🦇☽☾ Ravyn🦇☽☾

“i know…just…stay still, ‘Kay?” He comforted, you nodded and clung to him, your nails dug into his shoulders as he pressed forward, his thick length splitting you open with every inch. Before he was fully buried inside of you, he pulled back, thrusting in and out of you in an effort to work you open and allow your body to adjust to his side. A quiet moan left his lips as you whimpered, stuck between the pleasure and the stinging stretch. “I…I’m sorry, love…m’sorry…fuck.” But as he spouts his apologies, his pace increases and he begins fucking you faster, deeper until the head is hitting your cervix. Sending jolts of mind numbing pleasure throughout your nervous system. “J-Jude…Jude…” You pant, calling his name as he began to go faster “I know…I-I know…”

Jermajesty was completely aware he might’ve been a little bit too big, nothing outrageous, but just enough that he might have to restrain himself. He tried his best to go slow, prep you with his fingers and get you to finish as many times as possible so you could be fully relaxed. But still, you whined, whimpering as you pressed a hand against his pelvis and told him it was too big.

He really didn’t want to hurt you, but he tried his best and he felt so impatient, his hips didn’t still. He kept going forward until he was buried deep inside of you, almost to the hilt—the only thing stopping him was your cervix, he pressed against it unapologetically but caressed your face and peppered it in kisses. “Mhm’sorry baby…d-daddy’s sorry…I know…it’s too—too big…” He nodded, loving the way your thighs quivered and your walls clenched around him. You felt like heaven. His dick throbbed inside of you and his jaw clenched as he fought himself not to fuck into you until your brain was too fuzzy from pleasure to recall the pain. “I’ll go slow…p-promise.” And he does, he goes as slow as possible. Long and deep slow strokes that make your whines of complaints turn into quiet muttering of praises. “that better baby? Hm?”

Jaafar swears you can take it, guiding you onto his lap so you can do the honors yourself. He wants you to have full control over how much you take, seeing as you’re already reasonably nervous about the size even after all the prepping hes done. The stretch makes you shut your eyes tightly and your legs shake. He coos and kisses you, trying to provide you comfort as you take him. “You’re doin’ such a good job, love.” He praises, “you’re taking me so well.” Even as you struggle, he does his best to talk you through it until you’re fully planted on top of him. Your hips hover just a bit, saving you from taking literally every inch. He takes notice to that but says nothing.

“Ja—Jaafar…” You hide your face in the crock of his neck and melt against him, though the stretch is just on the edge of painful pleasure, you move anyway. “Y-You’re so big…” While you’re careful to avoid taking all of him, Jaafar is almost completely overcome with how good you feel and without thinking, pulls you down onto him and begins thrusting into you. “Ja-Jaafar!” You cry out, “t-too b…oh my…” You press your hand against his chest and raise your hips but he continues to pull you down, trembling as he mutters apologies that sound almost genuine. “So—Sorry…S…Sorry…” yet, he only slows down, continuing to slam you down onto him until he’s touching a deep wall inside of you. “I…I’m sorry.” But the grin on his face says the opposite, so did the look of pure ecstasy on your face as your body relaxed into his. He could see the switch happen in real time, the way your head tipped back and your hips moved to meet his. “There you go love…takin’ me so good…”

Michael is actually surprised when you tell him he’s too big. The way your eyes water as your legs tremble against his shoulders makes him feel insane with lust. “m-Michael…it’s too big…” Something in him goes feral. He kisses the salty tears away and grinds himself deeper into you, his eyes fluttering at the way you whimper. He immediately feels guilty for enjoying it, but he can’t help it. Your voice is the perfect mixture of raw and sensual, and your walls bat around him so wildly as they split open for him and him only.

“I…I’m sorry…” His grinding turns into deep and slow strokes, the head of his thick length hitting your soft cervix with every thrust. He doesn’t know what feels better, how wet you are or how your heat hugs him with a soft embrace. “So sorry…” He mumbled while going just a little faster. “does it…mhm…does it hurt too much?” Only when you shook your head did he go faster. Hitting a spot deep inside of you over and over again until your mind numbed and the pain was fading away into the background. He pushed your legs a bit further back, fucking you faster while he watched your face twist in pleasure. “that’s right mama…takin’ all…all of me…so good.”

Jackie knows he’s absolutely massive. He would never force himself inside of you or fuck you before knowing you’re fully ready, but what can he do when you’re rushing him? He wasn’t going to until he knew for sure youd be able to take him, but with you bent over, looking back at him with your face smushed and your love leaking down your pussy, he couldn’t help but bury himself inside of you. While one hand spread you open just a bit more, the other guided his thick length inside of you. You both winced at the feeling, but unlike him, your body tensed and your back curled upward. “J-Jackie…” You whimpered out, “wa-wait…” You gripped the sheets and tried to catch your breath.

“Now you want me to wait…” He teased you but waited, leaning down to kiss between your shoulder blades. “You were just beggin’ for me, now you can’t take it, can you?” You shook your head, eyes fluttering as the arch in your back returned and a moan left your lips. He waited until he could feel your body relax a bit, but clearly not long enough. The moment he began moving again you whined, but he kept going, slow and deep until he was fully seethed inside of you. “Ja-Jackie…S’too much…” He shushed you and kissed your shoulder before leaning up straight and pulled you back into him. “I got you baby, daddy’s got you mama…you can take it.” You cried out and dropped against the sheets as he began drilling into you, almost ignoring the way you swore you couldn’t take it. “You can take it for me baby…c’mon…take it for me.”

you’re at one of those quiet, late-afternoon rehearsals of his, where the studio is mostly empty except for a handful of dancers stretching in the corner and the faint hum of the sound system cycling through the same ten or so tracks on low volume. you’ve been working together for three months now—brought on as a choreographer for his upcoming tour—and the collaboration has settled into something comfortable and electric all at once. today you haven’t done much performing—mostly observing and taking mental notes as your peers work through their formations and transitions. you settle cross-legged on the floor, back against the mirror, half out of habit and half to cool down once you notice how the loose tank top clings to your skin, damp from the fifteen-minute routine you forced out of yourself before. the top was one of your go-to throw-ons—the type that you reach for on mornings when there’s no time to think, comfortable and forgettable enough that it barely registers how lousy it really is. but it doesn’t matter because it’s just another rehearsal day. nobody’s really watching you specifically anyway.

except michael is watching.

he’s been eyeing you for the better part of ten minutes now, standing near the far wall with his arms crossed, weight shifted onto one leg in that casual way that makes him look like he’s just passing time. but his eyes haven’t left you once. three months of working together means he knows your body in ways that blur the line between professional and something far more dangerous—the way you lean forward when you’re concentrating, elbows on your knees, chin resting in your palm. or the exact angle your shoulders drop and hold into when you’re exhausted from a day’s worth of moving. or how you bite your bottom lip when you’re counting the rhythm of his music in your head. but he has been especially noticing the way your lousy tank tops shift when you move, the fabric draping loose enough that he can see the gentle curve of your collarbone and how it meets the very soft slope of your chest, the complete and total absence of any bra line or strap cutting across your shoulders.

this isn’t the first time he’s catalogued this particular detail about you—the way the fabric falls uninterrupted against your skin and the freedom of movement that comes with the lack of constraint beneath. he’s been collecting these stolen glances for weeks now, tucking them away in that careful corner of his mind where desire lives before it’s given permission to become something more. he was noticing you in a… different way more and more in tiny fragments: the way your shirt drapes differently than other women’s when you demonstrate an arm sequence, or the soft movement beneath the cotton when you laugh too hard at something he’s said during water breaks; the complete absence of any restrictive architecture between your body and the world never leaving his mind. he’s been letting himself see it only in his peripheral, never giving himself the pleasure of looking directly because the moment you acknowledge something like that and let yourself really think about it—it stops being an innocent observation and more like an obsession.

and god, there’s definitely been some sort of tension that has not been helping his case whatsoever. it hung in the space between you when he adjusts your posture during a routine, his hands careful on your hips, lingering just a second too long. or the loaded glances across the studio when you nail a difficult sequence and he grins at you like you’ve just done something miraculous. the way you both maintain a careful, professional distance even tough every accidental touch—your shoulder brushing his, or the soft graze of your fingers when passing a water bottle—it sends electricity crackling through the thick air between you. three months of this particularly careful dance; this unspoken thing that neither of you have been brave enough to name.

but today, something shifts. maybe it’s the way the late afternoon light slants through those high studio windows, turning the air golden and catching on the fine sheen of sweat still cooling on your skin. maybe its how unselfconscious you are in your body, how you stretch your arms overhead without thinking and the fabric of your tank top pulls taut across your chest for just a breath—just long enough for him to see the gentle swell and soft shape of you—then falling loose again, watching the perfect contours disappear beneath the fabric as if that little moment didn’t just leave him nearly hypnotized. maybe it's the cumulative weight of three months worth of peripheral noticing, or of careful distance, or of just his undying want for you finally reaching critical mass. whatever it is, it all clicks into place in his mind with a clarity so sudden and complete it makes his mouth go dry and his pulse kick aggressively against his throat.

you never wear a bra.

the realization spreads through his mind and into his body like lava, pooling low into his stomach and making that pulse in his throat spread into a rhythm that feels excessively quick and obvious. suddenly every moment of the past three months rewrites itself in his memory with this new knowledge: the soft bounce when you demonstrate a jump sequence, the way the cold air conditioning makes your nipples just barely visible through the cotton during early morning rehearsals, the complete freedom of movement that comes from absolutely nothing between your skin and the world except intention and fabric. the thought makes something desperate curl tight behind his ribs, and he realizes with another startling sense of clarity that he’s been half-hard just from staring at you sit against a mirror, and that this careful distance you’ve both been maintaining is about to shatter completely.

when rehearsal breaks and bodies start filtering toward the exit, he’s moving toward you before his brain catches up to his legs. you’re still cross-legged on the floor, reading whatever magazine was left in the break room with an absent focus that makes your bottom lip push out slightly, and when his shadow falls across you, you look up with that polite smile that makes his chest ache—it’s the exact same, gentle smile you’ve been handing over to him for the past three months, but now it feels weighted with everything unspoken between you two.

“hey,” you say, and your whole face softens in an intimate way that’s only meant for him.

“hey yourself.” his voice comes out rougher than intended, and he has to clear his throat as he crouches down to your eye level. “you headin’ out?”

“in a bit. why, wanna grab food or something?” it’s the routine after rehearsals, no matter how short they run—takeout, usually KFC, and an innocent debrief on the day’s progress. you both keep it carefully professional, even though you both know the only reason you keep inviting one another like this is from the pull neither of you have the courage to name.

“yeah, sure. or—” he pauses, and he shifts his weight on the balls of his feet. something in his hesitation makes you tilt your head like a curious puppy. “or we could jus’ go back t’mine?”

you study him with that perceptive look that always makes him feel transparent, like you can see straight through skin and bone to the want underneath. the three months you’ve spent together means you’ve learnt to read his facial expressions, and right now, it’s something different to what you usually see. “you okay, mikey?”

“yeah!” he says a bit too quickly, but his eyes drop to your chest for a fraction of a second—so brief you almost miss it—before he snaps his head right back up to you. “jus’—” he swallows hard, and you notice it. the careful distance has finally cracked. “jus’ wanna be alone with you for a bit.”

his honesty makes you straighten your face into earnestness. you’ve both been so good at pretending this painful tension doesn’t exist—this professional wall that’s felt more like torture than protection is finally crashing down as you stare into his eyes that are loaded with all sorts of emotion. you’ve ignored every sign, and you’ve decided in this moment that you’re done pretending.

“yeah,” you say softly, and watch relief flood his features. “okay. me too.”

then, something breaks in his expression—a feeling that’s been held too tight for too long finally loosening into something more sincere and vulnerable. “yeah?”

“yeah, michael. let’s go to yours.”

────﹒♡﹒────

you don’t even make it out of the studio parking lot.

michael pulls into the far corner—a section that’s always empty at this time of day, shadowed by the building and hidden from the main road—and he kills the engine with hands that are visibly trembling with cracking resistance. for a moment neither of you moves, sitting there in the sudden silence with the months of tension pressing in like the air before a storm breaks. you can hear his fast and shallow breathing, and you’ve become hyper-aware of the way his long fingers are still gripping the steering wheel like it’s the last solid thing left in the confined space.

“michael—”

“can’t wait.” the words spill from his fractured voice like a confession he’s been holding in for centuries, and when he finally turns to face you, it’s like watching someone come undone in real time. his pupils have swallowed the warm chocolate brown of his eyes whole, leaving only a fathomless black. his brows are drawn down into a ferocity that makes your breath catch and you instinctively press your thighs together at the view presented to you, heat aggressively flowing low in your belly.

“i’m sorry, i know we should—i know i should take you home ‘n do this right but i jus’ can’t—” he’s already reaching for you, hands finding your waist with the urgency of someone who’s been starving, pulling you toward him across the center console like you’re the only thing that matters. “been waitin’ too long. please.”

the please breaks you completely.

you’re climbing into his lap before your thoughts can catch up to your instincts, your knees bracketing his hips in the driver's seat, and the steering wheel becomes an afterthought pressing into your spine because his hands are finally sliding up under your soft tank top and it feels like your prayers have finally been answered—his hot and broad palms tracking up your ribs, and the sound he makes when his thumbs brush the underside of your perky breasts is so tender that it feels like you’ve discovered a new religion.

“my god,” he breaths, and his voice is trembling at the seams. “oh my god, baby—”

his hands cup you fully now, and that’s when you both feel it—the way his palms become a sanctuary, his fingers spreading wide to cradle every inch of soft skin, the perfect fit of your body in his hands like you’re something small and precious he’s been entrusted to hold. he makes this wounded sound in the back of his throat—like a moan and a whimper deliciously blended into one—and his face transforms into something like ecstasy, like he’s witnessing the divine made into flesh.

“you’re so—” he can’t seem to find the words adequate enough for whatever revelation is washing over him, but the involuntary buck of his hips beneath you finishes his sentence clearly. his hands squeeze the soft swell of you gently. “fit so perfect in my hands… look—” he squeezes a bit harsher this time and you gasp, the sensation rippling through you like stones dropped into still water. “look at how perfect you fit. how perfect you are.”

“mikey—” your voice comes out breathy and broken, a hidden plea wrapped in his name.

“been thinkin’ ‘bout this,” he’s rambling now, thumbs brushing over your nipples and making you arch into his touch like a flower turning toward sun. “been thinkin’ ‘bout how you’d feel in my hands. dreamed ‘bout it… ‘n you’re so much better than i imagined. so fuckin’ perfect…”

he suddenly pulls your tank up and over your head in one hungry motion, and in a heart beat, you’re bare in front of him in the dim, amber light of the parking garage, and the look on his face makes you feel like the most exquisite thing he’s ever been allowed to witness. his hands are back on you immediately, cupping and tentatively squeezing, thumbs circling your nipples until they’re hard and sensitive, and you’re grinding down against him in its own ancient rhythm you’re not aware of.

“tha’s it,” he breathes, watching your face like he’s memorizing scripture. “tha’s it, baby, take what you gotta.”

the car is getting hot, windows starting to fog from your combined breathing, and you can smell the leather of the seats mixing with the salt of sweat on skin laced with with his notable cologne and the three months of restrained want finally given permission to exist freely. his hands never stop moving, kneading and completely obsessed with the way you fit in his palms like you were designed specifically for this purpose, and every time he presses more into your nipples, you make these soft noises that seem to unravel him thread by thread.

“love how small you are,” he’s murmuring against your collarbone, lips dragging across your skin. “love how i can cover you up completely. feel all of you at once, you’ve no idea—” he squeezes again and you whimper, the sound pulled from a deep, vulnerable place settled in low in your abdomen. “—no idea how crazy this makes me.”

“mikey, please—” you’re not even sure what you’re begging for anymore, just that you need more of whatever this is—more of him looking at you like you’re something holy.

he dips his head and takes your nipple in his mouth, and the sensation makes you cry out his name, fingers tangling in his hair like you’re trying to anchor yourself to earth. his tongue circles and flicks while his hand works the nipple on your other breast, twisting and gently pulling before finally flicking small circles on your bud. the dual sensation is overwhelming, and you hips grind down harder against the very obviously large bulge in his pants. you can feel how hard he is, throbbing even through the layers of fabric between you both, and when you roll your hips just right, he breaks away from your chest with a desperately loud moan that sounds like it’s been torn straight from his lungs.

“f-fuck—baby, you’re gonna make me—” he unlatches from your swollen nipple and his hips buck up to meet yours while his hands tighten on your breasts, squeezing almost too hard, but you can’t deny how much you love the way he’s losing control solely from admiring your breasts. “can’t believe i finally get t’touch you like this.”

“wanted you to,” you gasp out, grinding down harder with every word. “wanted this for so long.”

“yeah?” he switches to your other breast, sucking your nipple into his mouth while his hand flicks the other, swollen one, and you can feel him trembling beneath you like he’s barely holding himself together. “wanted my hands on you? wanted me t’touch these perfect tits?”

the crude word in his gentle voice makes you moan, and you feel him smile against your bud, pleased with the reaction that got out of you. his free hand slides down to grip your hip, guiding your movements, helping you grind against him in a rhythm that has you both panting like rabid dogs. the steering wheel keeps digging into your back but you’re too far gone to care, can’t care about anything except the building heat between you and the way his warm and wet mouth feels on your sensitive skin and how his large hands make you feel so small and completely worshipped, like you’re a treasure he’s been searching for more than his entire life.

“so good,” he’s whimpering now, and the sound goes straight between your legs, and you can feel your panties becoming useless from the stickiness forming on the fabric. “so, so good, baby. wanna make you feel so good.” he suddenly tugs at your nipple as he looks up at you like you’re a statue to be worshipped, and you gasp, the sensation electric. “jus’ tell me what you need.”

your thoughts are scattered like dandelion seeds, and you can barely form the words: “j-jus’... don’t stop, mikey.”

“never, baby.” he truly promises, and his hands are everywhere—cupping your breasts, gently circling your nipples, kneading like he can’t get enough, like he’s trying to memorize the exact weight and feel of you in his palms, committing you to muscle memory. “never gonna stop touchin’ you. gonna worship every inch of you till i die.”

the windows are completely fogged now, the car rocking slightly with both of your movements, and somewhere in the back of your mind you register that anyone could walk by and see the sin taking place, but it only makes everything more intense. michael’s mouth finds yours in a passionate kiss that’s fueled more from ache than technique—his tongue and teeth clashing against yours in a shared breath, and his hands yet to leave your small breasts, constantly caressing like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he stops his devotion to your pleasure.

“mikey, baby—” you break the kiss, gasping for air. “i’m so close, i’m—”

“yeah, baby, c’mon.” his voice is wrecked, shattered into pieces, and you can feel him throbbing against you. you can tell he’s also close from this, from grinding and licking on you like a teenager who's just discovered what bodies can do. “lemme feel you, mama. wanna feel you come apart on me.”

he pinches your nipples gently at that and that’s all it takes—you’re releasing the tight knot in your abdomen with his name on falling from your lips like a prayer, grinding down hard against him while his hands knead your breasts through the waves of pleasure that crash over you like surf against shore. he follows seconds later with a broken moan muffled against the swollen and petite curve of your chest, his hips jerking up as he spills in his pants, hands tightening on you like you’re gravity in of itself.

for a long moment after, you just stay like that—you practically heaving in his lap, his face buried in the soft swell of your tit, both of you inhaling the humid air and energy of the tight car. his hands are wrapped tightly around you waist, and you can feel his lips moving against your sensitive skin in what might be words or might just be reverent sounds, a language that exists only in this moment.

“we—” he finally manages, his voice hoarse and quiet. “we didn’t even make it t’my place…”

you laugh breathlessly, and you can feel him smile against your chest when your fingers meet the nape of his neck, twirling his tangled curls in between your fingers.

“don’t care, anyway.” he continues, his hands squeezing gently but possessively, like he’s officially claiming you.

you pull back enough to look at him, and his face is flushed and his lips are swollen. he’s looking up at you like you hung the moon, the stars, the sun—the entire universe, answering every question he’s ever asked. “we should probably—”

“mhm,” but he doesn’t move or let go just yet. “jus’—gimme a minute. wanna hold you a bit longer.”

so you gladly let him, sitting in his lap in a fogged-up car in an empty parking garage, his large hands trailing up to cradle your breasts again like they’re something precious and fragile—as if they’re spun glass—and you’ve never felt more wanted in your entire life.

eventually you do pull apart—reluctantly, of course, with soft kisses and whispered promises that taste like salt and want to make up for the lack of skin-on-skin contact. you find your tank top crumbled on the passenger seat and pull it back on while he attempts to make himself presentable, both of you grinning at each other like idiots who’ve just discovered a secret the rest of the world doesn’t know. when he finally starts the car up again, his hand immediately finds the soft plush of your thigh.

“still wanna go t’mine?” he asks softly, and your hand lands on top of his, your thumb stroking across his prominent knuckles. you smile and shyly nod.

the drive to his place is quieter now, the desperate edge finally satisfied but the want still lingering gentle in the air, simmering under the surface like embers waiting to be fanned back into flame. he keeps glancing over at you with that intoxicating smile of his, and you know this is just the beginning. know that when you get to his place, he’s going to worship every inch of you properly, going to show you just how perfect he thinks you are with the entirety of his body.

and you can’t wait.

The August sun was hanging thick and golden over Hayvenhurst, casting long, honey-colored shadows across the sprawling back lawn of the Jackson estate. The air smelled of warm California grass, charcoal smoke, light summer breeze, and the faint, sweet scent of coconut oil and pineapples sizzling on the grill. 

The hum of the late 1970s was pulsing softly through the estate—specifically from a heavy portable boombox resting on the patio table, softly filtering the smooth, sun-drenched grooves of Roy Ayers and Stevie Wonder into the afternoon air. 

The yard was alive with the usual Jackson family chaos. Kids were laughing somewhere near the pool, tennis shoes were scuffing against the brick patio, and the clinking of iced tea glasses provided a steady rhythm to the afternoon. But right in the center of the lawn, beneath the dappled shade of a massive oak tree, existed a completely different world—a tiny, warm universe occupied strictly by Jackie and you.

Jackie was sitting on a thick, colorful knitted blanket spread out over the grass, wearing a fitted yellow polo shirt that hugged his shoulders, dark wash flare jeans and white leather sneakers. His afro was styled to perfection, dark and soft, framing a face that currently bore the most helplessly infatuated expression anyone in Encino had ever seen.

And you—wearing a sun-yellow halter top, high waisted denim shorts, and your hair neatly styled in two soft, thick puffs with yellow beads resting at the ends—were leaning back against his chest like it was the only pillow you had ever known in this life. 

His arms were wrapped securely around your waist, his chin resting right on your shoulder. Every five seconds—literally, every five seconds—his thumb would softly stroke the warm skin of your hip, or his lips would wander up to brush against the side of your neck, press a soft kiss into your cheek, or linger against your jaw.

“You warm enough, baby?” Jackie murmured softly against your ear, his voice low and raspy, full of that smooth, gentle California tone that made your heart do little flips even after all this time. “Sun’s starting to dip a little. I can run inside and grab my sweater for you.”

You giggled, leaning your head back against his chest and tilting your chin up to look at him. “Jackie, it’s seventy-five degrees out. I’m plenty warm, sweet-talker.”

“Just checking,” he grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners—those beautiful, bright eyes that held absolute world-revolving devotion whenever they settled on you. He leaned down, catching your lips in a slow, lingering, sweet kiss that tasted like sweet tea and cherry lip balm. He didn’t just kiss you; he took his time, his hand moving up to gently cup the side of your face, his fingers tangling softly in your roots, bringing you closer like he was afraid you’d float away if he let go for a second.

“Ahem!”

A loud, theatrical cough shattered the quiet moment.

Standing a few feet away with a pair of long metal tongs in one hand and a spatula in the other was Tito, wearing a terrycloth visor, an apron that read The Chef Is In, and a look of profound, long-suffering patience.

"Look here, loverboy," Tito said, shaking his head with a slow, heavy sigh. "I know you’re high on love and all that good stuff, but if you don't get your tail over here and help me turn these ribs, the whole family’s gonna be eating charcoal for dinner. I’ve been calling your name for three minutes straight."

Jackie didn’t even blink. He kept one arm locked firmly around your waist, resting his cheek against yours as he looked up at his brother. “Tito, man, can’t you see I’m busy? I’m taking care of my girl.”

“You sittin’ on a blanket doing nothin’, Jackie!” Tito fired back, though a warm, infectious grin cracked through his stoic chef facade. “That ain’t ‘busy’, that’s just being goofy! Now come on, I need you to glaze the chicken.”

You turned in Jackie’s lap, laughing as you lightly tapped his chest. “Go help your brother, Jackie. I’m not going anywhere, I promise.”

Jackie looked down at you, pouting his lips just a fraction. “You sure? You gonna be okay for five minutes without me?”

“I’m gonna survive five minutes, Jackie Jackson,” you smiled, reaching up to gently pat his cheek. “Now go on.”

Jackie groaned like a man being sent to hard labor, but he leaned in and pressed three quick, loud kisses onto your lips—mwah, mwah, mwah—before reluctantly standing up. He reached down, taking both of your hands to pull you up with him, refusing to let go until he had pulled you into a tight, full-body hug, kissing the top of your head one last time before stepping toward the grill.

As Jackie walked over to the patio, Marlon stepped out of the sliding glass doors carrying a bowl of potato salad, draped in a striped terrycloth shirt and wide-leg trousers. He took one look at Jackie—who was still staring back at you over his shoulder with a dopey, dreamy smile—and immediately threw his hands up in the air, nearly dropping the bowl.

"Lord have mercy!" Marlon hollered, his loud, expressive voice cutting right through the music. "Can we get a warning label on this yard?! I just walked out here and my eyes are practically burning! Y'all are sickening, man! Sickening!"

“Shut up, Marlon,” Jackie laughed, tossing a dish towel at him. “You’re just jealous because nobody’s looking at you the way she looks at me.”

“Jealous?!” Marlon clutched his chest dramatically, turning to the open patio doors where Jermaine and Michael were coming out. “Jermaine! Mike! Did you hear this fool? He thinks I’m jealous of him actin’ like a swooning teenager! Man, every five seconds it’s 'Oh baby, let me kiss you, oh sweetie, let me hold your pinky toe!' Y'all can’t even breathe separate air for two minutes!"

Jermaine came strutting out, looking effortlessly cool in a wide-collared silk shirt, his hair perfectly picked out and glistening under the sun. He leaned against the patio railing, taking a sip of his lemonade, shaking his head with a smooth, knowing smirk.

"He ain't lying, Jack," Jermaine teased, his voice smooth as silk. "I came downstairs at midnight last night to grab a glass of water, and y'all were leaning against the refrigerator slow-dancing to no music. No music, man! Just swaying in the dark like two ghosts. I couldn't even get to the pitcher without y'all sighing into each other's faces."

"It was romantic," Jackie declared proudly, snatching the spatula from Tito and flipping a chicken breast with unnecessary flare. "Y'all just don't know nothin’ about real romance. When you find your queen, you hold onto her. Simple as that."

“Aww, look at him!”

Janet came bouncing out from around the side of the house, holding a red Polaroid camera. At twelve, she was the undisputed leader of the fan club. She trotted right past her teasing brothers, over to where you were setting up a few lawn chairs under the shade. 

“Don’t listen to those mean old boys,” Janet said, sliding her arm through yours and giving you a big, sweet squeeze. “I think the way Jackie acts around you is the sweetest thing ever. He used to be all tough and serious, and now he’s like a big ol’ teddy bear! Hold still, let me get a picture of you!”

Janet lifted the camera, snapping a photo just as Jackie looked over from the grill, waving at the camera with a giant, cheesy grin. The Polaroid whirred, spitting out the square film. Janet blew on it eagerly, watching the colors slowly come to life.

"See?" Janet pointed at the developing image. "He’s got that look again. The 'I’m crazy about her' look."

"He’s got the 'I’ve lost my mind' look," Marlon corrected, walking over and snatching a chip from a bowl on the patio table. "I’m telling you, the man is under a spell. A sweet, fluffy, tooth-rotting spell. I can’t take it! My teeth are hurting just watching him feed her grapes!"

"Marlon, leave your brother alone!"

The screen door slapped shut, and Katherine Jackson walked out onto the lawn, wearing a lovely yellow floral sundress, her hair neatly styled, holding a large pitcher of iced tea with mint leaves floating at the top. The entire atmosphere shifted instantly into warm, maternal comfort.

"Hi, Mrs. Jackson," you smiled, walking over to help her with the pitcher.

"Hello, sweetie," Katherine said softly, her face lighting up with that famous, gentle warmth. She handed you the pitcher, using her free hand to pat your cheek affectionately before looking over at Marlon with a strict, eyebrow-raised glare. "Marlon, stop picking on Jackie. It warms my heart to see my eldest boy so attentive and loving. A real man knows how to cherish his woman."

“Thank you, Mother!” Jackie called out from the grill, puffing his chest out. “Tell ‘em! Teach these boys how to act!”

Michael stepped out onto the grass, wearing a casual red button-down shirt, dark trousers, and his iconic bright smile. He strolled over to where you and Katherine were setting the tea on the table. Michael’s laugh was soft, infectious, and light as a feather as he watched Jackie try to walk back over to you while still holding a bottle of barbecue sauce.

"It really is cute, though," Michael giggled, kicking his feet slightly as he sat down on the edge of the patio wall. "Jackie hasn't stopped smiling in three weeks. Every time his phone rings, he leaps across the room like he’s running a track meet just hoping it’s you."

"Is that true, Mike?" La Toya asked, stepping out in a chic white jumpsuit, holding a tray of silverware. She sat down next to Michael, laughing delicately into her hand. "He really does that?"

"Yes!" Michael giggled, covering his mouth. "He almost tripped over the coffee table yesterday! He slid across the rug like sliding into home base, just to pick up the receiver and say, 'Hey, baby' in that deep voice he uses!"

Everyone erupted into laughter—Marlon slapped his knee, Jermaine shook his head, and Tito let out a booming belly laugh from the grill. 

Jackie didn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed. He just walked right back over to you, completely ignoring his brothers’ laughter, and slid his arms around your waist from behind, resting his chin right back on your shoulder. 

“They can laugh all they want,” he whispered sweet and low into your ear, his thumb tracing soft circles over your hip bone through your shirt. “They’re just mad nobody’s makin’ them feel the way you make me feel, baby.”

You turned your head slightly, kissing his jawline. "You're terrible, you know that?"

"Terrible for you," he agreed instantly, brushing his nose against yours. "Hey, come on. Tito’s got the food almost ready. Let’s sit down."

The family gathered around the long wooden picnic table set up under the shade of the oak tree. The spread was massive: golden fried chicken, slow-smoked ribs, potato salad, baked beans, hot cornbread, and fresh watermelon slices glistening in the sun.

Naturally, Jackie sat you down first, pulling out your chair, making sure you were comfortable before taking the seat right next to you. And in classic Jackie fashion, the seating arrangement meant nothing for physical distance—he slid his chair so close to yours that your thighs were pressed together from hip to knee.

As Katherine said grace, holding hands around the table, Jackie held your hand in his left, his fingers woven tightly through yours, his thumb rubbing the back of your knuckles the entire time.

The moment the prayer ended, the chaotic pass-the-plate routine began.

"Pass the ribs down here, Tito!" Marlon yelled.

"Hold your horses, Marlon, let Mother get served first," Jermaine scolded gently, passing a plate down.

While everyone was reaching and talking over each other, Jackie was entirely focused on your plate.

"Here, baby, let me get that for you," Jackie said softly. He grabbed a piece of tender, golden chicken, placing it gently on your plate, followed by a scoop of potato salad and a warm piece of cornbread. He picked up a spoonful of baked beans, holding it over your plate, looking at you with total devotion. "You want beans, sweetheart?"

"Just a little bit, Jackie, thank you," you smiled.

He blew gently on the spoon before placing a small portion on your plate, then picked up his fork, cut a small, perfect piece of the chicken, dipped it lightly in sauce, and held it right up to your lips.

“Taste this,” he murmured, his eyes locking onto yours with purely soft, melt-your-heart affection. “Tito actually got the seasoning right this time. Tell me if it’s good.”

You blushed, the warmth creeping up your neck, but you leaned forward and took the bite off his fork. “Mmm… that is really good.”

“Told you,” Jackie grinned, leaning over to kiss your cheek right after you chewed. 

Across the table, Marlon stopped mid-chew, his fork hovering inches from his mouth, staring at the two of you in absolute, comedic horror.

“Did… did you just spoon-feed her?” Marlon asked, his eyes wide. “Are my eyes deceiving me, or did a grown-ass man just spoon-feed a grown-ass woman at a public family barbecue?!”

"Marlon, hush and eat your food!" Katherine scolded, though she was hiding a huge smile behind her napkin.

"No, Mother, look at them!" Marlon pointed his fork across the table. "They are literally sharing a plate! Jackie’s got a whole mountain of food on his side, and he’s out here acting like a mama bird! Jermaine, tell me you see this!"

Jermaine shook his head, dramatically wiping his mouth with a napkin. "I’m trying not to look, Marlon. My blood sugar is spiking just sitting this close to them. It’s too much sweet, man. Too much sweet."

"Y'all are just haters," Janet piped up from the end of the table, swinging her legs under her chair. "Jackie, feed her another piece! Show 'em!"

Jackie chuckled, entirely unbothered, and wrapped his arm over the back of your chair, pulling you even closer so your head was practically resting against his shoulder while he ate with his free hand. His other hand stayed firmly planted on your knee, squeezing gently every few seconds just to reassure himself that you were right there next to him.

"You eating enough, baby?" Jackie whispered, looking down at your plate. "You want me to get you some watermelon? I can go slice the sweet part from the middle for you."

“Jackie, I’ve barely finished three bites,” you laughed softly, resting your hand over the one on your knee. “Eat your own food, baby.”

“I am,” he smiled, kissing the crown of your head, the texture of his soft afro resting against your forehead for a lingering moment. “I just like takin’ care of you.”

After dinner, as the golden hour hit and the sky turned a brilliant palette of deep orange, dusty pink, and violet, the energy on the lawn relaxed into a slow, lazy evening hum. Stevie Wonder’s "Songs in the Key of Life" was playing low from the stereo, the warm electric piano chords drifting through the cool evening breeze.

Michael and Janet were over near the grass, kicking a kickball back and forth, while Tito and Jermaine were sitting on the patio steps, sipping cold soda and talking about car engines. Katherine was resting in a cushioned lounge chair, watching her children with a quiet, peaceful contentment.

Jackie had pulled the large knitted blanket back out under the oak tree, away from the patio lights. He laid down flat on his back, pulling you down with him so that your head was resting directly on his chest, your body snuggled sideways against his.

His big, warm hand rested over your back, slowly stroking up and down, while his other hand was busy twirling a strand of your hair, feeling the texture, his fingers gently smoothing down the puff at the top of your head.

"You happy, baby?" Jackie asked softly, his chest vibrating under your ear as he spoke.

"I’m so happy, Jackie," you murmured, closing your eyes and breathing in the familiar, comforting scent of his cologne mixed with the sweet summer air. "Your family is amazing."

“They’re loud,” he chuckled, his fingers tracing down to massage the back of your neck. “Marlon’s a fool, and Jermaine thinks he’s smooth, but… they love you. Mother loves you especially. I can tell by the way she looks at us.”

"She’s so sweet," you agreed, resting your palm against his chest, right over his heart, feeling its steady, slow beat.

Jackie leaned his head down, resting his forehead against yours in the dimming light. "I mean it, you know. What I said at the table. I ain't ever felt like this about nobody. You got me wrapped around your finger, girl, and I don't ever wanna get unwrapped."

You smiled, opening your eyes to look into his. In the fading sunlight, Jackie looked like absolute perfection—his smooth dark skin glowing, his eyes soft and filled with an almost overwhelming amount of tenderness.

"I don't plan on letting you go either, Jackie Jackson," you whispered.

He smiled—that brilliant, breathtaking smile—and pulled you up just enough to capture your lips in another slow, deep, tooth-rotting kiss. It wasn't rushed; it was the kind of kiss born out of absolute comfort, deep love, and total domestic peace. He held you tight against his chest, his hands pressing warm against your back, pouring every ounce of his affection into the quiet moment.

Naturally, the quiet didn't last.

"OH, COME ON!"

Marlon’s voice cut through the twilight air like a siren. He was standing near the patio edge with a flashlight, looking out toward the oak tree.

"It’s dark out!" Marlon shouted, throwing his hands in the air. "It is officially nighttime, and y'all are still kissing under the tree?! Do y'all ever take a breather?! Do you need oxygen?!"

Michael’s high-pitched, musical giggle echoed from the patio, followed by Janet shouting, "Leave 'em alone, Marlon! They’re in love!"

"In love?!" Marlon yelled back, turning to Janet. "Janet, they’ve been glued together like rubber cement since three o'clock this afternoon! I think their lips are fused together! We might need to call a doctor!"

Jackie didn't even break the kiss right away. He finished slowly, pressing one last soft kiss to your bottom lip, then a kiss to your nose, and finally a kiss to your forehead before he turned his head toward the house, letting out a loud, hearty laugh that echoed across the lawn.

"Go inside and go to sleep, Marlon!" Jackie shouted back, his arm tightening comfortably around your waist as he pulled you closer under the blanket. "We’re staying right here!"

"Unbelievable," Marlon grumbled, turning around to walk back inside, though a reluctant smile was plastered across his face. "Tito, lock the doors. Leave 'em out there with the crickets. Maybe the crickets can teach 'em some personal space!"

Tito just laughed, tossing his chef's apron over a chair. "Goodnight, Jackie! Goodnight, sweetheart!"

"Goodnight, Tito!" you called back, laughing softly against Jackie’s chest.

As the family slowly filtered back inside the house, leaving the warm glow of the patio lights shining soft yellow across the grass, the yard fell into a quiet, peaceful stillness. The crickets were chirping softly in the bushes, blending with the lingering tail end of the music playing from the house.

Jackie shifted slightly, pulling the edge of the blanket up over your shoulders to shield you from the rising night chill. He wrapped both arms around you, burying his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply, kissing the soft skin behind your ear.

"Just you and me now, baby," he whispered, his voice thick with contentment.

"Just you and me," you repeated, lacing your fingers through his, feeling the warmth of his hand, the steady beat of his heart, and the absolute, tooth-rotting perfection of being loved by Jackie Jackson.

© 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐥𝐲𝐩𝐲𝐭𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐛𝐱 ; 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒔 𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒗𝒆𝒅. 𝒏𝒐 𝒓𝒆𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒅𝒖𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒐𝒓 𝒂𝒊 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒎𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒅.

Hayvenhurst always carried a distinct weight—a blend of polished mahogany, expensive cologne, fresh flowers, and the faint, unmistakable smell of pine from the massive grounds outside. Beyond the gated perimeter, Encino hummed with the steady pulse of late 1970s Los Angeles: warm summer asphalt, neon lights along Sunset Boulevard, and the distinct smog settling over the Valley. But inside the main house, the rest of the world felt muffled, as if the thick carpets and grand architecture were built specifically to keep the noise of reality from seeping in.

Tonight, however, the silence in the living room was suffocating.

You sat tucked into the corner of the deep cream velvet sofa, your fingers wrapped around a tall glass of orange juice that had long lost its cool. The ice cubes had melted into tiny slivers, diluting the orange liquid, but you hadn’t taken a sip in twenty minutes. Across the low glass coffee table, Valerie—your best friend since the ninth grade—was practically vibrating with anxious energy. Her long, manicured acrylics clicked rhythmically against the side of her leather clutch, a fast uneven staccato that was slowly driving you mad. 

“You’re doing it again,” Valerie murmured, leaning across the gap between the couches. Her eyes darted toward the hallway before snapping back to your face. “That face you make when you’re overthinking. What’s going on in that head of yours?”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, staring down at the condensation pooling around the base of your glass. “Nothing. Just… thinking.”

“About Marcus?” Valerie’s voice dropped an octave, laced with a strange, jittery sharpness. “You still caught up on what he said when he pulled up to your apartment last night?”

Just hearing his name made a cold, familiar knot tighten in the pit of your stomach. Marcus. You had been dealing with his hot-and-cold routine for nearly two years. He was the kind of man who knew exactly how to speak to you when he wanted something—soft-spoken, dripping with charisma, promising the moon and the stars—only to turn around and treat you like a second-tier option the moment he felt secure again. He canceled plans at the last minute, flipped every valid argument back on you until you were the one apologizing, and subtly chipped away at your confidence while demanding total, unquestioning loyalty in return.

And yet, when he had shown up on your doorstep at two in the morning, standing under the flickering yellow porch light with his hands shoved in his pockets and tears shining in his eyes, swearing he’d hit rock bottom without you, a traitorous part of your heart had softened. You were so tired. So utterly exhausted from the emotional whiplash that giving in and believing his lies felt easier than fighting them.

“He sounded different this time, Valerie,” you whispered, keeping your voice low so it wouldn’t carry toward the kitchen. “He swore he was done with the games. He said he realized what he’s losing, and he wants to actually step up. I don’t know… maybe people can really hit rock bottom and change.”

Valerie’s jaw tightened, a weird, flicking shadow crossing her features before she smoothed her expression back into a sympathetic pout. “I mean… if you think he’s being real, babe. You know I just want you to be happy.”

Before you could reply, a burst of bright, booming laughter echoed from down the hallway, instantly cutting through the heavy mood in the room.

“Man, if you don’t get outta here with that!” Marlon’s voice carried around the corner, followed by the heavy, rhythmic thrum of a bassline playing softly from the stereo unit in the far corner of the family room.

A second later, Marlon strolled into the living room, tossing an orange in the air and catching it with one hand. Randy was right behind him, fanning himself with a vinyl sleeve, arguing passionately about a bass bridge on a track they’d been messing around with in the home studio.

And then came Michael.

Seeing Michael in the summer of 1979 was like looking directly at a solar flare. He was standing on the precipice of absolute global dominance with Off the Wall taking over the airwaves, yet here in Hayvenhurst, he was still just the quiet, incredibly observant core of his family. Sporting an oversized thin-stripped button down shirt rolled up loosely at his forearms, dark fitted slacks, and a thin silver chain resting against his collarbone. His afro was picked out into a soft, perfectly rounded halo framing his sharp jawline and deep, soulful eyes.

He radiated an effortless, magnetic youthfulness, but the moment his gaze swept across the room and landed on you, everything about his posture shifted.

The easy, playful smile resting on his lips faltered. His dark eyes—sharp, intuitive, and entirely too perceptive—scanned your slumped shoulders and the anxious way you were nursing your warm juice. He picked up on your mood in less than a second.

“Look who finally decided to come out of the shadows,” Marlon teased, dropping onto the leather armchair across from you and taking a loud bite of his orange. “We thought you fell into the pool, girl.”

“Very funny, Marlon,” you managed a weak chuckle, though it sounded thin even to your own ears.

Michael didn’t say a word to his brothers. He walked across the room with that light, silent, almost floating stride of his, stepping right past the empty armchair and dropping onto the plush sofa cushions right next to you. He sat close—close enough that you could smell the subtle, comforting scent of broad-spectrum vanilla, warm musk, and sweet hair sheen that always seemed to follow him.

“Hey,” he whispered. His voice had that signature soft, high-pitched cadence, but underneath it lay a firm, grounded warmth that instantly made the tension in your shoulders give way.

“Hey, Mike,” you murmured, offering him a tiny, exhausted smile.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he noted softly, tilting his head. His eyes locked onto yours, completely ignoring the chatter starting to build as the rest of the house woke up around you. “And don’t tell me you’re fine, because I know that look. What’s going on?”

You shifted uncomfortably on the cushion. “It’s nothing. Just tired from work.”

Michael raised a single brow, a subtle crease forming between his eyebrows. He leaned in a fraction closer, lowering his voice until it was a private hush strictly meant for your ears. “You were talking to him again. Weren’t you?”

You didn’t have to ask who he was. Michael knew about Marcus. In fact, Michael knew more about the emotional toll Marcus took on you than almost anyone else, mostly because Michael was the one who had sat with you on the back patio two weeks ago until three in the morning while you cried over another forgotten date.

Michael’s jaw tightened sharply, a rare, flickering flash of irritation breaking through his usually gentle expression. He hated Marcus. It wasn’t just a mild dislike—it was a deep, visceral revulsion. He couldn’t fathom how a man could hold your heart in his hands and treat it like garbage. 

To Michael, who had spent months admiring your grace, your humor, your quiet strength, and your staggering beauty from a safe, respectful distance, watching you be dismantled by a loser was pure torture.

“You can’t do this to yourself,” he said, his voice dropping into an earnest, urgent whisper. “You can’t keep giving that guy passes to tear you down. He doesn’t see you, girl. He really doesn’t.”

“Michael, it’s just… it’s complicated,” you sighed, looking down at your lap, feeling the burn of shame in your throat. “He said he wants to try again. He apologized.”

“Apologies are just words,” Michael countered softly, reaching out. For a brief second, his long and slender fingers brushed against the back of your hand—a light, fleeting touch that sent a sudden jolt of electricity straight up your arm. “You deserve somebody who respects you from the start. Somebody who doesn’t have to lose you first to realize what you’re worth.”

You swallowed hard, looking into his big, expressive eyes. The sincerity in them was overwhelming. It was terrifying, honestly, how deeply Michael cared for you, and how easily he could see right through the defenses you spent so much energy building up.

Before you could figure out how to respond to Michael, the heavy double doors leading to the grand foyer clicked open, breaking the intimate bubble Michael had built around the two of you.

Jackie walked in first, tossing a set of car keys onto the entry table, complaining loudly about the traffic on the Ventura Freeway, with Jermaine right behind him, draped in a light sweater and adjusting his watch. A moment later, Mrs. Katherine stepped into the room carrying a heavy silver tray laden with fresh glasses, a pitcher of iced sweet tea, and a plate of warm lemon square bars.

“I brought some tea for everybody,” Katherine announced, her warm, soothing voice instantly blanketing the room in motherly comfort. “It’s hot out there tonight. Y’all need to stay hydrated.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Katherine,” you said, forcing a polite smile as the room filled up with the chaotic, vibrant energy that only the Jackson family possessed.

The living room had suddenly become the center of the house. Marlon was stretched out on the rug, Randy was flipping through a stack of 45s near the studio, Jermaine and Jackie were leaning against the archway discussing a mix tape for an upcoming studio session, and Katherine was settling into the wingback chair near the window.

You took a deep breath, trying to shake off the heavy conversation you’d just had with Michael. You felt cluttered, your purse sitting on the end table near the floor lamp feeling miles away.

“Hey, Valerie,” you said, turning slightly toward your friend. “Can you hand me my bag from over there? I need my lip balm.”

Valerie jumped slightly at the sound of her name, looking almost guilty for being addressed. “Oh—yeah. Yeah, sure, hold on.”

She reached over the side table, but instead of just grabbing your leather purse, her elbow clumsily knocked against her own heavy designer clutch. The bag tottered on the glass edge for a second before slipping, crashing onto the hardwood floor with a sharp, echoing clatter.

The impact popped the metal latch wide open.

Lipstick tubes, a compact mirror, a cloud of loose powder, keys, a thick fold of cash, and several loose items exploded across the glossy dark wood floor, sliding toward the center of the room.

“Dang it!” she cursed, her voice suddenly pitching an octave higher than normal—sharp, shrill, and laced with immediate panic. She practically threw herself off the couch, dropping to her hands and knees to frantically sweep everything back toward her. “I got it! I got it, don’t worry about it!”

“Relax, Valerie, it’s just a bag,” Marlon laughed, reaching down from his spot on the rug to grab a stray lipstick tube that had rolled near his knee.

Randy, who was sitting the closest to the side table, leaned over to help. “Here, let me grab this—”

Randy picked up a small, heavy object that had skittered under the edge of the coffee table, along with a thick square piece of paper that had landed face-down near his shoe. He casually flipped the paper over to see what it was before handing it back.

But the moment Randy’s eyes locked onto the photograph, his hands stopped dead in mid-air.

The playful smirk vanished from his face instantly. His eyebrows pulled together in the deep, confused scowl, his eyes darting from the small photo to the heavy silver item in his palm—a thick, custom-engraved Cuban link bracelet with a distinct dragon-head clasp.

“Yo…” Randy’s voice cut clean through the cross-talk in the room. It was flat, sudden, and heavy with instant anger. “What the hell is this?”

The tone in his voice was so sharp that the entire room fell dead silent within two seconds. The track playing on the stereo seemed to fade into background noise. Jermaine stopped talking mid-sentence. Katherine paused with her tea glass halfway to her mouth.

“Randy, give me that!” Valerie practically shrieked, lunging across the floor with her hand outstretched, her face flushed a bright, splotchy red.

Randy snapped his head back, standing up fully and holding the item way out of her reach. He wasn’t laughing anymore. His face was dark, his eyes blazing as he looked from the heavy silver bracelet in his hand, down at Valerie on the floor, and then straight over to you.

“Wait a damn minute,” Randy said, his voice rising, thick with disbelief and disgust. “Is this Marcus’s chain? The one he never takes off? The one with his initials stamped on the inside of the clasp?”

Your stomach dropped into a bottomless, freezing pit. The room seemed to tilt on its axis. “What…?”

Michael sat up straight beside you. All the gentleness, all the soft, dreamy energy that usually defined him vanished in a fraction of a second. His spine went rigid, his posture shifting into something razor-sharp and intensely alert. “Randy, what are you holding?”

“This is Marcus’s chain,” Randy said loudly, turning the object over in his hand before holding up the small glossy paper for the whole room to see. “And this is a Polaroid. Taken in a room at the Beverly Hilton.”

“Randy, give it here, don’t look at that!” Valerie cried out, her voice cracking as she scrambled to her feet, tears of pure panic springing to her eyes. “It’s personal! You have no right to touch my stuff!”

“Shut up!” Jermaine barked from the doorway, taking three long strides across the room and snatching the Polaroid directly out of Randy’s fingers.

Jermaine looked at the print for three seconds before his jaw set into a hard, furious line. He looked over at you, his eyes filled with a sudden, overwhelming pity that made your blood run cold.

“Show her,” Jermaine said quietly, his voice dangerously low.

Randy took the Polaroid from Jermaine and stepped over to the couch, placing it gently on the glass coffee table directly in front of you.

You leaned forward, your hands trembling so violently that you could barely keep your balance on the edge of the cushion. You looked down at the photograph.

It was crystal clear. It was a flash-photography photo taken in a dimly lit hotel room. Marcus was sitting on the edge of a messy bed, wearing his signature black silk shirt—unbuttoned at the top—with his arm wrapped tightly around Valerie’s shoulders. Valerie was leaning into his chest, laughing hysterically, wearing a silk robe that you recognized because you had given it to her for her birthday last year. The white date stamp in the bottom right corner of the glossy paper read: JULY 27, 1979.

Two weeks ago.

The exact weekend you were laying in bed at home with a hundred and two-degree fever, shivering under three blankets, while Valerie had called you saying she was driving down to San Diego to visit her aunt.

The breath was completely sucked out of your lungs. It felt as if someone had taken a sledgehammer and slammed it directly into your chest, shattering your ribs into a thousand tiny needles. Your vision blurred around the edges, the room spinning, the sound of your own heartbeat echoing like thunder in your ears.

“Valerie…?” Your voice didn’t even sound like yours. It was small, fragile, a broken whisper that barely carried across the glass table. 

Valerie stood frozen in the middle of the living room, her face pale, her lips trembling as tears streamed down her cheeks. “Look—listen to me! Please, just let me explain! It’s not what it looks like!”

“Not what it looks like?!” Marlon roared, stepping up beside Randy, his face contorted in pure rage. “Are you out of your mind?! That’s a picture of you in a hotel room with her damn man! While she was sick at home!”

“He manipulated me!” Valerie screamed back, completely crumbling under the weight of the room’s collective anger. She reached out toward you, her hands shaking. “You know how Marcus is! He was calling me, he came by my place, he made me feel like—he said you guys were over anyway! He said you didn’t care about him like I did!”

“Don’t you dare put this on anybody else!” Jackie barked, stepping into the living room, his voice booming off the high ceilings. “You brought your fake, snake-in-the-grass ass into our home! You sat on our furniture, ate our food, and listened to this girl cry her out over that man, knowing damn well you were sleeping with him behind her back!”

“I was gonna tell her!” Valerie sobbed wildly. “I was gonna tell you! It was a mistake!”

“A mistake?!” Randy spat, holding up the heavy silver bracelet. “You kept his chain in your purse like a damn trophy! You been carrying this around while sitting right next to her!”

“Get up.”

The command was not loud. It was not shouted. It didn’t carry the booming rage of Marlon or the booming authority of Jackie.

It was quiet. Ice cold. Deadly serious.

It came from Michael.

You looked up through the blur of your tears. Michael had stood up from the sofa. He was standing right between you and Valerie, his tall, slender frame acting as a physical, unyielding wall protecting you from the mess in front of you.

His dark eyes were locked onto Valerie. The softness, the light, the youthful warmth that usually defined Michael Jackson was completely gone. His face was a stone-cold mask of absolute, uncompromising fury. His fists were clenched tightly at his sides, his chest heaving with deep, controlled breaths.

“Michael, please—” Valerie choked out, taking a small step back, terrified by the look in his eyes.

“Don’t you say my name,” he said, his voice dropping into a register so low and dangerous it made the hair on the back of your neck stand up. He stepped forward, pointing a single finger directly toward the grand front doors. “Don’t you say her name. Don’t you look at her. Don’t you ever, ever step foot on this property again.”

“Mike, listen to me—”

“I said get out!” he snapped, his voice cracking with a sudden, explosive power that shattered the air. “Get your things and get out of this house before I have security throw you into the street!”

Mrs. Katherine stepped forward, her face a heartbreaking mixture of deep grief and absolute, unshakeable sternness. She looked at Valerie with eyes that held no mercy. “Valerie, sweetie… you need to go. Right now. You have brought venom into my home, and you have broken this child’s heart in a way that is unforgivable. Pack your things and leave.”

Jermaine didn’t wait. He walked over to the side table, snatched up Valerie’s open purse, shoved the loose items, the Polaroid, and the silver chain back inside, and shoved the bag roughly into Valerie’s chest. He grabbed her firmly by the elbow, pulling her toward the foyer.

“Move,” he demanded coldly, walking her straight out of the living room.

Marlon and Jackie followed right behind them to make sure she didn’t turn around, their voices echoing down the hallway as they barked at her to keep it moving.

A second later, the massive, heavy oak doors of Hayvenhurst slammed shut with a deafening, thunderous BOOM that rattled the glass windows of the living room.

The silence that settled over the house in the wake of the front door slamming was heavy, absolute, and suffocating.

You sat frozen on the velvet sofa, staring blankly at the empty spot on the glass table where the Polaroid had rested just moments before. Your brain felt entirely numb, completely unable to process the sheer scale of the betrayal that had just been unraveled in front of you. The two people you had trusted the most in the world—the man you were foolishly considering taking back, and the best friend who had held your hand through every tearful night—had been laughing at you behind closed doors.

A ragged, shuddering gasp tore through your throat, and before you could suppress it, the first sob broke free.

Instantly, the cold, furious energy in the room shattered, replaced by a wave of intense, protective family devotion.

“Oh, sweet baby,” Mrs. Katherine whispered softly, rushing over to the sofa and sinking to her knees right beside you. She reached out, taking both of your ice-cold, trembling hands into warm, soft palms. “It’s alright. Let it out, child. Take a deep breath. You are safe here.”

“Unbelievable,” Jackie muttered, pacing back and forth near the rug, shaking his head in disgust. “Absolute human trash. Both of ‘em. You don’t ever have to worry about seeing either one of those snakes again, you hear me? We’ll make sure security has their plates. They won’t even make it past the front gate.”

“They’re dead to you,” Randy added firmly, leaning over the back of the couch, his voice thick with protective anger. “Dead and buried. Neither one of them exists anymore.”

While his brothers paced and vented their rage, and while Katherine held your hands, Michael did something different.

He didn’t speak. He quietly walked out of the living room and into the kitchen. A minute later, he returned carrying a tall glass of ice water and a small, soft cotton towel soaked in cool water.

Michael crouched down directly in front of you, sinking to his knees on the carpet right next to his mother. He placed a gentle, steady hand on your knee. The fierce, terrifying anger that had flickered in his eyes just moments ago had completely melted away, replaced by an overwhelming, painfully tender warmth.

“Here,” he whispered softly, his voice a feather-light hum that seemed to cut straight through the roaring in your ears. “Drink a little bit of this for me. Just a sip.”

Your hands were trembling so badly that when you reached for the glass, the water sloshed over the rim. Without a second thought, Michael reached up, his long, slender fingers wrapping around yours to steady your grip. He held the glass with you, helping you bring it up to your lips so you could take a slow, cool swallow.

Once you set the glass down, Michael took a damp towel and began softly dabbing away the warm tears spilling down your cheeks, his touch so light, so extraordinarily gentle, it felt like a breeze.

“Look at me,” he whispered, his voice low, steady, and anchoring.

You forced yourself to pull your eyes away from the floor, looking down into his dark, luminous eyes.

“You listen to me,” he said, his tone carrying an unshakeable, absolute certainty that made your frantic, racing pulse begin to slow down. "You are done with both of them. You hear me? You are never going back to that guy. Ever again. And you don't need a friend who treats your heart like it's cheap. You don't deserve that. You have never deserved that."

A choked sob escaped your lips, but Michael didn't pull away. He leaned closer, his hand shifting from your knee up to wrap securely around your shaking fingers, pressing a warm, firm squeeze to your hand.

"You have us," Michael whispered fiercely, his eyes shining with a deep, emotional truth. "You have Mother. You have Marlon, Randy, Jackie, Jermaine... you have me. We are your family. We are going to take care of you."

As his words sank deep into your chest, something in you finally snapped—not in brokenness, but in total, liberating clarity. The heavy, suffocating web that Marcus had spun around you for two long years shattered into dust. The illusion was gone. The ex was dead to you. Valerie was dead to you.

And sitting right in front of you, holding your shaking hands in his, was the one man who had loved you quietly, purely, and endlessly from the very beginning.

Deep down inside Michael’s chest, beneath the genuine, aching fury he felt for your heartbreak, a quiet, golden spark ignited. The toxic fog had cleared. The man who had kept you trapped was finally gone forever.

Michael looked at your tear-stained face, squeezing your hand tighter, swearing to himself in the quiet of his heart that he would spend every single day from this moment on proving to you what real love actually felt like.

The days following the blowup at Hayvenhurst felt like living inside a soft-focus velvet bubble.

Mrs. Katherine had flatly refused to let you go back to your empty apartment that night. She had led you up the grand staircase herself, tucked you into one of the guest suites on the second floor, and made sure a fresh set of oversized satin pajamas was laid out across the duvet. For three days, the Jackson home became your fortress. 

The outer iron gates remained locked tight against the outside world; security had explicit, unyielding orders from both Jackie and Michael that neither Marcus nor Valerie was to be allowed anywhere near the property.

By the fourth morning, the overwhelming shock had given way to a quiet, lingering ache—a tender bruising of the spirit that left you exhausted.

You sat on the cushioned window bench in the second-floor conservatory, staring out at the sun-drenched gardens. The morning L.A. warmth was rising off the lawns, smelling faintly of cut grass and blooming honeysuckle. You wore one of Michael’s thin, worn-in striped studio shirts over a pair of lounge shorts, the sleeves rolled up past your elbows. It smelled softly of him—sweet vanilla, clean cotton, and a hint of warm sandalwood.

A soft knock sounded at the open wooden doorway.

"Hey, sleepyhead," Michael’s soft, gentle voice hummed.

You turned your head to see him leaning against the doorframe. He looked effortless and gorgeous in the golden morning light: a white t-shirt, black fitted slacks, and his hair loosely picked out in that soft, iconic Off the Wall halo. In his hands, he carefully balanced a silver tray loaded with fresh strawberries, buttered toast, a small bowl of scrambled eggs, and a glass of chilled orange juice.

"Michael, you didn't have to do all that," you said softly, a genuine, warm smile breaking through the quiet haze of your morning.

"I wanted to," Michael replied, stepping into the room with that light, silent, almost floating stride of his. He set the tray down on the small glass table next to the window bench and sat beside you, tucking his long legs under himself. "Mother said you barely touched your dinner last night. You gotta eat to keep your strength up, girl. I'm taking care of you."

"I know," you murmured, looking at the spread. "Thank you, Mike. For everything. Your family has been... incredible. I don't even know how to repay y'all."

His expressive eyes softened instantly. He reached out, his fingers gently closing over your wrist, his thumb resting over your steady pulse. “Don’t ever talk about repaying us. You’re family. You hear me? We take care of our own.”

He picked up a strawberry from the plate, holding it out toward you with a playful, encouraging tilt of his head. “Here. Take a bite.”

You chuckled softly, shaking your head at the stubborn attentiveness, but leaned in and took a bite. The sweetness burst on your tongue. Michael watched you with a quiet, intense satisfaction, a slow, breathtaking smile spreading across his face—the kind of smile that made his eyes crinkle at the corners and instantly lit up the entire room.

“There,” Michael murmured, his voice dropping into a soft, tender register. "That's better. I like seeing you smile again."

Later that evening, after the heat of the day had settled into a cool, breeze-filled dusk, the rest of the family had cleared out—Marlon and Randy were out at a record company event, and Mrs. Katherine was turning in early. The grand house was quiet, save for the low, rhythmic thrum coming from the private recording studio tucked into the lower wing.

You walked down the carpeted hallway, pulled toward the sound of music like a moth to a flame.

When you pushed open the heavy acoustic door, you found Michael standing in the center of the wood-paneled room. He was wearing dark headphones rested over his neck, standing beside a grand piano with a notebook spread open over the keys. An unreleased instrumental track was looping softly through the studio monitors—a smooth, mid-tempo disco-groove laced with lush strings and a thumping, irresistible bassline.

He was moving to it—just slightly—his body swaying with that natural, instinctual rhythm that lived in his bones. But the moment the door clicked, he paused, turning around.

"Am I disturbing you?" you asked from the threshold, suddenly feeling self-conscious.

"Never," Michael said instantly. He took off the headphones, setting them on the piano, and gestured for you to come inside. "Come here. I want you to listen to something."

You walked into the studio, the ambient yellow dim lighting creating an intimate, magical world cut off from the rest of the universe. Michael stood by the piano, watching you closely as you approached.

"Is this for the next record?" you asked, leaning against the edge of the piano console.

"Maybe," Michael whispered, stepping a little closer to you. The distance between you narrowed until you could feel the soft warmth radiating off his body, smelling his sweet, hypnotic scent. "I've been working on the melody all day. But... every time I try to write the lyrics, my mind keeps going back to one thing."

Your heart took a sudden, hard thud against your ribs. "To what?"

Michael looked down at you, his dark, soulful eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made the breath catch in your throat. All the playful, shy innocence he carried during the day seemed to melt away, revealing the deep, burning passion that made him who he was.

"To you," Michael said softly, his voice barely a breath.

The studio fell dead silent, the instrumental loop fading into the background.

"Michael..." you whispered, your heart hammering against your chest like a trapped bird.

"I mean it," Michael continued, stepping directly into your space. He reached up, his long, warm hand gently resting against the side of your neck, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone with a delicate, trembling touch. "I hated seeing you hurt the other night. It broke my heart into a million pieces watching you cry over those people. But..."

He hesitated, his jaw tightening slightly as he searched your eyes, searching for permission to finally speak the truth he’d kept buried for months.

"But what, Mike?" you whispered, leaning imperceptibly into his touch.

"But a part of me... a selfish part of me... was glad," Michael confessed, his voice dropping into a raw, breathless whisper. "Because I couldn't stand watching him treat you like you were nothing. I wanted to scream every time you went back to him. Because I've been standing right here the whole time... just waiting for you to see me."

Your breath hitched. The air in the room became thick, electrified, supercharged with a romantic tension that had been building between you two for over a year—hidden under the guise of late-night phone calls, shared secrets, and lingering glances.

"Michael..." you gasped softly, staring at his plush, beautiful lips. "I... I see you. I've always seen you."

Michael’s eyes darkened with a sudden, overwhelming emotion. "Really?"

"Really," you murmured, reaching up to lay your palm against his chest. You could feel his heart hammering wildly beneath his shirt, just as fast as yours. "I was just... scared. Scared to ruin what we had. Scared that someone like you couldn't really want someone like me."

"Don't ever say that," he breathed, his hand sliding from your cheek down to wrap around the back of your waist, gently pulling you flush against his body. "You're everything to me. You're beautiful, you're strong, you're sweet... you're everything I've ever dreamed of."

Before you could say another word, Michael leaned down.

The first touch of his lips against yours was hesitant, sweet, and unbelievably soft—a gentle, questioning press that made your knees go weak. But as you wrapped your arms around his neck, sinking your fingers into the soft curls at the nape of his neck, Michael let out a soft, shuddering sigh against your mouth.

The kiss deepened instantly.

He pulled you tighter against his chest, his hands anchoring you to him as if he was afraid you might disappear into thin air. His lips moved over yours with a desperate, pent-up passion, taste-testing you, claiming you, pouring every unspoken feeling, every late-night yearning, and every ounce of his pure, electric heart into the kiss.

It wasn't the chaotic, manipulative pressure you were used to with Marcus. This was reverence. This was being held like you were the most precious, fragile, irreplaceable treasure in the entire world.

When Michael finally pulled back just a fraction to catch his breath, his forehead rested gently against yours. Both of your chests were heaving, your lips flushed and tingling, your eyes locked together in the dim studio light.

Michael’s hands remained securely wrapped around your waist, his thumbs gently caressing your hips through the soft fabric of his shirt. A brilliant, breathless, ecstatic smile broke across his face.

"I'm never gonna let anybody hurt you again," Michael whispered against your lips, his voice thick with devotion. "I promise you. You're mine now."

You let out a soft, genuine laugh—a sound full of freedom, joy, and peace for the first time in years. You cupped his cheek, leaning up to press a sweet kiss to the corner of his smiling mouth.

"I'm yours, Michael," you murmured softly. "I'm yours."

Outside the heavy studio doors, the L.A. night was dark and quiet, the shadows of the past officially washed away. But inside the sanctuary of Hayvenhurst, wrapped in Michael Jackson’s arms under the soft studio lights, your new story was just beginning—and it was breathtakingly beautiful.

© 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐥𝐲𝐩𝐲𝐭𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐛𝐱

In excitement? Confusion? Arousal? Maybe all. A hard lump settled in his throat, looking around to see if anyone noticed but of course everyone was too caught up in the next ride, they were about to get on.

A bit let down he was leaving early, he knew it was deserved. He knew what he was doing, pushing you to your limits until you snapped. A strike of fear ran through his heart feeling the almost painful grip of his wrist in your hand.

Once you both got into the car, you remained quiet. “Do you want me to drive?” Michael’s meek voice spoke up, a sad attempt at a peace offering. You were so irritated, you couldn’t even fathom to respond. He shut his mouth, fidgeting around during the drive home.

The car was dead silent, radio on mute, windows rolled up, only the sound of tires driving and other cars. Michael's shoe tapped against the car floor, making quick glances at you. Once you parked into the driveway, you didn’t get out.

“Go upstairs and take your clothes off.” You told him while your eyes remained on the windshield, fingers drumming against the steering wheel. He knew better than to respond, settling on getting out the car and going upstairs.

You waited a few more minutes and let out a sigh, getting out of the car and heading inside. The house was dead silent, only sound being keys jingling in your hand as you ascended upstairs.

Stepping in, there sat Michael on the bed, hands clasped together on his thighs, soft bare skin revealed. His doe eyes looked up at you, hands now resting on his knees.

The silence felt heavy between the two of you and his lips rubbed together waiting for your next move.

A small smile formed on your lips, and he felt his heart drop to his ass.

•••

“P-please.” He begged, eyes glazed over in tears. The wet squelching of your hand pumping his dick sounded in the room. The television played lowly as you fixated on it, legs keeping a tight hold on Michael’s body with his back pressed against your chest.

Your shoulder caught the weight of his head as it fell back against you. He swiped his tongue against his lips, swollen from biting on them. “M-mama—”

“Shut up and watch.” You sped up your pace, using your other hand to grasp his jaw, directing his focus to the tv. The rule was he couldn’t cum before the movie ended, and he could’ve cried realizing he hasn’t even reached the hour mark yet.

“I-I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Tears began to roll down his face. “You sorry, baby? Should’ve thought about that earlier.” You sarcastically pouted. The angry, leaking head wet your palm as you focused on his tip.

A whine fell from him, thrusting his hips into the air involuntarily. “M-mama, I’m gonna cum.” He warned, fingers squeezing your thighs. Your actions came to a halt and a smile graced your face as you tightened your grip around his dick.

Michael’s breath caught in his throat as you denied him yet another orgasm. All because he wanted a little attention. Just to see how far he could take it, now he’s stuck between your legs going through absolute torture.

A painful cry rung in the air, body screaming for his release. “Breathe. In and out.” You instructed him noticing the quick breaths he was taking. As he followed your directions, he closed his eyes, chest slowing down.

Once his body returned to its starting point, you began pumping again. Sensitive and tender, his breathing hitched followed by the slow roll of his eyes. Drool spilled from the corner of his lips and his fingers twitched against your thigh.

A sinfully angelic sight.

Broken moans spilled from his lips, and not a single thought was going through his head. Only the feel of your hand pleasuring him. Sweat was glazed over his body, overheated from the constant stimulation he was under.

You pressed a soft kiss against his forehead, damp skin against your lips. A small whimper tumbled from his mouth. His lips opened to say something but was choked back by a moan.

“You need something, baby?” You cooed, using his jaw to turn his head towards you. He forced his eyes to look at you before nodding.

“I don’t know, do you think you’ve been good?”

“I-I’m sorry, I’ll be good, I promise. I-I’ll do anything for you.” He whimpered. Mind teetering between the edge of reaching his breaking point, his dick twitched in your hand. Stiff and thick. Beads of pre cum rolling out in a hurry.

Even though the movie isn’t close to over, you could tell he was starting to lose it. Delivering a soft kiss to the shell of his ear, you whispered, “cum for mama.”

With a sharp inhale, Michael let out a whiny moan as ropes of nut immediately shot out of his tip. Lanky limbs shaking against you, you held him tighter as he let go.

Thick spurts of cum splayed across his abdomen and your knuckles. Continuous whimpers spilled from his mouth, eyebrows furrowed as he watched your fist continue stroking him.

Overstimulation wasn’t too far behind, legs twitching with a quick yelp when your fingers brushed against his tip. “I-I came already.”

“I know, baby, but you said you’ll do anything for me,” you pressed a kiss against his cheek, noticing his eyes widen.

“And mama wants you to take everything she’s gonna give.”