jaafar jackson’s muse

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.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

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.

And at first, you blamed circumstances.

Eventually, you started blaming yourself.

The following weeks were a disaster, diva.

You changed your hair, changed it again. Then you became convinced the first version had actually looked better and spent three days mourning it. You switched nail colors so many times that your nail tech eventually stopped asking questions and just started staring at you with growing concern because you were starting to work her nerves. Long nails! Short nails! Red! Pink! Nude! French tips! Nothing seemed helped. Every appointment had the optimism of a woman who was genuinely convinced that the solution to her problems might be hiding inside a bottle of acrylic powder. It never was.

You bought new clothes.

You rearranged your makeup routine.

You spent a ridiculous amount of (his <3) money on skincare products advertised by women who were so obviously professionally done in makeup.

At one point, you became convinced that a boob job would somehow save your relationship.

A boob job would not save your relationship but mostly because your relationship wasn’t actually in danger. But to be fair, you just didn’t know that yet.

The problem was that once insecurity took root, it became impossible to think normally. Suddenly every mirror was an enemy, every picture of yourself fueled your dilemma and every minor flaw you found turned into a very big one. You stood in front of mirrors turning your head from side to side like a confused puppy.

Maybe it was your hair.

Maybe it was your body.

Maybe your skin looked weird.

Maybe your face looked weird.

Maybe you needed botox?

The theories became increasingly unhinged.

By the end of the second month, you had somehow managed to convince yourself that Michael no longer desired you because of a collection of microscopic imperfections that literally nobody else on Earth had ever noticed. The longer Michael avoided sex, the easier it became to convince yourself that there had to be a reason. A person didn’t simply wake up one day and stop wanting someone they loved.

So naturally, the explanation had to be you.

There was simply no other possibility.

Certainly not Michael Jackson, like.. thee Michael Jackson? Get real. A man who instinctively apologizes to inanimate objects after bumping into them. A man who asks you to send his food back because he doesn’t want the staff to feel bad. A man whose default response to conflict is both palms up and hoping the issue is resolved without much confrontation.

No. Clearly the issue wasn’t him.

By the time Michael finally came home from the studio that night, you’d already prosecuted the case, delivered the verdict, and sentenced yourself accordingly. The only problem was that nobody had bothered informing the defendant.

Michael knew something was wrong the moment he walked through the front door.

And not because you said anything weird. In fact, the opposite. You greeted him with a bright smile and an enthusiastic, “Hi, baby!” before immediately returning to furiously wiping down a perfectly clean kitchen counter. The surrounding area smelled aggressively of purple fabuloso. Every surface sparkled pristinely, the furniture had been rearranged—there wasn’t a single thing out of place.

Michael glanced at the clock on the stove. It was nearly two in the morning and exhaustion lingered in the slope of his shoulders. The Bad sessions had been consuming him lately, turning days into nights and nights into mornings. Normally he returned home looking drained, tonight however, the fatigue seemed to disappear the second he got a proper look at you.

He smiled to himself.

Stress cleaning.

He’s learned this quirk of yours long ago. Stress cleaning only happened when something was deeply upsetting that pretty little heart of yours. Normal people cried. Some people yelled. You wanted to flip houses. And that was okay.

“How was the studio?” you asked cheerfully, already moving on to a cabinet door that did not need cleaning. Michael slowly set his bag down on the kitchen island. The smile on your face looked.. suspiciously forced and assembled in a hurry, your eyes red and puffy.

“It was real good.”

“That’s good.” You continued scrubbing.

For a few moments, Michael kept watching you. The way you moved from one task to another without actually accomplishing anything. The way you wiped surfaces that were already spotless. The way your smile appeared and disappeared depending on whether you thought he was looking. A lesser man might have missed it. Michael didn’t.

Slowly, he crossed the room. “Baby love.” The nickname was soft, gentle. And it usually made you look at him.

This time, it didn’t.

Michael’s smile faded slightly. He’s worried.

“Hey.” His hand settled lightly against your arm, stopping your endless circuit around the kitchen and only then did you glance up. The concern in his eyes nearly made you cry all over again. After spending weeks convincing yourself that Michael no longer wanted you, it felt deeply unfair that he still looked at you like that. With that stupidly beautiful face like your sadness mattered.

“You okay?” The question was simple.

And you hated it because it would’ve been much easier if he’d been cold. So much easier if he’d actually done something wrong. Instead, here he was. Standing in front of you after a fourteen hour day, still more interested in your feelings than his own exhaustion.

You nodded too quickly. “I’m fine, Mikey.”

Michael tilted his head. Patient. Skeptical. And entirely unconvinced. “You’re not.”

His statement wasn’t accusatory, it wasn’t even challenging. Just super matter of fact like noticing rain through a window.

You laughed weakly and turned back toward the counter. “I am.”

“This spot is about sick of you wipin’ it..” Your hand froze and Michael’s mouth twitched. “You wiped it about five times.”

The laugh that escaped you sounded suspiciously close to a sob. Immediately, the hint of amusement vanished from his face. Without saying anything else, he gently took the rag from your hand and set it aside. And he reached for you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you against his chest.

Michael rested his cheek against the top of your head, one hand slowly smoothing over your back as he held you there. Waiting. Patiently. The way he always did. Because Michael had never been the sort of person who demanded answers.

The problem was that once you finally opened your mouth, you weren’t entirely sure you could stop.

The first sound that escaped you wasn’t a sentence.

It was a wail.

A loud, ugly sob that seemed to surprise even you.

Michael immediately froze.

Because one second he was rubbing slow circles into your back and the next he was staring down at you with wide eyes, completely confused. “Hey..”

“I’ve been tryin’ to fix it!” You managed to get out through your cry.

“Fix what?”

“Whatever’s wrong with me!” You wiped your nose. “I changed my hair. I changed my nails. I bought all those dresses!”

Michael looked bewildered. “Why? Why would you think you need to fix somethin’? There’s nothing wrong with you, pretty girl..”

“Because!” You cry again. “You won’t fuck me!”

Silence settled over the kitchen.

Complete, suffocating silence.

You watched the realization arrive in stages. First confusion, as he tried to understand what you were actually saying. Then understanding. Then immediate, unmistakable embarrassment. His entire face went red so quickly it was almost impressive. The color climbed from his neck to his cheeks and straight into the tips of his ears. Michael looked away at once, suddenly finding the refrigerator, the cabinets, the floor, and quite possibly the structural integrity of the kitchen tiles more interesting than making eye contact.

“Oh.” The word emerged strained.

You sniffled miserably. “’s what I've been talking about this whole time..”

Another pause followed. Michael rubbed the back of his neck, his expression growing more flustered with every passing second. He looked like a man desperately searching for an emergency exit that didn’t exist.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“No, not okay,” He corrected immediately. “I mean..” His voice trailed off and the poor man looked completely mortified.

“That's what this is about?”

You stared at him in disbelief. “Yes, Michael!”

Michael squeezed his eyes shut for a brief moment.

Because he was embarrassed.

Utterly, completely embarrassed.

For months you’d apparently been carrying this hurt around by yourself, blaming your hair, your nails, your clothes, your body, your face, your existence. Meanwhile, he had been operating under an entirely different misunderstanding. Now he had to explain himself, which unfortunately required discussing a subject that already had him blushing so hard he looked overheated.

The heat spread further down his neck.

“Michael.”

“I’m trying..”

”You’re making me anxious!”

He groaned softly and covered part of his face with one hand. “’m trying to figure out how to say it..”

You would’ve laughed if you weren’t actively fighting back tears because the sight would’ve been funny under different circumstances. Here you were having the emotional breakdown while Michael looked seconds away from dissolving into the floorboards.

“Baby,” he said quietly.

“What is it, Michael?”

His gaze dropped again. “You really thought I didn’t want you.. like that anymore?” The sheer disbelief in his voice almost offended you.

“Well, what was I supposed to think!” The question seemed to connect the dots for him because from your perspective, the conclusion made perfect sense. And suddenly his embarrassment gave way to guilt.

Deep, genuine guilt.

Because now he understood what these past months had looked like through your eyes. You hadn’t been obsessing over your hair or your dresses because you were vain, not that he would even mind anyway. You’d been trying to solve a problem, trying to fix something you believed was wrong with you.

When in reality, it had never been about you at all.

Michael swallowed then looked down at the floor. “It’s spreading.”

Your brow furrowed. “Huh?”

There’s long pause. “The vitiligo.” His voice had dropped almost to a whisper. “It’s spreading.” It seemed like he might stop there, he’d already said more than he wanted to but he forced himself to continue.

“On..” He swallowed. “Those parts.” The blush returned.

“Oh.” Your expression was unreadable.

Michael laughed softly, humorlessly. “It looks different now.” His eyes remained fixed on the floor. “I know it shouldn’t bother me.. but it does.” The words came out small as he continued. “I just..” He shook his head. “It’s ugly.”

You just stared at him and then stared some more. Blinked.

Because you were furious.

Absolutely, incandescently furious.

Months?

You had spent months without his dick, crying in bathroom, changing your hair, buying new clothes, and conducting increasingly deranged investigations into your own appearance while this man had been convincing himself that you would somehow stop loving him.

First of all, you didn’t even play like that.

“Ugly?” You repeated.

Michael visibly shrank. “Lovey, I—”

“Ugly?”

His eyes squeezed shut.

Before Michael could start apologizing, you grabbed his face in both hands and kissed him. Hard. And the sound he made was mostly surprise as you felt it more than heard it.

When you finally pulled back, Michael looked thoroughly stunned, curls slightly disheveled, cheeks still hot.

“You are ridiculous.”

“Okay.” Its all he can say, really.

Another kiss. “You are the most ridiculous man I’ve ever met.”

Somewhere between your outrage and Michael’s flustered attempts to explain himself, the conversation dissolved completely. Every time he tried to apologize, you interrupted him with a kiss. Every time he attempted to look away, you guided his attention back. By the time you found yourselves stumbling toward the bedroom, Michael looked overwhelmed in the particular way he always did whenever he realized he was being loved much more aggressively than he’d anticipated.

Michael lingered at the edge of the bed, still looking uncertain with the traces of insecurity that had brought the two of you here in the first place. You could see it in the way his shoulders were drawn tight, the way he avoided your gaze.

You moved closer as you sat between his thighs on your knees. “Michael.”

He glanced up at you. “Show me.”

Michael blushed as he slowly unbuttoned his jeans, hesitating before lifting his hips an inch to slide them down along with his boxers in the hooks of his thumbs. His initial reaction when he settled back down was to cover himself, for his big hands to hover protectively over his cock to shield your pretty eyes but he knew better. His hands trembled slightly as he revealed his semi hard cock, glancing up at you with eyes that look like he’s maybe expecting rejection or laughter. But he’s not met with any of that. He swallowed hard, closing his eyes because you’re staring at it and maybe if he closes his eyes, it would make him invisible. Michael knows it won’t but, it makes him feel a little better about exposing the dick he’s hid for months.

He hesitantly reached down, his beautiful fingers trembling slightly as he wrapped them loosely around his length. He gave it a gentle tug upward, his breath hitching at the soft sound that escaped him. The motion was tentative—careful he was unsure if he should even be doing this in the first place. Was this even a good idea? What was he thinking? What are you thinking?

Michael opens his eyes a little, to peek at you. Wait. Why were you looking at him like that? Like you.. like this or something? His cheeks burned with embarrassment and he kept his gaze lowered, unable to meet your gaze.

Because.

The look in your eyes was genuinely humiliating. Women had fought for your right to vote and own property only for you to sit there staring at Michael like you’d never had a coherent thought in your life. The look in your eye wasn’t remotely mysterious. There are novels worth of yearning written across your face.

You looked at him with shameless affection and a viseral need that would’ve embarrassed a lesser woman. Every thought seemed to be written plainly across your face. A very obvious: oh my God, it’s so fucking pretty. I need this in my throat.

Your hands slid slowly up his thighs, feeling the slight tremor in his muscles beneath your touch. He let out a shaky breath as you gently pushed his hands away, replacing them with your own. His hips twitched instinctively at the contact and he squeezed his eyes shut again, face burning as you slowly wrapped your fingers around his length instead.

Fuck, its been so long since you had his dick in your hands.

You could see what he’d been referring to. What he’s been so insecure about enough to hide from you and lose sleep over.

It’s different than what it was the last time you saw it. Yeah.

But his vitiligo had created a beautiful, unique pattern across his cock. His shaft was like a piece of abstract work of art; creamy ivory petal shaped patches mixed with brown and pink sections in a way that reminded you of neapolitan ice cream. His balls sat beneath with the same splashes of paler pigment.

“It’s so pretty, Michael.. You were hiding this from me?” you murmured softly, leaning in close. Before he could stammer out a response, your tongue darted out to taste him, starting at the base of his beautiful marbled shaft. You dragged your tongue upward along one of the paler patches, earning a sharp, breathless gasp from him.

Michael’s thighs trembled under your hands as your tongue traced the intricate patterns across his sensitive flesh. “You—you think it’s still pretty?” he breathed, voice cracking with disbelief as he finally looked down at you through lidded eyes. His hips bucked forward instinctively as you swirled around his tip, his shyness melting into need. ”I always thought it was ugly..”

“So pretty, baby..” You murmured against his cock. “Can’t believe you were worried about me not liking it.. God, Michael, he’s gorgeous—can’t wait to feel him cum. Missed him so much, did he miss me?”

“Don’t—don’t talk like that about it..” He manages to say.

The pattern continued across his pelvic area, lighter patchwork breaking through some of his deeper skin tone like poured cream, soft patches drifted across his mons pubis into delicate maps of contrast. Further down, his thighs bore the same mesmerizing pattern, ivory splashes dancing along the inner and outer legs that stretched down toward his knees.

Michael had gotten very good at hiding it. The lower half of his body was easy enough. He rarely wore anything that revealed much skin anyway, so long pants, socks, loafers, and layers concealed most of the areas the public never saw. It was the visible places that required the real effort. His face. His hands. His arms. The parts constantly photographed, filmed, and scrutinized. Topical treatments and makeup helped even out some of the discoloration there, making it easier to step in front of cameras without drawing attention to every new change.

The areas hidden beneath clothing were different. There was no makeup artist touching them up before an appearance. No careful lighting or tricks to soften what he saw. They existed entirely in private, which somehow made them harder to ignore. Michael knew his body intimately and because he spent so much time looking for changes on his face and hands, he noticed every new patch everywhere else too. What most people never would have thought twice about became impossible for him to overlook, leaving him alone with insecurities nobody else even knew he carried.

Standing at its full size, Michael’s cock was a sight—thick and long but it wasn’t.. overly large. He had perfect boyfriend dick, a dick big enough to stretch you out but not so big it would hurt every time you attempted to just sit on it.

He looked down at himself, then at you and his cheeks flushed deeply as he realized how hard he was and just how good you were sucking his dick. He’s not going to last long.

Your mouth closed around him, taking him deep into your throat while your fingers gripped the sparse curls of his pubic hair. Michael let out a broken moan, head falling back and surrendering completely as your warm mouth overwhelmed his usual hesitance.

You pressed your tongue flat against the sensitive underside of his cock, dragging it slowly from base to tip. The broad and smooth surface of your tongue applied pressure against a particular throbbing vein, earning a deep and guttural moan from him. His hips jerked involuntarily, his knuckle in between his pearly whites as he watched you with furrowed brows.

It was filthy.

“M gonna—finish, gonna—’M gonna..” He whined, voice strained. ”Where do you want it? In your m-outh? On your face? Don’t know where to put it..” His hands gripped the sheets tightly, tugging just slightly as his body coiled with impending release.

You pulled back, wrapping your hand around his cock instead, jerking him off fast and tight just how he liked it. ”Cum on my face, baby.” You urged, looking up at him with lust glazed eyes. “Paint me so pretty, just like this fucking dick..”

It only took three more rough strokes before he was cumming, a strangled moan escaping his throat as thick ropes of cum spilled across your face. It landed on your cheeks, dripped down your chin, splashed across your lips and even some hitting your forehead and hair. His hips stuttered against your fist as he emptied himself completely, trembling as the waves of pleasure crashed through him. “Baby.. baby..”

As the last few drops dripped onto your face, Michael slumped forward slightly, breathing heavily as he looked down at you with gratitude. He gently moved to cup your face, thumbs brushing away some of the cum that coated your skin. “Thank you..”

You smiled sweetly. “My turn.”

The California morning sun was a merciless, bleaching gold against the tarmac of the private airstrip. Inside the cool, dim cabin of Michael's private jet, the loud sound of the engines before take off was a soothing lullaby to anyone else, but to you, it was the frantic drumbeat of your own humiliation. You were curled into a plush leather seat, trying to make your entire body disappear.

Across the aisle, Michael was a study in composed, elegant energy. He was reviewing outfits for promotional appearance in Tokyo, before his 'Dangerous' tour nights in the city. His slender fingers tracing the lines of a schedule and the drawings, a soft, absent melody humming in his throat. He was wearing a crisp, military-inspired jacket with gold tassles on the shoulders, the fabric a deep crimson that made his skin glow against the sun beaming in through the small window.

You, in stark, catastrophic contrast, were swaddled in a garment of such profound ugliness it seemed to absorb the very light around you.

It was a moomoo. Not a cute, vintage Hawaiian muumuu with flowers, but a true, floor-length, sack-like moomoo. The color was a oppressive, eye-searing mustard-bile yellow with a pattern of what could only be described as bruised avocado shapes, all rendered in a synthetic, slightly shiny polyester that whispered unpleasantly against your skin with every tiny movement.

You had packed in a bleary-eyed, 4 AM panic, grabbing what you thought was the silk pouch of your new lingerie set for… well, for the possibility of a romantic interlude during the trip.

Instead, your fumbling hands had seized the vacuum-packed moomoo your well-meaning but fashion-blind Aunt Margaret had sent as a joke gift. You hadn’t even unpacked it; you’d just tossed the whole plastic bag into your suitcase, thinking it was the lingerie.

You’d discovered the horror only after takeoff, when you’d retreated to the plane’s small, luxurious bathroom to “freshen up” and change into something comfortable for the long flight, as there was a bed in the back of the cabin. The moment you unrolled the atrocity, a cold wave of nausea had washed over you. It was the only thing you had in your carry on besides your travel clothes.

So you’d put it on, the act itself one of profound surrender, and now you were a sentient, pulsating blob of mustard shame.

“You’re very quiet over there, sweet thing” Michael’s voice cut through the engine drone, smooth as velvet. You flinched. He hadn't looked at you since you walked out, so engrossed in his work

“Mhm,” you managed, a non-committal sound, muffled by the hands you had pressed firmly over your face. If you couldn’t see him, he couldn’t see you. That was the logic at this point.

You heard the soft rustle of fabric, the gentle click of a seatbelt being undone. His presence approached, a subtle shift in the air, a whisper of his signature fragrance— laundry detergent, Bal à Versailles and ... the smell of rain on dry earth.

The leather of the seat beside you sighed as he sat, not across, but right next to you.

“What’s this?” he asked, his tone laced with a playful, genuine curiosity. A single, cool fingertip traced the puffy sleeve of the moomoo where it billowed around your arm. “This fabric… it’s... interesting. Is it new?”

A mortified groan escaped you, vibrating against your palms. “No. It’s a mistake. A terrible, terrible mistake.”

“Let me see, you, silly” he coaxed, his voice a soft melody. You shook your head violently, your face still buried.

You felt his hands, gentle but insistent, wrap around your wrists. His touch was always so deliberate, so careful, yet there was an undeniable strength there. He pulled your hands down from your face, and you had no choice but to meet his eyes.

He was sort of laughing. Not in a cruel way, but in a loving one. His dark, luminous eyes were wide with fascinated amusement, his head tilted like a curious sparrow.

He took in the full, devastating panorama of the moomoo; the high, frumpy neckline, the shapeless empire waist, the way it pooled around you on the seat like a deflated, toxic balloon.

“Oh, my,” he breathed, a smile playing on his lips. “It’s so… big? And this colour!” He picked up a fold of the fabric between his thumb and forefinger, rubbing it. “It’s like… a very nice... vomit colour. Wowwww”

You wanted the plane to crash. Immediately. “It’s a moomoo,” you whispered, the word itself tasting like dust and regret. “My aunt sent it. I packed it by accident. I thought it was something else.”

“A moomoo,” he repeated, in a funny deadpan way.

“well, if you're wearing it. I like it. It’s… well.. it's cute. It’s like you’re hiding in a little tent.” His smile widened, transforming his whole face, crinkling the corners of his eyes.

The teasing was there, but it was warm, enveloping, devoid of any malice. It made the humiliation somehow more acute and yet, paradoxically, less heavy.

“I look like a walking illness,” you protested, trying to pull your hands back, but he held them firm in your lap, his hands over yours. "I feel and look so ugly"

“No,” he said, and the single word was so quiet, so final, it silenced you. His gaze traveled from your eyes, down your nose, to your lips, then back up.

“You could wear a burlap sack and you would still be the most beautiful thing on this earth. in this universe” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a intimate murmur that competed with the engines.

“You have a light, you know. Inside. You are so beautiful. This…” he plucked at the moomoo again, “…this funny yellow thing can’t dim it. Not even a little bit.”

Tears, hot and sudden, pricked your eyes. It was not from sadness, but from the sheer, overwhelming contrast between your grotesque exterior and the tender sincerity in his face. Why the hell did you not check for your lingerie? A completely differe dynamic would be occurring if you had packed it.

He must have seen the sheen in your eyes. His expression softened further. Without a word, he shifted, his hands moving from yours to your waist. Even through the voluminous polyester, you could feel the heat and intention of his grip.

In one smooth, effortless motion, he lifted you. You gasped, the world tilting, as he gathered you up; lots of ugly fabric and all—and carried you the few steps to the plush, wide couch at the back of the cabin that served as a lounge area. He laid you down on the cream-colored leather, the moomoo spreading around you like a malignant flower.

He sat down beside you and then patted his thigh as if 'come sit'. You clambered on top of him, one knee on either side of his hips, straddling him in you yellow lumpy yellow form. He caged you in with his arms, your slender frame in front of him, was blocking out the cabin lights, casting his face in shadow.

You could feel the solid weight of him, the lean muscle of his thighs pressing against your own through the fabric. The playful tease was gone from his eyes, replaced by a dark, smoldering intensity that made your breath catch.

He peered up, his face inches from yours. You could feel his breath, sweet and warm, fan across your lips. “You know,” he whispered, his voice a rough, delicious scrape against the engine noises, “all this time you’ve been worrying about this… outfit.” One of his hands came up, his fingers threading into your hair at your ear, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. “But it doesn’t matter.” He lowered his head that final inch, and his lips met yours.

The kiss was slow at first, a soft, searching pressure. Then it deepened. His mouth moved over yours with a growing hunger, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips until you opened for him with a soft, helpless sigh. You started to forget, bowing to the taste of him, the feel of his body aligned over yours, the scratch of his jacket’s embroidery against the vile polyester of your.... moo moo.

As he kissed you, deeply, languidly consuming your mouth, his hips began to move. A slow, deliberate roll, grinding the hard ridge of his jeans against the apex of your thighs, separated only by the layers of fabric. The dry, insistent friction was maddening. A low, ragged moan vibrated in his throat and transferred into your mouth. Mmmph-hmm…

The moomoo was rustling loudly in protest, a ridiculous soundtrack to the building heat. One of his hands slid down from your face, over the billowing fabric of your chest, down your side, to grip your hip, holding you steady for his rhythmic, grinding thrusts. The other remained tangled in your hair, angling your head to take the kiss even deeper.

He broke the kiss only to trail his lips along your jaw, down the sensitive column of your throat, his breath hot and damp against your skin. “See?” he murmured into the hollow of your collarbone, his hips never stilling, a relentless, delicious pressure. “All this fuss.” A nip, gentle but possessive, made you gasp. “For nothing.”

His large arms roamed all over your body, squishing the bits of you that were a bit plusher -- he loved feeling you up, how curvy you were. he palmed the swell of your breast, and then through the thick fabric, toyed with your nipple.

"mhm, you like that don't you?" he teased.

You fought back the urge to whine out loud, holding it deep within.

He noticed you're frustration despite the hunger in your belly for him to take you.

"you're frustrated aren't you, sweetheart?" he asked, laughing a little, trying to now look at your face. he brought his hands back down to squeeze your ass roughly through the ugly night dress. His lips connected with yours again, devouring the taste of you; making the most of the plane being grounded and him not having to be stuck in his seat.

He lifted his head again, his eyes black pools of desire, his lips kiss-swollen. He looked from your eyes down to the high, frumpy neckline of the moomoo. A wicked, triumphant smile touched his lips.

“It’s coming off anyway,” he said, the words a husked promise, and his fingers hooked into the neckline of the hideous garment. With a soft, decisive rrrrip of a hidden seam, the oppressive, mustard-yellow world was peeled away.

"easy access, I guess" he giggled, as he picked you up again and walked with you, attached to him like a koala, to the private bedroom area of the cabin. It was completely sealed off from the rest of the crew who were up at the front of the plane.

He threw you playfully onto the bed, a massive grin on his face as he started to unbuckle and take off his belt, his large hands roaming across his waist to find the buttons on his trousers.

"Should i buy another then, michael, since you ripped up that one?" you had a mischievous gleam in your eye, as you lay on the bed with you back arched, posing for him in a sultry manner. He pulled off his jacket dramatically, like he was in a hurry.

He finally made his way onto the bed, clambering on top of you, his curly hair, now slightly falling into your face.

"mhm, I'll just rip anything off of you if you look cute enough" He said, squishing your backside in his hands as he scooped you up and flipped you over on top of him.

"so no, please do not buy another one" he laughed, and then caught your lips in another blissful kiss.

Fin.

sorry hahahahahahaha

That’s right — Michael Joseph Jackson was your fucking boss.

And you weren’t the colleague that attended his meetings, or interviews, or helped on set of one of his many music videos — you were his children’s nanny.

You ate, slept and lived in his home — a live-in babysitter for his two young children. You orbited his world — learnt his habits, and daily routines, likes and dislikes, and became a prominent figure in his offspring’s lives.

They loved you, treated you like the mother that wasn’t as present in their lives, much to your dismay as you’d much rather be seen as a sisterly figure, which only made Michael adore you more.

And that’s what made you fall so deeply head over heels for him.

Michael, much like most celebrities parents, was a busy man, his sole reasoning to hiring a nanny in the first place — but never, ever let his children feel unloved. He was present, as much as he possibly could be despite his demanding career, in his child’s lives like a loving, caring father should be. Every night he’d trudge home in the early dawning of the morning, the sun threatening to rise, and he would still creep into his son and daughter’s individual rooms, and press a soft, tentative kiss to their sleeping foreheads, and whisper how much he loved them. He would, earning childish giggles from his two little ones, attempt to make pancakes on the mornings he was home, bags under his eyes from the interrupted sleep he had gotten the previous night, smiling to himself as the premature batter would crumble the sugary meal into a pile in the saucepan.

He was truly a good man, and an even better father.

Which is exactly how you fell so hard for the older man.

Michael was at least nine years older than you — you in your mid-to-late twenties and he, early forties, something you never felt bothered you. And even in his growing age, Michael had never lost his looks. He was gorgeous and a total flirt — always finding a way to touch you, or give you a compliment that would have you reeling for the next few hours, and leave your pussy soaking wet. He was aging like fine wine — face a carved display of beauty, with sleek, long black locks and an intense confidence that had you blushing each time he walked into a room.

A blush that adorned your cheeks just like in this moment.

You had been preparing dinner — spaghetti bolognaise, albeit with a few finely chopped greens mixed in as you knew the fussy toddlers would downright refuse otherwise, a dish you knew they enjoyed.

You turned your back towards the children in their high chairs, sucking a stray dollop of tomato sauce off your thumb as you straightened the apron that clad your torso.

“Good?” You questioned, running your hands over the material of the apron that had ‘What’s cookin’, good lookin’?’ embroidered into the front — a gift your best-friend had bought you for Christmas, one that Michael would often chuckle at whenever you’d sport it in the kitchen.

“So good!” Prince Jackson, Michael’s eldest child, beamed first, face already smothered with sauce, using his hands to eat his food despite the fork that was gripped in the other.

“Prince, use your fork, please, honey.” You reminded, beginning to gather the dirty saucepans and empty sauce jars towards the sink, where you flicked on the tap, letting the water warm.

You rolled your eyes playfully as Prince whined at your request, shaking your head with a laugh as he ignored you, continuing to messy himself.

“She said use your fork, Prince.” Paris Jackson, Michael’s youngest, fired towards her older brother, looking so sweet in her cherry-red Minnie Mouse bib, as she pointed accusatorially at the older boy.

You giggled, “No fork, no pancakes tomorrow.” You revealed, sounding your words out in a sing-song tone, smiling deeper as the young boy gasped, suddenly letting his hand fall to his side as he began using his fork to swiftly eat his dinner.

“Alright, alright, slow down, buddy.” You smiled as you plugged the sink, letting it rise with warm, soapy-clad water, “You’ll get your pancakes, don’t worry.”

“Do I get some too, lovey?”

You smiled at the nickname — an adorable term of endearment the two children had conjured up for you in the three years you had been working for Michael.

Three long years of loving your boss — and he still had no idea.

“Of course, babygirl,” You reassured, as her face lit up.

“That’s ‘cuz I’m using my fork, Prince.”

You chuckled quietly, as to not promote the behaviour, as the two children bickered childishly, firing playful shots back at one another as they continued to eat, while you washed the dishes slowly, awaiting their filthy ones once they’d finished.

They were the sweetest children, both showing you great affection and adoration from the very moment you met them, often sending you into fits of laughter at the unsuspecting awareness of their brilliant, child-like humour.

“Lovey?” Paris called out, now sporting a similar sauce-covered face to her brother.

“Yes, baby?”

“Are you Daddy’s girlfriend yet?”

You hated the way your heart jumped at the question, completely harmless and inquisitive to the little girl, but an intense sense of need for you — a title you so wished you had.

“Baby, no, I’m your nanny, remember? Lovey makes your dinner, washes your clothes, takes you to school, cleans the stinky toilets,” You reminded as they giggled at the mention of the childish description of the bathroom appliance, “Not Daddy’s girlfriend.”

Paris pouted, “When will you be Daddy’s girlfriend?”

You tried to suppress the small blush that was creeping onto your face at the all too familiar conversation that had your mind reeling. Paris broached this topic with you often — constantly asking you why you weren’t her Daddy’s girlfriend and when exactly where you going to be, a question that had you failing to repress a smile each time she’d ask you. The answer being no, every time, an answer you hated giving — you dreamt, daily, that you actually were his girl, but alas not, and you knew you never would be.

“Paris, don’t ask such questions. That’s rude.”

“Daddy!”

The sound of Michael’s soft, yet sternly guiding, voice hit your ears, alongside the children’s excitable exclaims at their fathers presence, as you paused your gliding movement against a dirty saucepan — the blush that had been growing on your face at the reoccurring topic of your romantic affiliation with the boss you deeply desire, was now at the full force, sending shockwaves of warmth throughout your body.

Michael strode into the kitchen calmly in an unbuttoned, white shirt and black slacks, tie loose around his neck — god, he looked perfect.

“Sorry about that,” Michael started, smiling softly at you as you met his gaze, your heart thumping in chest at the eye-contact, “She’s just a nosey girl.”

“It’s okay, really.” You replied, voice now softer and less relaxed as you had been when it had jusy been you and the kids, “I think it’s sweet.”

Michael smiled gently at you, lips tugging at each side as he watched you glance over at Paris who couldn’t care less about her father’s correction of her words, eyes glistening with affection at the adorable little girl.

“How were they today?” Michael questioned, reaching into the fridge to retrieve a cold carton of orange juice, his favourite.

“Amazing, as always.” You admitted wholeheartedly, eyes not daring to meet his own out of your own nervousness, gaze glued to the soapy plates between your grasp, “Paris finished her book, which she was happy about, and Prince finished a banana.”

Michael laughed loudly at the difference in his children’s days, “He finished a banana?”

“Very big achievement, actually,” You chuckled, smile so wide it made your cheeks burn, “You said he’s been refusing to even touch one, let alone finish it, for the past week, right? Not sure what changed but he did it.”

Michael grinned deeply, vision fixated on the way your own gaze landed on his young offspring, eyes full of pure love for his children as you admitted your proudness.

And he knew exactly why Prince decided he suddenly liked bananas. It wasn’t because his tastebuds had changed, or he wasn’t in the mood for it the previous days where Michael had attempted to get him to eat one — it was because of you. You were the reason — knowing his son loved and admired you so dearly that he was willing to finish his least favourite fruit just for your happiness and approval.

“Well done, Princey, good job, buddy.” Michael spoke as Prince thanked him back loudly, voice muffled with the mouthful of food he had eaten, “Thank you, I know I say it all the time, but you are really too good to us.”

The blush spread wildly across your face deepened, the smile splayed over your lips tugging further into your aching cheeks, “No, thank you. I’m forever indebted to you, Michael, and your beautiful little ones.”

As Michael watched you giggled as Paris claimed triumphantly that she had finished her dinner first and that she had first dibs on dessert — his eyes glinting at the genuine grin that adorned your gorgeous face.

Michael, unaware of it yourself, had always found you utterly breath-taking — a stunning sight to bless his eyes each time you’d leave Prince’s room late at night in your skimpy, tight pyjamas shorts, yawning a good-night as you rubbed your eyes, or how you’d let stray pieces of fair fall over your face from your messy bun as you taught Paris how to roll dough with a rolling-pin as you made sugar cookies, or when you’d fall asleep with the kids on the couch, mouth ajar as you slumbered peacefully, a snoring child under each arm, pulling them close to you as you all rested in unison, not helping his own feelings towards you as he’d pull a blanket over you, pressing a kiss to his children’s temples, and then yours, letting his heart flutter in his chest.

Unbeknownst to you, Michael had always felt a little something special towards you that he had never felt for a colleague before — a special place in his heart being reserved just for you. He didn’t know whether it was your kindness towards him, or your dedication to your job role, or your continuous care and love for his children, that made him so interested in you — but he knew he felt something. Something deep in his soul, a familiar feeling that clad your heart too, each time you’d lock eyes.

“Right, let’s get these mucky pups clean, hm?” You spoke, hands on your hips as the two children before you, now finished with their meals, giggled loudly.

Michael watched, taking slow sips of the cold beverage with a smile hidden behind the carton, as you took a turn with each child, wiping down their hands and faces with a warm rag, encouraging them to keep still with a chuckle as they wriggled away from your hands.

“Alright, alright, that’ll do.” You breathed out, shaking your head as you attempted to wipe one last smidgen of sauce from Prince’s cheek, who squeaked, jerking his head to the side to get away from you, “Time for bed.”

Michael, completely transfixed with your natural, maternal instincts, kept his gaze on you as you set Prince down from his chair, and slid Paris onto your hip, smiling to himself as the smaller girl nestled her face into your neck, small arms clinging to your apron.

“Do you want some tea after I finish up?” Your dedication to everyone’s happiness had Michael’s heart swelling in his chest.

Not only did you care for his children so deeply — but you also cared about him, too.

“You go ahead, you’ve done plenty today, thank you, though, sweetheart.”

This time, it was you whose heart skipped a beat at the casual pet-name, nodding quickly, biting back a smile as you led the children from the kitchen, towards the back of the large, elegant mansion, nearer to their bedrooms. You spent the time, finally alone to reduce your increased heart rate, brushing their teeth, fighting to put their pyjamas on, and tucking them in with a bedtime story.

Prince was already fast asleep when you slipped from his bedroom quietly, tip-toeing into the hallway as you closed the door slowly behind you. As you turned around, attempting to head towards Paris’ bedroom next, you jumped with a gasp, your hand slapping over your mouth as you collided with a broad chest.

“God, Michael.” You breathed, hand steadying against your chest as your heart leapt into your throat, “You scared me.”

“Sorry,” He whispered with a small laugh, “Is he asleep?”

“Yeah, just gonna read to Paris,” You nodded, “Wanna come with me? She likes it when I do it, but no-one’s better than Daddy.”

Michael hated himself — not because he didn’t want to aid his daughter to sleep, but because of the thoughts that plagued his mind at your words.

The words, meant to be harmless, turned wicked and twisted in his mind — now clouded seductively in his brain as you addressed him as the pet-name often used in the bedroom, one he was partial to himself.

Michael agreed, nodding slowly as you began to lead the way, cursing himself as his eyes wondered down to the curve of your ass in the shorts that clad your behind — riding dangerously high up the skin that threatened to peek out underneath, a thought that had him twitching beneath his joggers.

He tried not to be a lewd man — striving on traditionalism and being a gentleman. But, when you were this sweet, tentative, and gentle with his children, and cared for him just as much too, whilst being unfathomably beautiful — he literally couldn’t help himself. Often letting his cock twitch as it dared to stiffen in his boxers each time you’d smile at him or accidentally brush your fingers against one another’s.

He was unaware you felt the same way — panties sticking to the ridge of your folds in slickness at the way he’d laugh or hold your gaze intensely, having to swallow thickly from the sheer weight of his aura, eliciting an undeniable, visceral reaction out of you each time without fail. You’d spend most nights, after carrying out your usual day-to-day routine babysitting, with your hands shoved down your pyjama shorts — fingers rubbing frantic circles around your throbbing clit in an attempt to soothe the arousing desire that surged through you every time you got close to him.

You slipped into Paris’ room quietly, smiling as she lay in her bed, eyes open awaiting your arrival, smiling as she met your eyes.

“Hey, princess.” You whispered, striding across the room to perch on the edge of her bed, eyes warming at the sight of her adorable frame tucked up into bed.

Michael wasn’t far behind you — sliding in quietly, not pushing the door completely shut behind you to allow you both to exit in the quietest form possible, before joining you on Paris’ bed.

“What story do you wanna read tonight, babe?” You questioned, voice soft and delicate as your gaze flickered towards the large array of books next to her bed.

“No.” She protested, “Don’t want a book.”

“Oh?” Michael finally spoke, laughing softly at his daughter’s change in character, “Why not, princess?”

Paris huffed, tugging her bedsheets further up her chest, “Well, Daddy, I finished my book today.” She started, rambling, “A-And Lovey said I did a good job so I don’t want to read another one.”

You and Michael, flickering glances towards one another, shared small laughter, as you reached over smoothed the hair on her head, “You funny girl. Why don’t you tell Daddy about your day, then?”

Paris, jumping for joy at the chance to talk, began ranting about how she had pancakes for breakfast, how yours were better than his as they had chocolate chips in them, and then how she and Prince ran around the garden for ages (half an hour), and then she finished her book in the sun with you and Prince, who took a much needed nap in your lap, as you helped her sound out words she didn’t understand yet, before she had the best dinner ever, a meal she’d had a million times before but still adored, especially when you made it.

“Wow, princess,” Michael breathed, now having his hand taken hostage as Paris wrapped her tiny fingers around his own, “Sounds like a great day with Lovey and Princey, hm?”

“Was the best, Daddy.” She mumbled, her own rambling tiring her out as her eyes fluttered against her cheeks, “I miss you.”

You pouted slightly at the adorable connotation of her words, your heart warming as she threatens to drift off into a much needed rest after her bustling day.

“I missed you too, baby,” Michael whispered, leaning over to press a soft kiss to her cheek, thumbing the skin where he had kissed, smiling as her eyes shut for a few seconds before opening once more.

She reached for your hand, tiny fingers now enclosing around your index finger as she peered up at you, “Lovey?”

“Yes, babygirl?” You replied, tracing soft circles on her skin as you grinned down lovingly at her, not noticing the way Michael’s heart thumped in adoration at the interaction.

“I wish you were my mommy.”

Your head snapped towards Michael as you met each other’s gaze — not noticing the way Paris finally fell asleep, grip around your finger falling slack as slumber took over her small body, as your mouth fell ajar at her shocking words, face contorting into shock as you stared at Michael.

Silence consumed you, the sound of Paris’ soft breathing the only noise filling the room, as you let her sudden admission settle in your brain.

“I, um,” Michael started, voice deathly quiet as he attempted to find the right words, “Come on.”

He took your hand, leading you out the room softly, shutting the door behind him carefully, before leading you through the quiet of the house, hand enclosed gently in your own, towards his bedroom.

You’d been in there a few times, albeit alone, grabbing something quickly before rushing out as you felt like you had intruded into his personal space — but this was a whole new step.

He lead you inside, clicking the door closed as you suddenly let the tears fall that had been welling up in your ears from the moment the words left Paris’ lips. You let out a quiet sob — chest wracking as you covered your mouth to conceal your saddened noises as to not wake the children.

Michael embraced you instantly — wrapping his slender arms around your back and pulling you against his chest as you let the tears fall freely from your eyes, down your flushed cheeks at the sudden contact. You clung to his shirt as he held you, your head falling into his chest as you sniffled.

You pulled away, wiping the tears from your eyes, “I’m sorry, I just—I didn’t expect her to say something like that.”

Michael breathed, looking down at you as you blinked the wetness away from your lashes, “I’m so sorry, sweetheart, I didn’t either.” He admitted, still holding you close to him, trying to ignore the way his heart thumped in his chest, “I apologise if it’s off-putting.”

Your eyes widened, “No, no, not at all.” You reassured, hands still gripping the smooth of his t-shirt, “I’m honoured, I just feel so sorry that she doesn’t have her real mother here.”

Michael’s chest tightened at the mention of his absent ex-wife, the mother of his two children, “She’ll understand when she’s older.” He whispered, his gentle hand coming up to move a strand of your hair from your face, “I’m just glad she trusts you enough to view you as a motherly figure.”

You peered up at him — finally meeting his gaze, breath hitching in your throat at his deep stare. Your heart-rate rapidly increasingly as you remained locked in his vision — a deep, irrevocable sense of desire blossoming into undeniable tension around you as he kept you flush against him.

“She just loves you so much.” Michael breathed, eyes flickering down to your lips, before uttering his next words even quieter, “As do I.”

His words hit you straight in the chest — a quiet, barely audible gasp leaving your lips as your eyes darkened. Michael heard it — the physical reaction to his admission of his infatuation giving him all the answers he needed to your mutual pining.

“Michael.”

He wasted no time at your whimpered plea — hands flying to cup your face as his lips pressed against your own in a desperate, intense kiss, revelling in the way you moaned into his mouth. Your hands flattened against his chest, tongue lapping at his own as it slid into your mouth, eyelashes fluttering against your cheeks at the connection you’d been yearning to have for years.

Michael pulled from your mouth, catching his breath as he locked eyes with you once more — a sudden change in his blown pupils as you tugged your lip between your teeth.

“Say you want me as much I want you.” Michael panted, hand tightening around your flushed cheek, “That you need me like I need you.”

You sighed deeply, lips falling open as your deepest desire came to life, “Michael, I need you. Please.”

In one fell swoop, you were raised from the ground — gasping in surprise as Michael lifted you from the floor, wrapping your legs around his waist as he guided you to the bed, laying you flat against it gently, his lips connected to yours once more in a frantic kiss.

Your legs tightened around his middle, whining into the air, attempting to muffle your noises with your lip between your teeth, as his mouth slipped from the comforts of your mouth, to trail eager kisses down your neck — suckling and nibbling at the warm skin from your jawline to the curve of your collarbone, as his hand slithered down your side to knead the flesh of your hip.

You arched into his touch — needy whines falling from your spit-stricken lips, his name slipped from them like a plea, begging for his pleasureful love.

Michael’s hands found the waistband of your shorts, toying with the soft material as his face parted from the soft of your skin, meeting your eyes, “May I?”

“Dear God, please do.”

He tugged them down in one swift movement — the bare, nakedness of your pussy meeting his eyes as the arousing prospect that you weren’t seeing any underwear clouded the forefront of his brain. He groaned lowly under his breath, as you tore the oversized shirt from your torso, revealing your similarly bare chest to him.

Michael let out a shaken breath he didn’t know he was holding as your stark naked frame met his eyes — cock twitching violently beneath his clothes at the sight of you.

“My God,” He exhaled deeply, eyes taking over your bare figure, vision darkening at the sight of your perky tits, nipples erect in anticatpru arousal, the beautiful curve of your waist and hips, and your slicked-up cunt all on display for him, “So fucking beautiful.”

A daring hand slipped between your legs — a singular finger dragging between your folds, collecting your essence on his fingers, groaning at the way you writhed breathed him, whining loudly at the contact. It was only when Michael slid a digit towards your entrance, sliding inside you with one thrust, curling his finger instantly to abuse the sweet spot inside you, did he have to shut you up — leaning down to capture your lips in another ferocious kiss, swallowing your noises.

“Shh, baby,” He coaxed, now grinding his hard cock into the smooth of the mattress as you mewled beneath him, finger still forcing you open, “They’re asleep remember.”

You cried out again — whimpering against his lips as you nodded your head, trying your hardest to keep quiet as the ball of his hand nudged against your throbbing clit.

“Don’t want all your hard work today to go to waste by letting those pretty noises wake them up, huh?”

“No, no, Michael, no.” You agreed, head falling back as a second finger was slipped inside you, the stretching sensation sending a shudder through you as you clung to his shirt tightly.

“Good girl.” He whispered, fingers never stopping as he fell to his knees between your legs.

Your legs tightened and an instantly regretted loud moan fell from your lips as Michael’s own wrapped around your clit — crying out at sensation. Michael, who’s hands squeezed your thigh in a silent plea for your reduction in noises, starting working his oral magic against you — sucking and slurping at your clit, before licking a tentative strip from your leaking hole to where you throbbed most, collecting your drooling arousal on his tongue. Meanwhile, his fingers never let up — still curling deep inside you as you bucked your hips to chase his digits, back arched sweetly into him as you whimpered his name like a prayer, begging for more.

“Quiet for me, sweet girl.” Michael whispered, giving your thigh a gentle tap, as you squirmed violently, “Gonna wake up the whole house with that mouth.”

You whimpered — voice, luckily, reducing in decibel as Michael retracted his mouth to speak, allowing you a few seconds to catch your breath, before his lips were back on you. You resorted to clasping your hand over your mouth in attempt to mask your sensual noises, crying out loudly as the slick noises of your sopping wet cunt against his lewd tongue now filled the room.

Michael continued to work you open with his fingers — the tip of his ring and middle finger abusing the sweet spot inside you that you had seeing stars and pleading his name out into the skin of your hand, the sensation of his eager tongue lapping at your cunt having you feeling otherworldly.

“Oh, God—fuck, oh, fuck yes,” You whined, voice muffled against yourself, before pulling your hand away completely to whimper, eyes falling into his gaze as he peered up at you, nose nudging against your clit, “Oh, Daddy, please.”

Michael lost it — his explicit, private fantasy blooming to life as the erotic name left your swollen lips. Michael groaned, eyes rolling to the back of his head, before planting a particularly hard suck to your clit — before rising to his feet. He shoved the bottom half of his clothing down his body, freeing his hard cock from his boxers, before instantaneously wrapping a hand around his aching dick — gasping at the sensation as his fingers continued to work themselves in and out of you.

“Please, Michael,” You cried, tears once falling in adoration for his daughter, now pleading to be stuffed full of his cock, “Put it in, baby, please.”

“Fuck,” Michael breathed, eyes locked on his fingers disappearing inside your clenching cunt, and his own hand pumping his cock, leaking with pre-cum, “I-I can’t.”

“W-Why? God, please, Mikey, please. I need you.”

Michael sighed, restraint wearing dangerously thin as his face contorted into pleasure at the sensation of him pumping himself quickly, “Y-You’re not my wife, not even my girl — it’d be w-wrong.”

You whined, head thrown back as the pad of finger left your spasming hole, found your clit, now rubbing quickened figure eights against the nub. You hated it — his traditional ways getting in the way of him stretching your needy cunt and filling you to the brim with his cum. But, you had to respect him — as someone you loved so deeply.

“Cum on me, Michael.” You breathed, dark eyes meeting his own as they jerked away from where you masturbated you both, the familiar feeling of an orgasm creeping up your spine.

“W-What?”

“Cum on my pussy, please, ‘M gonna cum, Daddy, mmph—!” You whined, teetering on the edge as your voice hit a higher octave.

The orgasm you’d been craving from him from the moment you locked eyes on the first day of the job, washed over you brutally — eyes slamming to the back of your head as you shook around him, clit overstimulated as he continued to circle the twitching nub.

Michael, watching you come undone on his fingers, nipples now erect from your overwhelming pleasure, had his hips stuttering into his enclosed fist — angling himself nearer to where you throbbed.

He found his release with a low groan, mouth falling open in cascading pleasure as he spilled over your cunt — hot, white cum drooling over your spread pussy lips, now shining with your clear essence and his fertile seed, as erotica left his lips in his blind lust, “Yeah, baby, let me make you a real mommy—fuck, that’s it, sweetheart, take this fucking cum.” He groaned, fingers now sliding down to disappear in and out of you once more, pumping his release, dripping all over your cunt, inside your willing hole.

You moaned out — watching as his seed trickled down your swollen clit, and disappeared inside you, his fertile arousal now flooding your womb without even needing to be stretched with his cock.

Michael slowed his jerking fist around himself, while his fingers let up inside you, pulling away to catch his breath as he stared at your cum-stricken pussy — glistening with both your releases.

He smiled, leaning down to press a loving kiss to your lips, humming into his mouth as the taste of your tangy essence lingered in his tongue. When he pulled away, he moved to spread your legs with two strong hands on your knees, eyes trailing over where a glob of his release drooled from your spent hole.

You shuddered, completely overstimulated, as two of his slender fingers reached down to shove his escaping cum back up inside you — gasping as he filled you once again.

His fingers remained there, plugging you up to prevent any more of his warm seed from falling out of you, as he leant over once more, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he spoke, before pressing a kiss there,

“Gotta give my babies a mommy, right?”

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

when you’d told him flat out over the phone that a ladies' man only gets to look, it had completely stunned him. he was standing in his kitchen, phone pressed to his ear, staring at the wall long after the line went dead. he wasn't used to hearing the word no. but more than that, it wasn't just a bruised ego making him think about you. it was a genuine, deep-seated curiosity.

you weren't some starstruck fan. you worked behind the scenes in the entertainment industry as a stylist, pulling together looks for videos, magazine shoots, and high-profile clients. because of your job, and because you had been rebbie’s close friend for years, you’d grown up behind the curtain.

you had seen enough slick-talking musicians, egotistical singers, and backstage drama to know exactly how the industry game worked. you knew how men in his position operated, and you had heard every single rumor, story, and piece of gossip attached to jackie’s name since the seventies. you knew the charm was effortless for him, which meant your walls were built incredibly high.

but jackie wasn't a man who walked away easily. weeks began to pass, and his determination only grew.

the gifts didn't stop. if anything, they became more frequent, but they also became more specific. he stopped sending generic luxury items and started doing his homework. jackie was constantly on the phone with rebbie, driving his older sister half-crazy with endless questions about you.

he’d call her up late at night, asking what your favorite flowers were, what kind of food you liked when you were stressed, what music you listened to when you were driving around l.a., and what your favorite colors were. rebbie would sigh, roll her eyes, and occasionally feed him information just to get him off her line, warning him the whole time that you weren't the type to be bought.

one quiet thursday evening, you came home from a grueling twelve-hour day on a music video set. your feet were aching, your hair was up in a messy clip, and you were completely exhausted. just as you dropped your keys on the counter, there was a firm, polite knock at your apartment door.

when you opened it, you were surprised to see one of the jackson family’s personal security guards standing in the hallway. he offered you a warm, professional smile and handed over two things. the first was a bottle of incredibly expensive, perfectly chilled white wine—the exact vintage rebbie knew you loved. the second was a large, beautifully wrapped garment box.

after thanking the guard and closing the door, you carried the box to your bed and carefully pulled the ribbon. when you lifted the tissue paper, you caught your breath. inside was an exquisite emerald green silk dress. it was stunning—rich in color, beautifully tailored, and perfectly suited to your style. attached to the silk was a small, heavy cream note card. you flipped it over to read his handwriting:

one chance. just one date. let me show you who i am baby, please. - jackie.

you stared at the green silk for a long time, running your fingers over the smooth fabric. your heart was hammering against your ribs. the combination of your old, deep-rooted crush and the sheer persistence he was showing was finally chipping away at your resolve. you were tired of fighting it, and honestly, the dress was too beautiful to leave sitting in a box.

you walked over to the kitchen phone, picked up the receiver, and dialed his private number.

he answered on the very first ring, his voice slightly breathless. "hello?"

“hi jackie, it’s me. thank you for the wine. and the dress as well.”

“you’re welcome, but you didn’t have to call and thank me,” he said with a knowing smile.

"i know. one date, jackie," you said, trying to keep your tone as level and professional as possible, though a small smile tugged at the corner of your lips. "that’s all you get."

you could practically hear the triumphant, blinding grin spreading across his face over the telephone line. "one date is all i need," he said, his voice dropping into that smooth, velvety register that always made your stomach do flips. "i promise you won't regret it."

now that the wall had cracked, jackie immediately leaned into his natural element. over the next couple of days leading up to the date, he called you frequently, his confidence returning in full force. the heavy flirting started up the second you answered his calls, his words sweet, practiced, and dripping with the kind of charm that usually had women melting into puddles.

he was talking about where he was going to take you, how beautiful you were going to look in that green dress, and how he couldn't wait to finally have you all to himself.

during one of these phone calls, as he was smoothly explaining how he was going to arrange a private dining room at one of the most exclusive spots in the city, you finally reached your limit with the velvet-tongued routine. you let out a soft, amused sigh, cutting him off mid-sentence.

"you know what your problem is, jackie?" you asked, leaning against your headboard.

the line went quiet for a brief second, caught off guard by the sudden shift in your tone. "and what might that be, beautiful?" he asked, trying to keep the playful, confident edge in his voice.

"you think every woman is supposed to just fall at your feet," you said calmly, your voice completely devoid of the starstruck awe he was used to. "you think because you’re a jackson, and because you have that smile, that the world is just supposed to bend over backward for you.”

the comment caught him completely, utterly off guard. there was a dead silence on the line. for the first time in as long as he could remember, someone wasn't treating him like a superstar, a sex symbol, or a larger-than-life jackson brother. you were looking right through the fame and calling out the machinery of his charm.

for a split second, his ego flared, but instead of getting angry or defensive, a strange, burning determination took over. he realized right then that if he wanted you—really wanted you—he couldn't just play the role of the famous bachelor. he had to show you the man underneath it all.

"is that really what you think of me?" jackie asked, his voice suddenly losing all of its rehearsed theatricality, sounding grounded, quiet, and completely sincere.

"i don’t know if you’re forgetting, but i know you, jackie. i’ve known you since we were kids. this flashy ladies man routine, isn’t gonna work on me.”

"alright," he said, a sudden spark of challenge in his tone. "let’s make a deal then. a real bet."

"a bet?" you raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite yourself.

"yeah. three months," jackie proposed, his voice tightening with absolute seriousness. "three months, starting right now. no flirting with other women. no looking at anyone else. no expensive gifts dropped at your door, and absolutely no celebrity treatment. just you and me, getting to know each other like regular people. if i can do that, you have to admit you were wrong about me."

you let out a loud, genuine laugh, the sound echoing through your quiet bedroom. "three months? jackie, please. you wouldn't make it three weeks without you trying to flash that smile to get your way."

"three weeks?" he echoed, a low, competitive chuckle escaping his throat. "now you’re just insulting me. i’m dead serious. three months. no superstar routine, no other women. just me proving to you that i can be exactly the man you want."

the playful arrogance was gone, replaced by a raw, competitive edge that made your pulse quicken. what had started as an impossible pursuit had officially turned into a high-stakes challenge, and looking at the emerald green dress hanging on your closet door, you realized you might have just underestimated exactly how far jackie was willing to have you.

the rehearsed lines faded out, replaced by a quiet, steady presence that took you completely by surprise. he started calling your apartment late at night—not to pitch another elaborate date or to drop heavy, velvety flirtations, but simply to hear your voice after a grueling day. you’d sit cross-legged on your living room floor in the dark, the cord of the telephone stretched tight as he talked about his childhood, the early days in gary, indiana, and how much he missed the simple routine of just being a regular guy.

he stopped trying to take you to the flashy industry hotspots where the paparazzi loitered with heavy cameras. instead, he started showing up at your place unexpectedly, dressed down in a simple sweatshirt and jeans, carrying bags of your absolute favorite takeout or the specific late-night snacks rebbie had told him you loved.

one saturday afternoon, when your mother's car broke down on the side of the freeways of south la, it wasn't a mechanic who showed up to help—it was jackie.

he didn't send a helper or an assistant; he came himself, getting his hands dirty under the hood alongside your brother, completely unfazed by the lack of glamour. your family was stunned, but jackie just fit right in, refusing to let anyone treat him like the music royalty he was.

through these quiet, unscripted moments, you slowly began to see a side of him that the public never caught a glimpse of in the glossy pages of right on! or teen beat. beneath the blinding charisma of the oldest jackson brother, there was a profound, heavy exhaustion. during your secret late-night drives through the winding roads of the hollywood hills, where the city lights stretched out like a blanket of stars beneath you, he opened up about the suffocating pressure of the victory tour.

he spoke about the bitter family arguments behind the scenes, the constant legal battles, the overwhelming loneliness of sitting in identical hotel suites while thousands of people screamed your name outside a window you couldn't even open, and how utterly draining it was to be expected to be charming, perfect, and smiling every single second of your life.

for the first time in over a decade, somebody was looking at him and seeing sigmund. you liked the quiet, focused man who listened to your complaints about demanding wardrobe directors and difficult fabric suppliers. you liked the man who didn't need a stage to be interesting.

and for jackie, being liked for just being himself, rather than being "jackie jackson of the jacksons," was a drug he didn't know he was addicted to.

the slow burn of your romance was intoxicating. you’d occasionally visit him at the studio, catching glimpses of his world—the lingering, jealous looks from ex-girlfriends who still moved in the same industry circles, the persistent whispers of gossip columnists trying to figure out who the new woman in his life was, and the inevitable, well-meaning interference from the jackson family.

la toya would ask you subtle questions whenever you ran into her, and randy would tease jackie unmercifully about how he was suddenly a changed man, but jackie remained completely unshakable. he was learning how to court a woman who refused to be bought or impressed by fame, and it was changing him from the inside out.

just when the walls around your heart were finally tumbling down, the industry he belonged to reminded you exactly why you’d been so afraid in the first place.

you were at a styling warehouse in west hollywood, pulling clothes for an upcoming shoot, when you saw the morning tabloid sitting on a breakroom table.

the headline felt like a physical blow to the chest. right there, splashed across the front page, was a grainy but undeniably clear photograph of jackie leaving a luxury hotel in beverly hills in the early hours of the morning.

walking just a step behind him was a breathtakingly beautiful woman, her hair slightly messy, laughing at something he’d said. the captions practically wrote themselves, gleefully mocking his short-lived attempt at settling down and celebrating the return of hollywood’s favorite playboy.

humiliation, hot and sharp, washed over you. every single fear you’d harbored, every warning rebbie had ever dropped, and every defense mechanism you’d built up came roaring back to life. you felt like a complete fool for believing that a few months of quiet dates could erase years of ingrained behavior. you immediately packed your things, went straight home, and disconnected from his world.

when he tried to call, you refused to pick up the receiver. when he sent messages through rebbie, you told her to tell him to leave you alone. when he finally managed to catch you outside your apartment building, you looked him dead in the eye and told him everything he dreaded hearing: that you were right all along, that he was nothing but a player and a pretty face, and that you wanted nothing else to do with him.

but the truth was far more complicated than the cheap ink on the tabloid paper.

the woman in the photograph wasn't a secret lover; she was an influential european distribution executive connected to a massive international business meeting his management had forced him to attend. they had been negotiating foreign publishing rights in the hotel’s private conference suite until four in the morning, alongside a room full of lawyers who had conveniently been cropped out of the media's picture. but as jackie stood in his empty house, staring at the phone, a heavy, crushing realization settled over him.

his reputation had become so profoundly bad, so legendary throughout the years, that even when he was completely innocent, nobody would ever give him the benefit of the doubt. the world had decided who he was, and because of the ghost of his past, the only woman he actually cared about didn't believe a single word out of his mouth.

three weeks of agonizing silence went by. three weeks of him suffering, unable to sleep, unable to focus in the studio, completely miserable.

finally, he couldn't take it anymore. he didn't care about the three-month rule, the bet, or his pride. he drove over to your apartment in the middle of a heavy downpour, his tires splashing through the puddled streets of l.a., and knocked on your door until you finally unlocked it out of sheer exhaustion.

when you opened it, preparing to yell at him to leave, the words died in your throat.

there was no smooth charm left in him. no practiced, devastating smile. he didn't have flowers in his hands, he wasn't wearing an expensive suit, and he didn't try to use that velvety, comforting tone to manipulate your feelings. he was dripping wet, his hair damp, his eyes bloodshot and heavy with an exhausting vulnerability you had never seen on him before.

"just let me speak," he said, his voice rough, completely stripped of the superstar veneer. "you don't even have to say anything back. just listen to me."

you stepped back, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs as he walked into your small living room.

"i'm not here to tell you the papers are completely wrong about who i used to be," jackie said, his hands shaking slightly as he rubbed his face. "the truth is... i earned that reputation. i spent years giving people every reason not to trust me. i played the game, i ran around this city, and i took everything for granted because it was easy and because everyone let me get away with it. i’m not proud of it, but i did it."

he took a deep, shaky breath, step-closing the distance between you, though he didn't dare to reach out and touch you.

"but meeting you... really getting to know you these past few months... it made me want something completely different," he whispered, his eyes locked onto yours with a raw, terrifying honesty. "for the first time in my life, i don't want the crowds, i don't want the endless chasing, and i don't want the script. i just want you. i survived that tour, i survived the press, but i can't survive you looking at me like i'm just another lie."

he stood there in the quiet of your apartment, completely bare, offering you nothing but his flaws and his truth. he wasn't relying on his charisma to save him this time; he was trying to earn your trust from the absolute ground up. and as you looked at the man standing in front of you, the agonizing question hung heavily in the air between you: could you find the courage to trust the real man standing in your living room, or would the shadow of his past always matter more than the truth of his present?

the silence in the room stretched out, heavy and thick with the sound of the rain drumming against your window. jackie just stood there, his shoulders slightly tense, waiting for the blow he was certain was coming. he looked completely unraveled.

you looked down at his damp sneakers, then up to the raw anxiety written all over his face. the anger that had been keeping you warm for the last three weeks suddenly evaporated, leaving behind nothing but the quiet truth of how much you loved him—not the star on the hollywood walk of fame, but the man standing in your living room with rain in his hair.

you took a slow, deliberate step forward, closing the final bit of distance between you.

"jackie," you said softly, your voice breaking the quiet of the apartment.

his eyes locked onto yours, searching your face for any sign of a wall.

"i forgive you," you whispered.

you saw the exact moment the words hit him. his entire frame seemed to sag, a massive, involuntary breath escaping his chest as if he’d been holding it for three weeks straight. the hard, defensive line of his jaw softened completely.

"you do?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, sounding incredibly vulnerable.

"i do," you said, a small, genuine smile finally tugging at the corners of your lips. "i know who you used to be, and i know what the world expects from you. but i also know the man who fixed my mom's car and sits on my floor eating takeout at two in the morning. that's the man i'm choosing to believe. we're done with the bet, and we're done with the scripts."

before you could say anything else, jackie reached out, his large, warm hands coming up to gently cup your face. his thumbs traced your cheekbones, his touch trembling just a little bit. he let out a low, breathless laugh, his eyes shining as he looked down at you.

“come on, let’s get you comfortable,” he whispers. you sigh and let go, but michael doesn’t. his hand moves over your waist, pulling you close to him as he leans down and presses a kiss on your head. the two of you go over to the couch, he sits close to you, and moves his hand down to your knee. michael rubs your skin as he looks at you, waiting for you to speak, but you can’t. “oh, he broke my baby’s heart?” he asks genuinely, and you nod. michael nods and pulls you back into a hug, rubbing your back. “i got you, you don’t have to worry about anything anymore. i’m here, sweet girl.”

your heart breaks at his voice. michael had been the one thing you’ve been searching for, and he knows. his lips move back to your head, kissing it, then to your forehead. your skin feels warm at his touch, and you know you’re safe, because he’s made many promises over the years to keep you safe, and what’s one more added? “what happened exactly?” michael questions and cups your face, his thumbs brushing your cheek back and forth, your pouty lips breaking him down. if you asked him to get on his knees for you, he would do it in seconds.

“we uh, we started talking, and i mean, i’ve been getting into lots of arguments with him recently. we haven’t been seeing eye to eye, and i don’t know, i think i just got so tired of it that i left. sorry for dropping on you like this.” michael nods, his thumb moves over to your bottom lip, rubbing your lip gloss in, his eyes staying at your lips, then back to your eyes. “argued about what?” you shake your head, not wanting to embarrass yourself any further by telling michael he’s the topic of all the arguments. michael nods and sighs, pulling you closer into him, so close, you could sit on his lap.

“well, you’re here now, and i got you taken care of. you don’t have to stress that pretty mind of yours, okay?” michael whispers, and you nod. “thank you, mike.” you whisper back. his heart breaks at your sadness. still, he also finds peace in you looking for comfort in him. “stand for me, baby.” he mumbles. you look at him, confused by what he says. michael then lies flatly on the couch, his feet pressed against the arm of the couch. his big hands pat on his stomach, before he stretches his hand out to you.

you take it and lie down on top of michael, shivering at the way his arms wrap around you. michael leans forward to kiss your head again while your cheek pressed against his chest. his hands rub your back again, lulling your pain into peace. “i’m here, baby, always have always will be.” michael states, his voice sounding like a song meant only for you.

you stare at the different statues in his house, as you attempt to take your mind off your ex. michael is the one thing you search for in everything, and even up to now, needing his touch in more ways than one.