You’re pretty too, Y/N. I get excited seeing you around.”

“Now you’re flattering me baby.” You tapped his thigh and rose up from your spot, stretching your hands up high letting your shirt rise up. “Good night Michael.” 

You pressed a kiss to his cheek as his face was still turned, finally leaving his bubble, you started shaking LaToya and Janet awake, “‘Toya, Janet, let’s go to bed. ‘M so tired, I need a bed.”

1978 hayvenhurst / vegas

You're sitting on Michael's bed with your legs tucked beneath you, your sketchbook balanced in your lap, pencil moving in soft, absent strokes as the quiet of his room wraps around you. It's one of the few places that ever feels still for him, and by extension, for you too.

The door opens, and the shift in the air is immediate.

You look up before he even says anything, your chest tightening the second you see him.

Michael looks exhausted. Not just tired, not just worn down, but drained in a way that settles deep into his bones. His shoulders are tight, pulled upward like he's been bracing himself all day, but they still slump under the weight of it. His eyes don't carry that usual softness, that light that always seems to find you, no matter how chaotic everything else is. Instead, they're heavy, crestfallen, like something in him is just... worn thin.

Your pencil stills in your hand. He doesn't say anything as he walks further into the room, and you don't ask. You can read it all over him.

When he reaches the bed, he doesn't ease himself down: he just drops, the mattress dipping under the sudden weight of him as he flops onto his back beside you. The movement is careless, unguarded, like he doesn't have the energy to be anything else.

You don't hesitate. You set your sketchbook aside without a second thought, forgotten on the bed as your attention shifts completely to him. And almost immediately, like it's instinct, like it's the only place he knows how to go when he's like this, Michael turns into you.

He lowers his head into your lap, letting it rest there as he lets out a deep breath that feels like it's been sitting in his chest all day.

Your fingers slip gently into his curls, slow and careful, moving in that familiar rhythm you've learned over time, the one that always seems to quiet something inside him. You don't speak. You just let your touch say what words don't need to.

For a moment, the room settles into silence.

You can feel how tense he still is at first, the tightness in his shoulders beneath your hands, the way his body holds onto everything he's been carrying. But you stay steady, your fingers moving through his hair, your touch grounding, patient.

And slowly, piece by piece, he starts to let it go.

The tension in his shoulders begins to ease, the stiffness softening under your presence. His breathing, once uneven and shallow, starts to deepen, to slow, to find a steady rhythm again. His eyes slip closed, his lashes resting against his cheeks, and his arms wrap loosely around your legs like he needs to anchor himself there, like this is the one place he knows he can finally stop holding everything together.

You don't move, you just stay there with him, letting him take what he needs.

It's only been a week since he and his brothers got back from the Goin' Places tour, and already, they've been thrown straight back into the studio, working on their new album, Destiny. And on top of that, he's been writing for his own solo album too, something you know means everything to him, something he's been quietly pouring himself into whenever he can find a second to breathe.

But there hasn't been much time to breathe at all.

You've seen it in the way his days blur together, in the way he comes back to Hayvenhurst looking like he's been pulled apart and stitched back together just enough to keep going.

There are nights when he walks through this same door and barely even looks up before heading straight to the shower, and by the time he comes back out, he's already half-asleep. He'll collapse into bed before you can even ask him how his day was, before you can even get more than a quiet "hi" out of him.

Other nights, when you stay over, you don't even see him come in. You're already asleep by the time he finally gets back from the studio, and the only sign he was there at all is the warmth beside you when you wake up.

And when you're not here, when you're at your home, he still tries. He always calls before you go to bed. Even on the nights when you can hear it in his voice, how heavy it is, how he's forcing himself to stay awake just a little longer, just enough to talk to you because he doesn't want to let you down. You can hear the exhaustion in every word, the way his sentences start to slow, to trail off.

Those calls usually end the same way.

His voice faded mid-sentence, his breathing evened out on the other end of the line as he fell asleep without even realizing it, and you never hang up.

You stay there, listening to him breathe, letting that quiet, steady sound settle something in you, too. Knowing he's finally resting, that he's finally getting even a little bit of sleep, helps ease the worry that's been sitting in your chest all day. Eventually, it lulls you to sleep too, the phone still pressed close, like it's the closest thing to being beside him.

There are nights he's so exhausted he forgets to call at all, but even then, he never lets it go.

The next morning, without fail, your phone rings first thing, his voice soft and apologetic as soon as you answer. He always says he's sorry, even when you've told him over and over again that he doesn't need to be, that you understand, that it isn't his fault.

You know exactly where the pressure is coming from. You know how Joseph pulls him and his brothers in every direction he wants, without stopping to consider how much it's costing them, how much it's costing him.

And sitting here now, with his head resting in your lap, his body finally starting to relax under your touch, you feel that ache settle deeper in your chest. You hate what it's doing to him. You hate how much of himself he's having to give away, piece by piece, just to keep everything running.

So you don't say anything, you just keep your fingers in his hair, gentle, steady, letting him have this moment, letting him have you, because right now, it's the only place he gets just to be Michael.

"You okay, baby?" you ask softly, your voice barely above a whisper as your fingers continue their slow, steady movement through his curls.

Michael opens his eyes, already facing you from where his head rests in your lap, and a soft smile comes onto his face when he looks at you, the kind that isn't forced or performed, just quiet and real, like seeing you is enough to ease something in him, even if it doesn't fix everything.

"You always make things better," he says, and you smile at him, your hand never leaving his hair, but when he sighs, the sound is heavier than before, lingering in the space between you. You slightly frown because you can tell something is on his mind.

"What's going on?" you ask.

"It's just Joseph," he says with a heavy sigh, and you frown immediately, the name settling in your chest with a familiar weight. You're no stranger to Joseph Jackson and his treatment of his kids. You've been friends with LaToya since primary school; you've grown up with and around them, so you're no stranger to Joseph's cruelty, to the way his presence alone can shift the atmosphere of a room, to the way Michael carries it even when he's not there.

"What's he doing now, besides working you and your brothers to the ground?" you ask, your tone still gentle but edged now with something protective, and Michael sighs again, your fingers still moving through his hair as he holds onto your legs a little tighter, like he needs something to steady himself.

"He gave 'permission' for me to work on my solo album, but I still have to do things with the Jacksons, and I love my brothers, you know I do. But I have so many ideas in my head for songs that I want to be my own songs, not songs of the Jacksons," he says, and you frown, not because you think he's wrong but because you hate the pressure he's under.

The way that one word, permission, sits so wrong, because something that belongs to him so deeply shouldn't have to be approved by anyone else, and you hate that he feels like he can't express himself creatively and separately from the group without it.

Music lived in Michael; you've seen that since the day you met him, seen it in the way he disappears into it completely, like it's the only place he's fully himself. And you love the way he gets when he's writing songs. The way he's completely focused, humming melodies under his breath without realizing it, writing like a man running out of time, like the ideas won't wait for him, and you've always been in awe of his process, of how natural it is for him, how alive he looks in those moments.

"That makes sense. You've been performing with your brothers for the last... 15 years, so of course you want to do your own thing," you say, your voice soft but certain, and Michael sighs again, the sound quieter this time but still heavy.

"I'm not a little kid in a band anymore. I've grown up, and I want to be able to express myself creatively," he says, and you nod without hesitation, because he's right, and you lean down to press a kiss against his temple, letting your lips linger there for a second, your hand still in his hair, grounding him in something steady, something that isn't asking anything from him.

"The first step to that is firing Joseph as your manager, baby... which I know is easier said than done, but that's the only way you're going to be able to manage your own career and not be dictated to do things a certain way," you say, your voice gentle but honest, because you won't lie to him just to make it easier.

Michael sighs, snuggling more against you, and you feel it in the way he shifts closer, pressing into your lap like he's trying to stay right here, in this moment, where things are simple, where he doesn't have to make decisions that feel impossible.

He knows you're right, but as you said, it's much easier said than done, and although Michael tries not to show it around you, he's terrified of Joseph. You've seen glimpses of it before: in the way his voice lowers, in the way he chooses his words more carefully, in the way his shoulders tense in a completely different way than they do now.

"I can't do that," he whispers, his voice softer than before, almost fragile, and you nod, not wanting to push because you understand why Michael wouldn't be able to do that on his own. Firing Joseph isn't just firing a manager; he's still Michael's father, and that adds a complicated layer to things that doesn't just go away because it should.

"Whatever you decide to do, Michael... I love you, and I support you no matter what," you say, your voice steady, unwavering, because that part is simple, even if everything else isn't.

Michael lifts his head at your words, sitting up to look fully at you, and he grabs your hands, his fingers wrapping around yours like he needs to hold onto you for what comes next. You can see it in his eyes; he has something to say. His eyes are still soft, they always are when he looks at you, but there's something else there now too, something more serious sitting just beneath it.

"Marry me," he says, and your eyes widen when his words register in your head, the moment stretching in a way that feels almost unreal, like your mind is trying to catch up to something your heart hasn't even had time to process yet.

"W—What?" you ask in shock, and Michael nods, his hands still holding yours, steady, grounding, like he's completely certain even as you're trying to find your footing.

"You're the one thing that's constant in my life. The one person I'm sure about. I love you," Michael says as he gently rubs your knuckles with his thumbs, the motion slow, absent, but intentional, like he needs to keep that contact with you while he says it.

You can see it in his eyes; he does mean it, there's no hesitation there, no doubt, and that's what shocks you even more, the certainty of it, the way he's looking at you like this isn't a question for him, it's already decided.

"I love you too, Michael, but—" he softly cuts you off.

"We've talked about marriage before," he says, and you laugh a little, in disbelief, the sound coming out lighter than how it actually feels in your chest, because you had talked about marriage before, but it was before you two were officially together, when Michael had still just seen you as 'LaToya's best friend,' before feelings got involved, before any of this became real.

"Yes, before we got together and you asked me what type of man I saw myself married to... which in hindsight, I pretty much described you without realizing it," you say with a laugh, and Michael squeezes your hand as he smiles, his fingers tightening around yours just slightly, like he's holding onto that moment, onto you.

"I want to make a decision that is completely my own, my choice... and it's you I'm choosing," he says, and the words settle heavy in your chest, not overwhelming, but significant, like you can feel how much this means to him beyond just the question itself. You take a deep breath as you gently squeeze his hands back, trying to steady yourself, trying to slow everything down just enough to think.

"Michael... marriage is a big deal, we can't just rush into something like this," you say, and Michael shakes his head immediately, the movement small but firm.

"I'm not rushing. I've been thinking about this for years, and even more so when you said you'd be my girl two years ago," he says, and you feel your face getting hot as your cheeks flush, the memory hitting you all at once, how long this has been building for him without you fully realizing it.

"What about your family?" you ask, because that thought comes just as quickly, just as heavy, and he shrugs like it doesn't carry the same weight for him in this moment.

"What about them?" he asks.

"We can't just run off and get married and then what? Keep it a secret?" you ask, your voice soft but grounded, trying to make sense of something that suddenly feels like it's moving too fast and not fast enough all at once, and Michael shakes his head again.

"Not a secret, just ours. We don't have to tell anybody anything," he says, and you look at him, really look at him this time, searching his face for any sign that this is impulsive, that he hasn't thought this through, but you don't find it. His eyes are determined, steady in a way that doesn't waver, but still with that same softness behind them, the same warmth that's always there when he looks at you. He gently squeezes your hand again, and you take a deep breath, feeling the weight of the moment settle around you.

"Where are we going to live, Michael? Married couples normally live together," you say, your thoughts trying to catch up, trying to make this practical, real, something you can hold onto, and Michael chuckles softly.

"Baby, we can live here," he says, and you give him a look, because it's not that simple, not really.

"And what would you tell your parents? You're a Jehovah's Witness, I'm sure Momma Katie wouldn't appreciate me randomly moving in here... and what would I tell my parents?" you ask, and Michael sighs as he moves one of his hands from yours and cups your jaw, his touch gentle but steady, guiding your attention back to him, back to this moment instead of everything that comes after it.

"Baby... we can figure all that stuff out later... what I know for certain right now is that I love you, and I want you to be my wife," Michael says. The way he says it, so simple, so sure, makes your chest tighten, because there's no confusion in him, no hesitation, just clarity.

You let out another breath, your thoughts still spinning, your heart caught somewhere between the weight of what this means and the certainty of how you feel about him. It's not that you don't want to marry Michael; you do, you've felt that in quiet moments, in the way you already choose him every day, but you don't want him to decide this impulsively, don't want this to be something he regrets when everything else comes crashing back in.

"I love you, Michael..." you say, and he nods, like that alone is enough to keep him steady. He squeezes your hand, grounding you, and his other hand is still resting on your cheek, warm and familiar, anchoring you in place.

"Marry me, baby... just you and me. I love you so much, and I never want to be without you... marry me," Michael says again, gently kissing your knuckles, and something in you gives at that, the sincerity of it, the way he's asking you not out of pressure but out of love, out of certainty. You feel your eyes watering, the emotion rising faster than you can contain it, and you nod.

"Yes, Michael," you whisper, and the second the words leave your lips, his face lights up, his smile wide and immediate, relief and happiness mixing together as he leans in and kisses you, cupping your jaw as he pulls you close. His arms wrap around your waist, firm and certain, and he pulls you onto his lap without breaking the kiss, holding you there like he never wants to let you go.

Your arms go around his neck as a warmth spreads throughout you, his hands still firm at your waist, holding you close like he's afraid to put any space between you now that you've said yes. The kiss lingers, soft but certain, and you can feel the way everything is shifting all at once, settling and unraveling at the same time.

Were you really going to do this? Getting married spontaneously?

The thought moves through you quickly, not sharp enough to stop you, but present enough to make your chest tighten just a little. It's not that you didn't want to marry Michael; you do. He's the love of your life, and you know that for a fact. There's no hesitation in that, no doubt when it comes to him. But you're both still young; he's 20, you're 22, and his career is still growing, still becoming something bigger every day, something that already pulls at him from every direction.

But even with all of that sitting there, pressing at the edges of your thoughts, one thing stays steady: you know you want this. You want him, now and forever.

When you pull away, it's slow, like neither of you really wants to be the one to break the moment, and Michael follows you just slightly before letting his forehead rest against yours. The contact is grounding, intimate, your breaths still a little uneven as they begin to settle into something calmer, something shared.

"I'll have Bill quietly arrange everything. We can leave tomorrow night," Michael says.

The words are so simple, said like it's already decided, like there's no space for doubt in him at all. Your throat tightens as you swallow, the reality of it landing fully now, how fast this is moving, how real it already is, but you nod anyway, because even with the nerves, even with everything you're thinking, you're not pulling away.

"I love you so much," he says. The softness in his voice wraps around you, and you can feel it, the sincerity of it, the way he means every word without hesitation, and it steadies you more than anything else.

"I love you more, Michael," you whisper. He presses another quick kiss to your lips, light but affectionate, like he can't help himself, before his attention shifts, his eyes flicking toward your sketchbook where it still rests on the bed beside you.

"What were you working on?" he asks.

You smile, a little shy now as you bite your lip, your gaze dropping briefly before you look back at him.

"Just sketching you from memory," you say.

Michael bites down on his lip, that familiar shyness surfacing immediately, the way it always does when the attention turns to him, when you say something like that so easily, like it's the most natural thing in the world.

"Baby," he says. There's a softness to it, a quiet disbelief that makes your smile widen just a little as you reach for your sketchbook and place it in his hands. You watch him as he looks down at the page, and the reaction is immediate.

His eyes widen slightly, taking in the lines, the details. The way you've defined his face, his brown eyes, soft and warm, his curly afro: it's all there, captured in a way that feels too real, too honest. You can see it hit him, the way his cheeks start to warm, color rising under his skin as a wide smile spreads across his face, unguarded and bright.

He looks up at you, and his eyes soften even more. "This is amazing," he says.

"Well, my muse is always very beautiful," you say.

The words come out light, teasing, but there's truth in them, and it lands on him immediately. Michael flushes again, his gaze dropping as he bites his lip, that same bashful reaction you've seen so many times, and it pulls a quiet giggle out of you. You reach up, gently lifting his head so he has to look at you again, your fingers light against his chin.

"We're really gonna do this?" you ask. There's a softness to the question, but it's real. A final moment of checking, of making sure you're both standing in the same place before everything changes.

Michael nods without hesitation.

"I can't wait to be your husband," Michael says as he kisses you again. The words settle into you differently this time, deeper, more permanent, and you smile as you kiss him back, your hands still resting at his neck, holding onto him as the reality of it sinks in fully.

By this time tomorrow, you're going to be Michael's wife.

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By the next night, you and Michael were in Vegas.

Everything about it feels unreal in a way that hasn't quite settled yet. One day, you were sitting in his room at Hayvenhurst, and now you're here, a hotel room miles away from everything familiar, with a few hours standing between you and becoming his wife.

Joseph never really questioned much when Michael left with Bill. Michael never said where the two of you were going, just that you would be gone for the weekend. That part almost makes it feel easier and harder at the same time. Easier because there were no questions, no obstacles at the moment. Harder because you know what's waiting when you go back.

You were nervous, really nervous.

The kind of nervous that doesn't sit in one place. It settles in your chest, then your stomach, then back again. You didn't know how you were going to tell people... his family and yours. You were worried that his family would think you manipulated him into it since you're older than he is. The thought alone makes your chest tighten, because you know how much he's fought for his own voice, how much this decision means to him. You were worried your mom might have a heart attack, since you got married and she wasn't there to see it, the image of her reaction flashing through your mind in quick, uneasy waves.

"What are you thinking about, pretty girl?"

Michael's soft voice breaks through everything, close enough that you feel it more than just hear it, and you look up from where you're sitting on the bed in your hotel. You and Michael had already obtained your marriage license, and the ceremony was in a few hours, and the reality of that sits between you as you meet his eyes.

"You changing your mind?" he asks.

There's something in his voice he tries to hide, but you hear it anyway. Fear. Worry. The quiet possibility that maybe this is too much, too fast, that maybe you don't want this anymore.

"No, baby, of course not," you say, reaching your hand out for him without hesitation.

Michael moves toward you immediately, like he doesn't want to waste even a second of that reassurance, taking your hand as soon as he's close enough. You pull him down next to you, needing him close, needing that contact just as much as he does.

"I love you," you say. Michael leans over and kisses your temple, the gesture soft and familiar, grounding in a way that makes everything else fade just a little.

"I love you more," he says, and then he tucks a piece of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering just slightly as his eyes stay on your face. "But I can tell you're thinking about something," he continues.

You turn to him and smile, your gaze softening as you really look at him, letting yourself take him in fully for a moment.

His afro is perfectly curly and fluffed, shaped in that effortless way that somehow still feels intentional, like every detail about him carries its own kind of care. He's wearing a white suit, clean and sharp, with a light pink button-up shirt underneath, the color soft against his skin, warm and gentle in a way that suits him completely. There's something about seeing him like this, knowing what this moment means, that makes your chest tighten all over again, but this time it's not nerves, it's something deeper.

Your hand comes up to rest against his jaw, your thumb brushing lightly against his skin as you hold his gaze.

"I'm just worried about how your family is going to react... and I'm not worried about me, I'm worried about you... I just don't want Joseph to..." You trail off, shaking your head because you don't want to think of it, don't want to put words to something that already feels heavy enough.

"Rebbie and Marlon got married when they were 18, Jermaine got married at 19, and my parents were fine. I'm 20," Michael says.

You nod, because you knew that. You've always known the stories, the patterns, the way things have unfolded in his family before. But you also know something else.

Michael isn't treated the same as his siblings. He never has been, and he's sometimes had rebellious streaks against Joe, ever since he was little.

You remember Katherine telling you the story of how Michael threw one of his bottles with perfect precision at Joseph when he was a baby, a story told with a softness that didn't quite hide the tension beneath it. His brothers told you how he used to run from Joseph, how quick he was, how sometimes Joseph didn't catch him. You remember the way they laughed when they said it, but you also remember the look in Michael's eyes when he listened.

"I know, baby... but you know Joseph sees you differently than your brothers... he sees you as—"

"The money maker," Michael says, cutting you off. The words land harder coming from him than they ever could from you, flat and certain, like something he's accepted even if it hurts.

You frown immediately, your hand still resting against his jaw, your thumb stilling for just a second before moving again. Michael has expressed to you multiple times that he knows Joseph only sees him as a paycheck, and he said before, when he was younger, back when he and his brothers first became The Jackson 5, he would perform so hard and try to make sure everything was perfect, because he felt that if he were perfect, maybe Joseph would show him even the tiniest slither of love and fatherly affection, but he never did.

"You're so much more than that, Michael... you know that, right?" you ask. Michael shrugs, his gaze dropping slightly, going quiet like he normally does when the conversation gets hard, like he's retreating into himself just a little.

You don't let him stay there. You gently turn his face, guiding him back to you, making sure he looks at you, really looks.

"Michael... you're more than what Joseph says you are. You're kind, genuine, funny, beautiful... and I love you so much," you say. Michael bites down on his lip as he shyly smiles, the reaction immediate, almost automatic, like he doesn't quite know what to do with being seen like that, with being told something so certain and so different from what he's been given before.

"You really think so?" Michael asks.

The question is soft, almost careful, like part of him still expects the answer to change. You smile at him, your expression steady, unwavering.

"If I told you everything now, I wouldn't have anything left to say in my vows," you say.

Michael laughs at that, the sound lighter, freer, and he pulls you closer to his side, his arm wrapping around you as he presses another kiss to your temple, lingering just slightly like he needs that closeness.

"You ready?" Michael asks.

You nod, even though your heart is still racing, even though everything about this moment feels big and overwhelming and right all at once.

He looks you over again, and this time you feel it, the weight of his gaze as he takes you in fully.

Since you're getting married in Vegas and not having a big wedding ceremony, you chose an ivory colored dress, knee-length. The fabric is soft and light, the skirt falling gently, the sleeves sheer and delicate, catching the light every time you move. It's simple compared to what a wedding is "supposed" to be, but standing here now, it feels exactly right.

Michael smiles again, his heart feeling full; he couldn't believe this was happening. You can see it in the way his expression softens, in the way his eyes linger on you like he's trying to memorize every detail.

"You look so beautiful," he says.

And the way he says it: quiet, certain, and completely in awe, makes everything else fall away for just a moment, until it's just you and him, standing on the edge of something that's about to change everything.

"So do you," you say, and Michael bites down on his lip, that familiar, shy reaction surfacing again as the compliment settles into him, his smile soft but full as you both stand up from the bed. His hand finds yours immediately, your fingers locking together as if grounding each other before everything shifts.

You walk toward the door together, side by side, and when it opens, Bill is already waiting just on the outside, calm and steady as always, ready to take you to the chapel. You take a deep breath as you both step out, the air outside the room feeling different, heavier somehow now that this is really happening, and Michael nods at Bill, quiet but certain.

Bill escorts you both to the elevator, his presence reassuring without being overwhelming, giving you space while still being right there. The ride down feels quicker than it should, like time is moving faster now, and before you can fully sit with it, he's guiding you both out through the back private entrance where the car is waiting.

Once you two are in and settled, Bill starts the drive.

The movement of the car is smooth and steady, but your thoughts aren't. They drift, pulling you back to the first time you met him. When LaToya had invited you over after school once to hang out, and Bill had been there, watching quietly, observing in that way he does. He had assessed you without making it obvious, making sure you weren't a crazy fan girl using her to get to her brothers. You hadn't even realized it at the time, not fully, but looking back now, it makes sense.

He's always been like this: quiet, steady, observant, and safe.

You love how much he supports and cares for Michael, how he's always been there in a way that's calm and consistent, never demanding, never overwhelming. He's the real father that Michael deserves, and you're glad that Bill is here, especially tonight, to keep Michael balanced by being the opposite of how Joseph is.

"You two ready for this?" Bill asks.

His voice is even, grounded, and there's no judgment in it, not even a hint. He's not questioning your decision; he's checking in. Making sure this is what you both want, because he understands what this means. Marriage isn't small; it isn't something to take lightly, and he cares about both of you too much not to ask.

"I am... this is what I want," Michael says as he looks at you.

His words are steady, but it's the way he looks at you that makes your chest tighten, like everything else fades just for a second, and it's only the two of you in this moment. You smile back at him, the nerves still there but softened by the certainty in his gaze.

"Me too," you say.

Michael leans over and kisses the top of your head, the gesture gentle and grounding, like he's sealing something between you without needing anything more than that. Bill nods from the front, saying nothing else, but you feel his support.

It settles quietly around you both, something unspoken but clear, and you're grateful for it, especially knowing what's coming. Because this isn't something that can stay hidden forever. Eventually, Michael's family will find out, and when they do... You don't know how it will go. But knowing Bill is on your side, on both of your sides, makes it feel just a little less overwhelming.

The car pulls up to the chapel, and everything sharpens again.

Bill escorts you both in through the back, moving carefully, intentionally. The last thing you need is for paparazzi and cameras to spot Michael Jackson walking into a wedding chapel. This moment is yours, and he's making sure it stays that way.

Inside, it's quieter than you expected.

Bill was going to be serving as your witness, and the weight of that sits gently but firmly in the back of your mind as you and Michael sit down to wait for your turn. Your hands are still intertwined, fingers laced together like neither of you wants to let go, and Michael's thumb moves slowly against your palm, a soft, repetitive motion that tells you everything he's not saying out loud.

He can feel your nerves, and he's trying to soothe them the only way he knows how.

He leans over, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple before squeezing your hand, the contact warm and reassuring. When you turn to look at him, something in you settles, the nervous energy easing just a little as you take him in again.

You're about to marry the love of your life.

The thought lands differently this time, less overwhelming, more grounding, and you smile at him, the emotion soft but steady in your chest. Michael smiles back, his eyes warm, certain, as your names are called.

The sound pulls you both to your feet, and together, you, Michael, and Bill make your way into the chapel, where the minister is already waiting at the altar. The space feels small, intimate, like it was made for moments like this, quiet and personal.

Michael gently squeezes your hand again as you walk down the aisle, each step bringing the reality closer, making it more real with every second. You can feel it in the way his grip tightens just slightly, not out of doubt, but out of presence, like he's fully here with you in this moment.

He squeezes your hand again as you get in front of the minister, and you present your marriage license, the paper suddenly feeling more significant than it did before, like it holds everything you're about to become.

The minister asks about a witness, and Bill stands without hesitation, his presence steadying both you and Michael in a quiet, reassuring way. He's here; you're not alone in this.

The minister does his introduction, his voice calm and practiced, before turning it over to you and Michael for your vows. Michael smiles, soft and encouraging, gesturing for you to go first.

You take a deep breath, your fingers tightening around his just slightly as you feel everything settle into this one moment.

"Michael... I remember the first time I met you, when LaToya had gotten permission for me to spend the night after a weekend at school, and you were this adorable, shy little boy. We've grown up together, and you're still adorable and shy, but I've also seen you come into your own person, and I'm so proud of you, I'm so proud to be with you. You're such a light in this world and in my life, and there's so much magic in you. I can't wait to see where you go next, and I'm honored that you've chosen me to be by your side during it. I'll always be by your side. I love you, Michael," you say.

Your voice holds steady longer than you expect it to, but the emotion is there, threaded through every word, sitting just beneath the surface. As you speak, the memories move through you just as vividly as the moment itself, him younger, quieter, watching from a distance, and now standing in front of you, holding your hands like he never wants to let go. By the time you finish, your chest feels tight with it, your grip on his hands just a little firmer.

Michael has tears running down his face.

They slip down slowly, quietly, like he's not even fully aware of them at first. His eyes don't leave yours, wide and soft and completely open, and it pulls something deeper out of you, your own vision blurring as tears gather and fall down your cheeks too.

And you know you're going to cry harder when Michael gets to his vows.

"I also remember that first time we met, and I remember thinking, ' Wow, she has to be an angel in disguise, but she probably only sees me as LaToya's little brother,' and for a while, you did," he says, and there's a small, breathy laugh between you, the sound breaking through the emotion just enough to let you breathe as you both laugh while you squeeze his hands.

"But somewhere along the way, in all the time we've spent together, getting to know you outside of being my older sister's friend, I gave my heart over to you. I couldn't help but fall in love with you, and every day I fall more in love with you. I know we're young, but I also know this is meant to be, and together we can do anything. I love you," he says.

His voice isn't perfectly steady, but it doesn't waver in meaning, in certainty. It's all there in the way he looks at you, like there's no version of his life where you aren't standing right here with him.

He reaches up, his hand gentle as he wipes the tears from your cheeks, his thumb brushing under your eyes with so much care, even as tears are still falling from his own. He doesn't try to hide them. He doesn't pull away from them. He just stays right there with you, open and vulnerable in a way that feels rare and real.

The minister takes you through the rest of the ceremony, his voice guiding you both forward, grounding the moment in something official, something binding. The exchanging of rings feels heavier than the metal itself, the promises spoken carrying more weight now that they're being sealed, made real in front of someone else, in front of the life you're stepping into.

And then it happens: he pronounces you both husband and wife. The words settle into the air, into your chest, into everything, and for a second it feels like time pauses just long enough for you to feel it fully.

He tells Michael he can kiss his bride.

Michael smiles immediately, wide and bright despite the tears still clinging to his lashes, and he pulls you to him without hesitation, one hand coming up to cup your jaw as he presses his lips to yours. The kiss is warm and sure, filled with everything that's just been said and everything that hasn't needed to be.

You smile into it as you kiss him back, your hands finding him just as quickly, holding onto him as the feeling settles deep inside of you, wrapping around your chest, your ribs, your entire being with a warmth that feels steady and real.

You're officially his wife.

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When you and Michael get back to Hayvenhurst, you feel giddy and a little nervous all at once, the emotions sitting side by side in your chest in a way that makes it hard to separate one from the other. The drive back feels like it passed too quickly and too slowly at the same time, and now that you're here, standing just outside the front door, the reality of it settles in again.

You get back early in the morning and hope that nobody is awake.

When you walk into the house, you're met by quiet, the kind that feels almost protective, like the walls themselves are giving you this moment, and you let out a breath of relief you didn't even realize you were holding. Michael's hand is still in yours, his grip firm but warm, like he's feeling the same mix of anticipation and nerves.

You and Michael go up to his bedroom, your steps instinctively quieter now, careful against the stillness of the house. He reaches for the door and quietly opens it, and when he steps inside, he pauses for just a second before turning back to you, a soft smile spreading across his face.

"What?" you ask, tilting your head slightly, curiosity flickering through you at the look on his face.

"Isn't it a tradition that I have to carry my wife over the threshold?" he says.

The word hits you again, wife, and your cheeks warm instantly as you start blushing, a quiet laugh slipping out of you, light and a little breathless.

"You goof," you say.

Michael just smiles wider at that, his eyes bright with something playful and affectionate as he steps closer, reaching down without hesitation and lifting you into his arms. The movement is gentle but sure, like he's been waiting to do it, like he's been holding onto that thought the whole way back.

Your arms wrap around his neck automatically, holding onto him as you let out another soft laugh, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to his cheek. He carries you into the bedroom, steady and careful, his presence grounding even in something as simple as this.

He softly closes the door with his foot behind him, the quiet click sealing you both inside, away from everything else, and carries you over to the bed. He lowers you down gently, like he's placing something precious, taking his time before straightening up and walking over to the record player.

You watch him as he flips through the records with familiar ease before settling on your favorite album, Songs in the Key of Life by Stevie Wonder. Something is comforting about that, about how naturally he reaches for something that belongs to you, too. The music starts low and quiet, filling the room just enough without disturbing the stillness of the house.

Michael walks back over to you, and you steady your breath as you sit on the bed and wait for him, your fingers smoothing absentmindedly over the fabric of your dress, your heartbeat just a little faster now.

Instead of sitting beside you, he hovers over you, his movements slow and unhurried, like time has stretched just for the two of you, like there's nowhere else he needs to be, nowhere else he wants to be. The look in his eyes softens into something warm and deeply affectionate, something that makes your chest tighten in the best way as he leans down and kisses you.

At that exact moment, the record in the room shifts.

The gentle opening notes of Knocks Me Off My Feet begin to drift through the room, soft and soulful and almost eerily perfectly timed, like the music itself understands the way the air between you has changed.

The kiss isn't rushed or urgent; it's warm and searching and full of quiet feeling, like he's trying to memorize you, like he's holding onto this moment as something that belongs entirely to the two of you.

You wrap your arms loosely around his neck, kissing him back just as slowly, just as deeply, drawing him closer until the steady warmth of his body settles fully against yours. His presence is familiar, comforting, but there's something new layered into it now, too, something deeper that comes with the weight of what you've just become to each other.

Stevie's voice begins to float through the space, and the entire room seems to narrow down to this bed, this moment, this man... your husband in your arms.

Michael's hands slide gently to the hem of your dress, his touch careful, unhurried, his fingers slipping underneath the fabric and brushing softly against your bare skin in slow, reverent passes. There's no rush in him, no urgency, just a quiet, steady closeness, like even this moment is something he wants to take his time with, something he wants to feel fully.

And the way he touches you, the way he holds you, says everything he hasn't needed to put into words.

Michael gently cups your breasts in his hands, gently squeezing them and teasing your nipples with his fingers, which makes you moan in his mouth as your back arches slightly, pushing your breasts further into his hands. You've always loved how big his hands are, for moments like this, how they can cup you fully.

Michael momentarily breaks the kiss, his voice gently telling you to turn around. You feel his hand on your shoulder as he slowly unzips your dress, sliding the fabric from your shoulders and letting it pool at your waist before sliding it down and carefully discarding it to the ground.

Then he turns you around and leans back down to kiss you again. Your hands run down his chest. You slide his jacket off his shoulders and slowly undo the rest of his buttons on his shirt. Your hands roam again, slowing at his torso as you mess with the waistband of his pants. You can already feel the growing length beneath your palm, and he's pulsing, just like you're throbbing.

Michael slides his shirt from his body as your unbuckling his belt to help him out of his pants. The kiss never breaks as you two slowly undress each other. Michael unclasps your bra and lets it fall, his hands roaming down your body as your hands stop at the waistband of his boxers once his pants are off.

He kisses you deeper when he feels you pulling his boxers down, his length coming free from their constraints, and you immediately grab him. You feel his breath hitch against you, but his kisses don't slow; instead, they get heavier, a bit quicker as you stroke him with your hand. You feel his breathing get heavier through your kiss as your hand moves slowly against him, drawing out the feeling.

One of Michael's hands trails down your body until he's cupping you outside of your panties. Your breath slightly hitches, but neither of you stops kissing the other. Michael moves the bottom of your panties aside, giving himself enough room to rub his thumb over your clit. At his movements, your hand starts moving faster against him, making him groan.

"Baby," he mumbles roughly against your lips, but neither of you stops. Michael pushes a finger inside of you while your hand still pumps him, alternating between moving quicker and slower. You moan into his mouth, and he slightly speeds up his thumb against your clit and his finger moving inside of you.

"Michael," your moan comes out as a slight whimper, and his breathing is rough against your neck. He peppers kisses across your neck as your thumb slides over his tip, and you feel him slightly shudder. You spread the precum you feel, using it to slide your hand back down his length again to the base, and you feel his fingers moving quicker. Your hips buck and grind, matching the pace of his thrusts, and you lean your head back into the pillow as you moan louder.

"I love seeing you like this," Michael murmurs as he presses a kiss to your throat, right where he can feel your pulse quickening, but he does love seeing you come apart under him. He loves seeing you pleased and making sure you reach pleasure before he does. You feel yourself getting closer, and Michael groans again when your grip tightens against him as his fingers speed up in you.

Your thighs start shaking as your orgasm comes, you cry out Michael's name, and he kisses you, deeply, his tongue immediately slipping its way inside as you ride out the wave of your orgasm. When Michael pulls his fingers out of you, they're slick with your release, and you feel your face flushing.

Michael brings his fingers to his lips and licks them clean before kissing you again. You can taste yourself on him, but still taste him in his kiss. You're the one to pull away, still gripping him in your hand. You let go and use your hands to push Michael to sit, and then you get on your knees in front of him, between his legs.

You grip him at the base again before leaning in. Your lips slide down the outside of his length, your tongue slowly licking at him, and Michael's breath hitches. He had already been close, just when you were using your hand, now he felt he was going to explode. When your tongue slowly trails back up, you stop at the head, seeing the pre cum sitting at the tip, and you rub it with your thumb to spread it before taking him into your mouth.

Michael's body shudders on contact, and he moans when he feels your tongue glide over the tip, lapping up the precum. His fingers immediately go to your hair; he doesn't pull it, he just grips it, tighter as you move. You take more of him slowly into your mouth, inch by inch, leaving your hand at the base, stroking what won't fit inside.

"You always feel so good," Michael chokes out between his moans as your pace quickens. His hands grip your hair tighter, but not enough to hurt, as you take him deeper, until you feel him closer to the back of your throat. You pause for a minute to breathe before slowly sliding back up his length, slower this time to draw it out, and Michael shudders. You feel him twitching inside of your mouth as you move again, knowing he's close.

"I need to be inside of you, baby, please," Michael says as he pulls you up from him. You're slightly gasping for breath, your chest heavy as it rises and falls. Michael lays you down, sliding your panties down your legs until they're off, and then he spreads your legs apart as he comes between you. His body flushes against yours as he lines himself up to you.

He pushes inside of your slickness with one long thrust, making you both moan at the contact. Your legs wrap around his waist, squeezing him closer. He leans down and kisses you as he moves, pushing himself into you inch by inch until your bodies press together. Your body stretches for him, like it knows that he's exactly where he belongs. Then his hips begin to roll, his strokes pushing slowly and deep.

He didn't want to just fuck you; he wanted to make love to you.

He wanted to show you how much he loved you, show you how much you mean to him, how happy he is that you're his wife. He wanted you to feel his love in ways he was still discovering how deeply it ran, and ever since the two of you said 'I do,' he'd been wanting to be buried deep inside of you for hours.

Michael's lips attach to your neck and collarbone as he presses warm, open-mouthed kisses against your flushed skin. Knocks Me off My Feet by Stevie is still playing in the background, and Michael leans towards your ear. "Oh, but I love you, I love you, I love you," he sings that specific part just for you, as you let out another moan.

"I–I love you... more," you choke out between your moans. You feel it coming, the pressure building until it explodes. The orgasm rips through you, making you shake and slightly convulse under him. Michael gently grips your hips to keep you still, as his thrusts get slower, but remain as deep.

Michael's voice stays soft against your ear as he guides you through the fading waves, his hands steady on your hips while your body trembles beneath him.

"Stay with me... Baby, stay with me," he whispers as he brings you through it.

Your legs are still shaking, muscles fluttering helplessly, your body giving those small, involuntary jolts that come after something overwhelming and all-consuming. Michael's name keeps spilling from your lips in breathless repetition, like you can't quite hold it in, like the sound of him is the only thing anchoring you back down.

You feel the subtle twitch inside you before the warmth follows, and soon he releases too, your name coming out quietly like both a cry and a prayer from his lips as he fills you.

You lift your head just enough to catch his mouth, kissing him while he slowly rolls his hips, the movement gentle now, grounding rather than urgent, easing both of you down from the edge together. Your breaths are heavy and tangled, mingling in the small space between you as your foreheads come to rest together, skin damp and warm and completely spent.

Michael leans down to kiss you again, slower this time, more tender than before, as his arms pull your body fully against his. When he finally pulls back, his fingers move with familiar care, smoothing your hair back behind your ear before he presses a soft kiss to your forehead.

He gently lets you go, settling you back against the pillows before slipping off the bed and heading into the bathroom. The quiet domestic rhythm that has always been second nature between you unfolds easily, the sound of running water, the soft rustle of fabric, and when he returns, the warm cloth in his hand is just the right temperature as he carefully cleans you up the way he always does, unhurried and attentive, and so gentle it makes your chest ache a little.

He takes care of himself next, efficiently but quietly, before discarding the used towels and reaching for a fresh pair of boxers. When he pulls them on, he leaves his chest bare, familiar and comforting, and then he grabs one of his t-shirts and brings it back to you.

You slip it over your head, the soft cotton falling around you, and you inhale instinctively, eyes closing as his scent surrounds you, warm and comforting and so unmistakably him.

Michael walks back to the bed and gathers you into his arms without hesitation, pulling you into the steady heat of his body. You melt into him easily, your arms circling his torso as you settle your head against his chest, right over his heart. You can feel and hear the steadiness of his heartbeat.

"I'm glad we did this," you whisper to him.

"Made love?" he asks, a small tease in his voice, and it pulls a quiet laugh out of you, soft and warm against his skin.

"Well, yes... but, I mean, I'm glad we got married, Michael... whatever your family thinks or reacts... We'll face it together," you say. The words come out softer than you expect, but steadier too, because even with everything waiting on the other side of this moment, you know one thing for certain: you won't be facing it alone.

Michael's expression softens in that quiet way you've come to recognize, the kind that doesn't need to be big to mean everything, and he leans down to press a gentle kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering there for just a second.

"I'm so glad you're my wife," he whispers.

The word settles differently now... wife.

You press a soft kiss to his bare chest, your eyes still closed, completely at ease as you stay wrapped around each other, your body fitting against his like it always has, like it always will. The steady rhythm of the rain outside blends with the sound of his heartbeat beneath your ear, both of them quiet and constant, wrapping around you in a way that feels safe and full and quietly perfect.

"I love you," you whisper.

"I love you more," Michael responds, his arms tightening around you just slightly, pulling you closer, like even in sleep he won't let you drift too far.