༒𝔉𝔞𝔦𝔱𝔥༒

𝒾 𝒽ℴ𝓅ℯ 𝓂𝓎 𝓅ℯ𝓃 𝒸𝒶𝓉𝒸𝒽ℯ𝓈 ℴ𝓃 𝒻𝒾𝓇ℯ :)

[faithefaith]

"𝔦 𝔤𝔲𝔢𝔰𝔰 𝔦'𝔩𝔩 𝔰𝔢𝔢 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔫𝔢𝔵𝔱 𝔩𝔦𝔣𝔢𝔱𝔦𝔪𝔢" - 𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚔𝚊𝚑 𝚋𝚊𝚍𝚞

𝙵𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚑 - 𝟷𝟿, 𝙽𝚈, ❤️🔱🖤, 𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚢 𝙼𝙸𝙽𝙳

☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼

𝙸 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚜, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 t𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚏𝚏 𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎, 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚖𝚢 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍, 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚡 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

+𝟷𝟾, 𝚖𝚍𝚗𝚒

𝚒 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚕𝚕 ♡♥︎♡,

-𝚏𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚑

[faithefaith]

-𝙸 𝙺𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚂𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝙳𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝙺𝚗𝚘𝚠 ✿ 𝟹,𝟼𝟺𝟻 𝚠𝚌

𝚋𝚊𝚍!𝚖𝚒𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚎𝚕 𝚡 𝚏𝚎𝚖!𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

𝚜𝚢𝚗𝚘𝚙𝚜𝚒𝚜: Michael was blessed to see you—a stunning model with the most perfect legs—exactly who he wanted to play "Dirty Diana." But when he's faced with upholding a fake relationship with his choreographer, he tries to resist the fire you've given him.

𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜/𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚛: +18, mdni, FREAKKYYYYYYY DEAKKYYYY OKAY?, sub!michael, dom!reader, car sex, cheating but not really, squirting, tight spaces, overstimulation, begging, oral sex (f! & m! receiving)

This is my first requested fic! If you have a request in mind, lmk🤎

~☼☀︎☼~

Every red light killed your patience. You cursed each jaywalker that set foot in front of your limo, stealing your precious time minute by minute. When you saw the building that matched the address he gave you, everything seemed to freeze.

It felt unreal.

Your chauffeur looked back at you, "You ready, kid?"

You shook your head no, "How does somebody prepare for something like this?"

"I don't know, but my daughter really wants an autograph, so...."

You scoffed and laughed as you exited the vehicle. He waved at you before pulling off to find a place to park.

Angel, your publicist, met you at the door and let you walk in front of him. Michael's team warmly greeted you, and the female staff members gave you warm welcomes and congratulated you on your successful modeling career. Flattered by the praise, you humbly thanked them as you were led to the director's office.

You saw three men and one woman—one of the men stood at around 6'3, had a fat mustache and a matching belly, the other was shorter and grumpy, and the last man was undeniably him.

The only woman was short, with fluffy blonde hair and clear green eyes. She looked at you through the entryway and smiled at you.

"I just hope this is gonna work. I mean, if she doesn't show up, we're never gonna have a—GOD DAMN!" The shorter man exclaimed, looking past them and setting his eyes on you.

The other two men turned around to see what cut off his rambling, and when they saw you—when he saw you—it all became abundantly clear.

"Ma'am, I apologize for his outburst. That loudmouth is Reggie, I'm Joe, and this—well, I'm sure you know who he is." Joe extended his hands towards you. You shook his hands and looked at Reggie as he covered his face with one hand.

"I'm Michael Jackson," Michael introduced himself. He also held his hand out. It was large and firm, and it engulfed yours when you shakily shook it.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Jackson," you said formally.

"No, no. Just Michael."

You heard the same flustered laugh you heard over the phone when he asked for you. It was more melodic in person. More transparent.

"This is my publicist, Angel, he's been with me ever since I started." You introduced him, and he slicked back his dark, thick hair before saying hello to the others.

"I'm Charlene," the blonde woman said as she walked up to you and hugged you.

While the men's conversations continued, Charlene took you by the arm, "Finally, let's get the fuck out of here." She dragged you out into the hallway and laughed as you struggled to keep up with her speed walking.

You were now side by side as she walked with you to the set.

"So, I hear you're gonna be 'Dirty Diana,'" she nudged you. You laughed and agreed.

"I still can't believe it," you said, "I was in the middle of getting ready for a show, and I saw Angel fangirling over the phone. I was like 'what the hell is he doing,' but when I heard Michael on the phone, I basically joined him."

Charlene snorted as the image of Angel squealing popped into her mind.

The two of you started to connect, talking about your careers, sharing funny stories about wardrobe malfunctions, cackling, and joking about each tale.

"So how did you meet Michael," you inquired.

Charlene sighed, remembering the first time she started working with Michael. "Oh wow...um...I met him around 4 years ago. I helped choreograph the Thriller film."

Your jaw dropped, "You worked on Thriller?"

She laughed and threw her head back. "Yeah! We worked together behind the scenes. He's really nice and a great person to work with."

Charlene continued, "We have a really good relationship, and then recently, our managers thought it would be a good idea to make it...bigger. A 'romantic' story of how a star fell in love with his choreographer."

"What? So like a "work wife" kind of thing," you teased.

"Exactly!" Charlene pointed at you like you were a genius. "Michael's great and all, but it's been really weird trying to play stuff up for the cameras, y'know?"

You nodded your head as she confided in you, and before you knew it, you had reached the set.

"Ok, Charlene, don't wear her out," Joe interrupted, walking behind you and leading you to the scene. Charlene sucked her teeth and spotted Michael walking to the cameras.

A beige 1988 Ford Mustang was parked by a makeshift, rundown building. The wet road glistened under the pale, blue backlighting, and the smokescreens were hovering over the wheels of the car.

"Ok, here's what I want you to do," Joe opened the car door and gestured for you to get in. "I want you to get out of the car, close the door, walk around for a lil' bit, and then get back in."

You raised a brow. "That's it?"

"Yes, that's it," Joe nodded.

"I thought that it was gonna be this big thing, but all I'd have to do is get out and walk?" You asked, annoyed by how simple everything was.

"Look, I know that's all you do," Joe grunted, "but we're runnin' outta—"

"Joe!" Michael shouted, giving the director a look of warning. You looked at him, shocked by how his voice carried through the staff's conversations.

Joe huffed as you made your way into the car, "Just...Just do as I said when I say 'action,' 'Kay?"

You side-eyed Joe as you positioned yourself in the seat. The look on your face was dangerous.

How dare he—

"Action!"

The prick's voice pierced through the car. Still annoyed at the director, you got excited and slammed the door.

While walking towards the camera, your eyes fixated on Michael's.

His eyes, wide and full of adoration, freely shifted between the power behind your legs and the sharp plunging neckline of your top. He brought the nail of his thumb to his mouth, trying to hide his reaction to your presence.

Upon noticing, you smirked and turned around—giving him something else to look at. You took your hands out of the jacket's pockets and smoothed over the back of your skirt.

You could only imagine the look on his face.

The walk you gave carried into the car. You sat down and crossed your legs, confident—and fed up—with the shot.

"CUT," Joe yelled before you left the car. Charlene applauded you and ran up to give you a hug.

"Girl, that's so sexy," she laughed as she brought you over to the director's chair.

Joe clasped his hands together over his beer belly. "See? That wasn't so bad." He said smugly. Charlene punched him on the arms.

"Reggie? Michael? How'd you think she did?" Charlene asked after brushing herself off.

"Y-You're perf—That was perfect." Michael could barely contain himself.

Embarrassed by the way he answered, Michael covered his mouth and jogged out of the set. Everyone's eyes followed him before snickering and resuming their conversations.

"Well, I think that was great," Reggie high-fived Joe.

~☼☀︎☼~

When the tapes were sent for editing, everyone cheered and started to pack up their things. The staff members started cleaning the messes left on set. Snickers' wrappers, empty water bottles, and a cigarette butt or two—each of them was picked up from the floor.

As everyone said their goodbyes, you chose to stay behind—taking in what would be one of the biggest moments of your modeling career. You walked up to the Mustang and grazed the door handle with your thumb.

The moon was high in the sky, and the spring air was humid, causing you to remove the heavy jacket from your shoulders and placing it on the roof of the car.

Slow, cautious footsteps approached you, followed by a sudden voice, "It kinda looks like mine." His voice was unmistakable.

You turned to see Michael, standing a few feet away from you with his arms behind his back.

"T-The jacket, I mean. The buckles make it look like the one in my album." Michael now walked closer to you and leaned on the car's window.

"Maybe I stole it?" You teased, and he laughed at your remark.

You began to study his face. His smile was captivating, full of whimsy and reserve. The white shirt he wore was slightly unbuttoned at the collar, and the sleeves were rolled up, revealing the long, thick veins riding up his arm.

"Michael," you asked, "why did you choose me?"

Michael looked down at the puddles that surrounded your feet. "I saw your Mugler ad in the magazine. Reggie came in all loud—said he thinks he 'found Diana.'" he chuckled.

You knew which advertisement he was referring to. You were against a leopard-print backdrop, gazing seductively through the eyes of whoever dared to read about you. Brown leather snatched your waist, and a dramatic fur slinked over your shoulder. You were upside down—back arched on the seat, and your legs were crossed over the backrest. They were encased in sheer, black tights. Swarovski crystals danced across the fabric like city lights coming alive at night.

The singer became flustered as he recalled the moment he saw your picture. He looked at you, then your legs, and back up to meet your gaze. He swallowed hard and parted his lips, aching to kiss yours.

"Anyway," he cut his thoughts short, "I'm sorry for how Joe acted back there. I've been very uh...specific...in what I wanted." He apologized.

You watched him sit up and looked up at him as you moved closer.

"S-Still, that doesn't mean that he should've insulted you like that." Michael began to lose focus. He stood at attention, scared of making a single movement. Your blown-out curls fell into your face, barely hiding your sultry stare.

"Are you always this shy, Mr. Jackson?" Your arms folded across your chest, pressing the mound of your bosom upward. You searched his face, finding it humorous how his eyes tried to avert from your chest.

"Hah, no," he cheesed, "it's just that I didn't expect anyone to find exactly what I was looking for."

"And what is it that you were looking for?" You could hear his breath hitch in his throat, and the gap between you was now non-existent.

Michael looked down at you, his eyes darted back and forth—holding his hands at his sides as an effort to keep his lust at bay.

He almost forgot about the woman everyone thought was his partner.

"M-My girl..." he noted.

"Who?" You asked.

"Charlene..."

"What about her?"

A sharp scoff left his lips. Then he instinctively bit them while looking at yours. "I-If we do this, we can't tell anyone. You promise?"

"I won't tell a soul" You said, with the weight of desire on your eyes.

Michael grabbed you by the chin and pulled you into a deep, tender kiss. You moaned in his mouth, gasping at the sudden shift in dominance.

His tongue found its way into your mouth and slithered circles around yours. His hands smoothed over your ribs and raked down the small of your back, settling on the roundness of your ass.

Your arms flew around his neck, allowing him to nuzzle his face into your shoulder. He left crimson marks everywhere his lips touched. Your blood gathered in tiny pools, trapped behind the thin layer of skin. Every mark he made was primal—territorial.

Your legs clenched as you felt a sudden flutter coming from between them.

"F-fuck," you moaned, shaken by the hungry man who held you.

He opened the car door and sat in the low driver's seat. "Get in," he demanded. Now his voice was low and full, a complete 180 from the stammering, whimpering mess that you saw earlier.

"Excuse me?" You said, raising your brow.

"Can you get in the car, please?" Michael corrected, softening his voice.

You walked to the open door. Michael grabbed you under your arms and laid you down in the seat next to him, not worrying about the door closing behind you. He shifted his weight onto his right leg and dragged your hips onto his groin, lifting your left leg over his shoulder and raising your back off the cupholder.

The leather skirt rolled up as it rubbed against the car seat, revealing the last of your upper thigh and your white, lacy thong. Michael's lips curled at the state of you.

"You look so beautiful," he said before he hovered over you and resumed kissing your soft lips. He ventured down your collarbone and into the gap between your breasts.

"Mmngh, Michael,"

You moaned as he pried off your top—holding his head while he licked and sucked your nipples. With each wave of pleasure, you grind your hips into his abdomen—the hem in your panties stimulated your clit, as you moved and rolled your hips once it found a sweet spot.

The poor acoustics of the vehicle honed the sounds of your wet, sloppy kisses.

"Where...d'you...want me?" He asked, looking at you and patiently waiting for your directions.

You took his head off your chest and looked at him.

"Go lower," you answered.

Michael pulled away from you and sat on his leg, the back of his hand making contact with his lips.

"I-I've never...Charlene and I..."Michael couldn't get the words out.

You sat up on your elbows, slightly frustrated by Michael's words.

"You've never went down on a woman?"

"No..." he admitted.

"Did I ask if you've ever went down on a woman?"

"...No..."

You pushed the back of your ankle on Michael's shoulder blade, making him bow down to your core.

"I said, 'Go lower,'"

Michael's loyal façade crumbled. He couldn't care less about the cameras or the headlines.

He wanted you...

Only you.

His hands rummaged against the back of your skirt, loosening the zipper and pushing the fabric above your ass and on your stomach. The slick of your pussy bled through the fabric of your panties—a string of your arousal stretched as he took them off of you and threw them in the backseat.

He pulled your hips even closer, pushing your legs back as far as they could go. The tips of your toes reached the window as Michael, still holding down on your legs, lowered his mouth onto your pussy and lapped up every ounce of your fluids.

The warmth and wetness of his mouth were overwhelming, and the authority you had over him started to falter. The sweet music of your soft moans encouraged Michael, gaining experience with each flick of his tongue.

"Mmmh...you taste...so good," Michael purred, muffled by the fat of pussy occupying his mouth. He pushed down further, causing your hips to rise higher into his mouth. It made your mind go foggy as he learned to take control of your senses.

"Y-you're doing so good for me." You said, legs shaking as they prepared for your release. Michael moaned at your approval, sending vibrations through your pussy while he squeezed his nails into your calves.

The pressure of your legs against your stomach, along with the heaving of your chest, sent you into a state of pure ecstasy.

"Oh—fuck, Michael!" Your eyes shut as you shouted his name with every breath you had, shaking as he continued to pleasure you through your orgasm.

While you were still cumming, Michael carefully raised you off your back and onto his lap, avoiding the steering wheel. You straddled his loins and clung to him, riding out the last waves of your powerful orgasm.

You whined your hips on his lap, his jaw clenched as your weight shifted around his clothed girth. His head leaned against the headrest, and his eyes rolled to the back of his head, surrendering his body to pleasure.

Soon, he couldn't take it anymore.

"P-Please, baby, I need you. I-I...God—"

Michael was a mumbling mess.

"My pants..." he winced, "...s-so tight. Please let me in you...please?" His large puppy eyes, wet with tears, so desperately wanted to feel you around him.

Filled with hunger, you slightly rose off his lap and impatiently unbuckled his pants. He shuddered, and his shoulders tensed—the feeling of his length emerging from his pants, rubbing against the band of his underwear, made his blood rush straight to his brown tip.

"Tell me how much you want it," you said lowly, licking his jaw and making your way to his ear.

Your hands worked the length of his dick, occasionally playing with him by letting it slip and slide on your folds.

"Pleaseeee, please, I can't take it anymore. I need you! I need you...I need you I—f-fuck!"

You cut him off by lowering yourself on top of his leaking tip. His moans were stuck in his throat, overcome by the sensation of your pussy. With a low grunt and a lack of self-control, he squeezed your ass—slamming the rest of his length into you.

Your eyes flew, and your body jolted forward as he stabbed into your sweet spot. Once you adjusted to the slight pain, you began to ride up and down.

Michael perfectly matched the pace of your hips. He slithered his hands across your back and buried his face in the crook of your neck. He felt so guilty—cheating on his "girlfriend" with you felt so wrong, but the air-tight suction your pussy made around him, loosening and tightening with every drag of your hips, made him feel like he was losing his mind.

The mix of your perfume and his cologne, tainted by the musk of your sweat, swam through the car. Condensation formed on the windows, a testimony of the heat building between your bodies. The car cradled you both; the momentum caused his dick to slam against your cervix.

Michael's gift of stamina sent a long, staccato moan from your mouth—your back arched away from him as your climax drew closer, but he never let you go.

Instead, his arms crossed behind your back, gripping your shoulders as he drove his dick farther, faster, and sloppier into you.

"Oh, baby...I'm so close," he grunted, nibbling on your chin.

You rose and fell, over and over and over again. The frictionless sensation between your legs, coupled with the uncontrollable movement of your hips, caused Michael's dick to slip out. You paused, laughing at how he groaned at the loss of your warm cunt.

"Here," he said, taking your arm off his neck and bringing his hand to his girth. Your pussy quivered as he helped you insert himself.

His hands covered yours, guiding his dick through your index and middle fingers and into you. Mouth agape, he watched your head roll back as he sucked your neck.

When it was all the way in, he slid his fingers up to your clit. He gently circled it, making you gasp at how your whole body is being pleasured.

The two of you resumed your movements, working your way to your own separate orgasms.

"I-I'm gonna cum again," you shouted, the car sharply sent the echo of your moans into your ears.

"Go 'head," he answered, his breath became heavy and ragged. He took your ass in his hands, bouncing it on him as you moaned loudly in his ear.

You rose in time before he finished inside. Lightning struck through your body—a seemingly endless stream of pleasure shot onto his oozing dick.

Curses ran through your minds as you squirted on him, rinsing the slugs of his semen onto his lap.

"Oh, God...damn, girl," Michael whispered, admiring how you claimed him as your territory...

...but he was still hard.

After two climaxes, you knew you had to even the score. You lifted the squirt-soaked shirt off his body.

"Whoa, w-what are you doin'?" He laughed cautiously at your tireless actions.

"We're not done yet." You said slyly, swinging your legs off of him and moving backwards onto the empty car seat next to you.

Michael panicked, already knowing what you were going to do.

"Wait...it's too—I just..." Michael's dick, still stiff and pulsating, leaked with fresh precum as you lowered your head to his crotch. You licked your juices off of him, swirling your warm tongue along the base of his length.

Panicking, he placed his hand on your head, slightly grabbing at the ruined curls. When you moved to his tip, he squeezed your hair harder

Michael whimpered—louder than he expected. His left hand flew over his mouth, while his right hand clenched the armrest.

Your hallowed cheeks mimicked the tightness of your entrance, making him subconsciously thrust his hip down your throat. You choked and gagged, delighting in how he focused on his own release.

"O-Ohhh my god," he sang before pulling your head up and shooting a thick rope of his arousal onto your face and lips. You sat up and stroked him, ensuring that he was completely drained.

The sound of your heavy breaths subsided, and the reality of what you've both done struck you like a train.

"I am so sorry," he sputtered, wiping the remnants from your face

"We're so fucked," you laughed as you let him help you.

While scrambling to get your clothes, Michael wiped the moisture off o, the window peeking around to see if the coast was clear

Then you heard him laugh.

"What? What is it," you asked, dangling over the backseat and searching for your thong.

"Look," He pointed, waiting for you to see what he saw,

There it was, your jacket—the one you left on the car's roof—was now drowning in a puddle.

"Ugh, are you kidding me?"

Pointing the same finger at your face, he laughed as you lamented.

"Don't worry," he said before kissing your cheek, "I'll give you mine."

~☼☀︎☼~

𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝: @unicornglitterfarts224

𝚊/𝚗: I'm going the FAWK ta bed

[faithefaith]

The oneshot is coming out soon I promise. It was supposed be out last night but Knicks won last night I was TURNT. I also procrastinated on all of my assignments and I gotta lock in tf in💔

[faithefaith]

Hi dear, I loved your story about Michael the Clown, it´s so cute and everytime Joe shows up it triggers me omg, Keep up the amazing work, and don't pay attention to what ignorant and unpleasant people say.

Lots of kisses! 💖😘

You're so sweet😭! I thought the disclaimers were clear enough, but oh well. Ty for your kind words and your support🤎💋

[faithefaith]

-𝕋𝕙𝕖 ℂ𝕝𝕠𝕨𝕟 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝔻𝕒𝕟𝕔𝕖𝕣 (𝕡𝕥. 𝟙) ❁ 𝟜,𝟙𝟟𝟜 𝕨𝕔

𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚛!𝚖𝚓 𝚡 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔!𝚏𝚎𝚖 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

𝚜𝚢𝚗𝚘𝚙𝚜𝚒𝚜: You and Michael have been together for 3 years. The similarities between your childhoods made it easy for you to build a relationship. However, Michael finds himself at a crossroads between the two loves of his life: music and you.

𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜/𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚛: 18+, mdni, mild fluff, SEVERE angst, mentions of sex, religious beliefs, mentions of Michael's vitiligo, J*seph Jackson, effects of emotional ab*se and perfectionism (read and Michael), trauma bonding

I do not romanticize, nor support romanticizing ab*se. Details are raw and personal. This will be a two-part fic that continues these themes. For those who are squeamish with these topics, I will post a small, unrelated oneshot. If you do not like heavy topics such as the ones that were labeled above, please find another fic to enjoy. For those who stayed, I hope you enjoy, and thank you for reading.

☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼

February 1982

Your eyes were the first to feel yourself awaken. The painfully bright California sun shone through the slit that divided your blackout curtains. Winter made itself known—the cold temperature of your room overpowered the warmth of your blankets.

Turning around to avoid the glare, you set your eyes on something, or someone, more radiant—Michael's serene face. The room didn't feel as cold anymore. Aside from the faint rising and falling of his shoulders, he looked completely still and relaxed. You hold his curls between your fingers, admiring how the sun danced on his skin. When you brushed your fingers against his cold cheek, he opened his eyes, smiling softly at your loving touch. His hands moved and made contact with yours, melting in the comfort of your palm.

"Good morning, princess," Michael whispered before kissing your forehead.

"Good morning," you chimed, "I have a long day today. The studio is preparing a big show for the summer."

Sitting up, you brought the throw blanket to your chest—bare and glowing from the night you two had. Nothing too crazy—just "feeling each other out," since Michael believed in saving the good stuff for when he'd marry you someday. Michael lazily dragged you down, your back to his chest, and bombarded you with kisses. "Can't you stay a little longer?" He pleaded, praying that his puppy eyes would work on you this time. "I don't wanna head back to the house."

As much as Michael loved making music, he never wanted to leave your side. Your apartment was his safe haven—a place where he didn't have to worry about being "Michael Jackson." He found solitude in your arms and sincerity in your eyes.

You playfully slapped his arms, making an effort for him to release you from his grip. "No, Mikey, I can't stay. Reneé and I have to work on the routine," you whined. "Hell, you can't stay either, Mr. Grammy-winner." He dramatically huffed and rolled his eyes at the name Michael let you go and lay back down on the bed, rubbing his eyes to fully wake himself up. You mocked his attitude as you grabbed your robe and prepared for your shower.

The water pressure soothed your tight muscles. From being a child prodigy in ballet and mastering your craft for over 20 years, to co-owning a newly modeled dance studio, the physical toll of it all needed to be washed away. The aches from yesterday's harsh practice revealed themselves all over your legs and your feet—only a long and hot shower can prepare you for the new steps of the routine.

You and your childhood friend, Reneé, each surprised your parents by telling them that you're leaving the city to pursue your dreams in L.A. Her parents were proud of you two—they've nicknamed you "twins," since your positions and spins were, freakishly, never out of synch. Finding your own studio meant that you could share your gifts together, and you were thrilled for Reneé when she said her parents were okay with the move. But with your parents—specifically your own mother—calling you every name in the book: selfish, ungrateful, traitor, a bitch. Ironically, she made your packing easier, throwing out your clothes and belongings onto the front lawn.

Vanilla bean and brown sugar scented body wash wafted through the room, and the steam carried it into the hallways of your apartment. It thoroughly cleansed you, yet it can never wash away the hurt you felt from your parents.

Michael was still waiting for you in the room, not wanting to leave before he said goodbye. He picked up and folded his previously discarded clothes and rummaged through his night bag for new ones.

He heard your phone ringing and crinkled his brows at the intuition of who was calling. Regardless, he made his way to the living room, picked up the landline, and cringed before holding it against his ear.

"Hello?" He asked quietly, waiting for his wonderful morning to be ruined.

"Michael, stop playing with me boy. I knew you're at that girl's house."

"Joseph!" Michael replied at the sound of his father's voice, hating himself for accidentally leaving his lyric book open—your digits scribbled into the corner of the page.

"I'm sick of you staying over with that girl. Get home and take your ass into that studio and make another album. Now, Michael!" Joseph roared.

"Yes, sir." Michael yielded. He hated arguing with Joseph. For him, it was easier to comply rather than face his father's wrath. He learned that lesson a while ago.

"And Michael..."

"Yes, Joseph?"

"She's distracting you, boy. Keeping her bed warm ain't gon' do nothing but ruin the shit that I built." Joseph snarled before hanging up—a deafening slam vibrated in Michael's ear.

Michael deeply exhaled, releasing the built-up tension in his shoulders. He needed to clear his mind. He needed you again. Desperate for your solace, he followed the scent of your body wash—the gentle touch of your hands was the only thing on his mind.

You heard him open and close the bathroom door. "I was hoping you'd get in here," you teased, rinsing off the last of the suds from your legs. You noticed the somber expression on Michael's face when he joined you in the shower.

Like the water streaming from the shower head, concern ran down your body. You grabbed his extra washcloth and began to wash his spotted chest. Michael always used to ask if he could use your terribly expensive soap. He said it smelled really good and he'd promise to replace it if he used the last few drops. If this were any other day, you'd say no and tell him to bring his own next time. But on this occasion, you made the exception and worked the soap all over the chest, neck, and shoulders.

"I heard the phone ringing," you told him, "it was Joseph, wasn't it?" Of course, you already knew the answer—he was the only one who could make Michael look like this. He nodded his head and let you wash him.

You turned him so that his back was facing you. Little dots of white were speckled across his shoulder blades—they weren't there before. Or maybe you just didn't see them?

He felt your hesitation, "It's getting worse, huh?" he asked, and your sigh confirmed his hunch.

"Michael, I think you should take a break today." You said softly, not wanting to alarm him. "The doctors said that it could spread under stress."

"I know..." he agreed, "...but I can't. You know that." Though he didn't like talking about his skin, Michael appreciated your concern. You—and Bill—truly understood how he felt about his skin condition. The pressure of being a star, working on his newest album, and still having to deal with his unforgiving father, piled up over the years.

It broke your heart to see him so...helpless. Before you stood an empty man—how he was able to perform on stage, you don't know, but there was something poetic about being crowned king and remaining the loneliest man in the world.

"Remember that night we spent together at Studio 54?" You beamed as he threw his head back, laughing at the mischievous night you experienced back in New York. It was Michael's last night in the city after the Wiz came out, and to celebrate, he snuck you into the club and danced with you till the bouncers kicked you out.

"How could I forget? You got so drunk, poor Bill had to carry you to the car." Michael said to cover his laugh.

You began to tell Michael about what happened after he dropped you off. "I don't remember much, but when I woke up the next morning, my mom was convinced that you and I did 'the thing.'"

Your family was very aware of the reputation of that building—nothing but drugs and sex, and while the alcohol certainly did make you elated, you and Michael didn't need sex to keep your love alive. "I told them over and over that nothing happened between us, but you know how they are. Things got a little out of hand."

"They said you were a bad influence on me—that I'd waste my life being tied down to a man who's far more important than I am." Your voice cracked, suppressing the cries while leaving out the worst part of your night.

Michael turned to face you again. He cupped your wet face in his hands and slowly kissed you. Your lips were shaking as you sobbed and whimpered in your mouth. You fused into his chest, scared of the emptiness that would soon come when he let go.

The parallels between your stories brought you closer together, ashamed of living your lives as young lovers. The paths you were on were extremely similar—child prodigies who were denied a chance of having an average childhood, always on the road performing for adults who viewed them as entertainment, longed to live blissfully ignorant of the real world.

"I'll never think of you so lowly," Michael soothed, and he connected his forehead with yours, "seeing you gettin' down on that dance floor was the best thing I've seen all night." His hands lowered just below your shoulders, searching your eyes for the confident smile he felt in love with reappear on your face.

"I wish you had told me." Michael was slightly hurt at finding this out, but that feeling succumbed to the primary motive to reassure you.

"It's fine," you added, "I gagged, and that got them to shut up."

He laughed at your wickedness, respecting the fire you had for defending your pride. "So, about that routine," he asked, "think you can teach me a move or two?"

Placing soap lather on the tip of his nose, you teased him and said, "I can't tell you." You pecked his lips and stepped out of the shower to dry yourself, making him groan yet again. He continued to shower, and you dried yourself off.

"It's company policy!" you shouted and gracefully headed towards your bedroom.

"Yeah, yeah," he murmured.

You took out your favorite record, Stevie Wonder's "My Cherie Amour," and delicately settled the needle on the vinyl. The melody of the title track escaped from the speakers—Stevie's enchanting "la's" put you in the perfect mood to get ready.

You sat down in front of your vanity and unscrewed the tops of your lotions and oils. The aroma of smoky vanilla and tossed lavender stuck to you with every stroke your hands made across your legs.

Getting dressed was easy—tights, leotard, sweats for the cold weather—but your hair felt like pissing you off today. Your arms were tired, and tears of frustration threatened to leave your eyes. Soon, you saw Michael's lean figure cascading behind you in the mirror. Michael giggled at you first, then he took the boar-bristle brush from your hand and loosened the impossibly tight knot you've made in your hair.

Michael, growing up with three divas—sisters—was forced by them to learn how to do their hair. He showed you a method he learned: make a bun at the crown of your head and brush the rest of your hair over it.

"Thank you, Michael," you said bashfully, embarrassed at the impending mental breakdown. He softly sang along to his cousin's ballad, thinking of you in each verse as he fluffed out the coils into a round shape. You were his princess—someone he could style and adorn however he wished. When he stepped back to admire his work, his eyes focused on your blushing cheeks and gleaming eyes. "You're welcome, love." He answered.

"I'll tell ya' what," Michael continued, "I'll take you out tonight after practice." Michael walked over to your bed, where his clothes lay, and started to dress himself. "Won't you be recording tonight?" you asked, "plus I'll be exhausted from today. Let's do something for you this time! I can stop by the studio, and then we can watch a movie in your theater when you're done."

Michael smiled at your suggestion, but he was shy. Thinking about his woman sitting all pretty, looking at him behind a glass wall, and sneakily flirting whenever Quincy wasn't looking. It excited him, it's just that his timidity wouldn't let that happen.

"If you were there watching me, nothing would get done." After kissing your cheek, he chivalrously offered his hand to you and helped you rise from your seat. He insisted on carrying your bags. "Bill is probably waiting outside for us. We should probably head out."

You nodded in agreement, wrapping yourself in a winter coat and turning the lights off behind you. Michael cloaked his face in his vintage Mickey Mouse scarf, a disguise that only drew weird looks from the neighbors on your floor. You locked your door and took your boyfriend's hand, skipping together down the stairs to the lobby.

Without warning, the cold and dry air of late February hit your face. Michael rushed in front of you to open the door of his luxurious Mercedes-Benz for his lady.

"Hey Bill! Lovely seeing you again!" You sang. Bill turned around to look at you; his countenance brightened at your greeting. "Good morning, darlin'. How's that dance goin'?" He responded, waiting for Michael to sit next to you.

"It's going good," you said, "we've only just started, but I can tell it's gonna be beautiful when it's all put together." Bill was proud of you. He's known you for a while now—almost 3 years. Back in New York, when Michael was working on The Wiz, he had his suspicions about Michael having a real crush. In his words, Michael was described as "...a talented, drop-dead gorgeous dancer who was just as much of a perfectionist as he was."

Michael finally got into the car, frantically apologizing for the wait. "Don't worry, son. Take your time now." Bill did his signature oldhead chuckle and listened for the sound of fastened seat belts before driving in the direction of your dance studio.

☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼

The car slowed down to a halt; the steady clicking sound of the hazard lights signaled that it was time for you to go. Bill got out of the car and opened the trunk, taking hold of your bag and slinging it over his shoulder.

Michael pouted at you and drew you closer to him for one last kiss. He couldn't fathom taking his lips off of yours—they were magnetic, a force that could only be described as fervent and intoxicating. Knowing that he'd take it further if he could, you smushed your hand on his chin, denying both of you any chance to get frisky in the backseat.

"I have to go, Michael!" You taunted him before releasing yourself from the seat belt, exiting the Benz, and shutting the door. Bill handed you your bag and embraced you in a paternal hug. You told him goodbye and looked at Michael through the window. He unfastened his seatbelt, shuffled his way to your spot, and rolled down the glass.

"Me, you, my place at 7?" Michael cheekily suggested.

"Mhm...that sounds wonderful, Mikey," you responded, "I just got a heated blanket from Sears. I can bring it over so we can try it together." Your fingers twisted together, a way to show your nervous attempt at flirting.

Michael complimented your efforts with a wink, if you can call it one, and dragged his bottom lip between his teeth as he watched you walk away. Knowing it was still there, you frantically blew kisses toward the car that pulled off once you went inside.

Michael inhaled and exhaled deeply, unsettled at the remembrance of why he had to leave you. His large hands anxiously rubbed his knees, coping with the fear of the forthcoming rant he'd hear once he got home.

Bill analyzed Michael in the mirror. "Son," he started, "you love her bad, don't cha?" Almost immediately, Michael blushed at the mention of you. "Real bad, Bill. I just don't know why the others are so against it."

"Well, I think of one reason," Bill said, bringing his focus back to the road. "This staying over thing ain't gonna help you, y'know. It's only gonna make you two hurt more."

"Sure, it's nice to have a woman by your side—and this is coming from a man who's been married to the same woman for a long time." Bill reflected, occasionally flicking the turn signals and adjusting the wheel. "But when two young people come together, at night, just looking to kiss each other's pain away without trying to heal it...that's not healthy."

Michael looked out of the window, watching the familiar scenery gradually get closer to his estate. "I know." Michael shrugged. He didn't care—he did—but he'd rather hide out with you and temporarily flee from recording demos, the long sleepless nights, and his perfectionism preventing him from having a solid thought.

"Michael?"

"Hmm?" Michael responded, caught up in his racing mind.

"The sooner you pick the path you want, the better off you'll be," Bill advised.

He proudly took on the role of being Michael's father figure long ago. That little boy with the afro, jumping and dancing and singing his heart out on stage, was the same man who needed someone to hear him and guide him into bettering himself.

"I know one thing," Bill smiled, "you'd better love her right. She loves you just as much as you love her—shoot, maybe even more." Michael noted Bill's advice, dug in his coat pocket, and concealed his moistened eyes behind his aviators.

When the car pulled its way into the Hayvenhurst's motor court, Michael was surprised to see Marlon outside waiting for him. Michael walked over, holding his night bag, and removing the Mickey Mouse scarf from his neck.

"You're finally home," Marlon sarcastically said. He hooked his arm around his brother's neck and bopped him in the head. Michael detached his aviators from his face and followed behind Marlon—happy to lie back down in his bed.

Michael's room was cluttered with drawings and memorabilia. Disney figurines decorated every surface—Mickey, Minnie, and Pluto posed on his dresser. His drawings were plastered across the walls, the caricatures of his front and side profiles taped on the corners of his mirrors. Michael added to the clutter by tossing his bag and coat as soon as he walked in. Marlon nosily sat on Michael's bed, hoping to hear some sort of drama from his little brother.

"Soooo?" He inquired, "How was it?"

"Marlon, you're a nut," Michael said timidly. "She's coming over later tonight. She said that she wants to hear me sing something. Nothing too serious...just a...demo, I think."

Marlon looked at his brother, amazed at how much he had opened up. Michael hardly let anyone hear him work his magic—let alone a girl. All of the brothers, except for Randy, had their own wives. On weekly visits, they'd talk about their marital issues and "the good ol' days" of not being tied down to the draining responsibilities of marriage, but Michael wouldn't engage. To their surprise, he'd defend their wives or leave—not wanting to be a part of their demeaning conversations.

But although he was a gentleman, he was a man nonetheless. Twenty-four years old, and he had never slept with a woman, not even you. His faith kept him from sleeping with you. It grounded him, but, oh, the things he wanted to sing about—the pleasures and desires of a man, of him. It was nothing that a woman should be allowed to hear, especially one he cherished. The curves of your waist swiveling as you'd grind on him, hands exploring new places, mouths hovering over areas they had no business being in—he couldn't possibly bring his thoughts to fruition—not wanting to miss out on eternal reward because he tasted your forbidden fruit. Not yet anyway.

A Donald Duck plushie swiftly made contact with Michael's face, cutting off his disgustingly lustful imagination. "MICHAEL!" Marlon exclaimed, waiting for his little brother to sit up. "You don't hear me calling you? Damn."

"No, sorry," Michael blushed as the images of you faded away.

Marlon arose from the bed and sassily sashayed to the bedroom door. "I was saying that our wonderful, beautiful, and special mother got us some KFC while you were out in them streets."

"Why didn't you tell me before?" Michael dashed out of his room, pushing past Marlon.

"I think I saw Jackie eyeing it, so don't get mad if it's not there, 'cause we waited."

Michael ignored his brother's jests and continued his trek down the stairs and into the kitchen. A sigh, or more like a prayer of thanks, fled from his chest—relieved to see the fridge holding the familiar red and white bucket he was well-acquainted with. He eagerly preheated the oven and impatiently waited for the buzzer to go off. When it did, he wrapped the chicken in aluminum foil and placed it on the burning hot rack.

Michael's slender fingers made the counter his drum set. He felt the music in his mind and welcomed it, testing the waters of his new discovery. Hums and ad-libs came from his mouth, soon accompanied by fresh lyrics popping in and out of his head. A melody began to form—a rough draft, but he liked it. To save it for tonight, he repeated everything, not wanting the tune to leave him before he saw you again.

"Let me explain something to you..."

A domineering voice crept up from the entryway. Michael's blood fled from his face and pooled in his heart, running and hiding from the announcement that disturbed his peace. His legs became stiff and paralyzed. The fingers that were once tapping away in innocence and virtue were now infested with pins and needles that radiated from his palm to the tips.

Michael despised how the power of his father's voice had a stranglehold on his body. A grown man reluctantly cowered and became a boy yet again.

"I run this house, ok? This house," Joseph pointed at the ceiling as he confronted his son. His large, gold chain clinked against the buttons of his wine-red Polo shirt. "I slaved in that stanking mill providing for y'all. I put y'all's black asses to work so that you can have everything your mother I didn't have. You remember that? Them funky ass beds you slept on? I put an end to that."

Joseph's Midwestern drawl came from the gut. Deep, venomous, and gritty. Every clap that annunciated his words made Michael jump—the impact of his father's hands made him uneasy, while the reverberation of the sharp claps pelted his ears.

The man scoffed deeply, "You wanna know what your problem is? I'll tell you what your problem is." He inched his way closer to the boy's face, reveling in the way his son dodged his aggressive eye contact. "You're too soft. Every ass whipping I gave you ain't do shit, huh? I told your mother to stop coddling you." Joseph gloated and wagged his finger at his son.

"But no, she thought I was being too harsh on you. Now look at you. Ain't got no album out. How long has it been? Three years?" Joseph resumed his rant, "That Off the Wall phase you had was cute and nothing but cute—all sparkles and glitter. Instead of frolicking in bed with whores, you could've been in that booth and, shit, maybe you could've gotten two Grammys instead of one."

Michael's blood, previously stricken with fear, was now red-hot. A tremendous wave of anger enveloped his face, his fist clenched into his pants—knuckles shaking and white.

"Don't call her that," Michael murmured through his clenched jaw. "She's not—"

Upon witnessing his son's change in demeanor, Joseph interrupted him and belted out a loud and genuine laugh. Michael's ragged breaths were stuck in his chest, unable to process them into words.

"What'cha gon' do, boy?" Joseph sneered. "Go 'head. Raise your hands and damn yourself to your grave right now. I dare you." An evident quiver on his son's lips affirmed his message: soft. He saw the eyes of his son—his money maker, his opportunity—redden and fill with water. Having seen enough, he turned away, repulsed by Michael's apparent folly.

Finger by finger, Michael's hands opened, but tremors remained. He stood still, listening for the sound of his warden's door to slam. As soon as it did, he silently crumbled onto the floor and sobbed relentlessly into the wavering gaps of his fingers.

The silent cries morphed into sniffing and emptiness. He lifted himself from cold, hard tile, the chicken's bold smell reminding him of why he was in his kitchen.

But when he unwrapped his meal from the foil and took a bite, it didn't fill him with the initial joy he had. The excess saliva—thick and slimy—overtook the texture of the chicken.

He had lost his appetite....

He wasn't hungry anymore.

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𝙰/𝙽: Did I pull an all-nighter for this story? Maybe? Is the sun looking in my face rn? Can't prove it.

[darkseidex]

ೃMORE THAN YOU'LL EVER KNOW ᝰ

After six months on the road, Michael returns to the one place that has always felt untouched by the world’s demands: Jayda’s penthouse. What begins as a long-awaited reunion beneath moonlight and old records slowly becomes something heavier, softer, and impossible to ignore. Between teasing phone calls, wine-warm confessions, and the quiet intimacy of being seen without performance, Michael and Jayda are forced to confront what their relationship has become in his absence — and what it could be if they stop treating home like something temporary.

As the final chapter of one era closes, another begins in the hush of silk sheets, shared breath, and honest conversation. Jayda wants more than Michael’s love; she wants his healing, his honesty, and a future that does not require him to disappear into the world before returning to her broken. Michael, newly certain of where he belongs, must decide what it means to build a life with the woman who has become his refuge, his muse, and the one place he no longer has to earn rest. warnings : grown folk shit ( sexual themes ) , not proofread tt is tired man

Jayda exhaled slowly as she held the receiver to her ear, the cord coiled loosely between her fingers while the low murmur of the man’s voice poured through the line and settled somewhere beneath her skin.

The penthouse was dim around her, washed in the amber glow of lamps and the quiet shimmer of city lights bleeding through the windows, every glass surface catching little fragments of night like jewels spilt across black velvet. In one hand, she held a glass of red wine, the rim still marked faintly where her mouth had touched it, and when she lifted it again, she sipped with a kind of lazy patience that did not match the way her heart had begun to move beneath the silk of her nightwear.

The fabric brushed against her thighs each time she shifted, soft and cool, whispering over her skin like a secret meant only for the dark. Her hair was set in rollers for the night, practical and intimate in that way only privacy allowed, yet somehow it made her look even more untouchable, like a woman caught between softness and command, between winding down for bed and letting desire talk her into staying awake.

Jayda bit her lip as he spoke, her gaze drifting toward the wide windows, though she was not really seeing the skyline anymore. She was listening to the warmth in his voice, the careful confidence beneath it, the way he seemed to take his time with her even over the phone, as if he knew distance could still be touched if the right words were spoken slowly enough.

A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

“You comin’ through tonight?” she asked, her voice low through the receiver, smooth with wine and something more dangerous than curiosity.

She leaned back slightly, crossing one leg over the other as the silk shifted again, her fingers tightening around the stem of the glass while she waited for his answer. Her tone was casual enough to deny, sultry enough to betray her, and in the quiet of the penthouse, with the city watching from beyond the glass, even her silence seemed to be inviting trouble by name.

Her man, her baby, her angelface had been on the road for six months.

Six whole months of distance stretched thin between them like a wire pulled too tight, six months of hotel-room phone calls, late-night whispers through receivers, half-slept conversations with time zones wedged between their breathing, six months of hearing his voice but not feeling the weight of him beside her, of knowing he was somewhere under stage lights, beneath expectation, beneath family, beneath the old machinery that had always demanded something from him before it ever asked whether he was tired.

Granted, he could have refused.

Jayda would have raised hell for him with both hands and a smile sharp enough to cut glass, would have told Joe Jackson to take his grand final-show idea and shove it somewhere the good Lord’s light had never touched, would have packed Michael’s things herself and finally had her man move fully into her penthouse where he belonged, safe behind her locked doors, wrapped in her sheets, eating from her kitchen, sleeping with his face tucked into the warm curve of her neck like the world had never earned the right to touch him again.

But she knew there were some things a man had to do for himself.

Not for his father.

Not for the family.

Not for the screaming crowds, not for the critics, not for the cameras, not for the name that had been placed on his back like a crown and a chain.

For himself.

And this, somehow, had been one of those things.

So she let him go, even when missing him turned her mean, even when his absence made her restless in her own home, even when she found herself standing in the doorway of rooms he had made his without ever asking, catching traces of him in places he had not been for months, his sweater folded over the chair, his preferred tea still stocked in her cabinet, his records still leaning beside hers as if they too were waiting for him to come back and reclaim the quiet.

Then she heard it on the radio.

She had been in the studio that day with another artist, one hand near the console, her mind half in the track and half in the ache she refused to name, when the announcer’s voice broke through the speakers with too much excitement for something that hit her like a hand closing around her throat.

The Jacksons announce their final show.

Jayda froze.

The room kept moving around her, musicians shifting, somebody laughing softly near the back, tape rolling, lights blinking red and gold against the board, but Jayda went still as marble, her fingers resting against the console while Michael’s voice followed in the clip, gentle, hesitant, unmistakable.

He stalled before he said it.

She heard that first.

Not the announcement, not the applause, not the grandness of the moment everyone else would replay and analyze and celebrate, but the pause.

That little pause where her Michael lived.

The breath he took before surrendering the words, the slight catch in his rhythm, the carefulness of a man stepping out from under one life while the whole world watched and nobody, nobody but Jayda, seemed to understand how much courage it took for him to say he was done.

Her chest tightened.

Pride came first, hot and golden.

Then longing.

Then something lower, warmer, more private, curling through her like smoke beneath silk, because six months without him had made every part of her remember him too vividly: his hands at her waist, his mouth near her shoulder, the way he said her name when he was tired, the way he could make himself sound innocent while wanting everything, the way he had left her home but never really left her body’s memory of him.

By the time she reached for the phone that night, wine glass in hand, silk brushing her thighs, hair set in rollers like she had every intention of pretending she was winding down, Jayda already knew what she wanted.

She wanted him off that road.

She wanted him back in her city, her home, her bed, her arms.

She wanted the final show to mean exactly what it sounded like: an ending, a closing door, a curtain falling on everything that had kept him from her for half a year.

And when his voice finally came through the receiver, warm and familiar and too far away, Jayda bit her lip around the ache of missing him and let herself sound like the woman she had become in his absence — patient only because she had to be, hungry because she loved him, and soft because he had always known how to make her that way.

“Mhm,” Michael hummed through the receiver, his voice low and warm enough to make the line feel less like distance and more like breath against her ear. “Just asked Bill to come through.”

There was a smile tucked inside his words, that sweet, sly little thing he did when he was pretending not to know exactly what he was doing, when innocence sat on his tongue but mischief lived beneath it, when he sounded like her angelface and her problem all at once.

Jayda’s fingers tightened around the stem of her wine glass.

Michael heard the silence she gave him and took his time with it, letting it stretch between them like silk pulled slow through closed fingers.

“You been missin’ me, mama?” he asked, softer now, the question dipped in velvet and trouble, as if six months on the road had not starved him just as badly, as if he had not spent every night imagining her voice in the dark, her perfume in his sheets, her hands fussing over him like he belonged to her because, Lord help him, he did.

Jayda took another slow sip of her wine, letting the rim of the glass rest against her mouth a little longer than necessary, partly to buy herself time and partly because she knew Michael could hear every quiet shift of her breathing through the receiver.

She was not about to give him the satisfaction of an easy answer, not when he was sitting somewhere miles away, voice all honey and nerve, asking if she missed him like he did not already know the truth had been living in her body for months.

Her eyes drifted toward the windows, toward the glittering city below, though all she could see was him in memory: his sleepy face pressed into her pillow, his hands reaching for her waist before he was fully awake, his soft little smile whenever she fussed over him like a wife and then had the nerve to call it responsibility.

So she swallowed the truth with the wine and gave him attitude instead.

“Jus’ askin’,” she said, voice low, casual, too smooth to be innocent. “In case I needa hide my spare key.”

The lie was pretty, but it was still a lie.

Because that spare key had been sitting in the same little dish by her front door since the day he left, untouched, waiting for him like everything else in her penthouse had been waiting for him: the empty side of her bed, the tea in her cabinet, the robe he liked, the place at her table he had claimed without asking, and Jayda herself, dressed in silk with wine on her tongue, pretending she would lock him out when every part of her had been aching to let him back in.

Michael tsked softly on the other end of the line, and even through the receiver, Jayda could hear the smile hiding in it, that little wounded-boy sound he liked to make when he was fishing for tenderness while already knowing good and damn well he had her.

“So mean to me,” he murmured, his voice dipping low, warm as velvet dragged over candlelight. “You sure you ain’t miss me, ma?”

Jayda’s mouth curved against the rim of her glass, but she did not answer right away, because if she gave him the truth too quickly, he would get beside himself, and Michael Jackson already had enough nerve when he was lonely, loved, and six months deprived of the woman who had taught him what home could feel like.

She took another sip of wine instead, slow and deliberate, letting the silence do some of the work for her.

“Jus’ a lil?” he pressed, softer now, teasing but not entirely playing, because beneath all that sweetness lived the ache of his own missing, the long road, the hotel rooms, the stage lights, the family noise, the nights where he had lain awake with her name sitting behind his teeth like a prayer he was too proud to say first.

Jayda lowered the glass from her mouth, her thumb brushing idly over the stem as she looked out over the city, the silk at her thighs shifting when she crossed one leg over the other. Her rollers were still pinned neatly in place, her skin warm from wine and lamplight, her whole penthouse quiet in that dangerous way a room got when it knew it was waiting for a man.

Her voice, when it came, was low enough to make the phone line feel intimate, sultry enough to make him stop smiling.

“Why don’t you come find out, angelface?”

The silence on his end changed.

Not empty.

Never empty.

It thickened, warmed, pulled tight like the string of Cupid’s bow, and Jayda knew, with a satisfaction that moved through her slowly as poured honey, that he had heard everything she had not said.

She had not said she missed him.

She had not said the bed had been too big without him, or that his side of the closet had stayed untouched, or that some nights she caught herself sleeping closer to the edge because her body still remembered making room for him.

She had not said she wanted him home.

But Michael heard it anyway.

He always did.

The silence on Michael’s end of the line changed so completely that Jayda felt it before he spoke, felt the shift travel through the receiver and settle against her ear like heat, like breath, like the first warm wind before a summer storm split the sky open.

For a moment, he said nothing.

Then she heard him laugh softly, low and disbelieving, as if she had reached through all those miles, curled her finger beneath his chin, and tilted his face toward the truth he had been aching to hear from her mouth.

“You play too much,” he murmured, but his voice had gone quieter now, heavier, threaded with the kind of longing that did not know how to stay playful once it found an opening.

Jayda let her head tilt back against the chair, wine warm in her blood, silk cool against her skin, the city stretched glittering beneath her like Rome beneath a woman who had finally tired of pretending she did not own the emperor’s heart.

“You the one askin’ questions you already know the answer to.”

Michael exhaled through his nose, and she could almost see him, could almost picture the way his mouth had curved, the way his eyes would be lowered beneath those lashes, shy and bold at the same time, her sweet little contradiction, her angelface with too much nerve and too much tenderness for one body to carry.

“Say it then.”

Jayda smiled faintly.

“Say what?”

“That you missed me.”

Her fingers tightened around the receiver.

There it was.

No more playing in the doorway of it. No more hiding behind spare keys and attitude and little sideways invitations dressed up as jokes. Michael had pushed the door open with that soft voice of his, and now the truth sat between them, bare-legged and waiting, looking too much like the woman she had become after six months of sleeping alone in a bed that still remembered the shape of him.

Jayda swallowed, her gaze drifting toward the hallway that led to her bedroom, toward the room where his side of the bed had stayed empty but not abandoned, where one of his shirts still lived folded in her drawer because she had started sleeping in it after the first month and never had the courage to call that grief by its proper name.

“You on your way or not?” Jayda asked instead, her voice lowering now, softer in spite of herself, the attitude still sitting pretty on her tongue but melting at the edges like sugar held too close to flame.

She tried to make it sound impatient, tried to dress the question up like irritation, like she was only checking his timing because she had better things to do than sit in silk with wine warming her blood and his voice wrapped around her ear, but the truth betrayed her in the pause after it, in the breath she forgot to hide, in the way her fingers curled around the receiver as if the plastic could somehow become his hand if she held it tight enough.

On the other end of the line, Michael went quiet for half a second, and she knew him well enough to know he was smiling.

Not that public smile, not the polished one built for cameras and screaming girls and flashbulbs, but the private one, the one that came slow and pleased when Jayda gave him just enough room to know he was wanted, the one that made him look younger and more dangerous all at once, like a saint with mischief under his skin.

“’M comin’ down now, baby,” he murmured, and the words moved through the receiver so warmly they might as well have been spoken against her throat.

Jayda closed her eyes.

Baby.

After six months of stages, airports, hotel rooms, and family obligations stealing him from the place she had started to think of as theirs, that one word found every hollow place his absence had carved into her and filled it with heat.

“Get ready for me, yeah?”

The command was gentle, but it did not ask permission from the part of her still pretending she was in control.

It slid beneath her robe, beneath her pride, beneath the wine and silk and all the careful little walls she had rebuilt while he was gone, and Jayda had to press her thighs together, not from impatience alone, but from the ache of being remembered by a man who knew exactly how to make tenderness feel like a hand at the small of her back.

She let out a breath, slow and almost amused, though her pulse had already begun to answer him like a drumline in the dark.

“You always talk this much when you ain’t even at my door yet?”

Michael’s laugh was soft, low, full of road-weariness and hunger and that aching sweetness she had missed more than she wanted to admit.

“Only when I been missin’ my woman.”

Jayda’s mouth parted, but no quick comeback came.

For once, the words caught.

My woman.

He said it like it was not a question anymore, like the road had stripped the uncertainty from him, like every city he had passed through had only taught him that home was not applause, not music, not the family name, not any stage the world could build beneath his feet.

Home was her voice on the phone.

Her wine-dark mouth.

Her spare key waiting in the dish.

Her penthouse glowing above the city like a temple with one light left on for him.

Jayda swallowed, her attitude slipping further, the woman beneath it stepping closer to the surface.

“Then hurry up,” she said, quieter now, the command soft enough to sound almost like a plea.

Michael’s voice dropped too, wrapping around her with all the devotion he had been carrying across six long months.

“I am, mama.”

And when the line went dead a moment later, Jayda stayed there with the receiver still pressed to her ear, listening to the silence he left behind, her body warm with wine and wanting, her heart louder than the city beneath her windows, knowing that this time, when Michael walked through her door, he would not be coming back as a guest, or a patient, or a man she could keep pretending belonged elsewhere.

Jayda sighed as she tipped the rest of her wine back, swallowing it in one clean, reckless pull as if the warmth of it could chase the ache from her chest before Michael had the nerve to walk back into her home and remind her exactly where that ache had come from.

The glass lowered from her mouth slowly, her lipstick faint along the rim, her fingers loose around the stem as she stood there in the dim hush of the penthouse, silk brushing her thighs, rollers pinned neatly in her hair, the city stretched beyond her windows like a field of restless stars. For a moment, she simply listened to the silence the phone call had left behind, that strange, humming emptiness that always came after Michael hung up, as if his voice did not vanish so much as remain suspended in the room, caught in the lampshade, folded into the cushions, lingering against her skin like cologne.

Then she moved toward the record player.

Donny Hathaway’s voice filled the penthouse a few moments later, rich, aching, and full of that old-soul tenderness that made a woman remember too much when she was trying to feel nothing at all. The needle crackled softly before the music bloomed, warm and velvet-dark, spilling through the room with the kind of intimacy that did not ask permission before entering the blood.

Jayda poured herself another generous glass from her 1782 collection, heavier than she probably should have, but tonight was not a night for measuring anything carefully; not wine, not longing, not the dangerous little tremor in her hands when she thought about Michael stepping off that elevator and coming down her hallway after six months of being nothing but a voice, a promise, a hunger she had only been able to hear through a receiver.

She took a long sip and let Donny’s rhythms carry her for a moment, let the music wrap around her shoulders like a familiar hand, let the bass settle low in her stomach while the wine spread through her in slow, glowing circles.

She sighed again, softer this time.

It felt like any other night right after one of their calls, and that was the cruel part.

The same quiet penthouse.

The same half-empty glass.

The same record spinning through the dark.

The same ache sitting beneath her ribs like a letter she had written but never sent.

Only tonight, Michael was not a continent away, tucked somewhere between stage lights and family obligations, whispering to her from a hotel room with longing pressed into every pause. Tonight, he was close enough to come home. Close enough for her to hear his knock, close enough for the spare key in the little dish by the door to stop being a symbol and become a threat.

Still, Jayda tried to pretend.

She leaned back against the edge of the console, glass in hand, eyes half-lidded as Donny sang into the room, letting her body sway faintly with the music, slow and absent-minded, the silk at her thighs shifting each time she moved. She told herself she was calm. She told herself she was only waiting because he had said he was coming. She told herself she had not missed him so badly that the very air of her home felt fuller now that he was on his way.

But every sound made her look toward the door.

Every elevator hum beneath the music caught somewhere in her throat.

Every passing shadow in the hallway light made her pulse answer before her pride could scold it back down.

Jayda took another sip of wine, then laughed under her breath, low and disbelieving, because there she was, grown, successful, brilliant, standing in silk with Donny Hathaway playing and wine on her tongue, pretending she was not waiting for Michael Jackson like a woman whose heart had already walked barefoot to the door.

Jayda sighed as she pushed herself up from where she had been leaning, wine glass loose between her fingers, Donny still spilling velvet through the penthouse while the city glittered beyond the windows like a kingdom she had learned to rule alone.

She crossed the room and lowered herself onto the plush cotton of her couch, not white anymore, never white again, because she had learned that lesson the first time Michael had gotten too comfortable with a glass of wine in his hand and all that nervous sweetness in his smile, only to spill deep red across the cushions and ruin the thing forever.

He had apologized for nearly twenty minutes.

She had cussed him out for ten.

Then he had kissed the attitude right out of her mouth and somehow made the couch his fault and her problem at the same time.

Now the replacement sat beneath her, soft and forgiving and darker by necessity, another little piece of evidence that Michael Jackson had moved through her home and changed it, even before he had ever officially lived there.

Jayda took another slow sip from her glass, trying to settle herself into the familiar ache of another night after one of their calls, trying to pretend this was no different from the others, that he was still somewhere far away with his voice trapped in wires and hotel walls between them. But then she heard it.

The door.

Not a knock.

Not hesitation.

The door opening with the quiet certainty of a man who already had a key, who already knew where the light switches were, who already knew the way her home smelled at night when wine, silk, warm skin, and old records had softened the air into something private.

Heavy footsteps entered first, familiar and unhurried, followed by the dull thud of a box of belongings being dropped onto the floor, careless in the way only an exhausted man could be when he had finally reached the place his body had been craving long before his mouth admitted it.

Then silence.

Jayda held still.

She heard him inhale deeply.

Not subtle.

Not polite.

A long, almost helpless breath, as if he had stepped into the penthouse and found himself inside the very thing he had been missing for six months, her scent heady and welcoming in the air, wrapped around the furniture, woven into the curtains, clinging to the hallway like the whole apartment had been waiting to press itself against him the second he came home.

Jayda’s fingers tightened around her wine glass.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Donny sang low from the record player, the city hummed beneath them, and Michael stood somewhere near the entryway with his box on the floor and his heart probably in his throat, breathing in the world they had made together as if crossing her threshold had carried him out of the noise and back into the arms of something sacred.

Their little bubble.

That was what it had become.

Not just her penthouse anymore.

Not just his place to recover.

Not just a temporary shelter from fire, family, stages, and expectation.

It was theirs now, in all the ways neither of them had properly said out loud, in the spare key he used without asking, in the couch he had ruined, in the tea she still kept stocked for him, in the empty space beside her that had never stopped belonging to him while he was gone.

Then his voice came from the hall, soft, careful, and warm with disbelief, like he was afraid if he spoke too loudly the whole dream might scatter.

“Baby?”

Jayda rose to her feet, slow as if the moment itself had weight, and when she stepped into his sightline, the pale wash of moonlight spilling through the penthouse windows found her at once, laying silver along the deep brown of her skin until she seemed to glow from within, soft and warm and terribly real after six months of being little more than a voice carried through wires.

Michael turned toward her fully, and the sight of him struck her somewhere low and tender all over again, because there he was at last, clad in his plaid shirt and sweats, his cap pulled low, his shades still shielding his eyes as if he had not yet fully shed the road from his body, and yet nothing about him felt distant now, not when his breath left him in that quiet, helpless exhale of a man who had made it back to the only place that had felt like home in far too long.

His gaze moved over her slowly, hungrily, reverently, taking her in as though he needed to reassure himself she was not some mercy conjured by exhaustion and longing, and Jayda, suddenly softer than she had meant to be, took one step toward him, then another, watching the way his whole body answered her approach before he ever spoke.

Michael opened his arms without hesitation.

That was all it took.

Jayda went to him as if she had been doing it in her mind for months, and the second she was close enough, he folded her into himself with the kind of desperate tenderness that only belonged to people who had spent too long apart, one of his hands sliding around her waist, the other gathering her nearer as though he was afraid even now that distance might come back and steal her from him.

Then his mouth found hers.

The kiss landed with no shyness left in it, no polite restraint, only relief and want and the aching familiarity of two people who had missed each other down to the bone, and Jayda melted in his grasp almost at once, the tension leaving her body in a slow, helpless surrender as his lips moved over hers with increasing hunger. His mouth coaxed hers open further, deeper, more thoroughly, as if six months apart had left him starving for every taste, every breath, every softened sound she made against him.

He tasted the wine on her tongue, rich and dark and still warm from the glass, and the low sound that left him at the discovery seemed to vibrate straight through her, because it was not only the wine he was drinking in, but her, the whole of her, her mouth, her waiting, her loneliness, her welcome, the very fact that she was finally here in his arms instead of waiting at the other end of a telephone line.

Their tongues met, slow at first and then with the kind of intimate urgency that came from memory as much as desire, from knowing and being known, and Jayda clutched at him as the kiss deepened, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt while Michael held her as if he meant to make up for every night he had slept without her pressed against his side.

For a moment, nothing else in the world existed.

Not the box of belongings by the door, not the road that had kept him, not the family that had demanded him, not the records still spinning low in the background, not even the moonlight that bathed them both in silver.

Only this.

His mouth on hers.

Her body yielding into his.

The taste of wine, of longing, of homecoming.

And Michael kissing her like a man who had finally come back to the one thing he could never again pretend he knew how to live without.

Jayda gasped against his lips when his hands tightened on her, the sound soft and startled and full of all the longing she had been trying to hold together since the moment he stepped through her door, and before the breath had even finished leaving her, Michael had lifted her as though the act were instinct, as though his body had remembered what his heart had been craving for six long months. Her legs wrapped around his waist at once, silk and warmth and trust folding around him, and still he never once broke from the kiss, never once let the exploration of her mouth falter, his own moving with that hungry, reverent urgency that made the whole moment feel less like haste and more like worship finally given form. Jayda clung to him, one arm sliding around his shoulders, the other finding purchase against the back of his neck, while Michael held her securely as though she were something both sacred and desperately familiar, like a man returning to the temple of Venus after too long in exile and finding the altar still lit for him. The kiss only deepened there, richer now, her gasp dissolving into him, his mouth taking it, soothing it, answering it, as though every mile between them, every lonely night, every phone call heavy with half-spoken wanting had led him to this exact moment: Jayda in his arms, her body wrapped around his, and her mouth opening for him like a door he had been dreaming of crossing ever since he left.

Jayda gasped into his mouth as Michael moved blindly through the penthouse with her in his arms, trusting memory more than sight, his hands secure beneath her, her legs locked around his waist, their mouths still finding and refinding each other like they had been starved of the same prayer for six months and could not decide which breath was worth sacrificing first.

He knew the path without looking.

Of course he did.

This was their home now, whether Jayda had ever said it plainly or not, theirs in the way his box had landed by the door without permission, theirs in the way the spare key had waited for him like a small brass promise, theirs in the way the couch had been replaced because he had ruined the first one with wine and apologies and kisses, theirs in the way the very walls seemed to exhale when he stepped back inside.

His refuge.

His temple.

His Rome after war.

The place where the road could not reach him, where Joe could not command him, where stages and cameras and screaming crowds fell away at the threshold because here, beneath Jayda’s roof, he was not an empire, not a product, not the crowned son of a family dynasty built on sacrifice and discipline.

He was simply home.

Home with his woman.

His girl.

His Jayda.

With a low sigh that sounded almost like relief breaking apart inside him, Michael chased her lips once more, hungry but tender, desperate but careful, his mouth moving over hers as though he could drink the last six months straight from her tongue and finally be whole again. He did not mind the extra weight as he found the stairs, did not mind the pull in his body or the ache that came with carrying her, because Jayda in his arms did not feel like burden; she felt like reward, like Venus returned to him in silk and moonlight, like the gods had finally stopped being cruel long enough to give back what the road had taken.

The stairs creaked softly beneath them, Donny still singing somewhere below, his voice growing distant as Michael climbed toward their bedroom with Jayda wrapped around him, her fingers caught in the back of his shirt, her breath breaking against his mouth in little uneven pieces that made him hold her tighter.

“Michael…” Jayda whispered, finally pulling back for air, her forehead brushing his, her voice softer now, shaken out of all that attitude she had worn so beautifully downstairs.

Michael stopped for half a breath near the top of the stairs, his chest rising against hers, his shades still on, his cap still low, but the road was gone from him now; all that remained was the man beneath it, breathless and lovesick and looking at her like she was every lyric he had ever been too shy to explain.

“Jayda,” he whispered back.

Just her name.

Nothing more.

But the way he said it made it sound like a vow, like a confession, like a man standing before an altar and finally speaking the only truth that mattered.

He reached their bedroom door and nudged it open with his elbow, still refusing to put her down properly, still unwilling to loosen his hold any sooner than he had to. The room waited for them in soft shadow, familiar and intimate, the bed turned down, the sheets carrying faint traces of her perfume, the air holding the quiet of all the nights he had imagined returning to this exact place.

Then he tossed her onto the mattress with a tenderness disguised as impatience, Jayda landing with a breathless little sound, silk shifting, rollers and all, and Michael did not care one bit about the careful set of her hair.

He would redo them himself later.

He knew how.

He had watched.

He had learned.

And if she fussed, he would sit behind her with a comb and pins and that pleased little smile she hated because it always meant he had gotten exactly what he wanted.

But for now, he stood at the edge of their bed, looking down at her like the whole world had narrowed to this room, this woman, this homecoming, while Jayda stared back at him with wine-warmed lips and moonlight on her skin, her chest rising fast, her attitude finally quiet beneath the weight of missing him.

Michael took one slow step closer.

“Missed me, didn’t you?” he murmured.

Jayda swallowed, still trying to gather enough pride to lie.

But her body had already answered.

Jayda gasped as Michael lowered himself before her, not falling, not stumbling, but sinking with deliberate reverence, like a man kneeling before the altar of a goddess he had spent six months praying his way back to.

The sight of him there stole something from her chest.

Michael Jackson, road-worn and lovesick, still in his cap and shades, still carrying the last traces of airports and stages on his clothes, kneeling between her parted knees as though the whole empire of his name meant nothing compared to being allowed this close to her. His hands settled first at her hips, warm and sure through the silk, fingers flexing as if he needed to confirm she was real, that she was not another lonely hotel-room dream dressed up in moonlight and Donny Hathaway’s voice.

Then he bowed his head.

Jayda’s breath broke when his nose brushed along the length of her leg, slow and almost unbearably tender, tracing her as though he were learning her again by scent, by warmth, by memory, by the quiet tremble that moved through her when he took his time. He dragged that soft inhale over her skin like he was breathing in home, like the six months away had left him half-starved for every part of her, not only the obvious places desire had named, but the smaller, holier things too: the bend of her knee, the silk against her thigh, the perfume caught low on her skin, the way her body tried to stay composed even as it betrayed her beneath his hands.

“Michael…” she whispered, and this time his name sounded less like warning and more like surrender trying to keep its pride.

His hands inched lower from her hips, careful, patient, possessive in a way that made her pulse answer before she could stop it. He did not rush her. He did not take. He only moved like a man returning to a temple after exile, his touch devotional, his mouth hovering where his breath could warm her but not yet claim more than she gave him.

Jayda’s fingers twisted into the sheets beside her, her rollers forgotten, her wine-warmed attitude scattered somewhere between the door and the bed.

Michael lifted his face just enough for her to see him, just enough for the moonlight to catch the curve of his mouth beneath the shadow of his shades.

“Missed all of you,” he murmured, voice low, roughened by restraint and relief. “Every bit.”

Jayda swallowed, trying and failing to gather herself beneath the weight of his attention.

“You say that like you been deprived.”

His hands tightened gently at her thighs, and the smile that touched his lips was soft, dangerous, and terribly sincere.

“I have.”

And with that, he leaned back in, pressing his face to her skin with a tenderness that made her eyes flutter, breathing her in like she was incense rising through some ancient Roman chamber, like Venus herself had left her perfume there for him to follow, like all roads had only ever led him back to this room, this bed, this woman, and the quiet, trembling truth that he was finally home.

“Take those off for me, baby…” Jayda whispered, reaching for him with a softness that made the air between them change shape. “I wanna see you.”

Her fingers rose toward his face, slow and careful, as if she were approaching something precious rather than something fragile, and Michael stilled beneath her touch, his hands still warm against her legs, his breath caught somewhere between longing and obedience.

The cap, the shades, the road still clinging to him in little pieces — all of it had made him look untouchable when he first walked in, like the world’s Michael Jackson had stepped through her door before her Michael could fully return. But Jayda did not want the armor. She did not want the shadow over his eyes, did not want the barrier between her and the gaze she had missed through six months of phone calls and half-swallowed confessions.

She wanted his face bare beneath the moonlight.

His eyes.

The truth of him.

Michael’s mouth parted slightly, and for once, no teasing answer came. No coy little deflection, no soft laugh, no you miss me that bad, mama? to hide behind. He only looked up at her from his knees, quiet and undone, as Jayda’s fingertips brushed the edge of his shades.

“Lemme see my man,” she murmured, voice low, wine-warm, and tender enough to make his chest ache.

That did it.

His hands left her only long enough to reach for the frames, and he slid the shades away slowly, revealing eyes dark with longing, tired from the road, bright with the kind of love that had survived distance only to come home hungrier. Jayda’s breath caught when she saw him fully, when the last piece of the world fell from his face and left only Michael there, kneeling before her like devotion had finally learned how to breathe.

He took off the cap next, setting it aside without looking, curls slightly pressed, face softened by shadow and moonlight, and Jayda’s hand moved instinctively to his cheek.

Her thumb swept beneath his eye.

“There you are,” she whispered.

Michael leaned into her palm, eyes closing for half a second like her touch had found the tiredest part of him and kissed it awake.

“Been here,” he murmured.

Jayda shook her head faintly, her fingers tracing the side of his face as if relearning him by touch.

“Nah,” she said softly. “Now you’re here.”

And Michael, still on his knees before her, still wrapped in the heavy sweetness of coming home, looked up at Jayda like she had just stripped away more than a cap and a pair of shades — like she had called him out from beneath every stage light, every expectation, every mile of road, and brought him back to the only place he had ever wanted to be seen.

Jayda raked her hands through his curls with a soft, broken sigh, the sound slipping out of her before she could dress it in pride, before she could turn it sharp or casual or clever enough to hide behind.

Her fingers moved through his hair slowly, almost reverently, combing through the places the cap had pressed down, loosening him from the last little evidence of the road as if she were smoothing six months of distance out of him by hand. Michael’s eyes fluttered at the touch, his mouth parting on a breath he did not seem to know what to do with, because Jayda’s hands in his hair had always been dangerous, always too close to worship, always capable of making him feel less like a man chased by the world and more like somebody’s beloved thing.

She pulled him up her body with both hands buried in his curls, guiding him toward her not roughly, but with a need that had finally stopped pretending it was anything else.

Michael followed her like he had been waiting all night for that command, rising from his knees with a slow obedience that made the room feel warmer, his hands bracing near her as he came over her, close enough for her to see the tiredness beneath his eyes, the longing in them, the soft astonishment that still moved through him every time she reached for him first.

Jayda’s palms slid from his hair to his face.

That was what undid him most.

Not the silk.

Not the wine.

Not the months of wanting stored up between them like thunder behind temple doors.

Her hands on his face.

The gentle way she held him there, thumbs grazing over his cheeks, fingers resting along his jaw, her touch slow and careful as though she had found some sacred statue of Apollo brought down from its pedestal and made human in her bed.

She traced him like she had missed him in pieces.

The curve of his cheekbone.

The softness beneath his eye.

The line of his mouth.

Then her thumb drifted along the bridge of his nose, and Michael went still beneath her, breath caught, gaze fixed on her as if she had reached into his chest and quieted every restless thing inside him.

Jayda leaned up and pressed a kiss there, right where her thumb had been, small and tender and devastating in its simplicity.

“You’re so pretty, baby,” she whispered, her lips brushing the words against his skin before she pulled back enough to look at him fully.

Michael’s lashes lowered, shy despite all his nerve, despite the way he had carried her through their home and kissed her like he had been starving.

Jayda smiled faintly, almost sadly, because the road had given him back to her tired, and the world had always demanded he be dazzling before it allowed him to be soft.

Her thumb swept over his nose again, then down toward his mouth.

“So beautiful.”

The words settled over him like laurel and balm, like Venus herself had laid a hand over the old wounds the world kept mistaking for glamour. Michael swallowed hard, his eyes shining with something too tender to name, and for a moment all that hunger between them quieted into a deeper ache, one that had nothing to do with distance anymore and everything to do with being seen.

Not praised.

Not adored by strangers.

Seen.

Michael leaned into her hands, his voice barely above a whisper.

“You make me feel that way.”

Jayda’s face softened at once, helplessly, the attitude melting clean off her mouth as she held him closer.

“Good,” she murmured, kissing the bridge of his nose again, then the corner of his mouth. “’Cause you are.”

And Michael, hovering over her with her hands still cradling his face, looked at Jayda like every stage in the world had gone dark behind him and only this remained: her beneath him, moonlight on her skin, her fingers in his hair, her voice calling him beautiful like it was not a compliment but a truth she had been waiting six months to place back into his body.

“I love you, you know that right, Bambi?” Jayda whispered, the confession leaving her mouth so softly it almost disappeared into the moonlit room, but Michael caught it, caught every trembling piece of it, caught the love beneath the wine and silk and aching want, caught the six months of missing him tucked behind the nickname like she had been carrying it against her chest the whole time.

For a moment, he only stared at her.

The whole world seemed to narrow to the warmth of her hands on his face, to the tender drag of her thumb over the bridge of his nose, to the quiet shine in her eyes as she looked at him not like a stage, not like a miracle, not like some boy-god Apollo dragged before the masses to sing until he bled light, but like her man, her sweet thing, her beautiful, impossible Michael.

His throat worked around the feeling.

Love had been said to him before, shouted at him by crowds, printed on signs, screamed through barricades, handed to him in flowers and letters and trembling hands, but from Jayda it landed differently, heavy and holy, like Venus herself had stepped down from her altar and placed a crown over the softest part of him.

“Yeah?” he whispered, his voice low and roughened by everything he was trying not to let spill out too quickly.

Jayda’s gaze flickered to his mouth.

Michael leaned closer, not enough to kiss her yet, only enough for his breath to warm the space between them, his curls brushing faintly against her forehead as his eyes searched hers with that sweet, dangerous patience of his.

“You gon’ show me, mama?”

The question was gentle, but it carried weight.

It was not just desire speaking, not only the hunger that had built itself inside him across six months of lonely beds and late-night calls, not only the ache of her beneath him with her fingers still tangled in his hair. It was need, deeper and older than the body, the need to be chosen without hesitation, to be loved without distance, to have Jayda stop hiding behind attitude and cleverness and finally let him feel the truth she had just placed between them.

Jayda’s breath caught.

Michael saw it and softened, his mouth brushing the corner of hers as though he were not asking for proof so much as permission to believe her.

“Show me you missed me,” he murmured. “Show me I’m home.”

Her hands tightened at his face, holding him there, keeping him close, and for once she did not roll her eyes, did not kiss her teeth, did not make some slick little comment to rescue herself from the tenderness.

She only looked at him, her beautiful Bambi, her angelface, the man kneeling and rising and returning to her like every road in the world had finally admitted it led back to this bed.

“Come here,” she whispered.

And Michael went to her like worship answering its own prayer.

She watched as Michael lowered himself onto their bedding, the silk sheets receiving him like they remembered the shape of him, cool and smooth beneath his road-worn body, welcoming him back with the same quiet devotion she had tried and failed to disguise behind attitude, wine, and low-lit teasing.

For a moment, Jayda simply looked at him.

Her Michael.

Her Bambi.

Her angelface stretched across their bed beneath the moonlight, curls loosened from beneath his cap, eyes dark and open on her, beautiful in a way that made her chest ache because the world had spent years worshipping him loudly while somehow missing how tender he was when he felt safe.

She leaned over him and pressed her lips to the side of his neck, one kiss first, then another, then another, each one slow and deliberate, trailing warmth along the place where his pulse jumped beneath her mouth. Michael’s breath caught immediately, his body betraying him with the smallest shudder, and Jayda felt it against her lips, felt the way he softened under the attention like a man who had been touched by crowds all his life but only ever handled with care by her.

“There you go,” she whispered against his skin, voice low, affectionate, almost teasing. “Let me love on you.”

His eyes fluttered shut.

Jayda’s manicured hand ghosted down his body, not rushing, not taking, only learning him again with the slow reverence of a woman returning to a sacred place after too long away. Her touch moved over him like warm incense through a Roman temple, like Venus herself laying blessing after blessing upon a soldier returned from war, and Michael trembled beneath every pass of her fingers as if his body had been waiting six months to remember what her hands felt like.

She watched him carefully, watched the way his mouth parted, the way his chest rose, the way his brows pulled together as though tenderness overwhelmed him more than hunger ever could.

“You missed this?” she murmured.

Michael opened his eyes, and the look he gave her was almost too honest to bear.

“Missed you,” he whispered.

Jayda’s hand stilled for half a second, her heart folding around the answer before she could stop it. Then she bent and kissed him again, softer this time, right beneath his jaw, letting her lips linger there as her thumb traced a slow, absent path over him.

“I’m here now,” she promised.

Michael shuddered again, not only from her touch, but from the weight of those words, from the sweetness of being wanted without performance, welcomed without demand, loved in the private dark by the woman whose bed had become the only stage he never had to earn.

Jayda’s hand drifted lower with aching patience, her touch moving beneath the loose cotton at his waist just enough to make Michael’s breath fracture beneath her, the sudden inhale catching sharp in his throat before it broke apart into a few short, uneven exhales.

His eyes screwed shut at once, not because he wanted her to stop, but because the feeling of being wanted by her so directly, so deliberately, made something shy and overwhelmed rise up inside him before desire could steady it.

For all the nerve he had walked into her home with, for all the teasing over the phone, for all the confidence in the way he had carried her upstairs and kissed her like six months of distance had made him half-wild with missing her, there was still that tender, untouched place in him that trembled when Jayda loved him too carefully.

She saw it.

Of course she saw it.

The way his lashes pressed tight against his cheeks.

The way his chest lifted beneath her.

The way his hands gripped the silk sheets as if her touch had become too much and not enough in the same breath.

Jayda softened over him, her mouth brushing the side of his neck again, her voice low and warm against his skin.

“Look at me, baby.”

Michael swallowed hard, his body still tense beneath the storm of nerves and wanting, but he opened his eyes for her anyway, because the desire for his woman, for her hands, for her nearness, for the proof that he was home and loved and chosen, was stronger than the embarrassment trying to pull him back into himself.

When his gaze found hers, Jayda’s heart clenched.

There he was.

Not the man the world screamed for.

Not the legend.

Not the polished miracle in sequins and stage lights.

Just Michael, beautiful and breathless beneath her, trusting her with the softest parts of himself even while his body betrayed every ounce of longing he had carried back to her.

Jayda kissed the bridge of his nose, then the corner of his mouth, her hand still gentle, still careful, still speaking the language her pride so often refused.

“I got you,” she whispered. “Ain’t no rush.”

Michael let out a shaky breath, his eyes dark and shining as he looked up at her.

“I want you,” he whispered back, the words barely there, but heavy with six months of missing, six months of restraint, six months of coming home to her in every dream before his body finally followed.

Jayda’s expression softened until all the attitude disappeared from her face, until there was no sharp mouth, no teasing defense, no wine-warmed mask of control left between them, only the woman beneath it all looking down at the man she loved with a tenderness that felt almost too sacred for the room.

Her hand stilled.

Not because she doubted him, not because she did not feel the heat of his wanting beneath her palm, but because desire, to Jayda, could not outrun care; because Michael was not some man she intended to devour and forget, he was her Bambi, her angelface, her sweet, beautiful love stretched beneath her on silk sheets, trembling not from fear alone, but from the dangerous weight of being wanted in a place where he did not have to perform for it.

She lowered herself closer, her hair rollers brushing faintly as she leaned in, her breath warm against his mouth, her gaze searching his as though she were reading the truth written somewhere deeper than words.

“Are you sure, my love?” she whispered back, her voice soft enough to soothe and serious enough to hold him still.

Michael’s eyes opened fully at that, dark and tender, still carrying the nerves that had made his breath stutter, but beneath them lived something steadier now, something certain, something that looked at Jayda not like temptation, but like home.

For a moment, he did not answer with his mouth.

He lifted one hand instead, careful and reverent, and touched her face, his thumb brushing along her cheek as though he needed to feel her there, warm and real above him, the woman who had waited, fussed, loved, protected, and still asked before taking what he had already offered.

“Yeah,” he breathed.

Jayda’s eyes searched his again.

Michael swallowed, then nodded, firmer this time, his voice low and rough with wanting and trust.

“I’m sure, mama.”

Something in her chest broke open quietly.

She bent and kissed him, not with the hunger first, but with the love, pressing it into his mouth slowly, letting him feel that he had been heard, that he had been asked, that nothing in this room would happen to him without him being met there fully. Michael melted beneath her, his body loosening by degrees, the tension in his shoulders easing as his hands found her waist and held on like she had anchored him back into himself.

“You tell me if you need me to slow down,” she murmured against his lips.

His fingers tightened gently at her sides.

“Don’t go nowhere,” he whispered.

Jayda kissed him again, softer, deeper, her forehead resting against his as Donny sang low from somewhere below and the moonlight poured over them like silver blessing.

“I’m right here,” she promised. “I got you.”

And Michael believed her.

Not because she said it pretty, not because the room was warm and the sheets smelled like her, not because his body was humming beneath her touch, but because Jayda had always loved him most honestly in the pauses, in the places where wanting waited for permission, where softness held the door open and let him walk through on his own.

He watched through a half-lidded gaze as Jayda sank to her knees before him, a gentle smile on her face as she reached for his sweatpants and tugged them down his legs, letting his dick spring free, gently smacking his lower abdomen before curving toward him. With a sigh of pure bliss, she wrapped her hands around his base, a swarm of butterflies ruptured in her stomach as she wrapped her lips around him and welcomed him down her throat, nearly purring with him in her mouth at the sound of his whines and whimpers. She didn’t waste any time as she bobbed her head up and down his dick, moaning at the taste of the salty precum invading her senses, spurring her on, making her even more determined to show her man how much she loved him, how much she missed him. 

“Wrapping her hands around his base,e she stroked what she couldn’t fit in her mouth, his groans acting as an incentive to gradually increase her pace, not too fast, not too slow; she’d learnt not to startle Michael when it came down to these things. She learned him the way a sinner learns scripture in search of absolution: with reverence, with obsession, with the desperate hunger to know exactly where to place her hands, her mouth, her love, until she could draw from him a response no one else in the world would ever be holy enough to receive.

“Oh…oh baby,” Michael whined as the blood rished to his dick, his chest rising with heavy breaths as the love in his heart swelled tenfold, a feat he had not known was possible when Jayda already possessed so much of him: his thoughts, his desire, his songs, his softness, every private piece of him the world had never been gentle enough to hold. Jayda owned him in a way that should have terrified a man who had spent his whole life being claimed, managed, and consumed by other people, yet with her, ownership did not feel like captivity; it felt like surrender, like safety, like finally belonging to someone who would never use his devotion as a leash.

“Baby… you drive me crazy, y-you’re everything, you’re everythin’ and more mama.” He whispered as he furrowed his brows and closed his eyes, his hand settling on the nape other's neck, while the other settled on the rollers that contained the dark locks he couldn't wait to entangle in his fingers later on. He gently lowered her onto him further so she could deepthroat him, a move he’d learnt one time after their studio time together that he found himself thinking about in his tour bus with nothing but his hand and whatever lotion he’d carried to keep him sane. 

Michael was a moaning mess as he felt his crown brush her uvula as her nose brushed the soft curly pubes at his crotch as he gently thrust inside her mouth, his confidence increasing with his pace as his body buzzed with electricity. As she deep-throated him she darted her tongue out to lick at his balls, leaving nothing untouched, she came up for a breath, her hands jerking him when she met his eyes, she found him looking at her with such reverence, such unguarded devotion, such aching, impossible love, that it made something inside her soften past pride and reason, until she felt she might give him anything he asked for simply because he had looked at her as though she were the only altar he had ever knelt before.

She could feel her juices drench her thighs as she thankfully decided not not to wear any tonight as she dripped down her thighs as Michael watched her hand trail down her body as she began to touch herself. The sight was too erotic, too close to sacrilege, but at the moment, any thoughts of divinity were mush, pure and utter mush as he thrusted into her mouth the coil in his belly growing tighter and tiger, and he finally succumbed to his orgasm. 

Jayda brought her hand, already slick with her own essence and rubbed it along his shaft as she jerked him, the trail of her spit combining with Michael’s cum that licked from the corners of her mouth and dripped down his balls onto the sheets as Jayda swallowed six months' worth of love. 

Jayda pulled off him with a pop, following the trail of him that leaked down onto the sheets with her tongue, watching as Michael jerked when her tongue met his balls once more, his hand shot out to pull her back as he caught his breath. 

“Hold on, baby,” he croaked as he pulled her onto the bed with him, a sigh leaving his lips as he turned his gaze to meet hers. Jayda let out a breathless giggle as he stood up and moved her to the centre of their bed and lay on his stomach between her legs, licking up the wanted essence on her thighs as he held onto her, making it impossible for her to wriggle away from him.

Immediately after he was done lathering her thighs with his spit, his tongue darted out and started licking her juices. Jayda nearly shot up and wriggled away, her eyes widening as she whined. “Oh, Michael.”

She was so wet, her juices coating his cheeks as he dove in for more, eager to have her running through his body, ever so eager to be one with her in all the ways he could. 

“F-fuck,” she whined, the word slipping out of her before she could catch it, raw and breathless and entirely unlike the composed woman who usually kept every sound, every feeling, every surrender under lock and key.

Then, almost immediately, even with her pulse still scattered and her pride nowhere to be found, Jayda blinked as if she had offended the Lord himself and whispered, “Sorry.”

Because apparently, after all the wine, all the silk, all the longing, all the ways he had looked at her like worship had learned her name, after all the sex they’d had, profanity was where Michael Joseph Jackson decided to draw the line.

He hummed against her as he continued on with his meal, as she shuddered and arched her back with a whine as he reached under her and cupped her ass, lifting her up slightly to have a deeper taste of her as he squeezed harshly. To him, Jayda tasted like heaven, that was the only explanation to why he always, always throught about this. Thought about his head between her thighs even when it was the last thing he should’ve been thinking about at that moment. 

“W-Wait, i’m gonna- f–fuck – s-sorry, don’t stop baby,” she whined despite her pleas and the slight ache in his jaw he continued working her to her high. He knew her body the way he knew music: by instinct, by devotion, by the smallest shift in rhythm, every breath and tremble becoming a note he had learned to hear before it ever became sound.

 He wanted every bit of her, every bit of her release to coat his face and fill his senses. He wanted to be bathed in her in every way that mattered, to carry her scent on his skin, her softness in his bones, her touch lingering over him like a private blessing, so that even when she was only in the next room, he could still feel her wrapped around him as though she had never truly let go.

Her moans grew louder as she felt a pit form in her stomach, her body shook as she broke her gaze from Michael, accepting the fact that the man wasn’t going to let her go till she gave him what he wanted. Instead, she screwed her eyes shut and raked her hand through his hair, careful of his sensitive scalp and let out an exhale of relief as she felt his fingers curl into her. Looking down, Jayda found the hand resting against the side of her body, the one still marked by his vitiligo, pale constellations scattered over brown skin like the gods had pressed moonlight into him and left it there.

A soft whine slipped from her mouth, half protest, half plea, her lashes fluttering as she fought to gather a coherent sentence through the overwhelming rush of feeling moving through her. She reached for that hand before he could pull it away, before shyness or old hurt or the cruel memory of other people’s eyes could make him think, even for a second, that she wanted any part of him hidden from her.

“Love on me with that hand,” she whispered, voice trembling but certain, her fingers closing over his wrist with aching tenderness to slow him down. “Ion want the other one.”

Michael went still.

For a moment, his breath caught so sharply it seemed to quiet the whole room, and Jayda’s pleasure filled gaze cleared for a moment to his, softened and insistent, letting him see that she meant it, that she wanted the hand he might have been taught to be careful with, the hand the world had made into a question, the hand she looked at and saw only him.

“This one,” she murmured, guiding it closer, pressing her lips to the uneven beauty of his skin. “I want all of you, my love.”

He nodded, his words lost in his throat as tears pooled in his eyes but he blinked them away, pulling away from her slick folds for a moment he licked the hand clean, his tongue darting between the digits to gather all of her before he used the spit lick hand to clasp onto her thigh as he thrust his fingers into her curling them just right into her spot, watching the way her body unclenched and a fresh wave of her slick coated his fingers as he wrapped his lips around her clit. It wasn’t long before she released herself in his mouth and Michael sucked eagerly, holding her steady. Jayda’s breath came in short, broken pants, her chest rising beneath him as she tried and failed to keep herself together, whispering little curses under her breath that she prayed he did not hear, because Michael would absolutely have the nerve to stop everything and look at her like she had personally disappointed the angels.

But of course he heard.

Michael always heard her.

He heard the words she said and the ones she tried to swallow, heard the tremble beneath her attitude, heard the way her breath caught around his name, heard the prayer hiding inside every sound she made for him, and with his forehead hovering near hers, his eyes dark and heavy with love, he let out a soft, breathless laugh that barely made it past his throat.

“You gon’ be the death of me, mama,” he whispered, the words tender, ruined, full of awe, as if loving her had turned him into a man willing to be undone by the very woman holding him together.

Jayda’s face changed immediately.

The haze in her eyes sharpened, the softness still there but suddenly pierced through with fear, and she frowned as she lifted her hand and gently smacked his chest, not hard enough to hurt him, only enough to make the point land where her voice nearly failed.

“Don’t say that.”

Michael’s brows furrowed, confusion moving over his face as he stilled above her, because he had meant it like romance, like surrender, like some sweet little dramatic thing lovers said in the dark when the heart got too full for plain language.

But Jayda was not smiling.

Her hand stayed over his chest, palm pressed against the beat beneath his skin, and for a moment she looked almost angry with him for reminding her that bodies could fail, that fire could happen, that hospitals existed, that the man she loved could be touched by pain in ways her hands could not always fix.

“Don’t talk about death,” she whispered, voice trembling now despite how fiercely she tried to steady it.

Michael’s expression softened at once.

Jayda swallowed, her thumb moving over his chest like she could soothe the very idea away, like if she touched him firmly enough, loved him deeply enough, claimed him completely enough, then death itself would know better than to come anywhere near her door.

“You gon’ live a long life with me,” she said, her eyes locked on his, serious as a vow made before God and every ancient thing still listening in the dark. “You hear me, Bambi? A long one.”

Michael stared down at her, and the teasing left him completely.

In its place came something softer, heavier, something that looked too much like a man realizing he was not only wanted, not only desired, but expected to stay.

Jayda’s hand slid up from his chest to cradle his face, her nails grazing his jaw with careful tenderness as she pulled him closer, her mouth brushing the corner of his before she spoke again.

“No more talkin’ like that,” she murmured. “Not with me. Not in this bed. Not when I just got you back.”

Michael closed his eyes for a second, leaning into her palm as though her fear had become another form of love he did not know how to hold without trembling.

“Okay,” he whispered.

Jayda searched his face.

“Say it.”

His eyes opened again, dark and shining beneath the moonlight.

“I’m gon’ live a long life with you,” he said softly.

Her breath shook on the exhale.

“Good.”

Then she kissed him, slow and deep and aching, not to silence him exactly, but to seal the promise somewhere warmer than words, to press it into his mouth, his skin, his heart, until he understood that Jayda Noel Carmichael did not love lightly, did not claim halfway, and did not let the man she had chosen speak of leaving this earth when she had already made room for him in every year she planned to survive.

Michael’s fingers moved to the buttons of his plaid shirt, slow and almost uncertain now that Jayda was watching him so closely, her gaze fixed on him with a heat that made his hands feel clumsier than they had a moment ago.

One button slipped free, then another, the fabric parting gradually to reveal the lean, lanky frame beneath, all long lines, narrow waist, soft brown skin, and the quiet beauty he never seemed to understand belonged to him just as much offstage as it did beneath lights.

Jayda’s breath softened as she looked at him.

Not at the myth.

Not at the man the world screamed for.

Him.

Her Bambi, her baby, her beautiful man standing in the moonlit room with his shirt falling open and his shyness trying to hide behind desire.

The look in her eyes changed as she took him in, desire swirling there, yes, warm and unmistakable, but beneath it was something gentler, something reverent, something that made Michael’s chest tighten because Jayda did not look at him like she wanted to consume him; she looked at him like she wanted to keep him safe while loving him thoroughly.

Her voice came low, wine-warm and full of wonder.

“You so beautiful, baby.”

Michael’s hands paused on the next button.

The praise hit him harder than he expected, slipping beneath all the teasing, beneath all the confidence he had brought upstairs, beneath the road and the stage and the practiced glitter of being adored by strangers.

Jayda’s mouth softened when she saw his lashes lower.

“Look at me,” she whispered.

He did, slowly.

And when their eyes met, Jayda let him see every bit of it: the hunger, the love, the relief, the quiet worship of a woman who had missed his body because she had missed him, who wanted him close not because the world had made him desirable, but because he was Michael, because he was hers, because he had come home.

“I mean it,” she murmured, reaching for the open edges of his shirt. “So beautiful.”

Jayda reached for him then, her hands coming to the open edges of his plaid shirt with the kind of tenderness that made Michael go still, as though every movement of hers required his full attention.

The fabric was warm from his body, faintly carrying the scent of travel, stage lights, hotel soap, and the cold air outside, all those little traces of the road still clinging to him even though he was standing in their bedroom now, beneath her moonlight, close enough for her to touch.

Her fingers found the next button.

Michael watched her lower her gaze, watched the concentration settle over her features as she worked it free, one slow pass of her thumb, one careful pull, the button slipping loose as if she were undoing more than clothing.

She was taking the world off him piece by piece.

The road.

The family noise.

The final show.

The months of being wanted by everyone except the woman he actually needed.

Jayda unbuttoned him like she was bringing him home by hand, like every small release of fabric was another gate opening, another wall giving way, another inch of him returned to the quiet temple of their room.

Michael’s breath shifted when her knuckles brushed his chest.

She noticed.

Of course she noticed.

Jayda’s mouth curved faintly, but she did not tease him yet, did not ruin the softness with too much mouth, only let her fingertips graze the newly exposed skin with aching patience.

“You nervous?” she asked, voice low, not mocking, not even playful, just intimate enough to make his lashes lower.

Michael swallowed, his hands hovering uselessly at his sides as if he did not know whether to touch her, hold still, or surrender outright.

“A little,” he admitted.

Jayda looked up at him then.

The confession softened her in a way that nearly undid him.

Her hands stilled against his shirt, her thumbs resting close to the center of his chest, and for a moment she only looked at him, her beautiful man, her shy little storm, her Bambi who could command a stage in front of thousands but still tremble when she loved him too directly.

“That’s alright,” she whispered. “You can be nervous with me.”

Michael’s eyes met hers.

There was something in them that almost broke her heart, not fear exactly, but trust learning how to stand without flinching.

Jayda leaned closer and pressed a kiss to the patch of skin she had just uncovered, right beneath his collarbone, soft and lingering.

Michael exhaled shakily.

She felt it move through him.

“There you go,” she murmured against him. “Just breathe, baby.”

Her fingers moved again, finding another button, then another, each one surrendering under her touch until the shirt hung looser around him, sliding open to reveal more of his lean frame, the long, delicate lines of him, the narrow strength, the softness, the beauty he carried like something he had never fully been taught to claim for himself.

Jayda’s gaze travelled over him slowly, not greedy in a careless way, but reverent, almost solemn, as though she were standing before some marble statue of Apollo brought down from its pedestal and made warm, human, vulnerable beneath her hands.

“You don’t even know,” she said softly.

Michael’s brows drew together.

“Know what?”

Jayda pushed the shirt farther from his shoulders, her palms following the fabric, guiding it down his arms with unhurried care.

“How pretty you are when you let somebody see you.”

His mouth parted, but whatever answer he had dissolved when she leaned in again, pressing kisses along his chest, one slow offering after another, her lips warm against the parts of him the shirt had hidden only moments before.

Michael’s head tilted back slightly, his throat working around a breath that wanted to become her name.

Jayda smiled against his skin.

“Don’t hide from me,” she whispered.

“I’m not.”

“You try.”

His hands finally found her waist, tentative at first, then firmer when she did not move away.

“You make it hard,” he murmured.

Jayda lifted her head, eyes narrowing softly.

“For you to hide?”

Michael looked at her, dark-eyed and open, the last of the shirt slipping from one shoulder.

“For me to think straight.”

That pulled a quiet laugh from her, low and warm, and the sound loosened something in him.

Jayda drew the shirt the rest of the way off, letting it fall somewhere near the foot of the bed without caring where it landed, because she had him now, bare to the waist and breathing unevenly beneath her attention, the road stripped from his skin, the night closing around them, the silk sheets waiting behind her like they had known he would return.

She placed both hands on his chest, feeling the quick, living beat beneath her palms.

“There he is,” she whispered.

Michael’s hands tightened at her waist.

“You keep sayin’ that.”

“Because I keep finding you.”

The words landed between them with more weight than either expected.

Michael’s expression softened, the desire in his face briefly overtaken by something deeper, something almost boyish in its need to be understood.

Jayda touched his cheek again, thumb moving gently along the side of his face.

“Every time the world put something on you,” she said, voice quiet but certain, “I’m gon’ take it off when you come home.”

Michael closed his eyes at that.

For one moment, he simply leaned into her, forehead lowering toward hers, his body drawn to her warmth like a man returning from battle to the only place that still knew his real name.

“Promise?” he whispered.

Jayda kissed him once, slow and tender, sealing the answer against his mouth before giving it sound.

“Promise.”

Jayda gently pushed him back onto the bed, her palms pressed against the warm plane of his chest, and Michael went willingly, falling into the silk sheets with a soft bounce that startled a laugh out of him before he could swallow it.

The sound was light, sweet, almost boyish, spilling into the moonlit room like something precious and unguarded, and for a moment all the heat between them softened into joy.

Jayda paused above him, watching as he giggled beneath her, his curls spread against her pillows, his bare chest rising with laughter, his eyes bright in a way she had not seen enough during those six long months on the road.

“What you gigglin’ for?” she asked, though her own mouth had already started to curve.

Michael shook his head, still smiling, one hand reaching for her waist as if even laughter could not be allowed to put too much distance between them.

“Nothin’,” he murmured, breathless and beautiful, the silk shifting beneath him as he settled deeper into the bed. “Jus’ missed bein’ here.”

Jayda’s expression softened at once.

Not here, as in the room.

Not here, as in the penthouse.

Here, as in beneath her hands, in her sheets, under her eyes, safe inside the private little world they had built together one recovery day, one phone call, one stolen confession at a time.

She climbed onto the bed after him slowly, her knees sinking into the silk on either side of him, and Michael looked up at her with that same helpless reverence, laughter still lingering at the corners of his mouth while love sat heavy in his gaze.

“You happy to be home, Bambi?” she whispered.

His hands slid to her hips, gentle but sure, anchoring her there as if the question had an answer too large for words.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Real happy.”

Jayda leaned down, brushing her lips over his smile, kissing the last of his laughter away with a tenderness that made him sigh beneath her.

“Good,” she murmured against his mouth. “Imma make you even happier.”

She let him tug her silk nightdress over her head, tossing it somewhere into the room as he let his hands roam the supple flesh of her body, squeezing and fondling whatever he pleased as Jayda trailed a hand down her body to grab his hard, throbbing dick. And without any second wasted, she rubbed him through her folds, once, twice, thrice before she sank into it, using little to no effort to slide him inside her warmth as his toes curled. He mumbled praises and whines under his breath before letting out a loud “Fuck baby.” He kept his eyes on Jayda, who leaned her head back and whimpered softly as she adjusted to him; six months without him here to stretch her out had her body readjusting to him, almost like it was their first time all over again. She could feel him in the deepest parts of her stomach, so deep she didn’t know who started and ended where; not that she cared to know. Her whines never stopped, not even as she planted her hands on his chest and began to bounce on him. 

Michael watched her with wonder. He missed this; he missed seeing her like this. Her lips parted as her eyes fought to stay open, while her eyes met his and held his gaze. He filled her up so completely, and there wasn’t an inch she wasn’t taking. 

She was made for him, and he was made for her. 

He moved his hands down to her ass, spreading her cheeks and digging his nails into her skin as she maintained her pace on him, squeezing her walls and trying to give him everything she had in her. 

“You like that, baby?  You like feeling how much I love you?”

“Mhm, I love feelin’ it baby, you’re doing so well.” He whimpers, the sounds moving through their room, soft and private, all hers, and that only made her go faster, her breasts bouncing up and down without any rhythm as she showed no signs of stopping until he pulled her off. Perhaps Jayda was addicted to him, addicted to the way their bodies fit together, the way they sounded together; it sounded better than any music Jayda had ever made in her life. 

As she moved quickly, her ass cheeks moved in a circular motion, smacking down on his thighs every time she let herself move down on him. Michael ran his tongue over his lips as he watched her work him, his limbs bone tired and jelly-like from all the months on the road. Jayda knew he needed this: to be cared for without having to earn it, to have the weight of the road, the ache of expectation, and every restless thought drawn gently from his body, then replaced with something warmer, something tender enough to soothe him and powerful enough to light him from the inside out.

He watched her for a moment, watched the way his member disappeared between her slippery folds and revealed itself again coated with more and more of her. The thick creamy ring at his base grew thicker and thicker as it melded with his pubic hair and the back of her thighs. He lifted himself up, bringing a brown nipple to his mouth and swirled her tongue around it. The sounds of their skin slapping and their pleasure could be heard around their penthouse. He watched as Jayda planted a foot against the bed, using it to get a better angle, her nails dug crimson and scratched against her skin while her hips rolled, stuttering with the shocks of pleasure coursing through her veins like a tide. 

“’M gon’ put a pretty ring on that finger,” Michael grunted, the promise slipping out rough and breathless as the coil low in his belly wound tighter and tighter, pulling every thought toward her until desire and devotion became the same unbearable thing.

Jayda stilled for half a second above him.

Not enough to stop the rhythm of the room, not enough to break the heat between them, but enough for the words to land, enough for them to sink through the silk sheets, through the moonlight, through the sound of Donny still playing faintly somewhere beneath them, until they settled somewhere deep in her chest where all her pretending went to die.

A ring.

Not some teasing little promise made because the night was warm and his body was overwhelmed.

Not from Michael.

He said things like that as if heaven itself had handed him the words and told him to make law of them, as if love, once spoken, became something carved into marble, something the gods were required to witness and the earth was required to keep.

Jayda’s breath caught as she looked down at him, at her beautiful man stretched beneath her, curls mussed against her pillows, skin glowing in the low light, eyes dark and shining with such naked adoration that it made her feel powerful and ruined all at once.

“Michael…” she whispered, and his name came out soft, almost broken, because there was too much in it now, too much road, too much waiting, too many nights with his voice in her ear and his side of the bed empty, too many prayers she had refused to call prayers because she was too proud to admit she had begged God to bring him back to her whole.

His hands tightened at her waist, not to control her, never that, but to hold onto the only thing in the world that felt real enough to keep him from floating apart.

“I mean it,” he breathed, his voice strained with feeling, with want, with the impossible tenderness of a man whose body was caught in the storm but whose heart still insisted on making vows in the middle of it. “Ain’t playin’ with you, Jayda.”

Her eyes burned.

She hated that.

She hated how easily he could do it, how he could look up at her like she was Venus and home and mercy and trouble all at once, then say something so earnest it cracked every clever defense she had spent years perfecting.

Jayda leaned down, pressing her forehead to his, letting her hands frame his face as the room moved around them in heat and shadow, as their breathing tangled, as the whole world narrowed to the place where their bodies met without needing the story told in anything but feeling.

“You always talkin’ marriage when you get overwhelmed,” she murmured, trying for attitude, but it came out too tender to wound.

Michael’s mouth curved, faint and breathless.

“You always act like you don’t like hearin’ it.”

Her thumb swept along his cheek, catching the damp warmth there, and her gaze softened with a love so full it almost frightened her.

“I like hearin’ anything that means you plan on staying.”

That undid him.

Jayda felt it in the way his chest lifted beneath her, in the way his eyes closed for just a second, in the way his hands moved from her waist to her back, drawing her closer until there was no space left for pride, no room left for the road, no room left for all the people who had wanted pieces of him without ever learning how to hold the whole.

“I’m stayin’,” he whispered. “You hear me, mama? I’m stayin’.”

Jayda kissed him then, deep and slow and aching, swallowing the promise before it could turn into anything too fragile to survive the air.

The kiss became the answer.

The room softened around them, shadows trembling over the walls, silk whispering beneath them, Donny’s voice turning distant and holy as if the record itself had lowered its eyes. Michael held onto her like a man at prayer, and Jayda loved him like she had spent six months gathering every lonely night, every missed touch, every unsaid confession, and was now pouring all of it back into his body until he had no choice but to glow with it.

She learned him again by breath and tremble, by the way his mouth parted around her name, by the way his lashes fluttered when tenderness struck deeper than pleasure, by the way his voice broke whenever she called him beautiful.

She learned him the way a sinner learns scripture in search of absolution: with reverence, with obsession, with the desperate hunger to know exactly where to place her hands, her mouth, her love, until she could draw from him a response no one else in the world would ever be holy enough to receive.

And Michael gave himself to her with the kind of surrender that would have terrified him from anyone else.

Jayda owned him in that moment, and somehow ownership from her did not feel like captivity; it felt like shelter, like a locked door keeping the world out, like being claimed by someone who would never confuse his devotion for weakness.

“I love you,” he breathed, the words spilling out against her mouth, over and over, no performance in them, no polish, no stage-bright perfection, only the raw, trembling truth of a man who had come home and found his woman waiting.

Jayda held his face between her hands, her own breath uneven, her heart too full for anything clever.

“I love you too, Bambi,” she whispered back. “I got you.”

He made a sound then, soft and ruined, and she kissed it from him before it could become too much.

The love in his heart swelled tenfold, a feat he had not known was possible when Jayda already possessed so much of him: his thoughts, his desire, his songs, his softness, every private piece of him the world had never been gentle enough to hold.

When she met his eyes, she found him looking at her with such reverence, such unguarded devotion, such aching, impossible love, that it made something inside her soften past pride and reason, until she felt she might give him anything he asked for simply because he had looked at her as though she were the only altar he had ever knelt before.

“You gon’ let me?” he whispered suddenly, voice barely there.

Jayda brushed her thumb along the bridge of his nose, the gesture so tender it made his eyes flutter.

“Let you what?”

His gaze dropped briefly to her hand, then rose back to her face, solemn and lovesick.

“Put that ring on you.”

Jayda’s mouth parted.

For once, no smart reply came.

No deflection.

No joke.

No little kiss of the teeth to save herself from being seen.

Only her breathing, his hands on her, the moonlight, the music, and the terrible sweetness of realizing that he was asking her forever while still holding her like she was his tonight.

She leaned down and kissed him once, slow enough to make the answer holy.

“Ask me proper when you ain’t half out your mind,” she whispered against his lips.

Michael gave a breathless little laugh, the sound catching somewhere between joy and surrender.

“That mean yes?”

Jayda kissed him again.

“That mean ask me proper.”

His smile broke open beneath hers, bright and boyish and beautiful, and she felt him light up from the inside exactly the way she had wanted him to, all the road-weariness, all the old wounds, all the lonely distance replaced by something warm enough to live on.

He watched as Jayda picked up the pace, finding purchase on his shoulders as she fucked him harder. Michael’s hands wrapped firmly around her waist as he thrust up into her, knocking the wind out of her body as he found the strength to give it to her just as good as she was giving it to him.  Her eyes filled with tears as she reached for the bedframe, holding onto the top for balance as she cried out his name, over and over. 

“You feel so good, so so good baby. ‘S where I should’ve been all along,” he breathed as she collapsed against his chest, his hops still snapping up into hers, eager to take them to their highs. She was made for him, his girl, his beautiful girl, the woman he would have abandoned doctrine for, the woman he would have walked straight into fire for if it meant coming out on the other side with her hand in his. People would assume Jayda had been the one to lead him there, that she had coaxed him into himself, drawn sensuality out of him with knowing hands and a wicked mouth, but the truth was far less simple and far more dangerous. It had been Michael who kissed away her doubts before she could give them language, Michael who told her what he wanted in that soft, stubborn voice of his and refused to retreat until she understood he meant every word, Michael who sought her out, chased her, yearned for her, wrote her into melodies until history itself would have no choice but to remember the shape of her.

He did not want to merely love Jayda from a distance or worship her quietly at some altar she pretended not to see; he wanted to consume and be consumed by her, to dissolve into the heat of her love until there was no separation left between muse and man, prayer and answer, hunger and home — and once Michael Jackson decided he wanted something with his whole heart, heaven help anyone who thought he would stop before he had it.

There came a moment where the room seemed to lose its edges, where the moonlight, the silk, the music drifting faintly from below, and the whole glittering city beyond the glass folded inward until there was nothing left but Michael and Jayda, breath to breath, heart to heart, caught in the same rising tide.

Michael held onto her as though separation itself had become unbearable, as though six months of distance had gathered inside him only to break open now, not violently, not carelessly, but with the terrifying beauty of a man finally being given the one thing he had prayed for too long to name without trembling.

He did not want to be near her anymore.

Near was not enough.

He wanted to be carried into the same current, swallowed by the same sea, burned in the same sacred fire until neither of them could tell where his longing ended and her love began. He wanted to become part of Jayda in the old mythic way, like two stars collapsing into the same light, like river meeting ocean and forgetting it had ever known another shape, like Mars laying down his weapons at Venus’s feet and finding, in surrender, not defeat but home.

Jayda felt it in him before he said anything.

She felt the way he clung to her, the way his whole body seemed to ask not for more, but for permanence, for proof, for some divine assurance that this was not another dream he would wake from alone in a hotel room with her voice still warm in his ear.

Her hands found his face, grounding him, bringing him back to her eyes.

“I’m here,” she whispered, the words soft but certain, a vow pressed into the dark. “I’m right here, Bambi.”

Michael’s breath caught, and something in him answered her like a struck chord.

For one suspended second, they looked at each other, stripped of every defense they had ever worn, no stage, no studio, no road, no pride, no teasing sharp enough to hide behind. Only love, vast and trembling, opening its mouth beneath them like the sea.

Then the wave rose.

It rose through them together, slow and golden at first, then all at once too bright to bear, a tide pulling both their names from their throats and turning them into one sound. Jayda bowed into him, Michael pulled her close, and the whole night seemed to shudder around them as if the gods had reached down and touched the bed with fire.

It was not hunger anymore.

It was communion.

A prayer answered in the same breath it was spoken.

A song finding its final note.

Two bodies becoming less like separate instruments and more like one orchestra, trembling beneath the hand of something older than desire, something tender enough to heal and powerful enough to ruin.

Michael buried his face against her, holding her as if she were the only thing keeping him tethered to earth, and Jayda held him back just as fiercely, her fingers in his hair, her mouth near his temple, her heart breaking open beneath the force of how completely he needed her.

He had wanted to consume and be consumed by her.

In that moment, he was.

Not in the way of destruction, but in the way dawn consumes darkness, in the way incense consumes air, in the way a hymn consumes silence until the whole chapel is full of sound.

Jayda became the altar and the flame.

Michael became the offering and the prayer.

And when the world finally returned in fragments — the cool sheets, the distant record, the city lights, the uneven rhythm of their breathing — he clung to her still, trembling softly in the aftermath of being known too deeply to ever pretend he belonged anywhere else.

Jayda pressed a kiss into his curls, her own breath unsteady, her hand moving over him with slow, soothing devotion.

“I got you,” she whispered again.

Michael turned his face into her, eyes closed, his voice barely more than a broken breath.

“Don’t let me go.”

Jayda’s arms tightened around him.

“Never.”

And there, beneath moonlight and music, with the road finally behind him and her love all around him, Michael believed her.

…

Afterward, the room went quiet in that soft, holy way rooms did when they had witnessed something too tender to speak of plainly, the moonlight spilling across the silk sheets in pale ribbons while Donny Hathaway still murmured from somewhere downstairs, his voice thinned by distance and walls until it sounded less like a record and more like memory itself humming beneath the floorboards.

Michael lay against Jayda with his head tucked beneath her chin, one arm thrown around her waist, his body long and warm beside hers, his breathing still uneven in small, fading waves as if some great tide had carried him far from himself and only now returned him to shore.

Jayda held him close, her fingers moving lazily through his curls, careful where they had mussed beneath her hands, tender where she knew he liked it, her nails grazing his scalp with the slow devotion of a woman soothing a man who had come home carrying too much road in his bones.

He was quiet now.

Not asleep, not entirely.

Just quiet in the way he became when his heart was full enough to frighten him, when the world had finally stopped reaching for him and he did not know what to do with the silence except press himself closer to her and trust that she would know how to keep him there.

Jayda knew.

Of course she knew.

She knew him by then the way she knew music, by instinct and breath, by the smallest change in rhythm, by the way his hand tightened at her side when his mind wandered too far from the bed and back toward stages, fathers, brothers, crowds, and all the ancient machinery that had been built around him before he was old enough to name it a cage.

“You sleepy?” she asked softly.

Michael shifted, his cheek brushing against her chest, his voice low and drowsy but not gone.

“Nah.”

Jayda smiled faintly into the dark.

“You lyin’.”

“A little.”

The admission made her huff a quiet laugh, and Michael’s mouth curved against her skin, pleased with himself, pleased with her, pleased with being held like this in a room that smelled of wine, silk, warm bodies, and the faint trace of his cologne tangled with her perfume.

For a little while, they said nothing.

Jayda let the silence stretch, let him settle, let the beat of his heart slow beneath her palm, because she understood that some questions needed to be asked after the body remembered safety, after the nerves unclenched, after love had done its softer work and left a man open enough to answer honestly.

Then her fingers stilled gently in his hair.

“Michael.”

He hummed, eyes closed.

“Mhm?”

“You thinkin’ ’bout coming home proper?”

His lashes lifted slowly.

The room shifted around the question.

Not dramatically, not with thunder, but in that quiet, serious way fate sometimes entered through the side door wearing a house robe and carrying the smell of wine on its breath.

Michael lifted his head just enough to look at her, his eyes dark and tired and too soft beneath the moonlight, his curls falling loose over his forehead.

“I’m here now.”

Jayda gave him a look.

“Don’t get cute with me.”

His mouth twitched.

“I ain’t.”

“You are,” she said, dragging her thumb along the bridge of his nose because she could not help herself. “You know what I mean.”

Michael watched her face, searching for the edge of the question beneath the tenderness.

Jayda did not look away.

“I mean moving in,” she said quietly. “For real. Not a box by the door, not three shirts in my closet, not you leaving your tea here and acting like you ain’t claiming cabinet space.”

Michael blinked, then smiled a little, shy and triumphant all at once.

“I do got cabinet space.”

“You got one shelf.”

“That’s space.”

“Michael.”

His smile softened.

There it was.

The seriousness returning, settling over his pretty face like moonlight over marble.

He lowered his head again, but not to hide this time, only to rest his cheek against her while his hand moved slowly over her side, grounding himself in the shape of her beneath his palm.

“You want me here?” he asked, though his voice was too careful for a man who did not already know the answer.

Jayda’s heart clenched.

She hated that he still asked like that sometimes, like wanting him had to be confirmed in writing, like home was something that might be revoked if he misunderstood the terms.

She cupped his jaw and tilted his face back up.

“I been wanting you here.”

Michael’s throat moved.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she whispered. “But not if you gon’ bring all that road mess into my house and act like rest is optional.”

A soft laugh escaped him, but Jayda did not laugh with him, and when he saw the seriousness in her eyes, the amusement faded from his mouth.

“I’m serious, Bambi.”

He nodded once, small and almost boyish.

“I know.”

Jayda’s thumb traced his cheek, her voice lowering with care.

“And if you move in with me, or if we get a place that’s ours from the start, I need you to keep doing the work.”

Michael’s gaze flickered.

There.

That little guarded place.

She saw it immediately, the way his eyes shifted toward the window, toward the city, toward anywhere that was not her face. The 1980s were not kind to conversations like this, not to men, not to Black men raised to survive first and feel later, not to famous men whose pain got turned into rumor if the wrong receptionist saw their name written in the wrong appointment book. Therapy was whispered about then, disguised as “talking to somebody,” hidden behind private entrances, coded phone calls, paid in cash when privacy demanded it, protected by drivers who knew when not to ask questions.

Jayda knew all of that.

She also knew Michael.

“Look at me,” she said softly.

He did.

Slowly.

“Did you keep up with your sessions while you were on tour?”

Michael was quiet long enough for her stomach to tighten.

Outside, a car passed far below, headlights sliding briefly across the ceiling like a pale chariot crossing the underworld.

“Some,” he admitted.

Jayda’s brows drew together.

“Some?”

“Jayda…”

“Don’t Jayda me.”

He sighed and turned his face into her palm, kissing it once, soft and evasive.

She did not let him off.

“Michael.”

He closed his eyes.

“I called when I could.”

“That ain’t what I asked you.”

His jaw tightened faintly, not in anger, but in the old discomfort of being seen too clearly.

“It wasn’t easy.”

Jayda softened at once, though her voice stayed firm.

“I know it wasn’t.”

“No, you don’t,” he said quietly, then seemed to regret it the moment the words left his mouth.

Jayda did not flinch.

She only waited.

Michael swallowed, his fingers curling lightly into the silk at her waist.

“I had brothers knockin’ on doors, folks in and out all day, people listenin’, people always askin’ where I’m goin’, who I’m callin’, what I’m doin’.” His voice went lower, rougher. “Sometimes I’d call from the hotel room and hang up before the secretary picked up ’cause I didn’t want nobody hearin’ me say I needed to talk to him.”

Jayda’s expression softened into something so loving it almost broke him.

He kept going, quieter now.

“Sometimes Bill would take me out in the car and let me use the phone from there, but even that felt…” He exhaled. “Felt like somebody was gon’ find out and make it ugly.”

Jayda’s hand returned to his hair, smoothing through it slowly.

“Baby.”

Michael’s eyes shone in the dimness.

“I ain’t stop.”

The words came quickly then, almost urgent, like he needed her to know before disappointment could settle where love had been.

“I didn’t stop, Jayda. I missed some, yeah, but I ain’t quit. I wrote when I couldn’t call. He told me to write stuff down, so I did.”

Jayda’s eyes searched his.

“You journaled?”

His mouth twisted shyly.

“A little.”

“Where is it?”

He gave her a look.

“You not readin’ my journal.”

Jayda lifted a brow.

“I ain’t ask to read it, nosy.”

“You sounded like you did.”

“I asked where it was because if your little skinny behind left six months’ worth of emotional progress on a tour bus, I was gon’ have to hurt somebody.”

That pulled a laugh from him, soft and sudden, the sound loosening the heaviness in his chest.

“It’s in my bag.”

“Good.”

She kissed his forehead, then the bridge of his nose, lingering there because she knew it made him shy.

“I’m proud of you.”

Michael went still.

Jayda felt it, the way those words entered him deeper than praise, deeper than applause, deeper than any gold plaque ever could.

“You are?”

“Yes,” she said, serious as a vow. “I know what it cost you to do that on the road. I know you ain’t grow up with folks making room for you to be fragile.”

His eyes lowered.

Jayda tipped his face back up again.

“But I need you to keep at it, especially if we gon’ build something.”

Michael looked at her then, really looked, and the love in his face carried a nervous edge now, a future pressing itself into the room.

“Build something?”

Jayda rolled her eyes softly, but her hand stayed tender against his cheek.

“Don’t act slow.”

His smile came slowly.

“Say it.”

“You so aggravating.”

“Say it, mama.”

She sighed, but the smile betrayed her.

“A home, Michael.”

His eyes softened completely.

Jayda’s voice dropped.

“A real one. Not just you sleeping here when you’re hurt or hiding from your people. Not just me waiting by the phone while you out somewhere being everybody else’s miracle. I mean a home where you come back because you belong there, where your clothes are in the closet on purpose, where I know what time your sessions are, where you don’t pretend you fine when you ain’t, where you can be quiet and nobody takes that as permission to use you up.”

Michael’s breath trembled.

She brushed his curls back from his forehead.

“If that scares you, tell me.”

He shook his head.

“It don’t scare me.”

Jayda studied him.

“Don’t lie.”

He smiled faintly, sad and sweet.

“It scares me a little.”

Her thumb stilled.

Michael continued before she could soothe him out of the truth.

“But not ’cause of you.”

His hand found hers and brought it to his mouth, pressing a kiss to her knuckles with the kind of reverence that made her chest ache.

“It scares me ’cause I want it too bad.”

Jayda went quiet.

Michael’s voice grew softer.

“I want my toothbrush by yours. I want my clothes in your closet. I want you fussin’ at me ’bout appointments and sleep and eatin’ breakfast. I want to come home and hear your records playin’. I want to know I ain’t gotta ask if I can stay.”

Jayda swallowed hard.

He looked up at her, open and raw.

“I want it so bad, I don’t know what I’d do if I got it and lost it.”

Her face crumpled only a little, but enough.

Enough for Michael to see that the words had reached her.

Jayda gathered him closer, pulling his head back down to her chest, wrapping both arms around him as if she could hold the fear still until it stopped shaking.

“You ain’t gon’ lose it just ’cause you want it,” she whispered into his hair. “You hear me?”

Michael’s arms tightened around her waist.

“Mhm.”

“And you ain’t gotta earn a home with me by being perfect.”

His breathing caught.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

A pause.

Then, quieter: “I’m learnin’.”

Jayda kissed his curls.

“Then keep learning.”

He nodded against her.

For a while, they lay tangled together in the hush, not speaking, only breathing, the silk sheets cool around them, the city flickering beyond the glass, their future sitting at the edge of the bed like some golden, dangerous thing neither of them could ignore anymore.

Then Michael’s voice came, muffled against her skin.

“I can call him tomorrow.”

Jayda’s fingers resumed their slow path through his hair.

“Your therapist?”

“Mhm.”

“Good.”

He lifted his head slightly.

“You gon’ make me?”

Jayda looked down at him, one brow arched.

“Do I look like I play about you?”

Michael’s smile was small and helpless.

“No.”

“Then there you go.”

He laughed under his breath and tucked himself closer, his leg sliding over hers like even his body had voted against distance.

“Bossy.”

“Alive, loved, and emotionally literate,” she said, counting each one off with lazy authority. “That’s the plan.”

Michael laughed again, but then his face softened, and he pressed a kiss to the center of her chest, right over her heart.

“I’ll keep goin’,” he whispered. “I promise.”

Jayda closed her eyes for a moment, letting the promise settle into her like warmth.

“That’s all I’m asking.”

He looked up at her through his lashes.

“And moving in?”

Jayda opened one eye.

“We gon’ talk about that when you ain’t naked in my bed trying to look pitiful.”

Michael grinned, shameless and beautiful.

“Our bed.”

Jayda stared at him.

He stared back.

Then, slowly, she smiled.

“Yeah,” she said softly, pulling him closer as the record below crackled into its final minutes. “Our bed.”

Michael settled against her with a sigh so deep it sounded like something in him had finally unclenched, and Jayda held him there beneath the moonlight, already knowing that by morning she would clear out more closet space, call the building about adding his name downstairs, and pretend, with absolutely no conviction, that she had not been planning for him to come home since the day he left.

tags : @mamasturn @plan3tch1ld @yourleogf @freaky1nterlude (lmk if you want to be added or removed)

[faithefaith]

What if I said I was making a 2 part heart wrenching fic rn...?

[faithefaith]

- 𝙵𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚃𝚒𝚖𝚎? ☼ 𝟸,𝟻𝟶𝟶+ 𝚠𝚌

𝚋𝚊𝚍!𝚖𝚒𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚎𝚕 𝚡 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔!𝚏𝚎𝚖𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

𝚜𝚢𝚗𝚘𝚙𝚜𝚒𝚜: In late June, your husband told you that he was ready to go on tour for this new album, Bad. You spent the first few years as Michael's wife in secrecy and tranquility, but now you're scared of what the word will think of you. Now, it's September. The whole Jackson family hosts a going away dinner for Michael, and you still haven't told him your answer.

𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐: +18, mdni, eventual smut, oral sex (f! receiving), p in v, softdom!mike, (lowkey manipulative!mike) , he's a yearner

☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼

September 7, 1987

The walls of the Hayvenhurst estate gave way to the echos of laughing and bickering from the Jackson family. Katherine, your mother-in-law, insisted on inviting the family over to celebrate their last days with Michael before he went on his first solo tour.

"Shut up, Randy!" Janet shouted from across the table.

"What?" Randy responded, holding his hands up in surrender, "I'm just observing the third plate you got. Save some for Michael's scrawny ass."

Katherine shot Randy a cold look, more angry that he dared to curse than poking fun at his sister.

Randy kissed his teeth and resumed his focus to the meal on his plate. "You know I'm right," he murmured. Tito and Jackie snickered, both of them failing miserably to cover their mouths.

Michael lifted his head in confusion at the unwarranted stray. "What are YOU laughing at Tito? You know them collars nearly choked you on stage!"

Hollering, Jackie abandoned Tito, leaving him saying nothing but a dragged out "Woooow!" Janet repeatedly slammed the table, flailing at Michael's unexpected comeback.

"Y'all are childish," said Jermaine, holding his utensils properly and proudly, earning himself some eye rolls and sighs of fatigue.

Marlon looked at you and Michael, making you both chuckle as he pointed at Jermaine with his thumb.

You loved moments like this. Though you never intended on marrying into such a large family, they never made you feel overwhelmed.

Seeing Michael happy made you happy. He appreciated you standing with him through his physical and mental struggles. Your hand always held his, regardless of what the both of you went through.

You found yourself admiring your husband, proud and terrified of the rapid success he was achieving.

Michael sensed you looking at him. "What?" he giggled, chewing his last bit of food. "I'll tell you later." You said, kissing his cheek before taking your plates away.

Latoya and Janet eagerly collected the rest of the plates on the table. Of course Janet had to smack Randy on the back of the head before catching up to the two of you.

☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼

You and the sisters had a system: you wash, Latoya dries, and Janet puts them away. But what the three of you always did was use this time to share gossip about your marriage.

"Girl, what's really going on," Janet sighed, "'I'll tell you later' is never a thing people say before sharing something good."

Latoya nodded her head in agreement. "I didn't want to say anything but yeah, I agree. I mean usually you're all loud with us at the table, but you seemed quiet today."

You exhaled and turned the water off, shaking the remaining moisture off your hands and wiping them on your jeans.

"Well," you began, turning away from the sink and leaning against it, "Michael asked me if I could go on tour with him."

The sisters gasped and clapped their hands in excitement. But upon seeing unsure expression on your face, they immediately knew why you were so quiet.

"You don't want to go, do you?" Latoya observed, and you shook your head in agreement.

You've seen it all and you've heard it all. From the bedazzled outfits to the jealousy oozing out of far less deserving artists—especially after Thriller.

When Michael asked you to be his girl in '79, it was so easy for you to say yes. He was popular, sure—he's a Jackson, but he was nowhere near the success he has today.

You knew what you were getting yourself into. He made sure you understood the pressure of being married to the world's most popular entertainer.

So when he told you that he would be going on tour for his newly released BAD album, you foolishly told him that you'll "think about it," knowing deep in your heart that you were scared to say yes.

"I tried finding the time, y'know...to tell him. But every time I try I'm scared I'm gonna hurt him." Your arms hugged yourself as you found comfort in your family.

"The public doesn't even know that we're married. What will the paparazzi do to me when they see this gigantic rock on my hand?" Your body began to feel the weight of it all. Not just from the beautiful wedding stack on your left finger, but now you're drowning in worry at the thought of never having a private life again.

"Look girl, we understand. Well, I do at least." Janet snickered while raising her chin up at Latoya. Her sister defended herself, "Oh hush, you never toured before."

"I was getting there before you interrupted me!" Janet slowly side eyed Latoya, cocking her head forward for dramatic effect. "But what I was going to say was just tell him how you feel. I was supposed to go on tour for Control, but Joseph said I wasn't ready."

Janet continued, "But sometimes I think about how ready I was. I practiced with my brothers and I saw the impact they left on the world. I let that opportunity pass me because listed to Joe and I don—"

"Basically, what she's saying is," Latoya interrupted, "Don't waste this beautiful moment. Go with him and have a good time!" Latoya said impatiently, only to be rewarded by an annoyed exhale from Janet.

"I guess so..."You were still unsure. But right now, you were exhausted. "You guys go on to bed. I'll wipe the sink down."

They hugged and kissed you goodnight, leaving you behind in your thoughts.

☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼

The sun was setting, sharing the last bits of its golden rays through the large kitchen window. You decided to get a glass of water before you went to bed, but you heard careful footsteps headed towards you.

"Baby?" That oh so familiar voice announced your lover's presence.

"I was waiting for you to come to bed with me" Michael shyly admitted. He walked up to you and hugged you, coaxing you to follow him to your room.

But you couldn't. You had to tell him. You had several weeks to let him know. In fact, you thought it'd be so clear to once you had a chance to sleep on the thought.

But then you needed another night.

And another...and other.

Until you wasted your time, down to your final days. You had to face reality.

"Michael, I don't think I can go." you blurted out. You put glass you mouth and drank the remaining liquid.

Michael let out a playful sigh. He took the glass from your hand and placed on the counter behind you.

"Aw but It'll be fun, girl!" He beamed with joy as he began to recall fond memories of his past tours. His large hand held your waist, encouraging you to slow dance with him.

"You'll get to see so many people and learn their cultures. There's so many different things outside of L.A. Aw, please, girl? You gotta come with me." The childlike sparkle shone brightly in his eye as he rested your head on his chest.

But despite the comforting hugs and the kisses he planted on your cheeks, "I can't Michael," you denied, gently caressing the side of his cheek."What about the paparazzi? They're cra—"

Michael cut you off by taking your hand from his face and kissing the sides. "Baby forget about the paparazzi," he lulled, "We have Bill and several other security guards who know to keep you safe."

He continued up your wrist, eventually placing your arms around his shoulders, and moving his down your lower back.

Your husband looked at you with his large eyes, the very same eyes you said "I do" to and the very same eyes you saw dim, as you rejected his almost convincing plea.

Michael sighed in disappointment. He nodded, showing his defeat while slowly pulling away from you.

What you didn't know, that he knew that your "no" would be temporary. Your devout lover was very clever, so he smiled and said:

"It's ok, ma. I understand."

He knew how to get to you. That name was reserved for one thing and one thing only. You hated how well he knew you, but your stubbornness refused to let him win.

You scoffed at his audacity and brought your empty class over to the sink to be washed. "I mean it Michael," you said while scrubbing the cup clean, "I'm not going..."

Michael pressed up behind you—reaching his arms around your torso and allowing them to explore the front of your body.

"But baby," he whispered into your ear, "I'll be all alone. We won't be with each other for months. How can I continue the tour while I'm aching for you, girl?"

With each sentence he spoke, he licked and kissed the sides of your neck. You let out soft whimpers as you clenched the edge of the sink for support.

You felt his palms travel down your stomach and raising them under your shirt, slowly revealing your deep brown stomach.

Michael's neck kisses began to feel more hungry. His bulge responded your whimpers and moans—becoming increasingly obvious against your backside.

"M-Michael!" You yelped. Quickly, your husband flipped you over to face him.

He grabbed your cheek and brought you lips to his, silencing you before moving down to your jaw, collarbone, breasts and stomach, until finally, just above the buttons on your jeans.

He was on his knees by now, his eye contact was strong—looking up at your warm and flustered face.

He knew what he was about to do—kissing the denim-covered area only he had access to. His fingers crept along the opening of your jeans.

"Please, baby. Please come on tour with me. I won't let anything happen to you. I promise!" You saw the last of the sunlight hit his eyes as he pleaded for his bride's company.

To him, you were a goddess. The sun perfectly shone through your curled blowout, outlining your head in a glowing halo.

Michael begged you as if you were the answer to his prayers. It was you who made him feel seen. It was you who loved him as a person, not an idol. And it was you whom he enthusiastically made love to every chance he could.

"Please?" He asked, full of breath and desire.

Eventually you gave in, vigorously nodding your head in approval. "Ok, Mikey," you said, suppressing the urge to ride his pathetic face.

Immediately, Michael laughed victoriously—wasting no time in freeing your from your cage. He kissed your front and swiftly picked you up, moving you to the counter next to the sink.

He knelt back down in between your legs, practically salivating at the thought of mouth bringing pleasure to his wife. You answered his prayers and now, he'll thank you for it.

Michael moved you forward before firmly swirling his tongue on your clit. Your heavy and toned legs served as his necklace while he focused on your pearl.

The pleasure instantly hit you. Your lower half melted in his grip. The sounds of Michael ravishing your pussy echoed throughout the kitchen.

"A-Ah, Mikey! You're doing s-so good!"

Regardless of being flooded with his tongue, you move the sweaty curls from his forehead. Michael, who didn't give a damn about his hair, chucked at you still thinking of him.

"Thank you baby," he said talking with his mouth full of your arousal. To repay you, the rubbed his middle finger over your entrance and slowly inserted it into your depths.

Your left hand flew to your mouth at the sudden introduction, hurriedly rejecting the sound of your pleasure.

His fingers proceeded to curl deep inside of you while his tongue mercilessly circled your clit. Soon, your walls began to tighten you felt the stimulation of your sloppy cunt overtake you.

You let out a shaky moan, giving Michael a warning of your release. But before you reached your high, he pulled off of you. Your groaned in frustration.

"Shh, girl. They're sleeping."

You hadn't realized how dark it's gotten, the house was a sleep except your and your husband.

"You have to be quiet. Okay?" Michael said while in buttoning his pants—finally setting his captive free.

You ogled it as it bounced off his stomach and found balance at your opening.

He never gets tired of seeing your reaction to him—eyes heavy and laden, staring into his soul with anticipation. You've had sex multiple times yet you never remember how big he was.

"Remember, we have to be quiet" Michael teased. He kissed you deeply, reintroducing his tongue to yours—your taste present between the two of you.

His right hand pulled you onto him as his left lifted his leg. You felt his hot tip kiss your entrance, making its way deeper and deeper until you felt completely full.

The stuttered moans that left your lips satisfied your lover. "I know, baby. I know," Michael comforted you by kissing your jaw and your neck. You shudder in euphoria.

Michael carefully thrusted into you. Each hip movement was purposefully aimed to make his wife feel good. He never took his eyes off of you—it stroked his ego seeing you throw your head back as you surrendered your body to him.

You tried to keep quiet, honest to God. But the way Michael felt inside of you was so unbearably good. Your hand made its way to the back of his head. Your fingers got tangled in his sweaty, black curls.

"M-Michael...Fuck, I'm close..."

The orgasm you were previously denied quickly made its way forward. He hissed as you clenched around his length—urging him to cum with you.

Michael's brows furrowed at the suddenly tightness. His hips moved from structured to animalistic while the feeling of his own completion crept with in him.

"You're coming for me, huh?" Michael whimpered. "Let me have it. L-Let me have you, girl,"

You finally let go, holding his head to your neck and singing an eloquent moan in his ear.

"Give it to me, love," He continued to lure out your release, eventually painting your insides with his.

Several seconds later, you both came from your high. Your breaths were synchronized, chest heaving and repairing themselves.

Michael kissed you all over, leaving behind a string of "thank you's" and "I love you's" as he pulled out of you.

You winced at the remnants of your orgasm and laughed at the state of your hair, now frizzy and natural.

He loved seeing you like this. He helped you gather your composure before shyly clothing you.

"Baby, we'll have fun together. I'll make sure of it." Michael assured you. You questioned why you ever denied his ability to do so. The fear of the outside world soon became an afterthought.

The atmosphere was warm and comforting. Michael smiled at you, "Go on upstairs."

"But what about the kitchen?" You questioned, flustered at the sight you left it in.

"Don't worry about it," he replied, "I'll clean up here."

"Do you think they heard us?" You asked, knowing that you might've been a little too loud

"I guess we'll find out tomorrow." He chuckled, bringing you in for one last kiss.

After saying your goodnights, you made your way upstairs—slightly sore but completely relaxed, thinking of your future journey on tour.

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𝙰/𝙽: I can never figure out how to end a smut omg. Please lmk if you have any requests! Tysm for reading ~🤎

[freaky1nterlude]

everytime i see some type of michael jackson x popstar reader, she’s always based on sabrina carpenter….. #Noticing👀