jaafar jackson’s muse

“I didn’t hurt you too much, did I?” Michael asks softly, his fingers lazily tracing circles on the small of your back. Warmth floods your chest at his concern; you can’t help but hold him a little tighter.

"No… no,” you reassured him, adjusting your position to look at him properly. He was already looking down at you, his doe eyes gazing into yours with such warmth. “You were perfect.”

Michael hummed.

Neither of you spoke after this; the only thing that could be heard was the rhythmic tapping of the rain outside and Michael occasionally peppering kisses on your neck. Sure, the tension was gone, but the smell of sweat and passion still lingered in the air. For a while, you thought things were going to be left unsaid, until—

“What is this?”

“What do you mean?” You ask, feigning confusion. You readjusted your position to sit up, gently pulling the blanket over your breasts.

“C’mom,” He mummers. 

“Well, um,” you stammered out, scooting back towards Michael’s headboard—the cold cedar wood now touching your back.  “What do you want this to be?”

“Look,” he scoots back against the headboard to join you. “I really like you.” He reveals, as if it’s been a secret this whole time. “I-I completely understand if you don’t feel the same—with me about to be on tour and all. I just.. I don’t know, I couldn’t just leave without telling you how I felt.”

“God, Michael,” you say finally, releasing the breath you didn’t even know that you were holding. You scooted closer to him, gently placing your hand on his cheek. “I’ve quite literally been in love with you for years. I’m pretty sure everyone has noticed but you.”

Michael blinked at your confession, but his disbelief soon turned into laughter. He dragged his hand down his face before looking at you, a soft smile forming on his lips. “What exactly have we been doing this whole time?”

“I don’t know,” you giggled, running your fingers through his soft curls. “I just can’t believe it took this,” you say, gesturing between the both of you. “For us to say something.”

Michael’s smile had only gotten wider by the second. Rather than speaking, he gently pulled you in, his soft lips finally connecting with yours. You immediately reciprocated, running your fingers deeper through his curls—earning a soft whimper from him. Before things could escalate further, Michael pulls away, his brown eyes gazing into yours.

“Come on tour with me.”

“What?” You blinked, moving away a strand of hair from your face.

“Come on tour with me,” he repeats. “I want you there—only if you want to, of course. I don’t want to force you.”

“What about Joesph?”

“I’ll talk to him,” he says immediately, his thumb caressing your cheek. “Just—come with me. Please.”

You searched Michael’s eyes to find any reluctance, but you didn’t see any. He actually wanted you there. He wanted you there with him. Finally, your concern turned into a soft smile—placing a quick, but affectionate kiss on his lips. 

“I’d love to go on tour with you, Michael.“

1984 malibu

You're a very private person.

Not because you have anything to hide, you don't, but because you've learned how to move in the industry. You learned decades ago that Hollywood had a way of devouring people who gave too much of themselves away too freely, and smiled while it did it, too—applauded you while stripping pieces off of you one by one until there was barely anything left that actually belonged to you anymore.

So you became careful.

You learned how to build walls that didn't look like walls from the outside. You learned how to smile during interviews without revealing anything real. How to answer questions while still keeping the important parts of yourself tucked safely out of reach. You understood exactly which pieces of yourself belonged to the public and which ones deserved protection.

Your name is big in Hollywood for several reasons. You're an A-list actress, technically, but you don't take many roles. You're very particular and specific about the roles you do take, and every script you've ever taken has been a box office hit, and you've won Best Lead Actress every time. But the part that makes you a private person?

If you're not actively filming anything, you completely disappear from the spotlight until your next role, and sometimes that's months to years at a time, and that's what draws everyone to you. If you're ever spotted in the media, then people know that a new movie is coming from you soon, because if not, nobody sees or hears from you.

The mystery surrounding you had become almost mythological at this point. Gossip magazines speculated endlessly whenever your name resurfaced after long absences. Studios practically fought each other to get scripts into your hands because your choosing a project almost guaranteed a box-office success. Directors called you brilliant. Critics called you elusive. Fans called you untouchable.

The truth was much simpler: you were tired of being consumed.

In your teens and twenties, people in this industry had mistaken your silence for compliance. They pushed boundaries you didn't know how to defend yet. Long filming hours. Executives who thought they owned every actress they made successful. Men who smiled too comfortably while cornering you at parties. Producers who wanted vulnerability from you onscreen and off. By the time you reached your thirties, you had finally learned that survival in Hollywood depended on learning how to disappear before it could swallow you whole.

At 38 years old, you've gotten really good at protecting your peace.

That's why nobody knew you were currently on your way to meet Michael Jackson for a private dinner.

The black car glides smoothly down the Malibu coastline, the ocean stretching endlessly beside you beneath the dark sky. Moonlight dances across the water in silver ribbons, soft and restless, while the low hum of the engine fills the otherwise quiet ride. You sit back against the leather seat, one hand resting against your jaw as you stare out the window, feeling something unfamiliar curling low in your chest: anticipation.

You haven't seen him in months. That realization alone settles heavily against your ribs because there are very few people in this world whose absence you genuinely feel when they're gone.

Michael is one of them.

You've been seeing each other for a while, since 1981, after you met at the Oscars. You were nominated for Best Actress in a Lead Role, and Michael had come to the ceremony with Brooke Shields.

But he ended up leaving with you, which she was not happy about.

You can still remember the way he looked that night: young, beautiful, and nervous in a way that somehow made him stand out even in a room full of celebrities trying desperately to be noticed. He'd been quieter than everyone else around him, observant in a way most people weren't anymore. While everyone else worked the room strategically, Michael had seemed almost detached from it, like part of him was somewhere else entirely.

You remember thinking he looked lonely. Not physically lonely. Michael Jackson could walk into any room on earth and immediately be surrounded by people, but he looked emotionally lonely. He smiled and was polite, but you noticed his smiles never quite reached his eyes. 

At first, you were hesitant to form any relationship with someone who was 13 years your junior, but Michael was sweet, sensible, and had a good head on his shoulders, and he never treated your age gap like it was a problem, so you never did either. What started as a simple companionship: phone calls, spending time together whenever you both had time in your schedule, had bloomed into something more intimate over the course of three years.

It happened so gradually that neither of you noticed it at first.

One dinner became another. Phone calls that started as occasional turned into hours-long conversations that stretched past midnight. Sometimes he'd call from the studio while music played softly in the background and talk to you while he worked through lyrics. Sometimes you'd call him from location while filming overseas, exhausted and emotionally wrung out from production, and he'd stay on the line with you until you fell asleep with the phone still against your ear.

There was something dangerously easy about being with him. There was no performance or pretending in it. 

You never had to explain the exhaustion fame created because he already understood it intimately. Michael lived inside a level of scrutiny you wouldn't wish on anyone, and yet somehow he still remained soft in ways the industry had long ago beaten out of most people.

Especially you.

You two hadn't officially defined your relationship, but you knew that you were the only woman Michael was seeing and vice versa. Keeping the relationship private had been agreed on by both of you. Michael's fame was exploding; you were watching it with your own eyes after the release of Thriller. You had attended the Grammys earlier this year, he won 8 in the same night for Thriller, making history as the first solo artist to ever do that.

You can still see him standing under those stage lights, holding Grammy after Grammy in his hands while the audience practically vibrated with excitement around him. The room worshipped him that night. Every camera followed him. Every executive wanted to touch him, speak to him, stand beside him long enough to feel connected to history.

And through all of it, he kept searching for you in the crowd. You noticed it every single time. The quick flick of his eyes across the room until they landed on you. The subtle shift in his expression afterward. Tiny moments nobody else would notice unless they were looking for them.

You two arrived and left separately, but you ended up at his hotel room that night.

You remember the exhaustion on his face when he opened the door for you, not unhappiness, not even stress exactly... just depletion.  His gold and blue jacket had already been discarded somewhere inside the suite, tie loosened unevenly around his throat, curls slightly damp around his forehead. The second the hotel room door shut behind you, the version of Michael that the world consumed all night disappeared completely.

He had been through a lot. The incident with Pepsi had just happened a month prior to the Grammys, and he had to hold himself together, but you saw how deeply the exhaustion was in his bones.

He had crossed the room immediately after locking the door, arms wrapping around you so tightly it almost startled you at first. You still remember the feeling of his face pressing briefly into the side of your neck as he exhaled shakily against your skin, like he had finally allowed himself to breathe for the first time all evening.

Neither of you spoke for a while after that; you didn't need to. You held him all night, because that was what he needed. He needed somewhere for the tension to melt; he needed to feel at peace, and you gave that to him. 

Both of your security teams always worked hard to secure your meet-ups and make sure there would be no press or fans around, just the way the two of you liked it. Michael enjoyed that he had someone safe to come back to after giving so much of himself to the world, but he always kept the softest parts of himself reserved for only you to have.

You understood the privilege of that better than he realized.

The world saw Michael Jackson constantly: in interviews, during performances, at award shows, and on magazine covers. But very few people got the version of him that existed underneath all of that. The quiet one. The overthinking one. The one who became shy after particularly overwhelming public appearances. The one who needed reassurance more often than people realized.

The one who trusted you enough to stop performing.

You were excited to see him because it had been several months since the last time you did. After the Grammys, he was thrown into rehearsal because he was going on tour with his brothers... a tour that he spoke to you extensively about on how he didn't want to do it, not because he didn't love his brothers, but because he knew it was his father's attempt to keep him under his control.

You hated the resignation you heard in his voice whenever he talked about it.

Michael rarely spoke harshly about his father, even in private. Years of conditioning sat too deeply inside him for that. But you knew him well enough now to hear the tension underneath his careful words. The exhaustion and quiet frustration.

He wanted freedom so badly sometimes, and yet guilt still wrapped itself around everything he did for himself.

You also hated that Michael was touring so soon after what happened with the Pepsi commercial. You still remember the day Michael called you from the hospital, in the midst of all the chaos and pain, he had said he needed to hear your voice to steady him, and the two of you stayed on the phone for hours.

You had been sitting in your kitchen when the phone rang, and the second you heard his voice, your entire body went cold.

He sounded disoriented, tired, and painfully fragile beneath the medication and the shock. Behind him, you could hear hospital noise bleeding faintly through the line, distant voices, movement, machines, but Michael's breathing was what stayed with you most.

"You okay?" you asked immediately, already knowing he wasn't. A long silence followed as Michael thought about how he wanted to answer the question.

Then quietly, almost embarrassingly vulnerable, he said, "I just needed to hear your voice." Your chest had physically ached hearing that, and you stayed on the phone with him for hours.

You talked about everything except the accident at first because you could feel how overwhelmed he already was. You told him about your favorite moments on set from previous movies. He asked what the ocean looked like outside your house that day. At one point, he started laughing softly because you were complaining about a director you had hated working with three years ago. The sound had been weak, but real.

Little by little, his breathing steadied, and little by little, the panic left his voice. By the end of the call, exhaustion had finally started pulling him under.

"Thank you," he whispered quietly through the receiver.

The words had settled heavily inside your chest because nobody had ever taught Michael that simply needing comfort wasn't something he had to apologize for.

You're pulled out of your thoughts when your driver stops the car, and you look over and see a second car with the same tinted windows next to you, and you smile softly to yourself before you can stop it. Even after three years, there's still something about seeing the arrangements perfectly in place for the two of you that settles warmly in your chest. 

Bill, Michael's head of security, and Andre, your head of security, had planned the travel arrangements carefully as always, making sure neither of you would have to deal with cameras or curious eyes tonight. Your driver lets you out of the car, the cool Malibu night air brushing against the bare skin exposed by your dress, and then he opens the door to the second car, and when you slide into the backseat, there he is.

Michael is sitting there in his aviator-style sunglasses, long legs spread slightly beneath the dark jeans clinging to his thighs, the gold detailing on his jacket catching faintly beneath the dim lighting inside the car, and you take a moment to really look at him, slowly dragging your eyes over him in a way that immediately makes warmth bloom across his skin even before you touch him. 

He always looks so handsome, from the first time you saw him, but there's something especially devastating about him tonight. Maybe it's the exhaustion sitting quietly underneath his posture. Maybe it's the way he visibly softens the second he sees you step into the car. A slow smile spreads across his face when he looks over and sees you, small at first before it widens into something warmer, more genuine, the kind of smile he saves for private moments.

"Hi, mama," he greets you the way he always does, his voice low and immediately affectionate, making a rush of warmth flood through your body so quickly it almost aches.

"Hi, Michael... why are you so far away?" You say teasingly, your voice soft and knowing. He's really not that far, but you know your words will make him move, know he'll come to you the second you ask him to, and he does. Immediately, like instinct.

He closes the distance between the two of you without hesitation, his body turning toward yours completely the second you open that space for him, and his hands are on you almost instantly, greedy in the gentlest way possible after months without touching you. 

His gaze drifts slowly over your dress, over the deep red fabric hugging your body, the slit exposing the smooth skin of your thigh beneath the dim light, and you actually watch the moment his breathing changes. His hand settles there instinctively, warm and heavy against your skin, before he squeezes your thigh slowly, almost like he needs to reassure himself you're really here.

The warmth of his hand spreads through you like wildfire.

"You look perfect," Michael says, and there's something unbearably sincere about the way he says it, like the words leave him before he can even think to hold them back, before he leans in and captures your lips with his. After months of not being able to do this, you melt into him instantly. There's no hesitation anywhere in his body once you kiss him back. 

The warm palm of his hand rubs slowly over your thigh while your hands cup his cheeks, your thumbs brushing carefully alongside the smoothness of his jaw, and Michael practically melts underneath your touch. You feel the tension leaving his shoulders, the soft sound he exhales against your lips, the way he leans deeper into your hands like he's been craving this exact kind of tenderness for months.

His tongue licks between the seam of your lips, patient but needy underneath it, and you part for him.

Instinctively, your legs part a little for him as well, your dress shifting higher against your thigh while his hand slowly follows the movement, fingertips gliding over your skin beneath the fabric with growing confidence now that he has you close again. 

Michael breaks the kiss, leaving you breathless, but he doesn't go far. His lips immediately attach to the soft skin of your neck instead, and while his head is buried in the nape of your neck, he takes a deep inhale, closing his eyes like your scent alone is enough to calm something restless inside him.

"God, I missed you, mama," he mumbles against your skin before lightly sucking on your neck, and the sound of his voice like that: soft, needy, completely unguarded, makes heat curl low in your stomach. 

Your eyes close as you lean your head back against the seat, a soft moan escaping from your lips, aware that you're not alone in the car, but at least the partition is up. Michael's hand squeezes your thigh again, harder this time, and your body shudders underneath his touch.

He had so much pent up inside of him: stress, adrenaline, exhaustion, and for months, he's felt like he hasn't had a place to put it. Out there, he has to hold everything together constantly. Perform, smile, and endure. But here, with you, his body gives in so easily that it almost breaks your heart a little. 

Your hand finds his hair, running your fingers gently through his curls while his lips continue moving across your skin, and Michael actually lets out the quietest sound against your throat at the feeling of your fingers in his hair. You're careful of his scalp, keeping your fingers towards the bottom of his head because you don't want to irritate it after the burns from the Pepsi accident, and even that small act of care makes him lean further into you.

Michael lifts his head eventually, flushed and breathing a little heavier now, and your hand falls naturally to his shoulder while you lean toward his ear.

"Take those glasses off, honey, let me see you," you murmur, your lips brushing gently against the soft skin at the base of his ear before you press a kiss there, and you feel his entire body shudder underneath your touch. Michael always has those sunglasses on, whether he's outside or inside, especially with other people around. They're armor at this point. A barrier between himself and everyone, constantly trying to look too closely at him.

But you're the only one who can get him to take them off. There's no hesitation in him when you ask.

When you pull back and lean against your seat again, you watch as Michael lifts his hands and slowly takes his sunglasses off, obedient in the softest, most trusting way, like giving you access to his eyes is as intimate to him as anything else. His eyes are big, pupils blown wide and filled with warmth and desire, and something even softer underneath it all. Relief, maybe. Safety.

"There he is, look at you," you murmur against him, your voice affectionate enough to make his breath catch while you press gentle kisses against his jaw. You feel the immediate warmth spreading beneath his skin from your praise, his cheeks flushing softly while his eyes stay fixed on you with complete openness now that the glasses are gone, all that guardedness stripped away so easily beneath your hands.

"Mama..." he murmurs under his breath, the word coming out softer this time, almost embarrassed by how easily your praise affects him, and you can't help the smile that spreads across your lips as you pull away just enough to look at him properly.

"Don't get shy on me now, pretty," you say, your thumb brushing lightly along his jaw, and the effect is immediate.

Michael flushes deeper.

The warmth rises visibly across his cheeks and down his neck before he ducks his head again, unable to hold your gaze for very long once you start talking to him like that. He buries his face back into the nape of your neck almost instinctively, pressing slow kisses there as though hiding against your skin somehow makes the embarrassment easier to bear. 

You love how shy he gets whenever you compliment him or praise him. For someone the entire world worships, Michael still reacts to tenderness like he doesn't fully know what to do with it, like some part of him still can't quite believe he's allowed to be wanted gently.

The car comes to a stop as you reach your destination, and Bill knocks once on the partition. He wasn't oblivious to what was happening, no matter how quiet you and Michael were trying to be.

Michael lifts his head reluctantly from your neck, lips lingering against your skin for one last second before he pulls back, and you run your fingers lightly through his hair to fix where you had messed it up while his lips were on you. His eyes stay on your face the entire time you smooth his curls back into place, soft and heavy-lidded underneath your attention. 

He removes his hand from your thigh and rearranges your dress carefully, fingertips smoothing the fabric back down over your skin with the same quiet attentiveness he gives you in every private moment. Then he leans in and gives you another kiss, slower this time despite the lack of privacy, like he can't quite help stealing one more before the night officially begins.

You easily reciprocate, your fingers brushing lightly against the side of his neck while his hand cups your jaw. The kiss is quicker than either of you wants it to be, but Michael knows you'll have plenty of time for it later.

He pulls away first, though he looks reluctant to do even that, and then puts his glasses back on before exiting the car. The second he steps outside, you can visibly watch the shift happen again, shoulders straightening slightly, expression becoming more guarded underneath the tinted lenses. Not fake, just protected.

He comes around to your side and opens the door for you, holding his hand out to help you out, which you take and let him pull you out of the car. His hand lingers around yours for an extra moment once you're standing, thumb brushing once against your knuckles, before Bill escorts you and Michael inside through the back private entrance.

The restaurant is a nice one tucked in a corner, intimate and dimly lit, and the curtains are all drawn. From the outside, it appears to be closed, but when the two of you walk inside, you're greeted by a full staff.

They're starstruck.

You can feel it immediately in the sudden silence that briefly settles over the room before everyone remembers themselves. You hadn't been seen publicly, technically, since the 1984 Grammys, but before that, you hadn't been seen since the 1982 Oscars, where you won Best Actress in a Lead Role for your movie On Golden Pond with Henry and Jane Fonda. 

Michael's fame had exploded into something almost untouchable this past year, and your own reclusiveness had only deepened the intrigue surrounding you, so the two of you walking into a restaurant together probably felt surreal to the staff standing there staring.

The staff had been well compensated for closing their restaurant early and signing NDAs so that your private dinner doesn't make its way into the press, or they would be hit with hefty lawsuits from both of your teams.

Your server leads you both to a private table in the back, like Michael requested, tucked far enough away that the rest of the restaurant practically disappears around you, and there are already waters and a bottle of wine set up for you. Michael thanks the server softly before pulling your chair out for you, one hand resting lightly against the back of it while you sit down, and once you're both settled, he starts to fill your wine glasses.

You smile when Michael hands yours to you, fingertips brushing his briefly as you take it, and when you take a sip, you close your eyes, letting it wash over you. The wine is smooth and warm, settling pleasantly in your chest after the tension of the drive and the overwhelming anticipation of finally seeing him again.

Michael smiles as he watches you, completely distracted by the sight of you relaxing little by little across from him. The way your shoulders loosen. The way your lips part slightly around the rim of the glass before you swallow. His eyes drift to your throat as you do, and he bites down on his lip unconsciously while watching you, looking almost dazed by the simple intimacy of being here with you again.

When you open your eyes again and see him looking at you, you smile wider. "How's the tour going, honey?" you ask him, and the shift in him is immediate.

His shoulders slump slightly, exhaustion surfacing through the cracks almost the second the question leaves your mouth, and he lets out a long sigh as he leans back in his chair.

"We have a short break right now, but I have to go to Toronto soon... the first leg of the tour ends in December, and after that, I'm done," Michael says as he shakes his head, and there's a firmness underneath the exhaustion this time that catches your attention immediately.

"Is Joseph intending for there to be a second leg?" you ask.

"Of course he is," Michael says, a bitter edge slipping into his voice before he reins it back in almost immediately, like he feels guilty for even sounding frustrated.

"And have you told him you're not doing it?" You ask, and you get his answer when he remains silent.

His eyes drop to his glass instead, fingers slowly swirling the wine around inside it more than actually drinking it. The movement is absent-minded and nervous.

"Michael... look at me," you say softly, your voice quiet enough that it immediately pulls his attention back to you.

He slowly lifts his head, his eyes meeting yours. He took off the sunglasses as soon as you two sat down, and without them, there's nowhere for him to hide now. You can see everything in his expression too clearly: the exhaustion, the frustration, the hesitation underneath it all.

"It's hard," he says quietly, and the vulnerability in those two words alone makes your chest tighten.

"I know, honey... but take Joseph out of it, what do you want?" you ask him. Michael straightens up a little as his answer comes instantly, like it's been sitting inside him for years waiting for someone to ask the question that way.

"My freedom... to create music when I want, to tour when I want, to do things on my own terms without any interference from him," Michael says, and hearing him say it out loud makes something flicker across his face, longing mixed with guilt, like wanting those things still feels selfish somewhere deep inside him.

You nod slowly. You reach your hand across the table, and Michael places his in yours immediately, his larger hand folding around yours with almost visible relief before gently squeezing it.

"You know what's best for you, Michael... and you have every right to manage your own career," you say, your voice gentle but firm in the way his never quite is when it comes to himself, and Michael takes a deep breath, letting your words settle somewhere deep inside him. You can see him trying to hold onto them, trying to believe them fully. 

But you also understand why it's easier said than done. Michael has opened up to you about how Joseph treated him and his brothers as children... it was one of the reasons the two of you connected, both child stars who grew up with an abusive parent, both learning far too young that love could become tangled up with fear and control until it became difficult to separate one from the other.

"I know... but I don't know how to do that, baby... not with him," he says quietly, and the honesty in his voice makes your chest ache a little because for all the power Michael holds everywhere else in the world, this is the place where he still sounds painfully young sometimes.

You frown softly, your thumb brushing across the back of his hand where it rests in yours. "Would it help if I were there with you when you talk to him?" you ask.

Michael's eyes widen immediately, surprise flickering across his face so openly that it almost catches you off guard, and then they soften in that way they always do when he feels cared for too deeply. Especially since you haven't met any of his family at all, but you're willing to stand by his side just so he can stand up for himself against Joseph.

"You'd do that for me?" he asks, his voice quieter now, almost tentative, like he still can't quite understand why someone would willingly stand beside him through something difficult instead of asking him to handle it alone.

You squeeze his hand gently.

"Of course I would... I'm not scared of Joseph," you say with a shrug, and that finally earns a real smile out of him, small at first before it slowly spreads wider across his face. You can physically watch some of the tension loosen from his shoulders at your answer, his body relaxing little by little while the servers bring your food out.

It was a set menu, so you didn't have to order. Michael just wanted to be able to spoil you without you thinking about anything, wanted tonight to feel effortless for you, the same way your presence always somehow made things feel easier for him.

"You don't know how much I need these nights... away from everything, with you," Michael says as he shakes his head, and there's exhaustion underneath the words that no amount of fame or success has ever managed to erase.

You do know, though, because he tells you every single time. Every time he sees you after weeks or months apart, his entire body softens like he's finally putting down something unbearably heavy for a while.

"Everyone always wants something from me... always wants to take pieces from me... but you..." Michael trails off as he looks at you, his eyes lingering on your face with that same open softness he only allows himself around you.

"I just want you," you say simply.

The words hit him instantly.

Michael smiles, slow and shy and visibly affected by something so simple, biting down on his lip as he lowers his gaze toward his plate again, like he suddenly needs a second to compose himself. You watch the faint flush spreading across his cheeks while he takes another bite of food, and there's something deeply tender about the way praise and affection still unravel him so easily despite the fact that millions of people scream his name every night.

"How'd you do it?" Michael asks after a moment of eating together in comfortable silence. You finish chewing the food you had just put in your mouth, tilting your head slightly at him.

"Do what?" you ask.

"Get away from your Dad... after everything he did?" Michael asks, and the question is careful, quieter than his other words tonight. Like he's asking for more than advice. You take a slow breath before lifting your wine glass, letting the warmth of it settle over your tongue for a second.

"I was terrified... but I had told him that now that I was an adult, I didn't have to put up with his crap anymore, and if he ever put a hand on me again, I'd press charges for assault. He didn't believe me, so I told him to hit me and find out for himself," you say, and Michael's eyes widen immediately.

"Baby, you told him to hit you?" he asks, sounding halfway horrified and halfway impressed. You laugh softly, though there's very little humor in the memory itself.

"It scared me shitless because there was a chance he would've... but I had held myself together enough that he knew I was serious, and he knew with my fame, the police would take my side immediately, wouldn't matter that I told him to do it, so he did nothing, and I left... I haven't spoken to him since," you say.

Michael nods slowly, taking another deep breath while his fingers tighten unconsciously around the stem of his wine glass. "And you're okay with that?" he asks.

You nod gently. "I am... but I know it's different for you. I know it's more complicated than that," you say softly, because you do understand. Michael's love for his family runs painfully deep, even where the hurt lives. He doesn't know how to separate himself from them without feeling like he's betraying something inside himself.

Michael sighs again, quieter this time. Sometimes he wishes it could be that simple, to just cut Joseph out and be done with it, but in his heart, Michael knows he could never.

You see the tension slowly creeping back into his shoulders again, the heaviness settling over him little by little, and you immediately reach across the table to take his hand before he can disappear too far into his own thoughts.

"Let's not worry about it tonight, honey... tonight's about us, right?" you say, your thumb stroking slowly across his knuckles. Michael looks up at you immediately, and just like that, another soft smile finds its way onto his face again.

"Yeah, it is... I've missed you so much," Michael says, and hearing it still sends warmth blooming through you every single time.

"I've missed you, too," you say honestly, and Michael's smile widens in a way that makes him look younger for a moment, softer and lighter than he did only minutes ago.

The rest of dinner passes with smiles, easy conversation, and occasional physical contact across the table, the two of you naturally drifting toward each other over and over without thinking about it. Sometimes your fingers brush against his wrist while reaching for your wine glass. Sometimes Michael's hand lingers against yours longer than necessary when passing something across the table. And every now and then, you slowly rub your foot along his legs and thighs underneath the tablecloth just to watch the reaction it pulls from him.

Every single time, Michael looks up at you through his lashes, his dark eyes immediately deepening with desire while his lips part slightly around a quiet breath, his body responding to you so instinctively that it almost feels unfair. There's never any resistance in him when it comes to you touching him like that. 

If anything, he leans into it harder, attention visibly unraveling from whatever conversation he'd been trying to focus on moments earlier, completely distracted now by the slow teasing pressure of your foot against his thigh and the knowing look in your eyes while you sip your wine like you aren't affecting him at all.

When you finish your food, Michael asks you if you'd like to take a walk. The area you're in is secluded; there weren't many people around when you arrived, and it still looks empty now, the streets quiet and dim beneath the warm glow of streetlights. Bill stayed nearby as you and Michael walked, never intrusive but close enough that both of your teams would feel comfortable. 

You had your arm looped through his, and he had taken off his jacket and put it on you despite the fact that the night wasn't particularly cold. The sleeves swallowed your hands slightly, and every now and then the faint scent of his cologne drifted up from the fabric, warm and familiar enough to make your chest ache a little.

Michael kept close to you while the two of you walked, his hand resting lightly over yours where it hooked through his arm, thumb brushing against your skin absentmindedly whenever the conversation lulled.

"Will I be seeing you in any movies soon?" he asks, turning his head slightly toward you, and you laugh softly as you shake your head.

"No... I haven't really gotten a script that's stood out to me, yet, you know? And I don't like taking roles just to say I have one... I really have to feel it. When I'm reading the script and getting to know the characters and story, if it doesn't make me feel something, I know it probably won't be worth it," you say, and Michael nods immediately, understanding settling across his face before you even finish speaking because he knows exactly what you mean.

"That's how I feel when picking songs for my albums... I want everyone to feel what I feel when I make the songs when they listen to them, so if I don't feel anything... I know they won't," Michael says, his voice quieter now, thoughtful in that way it always becomes whenever he talks about music.

You nod softly. It was easy being with someone who got it; that was another reason why you and Michael enjoyed spending time together. Neither of you had to explain what it felt like to create something personal and then hand it over to the world afterward. Neither of you had to explain the exhaustion that came with people constantly consuming pieces of you while still expecting more.

"Your music definitely does that... you can feel how much of yourself you pour into it. You have real magic, Michael," you say honestly, and the reaction is immediate.

He starts blushing again.

Even after all this time, praise still affects him like that, softening him visibly in front of you. Michael ducks his head with a quiet laugh, looking down at the sidewalk while he shakes his head shyly, curls falling slightly into his face beneath the streetlights.

"Don't hide your beautiful face from me, Michael," you say gently, and Michael chuckles under his breath, shyly biting down on his lip as he finally looks at you again.

There it is, that softness and open, vulnerable look he gives you whenever you say something that gets underneath his skin a little too deeply.

"Why do you do that?" he asks, sounding genuinely curious beneath the embarrassment.

"Praise you?" You ask, and he nods.

"Because it's clear you're not used to it, and you should be used to it. You deserve it," you say, watching the way his entire expression shifts at the words, his eyes softening while his grip tightens slightly over your arm like he's grounding himself through the contact.

Then you gently pull his head down so you can lean toward his ear, close enough that your lips brush softly against his skin when you speak. "And because I love the way you react to me when I do," you say quietly.

Michael laughs instantly, warm and breathless and embarrassed all at once, gently squeezing your arm while his head dips again. "You're so bad, mama," he says, and you both laugh together as you lean your head against his shoulder.

He melts into moments like this so easily. The teasing, affection, and quiet praise. Every time you touch him or speak to him gently, it's like watching him slowly unclench piece by piece beneath your hands.

"Would you like to come back to my condo?" You ask, lifting your head to look at him, and Michael looks down at you with an immediate smile, surprised but visibly pleased by the invitation.

Usually, when the two of you would be able to meet, you would end your night at Michael's hotel suite, but tonight you wanted him to really relax, and he hadn't seen your place yet.

"Really?" he asks, and there's something almost boyish in the way he says it, eyes widening slightly behind the softness already lingering there.

You nod. "Unless you have somewhere to be," You say teasingly, and Michael laughs while shaking his head immediately.

"Only with you," Michael says, the answer leaving him so quickly and honestly that warmth spreads through you before you can stop it.

The two of you finish your walk slowly after that, lingering close together beneath the quiet Malibu night while Michael absentmindedly rubs his thumb along your arm through the sleeve of his jacket the entire way back. When you finally reach the car again, Bill is already waiting nearby.

Michael walks you back to the car carefully, his hand resting low against your back while he opens the door for you first and waits until you're settled before sliding in beside you. Once you're both inside and settled, you give Bill your address, and Michael asks him to roll up the partition, which he does without hesitation.

The second the divider closes, shutting the two of you back into privacy again, Michael visibly relaxes beside you with a quiet exhale, turning toward you almost immediately, like his body naturally gravitates back toward yours the second nobody else can see him anymore.

You lift your hands to Michael's face, your fingers brushing carefully along the frames before taking off his sunglasses, and the second they're gone, his entire expression softens in that familiar way it only ever does around you. His eyes flicker toward yours briefly before dropping again almost immediately, lashes lowering while he bites down lightly on his lip.

"Why do you hide your beautiful eyes?" you ask softly.

Michael looks down for a moment longer, shoulders shifting slightly beneath your touch while he thinks about how to answer, and you can already feel the vulnerability settling over him now that the glasses are gone. They were never really about fashion with him. They were armor. Distance. A barrier between himself and everyone, constantly trying to look too closely.

"Look at me, Michael," you say gently, your fingers sliding along his jaw.

He slowly lifts his head.

There's no resistance in it. There never really is when it comes to you. It's one of the things that quietly undoes you about him sometimes, the way he gives himself over to your gentleness so instinctively, like some exhausted part of him has finally found somewhere safe enough to stop guarding itself all the time.

"I believe when you look into someone's eyes, you can see into their souls... and I don't want anyone to see mine. I don't want anyone to feel the way my soul feels... no one deserves that," Michael says quietly.

The words settle heavily between you.

You frown softly, your thumb stroking slowly along his jaw while you look directly into his eyes, and you do see it. Beneath the warmth. Beneath the softness. There's sadness there that never fully leaves him, lingering deep in the brown of his eyes like something old and permanent. Hurt layered carefully over years and years until it became part of him.

And somehow, despite all of it, he still remained gentle. That's the part that gets you every time. Your expression softens almost painfully as you look at him.

You lean in and kiss him, slowly, deeply, wanting him to feel what you can't say with words. That you see him, and you want him anyway. That none of the sadness inside him scares you. You wished you could take some of the weight off his soul and carry it yourself, wished you could protect the softer parts of him the way nobody protected either of you when you were young and the industry first got its hands on you. You know how the industry can swallow someone up, especially when they aren't properly protected.

Michael melts into you instantly.

The second your lips touch his, he gives in completely, moving closer until he's practically between your legs now, drawn toward you like he can't help himself. His hands trail slowly down your dress, fingertips gliding over the fabric before pushing the hem higher against your thighs, exposing more warm skin beneath his touch, and your breath hitches softly against his mouth. There's desperation underneath the tenderness now, months of missing you surfacing little by little through the way he touches you.

Your hands move to his shirt, the rhinestones rough and bumpy underneath your fingertips while you slowly trail them toward the buttons, and Michael actually shivers slightly beneath your hands at the feeling of you touching him like this, attentive and unhurried.

You break the kiss slowly, both of you breathing a little heavier now, and Michael's eyes flutter open as he looks at you: completely open and vulnerable.

"I see you, Michael... and I love what I see," you say softly. The words hit him so hard that you can physically see it happen.

His expression nearly breaks.

For a split second, all that emotion flickers nakedly across his face: longing, disbelief, and a tenderness so overwhelming it almost looks painful, but he manages to hold himself together just enough before he kisses you again, harder this time, more desperate underneath the softness while his hand squeezes your thigh tightly beneath your dress like he needs something solid to hold onto while you unravel him piece by piece.

Your mouth immediately parts for him as he slides his tongue inside, deepening your kiss without hesitation, and the soft sound he makes against your lips when you let him in sends warmth curling through your entire body. As Michael just explained, he doesn't want anyone to see into his soul, but with you, he doesn't have that fear. 

He likes being seen by you because you see past it all. You see past the pieces of himself he gives to the world, past the performer and the fame and the pressure constantly sitting on his shoulders. You've always just seen Michael, and every time you touch him like this, every time you look at him with that softness instead of expectation, he melts a little more underneath your hands.

You put your hand on top of Michael's, guiding it further up your thigh, and your legs part more for him immediately. He settles himself more firmly between them with a quiet breath against your mouth, his body fitting naturally against yours while his hand glides slowly over the fabric of your panties, feeling the warmth and dampness already waiting for him there. A soft moan escapes you, instantly swallowed by his kiss, and the sound alone makes Michael shudder slightly against you before his fingers begin moving gently over you through the fabric, slow and attentive, like he's savoring every reaction he pulls from your body.

Your body melts into him the way it always does, instinctive and immediate, and when Michael finally breaks the kiss, another breathless sound slips from your lips before you can stop it.

"I've been thinking about this since the minute I saw you in this dress," Michael says softly, his own voice roughened now, slightly breathless from the intensity of kissing you.

"I picked it out just for you," you murmur back, and the look that flashes across Michael's face at those words nearly undoes him.

His eyes darken immediately, desire deepening so visibly you can practically feel it radiating off him, and you softly gasp when you feel his hand slip beneath the fabric separating him from your skin entirely. The warmth of his fingers against you makes your body arch toward him instinctively, your breath catching hard in your chest while his head tips forward against yours for a second like he's affected by this just as deeply.

"Oh, mama, you know exactly what you do to me," Michael says against your lips before kissing you again, slower this time, more consuming, while his fingers move carefully against your clit with growing confidence. He groans softly under his breath the second he feels how responsive your body already is for him, and the sound vibrates directly against your mouth.

Your hands slide around the back of his neck, fingers disappearing into the curls there while you pull him closer, needing more of him everywhere at once after months apart. Your hips press instinctively into his touch, searching for more pressure, more friction, more of the warmth only he ever seems capable of pulling from your body this quickly, and Michael responds immediately, like your pleasure is something he chases as naturally as breathing.

He always softens under your praise, but he sharpens under your need.

Michael pulls back from the kiss just enough to look at you for a moment, and the sight in front of him almost makes his composure slip entirely. Your lips are parted around uneven breaths, eyes closed, skin flushed beautifully beneath the dim lighting of the car, while your body trembles subtly underneath his touch. The image of you like this because of him sends heat rushing straight through him so intensely that he has to bite back a groan.

Suddenly, he wants to tell Bill to drive faster. He wants your condo, your bed, privacy, and more time. Because he doesn't know how much longer he can stand being this close to you without completely losing himself in it.

"Oh, you're so good to me, honey..." You say breathlessly, and the praise hits him instantly.

Michael's eyes flutter for a second before he leans down and presses his lips against your neck again, kissing slowly along your skin while his touch becomes more deliberate, more confident beneath your dress. He loves making you feel good, and he loves hearing your praise when he does, because it settles somewhere deep inside him every time. 

He always wants to give you everything he has, every soft and desperate piece of himself, and there's something deeply intimate in the way he prioritizes your pleasure first, the way your reactions unravel him almost more than his own.

You feel the hard press of his arousal against your thigh as Michael shifts closer against you, unable to keep space between your bodies anymore. The combination of his warm mouth against your neck and his fingers moving against your sensitive skin is almost dizzying now, your body tightening and melting all at once underneath him.

The car comes to a stop as Bill reaches your condo, but you and Michael are too lost in each other to care immediately.

"I know you're close, mama," Michael mumbles softly against your skin, his voice low and strained now, and you lean forward just enough to nip lightly at the soft skin near his ear.

"Take me inside to finish me off, handsome," you whisper breathlessly against him. The words go straight through him.

Michael lifts himself from you slowly, visibly reluctant to pull away, and carefully withdraws his hand from beneath your dress. For a second, both of you look down at the evidence of your arousal still clinging to his fingers, and the sight alone makes his breathing catch again.

You take his wrist gently before he can pull away and guide his hand toward your mouth.

Michael's eyes stay locked on yours as your lips part around his fingers, your tongue slowly gliding over them while you taste yourself there, and the sight completely wrecks him. His eyes close immediately as a low groan escapes his chest, head falling back briefly against the seat while his free hand grips your thigh tightly, like he's trying desperately to hold himself together long enough to get upstairs before he completely loses control.

When you let go of his fingers, you reach down and fix your dress, smoothing the fabric back down your thighs while trying to steady your breathing. Michael's shirt is still completely unbuttoned from when you undid it in the car, exposing the warm brown skin of his chest beneath the dim lighting, and both of you are flushed and breathing heavier, the air between you still thick with tension and want.

You live in a private residence, tucked behind a gate high enough to keep wandering eyes away, and you give Bill the gate code so he can pull into the driveway. The headlights briefly illuminate the front of your condo as the gate slowly closes behind you, shutting the rest of the world out again, and you feel Michael visibly relax beside you at the sound.

Bill comes to a stop outside the front door.

Michael gets out of the car first before helping you out, one hand steadying your waist while the other stays wrapped around yours a second longer than necessary. Bill tells you both goodnight and tells Michael he'll be back in the morning, since Michael has to go to Toronto to continue the Victory Tour.

You watch Michael's expression shift immediately at the reminder.

His eyes fall slightly, the softness from moments ago dimming beneath the exhaustion and obligation waiting for him tomorrow morning. Even now, standing outside your home with his mouth still swollen from kissing you and your taste still lingering on his tongue, the tour hangs over him like something heavy he can never fully escape.

And the worst part is that he never wanted it in the first place.

You bring him inside, leaving your heels by the door, and the moment the house closes around the two of you, quiet and warm and completely private, Michael exhales softly like he's been holding tension in his body all night. You take him upstairs to your bedroom, the soft lighting there washing gold across his skin.

"Go sit down, baby," you say as you point toward your bed.

Michael nods immediately, doing exactly as you say without hesitation, and something about the sight of him sitting there waiting for you sends heat curling low in your stomach. His shirt hangs open from his shoulders, exposing his chest and stomach beneath the soft light, curls slightly messy from your hands earlier. You still had his jacket on, and Michael's eyes lingered on the sight of you wearing it.

He loved seeing you in his clothes.

You walk over to Michael, kneeling down in front of him as you place your hands on his thighs, your palms slowly sliding over the fabric there while his breathing immediately deepens.

"Baby?" he asks softly, already sounding affected just from the way you're touching him.

You gently shush him, your hands continuing their slow path along his thighs while you watch his body react underneath your touch in real time. His pants tighten more as his arousal grows, and when your fingers press slightly firmer against him, his lips part around a breathless gasp that makes warmth spread through your chest.

"You've been working so hard, giving yourself to your fans night after night on tour when you should be resting and recovering," you say quietly while your hands move to the waistband of his jeans and you start to unbuckle his belt.

Michael's eyes follow your every move, completely focused on you. The vulnerability in it nearly undoes you every time, the way he lets you take control so naturally, the way his body softens into your care without embarrassment attached to it.

"I–I need to feel you, mama," Michael softly whines as you unzip his jeans, and the sound alone sends another pulse of heat through you.

When you look up at him, his breath catches visibly.

Seeing you kneeling between his legs like this, your dress still clinging to your body, the neckline dipping low enough for your breasts to press softly against the fabric while his jacket hangs around your shoulders, is enough to completely unravel him. His eyes darken immediately, thighs spreading a little wider beneath your hands without you even asking him to.

"I'll make you feel good, honey," you say softly as your hands grip the waistband of his jeans. "Lift for me, baby."

Michael nods instantly and moves without hesitation, lifting his hips to help you pull his jeans and boxers down his legs, completely pliant beneath your touch and praise. You bite down softly on your lip as he slips free, flushed and already aching for you, and the vulnerable little sound he makes when your eyes linger on him makes your stomach tighten.

You slide his clothes completely off his legs before letting them fall forgotten onto the floor beside the bed, and then you sit back up on your knees between his thighs. Slowly, you lean forward and press your lips against the inside of his thigh.

Michael's entire body reacts immediately.

Your kisses are slow and lingering, moving upward along warm skin while his legs instinctively part wider for you, giving you more room, more access, more of him. A soft moan slips from his lips as your mouth trails across his other thigh now, and the sound makes you lift your head to look at him.

His cheeks are flushed deeply pink, his chest rises unevenly, and he's looking down at you with complete openness, completely at your mercy in the most trusting way.

"I'm so proud of you, Michael... everything you're doing, everything you're accomplishing," you say softly. The praise hits him almost harder than your touch.

Michael's face flushes even deeper, embarrassment and pleasure tangling together in his expression while his thighs tense slightly beneath your hands. Receiving that kind of praise from you while you're kneeling between his legs like this makes him look almost overwhelmed by it, lips parting around another shaky breath.

You sit up slightly on your knees before holding your hand out in front of him. "Spit, baby," you say gently.

Michael nods immediately, obedient without even thinking about it, and spits softly into your palm while his eyes stay fixed on your face the entire time, visibly affected by every instruction you give him.

You smile softly before wrapping your hand around him. Michael's entire body shudders instantly at the contact.

A breathless whimper leaves him before he can stop it, his head tipping back slightly while the warmth of your hand settles around him, and the sound he makes at your touch is so soft and trusting it almost feels intimate enough to break your heart.

You use your thumb to pull back the skin of his tip, feeling the slick warmth already gathered there, and you spread it slowly while your hand moves against him, your touch smooth and deliberate. You can feel the subtle pulses throbbing underneath your palm with every stroke, the way his body reacts so openly to every little thing you do to him, and it makes heat curl low in your stomach.

Michael whimpers again.

The sound leaves him before he can stop it, soft and needy, and his hips instinctively push further into your hand like his body is chasing your touch on its own. You smile at the reaction immediately, your fingers tightening slightly around him.

"You're so good for me, Michael," you say softly, letting your hand move a little faster.

Your name spills from Michael's lips instantly, broken apart by another shaky breath while his hips buck again beneath your hand. "P–Please don't stop, baby," he whimpers.

The plea in his voice goes straight through you.

You nod slowly before leaning forward, your lips brushing gently against the tip of him in a soft kiss that makes his entire body shudder beneath you. His stomach tightens visibly. Another breath catches in his throat. Your hand keeps moving while you tease him slowly with your mouth, giving him just enough to make him ache for more, and the room fills with the quiet sounds of his breathing and those soft little whimpers he can never fully hold back around you.

"Tell me what you want, handsome," you murmur, lifting your eyes to him. Michael looks down at you immediately, completely wrecked already, the words visibly catching somewhere behind the moan that slips from his lips first. "I have to hear you to know," you say gently.

Michael's lips part again, flushed and trembling slightly, before he finally manages to speak. "Y–Your mouth, please... baby," Michael softly pleads.

You smile at him, warmth flooding through your chest at the trust and vulnerability in the request, before pressing another slow kiss there and finally giving him what he wants.

The second your mouth fully wraps around him, Michael's entire body jolts.

A broken sound escapes him immediately, halfway between a moan and a gasp, his head falling back while the sensation rushes straight through him. You take your time with him at first, slow and attentive, your tongue gliding against him while your hand keeps stroking what your mouth can't take yet, and Michael looks completely overwhelmed by the combination of it.

His thighs tense beneath your hands as his breathing turns uneven, and every little sound he makes only encourages you more.

You hollow your cheeks slightly, taking more of him slowly, and Michael's restraint immediately starts slipping apart underneath you. His hips lift instinctively, pushing further into your mouth before he catches himself with a breathless apology that dies into another moan the second you groan softly against him in response.

The vibration nearly destroys him.

Michael reaches down and grips your hair carefully, not to control you, never to force you, but because he needs something to hold onto while pleasure steadily strips him open beneath your hands and mouth. His fingers curl gently against your hair while he watches you between ragged breaths, eyes dark and glassy and completely fixed on you.

You quicken your pace little by little, and the room slowly fills with the intimate sounds of wet kisses, uneven breathing, and Michael's increasingly desperate moans spilling freely now that he's too far gone to hide them. Every time your lips tighten around him, every time your tongue moves against him just right, his entire body reacts visibly beneath you.

When his hips push upward again a little too hard, pushing his tip to the back of your throat, your eyes water briefly from the sudden depth of it, but you don't pull away. Your hand strokes slowly at the base while you steady your breathing around him, and the sight alone nearly drives Michael over the edge.

You feel him twitch harder against your tongue, and his grip tightens gently in your hair. "Mama, I'm so close... please," Michael whispers brokenly. The desperation in his voice is almost enough to make you let him.

Almost.

You lift your head slowly instead, pulling away from him with a soft sound that immediately makes Michael whimper at the loss, his body chasing your warmth instinctively before stopping himself.

"Not yet, Michael... hold it for me, baby," you say softly.

Michael nods immediately despite the way his chest is heaving now, completely obedient underneath your voice, even while restraint visibly trembles through him. You look down at the mess of your hand wrapped around him, slick with saliva and arousal, and slowly stroke him again through the dampness coating your skin.

A guttural moan tears from Michael's chest. His head falls back immediately at the feeling, throat exposed, while pleasure moves visibly through his entire body in waves. Then you pull your hand away completely.

Michael whimpers again at the sudden loss of contact, flushed and aching beneath you while his body still trembles with unreleased tension. You slowly stand up in front of him, and Michael's eyes immediately follow every movement.

He looks beautiful like this.

Flushed cheeks, kiss-swollen lips, and his chest rising unevenly beneath the open shirt hanging from his shoulders. Desire still aches visibly through him while he sits there waiting for you, trusting you completely with every vulnerable reaction you pull from him.

You reach beneath Michael's jacket, still hanging around your shoulders, and slowly grab the zipper of your dress, undoing it while his eyes stay locked on your hands. The sound alone makes his breathing deepen again.

You slip one arm out of his jacket first so you can lower the strap of your dress, then slide your arm back into the sleeve before repeating the motion on the other side, letting him watch every slow movement.

Then you slip his jacket back fully onto your shoulders. With the straps fallen and your dress unzipped, the fabric slides from your body instantly, pooling at your feet while cool air brushes across your bare skin.

Michael bites down hard on his lip at the sight of you standing there in nothing but your panties and his jacket. The possessiveness and tenderness tangled together in the image nearly undo him completely.

You reach down slowly, hooking your fingers into the sides of your panties before sliding them down your legs too, stepping out of them carefully and leaving the rest of your clothes scattered across the floor while Michael watches you like he's seeing something holy.

"Scoot back from the edge, baby," you tell Michael, and he nods immediately, moving back across the mattress until he's sitting in the middle of your bed, eyes never leaving you for even a second. "Take off your shirt," you say softly. Michael nods again.

Since his shirt was already unbuttoned, he slips it from his shoulders easily before tossing it onto the floor beside the bed, leaving him bare in front of you now, flushed skin warm beneath the low lighting of your bedroom. His chest rises unevenly while he watches you standing there in his jacket and nothing else, visibly affected by every second you make him wait.

You approach the bed slowly before climbing onto it and settling yourself over his lap, and Michael's hands immediately find your waist like instinct, pulling you closer against him with a soft sound escaping under his breath the second your bodies meet again.

"You look so good in nothing but my jacket," Michael says quietly, his voice roughened with want, and you smile because that was exactly what you wanted. You loved the way he reacted to seeing pieces of himself on you, the way it softened and unraveled him all at once.

Your hands settle against his shoulders, gently rubbing over the warm skin there while Michael's hands move carefully across your waist and stomach beneath the jacket, touching you slowly like he still can't quite believe you're here in front of him after months apart. The tenderness in it makes you shiver.

"Are you ready for me, baby?" you whisper against his skin before pressing your lips to his bare shoulder.

Michael groans softly underneath you, fingers tightening around your waist immediately. "Yes, mama... please," Michael pleads.

You lift your head from his shoulder and look down at him properly, taking in the sight beneath you. His lips are parted around shallow breaths, curls messy against his forehead, dark eyes blown wide with anticipation and need, while he looks up at you with complete trust written all over his face.

"Okay... since you've been so good for me all night," you whisper into his ear before kissing the soft skin behind it. Michael moans breathlessly at the praise, his hands gripping you tighter while his head tips back slightly beneath your mouth.

You lift slightly against him, guiding him carefully while you settle yourself over him, and the second the warmth of you meets him fully, Michael's entire body shudders underneath you.

A broken breath leaves his lips.

His grip on your hips tightens instinctively while you slowly lower yourself onto him, taking your time, letting both of you feel every inch of closeness after months without this. The intimacy of it nearly overwhelms him immediately. You can feel the tension in his body, the way he trembles beneath your hands while he tries to hold himself together through the sensation of finally having you like this again.

A soft whimper leaves your lips as you take him to the hilt until he fills you completely. You watch as he disappears inside of you, and Michael's head falls back with a deep moan the second you settle fully against him.

"Oh, Michael, you fill me up so good, baby," you praise softly. Michael whimpers immediately at the words, eyes fluttering shut while your praise washes through him almost harder than the physical sensation itself.

"Open your eyes and keep them on me," you say gently.

Michael slowly obeys, opening his eyes again while you begin moving against him, your pace slow at first, deliberate and intimate, your bodies staying close while you roll your hips carefully against his. Michael holds your gaze even though the intensity of it clearly affects him, clearly makes him want to look away from how exposed he feels underneath your attention.

But he can't, not when you're looking at him like this. Not when every touch and every word from you feels like being cared for and desired all at once. Your hands grip his shoulders lightly while you move together, and Michael's breathing grows shakier every time your body tightens around him.

"Mama... oh, you feel so good... don't stop," he moans softly. The sound of him like this beneath you sends another rush of warmth through your body.

You move your hands from his shoulders to his chest, slowly pushing him backward until he's lying against the bed beneath you instead of sitting upright, and the second he's stretched out underneath you like that, completely open for you, something deeper and more desperate flashes across his face.

You pick up your pace.

Michael's body reacts instantly beneath you, breath catching harder while pleasure moves visibly through him in waves. His hands grip your hips tightly now, fingers pressing into your skin while he struggles not to lose control completely underneath the relentless rhythm you set for him.

You can feel him resisting the urge to thrust up into you, trying so hard to let you keep control even while his entire body begs for more. Your hands trail slowly down his chest and stomach, and you nod softly when you catch the restraint written all over his face.

"Do it, baby... I see it all over your face," you whisper.

That's all it takes. Michael's last piece of restraint breaks immediately.

His hands tighten around your hips while he starts thrusting up into you desperately now, quick and needy and completely overwhelmed by the feeling of you wrapped around him. A broken moan tears from his throat as he pulls you closer and closer against him until your chest is pressed flush to his, like he physically cannot get enough of your touch, no matter how close you already are.

The sounds of your bodies moving together fill the room in uneven waves: skin against skin, breathless moans, the mattress shifting beneath the force of Michael's movements while his hips drive into you with a pace that's becoming harder and harder for him to control. Your bedroom walls echo with his name spilling from your lips and the soft, wrecked whimpers constantly leaving his throat every time you tighten around him.

"Just like that, Michael... you make me feel so good, keep going," your praise falls from your lips between broken moans, and the effect it has on him is immediate.

Michael whimpers loudly beneath you.

The sounds you make, somewhere between pleasure and emotional overwhelm, only push him further. His hips snap harder against yours, desperate and needy now, and you can feel how close he's getting from the way his body trembles underneath you.

You lift slightly, reaching for one of his hands before guiding it lower between your bodies, and Michael instantly understands what you want from him. He always does.

His thumb moves carefully against your sensitive clit while his hips continue meeting yours at the same relentless rhythm, and the combined sensation nearly steals the breath from your lungs. Tears spring into your eyes immediately from the intensity of it, your body tightening hard around him while a broken sound escapes your throat.

"You make me feel so good, Michael," you praise breathlessly.

Michael whimpers again, visibly overwhelmed now from every direction at once, your body around him, your praise washing through him, the feeling of finally being close to you again after months apart. He looks completely unraveled beneath you, flushed skin damp with sweat, curls sticking against his forehead while he tries desperately to hold himself together long enough to keep pleasing you.

You begin matching his movements harder now, pushing down against him every time he thrusts upward, and Michael's head falls back with a strangled groan at the new angle and pressure. Pleasure coils painfully tight inside him.

You can feel it in the way his hips lose rhythm for a second. In the way his hands grip your body tighter. In the desperate little sounds slipping uncontrollably from his lips now.

"Baby, I–I can't hold it much longer, please," he whimpers. You shake your head softly, forcing him to look at you again.

His eyes are completely hazy now, dark and glassy with pleasure and emotion, almost unfocused from how deep inside he already is.

"A little more, Michael... you're doing so good, baby. You can take a little more," you say softly while rocking your hips against his. The praise nearly destroys him.

Michael's thumb moves faster against your clit instinctively while your pace against him quickens too, and the combination has both of you falling apart together now. You can feel how badly he needs release from the way his body trembles underneath yours, every muscle tight with restraint and want.

"Please, mama... I need to cum, I–I can't hold it anymore," Michael whimpers brokenly before burying his face against your chest like he can't survive the intensity of this while looking directly at you anymore.

The feeling of his mouth against your skin pulls another cry from your lips instantly, your fingers tangling tightly into his curls while pleasure crashes harder through your body.

"Yes, baby, let go for me," you moan.

That's all he needs.

Michael whimpers loudly one final time before your name breaks from his lips like a sob, his entire body tightening underneath you while release finally tears through him. You feel the way he pulses inside you immediately, warmth flooding between your bodies while his grip on you turns almost desperate from the intensity of it.

The sensation pulls your own release from you just as hard. Your eyes squeeze shut as pleasure crashes over you in overwhelming waves, your body shaking violently against his while his name spills loudly from your lips. "Michael!"

He whimpers again at the feeling of you tightening around him, your release mixing with his, milking his dick while he's still trembling through the aftershocks himself. The two of you slowly lose rhythm together, movements turning softer and slower as you both come down from it.

Michael lifts his hands to your face almost immediately afterward, cupping your cheeks carefully before pulling you into a kiss, one that's slower and more tender. 

Both of your bodies still twitch slightly from the aftershocks while you kiss him through uneven breathing and lingering warmth. Michael melts into it instantly, exhausted and emotionally open underneath you in the way he only ever allows himself to be after moments like this.

Eventually, you slowly lift yourself from his lap and settle onto the bed in front of him, still between his legs but no longer connected, and Michael lets out the quietest little whimper at the separation before blinking up at you through flushed cheeks and heavy eyes.

You brush your thumb slowly across his jaw and kiss-swollen lips while both of you try to steady your breathing again, bodies damp with sweat, Michael's curls sticking against his forehead while he looks at you with that same soft openness he always falls into afterward.

"You always make me feel so good, mama," Michael says quietly.

The vulnerability in the words makes warmth spread through your chest all over again. You smile softly, biting down on your lip before leaning in to give him another quick kiss.

"You're always good to me, Michael," you murmur against his lips.

The two of you eventually make your way to the bathroom and take a shower together, warm water washing away sweat and exhaustion while the intimacy between you settles into something quieter now. Michael stays close the entire time, hands constantly finding your waist or your hips while you wash him gently beneath the spray.

You carefully work shampoo through his curls, mindful of his scalp, fingers staying soft and cautious where the Pepsi accident left scar tissue behind. And every time your fingertips brush too close to it, something painful twists in your chest all over again.

Anger that Joe forced him to do the commercial, sadness that it resulted in him getting third-degree burns and almost dying, and protectiveness that nobody seems to care about his health, only about what they can get from him.

Because even now, after everything his body had already endured, he still had to leave in the morning and throw himself back into a tour he never should have been forced into in the first place.

When Michael washes you, it's slowly with care, his hands moving over your skin with the same tenderness he gives everything he truly loves. Every touch lingers, every kiss he presses against your shoulder or neck feels soft and reverent, like he's memorizing you all over again beneath the warm water and steam curling around the two of you.

And in a way, he is worshipping you. Not because he thinks you're untouchable, but because to Michael, you represent something he's spent most of his life searching for without realizing it.

Safety and love without conditions.

Even though neither of you has said those words to each other yet, they live quietly underneath almost everything between you now. In the way he melts when you praise him. In the way you instinctively soothe him whenever his shoulders tense. In the way, both of you keep finding your way back to each other, no matter how chaotic the world outside becomes.

You represent peace to him.

Michael always feels safest with you because he doesn't have to perform. He doesn't have to smile when he's exhausted or hide pieces of himself to make other people comfortable. He doesn't have to carry the weight of being Michael Jackson when he's here with you.

He can just be Michael.

And somewhere along the way, without either of you saying it out loud yet, he started thinking of you as home.

After your shower, you both change into more comfortable clothes. Luckily, you do have clothes Michael can wear because you always buy casual clothes a few sizes too big since you like oversized things anyway. Once Michael is settled in a pair of soft shorts and a t-shirt, his damp curls falling loosely around his face now that they're freshly washed, you pull on a pair of soft shorts and one of the t-shirts you got when Michael flew you out to the Triumph Tour without anyone knowing.

The second he notices which shirt it is, his expression softens immediately. "You kept that?" he asks quietly, watching you pull it over your head.

You smile a little. "Of course I did." Something warm flickers across his face at that, small but deeply genuine, like even tiny proofs that you hold onto pieces of him still affect him more than they probably should.

The two of you settle into bed afterward, the room dim and quiet except for the distant sound of the ocean outside your windows, and you look over at Michael with a soft smile.

"Come here, handsome," you say.

Michael smiles instantly before moving toward you without hesitation, settling himself between your legs before lowering his head onto your chest like he belongs there. He had told you once this was his favorite way to cuddle and that your breasts were his favorite pillow, which made you laugh as you called him ridiculous, but you noticed quickly that it was true. Every time the two of you ended up like this, Michael relaxed almost immediately.

His arms settle around your waist while he buries his face against your chest, eyes already starting to close, and the full weight of him against you makes something in your own body soften too.

You know how hard it is for Michael to sleep sometimes. You've heard it in his voice during late-night phone calls. Seen it in the dark circles beneath his eyes after long stretches of rehearsals and touring and pressure that never seems to leave him alone. Although you're not always the biggest fan of cuddling to sleep because eventually it gets too hot, you know how much Michael needs his rest, and how much you want him rested.

And truthfully, you like this too. You like the feeling of his weight against you. The trust in the way he curls himself into your body so naturally, like some exhausted part of him finally gets to stop holding itself upright for a while.

"Goodnight, mama," Michael mumbles sleepily into your skin before pressing a soft kiss against your collarbone.

You run your fingers lightly through his damp curls, nails barely scratching against his scalp, carefully and gently, and the effect is immediate. You can physically feel his body relaxing more and more beneath your hands with every pass of your fingers through his hair, tension steadily leaving him little by little until he's practically melted against you.

It makes your chest ache with affection.

"Goodnight, baby," you whisper back before pressing a kiss against his forehead.

Your fingers moving through Michael's curls soothe him, but they soothe you, too. The rhythm of it becomes calming, grounding, and eventually, you feel sleep beginning to pull at your body as well, heavy and warm beneath the quietness of the room.

But just before you drift off completely, you hear Michael whisper softly against your skin. "I love you." The words are quiet enough that he clearly thinks you're already asleep when he says them, like maybe it felt safer to confess them when he didn't have to see your reaction immediately afterward.

A soft smile spreads across your lips in the darkness. You don't say anything yet.

you weren’t a part of the original twelve cast, though originally you were planned to be. a small family emergency arose and nearly pulled you out completely. instead, it was settled and handled by your sister. you gave the okay to stick to the process— coming into the villa as a bombshell the next day.

and of course, you were a hot commodity. no one in the villa was closed off, meaning you were pulled for chats consistently without all the added tension and drama. you’d started in a chat with a boy named ruben and found you had no connection immediately. your next few conversations were dry as fuck. one boy asked to kiss you within five minutes, and honestly? you didn’t play that shit. you’d gotten up with the quickness, making it maybe a dozen feet before deon pulled you for, finally, your first good chat.

physically, deon was your type to a T. he’d been a gentleman, holding your hand gently as you walked up the narrow steps and not letting go until you’d gotten comfortable on the overly cushioned couch. deon made sure to ask you questions and show you interest, spaced a respectable distance away from you as you chat about the vibes and everything you missed from coming into the villa late.

within a few minutes of chatting with deon, though, you feel a shiver down your spine. you ignore it for as long as you can but, as you shift positions to get more comfortable, you see an outline from your peripheral view. your eyes wonder and you see him sitting directly across the villa with a girl you’d been introduced to but already forgot the name of.

you feel slightly bad for her, because as she speaks animatedly— sitting so close that it was obvious they were coupled up— he watches you.

he doesn’t take his eyes off of you, even as you catch him in the act. in fact, you watch as his eyes trail slowly down— over your lips, down your printed dress that showed the perfect amount of cleavage, over your bare knee peaking through the slit, and over the heels on your feet. your stomach flips when his tongue glides over his bottom lip and plummets when he pulls his lip between his teeth.

his eyes travel back up your body until he meets your stare again. it feels like you’re frozen in his gaze, only breaking free when the girl— what was her name? winter? autumn?— lays her hand on his arm and pulls his attention away.

it takes less than two minutes for him to pull you after wrapping up your chat with poor, sweet, deon.

jermajesty doesn’t lead you far— just to the set of daybeds near the pool, away from the main seating area but still visible to anyone who wanted to look. he sits first and you sit across from him— a strategic distance— but he just grins like he knows exactly what you’re doing.

“nah, come sit over here,” he says, patting the seat directly next to him. “i don’t bite.”

you move closer, telling yourself it’s because refusing would hurt his ego, not because something in his voice makes you stand before your brain catches up.

he’s even prettier up close. loose curls fall over his forehead in a messy way, nearly grazing his thick but neat eyebrows. you can’t help the way you can’t look away from, switching from the heat of his dark eyes and his plush lips. his skin is so clear that you feel a little jealous. he has slight facial hair and you imagine what it would feel like rubbing against the skin of your neck and the inside of your thighs.

your first chat, outside of introductions during your entrance, goes just as you expect it to. he’s charming you in every opportunity and you’re accepting it with a shit-eating smile on your face.

“real shit— i saw you walk in and i already knew,” he says at one point.

“knew what?” you’d managed, and you hated how breathless you had sounded around him already.

“that you was gon’ be a problem for me.” and he sits back as he says it, spreading his legs wider and resting a hand on his knee. he watches you notice it and the corner of his mouth lifts a tiny bit higher. you roll your eyes, albeit playfully, and reply, “you know you’re coupled up, right?”

“i am. and?” there's no hesitation in his voice. “this whole thing is about finding your person, right?”

you hum in reply and he moves past it. “so what you looking for? ‘cause i peeped you with deon. he seem like a nice guy.” he says ‘nice guy’ as if it’s an insult, a slur. it causes a spike of annoyance to run through you. there was nothing wrong with being a gentleman.

“he is nice,” you sound slightly defensive.

“yeah, i bet,” jermajesty’s smile is slow, knowing. “you like nice? is that what does it for you?

you should say yes. you should tell him that nice is exactly what you want, what you need. instead, you hold his gaze and say nothing. he laughs— a low, rich sound that you feel in your chest and somewhere a lot lower.

“nah, you don’t. i can tell…” he trails off, “i bet you the type that need somebody who challenges you. keep you on your toes and make you feel something.”

“you don’t know me.”

“not yet, but i will.” he promises. your conversation continues until it’s time to unwind and get ready to sleep. that night, he shared a bed with winter/autumn/summer but doesn’t dare touch her. he turns to lay with his back facing her. conventionally, he can also see you two beds down, sleeping alone in your satin tank and short set.

the next morning, you’re met with two breakfast plates as you’re getting ready in the makeup room. the third arrives as you’re halfway done with your makeup. it’s jermajesty’s plate— and it’s piled up with twice the amount of food as the other two plates. the girl next to you shouts ‘damn girl, he want you bad!’ and you laugh. looking in the mirror sat on top of the vanity, you see a twinkling in your eyes.

the day is chill. you spend some time in the pool getting to know the girls better. jermajesty pulls you for multiple chats throughout this time, giving the other boys damn near no chance as he gets to know you better. that night, the villa is hit with a surprise recoupling where the choice is in the hands of the men.

to no one’s surprise, you and jermajesty share a bed that night. and the night after. and the night after.

you slowly get closer, even as your connection is tested by the arrival of two new bombshells— both men. they’re revealed during the villa’s lingerie party, as you’re blindfolded and handcuffed to a pillar. jermajesty has to remind himself that it’s a challenge as he watches one of the bombshells choose you to kiss, removing your blindfold, wrapping your legs around his waist and your arms around his neck. you’d looked at jermajesty the second the bombshell stepped back.

but, jermajesty refused to meet your eye. instead he eyed the bombshell, tracing every step he took with a clenched jaw and a bouncing leg.

the next day, he’s seething as the bombshell gets to take you on a date outside of the villa. his anger builds with each passing hour and he seems oblivious to the way the other islanders avoid walking within his vicinity.

he sits at the fire pit, elbows on his knees and hands clasped together so tight that his fingers start to go numb. his jaw works like he’s chewing on something bitter. isaac, one of the original six boys, approaches cautiously, his bottle of water and phone for pictures in hand.

“yo, you good, bro?” isaac asks.

jermajesty doesn’t look up, doesn’t really move at all, as isaac sits with him. “yeah, i’m straight.”

isaac side-eyes him, a burst of laughter leaving him. “this date got you in your feelings, huh?”

“nah, not in my feelings. i’m just observing,” he finally looks up, smoothing his palms down the front of his pants and rubbing a hand over his chin. “watching how niggas move when they think they got an opening.”

“ay, he gotta get in somewhere, it’s part of the show—”

“i know what it is. that’s why i ain’t trippin’. cause at the end of the day?” he leans against the back cushion, spreading his arms along the back of the bench. a picture of complete confidence. “she coming back to me. she gon’ tell me all about it, probably apologize for shit she don’t need to apologize for, and imma listen. imma be understanding. and then imma remind her who she really want.”

“what if she actually vibes with dude?” isaac asks, “like, the date goes well? what you gon’ do if they kiss?”

jermajesty’s jaw clenches again, that muscle jumping. “then imma have to check that. real quick.”

isaac opens his mouth to respond, but the sound of laughter and cheering cuts through the villa. both of them turn toward the entrance.

and there you are.

you’re glowing. that’s the first thing jermajesty notices— the way your skin catches the late afternoon sun, the way your smile is so wide it makes your eyes crinkle at the corners. you’re wearing a different outfit now, something flowy and baby pink that moves with you as you walk. and your hand—

your hand is wrapped around the bombshell's.

jermajesty goes completely still.

“oh shit,” isaac mutters under his breath. 

the girls rush up to you immediately, a whirlwind of questions paired with squealing and hugs. one girl, deanna, wraps her arms around your waist, lifting you up and spinning you. jermajesty praises her in his mind, because that’s the thing that gets you to let go of his hand.

you’re talking animatedly when you get set down, gesturing with your hands as you recount different moments from the date. the bombshell is grinning down at you like he just won the lottery. he’s tall, light-skinned with a fade, wearing a linen button-up that’s open at the collar. he looks comfortable.

he notices as you recount the date, that you’re only showing genuine excitement over what you did— a private beach set up— and not over the bombshell. not over what the two of you talked about. he feels himself relax slightly. when deanna asks if the two of you kissed on the date, you shake your head ‘no’ and he feels the tension leave his body completely. 

he walks right up to you, body angled away from the bombshell and giving him no attention, and asks to pull you for a chat. you say yes, the smile on your face growing bigger, and let him lead you down the stairs to the dock. he holds your hand the entire way, switching to wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you closer when you finally sit. he breathes a lot easier with you in his arms.

that night, the tension comes back to him tenfold. the fire pit is lit and everyone is gathered around. the host’s voice leaves an echo through the space as she announces that the bombshells will get to choose who they want to couple up with, while the two boys left single will be vulnerable and at risk of being dumped.

jermajesty stands across from you, lined up with the rest of the boys. his face is a mask of indifference, but you can see the tension in his posture. you both know what’s coming and it leaves a sick feeling in your stomach.

brandon, the bombshell, is called first. he steps forward, confident and smiling, “this is an easy choice for me,” he says and his eyes find yours before he shifts his attention away immediately. “from the moment i got here, there’s been one girl who’s caught my attention. she’s beautiful, she’s real, and our date today just confirmed what i already knew. so the girl i want to couple up with is…”

he speaks your name, and it’s a fight to force a smile onto your face. you stand and step forward, even as your legs feel like lead. brandon meets you halfway and pulls you into a hug, leaning down until his mouth is lined up to your ear, “you okay?”

“mmhm,” you lie. you meet jermajesty’s eyes over his shoulder and the expression on his face makes your breath catch. it’s colder than cold, and he can’t seem to pick where he wants to focus his attention. his eyes jump from brandon’s arms around your waist, to your hands on his back, to your chin on his shoulder. you can’t help the guilty pout that crosses your face as you mouth ‘i’m sorry’. your stomach drops when he looks away with no acknowledgement. 

the second bombshell makes his choice, leaving an islander named tyler at risk alongside jermajesty. the host continues to announce that the decision of who’ll be dumped from the island will be up to the girls. you blink frequently, wishing that you could advocate for them to save your connection. instead, you sit off to the side— shivering even though you don’t feel cold.

deliberation happens quickly. the girls huddle, whispering. you force yourself to drown it out, focusing on jermajesty. even as brandon’s leg presses against yours and his hand rests just slightly above your knee. when the girls announce that they’re saving jermajesty, you try and keep the relief under wraps. a shaky breath leaves you before you can stop it.

tyler is dumped from the island. you, having not really built any kind of bond with him, find it easy to say goodbye. in a fucked up way, you wish he’d hurry and leave so that you could finally talk to jermajesty. 

when it’s over and everyone disperses, mostly leaving to comfort tyler’s old connection, brandon immediately tries to pull you toward the daybed but you shake your head with a small frown.

“sorry, i just need a minute,” you tell him. “wanna… decompress first.”

he accepts your answer and you wait until he’s gone, until most of the islanders have scattered. and then you go the direction you’d watched jermajesty head in moments earlier. 

you find him in soul ties.

he’s sitting on the day bed, one leg pulled up and the other stretched out in front of him. the lights cast shadows across. suddenly nervous, you stand in the entrance, watching the rise and fall of his shoulders.

“you just gon’ stand there?” his voice is quiet and flat. he doesn’t look up as you climb over to sit beside him, but he does wrap a hand around your calf, supporting you so that you don’t fall. 

you wrap your arm around yourself, “i wanted to check on you.”

he looks at you, so deadpan, as he asks where the other half of your couple is. you groan and throw your head back, two hands pressing hard against your forehead. you can feel an incoming headache from the day overall.

“you know that wasn’t up to me,” you lean your head back up and look at him. unconsciously, you turn to face him fully and bring both legs under you, now sitting on your knees. “we just talked. that’s it. i didn’t— we didn’t kiss or anything. i didn’t ask for him to pick me.”

“you wanted to? kiss him?”

“no, i— maj,” you pause and take a deep breath, because were you really gonna stutter over a nigga on reality tv? “i don’t know... maybe he wanted to, but i didn’t. i couldn’t stop thinking about—”

you cut yourself off, but, of course, he catches it anyway.

“thinkin’ ‘bout what?” he grins, but it’s more condescending than anything. “thinkin’ about me while you was out there holding his hand, smilin’ all big and shit? happy as hell about that basic ass date?”

a flash of irritation hits you. if he was gonna be petty, then fine— you’d be petty too. you give him the same grin and say, “yeah, actually. i was thinkin’ about you as he hand-fed me strawberries too.”

it’s the wrong answer and you regret it as soon as the words leave your mouth. they hang in the air between you dangerously. you feel an urge to leave, to end this conversation before it goes somewhere you can't come back from but you're frozen in place as he watches you with those dark, unreadable eyes. and fuck, you think he might actually be crazy as he shakes his head slowly and laughs.

his arm that rests behind you inches closer, fingers teasing the ends of your hair. he’s still leaned back, still with one leg pulled up. “i want you to understand something.”

“understand what?” you glance at his fingers before meeting his eye again.

“you can couple up with whoever you want. you can go on all the dates, hold all the hands, smile all you want.” his fingers graze your neck and the rest of his hand follows. you swallow as he swipes his thumb down the front of your throat before moving to your jaw. “but at the end of the day? you gon’ end up right here with me. because you already know who you belong to.”

“i don’t belong to anyone.”

“nah?” he’s getting closer, but he’s not the one leaning in. he’s got a gentle hold on your jaw and he uses it to guide you slowly towards him. “then why you in here right now? why you ain’t with brandon, celebrating your new couple?”

you look away, silently.

“go ‘head, tell me i’m wrong.” he challenges, his voice dropping lower. his thumb reaches your bottom lip, hovering before brushing across.

“jermajesty—” his name leaves your lips; a sigh of resignation.

“yeah ma,” a small smile, “that’s what i thought.”

and he kisses you.

it’s not gentle. his hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair as he pulls you closer. his other hand grips your waist, and the kiss is claiming, possessive, everything you knew it would be and more. there’s a hunger in it, the build up of tension finally snapping all at once.

 he takes advantage the second a soft exhale leaves you, deepening the kiss until you’re dizzy with it. he tastes like mint, and something sweet, and you need more.

you push him back— though you follow right after, leaving no space between you. you move to straddle his lap and he adjusts immediately, hand guiding your hips as you settle over him. your hands have a mind of their own, trailing down and back up his chest, traveling over his neck and around, finding purchase in his hair and tugging. his grip on your waist tightens at that, teeth catching your bottom lip, and you make a sound you’ve never made before—  something between a gasp and a moan that has heat flooding your cheeks.

a deep groan leaves him in reply. you feel the hand in your hair untangle, urging an arch in your spine as it travels down until he reaches your ass. jermajesty kneads, grabbing you and pressing you closer, and you can feel exactly how much he wants this, wants you. 

you help him, grinding down into his lap and pulling away from his mouth to trail kisses down the side of his face. his stubble scratches against your lips int he best way. you lick and bite the tender space on his neck, right under his ear, before leaving open mouthed kisses.

“mm, fuuck—” he eagerly tilts his head to give you better access, throat exposed and vulnerable as both arms wrap around your waist. he presses his hips up once, grinding against you in a way that makes your breath catch, before he forces himself to stop. his breathing is ragged, chest heaving beneath you.

you fall into a fit of giggles in his neck, giddy and breathless and overwhelmed in the best possible way, and you hear his soft laugh, dangerously close to your ear. his warm breath ghosting across your skin and sending shivers down your spine. 

with one last lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth, you remember where you are and go to sit back at his side. but the second you shift your weight, you feel it— the hard press of him against your thigh. jermajesty’s arm pulls you back down immediately and your eyes widen at him.

“just don’t, uh—don’t move, yet.”

michael lets out a breath.

"good morning," he says, almost sarcastically.

i just stare at him. then back at the bed. then back at him.

"what happened?" i ask, my voice small.

michael lets out a short laugh. but not because he finds this funny. more because he's just as lost as i am.

"i was hoping you'd tell me."

"well that's reassuring," i say quietly, looking anywhere but in his eyes.

i pull the blanket tighter around myself as the room falls quiet. neither of us know what to say.

i peek back up at michael. he looks exhausted. his hair is slightly messy and he's in his usual business attire - though it doesn't match the rest of his current state. he rubs a hand over his face.

"how much did we drink?" he asks.

"i honestly couldn't tell you," i sigh.

"that's probably not a good sign," he replies.

"nope."

i glance around the room again. at the unfamiliar furniture and the discarded shoes near the door. i cringe at the sight of my dress carelessly laying on the ground.

"so.." i start.

he looks up at me.

"we're at your house?" i assume, still not really remembering what happened after my second glass of champagne.

he blinks a few times, then looks around the room.

"yes," he nods.

i stare at him.

"seems like you had to think about it," i tell him.

"i've had a headache since long before you woke up."

i can't help it. i laugh. and the sound is surprising - to both of us. because this whole situation is awkward and now we have to suffer the consequences of far too much champagne.

my eyes drift around the room again. a watch sits on the nightstand. his button down shirt is draped across the floor. a couple of crumpled napkins are placed on top of his dresser. all tiny fragments of a night i can barely remember.

i frown.

"i remember dancing," i mention.

michael nods.

"i remember that too," he tells me.

"and i remember having champagne brought to us."

his lips twitch.

"oh, do you?" he teasingly questions.

"yeah, i do actually," i gently smile.

then my expression softens.

"i also remember not wanting the night to end," i add, looking down at my lap as i fiddle with his comforter.

the words hang in the air and no one speaks for a moment. because, despite all our confusion and jokes about last night, that's the one thing said that feels entirely clear. but somehow, that's even more confusing than everything else.

i immediately wish i hadn't said that. it's not that it's not true - it is true. but it sounds way more serious out loud than it did in my head.

michael's eyes are stationed down onto the floor. i stare at the comforter. neither of us seems interested in making eye contact - great thanks to my awkward statement.

finally he clears his throat.

"so."

"so," i repeat.

another pause.

"this is weird," i state.

a laugh, like a real one, leaves his lips.

"yeah," he agrees.

"i mean, not weird weird."

his eyebrows lift.

"i don't know why i said that," i admit.

"neither do i," he tells me.

i groan and drop my head into my hands, but also making sure the blanket won't fall down and expose my bare chest.

"oh my god," i groan.

michael laughs again.

"you're doing great," he teases in that soft voice of his.

"please stop talking," i say into my hands, the sound muffled.

"i've barely said anything," he lightly grins.

"just- stop," i plead, an uncontrollable smile making it's way onto my face.

then my eyes land on the floor again. specifically on the trail of clothing scattered across it. i point toward the mess.

"do you remember any of that?"

michael follows my gaze.

"no."

"that's concerning."

"a little," he tries to lighten.

"a lot," i correct him.

he sighs, the sound confirming that he agrees with me. that it is concerning how neither of us remember exactly how we got here.

the room goes quiet again. but not in an uncomfortable way. michael rubs a hand over his face again.

"can i at least get you some water?" he offers.

"that would be great. do you have any advil?" i ask him.

he nods.

"i'll go get it for you."

he slowly pushes himself out of his chair and then disappears through the bedroom doorway, leaving me alone for the first time since waking up.

the silence is immediate. and unfortunately, so are my thoughts. i look around the room again, unable to grasp what actually happened last night. because, even though i don't explicitly remember, we definitely fucked. like, that's just a given. i'm naked and both of our clothes are thrown around? it's a no-brainer.

carefully, i slide out of the bed and regret standing up. i grab onto the mattress for stability. my head hurts like hell and there's a foreign aching in my lower region.

after a moment, i shuffle over to where my dress is lying on the floor. at least that's easy enough to find. the rest of my belongings seem to have scattered themselves across half the room. one shoe is near the dresser, the other is by the door. my purse is somehow upside down beneath a chair. and after another minute of looking around, i realize something is missing.

i freeze. i look under the bed. nothing. check beside the nightstand. nothing. i stare at the floor. absolutely not. i'm basically forced to go commando because there is no universe in which i'm asking michael jackson where my panties ended up. i just can't.

with a sigh, i pull the dress on, with nothing underneath, and smooth it down. the second i check myself in the mirror, i remember why this dress seemed like a good idea last night. because last night had involved dim lighting and several drinks in a club. this morning involves sunlight. and going outside. i scoff at my stupid choices.

i stare at my reflection. the dress seems a bit more revealing than i remembered.

"wonderful," i mutter to myself.

before i can decide what to do about it, footsteps approach. a second later michael reappears carrying a glass of water and a small container of pills.

"i got you-" he halts.

he freezes a moment. not completely, but just enough that i notice. his eyes flick downward for a fraction of a second before immediately returning to my face. then he clears his throat.

"water. and advil," he finishes.

i narrow my eyes at him.

"what was that?" i ask.

"what was what?" he tries to play oblivious.

"that look."

"i didn't look anywhere," he attempts to play it off.

"you did."

"i really didn't."

i point at him.

"you absolutely did," i claim.

a reluctant smile appears on his face. he looks down at the bottle of advil before reaching his hand out and offering it to me.

"i got you medicine," he ignores me.

"that's not a denial," i say.

"i'm choosing not to engage."

i laugh despite myself. the motion instantly reminds me of my headache. michael hands me the water.

"careful," he warns.

"i know."

as i take the bottle i glance down at myself again. then back at him.

"do you happen to own a robe?" i ask.

his eyebrows raise.

"a robe?" he repeats.

"or a sweatshirt?"

"a sweatshirt?" he repeats, again.

"or literally anything," i tell him.

he looks me over for a moment before finally understanding what i'm talking about.

"oh," he says.

"yeah, 'oh'," i mock.

a laugh escapes him.

"right."

"please tell me you have something," i basically beg.

"i'm sure i do," he reassures me.

"good."

"i'll see what i can find," he tells me.

without waiting for a response, he disappears back out of the room. i immediately sit down on the edge of the bed and swallow a few pills. i then drink about half the glass of water in one go. my body feels slightly less awful. but only slightly.

i glance down at my dress again. still a terrible idea. the dress seems to have somehow gotten tighter in the last five minutes. or maybe i'm just more aware of it now. but it's revealing a lot more cleavage than i remember. every time i move, i feel like i'm one awkward step away from my boobs falling out.

a few seconds later i hear drawers opening somewhere else in the house. then i hear footsteps. then silence. then more footsteps. the man is apparently searching every closet he owns.

eventually he reappears holding what look like a dark colored robe.

"i found-"

he stops. again.

his eyes flick downward for a split second. then another. straight to my chest.

"oh, come on," i exclaim, rolling my eyes and pulling up the top band of my dress.

his gaze snaps back to my face.

"what?"

"you did it again," i say, annoyed.

"i didn't."

"you definitely did!"

a laugh threatens to leave his lips.

"i was looking at the dress," he lies.

"the dress that happens to be barely covering my chest?" i ask.

"i wasn't staring," he dismisses.

"you were definitely looking, though," i point out.

he rubs the back of his neck, looking entirely too amused with himself.

"i brought the robe," he tells me, this moment feeling too familiar to the one we shared just minutes ago.

he holds the robe out toward me. rolling my eyes at his antics, i reach for it. i then stand up and slide the silky robe on over my dress, instantly feeling better.

"much better," i say.

"it was that bad?" he questions.

"michael."

"i'm asking."

"you looked," i state.

"i told you i didn't," he defends.

i give him a look. his smile immediately gives him away.

"unbelievable," i tsk.

"i''m innocent!"

"sure," i shake my head.

he leans against the doorway. we sit in silence for a moment. the robe hangs a bit loose on me and the sleeves are a bit too long. i cuff them twice. michael notices.

"you look a little ridiculous," he comments.

my mouth opens and i look up at him.

"you're rude!"

"you wanted honestly," he softly grins.

"yeah, well i regret asking for it," i express.

the corner of his mouth tugs up more at this. he remains leaning against the doorway, watching me as i take another drink of water.

finally, i gesture vaguely around us.

"well."

"well," he repeats.

"..i think it's safe to say we had a good night," i state.

his lips twitch.

"i think that's a fair assumption," he says.

"great," i say, sarcasm laced in my tone.

there's another small pause in the conversation.

"very normal situation we have here," i observe.

"oh, extremely normal," michael plays along.

i laugh a bit. then regret it again because my head still feels like it's being attacked from the inside out.

"ow," i whine, shutting my eyes and holding my head.

"be careful," he tells me.

"i'm trying."

i open my eyes and they drift toward the clock on the nightstand. my stomach drops.

"oh my god."

michael glances over.

"what?" he asks.

"it's almost noon," i express, clearly shocked at the time.

"..yeah," michael says, like its obvious.

it may be obvious to him, but i thought it was, like, ten or something.

"don't act like i'm odd for being surprised. some people have things to do, you know," i say.

"and some people don't?"

there's a teasing edge to his voice.

"you're annoying," i say, sighing with fake irritation.

he just grins at that.

i finish the rest of my water before setting the glass down. the longer i sit here, the more aware i become that i'm in someone else's house. specifically michael jackson's house. wearing his robe. after what was clearly a very questionable series of decisions last night.

suddenly i want to go home. i'm not upset. i don't really regret anything - that's for sure. i'm not embarrassed. well, actually - maybe i'm a little embarrassed. but i want to go home because i need a long bath, a gallon of water, and at least ten more hours of sleep.

i slide off the bed onto my feet.

"i should probably get going," i awkwardly mention.

michael nods slowly, like he'd already been expecting me to say it.

"probably," he breathes.

i stand there stiffly for a second. and he stands there stiffly too. which kind of makes me feel better.

"thank you for the water," i voice.

"you're welcome."

"and the advil," i add.

"you're welcome," he gently repeats.

"and the robe," i add again.

that finally earns a smile from him.

"you can keep the robe if you'd like," he proposes.

i look down at the slightly oversized maroon robe that's tied tightly across my body.

"i'm not sure i need a souvenir."

"fair enough," he smiles.

i giggle. then i start to, shamefully, pick up my stuff from all around the room. i get my purse from under a chair and both my shoes from either sides of the room.

by the time i've collected everything, michael has disappeared briefly and returned with someone from his staff who can arrange a car. i'm holding my phone, just about to call one of my people who could do that for me, and i tell michael that's unnecessary, but he insists.

the whole thing feels oddly normal. and sweet. i guess he's just a very polite man.

at the front door, i turn back toward him. for a second, neither of us seems entirely sure how to end this. a handshake feels ridiculous. a hug would be too strange. so i settle for a small smile.

"try not to drink that much next time," he jokes.

"that advice goes both ways," i point out.

he smiles. there's another awkward second of silence. then i step outside. the sunlight is somehow even worse than before. i get into the car and as it pulls away, i glance back once toward the massive house. i sink into the seat and close my eyes.

because whatever happened last night, one thing is certain: i'm going to be thinking about it for a very, very long time.

a/n : yayyyy part 2!!!!! part 1 lowkey went crazy so i hope we like this part... pls lmk!!!! just a short part and i probably won't update a lot for the next week bc im going to be visiting family :) && i plan on this fic being very smutty/suggestive so look out for that.. sorry there's none in this part .. BUT ALSO lmk if u guys would prefer more often but shorter uploads (like 2-3k words long) or less frequent but longer fics (like 5-7k words long) bc im conflicted and i want u guys' opinions!!!!! this blog is pretty new so pls feel free to interact w/follow me (but if i follow u back it'll be from my main account, @romansbbg)!!! pls also feel free to send me any reqs, comments, questions, suggestions, or anything thru my inbox or thru a private message!! likes/reblogs are greatly appreciated!!

lmk if u want to be added to my perm taglist or js tagged in the next part of this series!!

It was October 3rd—the day after the wedding. Fall in the States. Warm and comfortable on the Portuguese coast.

Early. God, it was early—4 AM.

The city had rested peacefully. Cars had stopped whizzing down the streets hours ago. The birds sang themselves to sleep. The lights had dimmed.

Sheets lay wrinkled on the king-sized bed. The comforter hung off the edge of the bed. She’d abandoned the updo the moment they stepped into the suite. Her hair—scattered, edges fuzzy, curls wild—fanned around her angelically.

She was close. Tucked in his side, her face pressed against his neck. Left hand underneath his collarbone—rings heavy on his chest. She pressed close. Squeezed him in her sleep. Fear unaddressed. That he’d be gone when she awoke.

God, don’t separate me from this…

His throat bobbed.

One. Two. Three times.

He lifted his hand—the left. The room was dark; couldn’t see the jewelry, but it was there. Heavy. Permanent.

He’d never take it off. He’d brand it to his flesh. Wouldn’t flinch when the skin burned and split down the middle. The softness of her lips would be healing enough.

His teeth clamped on his bottom lip. Eyes squeezed shut for just a moment. Eyelashes damp. He blinked rapidly, fighting to keep his exposure from unraveling.

But she felt it. The tear. The way it landed on her temple and slid down her cheek. She sat up, slow and unaware. "

“Wait, wait,” she murmured. “What’s wrong?”

The mattress sighed beneath her weight. She tucked her leg between his. Close.

He shook his head. “I’m okay. Promise.”

Amara frowned in the dark. “You’re crying.” She wiped his eyes, rings cold against his warm face.

“I’m good. I’m good,” he replied. “I’m…overwhelmed.”

Please…

“By what, baby?”

Jaafar smiled. She couldn’t see it. The way it wavered. Not for sadness. No. Something deeper. More embodied.

“Gratitude.”

-