Ashlyn 🪽

𝓘t was a warm, sunny day in California. You and Michael had agreed it was the perfect weather to spend some time by the pool together at Hayvenhurst, and naturally, with the rest of his siblings as well.

You adored all of them, but your favorite sibling—excluding Michael, of course—was Janet. She was such a sweet girl, and she absolutely adored you in return. From the moment Michael brought you home for the first time, she had taken an immediate liking to you, treating you less like her big brother's girlfriend and more like another older sister.

The truth was, everyone had taken a quick liking to you. Well, some more than others. Ahem, Jackie and Jermaine. The Jackson brothers were womanizers by nature, but those two brothers seemed to have developed a bit more than a friendly appreciation for you, often making half-hearted attempts at flirting whenever they got the chance. Even when Michael was right there. You usually paid them no mind and let their comments fly right over your head. Michael, however, wasn't always quite as good at ignoring them.

Bill was the one picking you up, per Michael's instructions. Over the years, he had become something of a father figure to Michael, and you had grown incredibly fond of him as well. The feeling was mutual. Bill had always been supportive of your relationship and had told you more than once that you were good for Michael.

As the car turned into the long driveway of the Hayvenhurst estate, a familiar figure immediately caught your eye.

Michael was already waiting outside.

He stood near the front of the house, patiently watching for your arrival with wide eyes and an even wider smile stretched across his face. The sight was almost endearing enough to make you laugh. He looked like an excited puppy waiting for its owner to come home after being gone for far too long.

The moment he spotted the car, his face lit up even more, if that was somehow possible. Anyone would think the two of you had been separated for weeks instead of a couple of days. Then again, Michael had never been particularly good at hiding how much he adored you. Even when you weren't together, he somehow found an excuse to call at least once or twice throughout the day whenever his schedule allowed it. He couldn't wait to be reunited with his sweet angel.

Before Bill could even fully turn off the engine, Michael had already hurried over to the car. The moment the vehicle came to a stop, he reached for the door and pulled it open for you.

"Baby!" he exclaimed, his face lighting up instantly. "I missed you so much!"

The grin on his face was impossible to miss, his excitement written all over him.

"Mike, we saw each other five days ago," you giggled as he practically pulled you out of the car.

Michael paid your words no mind. The moment your feet touched the ground, he cupped your face and peppered your cheeks, forehead, and nose with affectionate kisses, his large hands eventually settling on your hips.

"I knoooow," he whined dramatically. "But I always miss my pretty girl when she isn't here with me." You could only shake your head and laugh at his antics. Some things never change.

Not willing to waste another second, Michael quickly took hold of your hand and started tugging you toward the house.

"C'mon!" he urged excitedly. "Everyone's already waiting for you, and Janet's patience was starting to wear thin."

Then, after a brief pause, a mischievous grin spread across his face.

"And," he added, glancing over his shoulder at you, "I wanna see that new swimsuit you bought." The look on his face immediately gave away that he had been curious about it long before you'd even arrived.

A few nights earlier, during one of your usual late-night phone calls with Michael, the topic had somehow drifted to summer plans. In passing, you mentioned that you'd bought a new bikini set a little while ago but hadn't had the chance to wear it yet.

That immediately caught his attention.

"You did?" he had asked, sounding far more interested than he probably intended.

Laughing at his reaction, you'd told him all about it, and before long, the conversation turned into excited planning. It was Michael who had suggested you come over sometime that week, though by the end of the call, the two of you were equally eager.

"I'll show it to you when I come over," you had promised with a laugh.

Ever since then, Michael had been looking forward to today far more than he cared to admit.

Maybe a little too much.

He tells you all the time that he fell for you because you have the purest soul he’s ever known, that your heart is what truly captured him. But the he truth, that he doesn't tell you is, your body is a beautiful, intoxicating bonus he can't help but want to worship.

You’re often too oblivious to notice the way his eyes linger when you’re wearing a tight shirt or a dress that hugs every single one of your shapes. He is completely, hopelessly obsessed with your curves. He spends half his time just watching the way your hips flare out so much wider than your waist when you're walking in front of him, tracing the soft, gorgeous lines of your body with his eyes whenever you aren't looking.

You don't see the way his breath hitches or the way his gaze drops when your breasts spill just a little too far over the edge of your top. Even the tiniest hint of cleavage is enough to make his pulse race, leaving him struggling to keep his composure as he feels a familiar, heavy ache building in his jeans.

But nobody can blame him.

He’s just a man who is absolutely starving to spend every waking second of the day with the woman who occupies his racing mind 24/7 hours a day.

As Michael pulled you into the house and toward the main living room where the family usually gathered, you were immediately met with the familiar sight of the Jacksons lounging across the furniture, chatting amongst themselves in relaxed conversation.

The youngest one was the first to notice you.

Janet's face lit up instantly.

"[Name]!" she squealed, springing up from her seat before hurrying over to you. "You're finally here!"

You laughed as she wrapped her arms around you, letting go of Michael's hand to return the hug just as tightly. "Aww, I missed you too."

Not far behind her, La Toya made her presence known as well. She greeted you with a warm smile and a brief side hug, squeezing your shoulder affectionately.

"It's good to see you again," she said warmly.

From the couch, a loud, playful whistle cut through the air, making you jump slightly.

"Look at that," Jackie teased, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he leaned back. "Michael, you didn't tell us you were bringing a literal angel with you today. You're keeping all the good stuff to yourself, man!"

"Yeah, Mike," Tito added with a grin, chuckling as he nudged his brother. "You better hold onto her tight, or we might just have to steal her for the afternoon."

Michael’s face immediately flushed a deep, embarrassed red. He tightened his grip on your waist, pulling you a little closer to his side in a protective, instinctive manner.

"C'mon, guys, stop it," he muttered, though he couldn't quite hide the shy, lopsided smile tugging at his lips. "Leave her alone."

You just rolled your eyes, letting out a soft giggle at their antics. "Don't listen to them, Michael. They're just being menaces," you whispered to him.

"Menaces? We're just being honest!" one of the others called out from the corner, prompting a chorus of laughter from the room.

The laughter in the room was infectious, but the energy was starting to ramp up as the heat of the afternoon settled in.

"Alright, alright," Michael said, his voice a little more firm as he tried to steer the conversation away from his brothers' teasing. He looked down at you, his eyes softening instantly, that pure, adoring look that always made your heart do a little flip. "Let's not overwhelm her the second she walks through the door." Michael knew that his brothers personalities could be a little overwhelming for someone who didn't grow up with them.

"We're not overwhelming her, we're welcoming her!" Jackie countered, though he finally settled back into the cushions with a grin.

"Well, we're all heading out to the pool in a bit," La Toya said, glancing at you with a knowing, playful sparkle in her eyes. "I think we all need to go change and cool off."

"I'm definitely ready for some cooling down," you said. You turned to Michael, giving his hand a little squeeze.

Michael’s eyes brightened, that boyish, eager grin spreading across his face. He looked like a kid on Christmas morning. He already knew exactly what you were planning to wear, and the thought of finally seeing you in it was making his heart race. "I'll be waiting," he promised, giving your cheek a sweet peck.

"Don't keep him waiting too long, [Name]!" one of the brothers shouted as you started to head toward the stairs. "He looks like he's about to burst!"

Michael shot them a playful, warning glare, but you could see the flush creeping back into his cheeks. He tried to play it off, but you could tell he was already counting down the seconds until you walked back down those stairs.

"Go on," he urged softly, giving your hand one last squeeze before you turned to head up.

Once you reached the guest room, the door clicked shut behind you, muffling the lively noise of the Jacksons downstairs. A surge of playful excitement bubbled up in your chest. You couldn't wait to see the look on Michael's face you could almost picture the way his eyes would widen and his breath would catch.

With a little grin tugging at your lips, you began to change. You pulled the new bikini on, the fabric feeling soft and snug against your skin. You took a moment to adjust the top, smoothing the material over your curves and ensuring everything sat just right. There was a delicious thrill in the way it hugged your waist and accentuated the flare of your hips, making you feel incredibly feminine.

Stepping in front of the full length mirror, you took a second to just look at yourself. You felt pretty, really pretty. The color of the suit made your skin glow, and the way it highlighted your shape made you feel confident and bold. You ran a hand over your hip, a small, knowing grin playing on your lips as you thought about Michael's reaction.

Glancing toward the window, you could see a clear view of the pool area below. By the time you’d finished changing, most of the brothers had already made their way outside. You could see them splashing around in the water, the sunlight dancing off the surface, and the boisterous sounds of their laughter drifting up through the open air. Michael was there, too, wading in the shallow end, but even from this distance, you could tell he wasn't really paying attention to the guys, he was just waiting.

Taking a quick breath, you grabbed your cover up and headed for the door, a little bit of nervous excitement fluttering in your stomach as you prepared to head back down.

As you stepped out onto the sun drenched patio, the heat of the afternoon hit you as you approached the pool.

You could see all the brothers splashing and laughing in the water, but your eyes instinctively searched for Michael. He was standing near the edge of the pool, mid sentence while talking to one of his brothers, but the second his eyes landed on you, he completely froze.

It was like the world around him just stopped existing.

His mouth fell open just a fraction, his gaze dropping from your face to the way the bikini hugged your curves, and then back up again, unable to look away. You watched, a little bit of a blush creeping into your own cheeks, as a deep, visible heat climbed up his neck and flooded his face. He looked absolutely stunned, like he was seeing you for the very first time all over again, his eyes dark and heavy with a hunger he wasn't even trying to hide anymore.

Even though you and Michael had already been intimate, even though you knew the way his hands felt on your skin and the way he looked at you behind closed doors, the sheer intensity of his stare still made you feel a sudden, fluttering shyness. It was as if it was the very first time he was seeing you like this.

The silence didn't last long, though.

"Whoa!" Tito let out a long, low whistle that echoed off the patio walls, breaking the spell. "Michael, man, close your mouth before you catch a fly!"

A chorus of chuckles and playful jeers erupted from the water.

"Damn, Mike!" another brother called out, grinning ear to ear as he nudged Michael in the ribs. "You didn't tell us she was bringing that today! You're a lucky dog!"

You rolled your eyes at the brothers' loud commentary, a small, embarrassed smile tugging at your lips. Instead of letting the teasing get to you, you walked straight toward Michael, whose eyes were still practically glued to you. As you reached him, you leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his cheek.

"Hi," you whispered, feeling that familiar flutter in your chest.

"Hi," he breathed back, his voice sounding a little rougher than usual. He reached out, his hand trembling just a fraction as he let his fingers graze the side of your hip, giving the fabric of your bikini a little tug. "You look... wow, angel, you look absolutely breathtaking. Truly."

The sweetness in his voice made your heart melt, but before you could respond, the sliding glass doors opened again. Janet and La Toya stepped out, looking refreshed and ready to join the fun.

"There she is!" Janet cheered, running over to pull you into a quick side hug again.

As the afternoon progressed, the group settled into a relaxed rhythm. You found yourself caught up in a whirlwind of conversation with the girls. You spent most of your time laughing and playing in the shallow end with Janet, the cool water a relief against the sun, while you drifted over to La Toya to catch up on a few things. You found yourself gossiping about some mutual friends and talking about "girl stuff", fashion, life, the usual, feeling completely at ease in their company.

A few yards away, Michael was attempting to hang out with his brothers, but he was a terrible liar. Every time you laughed at something Janet said, or every time you leaned in close to whisper something to La Toya, his gaze would snap back to you, intense and unblinking.

He was trying to play it cool, but his brothers weren't letting him off easy.

"Man, Mike, you're gonna burn a hole in the back of her head if you keep starin‘ like that," Jackie teased, splashing a bit of water toward him.

"He's just mesmerized," Jermaine added with a sly, knowing grin, leaning back on his elbows in the water. "Can you blame him? I mean, look at her. If she were mine, I wouldn't be able to look at anything else in this yard."

The comment hit Michael like a physical jab. He stiffened, his jaw tightening visibly. It wasn't that he didn't think you were beautiful, he knew that, but hearing his own brothers talk about you like you were a prize to be won rubbed him the absolute wrong way. It stirred a weird feeling deep in his chest, a sharp edge of jealousy that he tried to mask with a forced, tight smile.

"She's my girlfriend, Jermaine," Michael muttered, his voice low and warning, though he tried to keep it casual enough so you wouldn't overhear.

"Oh, we know, we know," Jackie chuckled, clearly enjoying the way he was getting under Michael's skin. "Just saying, the view is pretty damn good from over here, too."

Michael gripped the edge of the pool, his knuckles turning white, his eyes drifting back to you as you laughed at something La Toya said, his heart thudding with a mix of adoration and a sudden, fierce need to pull you away from everyone else and keep you all to himself.

"Oh, for God's sake, y'all shut up and leave him alone!" Randy finally chimed in, splashing a bit of water toward Jackie and Jermaine. He had a grin on his face, but his tone was definitely a hidden plea for mercy. "You're gonna make his head explode if you keep pokin‘ at him like that."

"We're just keeping him on his toes, Randy!" Jackie laughed, though he did settle down a little.

Seeing the boys getting so rowdy, you decided to leave the girls and wander over to Michael. You could see him sitting on the edge of the pool, his legs dangling in the water, looking a little more pensive than usual. As you approached, he immediately looked up, and the tension in his shoulders seemed to melt the second he saw you.

"Hey Mike," you said softly, sinking down onto the pool deck beside him.

"Hey, baby," he murmured. He reached out, his hand finding your waist and pulling you just a little closer to him. His touch was incredibly gentle, his thumb tracing small, soothing circles against your skin as if he were trying to calm his own racing heart. To anyone else, he looked perfectly relaxed, but you could feel the slight tightness in his grip.

You were completely oblivious to the the lingering residue of Michael's brothers' comments, which you weren't around to hear. You were just happy to be near him.

"Your family is good to me Mike," you said softly, leaning your head against his shoulder and looking out at the water with a genuine, warm smile. "I was just thinking about it. They're a little loud and chaotic—" you both giggle at that, "—but they've been so incredibly welcoming to me. It’s like they didn't even hesitate to make me feel like I belonged here. I truly love being around them. They make me feel so much a part of the family."

Michael’s hand stilled on your waist for a heartbeat, his thumb pausing its gentle rhythm against your skin. He didn't look at you right away, instead watching the sunlight dance on the surface of the pool, a small, thoughtful shadow crossing his features.

"Yeah," he murmured, his voice a little softer, a little more hesitant than usual. He pulled you a little closer, not with a forceful grip, but as if he were seeking a bit of reassurance from your warmth. "They really do. They love you, baby. And Mama... she loves you very much, too." He leaned down, pressing a tender, lingering kiss to the top of your head, his breath hitching just slightly as he breathed you in.

The two of you fell into an easy, casual conversation, the kind that only comes with true intimacy. You talked about the next movie you would watch, the music playing in the background, and the simple joys of the afternoon.

You bit your lip, looking up at him through your lashes, feeling a sudden, silly rush of heat in your cheeks. "So..." you started, your voice dropping to a shy whisper, "what do you think of it?"

Michael, who had been listening intently to your story, blinked and snapped out of his quiet trance. He looked at you, a look of adorable confusion crossing his handsome face. "Think of what, baby?"

You couldn't help the little giggle that escaped you. "The bikini, silly."

A beautiful, bright smile broke across his face, the last of his quiet pensiveness vanishing instantly. He leaned back just a little bit, his eyes sweeping over you as if he were taking a mental photograph, truly taking you in.

"Oh," he breathed, his gaze softening into something so pure and adoring it made your breath catch. "It's beautiful, angel. You're beautiful."

He leaned in, capturing your lips in a sweet, lingering kiss. As he pulled back, he wrapped his arms securely around your waist, drawing you into his side. He kept it gentle and sweet, mindful of the fact that Janet was still nearby. Just for this moment, he held you as if you were the only two people in the world.

The golden hour began to settle over the estate, casting long, amber shadows across the patio and turning the pool water into a shimmering, liquid gold. The boisterous energy of the afternoon was beginning to ebb as the brothers started to migrate toward the house, their voices fading into the background as the evening air grew cooler.

Michael hadn't let go of your waist for a second. Even as the group dispersed, he stayed tucked into your side, his touch light but constant. There was a quietness to him now, a sort of soft, lingering melancholy that you couldn't quite put your finger on.

"You okay, Mike?" you whispered, sensing the shift in his energy as you both stood up as well to head inside.

He leaned his forehead against yours for a brief moment, his eyes searching yours with that familiar, soulful intensity. "Yeah," he murmured, though he sounded a little small, a little unsure. "Just... it was a good day. A really good day." He paused, his gaze dropping to your lips before he looked away, a tiny, almost imperceptible pout forming. "I just didn't like the way they were talking earlier. About you. Like you were... just something to look at."

He sounded almost wounded, a soft whine in his voice that made you want to pull him into your arms and never let go. He wasn't angry at his brothers; he just seemed genuinely bothered by the idea of anyone else perceiving you in a way that wasn't pure adoration.

"Michael," you teased gently, reaching up to cup his cheek. "They were just teasing you, you know that."

"I know," he sighed, leaning into your palm like a kitten seeking affection. "But you're so special to me. I just want you all to myself sometimes." He muttered shyly into your hand, pressing small kisses against the skin.

The transition from the bright, loud energy of the pool to the quiet sanctuary of the house was seamless. Instead of rushing to get dressed, you both retreated to the into the shower, the steam from the shower quickly filling the room.

It was a quiet, tender moment. Michael was silent, his movements careful and deliberate as he helped you rinse the chlorine from your hair. He worked the soap through your strands with a gentle, rhythmic motion, his fingers massaging your scalp in a way that made your eyes flutter shut. There was no urgency in him, just a pure, focused devotion.

He treated you as if you were something precious and fragile, his touch light and soothing. As the warm water cascaded over both of you, he leaned in to press a soft, lingering kiss to your wet shoulder, his eyes closed, simply existing in the peacefulness of your company.

Later, as the house began to settle into the heavy silence of the night, the distant sounds of the Jackson family winding down the muffled footsteps, the closing of doors served as a backdrop to your own quiet evening. You and Michael had retreated to Michael's bedroom, the only light coming from the glow of the television as you settled into the plush covers to watch a movie he had picked out.

But as the film played, you couldn't shake the feeling that he wasn't really there.

Michael was leaning against the headboard, his arm draped around you, but his gaze was fixed somewhere far beyond the screen. He was staring into the middle distance, his expression unreadable, a soft, pensive shadow hanging over his features. He wasn't restless, but he was distant, lost in a thought that seemed to be pulling him away from the moment.

A small knot of worry began to tighten in your chest. You turned in the crook of his arm, looking up at him, searching his face in the dim light.

"Michael?" you whispered, your voice laced with concern. "Hey... what's wrong? You've been so quiet since we came inside." You paused, searching his eyes. "It can't just be from the teasing earlier, can it? You've been... somewhere else all evening."

He blinked, the sound of your voice snapping him back to the present. He looked down at you, and for a second, you saw it that flicker of vulnerability, that tiny, wounded look in his eyes that he tried so hard to hide behind his smiles. He didn't answer immediately; instead, he reached out, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with a slow, hesitant motion.

"It's nothing, baby," he murmured, though the lie was so obvious it was almost transparent. He let out a soft, shaky breath, turning his gaze back toward the TV, though he didn't seem to be watching it at all. "Just... thinking. About things."

"About what?" you pressed gently, shifting so you were facing him more fully.

He stayed silent for a long moment, the only sound the low hum of the television. He seemed to be weighing his words, trying to find a way to say what was on his mind without sounding... too much.

"I just..." he started, his voice dropping to a melodic murmur. He looked at you then, his eyes searching yours with a profound, quiet intensity. "Sometimes, when everyone is around... when they're all laughing and talking and looking at you... it just makes me realize how much there is to lose. You're so bright, baby. You're so... perfect. And sometimes it feels like the world is just waiting to realize it, too."

He didn't say the words 'I'm scared you'll realize you're too good for me,' or 'I'm scared you'll leave me for someone more certain,' but the meaning hung heavy in the air between you. He was talking about the way his brothers looked at you, about the way the world seemed to gravitate toward your light, and how that made him feel small, like a boy trying to hold onto a star.

"The way they talk," he added, his voice trailing off into a soft, almost needy whine. "It makes me feel like... like I have to keep a constant eye on you just to make sure you know you're mine. Even though you are. Even though you're so sweet to me."

Your heart ached for him. You realized then that his "sweetness" wasn't just his nature. It was his way of holding on.

"Oh, Michael," you breathed, reaching up to pull his face down to yours. You wrapped your arms around his neck, drawing him into a deep, grounding embrace. "Look at me."

He let you guide him, his eyes meeting yours, wide and searching.

"You don't have to guard me," you whispered against his lips, your voice steady and full of conviction. "And you don't have to worry about anyone else. Because even when the whole world is looking at me, the only person I actually see is you. You're the only one who has my heart, Michael. Always."

You felt him let out a long, shuddering breath, the tension finally breaking as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. He held you tight, his arms wrapping around you as if he were trying to merge his soul with yours, his body trembling slightly with the relief of being understood.

The silence that followed your words wasn't heavy anymore; it was soft, like a comforting blanket wrapping around the two of you. Michael stayed buried in the crook of your neck for a long time, his breath slowly evening out, his body gradually losing that frantic, trembling tension as he let your words sink in.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes shimmering in the dim, flickering light of the television. He didn't say anything at first, he just searched your face, as if he were trying to memorize every curve of your expression, making sure you were still there, still his.Then, he leaned in, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that was so incredibly tender it made your chest ache. It was a slow, sweet exploration a soft press of lips, a gentle graze of teeth a silent way of saying thank you for loving him the way you did.

But as the kiss deepened, the sweetness began to change. The softness of his lips grew more insistent, the pressure increasing as a low, needy hum vibrated in his throat. His hands, which had been resting loosely on your waist, began to wander, his palms sliding upward to cup your face, his thumbs tracing your cheekbones with a desperate sort of reverence.

The kiss turned passionate, a hungry, breathless thing that tasted of longing. You could feel the heat radiating off him, a feverish warmth that seemed to pull you closer and closer until there was no space left between you. You reached for him, your hands sliding under the hem of his shirt, your skin tingling at the contact with his smooth, warm torso.

"You're so perfect," he murmured against your lips, his voice a ragged, breathy whisper that sent shivers racing down your spine. "My angel... you're so perfect for me."

He shifted, his weight pressing you back into the pillows, but he was so careful, so mindful of his strength, as if he were afraid he might break you. His hands drifted down, sliding beneath the fabric of your clothes and sliding under your panties to find the soft skin of your hips. When his long, elegant fingers finally found the damp heat between your thighs, you let out a sharp, hitching breath.

"Shhh," he whispered, "Gotta be quiet, baby," a tiny, lopsided smile tugging at his lips as he leaned down to catch your gasp with his mouth. He didn't just kiss you; he devoured you, his tongue dancing with yours in a intoxicating way that made your head spin.

His fingers were masterful, a slow and agonizing precision that made you feel like you were unraveling. He didn't rush; he teased the sensitive folds of your pussy first, his touch so light it was almost maddening, before he finally slid his fingers deep inside you.

He knew exactly how to move, his fingers curling and stretching to find those hidden, pulsing spots that you could never quite reach on your own. Each stroke was deliberate, designed to draw every single ounce of pleasure from you until you were nothing but a mess of sensation.

You were lost in it, your hips rising instinctively to meet his hand, a needy, wordless sound building in your throat. You reached down for him, your fingers curling around the heavy, pulsing length of his cock as you pulled him out of his boxers. The sensation of your soft skin against his was electric, the heat of him nearly overwhelming. You began to stroke him, your movements slow and rhythmic, mimicking the way he was working you, your thumb grazing the very top of him.

A broken, high pitched whimper escaped him at the contact, his head against your neck as his eyes fluttered shut. "Oh... oh, baby... just like that" he breathed, his voice a melodic, needy whine.

You leaned down, your tongue darting out to lick your palm, coating your fingers in your own slickness before sliding them back down to him. The sound was unmistakable a wet, raunchy, sliding friction that made the air in the room feel heavy and suffocating.

"Oh my god, baby, you're so good," he gasped, his voice dropping into a frantic whisper. He leaned down, his lips finding the sensitive line of your jaw, then your neck, his kisses becoming more urgent, more hungry. "So good to me... please, don't ever stop..."

he was completely focused on the way your body reacted to him, his eyes tracking every flutter of your eyelids, every hitch in your breath. He was worshiping you, his touch a constant stream of praise.

"You feel so amazing," he whispered into your ear, his breath hot and uneven. "So soft... so warm... you're mine, angel. You're so beautiful."

As the tension in your lower belly coiled tighter and tighter, a loud, uninhibited whine started to climb up your throat, a plea for release. But before the sound could carry through the quiet house, Michael moved, his mouth crashing against yours, his tongue sliding passionately into yours to swallow the sound, turning your cry into a muffled, desperate moan.

"You're so close, aren't you?" he whispered against your lips, his voice a frantic tremor. "Show me, angel... show me how much you want it."

He pulled back just enough to look down at you, his eyes darkening with a hunger that was almost painful to witness. He was trembling, his whole body vibrating with the effort of holding himself back. He looked down at where his fingers were buried deep inside your slick, pulsing pussy.

A soft, broken whine escaped him at the sight of it, his head falling back as a fine sheen of sweat broke out across his brow. "Oh god... look at you... you're so wet for me, pretty baby... so beautiful..."

He couldn't take it anymore. The need to be one with you was a physical ache, a demand from his very soul.

"I need to be inside you," he gasped, his voice cracking with a desperate, needy whine. "Right now... please, baby, let me be inside you..."

He shifted his weight, moving between your thighs. At first, he kept your legs draped over his forearms, his movements careful as he guided his thick, pulsing cock to your entrance. But as he pushed forward, the sensation of being enveloped by your heat was so overwhelming that he let out a sharp, choked sound. He needed more. He needed to be deeper.

He reached down, grabbing your ankles and pulling your legs up, hiking them higher until they were resting on his shoulders, opening you completely to him. He groaned, a low, soulful sound, as he slid inside your pussy, burying himself in you in one long, slow, agonizingly perfect stroke.

"Oh... fuck..." he breathed, the rare curse slipping out as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his body shuddering from the sheer intensity of the connection. "You're so tight... so perfect... it feels like heaven, baby... pure heaven..."

He began to move, a slow, rhythmic thrusting that made the wooden headboard of the bed creak softly in a steady, hypnotic tempo. He was trying to find a rhythm that would make you melt. He was focusing entirely on the way your walls gripped him, the way your breath hitched with every deep, sliding movement and the way you struggle to keep quiet.

"That's it... just like that, angel," he murmured, his voice a constant, sweet stream of praise as he worked. He reached down with one hand, his thumb finding your clit and beginning to rub it in a steady, circular motion that synchronized perfectly with his thrusts. "Feel how good it is? Feel how much you love it?"

His other hand came up, his fingers tangling in your hair to pull your head back, exposing your throat to his hungry, feverish kisses. He leaned down, his mouth finding one of your nipples, sucking on it with a rhythmic, desperate intensity that made your toes curl and you let out a needy whine.

You were lost, your head thrown back, one hand clamped over your mouth to stifle the sounds of your pleasure as the world narrowed down to the sensation of him filling you, the steady creak creak of the bed, and the sweet, breathless whispers of the man who worshipped you.

The rhythm was hypnotic, a steady, driving pulse of skin against skin and the rhythmic creak of the headboard against the wall. Michael was lost in you, his eyes squeezed shut as he focused on the sensation of being swallowed by your heat. He was whispering sweet, frantic things into your ear, his voice a low, melodic vibration that seemed to settle right in your bones.

"My pretty girl..."

He was leaning down, his lips grazing your collarbone, his breath hitching as he felt you tighten around him. The tension in the room was so thick you could almost taste it, a heavy, electric charge that made every touch feel like a lightning strike.

Then, the spell was shattered.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The sound was sharp and sudden, a violent intrusion of the real world into your private space. Michael froze mid thrust, his entire body jolting as if he’d been struck by lightning. He let out a tiny, startled squeak a sound so uncharacteristically high and embarrassed that it made your own heart skip a beat.

"Hey! You two alright in there?" Jackie’s voice boomed from the hallway, followed by the unmistakable, mischievous chuckle of Tito. "Sounds like a whole lot of... activity!"

"Yeah, Mike!" Marlon’s voice joined in, loud and teasing. "You need some help? Or are you just working too hard?"

Michael’s face went a shade of crimson you didn't even know was possible. He scrambled to pull himself up, accidentally slipping out of you, his eyes wide and panicked, looking everywhere but at the door. He looked like he wanted the floor to simply open up and swallow him whole. You felt the heat rushing to your cheeks, your hand flying to your mouth to stifle the embarrassed gasp that escaped you.

"Hush! Leave them alone!" La Toya’s voice rang out, sharp and authoritative, though you could hear the smile in her tone. "Can't you see they're busy? Let them have some peace!"

"We're going, we're going!" Marlon laughed, his footsteps receding down the hall, followed by the sound of the brothers' collective, boisterous laughter.

"Come on, you hooligans!" La Toya scolded, her footsteps following them as she chased them away, her voice fading into the distance.

Silence fell over the room, but it wasn't the heavy, sensual silence from before. It was a thick, awkward, mortified silence. Michael stayed frozen, his head bowed, his shoulders hunched as he tried to hide his face in the crook of your neck. He was breathing shallowly, his ears a bright, burning red.

"Oh god..." he whispered, his voice a tiny, embarrassed whine.

He sounded so genuinely wounded by the interruption, so shy and flustered, that you couldn't help but let out a small, breathless giggle. The sheer absurdity of the moment being caught in the most intimate act by a chorus of teasing brothers broke the tension in the most ridiculous way.

Michael looked up at you, seeing the amusement in your eyes, and he let out a long, shaky sigh. A small, shy smile finally tugging at the corners of his mouth, even as his face remained flushed.

"They're so embarrassing," he murmured, his eyes searching yours, a little bit of that needy, intense hunger beginning to flicker back to life through the embarrassment. He leaned down, pressing a soft, apologetic kiss to your forehead. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," you whispered, reaching up to cup his face, your fingers tracing the heat of his cheek. "I think they're gone again"

He let out a breath, his gaze darkening as he looked at you, the embarrassment melting away to make room for a renewed, even more desperate kind of longing. He seemed determined to make up for the lost time, to reclaim the intimacy you had lost.

"Just us," he echoed, his voice dropping back into that low, sinful register. He moved back over you, his movements a little more urgent now, a little more frantic. "Just us, baby. And I'm not letting anyone else in again."

The way he moved now was different. The slow, careful worship was still there, but it was laced with a new, feverish urgency. It was as if he were trying to make up for every second lost to the teasing voices in the hallway, as if he needed to drown out the memory of their laughter with the sound of your breath.

He didn't just slide back into you; he drove back into you with a deep, grounding stroke that made the headboard groan a long, low protest against the wall. He let out a ragged, broken sound halfway between a moan and a sob as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his skin hot and damp against yours.

"I missed you," he whimpered, the words muffled against your skin. "Even when you were right here... I just... I missed being inside you"

His hands were everywhere, frantic yet purposeful. One hand stayed clamped firmly on your hip, anchoring you to him, while the other returned to your clit, his thumb working with a relentless, driving rhythm that sent white hot sparks behind your eyelids. He was pushing you, guiding you toward the edge with the expertise of a man who lived to see you undone.

You were far past the point of being able to stay quiet. Your hips were bucking wildly against him, your fingers digging into the muscles of his back, your breath coming in short, desperate hitches. Every time a loud, needy whine threatened to escape your lips, Michael was there, his mouth finding yours, his tongue sweeping into your mouth to catch the sound, turning your cries into a shared, breathless heat.

"That's it... yes, baby... just like that," he whispered, his voice a frantic, melodic chant in your ear. "Give it all to me... give it all to me, angel..."

The friction was becoming intense, the wet, sliding sounds of his cock moving inside you filling the quiet room, a raunchy, rhythmic sound to your shared desperation. You could feel the tension in his body, too; he was coiled tight, his muscles jumping under your touch, his breathing coming in those short, sharp, needy gasps that told you he was right there on the edge with you.

"Mikey..." you gasped, your voice breaking as the first waves of your climax began to crash over you. "Michael, please..."

He heard the desperation in your voice, saw the way your eyes were blown wide and glazed with pleasure, and it was the final trigger. He let out a long, high pitched, needy whine, his head falling into the crook of your neck as he felt your pussy begin to pulse and squeeze around him in a frantic, rhythmic clench.

"Oh god... baby─" he cried out, his voice a beautiful, broken melody.

As you came, your whole body shuddering under the force of the release, he followed you instantly. He thrust deep one last time, pinning you to the mattress as his own climax took him, a series of heavy, soul shaking jolts that left him breathless and trembling. He let out a long, low, shuddering groan, his forehead resting against yours as he poured his cum into you, his entire body vibrating with the intensity of it.

For a long time, the only sound in the room was the heavy, synchronized thudding of your hearts and the ragged, uneven rhythm of your breathing. The television was still flickering in the background, a silent witness to the wreckage of passion.

Michael didn't pull away. He stayed draped over you, his weight a comforting, warm presence, his face hidden in the hollow of your neck. He was still trembling slightly, the aftershocks of his release rippling through him.

"I love you so much," he whispered, his voice so low and exhausted it was barely a breath. He pressed a lingering, tender kiss to your temple, his lips soft and warm. "My angel... you're my everything."

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes soft, swimming with a profound, quiet adoration. He reached up, his thumb gently wiping a stray tear of pleasure from the corner of your eye.

You reached up, your hand still trembling slightly from the intensity of it all, to cradle his cheek. Your skin felt electric against his, and the moment your palm met his heated cheek, Michael let out a tiny, contented sigh. He didn't pull away; instead, he leaned into your touch, closing his eyes and pressing his face into your hand.

"I love you too, angel face," you murmured, your voice thick with emotion.

A soft, beautiful flush crept up his neck and dusted his cheekbones. He let out a shy, breathless little laugh, ducking his head slightly as he blushed at the nickname. It was a rare, unguarded moment of pure, boyish sweetness that made your heart swell.

"Angel face..." he repeated under his breath, a small, lopsided smile playing on his lips.

He shifted, pulling the heavy duvet up over both of your bodies, cocooning you in a warm, dark sanctuary. He didn't move to get up or clean up; he simply wanted to be near you. He tucked his head under your chin, his nose brushing against your collarbone, and wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you flush against him.

The room was quiet now, the frantic energy of before replaced by a heavy, peaceful stillness. The only sound was the distant, muffled hum of the TV and the steady, calming rhythm of his heart beating against yours. You ran your fingers through his hair, the soft strands slipping through your fingers as you stroked his head in slow, soothing motions.

Michael let out a long, shaky breath, his body finally going limp with total relaxation. He nuzzled closer, his breath warm against your skin, his presence a constant, comforting weight.

"Stay right here," he whispered, his voice trailing off into a sleepy, contented mumble. "Don't go anywhere... just stay with me, baby. Just like this."

"Always," you promised, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

“Oh, thank goodness you haven’t left yet!” Your voice bursts through the speaker in a breathless rush. 

“Hey, pretty girl,” He says, plopping down on the edge of the bed, smiling at the sound of your voice. “Y’alright?”

“I’m fine,” you respond. In the background he can hear the typical hospital noise—the clatter of something in the distance, overhead pages, phones ringing urgently—a chaotic soundtrack he’s grown used to hearing whenever you call him from work. “I’m just… held up. Again.”

He can picture you clearly: scrubs wrinkled, hair messily pulled back, your foot tapping as you anxiously fiddle with the phone cord. 

“Let me guess… Your coworker?”

“Yes,” you groan. “The same one. Late, again! I swear she lives in a different time zone.”

Michael chuckles under his breath, trying to ignore the slight pang of disappointment in his chest at the thought of your long-awaited plans being delayed. He didn’t want to make you feel even worse. “I was about to head downstairs for Bill.”

”I know, I know, and I’m sorry, baby.” You say quickly. “But listen—I still want you to come over. Just head over to my place. Use your key.”

The key. Even after months of having it, the reminder of it still makes something flutter in his chest. His palm lands softly on his front pocket, where the small silver key sits on its own ring. You had tried to be nonchalant as you handed it to him, but he hadn’t missed the way you blushed and stumbled over your words when offering it—still nervous and giddy around one another despite nearly two years together.

”You sure?” He asks, now having taken the key out of his pocket, fiddling with the cold metal between his fingers.

“Positive.” You assure him. “I’ll only be an hour… or two. Tops.”

Your voice lowers. “And before you say anything—I bought groceries this time.”

He blinks, chuckling at your declaration. “You did?”

“Yes, Michael. Real groceries. My refrigerator now contains more than stale bread and expired milk.”

“I wasn’t gonna say anything!” He laughs again, warm and bright. 

“You absolutely were!” You counter. “But you can’t, because I stocked up on your favorites.”

That gets him. He feels it—the soft, quiet bloom of warmth in the center of his chest at the feeling of being considered. You’re tired, juggling a dozen things at once, and still, you thought of him.

”Alright,” he says, cradling the phone between his ear and shoulder as he stands up to zip his jacket the rest of the way. “I’ll head over now.”

”Good.” You say, a smile in your voice. “Make yourself at home, okay?”

He bites his lip shyly; smiling at nothing, at everything. “I always do.”

There’s a small pause—the kind that only happens when neither of you wants to be the first to hang up.

“I love you,” you say softly.

His smile deepens, that feeling in his chest growing even warmer. “I love you too, baby. See you soon.”

You both linger for a beat before the line finally goes quiet. By the time Michael arrives at your apartment, the sun has dipped low enough to paint the sky in soft pinks and golds. He thanks Bill, throws his bag over his shoulder, and exits the vehicle with a quiet, eager energy he hasn’t felt in weeks. 

It’s been too long—too many late nights for him in the studio, too many early mornings for you at the hospital, too many missed calls and ‘sorry baby, I just got home,’ messages, and he misses you. He misses this—the simple act of spending the weekend with his girlfriend.

He reaches your door, pulling out his key and slipping it into the lock. He steps inside and closes it behind him with a soft click, shrugging off his jacket and draping it neatly over the back of a chair. He toes off his loafers with a relieved sigh, nudging them aside neatly with a soft scrape against the floor. He exhales, shoulders finally relaxing as he takes in the space. 

He loves your apartment, he always has; each and every corner a reminder and reflection of you. Photos line the walls—some crooked, some perfectly straight—more stuck to the fridge with mismatched magnets. Knickknacks and trinkets cover every shelf and surface; mismatched decor, tiny animal figurines from your childhood, little gifts he’s given you over the years. Your books and record collection are neatly arranged, meanwhile a heap of mail is stacked in a slightly chaotic pile on the counter. A few dishes from breakfast sit in the sink. Your diplomas hang proudly on the wall outside of your bedroom. Below, a small mountain of laundry waits patiently on the floor.

It’s lived-in. It’s warm. Clean, despite the clutter. It smells like you—familiar and comforting.

He smiles to himself, wandering further into the kitchen. When he opens the fridge, he actually laughs out loud. You really did buy groceries. An unopened gallon of orange juice sits front and center: a blue post-it with your handwriting pasted to the front of the jug: “for angel face <3”

He blushes, shaking his head at your shameless flirting, and is about to close the door when something on the fridge catches his eye—a photo tucked under a magnet shaped like a strawberry.

A photo of him.

It was taken the night of the Off The Wall release party in 1979. He’s smiling wide, laughing at something or someone outside of the frame. He has a hand in the pocket of his blue jacket and he balances on roller skates. 

He remembers the night vividly—but not because of the party.  Because of you. 

Michael’s smile softens as the memory pulls him in—

The rink was buzzing that night—music loud, neon lights spinning, people laughing as they wobbled around on skates. 

You were working part-time at the roller rink—juggling shifts between nursing school classes and study groups. It wasn’t glamorous, but it paid the bills. You were behind the rental counter that evening, exhausted and burnt out, but still smiling at everyone who came your way.

Then Michael walked in with his friends and family, and the whole atmosphere of the room shifted.

Of course, you had recognized him—all of them, actually—instantly. Aside from being a fan, you knew the group was coming, your manager having told the whole crew in advance about the party being held in honor of Michael Jackson releasing his new solo album, Off The Wall. You were all under strict instructions not to make a scene—or swoon—when they arrived.  The same could not be said for Michael himself, though.

He had walked into the room excited and proud, ready to finally celebrate the album he had worked so hard on with some of his favorite people, but the moment he saw you, he stopped in his tracks. Completely. 

You were laughing at something a coworker said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear when he felt it—a sudden, ridiculous flutter in his chest. 

“Mike,” Jackie nudged him. “You good?”

He didn’t answer. He was too busy staring.

“Earth to Michael,” Tito added, waving a hand in front of his face.

Nothing. He was hopelessly, helplessly smitten at the sight of you in your cute little uniform, totally oblivious to his swooning just ten feet away.

When he finally approached the counter to collect his skates (or was he shoved?), you looked up at him with that bright, open smile—the one he would eventually come to love more than anything—and he was speechless. Utterly speechless. As in, literally unable to form words. 

“What size?” You had asked, pen poised over the rental sheet.

He didn’t respond. He simply stared at you—openly, hopelessly—essentially forgetting the whole reason he was there the second he laid eyes on you. 

”Um… what size skates do you need?” You repeated, blushing.

He blinked, snapping out of it. “Oh—sorry! Uh, size… nine? Yeah, nine. Please.”

You handed him the skates, trying not to be too obvious as you stared into his pretty brown eyes. “Happy birthday,” you had said, shy but sincere as you recalled the date.

He smiled, but shook his head. “Thank you, but… we’re actually here to celebrate the release of my new album. Would you like a copy?”

He gestured to the box his team had brought with them—signed copies of the album to give to the staff as a ‘thank you’ for hosting the party.

“Oh! I would but I… kinda already have one.”

He blinked. “You do?”

You nodded, a blush rising to your cheeks. “I stood in line for hours at the record store this morning. I’m…kind of a big fan.”

His heart did a full somersault at that, his smile turning boyish and shy. “Well, then… you should have a signed one too.”

Before you could protest out of sheer politeness, he reached into the box and handed one to you, trying not to become flustered as your hands accidentally brushed. He giggled nervously as you thanked him, quickly disappearing into the crowd in hopes of not embarrassing himself further. 

He tried to act normal the remainder of the night, he really did, but he failed. Miserably.  Every few minutes, he’d drift dangerously close to the wall because he was craning his neck to catch another glimpse of you. At one point, he’d nearly collided with a group of kids doing tricks, almost wiping out himself.

His brothers noticed—because of course they did— and didn’t hesitate to tease him mercilessly.

“Mikey…” Marlon sing-songed. “You’re starin’ again.”

”I’m not!” Michael protested, while actively staring.

”Uh-huh,” Tito adds. “Our little Mikey’s in love.”

“Shut up Tito!” He hisses under his breath, cheeks becoming hotter by the minute. 

”Just go talk to her!” Jackie urged.

“I did talk to her,” Michael shoots back, his cheeks turning more and more red the further they taunt him.

”Yeah,” Marlon said. “And you stared at her like a lovesick fool. Go ask for her number, you pathetic schmuck.”

By the end of the night, after watching him sneak glances and make a fool of himself for hours, the entire group had had enough. Marlon himself eventually grabbed Michael by the shoulders, and physically shoved him toward the rental counter.

”Go. Now. Before I do it for you.”

”Marlon!” Michael hisses, mortified, heart hammering in his chest as he stumbled toward you. If he were being truthful, the only thing worse than him making a move and being rejected was the thought of Marlon making a move and getting your number instead.

He set the pair of skates on the counter—harsher than intended—and immediately began rambling. “Uh—hi. I mean—hello. Again. I just, uh, wanted to return these. The skates. Obviously. And also I—well—I was wondering if maybe, if it’s not too forward or anything—if I could, um…have your number? Your… phone number?”

You froze, jaw falling open in shock as he babbled, totally unconvinced that you weren’t simply daydreaming.

Taking your silence as rejection, Michael immediately began to regret all of his life decisions and had opened his mouth to backtrack when you began to scramble wildly for anything to write on—a receipt, a napkin, a scrap of paper, anything. 

You finally settle on a crumpled up candy wrapper and scribble your number down with shaky hands, and hand it to him, your fingers brushing once again, sparks igniting at the brief contact.

You both pretend not to hear his brothers hooting and cheering in the background. - Michael closes the refrigerator door gently, continuing to smile fondly at the photo. The memory continues to unfold—not just that night, but everything that followed.

The truth was, you never expected him to actually call. You were flattered of course, dizzy with disbelief. You had practically floated home that night, clutching the signed album to your chest as if it were made of gold. 

But you knew who he was: famous, busy, traveling the world and performing for millions of people. And you were just… well, you: an ordinary girl working part-time at a roller rink trying to survive college.

But he did call. The very next day, actually.

You were in the middle of studying for an exam when the phone rang. Then you heard his voice—soft and shy—and you nearly dropped the receiver. “It’s Michael. Remember? From the roller rink…?” He had said. You had to hold back a giggle at his introduction—acting as if he were just some random guy who had asked for your number, and not Michael Jackson himself. You didn’t get any more studying done that night, the call lasting hours. He called the next day too. And the day after that. And the day after that.

Even when he was on the road, even when you were drowning in exams and clinical rotations, you talked. Somehow, no matter how chaotic life became, the two of you always made time for each other—sometimes five minutes, sometimes hours, and sometimes just enough to say “I miss you.”

You had clicked instantly. Not simply as a crush, but as friends—real friends. The kind who could talk about everything and nothing without ever running out of things to say.  The kind who laughed until your stomachs hurt, the kind who felt strangely familiar from the very beginning—saying things to one another that you had never said out loud to another soul.

It wasn’t long before he asked you on a date, and it took even less time for him to ask you to be his girlfriend. His first girlfriend. His first everything. And he wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

You had fit into his world with an ease that surprised everyone around you. His sisters adored you. His mother welcomed you with open arms, always insisting you stay for dinner or come by whenever you had time. Even Joseph tolerated your presence… well, somewhat—which was about as high of a compliment as you could get from that man, so Michael took it as a win. His brothers teased the both of you relentlessly, flirting with you shamelessly simply to get under Michael’s skin. You never missed a beat, though, effortlessly putting them in their place with a quick comeback or humbling retort—and they loved you for it. Michael loved you even more for it.

He loved the way you held your own with his family, the way you made him laugh, the way you treated him like a person rather than a superstar. He loved the way you made everything feel lighter on even the heaviest days.

It wasn’t until your third date—a quiet dinner with the two of you sitting close enough that your knees brushed beneath the table—that you finally admitted to him that the night at the roller rink hadn’t actually been the first time you met.  Months earlier, you and a friend had won a radio contest—front row tickets to The Jacksons’ Destiny Tour that included a meet and greet with the group.

When you told him, he was absolutely devastated. ‘You were there? And I didn’t remember you?’ His voice had gone soft, quivering slightly as if he had failed you somehow.

You reached across the table, grasping his hand. ‘Michael, don’t be silly. You were exhausted. And it was so quick, you probably met hundreds of fans that day.’

Still, he was crushed. In his mind, he was mourning the extra months he could have had with you. You, on the other hand, seemed… relieved? “Honestly…I’m kind of glad you don’t remember.”

“Why?” He blinked.

“I mean…” You shrugged, cheeks growing hot as you tried to deflect. “I was so excited to meet you all. I probably embarrassed myself.” 

He was sure that wasn’t true—you were always perfect in his eyes. You insisted though, so he let it go and he accepted your reassurance, despite his disappointment.

Michael finally shakes himself from the memory, feeling hopelessly lovesick as he tears himself away from the photo. You couldn’t get home soon enough. 

A half hour slips by before Michael grows restless. He tries to be patient—really, he does.

The first ten minutes pass easily enough. He puts on one of your records, something he knows you like, letting the music fill the quiet of your apartment. He sits on the couch for a while, stretching out and tapping his fingers against his knees, humming along to the soft tunes. 

Another ten minutes pass. He checks the clock. Then checks it again two minutes later. 

He even considers taking a nap, leaning back against the cushions and closing his eyes for a moment. But the stillness of the apartment, the soft hum of the record spinning and the faint scent of your perfume lingering in the air all make him restless in a way he can’t quite shake.

Then, his curiosity wins out. It always does. 

He tells himself he’s not snooping. He’s just… looking around. Appreciating the space. He really tries to believe it, but after a few minutes of wandering around the living room with his hands in his pockets, he sighs and admits it to himself: Alright. He’s snooping.

It’s a terrible habit—one he’s had since he was a little boy. He’s always been endearingly curious, poking around drawers and closets he had no business opening. His mother used to scold him for it constantly, telling him it was bad manners and just plain rude.

He should know better by now, he really should—but he can’t help it. He loves your space—loves the little pieces of you tucked into every corner, and he never gets tired of learning things about you that you never think to mention. It makes him feel closer to you, even when you're not there. And, frankly, you should have known better than to leave him unattended and bored. 

He starts with the bookshelf, running a finger along the spines of your novels and old nursing school textbooks. At the end, a few cookbooks. 

He snorts softly. You own cookbooks. You, who barely has time to buy groceries, let alone cook. He shakes his head in amusement, imagining you optimistically buying them and then promptly forgetting they exist. He pulls one out and quickly leafs through it—finding not a single page dog-eared, nor one stain or smudge. He snickers under his breath before sliding it back into place.

And that’s when he spots it—a thick, slightly worn high school yearbook wedged in at the end.

He pulls it out carefully, glancing nervously toward the door like you’re about to walk in at that exact moment, then settles onto the couch with it resting on his lap. He examines the pages slowly—scanning the class photos and candid shots of students laughing in hallways. It takes him less than a minute to find you.

He spots your photo and immediately breaks into a grin that he couldn’t hide even if he tried. You look younger, of course—softer around the edges and hair styled differently, but still undeniably you. He giggles under his breath, tracing the edge of the photo with his thumb. He reads the messages your classmates wrote to you in the margins—grinning at the inside jokes he doesn’t understand and the sweet notes from friends he’s never met.

He wonders, not for the first time, how differently things would have turned out if the two of you had gone to school together—if he’d seen you in the hallways, or sat behind you in class, or watched you laugh with your friends at lunch. Would you have gone to prom together? Went to football games hand-in-hand? The thought makes him smile, then laugh softly at himself. 

Who was he kidding? He was nearly too shy to talk to you when he met you at age twenty-one. If he had met you as a teenager, he probably would have tripped over his own feet trying to say hello. 

He allows himself another moment of reminiscing before putting the yearbook away where he found it. 

He continues exploring. On the bottom shelf of your TV stand, he finds an old shoebox with a lid that doesn’t quite close all the way. He hesitates for barely a second before picking it up and lifting the lid. 

Inside is a jumble of old memories—some new, some old: friendship bracelets, faded movie tickets, a few Polaroids, some photo negatives, a folded note or two. He smiles as he sifts through them, careful not to bend or misplace anything. It feels like flipping through a scrapbook of your life before he knew you.

Then, he finds something else tucked near the bottom of the box—a bundle of photos with a rubber band holding them together. He pulls them out gently. 

On top is a ticket stub—The Jacksons’ Destiny World Tour. 1979.

Jackpot. He thinks to himself, immediately sliding the rubber band off and beginning to look through the photos—grainy, slightly overexposed shots of the stage. The crowd. Him and his brothers mid-dance. 

Then he finds one that makes his heart skip a beat: a photo of him—he’s mid-spin, completely unaware that somewhere in the crowd, a girl he hadn’t met yet was watching him with a camera in her hands. The girl he would fall in love with. The girl he would marry someday—he’s sure of it.

He continues flipping through the stack of photos, settling deeper into the couch. He recognizes some of the photos, you had shown them to him before, back when you first told him about the concert you attended. He had to coax you into letting him see them at all—he recalls how shy you were, insisting they were so embarrassing. Michael disagreed.

He flips to a photo of you and your friend outside of the venue, both of you pointing excitedly at the billboard advertising the tour. You’re both grinning so wide it looks painful. You both wear white t-shirts: “The Jacksons” and “Destiny Tour 1979” spelled out in bright lettering across the front, the design clearly homemade. He had tried to tease you about the DIY project when you originally showed him the photos, but he’d barely gotten a sentence out before you smacked his arm playfully and told him to hush.  “We were broke college students! We had to make our own merch!”

He remembers laughing—he had never seen someone look so adorably proud in a t-shirt they had designed themselves with a pack of fabric markers.

He moves onto the next photo, another shot of the two of you outside the venue, this time with your arms thrown around each other mid-laugh, the crowd buzzing behind you. He can feel the energy radiating from the photo—the anticipation, the excitement, the electricity.

Then, he reaches the first photo from the meet-and-greet. He’s seen his photo before too, but for some reason, it hits him differently this time. Maybe it’s because he’s sitting in your apartment, surrounded by your things, thinking about your history all afternoon.

There he is—right in the middle, where he was always positioned. You’re sandwiched between him and Marlon, and your friend stands on the opposite side between him and Randy.

Him and his brothers look exhausted—sweaty, flushed, hair sticking to their foreheads—but they’re smiling, bright and genuine, still riding the adrenaline high from the performance. Always excited and grateful to meet fans. 

Michael can’t stop looking at you in the photo; so young, so excited and unbelievably cute. It still drives him crazy that he can’t remember you. He knows he shouldn’t feel bad— he’s told himself that a million times. It was after a show, he was exhausted. You were one face in a sea of faces. But still.

He wishes he remembered you, that he had noticed you that day, that he had looked up and seen the girl who would someday become the most important person in his life.

He flips through the rest of the photos with a quiet fondness, taking his time with each one as the stack gets smaller and smaller. 

Then he reaches the last photo and freezes, nearly dropping the whole pile in surprise. He’s never seen this one, he’s sure of it. He would have remembered.

It's another shot taken in front of the venue, but this one was taken from behind—you and your friend standing with your backs to the camera, hips popped out dramatically, each of you pointing your thumbs toward writing on the backs of your DIY t-shirts, the lettering bold and bright.

Written on the back of your friend’s shirt:  ‘Randy’s #1 Girl’

On yours? ‘Marlon’s #1 Girl’

Michael’s jaw drops. 

Then, he bursts out laughing. It's loud, sudden and completely unrestrained—the sound surprising even himself. He doubles forward, hand flying over his mouth, shoulders shaking. His cheeks flush, partly from amusement, and partly from the sheer irony of it all. 

“Oh… oh lord…” He wheezes, wiping at his eyes.

He should be jealous, he thinks. And a year or two ago, he probably would have spiraled—making up all sorts of ridiculous scenarios in his head, convincing himself you would have preferred someone else, letting his insecurities gnaw at him until he was sick.

Maybe he is a little jealous, just a tiny bit. But more than that? He’s delighted. Absolutely thrilled.

Because this—this—is leverage. Real leverage. The kind he never gets with you.

You almost always have the upper hand when it comes to teasing. You’re quick, clever, merciless in the most affectionate way. You know exactly how to fluster him, exactly how to make him blush, exactly how to get him sputtering and defensive.

He tosses the rest of the stack to the side and holds the photo up, grinning like he just discovered buried treasure. “Girl… you are never living this down.” He murmurs to himself.

Admittedly, if it were anyone else, perhaps he would have been jealous, but it's not anyone else. It’s Marlon.

You and Marlon bicker like you were siblings yourselves—loud, dramatic, ridiculous, and completely harmless. Michael has never once felt threatened by your relationship with any of his brothers. Even if he does get irritated at times, he knows their natural flirtiness is just part of who they are, and you’ve always handled it with humor and a scathing comeback. 

Besides, it was Marlon himself who gave him the final shove toward you at the roller rink. A fact that his older brother likes to bring up constantly, essentially crediting your entire relationship to his self-proclaimed matchmaking genius.

Michael leans back into the couch, snickering to himself. He cannot wait for you to walk through that door.

-

You finally pull into your driveway, turning off the engine and letting your head fall back against the seat for a moment, closing your eyes and letting out the kind of long, heavy sigh that only comes after a shift that lasted far too long. 

What was supposed to be a normal twelve-hour shift had stretched into fifteen—cutting into your perfect evening with Michael—all because your stupid coworker was late. Again. You’d spent the last few hours trying not to fall asleep on your feet, counting down the minutes until you could go home and fall into his arms. 

You’re exhausted in that bone-deep way that only healthcare workers understand. All you want to do is to peel everything off and stand under a hot shower until the day melts off of your skin. Preferably with your very pretty boyfriend in there with you. 

Despite the exhaustion, though, a spark of energy remains humming beneath your ribs—the excitement that’s been building for days.

Because the rest of the night belongs only to you and Michael—movies, snacks, and a whole weekend with no interruptions, no opposite schedules, and no rushed phone calls squeezed in between responsibilities. Just the two of you, finally in the same place at the same time.

It had been too long—truly too long. 

You’re so incredibly proud of him—of the work he’s pouring into Thriller, of the long nights and early mornings he spends in his studio, of the way he talks about his music like it’s alive—an entity of itself. 

You can’t wait to hear the final record. You have no doubt that the sneak-peeks and demos he sometimes lets you hear do no justice to the finished project. But more than anything, you can’t wait to have him to yourself for a little while.

The thought of coming home to him tonight makes your heart flutter in a way you try not to think too hard about—especially when it’s quickly followed by the thought of coming home to him everyday.  The idea of moving in together has crossed your mind more than once—slipping in between late-night phone calls and early mornings when you’re half-awake and missing him more than anything. You wouldn’t have to worry about going weeks without seeing each other if you shared the same bed every night and woke up next to each other every morning. Maybe soon. Maybe once the album is out. Maybe when life slows down just enough for the two of you to breathe at the same time.

You gather your things—your bag, your change of shoes, the lunch you never had time to eat—and step out of your car into the cool evening air. 

Your body aches, your feet hurt, and you’re dog-tired, but none of that matters because Michael—your Michael—is inside waiting for you, and suddenly the day doesn’t feel quite so heavy anymore. 

The moment you push open your apartment door, the familiar warmth of home wraps around you like a blanket—the soft lamplight, a hint of vanilla from a candle Michael must have lit while waiting for you, soft hum of a record spinning in the background, and a whiff of his cologne coming from his jacket draped over the chair closest to the door. 

You barely step one foot inside the threshold when you hear it—the unmistakable sound of footsteps hurriedly making their way toward you. 

Then Michael appears—or rather, launches himself into the room—skidding around the corner. He couldn’t possibly look more goofy as his socked-feet slide a little on the hardwood and he catches himself on the wall. He straightens himself quickly, like he meant to do that, and hadn’t just sprinted toward you like a puppy greeting its owner. He tries to look casual, lifting his chin as he leans nonchalantly against the doorway—but the bright, boyish excitement in his eyes gives him away instantly.

You, meanwhile, don’t even pretend to play it cool.  You drop your things to the floor in a completely ungraceful heap, and you’re in his arms before either of you can say a word. 

He catches you easily, arms wrapping around your middle with a kind of desperation that makes you want to melt into him and resurface. He squeezes you tight, lifting you just slightly off the ground before setting you back down, but not letting go yet.

“Hi, baby,” you murmur against his skin, burying your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling deeply. He smells like home—the scent hitting you so hard that you almost do melt—right then and there. 

He hums a soft sound—something between a laugh and a relieved sigh—and presses his cheek against the top of your head. You can feel him smile against your hair, his arms tightening even more. “Hi.”

You pull back just enough to get another look at his handsome face—and you lean in and kiss him. He sinks into it, his warm hands gliding up your back simply for the opportunity to hold you a little closer.

“I hope you didn’t get too bored waiting for me,” you say, finally breaking away for air, brushing your thumb along his jaw.

Before he can respond, the dam breaks—the exhaustion and frustration of your very long day comes rushing back all at once, and you start shedding layers as you talk—your coat first, then your scrub top, the long sleeved undershirt getting tangled along with it as you pull the fabric over your head and throw it aside. You kick off your shoes haphazardly, causing them to land messily next to Michael's neatly-placed loafers. You ramble on without taking a breath, words spilling out in a rush as you stand there in your bra in front of him, long past any shyness or decorum.

”You would not believe the day I had—fifteen hours, Michael, fifteen! I swear if my coworker is late one more time I’m going to lose my mind. I’m starving, I’m exhausted, I feel gross. I just want to shower for an hour and then order pizza and put on a Disney movie and—”

You stop when you realize he’s staring at you. Not in a worried or confused way, or in a ‘my girlfriend is standing in front of me half-naked’ kind of way—but in a way that is so foreign it makes your stomach flip and your brows knit together.

He’s trying—very poorly—to suppress a smirk, and he’s holding one hand behind his back.

You narrow your eyes. “What are you doing?”

”Nothing,” he says, far too quickly.

“Michael Jackson.” You say sternly, crossing your arms at his evasion.

”Nothing!” He giggles—actually giggles—the sound bubbling out like he just can’t help it. “I just missed you.”

You squint at him, suspicious. “Then why are you looking at me like that?"

He shrugs, all innocence, though the corners of his mouth twitch. “Just looking at my girl.”

You soften a little at that, and begin to turn away to gather your dirty clothes off the floor—until he adds with a casualness so deliberate it was practically glowing:

“My #1 girl.”

You freeze. Oh no. Oh no, no no.

Your entire body goes still—his words hitting you like a jolt of electricity. You spin around on your heel so fast you nearly lose your balance, because you know exactly what he’s referencing—that exact phrasing.

And he knows you know. He stands there, trying—and failing—to hide the cocky grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, hand still tucked behind his back like he’s holding an explosive.

You stare at him with a wild, startled look. Your pulse jumps as your eyes dart around the room, and then you see it: the source of his smugness. 

Your memory box, wide open—sitting on the coffee table in the background like a glowing neon sign that reads: you fucked up!

Your soul briefly leaves your body as you look back up at him to see what he’s holding. 

The photo. That photo. The one you probably should have burned. 

He pinches it between two fingers, dangling it in the air like bait—a victorious expression spread across his stupidly pretty face. You let out a horrified, choked sound—and immediately lunge for it. 

But he’s faster.

He lifts his arm effortlessly, holding the photo high above your head. Damn your height. Damn his height. Damn the universe for giving him such long arms. 

“Michael!” You whine, standing up on your tip-toes, fingers brushing uselessly at the air.

He giggles again, stepping back just enough to keep the photo out of your reach. 

“Or…” he says, drawing the word out torturously, eyes sparkling with mischief. ”Is it Marlon’s #1 girl?”

You gasp, making another grab for the photo. He lifts it even higher. “Michael Joseph Jackson! You nosy little—“

You jump again, uselessly—your fingertips missing the photo by a good four or five inches. You can only imagine how pathetic the scene would look to anyone watching—you, dressed only in a bra and wrinkled scrub pants, leaping like a frantic gremlin while your boyfriend stands there laughing at you. 

”You weren’t supposed to find that!” You whine, continuing to stretch your arm as far as it will go. You briefly consider getting a stepstool.

You stop jumping, finally admitting defeat. Your shoulders slump as you let out a long, dramatic groan, dropping your head until your forehead lands against his chest. Michael simply stands there, smug and delighted. He looks so pleased with himself—too pleased, really, for your taste—and you know there’s absolutely no recovering from this.

You should have known better. You did know better. Leaving your sweet, curious boyfriend alone in your apartment with nothing but time and his lifelong, incurable nosiness to keep him company? That was on you.

”Baby?” You mumble against his chest, your cheeks warm.

“Hm?” 

“Are you mad?” You ask, suddenly feeling a little guilty and ashamed for hiding the photo from him at all.

The question hangs in the air—soft, genuine, vulnerable—and for the first time since he flashed that stupid smirk, his expression changes. The teasing fades just a little, replaced by something else entirely. Your chest tightens. 

He lowers the photo a fraction, dark bambi-eyes softening as he looks down at you, then back at the photograph. 

His expression shifts into something thoughtful, humming softly—the sound low in his throat, and says, almost to himself, “I mean… I probably should be mad.”

You look up at him with wide, pleading eyes, searching his face for any sign of real hurt or insecurity. He doesn’t give you one, and the uncertainty makes your breath catch. You would almost rather die than hurt his feelings, intentionally or not.

“I really should,” he continues, nodding solemnly while keeping his eyes on the photo. His tone is slow, deliberate and downright torturous, each word landing heavier than the last.

”I mean…my girlfriend, my sweet, beautiful girl…” He pauses, tilting his head slightly. “…swooning over another man. Right in front of me.”

He lifts the photo a little higher, examining it like evidence. Your face burns even hotter. “And over my own brother, no less.”

Now, your entire body feels like it's on fire. With every teasing word, your embarrassment grows. You want to disappear into the floor. Or snatch the photo and run. Or both.

”Michael…” You whisper, fully mortified.

Michael looks at you fully now, biting his lip, and finally lowers the photo, extending it toward you. You snatch it back gently but urgently, gripping it with both hands and holding it protectively against your chest, effectively hiding it from the world. 

Your cheeks burn, the heat blooming all the way to your ears. You can barely look at him in the eye, your embarrassment so intense it borders on dizzying.

Before you can open your mouth to defend yourself—or scold him some more, you haven’t decided—he leans down and kisses you. Not a quick, teasing peck, but a deep, steady kiss that anchors you right where you stand, immediately silencing every frantic thought swirling around in your head. 

His hands cradle your face for a moment, warm and steady, before one pinches your cheek gently, affectionately, causing you to let out a surprised squeak.

His hands trail down your sides and land on your bottom with a soft, mischievous squeeze. He pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, his gaze intense. “I’m not threatened by anyone,” he says quietly, but firmly. “Especially not Marlon.”

You let out a long, shaky sigh of relief, shoulders finally relaxing. “Good,” you murmur, still clutching the photo that has begun to crumple slightly in your grip. “Because I love Marlon, but as a brother. As a friend. There were never any sparks. Ever.”

You pause at that, and add with a groan, “And he can never find out about this photo. If he does, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Michael laughs at that, clearly imagining exactly how unbearable Marlon—and the rest of his brothers, really—would be with this information.

You roll your eyes and continue, “Besides, my other friend—you remember Kayla? From middle school?—had already claimed you as her favorite member. I couldn’t break girl code like that. So naturally I had to pick someone else.”

Your cheeks heat up in embarrassment as soon the words leave your mouth. Good god, you sound like a 16 year old. 

Michael simply laughs again, shaking his head. He pinches your cheek again. “I’ve been in this industry for a very long time, sweet girl. I am very familiar with fangirl logic. It’s very cute.”

You smack his shoulder lightly, your embarrassment finally giving way to amusement. “Well, if it makes you feel better, my favorite has definitely changed.”

He nods, eyes sparkling with mischief again. “Good. Because we are going to the store first thing in the morning to pick up fabric markers so you can make yourself a new shirt.”

You groan, burying your face in his chest again. He giggles again, wrapping his arms around you again. He pulls away slightly, studying you for a moment—your flushed cheeks and embarrassed little frown, the way you’re still clutching the photo like it might leap out of your hands and betray you for a second time—and he kisses you again.

You melt into him without thinking, the tension of your day dissolving with the warmth of his mouth against yours.

When he finally pulls away, he doesn’t go far. Instead, he presses another kiss to the corner of your mouth. Then your cheek. Then the other. Then the tip of your nose. Your forehead.

You start to giggle helplessly as he continues—kissing all over your face with exaggerated affection, each one softer than the last. He trails down your jaw, your chin, the crook of your neck, beginning to nip and bite at your collar bones. He continues until you’re laughing openly, half-heartedly pushing at his shoulders.

”Michael—!” You squeal, half-laughing, half-pleading as he continues his assault.

He grins against your skin, clearly delighted by your reaction. His hands glide down your waist, fingers curling gently as he delivers a playful tickle against your bare skin—just enough to make you squirm and laugh harder. 

“Stop, stop!” You shout breathlessly, attempting to twist out of his grip. He finally relents, pulling back to take another look at you—cheeks flushed, eyes bright, breath unsteady from laughing. He smiles, impossibly in love.

He turns you by your hips, pushing you gently towards your bedroom, delivering a light, affectionate swat against your backside to send you on your way. “Go on, get in the shower and change into something comfy f’me.”

You watch as he begins walking in the opposite direction with a little bounce in his step. “And what are you doing?”

“Ordering us a pizza!” He calls over his shoulder.

You bite your lip, shaking your head as you start down the hallway toward the washroom. Your heart is impossibly full—still fluttering from his kisses, cheeks warm from his teasing, ribs aching from how hard he made you laugh. 

You can hear him humming—something soft and unfamiliar—and you can’t help but smile. Then, you realize you’re still holding the photo and another thought hits you. 

You stop dead in your tracks, spinning around so fast your hair whips in front of your face. You clear your throat loudly, and he freezes mid-stride, turning to look at you with confusion.

You narrow your eyes, lifting a finger to point at him with all the authority you can muster for a person who was just kissed breathless. “Don’t you dare get into anything else while I’m gone. I mean it, Michael. Not one drawer. Not a single cabinet. Not one.”

He blinks innocently, lips twitching as he tries to think of a retort. You continue, “Because if you do, I swear to god my new shirt is going to say ‘Jermaine’s #1 Girl.’”

His jaw drops in faux-outrage, clutching his chest as if he were mortally wounded. “…You wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t I?”

“Now you’re just playin’ dirty.” He shoots back, hands landing on his hips.

“Oh really?” You raise an eyebrow. Clearly, it was time to show him exactly what ‘playin’ dirty’ actually looked like. You casually reach behind your back and unclip your bra. “Try me.”

He watches as it falls to the floor. He chuckles slowly, taking a single step toward you. “You better run, girl. You’re in for it now.”

You let out a yelp as you bolt down the hallway, laughter spilling out as he chases after you. 

Pizza and movies would have to wait. You have a long and eventful night ahead of you. It’s good to be home.

a shadow fell over your back, followed by a playful smack right on your ass.

you yelped, scrambling to grab your bikini top as you bolted upright. "jaafar!"

he just laughed, a sound that never failed to make your stomach flip. he stood over you in swim shorts, his brown skin gleaming in the sunlight. before you could pretend to be mad, he leaned down, catching your lips in a lazy kiss. his hands rested on the sides of your chair, framing your body, his smirk melting into something hungrier.

"miss me?" he murmured against your lips, his thumb brushing a stray strand of hair from your face.

"only a tiny bit," you teased, reaching up wrapping your arms around his neck.

“mm... don't buy that,” jaafar said, his voice low. “you were completely zoned out until i walked up.”

“i was relaxing," you countered, a small smile tugging at your lips. "there's a difference." 

"right," he tilted his head, his gaze dropping shamelessly to where your breasts were loosely covered. "well, you've relaxed enough. get up."

"why?"

"because it's hot as hell out here," he said, a smirk tugging at his mouth. "come in the pool with me."

"is that your excuse to get me wet?" you teased.

jaafar chuckled, keeping his eyes locked on yours. "please. i can do a much better job than the pool."

"oh, really?" you rolled your eyes playfully, though your heart did a little flutter at the drop in his voice.

you clutched the loose fabric securely against your chest as you glanced over at the sparkling water, suddenly feeling the heat a lot more than you had five minutes ago. "tie my top for me and i'll think about it."

jaafar’s eyes drifted down to where your fingers were gripping the straps. his smirk only widened. "i say you keep it off."

"pervert," you laughed, giving his shoulder a weak shove.

he smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he poked the inside of his cheek with his tongue, completely unbothered at what you just called him.

he knelt down beside you, pivoting your body gently so your back was facing him. the warmth of his hands against your bare back sending goosebumps over your skin. his long fingers caught the loose strings, brushing your back as he pulled the fabric taut and tied a quick knot.

"all done" he said with a teasing tilt to his voice.

you started to glance over your shoulder to thank him, but instead, he scooped you up, lifting you into his arms.

you squealed, laughing as you clung to him while he carried you down the shallow steps into the water.

the cool water lapped your skin, making you gasp against his chest. when your feet finally touched the bottom, he still didn't let you go.

one arm stayed loosely around your waist as the water swirled around your hips.

"see?" jaafar asked, a satisfied smile on his face as he looked down at you. "isn't this better?"

"i guess," you murmured with a smile. you smoothed your wet hands over his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. "i was perfectly fine up there, though."

"you were melting up there. admit it. you wanted me to come save you," he leaned his forehead against yours.

"save me?" you laughed, tilting your head back. "you smacked my ass and dumped me in a pool, jaafar. that's not rescuing."

"it's my version of it," he murmured, still smiling. his thumb tracing your hip underwater. the touch was light, casual, but it sent a streak of heat straight up your spine.

the teasing smile on his face softened as his gaze lingered on your mouth. the pool was quiet, the only sound being the soft lap of the water against the edge. he shifted closer, his thighs brushing against yours under the surface, trapping you in his space.

"still cold?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave.

"not anymore," you breathed, your heart suddenly hammering against your ribs. the shift in the air was palpable, making you reach up to wrap your arms tighter around his neck.

jaafar let out a low hum of approval, his hands sliding down to grip your hips as he slowly guided you backward through the water until your back met the cool tile wall of the pool.

he stepped in close, closing what little space remained between you. his breath brushed your cheek as he leaned down to press a lingering kiss along your jaw.

his hands drifted back up your waist, his thumbs settling just beneath the edge of your bikini top.

when his mouth found yours again, the playful energy from before had faded completely.

this kiss was intoxicating. his lips parted yours effortlessly, his tongue sliding in to claim you in a possessive rhythm. you let out a soft sigh into his mouth, your fingers tangling into the damp hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer as if there wasn't already a total lack of space between you.

your skin was tingling, caught in a dizzying haze between the cold water lapping at your waist and the heat radiating from wherever his skin met yours.

one of his palms slid up from your hip, tracing the wet curve of your waist before his fingers splayed against your bare ribs, pressing you firmly against the wall. his thumb stroked slow circles against your skin, sending a rush of heat straight to your core.

his other hand slid up your spine, his damp fingers threading into your hair as he tipped your head back, deepening the kiss until you were left breathless, a quiet whimper slippng into his mouth.

the kiss grew hungrier, almost turning desperate as his tongue tangled with yours. he pushed deeper, his tongue moving over yours in a bruising heat. it was a demanding sort of kiss – the wet, velvety slide of his tongue swirling against yours, tasting you and drinking in the soft, choked whimpers that escaped your throat every time his lips locked tighter over yours. he dominated the space entirely, his pace slow but firm, breath mingling between you until your knees felt weak under the water.

finally breaking the contact just enough to breathe, his mouth slid down to trace a burning path along your jawline before burying his face into the crook of your neck. 

he nipped at the sensitive skin there, making you arch your back off the tile wall, your chest pressing firmly into his. underwater, his thigh slid between yours, his knee brushing high and firm against your center – the pressure making you gasp, your fingers clutching tightly at his shoulders just to stay steady. 

jaafar pulled back slowly, his chest rising and falling against yours in quick, shallow breaths. 

for a beat, neither of you said a word. you just looked at each other. his eyes were glossed oveer, still fixed on yours. you were looking up at him just as hungrily, your lips parted, completely breathless.

his hand slid down from your ribs, tracing a path down your stomach. his palm rested over the waistband of your bikini bottoms, pausing there, silently checking in. you gave a small encouraging nod.

with that, he slipped his hand under the waistband of your bikini bottoms, his fingers finding the already slick, swollen heat of you. 

you let out a soft gasp against his collarbone as his fingers began to move. he didn't rush, despite the heat in his eyes. his thumb found your clit, rubbing it in light circles under the water.

he slid two fingers inside you, stretching you open, moving them deep and slow. your jaw fell open at the sensation.

he knew exactly how to hook his fingers, finding the perfect angle with a practiced ease that had you melting.

your hips instinctively twitched against his hand, chasing the pressure as he pumped his fingers into you, his thumb working in perfect synchronization against your clit until you were completely at his mercy.

your hands flew down his chest, your fingers pawing urgently at the waistband of his dark swim shorts. you found the thick ridge of his length, already straining hard against the fabric.

clutched by impatience, you gripped the front of his shorts and tugged them down, your fingers wrapping around his thick, aching dick to pull him free. he let out a hiss as your hand squeezed him, his jaw clenching as you guided the blunt head directly against your aching core. 

"so impatient," jaafar murmured, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips even as his breath hitched. underwater, his hands slid down to clamp firmly onto your hips. "can't even wait a second? thought you only missed me a tiny bit."

you let out a breathless laugh, looking him dead in the eye. "'m just trying to help you out. you looked a little stuck." 

jaafar let out a low chuckle, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "oh, is that what you're doing?" 

"jus’ being thoughtful," you whispered, your fingers lightly tracing the back of his neck.

his hand gripped your thigh underwater, lifting your leg and hooking it high over his hip, shifting his weight so the blunt head of his cock pressed right against your aching center.

he didn't push inside yet.

instead, he leaned his full weight into you, pinning you flat against the cool tile wall, letting you feel him straining against you.

“yeah?” he murmured. “so thoughtful. i’ll make sure to properly show you my appreciation, then.”

he gave his hips a slow nudge forward, letting his cock stretch against your entrance, his breath sending a shiver down your spine as he leaned down. 

he didn't make you wait any longer. his grip on your waist tightened smoothly, holding you securely against the wall as he drove forward in one deep thrust, burying his entire length inside you. 

you let out a shattered cry into his shoulder, your head spinning from the fullness of him. 

he kept his pace torturously, beautifully slow, establishing a rhythm that made you feel every single inch of him.

every time he pulled back, the pool water rushed into the small space between you, only to be displaced a second later as he drove forward again, filling you and stretching you to your absolute limit.

"look at you," jaafar murmured against your ear, his voice low. his hands held your hips steady, guiding your body to match his deep strokes. "takin’ all of me so easily... y'feel so heavenly, baby."

he took his time with every single push, drawing out the pleasure until your fingers dug deep into his shoulders and your breath came in short, ragged hitches. 

"that's it," he whispered, a soft, encouraging hum in his throat as your head rolled back against the tile wall. he leaned up to press a tender kiss to your temple, his chest heaving against yours. "jus’ like that. doing so good for me." 

he paused for a moment at the very hilt of a stroke, burying himself as deeply as he could and holding you there. he tilted his head down, his brown eyes locking onto yours, watching the dazed look on your face. 

"you okay?" he murmured as he gave his hips a tiny twitch forward – a nudge that made your breath catch. "hm? talk to me."

you tried to answer, to tell him you were perfect, but all that came out was a broken keen as his dick drove into your gummy walls just right.

jaafar smirked, biting his lip as he listened to your voice break. he slowly pulled back, letting the water rush between you, before driving back in with another push.

"that feel good?" he coaxed softly, his voice gentle. "tell me how it feels, pretty."

you squeezed your eyes shut as your fingers tightened in his hair. the sensation of him moving inside you underwater was entirely consuming – thick, heavy, and so deep it felt like it was echoing all up in your chest. every glide of his cock pushed you right to the brink, reducing you to a series of helpless, high-pitched whimpers. you were building up so fast, a coil of heat wrapping around your lower stomach. 

sex felt so different under water, the natural buoyancy of the pool lifting your hips just enough to let him slide in even deeper. his cock drove back in, locking the moisture out and stretching your sensitive walls.

every shift of his hips caught an involuntary mewl in your throat as you desperately chased the edge. 

"so-ah, so good," you choked out, your voice a breathless whisper that broke into a hiccup as he hit that perfect spot again. "jaafar, please – it feels so good."

hearing his name tumble out alongside those needy noises was breaking his restraint bit by bit.

his grip on your waist tightened until his knuckles turned white, his pace picking up.

"such a good girl for me," jaafar rasped, his voice low against your ear as he thrust up into that spot that makes you see stars. "taking every single inch of me so perfectly. lemme hear you, sweetheart. show me how much you love it."

you couldn't even form a coherent sentence, the words completely disintegrating into whines.

"i lov–i love it," you cried out as you clung to his shoulders, your hips tilting up to meet him. “love it so much." 

jaafar’s relentless pace was pushing you toward the edge, the heat gathering so deep in your lower stomach that it made your thighs tremble against his sides. your vision blurred, overwhelmed by his cock stretching you out– fucking into you. it made you feel like you were melting from the inside out. 

you were completely drunk on the stretch of him, your brain short-circuiting from the intoxicating heat of his skin and the pace he was setting.

it was the absolute filth of the moment talking, a desperate, need to be claimed by him. you needed to feel his cum flooding you, to feel him leave his mark so deep inside your walls that you couldn't forget it if you tried. 

"please," you whined. you locked your legs tighter around his waist, tilting your hips up to swallow every single inch of him. "jaafar… put a baby in me. fill me up."

a guttural groan tore from deep in jaafar's chest, your words hitting him like a physical blow. whatever control he had left just snapped.

his eyebrows furrowed as his grip on your waist turned bruisingly tight, pinning you against the tile as his hips started jerking frantically, completely losing the rhythm he initially set.

your cunt was gripping him so tight, a helpless whimper broke past his lips as he slammed into you over and over.

"fuck, fuck – say that again," jaafar choked out, broken moans muffling against your neck. "please, baby– say it again."

your vision began to spot, the world narrowing down to just the sound of his whines and the wet slap of his hips against yours. his demand made your stomach twist, a greedy heat flaring up that made you want to scream.

you couldn't think, couldn't do anything but cling to him as you were dragged under.

you tilted your head back, eyes squeezed shut, your voice cracking into a sob as you gave him exactly what he asked for.

"put a baby in me," you gasped, your voice shuddering. "please, fill me up, j."

the words acted like a trigger; your hips buckled, your walls clamping down around him so tight it feels like you're trying to swallow him whole, and you finally shattered, a whimper tearing out of your chest as you fell apart, your pussy clenching around him tight.

jaafar let out a shattered gasp, his body going rigid as your walls pulse around him, squeezing him so hard he can barely take it.

he wasn’t even pumping anymore – he just shoved himself into you as hard as he can, his hips trembling violently against yours as he started to spill into you.

it was like a dam broke, any remaining filter gone as the words just poured out of him. 

"fuck, yeah, yeah, take it all," he rasped.  "gonna fill you up so deep, baby…”

his hips stuttered – almost like his own words were egging him on even more. he forced himself even deeper, slamming his pelvis against yours with every staggered breath, his dick twitching inside you as cum spurted out in heavy ropes, filling your pussy to the brim, flooding you so deep until your insides were coated with his seed. 

"take–" he choked out with a grinding shove.

"–every–" another desperate thrust followed.

"–single–" his hips snapped forward hard, bottoming out against you.

"–fucking drop."

the staggering force of his climax slowly began to ground him, the tremors in his thighs subsiding into an exhausted weight. jaafar let out one last, shuddering whine against your throat, his forehead dropping onto your shoulder as his breathing stayed ragged.

he stayed buried inside you, refusing to pull back even an inch. his hips stay locked flush against yours, acting as a plug to seal everything in. you can feel the swollen heat of him twitching weakly one last time, keeping your walls occupied while the warmth of his seed settled inside you.

slowly, his hands lost their grip on your waist as they slid up your back. he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you against his chest, making you feel his heartbeat slow down to match yours.

you let out a soft breath, your fingers curling into his shoulders.

"jaafar," you whisper against his neck.

he let out a hum in response, his lips brushing against your wet skin. he didn’t move away. his fingers tangled into your hair, tilting your head back just enough so he could press a soft kiss to your lips.

you smiled into the kiss.

jaafar caught the curve of your lips against his and pulled back the tiniest bit, an infectious smile breaking across his own face as his eyes fluttered open, still heavy-lidded.

a quiet laugh bubbled out of you, your shoulders shaking slightly against the tile.

jaafar’s smile widened, his thumb lightly stroking your cheek as he watched you, completely infatuated. "what?" he murmured. "what's so funny?"

"nothing," you breathed, winding your arms a little tighter around his neck. "just... you kinda went a bit crazy just now."

he laughed softly, his nose brushing against yours as his hips nudged forward just a bit, reminding you exactly how deep he was still buried inside you.

"yeah?" he whispered, his smile turning a little sheepish as a flush crept up his neck. "i don’t know… i think i just learned something new about myself."

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───

i missed jaafar omg i feel like i haven't written for him in so long

but also writing this kept making me think of chlorine LMAO

You stand in front of your closet way too long staring at colors like they’re life decisions instead of clothes.

The blue hangs directly in front of you, mocking you... and you don't like that.The second Michael sees you, he knows. Not because of the dress itself, but the color... black looked beautiful on you, making it impossible to ignore you.

The kind of thing magazines would describe as timeless. But it wasn’t blue. And that tiny fact settles somewhere deep in his chest before he can stop it.

He still walks into the conference smiling. Still shakes hands, still answers questions smoothly while cameras flash bright enough to hurt his eyes. But something inside him quietly sinks anyway. Because he’d written that stupid line at three in the morning in a hotel room half delirious from missing you.

Wear blue tomorrow if you still want me writing you.

And you hadn’t. The realization follows him through the entire conference. He keeps trying not to look at you. Keeps failing. You’re three rows back taking notes with your head lowered, pretending not to notice him.

Every now and then your pen pauses against the paper like your concentration slipped somewhere else entirely. He knows you too well already. That’s the frightening part.

“Michael, what inspires your songwriting process lately?” The question barely reaches him. His gaze drifts back toward you instinctively.

black sleeves..gold earrings. no blue. His chest aches in a way that feels embarrassingly dramatic. “Uh—human emotion mostly,” he answers distractedly.

The room laughs softly at something afterward. Michael doesn’t hear it. Because you finally look up. And for one awful second your eyes meet his.

god...you look guilty.

That hurts worse than anger would’ve. Michael glances away first this time. He never does that. The conference drags after that. Questions blur together beneath fluorescent lights while disappointment settles heavier and heavier inside him.

Not because you rejected him exactly—but because he realizes he gave you something vulnerable and watched you quietly hand it back untouched. By the end, his throat feels tight. Actually pathetic. You leave quickly once it’s over.

Michael watches you gather your papers too fast, avoiding his direction completely while reporters crowd around asking for final comments. For a moment he thinks about letting you go, maybe he should? maybe this is the answer? But then he remembers every letter folded carefully in your hands.

The way your breathing changed whenever he stepped too close. The expression on your face backstage last week when he called you pretty. And suddenly letting you walk away felt impossible. “Excuse me,” he says quietly to an assistant before moving through the hallway after you.

He catches you near the side corridor. You stop immediately when you hear his voice not turning around yet. That somehow makes this harder. “Michael,” you say softly. He notices the tension in your shoulders right away. Like you already know what he’s going to say. For a second he just looks at you.

At the curve of your jaw beneath the hotel lights. The way your fingers tighten around your notebook when you’re nervous. He’d written songs with less longing than this.

“You...wore black,” he says finally. Your eyes close briefly before you turn toward him. And there it is again—that expression...regret. “I thought it would be easier,” you admit quietly. Michael almost laughs at that.

not because it’s funny. Because it’s heartbreaking. “Easier for who?” The hallway hums softly around you with distant voices and moving equipment, but it all feels strangely far away.

You glance down instead of answering. And Michael suddenly realizes you really are trying to end this.That thought lands like a bruise.

“You know,” he says softly, “I kept checkin’ for blue all morning.” Your face falters slightly. He wishes it didn’t. Because now he knows this affects you too. “I shouldn’t have written that,” he murmurs, mostly to himself. “Y-you were just..honest.”

“Yeah.” His mouth twists faintly. “That usually where my problems start.” Silence stretches between you.

Michael studies your face like he’s trying to memorize it before losing access. Then quietly: “Did you mean it?” Your brows knit slightly. “..Mean what?”

“This.” He gestures weakly between you both. “Tellin’ me no.” Your throat moves when you swallow. And that tiny motion nearly undoes him. “I don’t know,” you whisper. That should make him feel better. Instead it destroys him. Because uncertainty means you want him too.

And still chose against it. Michael looks down for a second, rubbing tired fingers against his mouth before laughing softly under his breath. “You know what’s crazy?” You stay silent.

“I think I would’ve taken any little sign from you today.” His voice lowers carefully. “Blue dress. Blue earrings. Hell, blue nail polish probably would’ve done it.” Your eyes shine suddenly and he immediately hates himself for saying that.

“No, hey—” He steps closer instinctively. “Don’t look like that.” But you already are. And somehow seeing you upset while he’s the reason feels unbearable.“I’m trying to protect both of us,” you say quietly. “I-i know...”

“You could lose things over this.” Michael smiles sadly. “You think I care about articles right now?”

“But that’s not fair.”

“No,” he agrees softly. “None of this is.” a long pause follows.You look exhausted suddenly. Young, frightened by your own feelings. and Michael...Michael falls a little deeper in love with you right there in that ugly hotel hallway. Which is exactly the problem.

He stares at you for a moment too long before speaking again. “When I wrote those letters…” His voice catches slightly. “I think part of me hoped you’d stop me before it got bad.” Your eyes flicker upward. “And now?” Michael looks at you quietly. Then smiles in the saddest way you’ve ever seen from him. “I think it already did.”

The silence after his words doesn’t feel empty.

It feels like something collapsing. Michael doesn’t move at first and neither do you...just two people standing too close in a place that was never meant for anything honest.Then you step forward, something inside you finally stops negotiating.

Michael catches it the second you decide. His breath changes first. Then his posture. Then that impossible restraint he’s been carrying all day starts to crack at the edges. “You shouldn’t—” he begins. But you don’t let him finish.

You grab his jacket instead, pulling him in like you’ve been starving for too long to behave properly now, the kiss lands messy, urgent. All teeth and breath and years of pretending this didn’t exist.

Michael makes a quiet sound against your mouth—half shock, half surrender—before his hands finally find you. One at your waist. One at your back. Like he’s been waiting to be allowed.

The world outside the hallway disappears. completely. Just him reacting like he’s been holding his breath for months and you finally gave him air. When you break apart slightly, it’s only because you have to.

Your forehead rests against his for a second, both of you still too close to think clearly.

Michael’s eyes stay closed a moment longer than yours. Like opening them would make this unreal again. “You’re gonna get us killed,” he murmurs.

But there’s no bite in it. Only disbelief. You laugh once small, wrecked. “Then stop making it impossible.” That finally does it.

Something shifts in his face, it softens, it falls, he finally gives in, and suddenly the control he’s been clinging to is gone. His hand tightens at your back and he pulls you in again, slower this time, deeper.

like he’s decided consequences can wait. When you finally pull back again, your breathing is uneven, words catching in your throat before they even form properly. “I can’t keep pretending,” you whisper. Michael opens his eyes. And whatever he sees in yours makes him go still.

You swallow hard. “I’ve been in love with you,” you say quietly. “For longer than I can even explain. Since before I understood what it meant. Since before I told myself I was just doing my job.” His expression breaks in the smallest way.

something inside him finally hears what it’s been waiting for.You don’t stop now. “I read every letter like it was going to ruin me.” A shaky breath. “And I still opened them anyway.” Michael’s thumb brushes your wrist without thinking.

“I tried not wanting this,” you admit. “I really did.”

His voice comes out rougher than before. “Yeah?” You nod once. “But I did anyway.” That lands heavier than anything else. Michael stares at you for a long moment like he’s trying to decide if you’re real or something his loneliness invented after too many hotels and too many empty nights.

Then he exhales. “Don’t do that,” he says quietly. Your brows knit slightly. “Do what?”

“Talk like I imagined you.” That makes your chest tighten instantly. Because that’s exactly what you’ve been afraid of too. That none of this is real enough to survive daylight.

You reach up, touching his collar lightly. “I’m not imagined.” Michael lets out a breath that sounds almost like relief.

Then his forehead dips closer again, resting briefly against yours.His voice drops lower. “I’ve been tryin’ to stop myself from wanting you since that first conference.” Your heart stutters.

“Didn’t work,” he adds softly. The hallway is still there. Somewhere footsteps echo faintly in the distance reality waiting patiently at the edges. But neither of you steps back into it yet.

Michael finally opens his eyes again. And when he looks at you this time—there’s no distance left.

Only certainty. And something dangerously close to regret that it took this long.

“We shouldn’t be here,” he murmurs.You nod faintly. “Wanna go?” but neither of you moves.

© 𝙢𝙞𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙚𝙡𝙨𝙢𝙚𝙡𝙤𝙙𝙞𝙚

𝙖𝙡𝙤𝙙𝙞𝙚'𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙚𝙨. ౨ৎ and they lived happily ever after, married with 18 kids 📖📖 📜📜... 🥂🥂 thank you everyone for reading. im soooooo glad yall loved this mini series, i made it with sm love <3 you guys don't know know how HAPPY every comment & reblog made me 🫰🏽😭 stay tuned for more my loves mwahh.

you had went to a party with Michael and his team. Michael didn’t really go to parties because one, that wasn’t his thing and two, he was never invited to one.

in this occasion, his album released and was a huge hit and a huge success, so he was like ‘why not now?’

he ends up inviting you too, because you’re his girl, duh. he literally invites you everywhere he goes, as long as it’s safe.

anyway, Michael wanted to try a drink. he said he’s grown enough to try it and so he did.

one drink turned into 5, (why have 5 bitches when you can have 9 LMAOAOA LEMME STOP) and he couldn’t control it obviously because it was literally the first drink he has ever had.

“(Nameeeeee)” he slurred. “Let me talk to youuuu” he stood up on the table. all his team members stared at him, confused.

“Cheers to everyone in here for making this album happen, I love you all.. all except (Name).” he said and everyone got quiet, you looked at him confused.

“Since I’m getting bigger, I don’t need you anymore, I don’t want us together anymore.” he told you, every single word that was said was slurred and he was swinging back and forth.

you sat there, hurt, confused, sad, angry, just every emotion possible. why would he do this to you? you’ve been there for every single day of his life, even the bad ones.

you left the club and went home. you went to your room and locked yourself in your room for days. luckily your room had a bathroom in it and a mini fridge for all your snacks.

for the next few days, your telephone has been ringing non stop, your front door kept getting knocked on by him and he tried to serenade you.

he tried everything. well, almost everything. he tried one last thing. which was to sneak through your open window.

and he did, and was met with the meanest look from you.

“What do you want, Michael?” you said, firmly.

“Please, Tinker Bell, lemme explain!!” he called you by the nickname he’s been calling you since you were kids. he had said it as a joke but during the early stages of your relationship, he started saying it as a pet name.

you folded immediately. “Fine.”

“I was drunk, a-and I know that’s not an excuse but I love you, (Name). I fucking love you. I don’t cuss but I will for you. To let you know I love you and if you give me another chance, I’d be so so good to you and make it up to you, please?” he hugged you.

you hugged him back, “you better make it up to me, Mikey.” he kissed your lips. “I will, baby. I will.”