𓏲﹕ mature!husband!michael x reader ﹕⸝⸝ — 18 + mdni !
your husband michael is obsessed with you, his wife ! iss. 025 his pretty love
p.s. i have decided i will drop epi 1 of the sweet life for my 500 followers celebration. we are currently at 491, so it’ll be out tomorrow because mama’s wiped out. i hope you all enjoy these lil headcanons bc i needed a filler post, lol. also, thanx for 10k likes, i love u all!
husband𑁤michael : who insists on sleeping with a hand permanently fixed to your stomach, even years after the children. he says it's a habit, but you know it's more. it’s an anchor. he needs to feel the rise and fall of your breath, the solid warmth of you, to believe that this perfect life of his is real and not just another beautiful dream he'll wake up from.
husband𑁤michael : who traces the faint silvery lines on your hips and thighs with a worshipful reverence, the stretch marks the children left behind. he calls them your "silver threads," proof that your body was a sacred vessel, a home for his children before they were even born. he kisses them, one by one, as if he's sealing a promise.
husband𑁤michael : who has a strange fascination with your lactating breasts. in the beginning, you were shy, embarrassed. but he was mesmerized. he’d watch you nurse paris with an intensity that was almost feral, a primal pride in his gaze. one night, overwhelmed with curiosity and a deep, possessive love, he asked, in a shy whisper, if he could taste. the request was so raw, so vulnerable, it stole your breath away. you nodded, and he latched on, his eyes locked with yours, the act not sexual in the conventional sense, but something far more profound. it was he. He was tasting your essence, the very food of his child, a completion of a circle you never knew existed. the sweetness on his tongue was a testament to your shared creation, and afterwards, he held you, shaking, his face buried in your neck, murmuring, "you're magic... you're pure magic."
husband𑁤michael : who loves your postpartum body with a ferocity that sometimes startles you. He doesn't see the flaws you do. he sees a map of your journey together. he’ll cup your softer belly in his hands, resting his cheek against it. "this is where my miracles grew," he'll say, his voice thick with emotion. "this is the most beautiful place on earth."
husband𑁤michael : who gets hard at the most mundane moments. you’ll be bending over to pick up a dropped toy, the soft curve of your ass framed by a pair of his old sweatpants, and he'll just stop, stare, and you'll feel the heat of his gaze on you like a physical touch. later, he'll pull you into the nearest empty room, not even bothering to close the door all the way, and press against you, letting you feel exactly how mundane chores affect him. "you do it on purpose," he'll growl into your ear, nipping at your earlobe. "walking around like that... looking like my wife... the mother of my children."
husband𑁤michael : whose favorite position is you on top. he loves to watch you, to see the way your body moves, the way your breasts sway, the way the light catches the sweat on your skin. he’ll place his hands on your hips, not to guide you, but just to feel the rhythm, the power. has loves it when you lean down, your curls curtaining his face, and whisper filthy things in his ear, telling him how good he feels inside you, how deep he is. that’s usually what does it for him. your words, your praise, combined with the visual of you taking your pleasure from him.
husband𑁤michael : who has a particular kink for your underwear. not the fancy lace things you buy for special occasions, but the everyday ones. the simple cotton briefs. he’ll steal them from the laundry basket, burying his face in the soft, worn fabric, inhaling your scent until he's dizzy with it. It's a private, almost shameful ritual for him, a tangible piece of you he can keep for himself when you're not there.
husband𑁤michael : who loves to watch you shower. he’ll just sit on the closed toilet lid, silent and still, and watch the water sluice down your body. He traces every curve, every dip, every plane with his eyes. he loves the way the steam fogs the glass, making you look like a dream, a water nymph from a painting he once saw. sometimes he'll join you, but most of the time he just wants to watch. It's a form of meditation for him, a quiet appreciation of the form he knows better than his own.
husband𑁤michael : who is surprisingly vocal in bed. the shy, soft-spoken man disappears the moment you're naked together. he’ll growl your name like a prayer, a curse. he’ll talk dirty with an unexpected creativity, whispering about all the things he wants to do to you, all the ways he wants to make you scream. "wider for me, baby... let me see all of you," he'll coax, his voice a low rumble against your thigh. "you’re so beautiful when you're falling apart for me."
husband𑁤michael : who will wake you up in the middle of the night, not for sex, but just to touch you. he’ll run his hands over your body, a slow, possessive inventory. he’ll map the soft swell of your belly, the curve of your waist, the sensitive skin on the insides of your thighs. it’s a reassurance. you’ll be half-asleep, floating in that dreamy state between consciousness and slumber, and you'll feel his hands on you, and you'll know, without a doubt, that you are home.
husband𑁤michael : who loves to go down on you for hours. he’s a bonafide eater. he loves the taste of you, the way you feel against his tongue. he’ll take his time, building you up, pulling back just when you're on the edge, then starting all over again until you're a writhing, sobbing mess, begging for release. he’ll look up at you from between your legs, his dark eyes shining with a fierce, proud light, a smug little smirk on his glistening face. "that’s it, baby... give it to me," he'll murmur before diving back in, determined to wreck you completely.
husband𑁤michael : who keeps a worn, folded photograph of you in his wallet. it’s not a glamorous shot. it’s from a vacation in hawaii. you’re asleep on a lounge chair, your face turned towards the sun, a happy, contented smile on your lips. you’re in a simple bikini, and your stomach is soft, your body relaxed. he looks at it before every concert, before every high-stakes meeting. it’s his good luck charm, a reminder of what's real, of what's waiting for him when the chaos is over.
husband𑁤michael : who has a secret obsession with your hands. he loves the way they look, the way they feel. he’ll hold your hand while you're watching tv, tracing the lines on your palm, the delicate bones of your fingers. he loves to watch you do simple things—write a list, chop vegetables, braid paris’ hair. during sex, he'll intertwine your fingers, pinning your hands above your head, holding on tight. the feel of your rings pressing against his knuckles, your nails digging into his skin when you come, it's a grounding, electrifying sensation for him.
husband𑁤michael : who, on lazy sunday mornings, will wake you up by slowly, deliberately peeling your pajamas off. he won't say a word. he’ll just explore your body with his hands and his mouth, as if it's the first time all over again. he’ll kiss every inch of your skin, paying special attention to the parts you're most insecure about. he’ll spend an hour just kissing your belly, your thighs, your hips, until you're squirming and breathless and ready for him. only then will he enter you, slow and deep, rocking into you with a gentle, unhurried rhythm that feels less like sex and more like coming home.
husband𑁤michael : who loves to buy you lingerie, but not for you to wear for him. he buys it for you to wear for yourself. he wants you to feel beautiful, confident, sexy under your clothes when you're out in the world without him. he loves the secret knowledge that you're wearing silk and lace beneath your jeans and t-shirt. and when you get home, he'll ask you to show him, not because he's eager to get you out of it, but because he loves the way the delicate fabric looks against your skin, a beautiful, private treasure that only he is allowed to see.
husband𑁤michael : who, when he's feeling particularly possessive, will mark you. not with hickeys, not in a way that's visible to the world. he’ll leave faint, fading impressions of his teeth on the soft skin of your inner thighs, or the curve of your hip. they’re for him, and him alone. a temporary brand, a reminder of where he's been, a secret claim on your body that only you both know is there. he’ll trace them with his fingers later, a smug, satisfied smile on his face.
husband𑁤michael : who loves the smell of your hair. he’ll bury his face in it, inhaling deeply, whether it's fresh from the shower and smelling of coconut shampoo, or at the end of the day, fragrant with your own unique scent. it’s one of his anchors, another sensory detail that tells him you're real, you're here, you're his. he’ll often fall asleep with a handful of your coils twisted around his fingers, a silent, possessive gesture of ownership and comfort.
i want to start by saying i LOVE your writing for michael and jaafar jackson, and i was wondering if you could do some like 70s!michael x reader where like michael keeps being later to meetings or rehearsals with the jacksons because him and his gf are all hold up im his room just making out, cuddling, sleeping, and stuff, and like they always get caught by anyone, like everyone has caught them at least once each, thank you!!
distraction ❥ michael jackson
PAIRING: late 70s!michael jackson x black!fem!reader
SUMMARY: inspired by this edit + this other edit + in which you and Michael are in the honeymoon phase of your relationship and it somehow becomes everyone else’s problem. 🩷
it was no secret to the Jackson family that Michael was completely sprung on you. in fact, you had been coming over to their home so often that you were practically part of the family — not to mention, the sleepovers that you and Michael would occasionally have whenever his parents allowed them.
you were a constant in Michael’s life. whenever things got too heavy or hectic for him, he came to you to ground him and keep his mind occupied. you were his rock that kept him afloat when everything around him felt suffocating, and even if Michael was too shy to admit it out loud, you knew how much you meant to him — mostly because you felt the exact same way about him.
however, Michael’s attachment had its costs.
because of how much and how often Michael would be holed up in his bedroom with you, it would make him late for rehearsals, which would lead to one or multiple of his brothers coming to practically drag him away from you. whether you were sleeping, cuddling, talking each other’s heads off, or even just making out, his bedroom door would always swing open and he’d be gone in the blink of an eye.
his sisters thought it was cute that Michael couldn’t separate from you for at least five minutes, even if he had to go to the bathroom. his brothers teased him relentlessly over his deep devotion for you and never let him live it down, especially Marlon and Jermaine. his mother adored you and loved having you around the house, treating you like one of her daughters and even going as far as referring to you as her daughter-in-law despite the fact that you and Michael hadn’t actually tied the knot (yet).
his father… well, Joe Jackson was simply just Joe Jackson, not wanting any of his sons to have any interests in anything but music, rehearsing, and touring. it’s not that he didn’t like you — though, you wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t — it’s that he didn’t want Michael distracted by you or anyone else for that matter, so him starting to show up a few minutes late to rehearsals didn’t necessarily go so well for him. truthfully, it never did, but Michael couldn’t help but want to stay close to you.
currently, you were in Michael’s bedroom helping him get ready for today’s rehearsal, wanting him to be on time today so he didn’t get scolded. he sat on the end of his bed and you stood between his long legs as you carefully picked out his afro, evenly fluffing out his kinky hair while his hands rested against your thighs and he hummed softly to himself.
“i wish i could just stay in here with you,” Michael murmured, his fingers splaying across your thighs, as he slightly tilted his head back to properly look up at you, his big brown eyes staring up at you with nothing but love and admiration, “i always miss you when i’m gone.”
“you’ll be back before you even know it, baby,” you met his gaze and your hands paused in his hair as you smiled a little at him, “you know you gotta’ use that pretty voice of yours and sing with your brothers.”
“mama…” a soft whine fell from Michael’s lips and he grinned sheepishly from your words as he looked away from you and leaned forward, pressing his face into your stomach to hide his flustered expression and earning a soft laugh from you, “…don’t say it like that.”
“whaaaat?” you innocently dragged out, letting out a soft teasing giggle, as you resumed picking out his hair and felt him quietly huff against your stomach, his hands shifting from your thighs to your hips and giving them a gentle squeeze, “you don’t think your voice is pretty when you sing, Mikey?”
instead of responding verbally, Michael pressed his face deeper into your stomach, as if trying to merge into your body, and you laughed at the action as one of your hands left his hair and gently grabbed his jaw instead, attempting to raise his head but struggling due to his resistance.
“Michael, look at me, c’mon,” you laughed as you gently squeezed his cheeks and looked down at his fluffy-haired head, watching him stubbornly remain in place against you, “if you don’t, i won’t give you a goodbye ki—”
“baby, that’s so mean,” Michael’s head snapped up before you could finish your sentence and your hand went still in his hair as his eyes found yours again and his lips formed a small pout, “you know i need your kisses.”
“if i knew threatenin’ to stop kissin’ you would make you listen so fast, i would’ve been doin’ that a while ago,” you teased as Michael’s pout theatrically deepened and his bottom lip jutted out, making you giggle while you set aside his afro pick and cupped his face in both of your hands, “stop all that poutin’, pretty boy.”
“gimme’ a kiss and maybe i will.” Michael stubbornly retorted as he removed his hands from your body and dramatically crossed his arms, earning a soft snort from you at his childish response to your playful threat.
you shook your head a little and briefly swiped your thumbs across his cheeks as you leaned down to him and pecked his lips once, then twice, before finally giving him an actual kiss, his pout almost immediately disappearing the moment your mouth stayed against his. you kissed him softly, your lips moving in a slow hypnotizing motion, and Michael easily followed your lead, allowing you to guide the kiss whichever way you wanted.
as Michael melted into you, his arms eventually uncrossed and his hands found the backs of your thighs as his fingers slightly flexed against the fat of them and splayed across them, the warmth of his palms sending a soft jolt of electricity through your lower half.
his grip slightly tightened on your thighs and he tugged you closer, but before he could actually pull you onto his lap like he intended, three soft yet firm knocks sounded off at his bedroom door and cut through the comfortable silence the two of you were engulfed in, his fingers tightening on your thighs and a soft huff falling from his nostrils at the interruption.
“y’all decent in there?” the unmistakable sound of Tito’s voice caught your ears before Michael’s, specifically the teasing undertone in his question, and you reluctantly broke the kiss, causing Michael to chase your lips before being stopped by your hand on his chest.
“yeah. you can open the door.” you reassured him, your hands lowering from Michael’s face to his shoulders, as the door opened and revealed Tito and Marlon standing in the entryway, the two of them staring at you and Michael with teasing grins that they tried to hide but to no avail.
“c’mon, lover boy, it’s time to go rehearse,” Marlon teased, slightly raising his brows, as he went to cross his arms but paused and raised his index finger instead to gesture between the two of you, “you can kiss and touch on ya lady later on, it’s our turn to have you now.”
you couldn’t help but laugh at Marlon’s teasing as a bashful smile spread across Michael’s face and he turned away from his brothers, burying his face against your stomach again and earning laughs and chuckles from them while his grip slightly tightened on your thighs.
“y’know if Jermaine come up here to get you, he gon’ embarrass you in front of her.” Tito jokingly warned, a knowing smile crossing his face, as Michael suddenly shot up from the bed and Marlon immediately bursted out into a fit of laughter, making you bite down on your bottom lip to suppress your amusement — an action that Michael quickly noticed because he playfully rolled his eyes at you.
“you’re just as bad as them,” Michael huffed, no real frustration behind his words, as you snorted and a giggle slipped through your suppression, causing him to ultimately smile at you and shake his head, “gimme’ a kiss before i go.”
untucking your bottom lip, you smiled at your boyfriend and cradled the sides of his neck as you pulled him down for a final kiss, your lips softly colliding with his while his hands rested on your hips to keep you close. the kiss lingered for a moment before you pulled back again, causing Michael to chase your mouth for a second time before you laughed and pressed one of your hands against his chest again.
“Michael…” you warned through a series of soft giggles, raising your eyebrows, as you gestured towards his brothers at the doorway with a small tilt of your head, silently reminding him that he needed to go.
“just one more, c’mon,” Michael whined softly as his fingers gently squeezed your hips and his big brown eyes searched your face, as if memorizing each of your features before settling onto your lips again, “please, mama?”
slightly rolling your eyes, you folded underneath the weight of his whiny pleas and you leaned in again, planting several soft and quick kisses against his lips before eventually pulling away and quickly stepping back from him before he could think about chasing your lips for a third time.
“get on out of here, boy. i’ll still be here when you get back.”
an: i knowwww im supposed to be posting for my new series but i missed babies so bad. just oblivious LOL. shout out to my first pairing in the bcu. also @haintbleus influenced me to go check on them, see what they up to. this drabble is a prequel of sorts to tr(eat) you better. which by the way, thank you???? 3.4k notes on my debut for this blog? WHAT??? super grateful! for that, you deserve to see them again! my treat ;) over it on the wayyyyyyyyy next!
Michael loved when you played in his hair.
He couldn’t get enough of it. In fact, he was quite clingy about it.
He’d grab your hand and put it on his head while standing next to you. You’d tease him then, likening his fro to the softest cloud you’d ever be tall enough to touch, making him giggle as your hand burrowed into the hair on the nape of his neck.
He’d sit next to you no matter who was around or what you were doing, dramatically cutting off your conversation with his siblings, anybody really, as he plopped down next to you, slipping whatever book you were reading out of your hands (making sure to mark your last page to be fair at least), interrupt the television program you were watching to lay his head into your lap, eyes doey, sparkling and pleading up at you like brown diamonds.
Looking down at him incredulously, he’d just smile at you (in a way that made your stomach flip as of late, but you were ignoring it) and say; “Pleaaaase, mama? Jus’ for a lil’ while.”
And you couldn’t say no to that.
His groan was always soft when your hands made contact, his sated expression as your fingers twirled around his luscious curls made your body feel…weird.
Weird in a stop-thinking-of-your-best-friend-like-that kinda way.
Back to his hair. Yes. His hair was really beautiful. Beautiful hair on a beautiful boy. And it was so cute how he still couldn’t take a compliment from you after a decade of being friends. Crowds of people applauded him but no, that didn’t affect him like this. When you complimented his hair, he’d laugh and hide his hot cheeks away behind his abnormally large hands.
He'd situate himself in your lap and the conversations would start something like:
“Long day, Mikey?”
“The longest, girl. Man, it’s not even over yet and you just wiped it all away. Your hands are magic, d’ya know that?”
You snorted. “I’ve been told. Gee, I wonder by who.”
The tension in his shoulders and back would relax against your thighs, finding comfort in you as you both sat on the couch. You took your time, enjoying the peace of each other’s company as you absentmindedly parted through his coils, sneaking long glances at him behind his closed eyelids.
Sometimes, he'd crawl next to you in his bed and lay his head on your stomach, pouting with his face upturned to you.
You were starting to notice little things that you never noticed before.
The way he would talk to you. In these moments, his voice was softer, deeper, more intimate than his usual jovial tone as he told you what was on his mind. Random facts, musings and frustrations of the day. The length of his dark eyelashes. How they fluttered up at you between keeping eye contact and closing his eyes all together. The way his mouth would part slightly. Once his mind finally found rest his face would reset, relaxing his expression. How big his hands were, especially when one of them carefully wrapped around your wrist to guide your hand around to sections he wanted you to touch. Your fingers gently glided into the roots of his afro where he directed, scratching his scalp.
“Right there.”
“Here?” When did your mouth get so dry?
“Mmm, yeah. There.”
Michael nodded, in Heaven, completely oblivious to the heat blooming under the surface of your cheeks.
God, you prayed he couldn't hear your heartbeat frantically matching the butterflies in your stomach.
taglist: @justalocallesbian, @narratedillusions, @enhasdihsucker @blcknebula, @somenichegirl, @fortuncooki, @baldmonkmonks, @heubstr, @96kittii, @cinnamoncunt, @lov3lylxvender, @thebaddestfish, @bl00d0nthedancefl00r, @dreamymjj, @nyctogeny @asphrotic, @18lkpeters, @willyoubetherealways, @smoothcriminalgf, @annieisnottok, @desireinink (please let me know if you'd like to be added or if i missed you!)
I was listening to a song and wanted to write something idk....just a drabble don't k!ll me
synopsis; he records himself getting off to you....while he's outside your house....
ℳichael — ᨳଓ. who remembers your whole schedule, when you leave your house and when you get back.
Michael who always finds his way back to you, no matter what. It started with harmless conversations and neighborly visits, but somewhere along the way, seeing you became something he needed. He needed you the same way he needed air to breathe. You were so sweet, so pretty, always looking at him with those gentle eyes. Every glance you spared his way left him with that same aching feeling, one that lingered long after you were gone.
You eventually became good friends with him. He'd always greet you with that familiar smile and a soft, "Hey, Tink!"
You loved it.
There was something sweet about the nickname, the way he said it like it was something that belonged only between the two of you. It made you feel special, like you had your own little place in his world. He started noticing little things, the way your hair would brush against his cheek, how your breathing would slow and deepen during those extended embraces, the subtle shift of your body as you adjusted your hold on him.
Michael loved the way you'd look at him. You noticed how he always loved taking photos and videos whenever you were around. You found it endearing, cute even. Michael was sentimental like that, always wanting to save little pieces of happiness before they disappeared.
To him, even the smallest moments seemed worth remembering. He still remembered the first time you did something as simple as offering him a glass of lemonade when he stopped by. It was nothing special, just a small gesture from you, but the way you smiled and told him to sit for a while stayed with him longer than it should have.
You made him feel welcomed in a way he wasn't used to.
Your hugs were the best, always comforting and needed. He loved feeling your arms wrap around him. When he leaned down to return the embrace, his face naturally found that spot where your neck met your shoulder, and there it was. That soft, sweet perfume that stuck to your skin. He breathed it in slowly, letting it settle over him like something he could carry back to his own place.
One night, he couldn't hold out any longer.
The feeling had been eating at him for hours, growing stronger every time he glanced toward your house from his bedroom window. The lights had been on earlier. Now they were off.
He wondered if you were asleep.
Before he could think twice about it, he pulled on his baseball cap, slipped into his bomber jacket, and strangely enough took his small camera. The front door closed behind him with barely a sound as he made his way down the quiet street, hands tucked into his pockets against the night's chill.
'Just a midnight walk....'
Sure it was.
The neighborhood had long since settled. Porch lights glowed softly in the distance, crickets chirped somewhere beyond the yards, and a cool breeze drifted down the empty road. His footsteps stayed light against the pavement, measured and careful, until your house came into view.
He slowed.
For a moment, he simply stood there, staring at it.
It looked just as it always did. The curtains were drawn, the porch light dim, everything still.
Michael swallowed before making his way around the side of the house, careful not to make too much noise. The grass muffled his footsteps as he rounded the corner, his eyes instinctively finding the window he knew belonged to your room.
He stopped beneath it.
The light was off.
He looked up at the dark window, his fingers curling slightly at his sides. Part of him knew he should turn around and go home. Instead, he stepped a little closer.
His hand raised before he could stop it,
Tap
Tap
Tap
The sound was quiet, almost hesitant, but not enough to pull you from your sleep. The night had turned cold, and your bedroom window sat slightly cracked open, something you'd forgotten to close before drifting off.
He waited.
Then, after another moment of silence, another moment of your quiet breaths, his fingers found the glass again. He pushed it up a little more so get a clear view.
You were lying on your stomach, the thin sheet pushed down to your waist, wearing nothing but a pair of cotton panties that ride up slightly when you shift in your sleep. The blinds, cracked open just enough for light to spill across the bed. There he stood outside, closer than he’s ever been, his face nearly pressed to the glass.
His breathing gets heavier. One hand stays braced against the window frame while the other moves down, fingers working at the button of his jeans.
'Just a look,' he told himself. Just this once. This was wrong, he knew so. But the sight of you like this so bare, vulnerable and completely unaware right now made his dick throb against his palm. With one hand, he undid his zipper. His fingers slowly rolled over his hard on, trying to press it away, but the feeling grew.
'Gosh look at you....' he muttered.
Slowly, he pulls himself out, gently and carefully.
His dick throbbed from the sudden cold air outside, he's never done this before, but he couldn't pass it up now, there was already a bit of precum slipping out. Then, he slipped out his camera, aiming right at his dick before panning it to you for a moment, then back at himself.
'Hm tink, you're so pretty..."
He strokes slowly at first, eyes locked on the way your body moves with each breath.
The soft swell of your plump ass, the way your thighs part slightly when you roll onto your side, the thin strip of fabric barely covering your pussy. It was too much for him, but still he tried his best to maintain a slow pace.
'M'such a perv, ain't I?'
The slickness from him rubbed against his hand as he stroked, the noises slowly keeping faster. 'M'not wet enough, need your pussy instead tink...' he then gently spat in his hand before continuing. He let out a soft hum of pleasure as he did. He watched himself through the camera and then looked back to you.
His hand moved faster, his grip tightening, hips pushing forward like he’s imagining sliding into your soaked heat instead of just watching.
"God I want it...I want it....all fa'me..."
His forehead rests against the glass, breath fogging it as he give sloppy strokes to the sight of you sleeping just inches away.
'I wanna give you so much more tink, will you let me? Please.....baby" His hand pumped harder, the head of his dick flushed, still leaking steadily.
You stir slightly, rolling onto your back, and the sheet slips lower. Michael’s hand freezes for a second, his dick twitching in his grip as he watches your nipples harden against the cool night air through your thin tank top. He bites his lip hard, trying to stay quiet, but a soft groan escapes anyway. His strokes become more urgent, more desperate, his eyes tracing every inch of exposed skin like he’s memorizing it for later.
"M'gonna give you all I got...." he muttered through his strokes.
''All of it..."
His strokes grew frantic, desperate. "Here it comes... fuck... all of it... every drop..." when he finally cums, his forehead stayed pressed to the glass, breath fogging it as he milked the last pulses from his half-hard dick, flicking the head a few more times to shake off the final drops. 'What a waste...' he thought to himself. But gosh did it feel so good. He got a sudden rush from it.
His breath fogged the glass as he watched your sleeping form, chest still rising steady and unaware.
"M'sorry," he whispered hoarsely, giving his half-hard length one final squeeze before tucking himself away.
'Let me in next time so you can feel good too..." he said to himself. He breathed slow, still trying to calm down.
'Sleep well tink...'
not tagging anyone, if it finds you it finds you 🌚
bad era! michael jackson x popular artist! female reader
summary. from the 1970s all the way to the late 80s, michael's answer has been so consistent whenever he was asked about who his favorite artist was—you. michael is not-so-secretly your biggest fan...and when he sees you do a duet with prince out of all people...he can't just be a fan anymore.
tags. romance, comedy, fluff. michael is kinda obssessed with you...jealous michael! too. michael and prince's rivalry!
There were many things the public believed they knew about Michael Jackson.
They knew he was painfully shy during interviews. They knew he always answered carefully, never wanting to hurt anyone's feelings. They knew he adored children, loved animals, and could somehow make an entire stadium scream simply by standing still for five seconds.
There was, however, one thing everyone else seemed to notice long before Michael himself realized he had made it painfully obvious.
He was absolutely, hopelessly, ridiculously fond of you.
Not in the scandalous way the tabloids desperately tried to paint it, nor in the passing admiration celebrities often exchanged through magazines.
No—this was the kind of admiration that quietly settled itself into every answer he gave, every compliment he offered, every conversation where your name somehow managed to appear despite nobody asking about you directly.
It had begun in 1979, shortly after Off the Wall was released.
Michael had only just begun to experience what true artistic freedom felt like. His interviews had become longer, more personal.
Journalists wanted to know everything about him now—not just the music, but his favorite foods, his hobbies, what kind of books he read, whether he wanted to marry someday.
One television host leaned forward in his chair with a grin that suggested he already knew the question would embarrass him.
"So, Michael," he began, folding his cue cards together. "Millions of girls want to know this. What's your type? What kind of woman catches your eye? Who would you wanna ask out?"
Michael, who had been smiling politely only a second earlier, visibly stiffened.
His fingers, which had been folded neatly in his lap, tightened around one another.
"Oh..." A bashful laugh escaped him before he looked down at his loafers, rocking them against the floor. "I... um..."
The audience chuckled softly. The host waited patiently.
Michael rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks already turning pink beneath the studio lights. "I don't really... think about it much."
"Oh, come on." The audience laughed again. "There has to be someone."
Michael bit the inside of his cheek. He really hadn't planned on saying it. It simply... came out.
"I think..." he murmured, a shy smile tugging at the corner of his lips, "someone like (Name)."
The room immediately erupted into delighted laughter, the host raised both eyebrows.
"Oh?"
Michael blinked, suddenly realizing what he'd admitted.
"I just—I mean—she..." He laughed nervously, waving both hands as if trying to erase the sentence from existence. "She's very sweet."
"So it's (Name)?"
"I—I didn't say—"
"You literally just did."
"I mean..." He ducked his head with a grin so embarrassed it became contagious. "She's just... really wonderful."
The interview aired the following week, nobody thought much of it.
Then another interviewer asked six months later.
"If you could take any celebrity out to dinner, who would it be?"
Michael smiled thoughtfully. "Oh..."
He didn't even hesitate this time.
"(Name)."
The interviewer burst into laughter. "So you weren't joking last time?"
Michael looked confused.
"What?"
"You said exactly the same thing in your last interview."
"I did?"
"You don't remember?"
He frowned. "No."
The interviewer held up an old magazine. "'Someone like (Name),' ring any bells?"
Michael stared at the page, then slowly buried his face behind both hands. "Oh no..." The audience howled.
The pattern only became worse. Every interview seemed to circle back to you somehow.
"What female artist inspires you?"
"(Name)."
"Who's your favorite vocalist working today?"
Michael didn't even pretend to think. "(Name)."
"What artist do you think deserves more recognition?"
"Oh, definitely (Name)." His entire expression softened the instant he said your name. "Her voice is... it's just beautiful."
"What makes it beautiful?"
Michael actually sat forward in his chair.
For the first time in the interview, he looked genuinely animated.
"Oh... everything." His eyes lit up with that familiar childlike excitement he always had whenever music became the topic. "It's so... effortless. She doesn't force anything. She lets the melody breathe."
He absentmindedly moved one hand through the air as though conducting invisible notes. "Sometimes singers think louder means better, but she doesn't have to do that. She knows exactly when to hold back. She knows when to whisper. She knows when to let one little note do all the work."
He smiled to himself, almost forgetting there were cameras pointed at him. "Her phrasing is unbelievable. You can hear every emotion in the way she finishes a sentence. Even if she sings something simple, she makes it feel... important."
The interviewer blinked.
"...You've really listened to her albums."
Michael looked surprised by the question. "Well... yes."
"How many times?"
He laughed sheepishly. "I don't know."
"Take a guess."
Michael scratched his eyebrow. "...A lot."
"How many is 'a lot'?"
"I... um..." He looked down with another embarrassed grin. "...I lost count."
It became increasingly difficult for journalists to ignore.
Especially because Michael never complimented you the way celebrities usually complimented one another. His praise was strangely... detailed. As though he'd studied every song you'd ever released.
One afternoon, during the filming of a European television special, a journalist asked, "Have you heard (Name)'s newest duet?"
Michael smiled immediately. "Oh, yes."
"What did you think?"
"I loved it."
"What did you like most?"
Without missing a beat, he answered, "Her harmonies."
The interviewer tilted his head. "Anything else?"
Michael nodded enthusiastically.
"The second verse was incredible. She changed the melody just enough to make it sound fresh without taking attention away from the lyrics. And the little run she does before the final chorus..." He gently snapped his fingers as if replaying the moment in his head.
"That's difficult to do because if you over-sing it, it loses its feeling. She didn't. She made it sound so natural."
The interviewer glanced down at his notes. "...What about her duet partner?"
Michael frowned slightly. "Oh."
He genuinely seemed to have forgotten another person had even been on the record.
"He was..." Michael searched for the right word. "Very good too."
"'Very good?'"
"Yes."
"Anything specific?"
Michael thought for several long seconds.
"...He stayed in key."
The cameraman snorted.
The interviewer had to bite his lip to stop himself from laughing.
Michael looked between them, confused.
"What?"
The more interviews he gave, the harder it became to deny the obvious. He simply loved talking about your music.
Not because he was trying to impress anyone. Not because he expected to meet you. But because whenever someone mentioned your name, his entire demeanor changed.
His shoulders relaxed, his smile became brighter, his voice grew warmer.
He stopped speaking like a carefully rehearsed celebrity and started speaking like someone discussing the artist who genuinely inspired him.
"You know," he said during one radio interview, "I think one of the hardest things in music is making people believe what you're singing. Lots of people have beautiful voices." He shrugged gently. "But not everyone can make you feel like they're telling you the truth."
The radio host nodded. "And (Name) does that?"
Michael smiled to himself. "Every time."
"You've never met her."
"No."
"But you're this confident?"
He nodded without hesitation. "I think you can tell a lot about someone's heart through the way they sing."
The room fell unusually quiet, even the host looked momentarily touched.
Michael noticed the silence and quickly became flustered. "I-I mean..." He laughed awkwardly. "As an artist."
The host couldn't help smiling. "Sure, Michael."
"I did mean artistically."
"Mhm."
"I did."
"If you say so."
Michael covered his face with one hand, laughing into his palm while everyone in the studio joined in.
Back at Hayvenhurst, one evening he was sitting cross-legged on the living room carpet, absentmindedly humming along to your newest single while scribbling lyrics into a notebook.
He didn't even realize he was smiling until Janet quietly walked in, stopped beside the couch, and watched him for nearly a full minute.
Without saying a word, she reached for the remote wanting to watch a show.
Click. The television switched to another channel.
Michael looked up immediately. "...Hey."
Janet innocently shrugged. "What?"
"My song was on."
"Your song?"
"You know what I mean."
She folded her arms, struggling to keep a straight face. "Oh... you mean (Name)'s song."
Michael froze.
Jermaine chose that exact moment to walk into the room carrying a bowl of popcorn.
"What happened?"
Janet pointed toward Michael.
"I changed the channel."
Jermaine looked at his younger brother's expression and immediately burst into laughter. "You interrupted his daily concert."
"I was listening."
"No," Jermaine corrected with a grin. "You were studying."
Michael rolled his eyes, trying very hard not to smile. "I appreciate good music."
Jackie wandered in next, curiosity written all over his face. "What's so funny?"
Jermaine didn't even hesitate. "Janet changed the channel to another, Mike's mad that he can't watch his girlfriend."
Michael's head whipped around so fast his curls bounced. "She is not my girlfriend!"
The room erupted. Janet clutched the couch cushion against her stomach. Jackie pointed at him, laughing in his face.
"You got defensive way too fast."
Jermaine leaned against the wall, wiping tears from his eyes. "That's it."
"What?"
"You've got it bad."
Michael buried his burning face into one of the couch pillows. "I hate all of you."
The room only became louder with laughter.
———————
If there was one thing Michael Jackson believed with his entire heart, it was that fans deserved to be treated with kindness.
He had built his career on that belief.
He knew what it felt like to admire someone from afar, to save magazine clippings, to memorize lyrics, to wait outside venues hoping for just a glimpse of an artist who had unknowingly changed your life.
So perhaps it shouldn't have surprised anyone—not even himself—that when it came to you, he acted almost exactly the same way.
The only difference was that he happened to be Michael Jackson.
And Michael Jackson, despite being one of the most recognizable people on Earth, was convinced that a baseball cap, an oversized brown windbreaker, a pair of thick-framed glasses that magnified his eyes just a little too much, and an obviously fake mustache were enough to render him completely anonymous.
He stood across the street from one of the largest unofficial fan clubs dedicated entirely to your career, adjusting the brim of his cap lower over his face before looking up at the storefront.
Your name stretched proudly across the front window in elegant lettering.
The display windows were filled with framed album covers, imported vinyl records, glossy concert photographs, promotional posters, handwritten lyric books, fan-made scrapbooks, newspaper clippings, cassette tapes, keychains, buttons, oversized tour jackets, and shelves upon shelves of memorabilia that looked as though they'd been lovingly collected over years.
Michael's eyes widened behind his glasses. "...Wow." The word escaped him before he could stop it.
He looked exactly like a child standing outside a toy store on Christmas morning.
After glancing once over each shoulder—as though the FBI were monitoring his movements—he quickly crossed the street and slipped through the front door.
A tiny bell chimed overhead.
Immediately, the scent of old magazines, cardboard record sleeves, and fresh coffee greeted him.
Dozens of fans milled around the shop, quietly chatting while flipping through photo albums or browsing stacks of imported merchandise.
Nobody paid him much attention.
Michael released the breath he'd unknowingly been holding. "See?" he thought proudly. "The disguise works."
It did not.
The young woman working behind the register took exactly one look at him. She blinked. Looked again. Then slowly leaned toward the employee beside her.
"...Is that..."
The second employee glanced over, his shoulders immediately began shaking.
"...That's absolutely Michael Jackson."
Neither of them said anything—Instead, they exchanged amused smiles.
If Michael Jackson wanted to pretend to be an ordinary fan...
Well...
Who were they to ruin his afternoon?
Michael wandered through every aisle with quiet fascination, stopping every few steps to examine another piece of memorabilia with almost reverent care.
He carefully lifted a limited-edition concert booklet from its display stand, smiling to himself as he turned each page with the gentleness usually reserved for priceless museum artifacts.
A wall filled entirely with your magazine covers kept him occupied for nearly fifteen minutes as he studied each photograph, occasionally nodding to himself whenever he found one he particularly liked.
He eventually reached an entire shelf dedicated to your albums.
Every pressing. Every country. Every alternate cover. Every promotional release.
He slowly reached out and ran his fingertips across the collection.
"...They even have the rare Japanese release..."
His voice carried just enough for another customer nearby to hear.
"You noticed that too?"
Michael looked down.
A middle-aged woman smiled warmly at him while holding one of your lyric books against her chest. "The mastering's different," she said. "The vocals sound warmer."
Michael's entire face lit up. "They do!"
"You've listened to it?"
"Oh, dozens of times."
She laughed. "I knew I wasn't imagining it."
For the next hour...they talked.
Then another fan joined them.
Then another and before long, nearly eight people had gathered around one tiny listening station near the back of the shop, passionately discussing your albums with the enthusiasm only genuine fans possessed.
Michael completely forgot he was supposed to be hiding.
He animatedly gestured with his hands while talking about your vocal technique, occasionally humming tiny sections of songs to explain exactly what he meant.
"I think one of my favorite things she does," he said, carefully balancing an unopened vinyl beneath one arm, "is how she never sings exactly the same melody twice during live performances. Most people don't even notice it, but she'll change one note—just one—and suddenly the whole phrase feels brand new."
Several fans nodded immediately. "Exactly!" "I've been saying that!"
"And when she sings softly," Michael continued, becoming more excited with every sentence, "she doesn't lose any emotion. That's really difficult. Usually singers compensate by adding more volume, but she doesn't need to. She trusts the audience enough to lean in and listen."
A younger fan grinned. "You sound like you've analyzed every performance she's ever done."
Michael looked down sheepishly. "...Maybe."
The entire group laughed.
One elderly gentleman folded his arms. "So..."
Michael looked up.
"...what's her best song?"
Michael answered so quickly it was almost startling. The room erupted into another lively debate.
Nobody treated him like the King of Pop. Nobody asked for an autograph. Nobody interrupted him.
For nearly three hours, he wasn't Michael Jackson.
He was simply another person who adored your music as much as everyone else in the room. And strangely...
He loved it.
Eventually, he made his way toward the register carrying what could only be described as an alarming amount of merchandise.
Three oversized shopping baskets overflowed with tour books, imported records, promotional posters, fan-made photo collections, commemorative pins, cassette tapes he already owned, several duplicate albums "just in case," two sweatshirts, four T-shirts, calendars, magazines, and a stack of glossy photographs so tall he had to balance them carefully beneath one arm.
The cashier slowly scanned the mountain of items, sighing through her nose.
"...Big fan?"
Michael nodded with complete sincerity. "The biggest."
"I can tell." After everything had been bagged, she slid the last receipt across the counter before leaning forward ever so slightly. "You know..."
Michael looked up.
"...Your mustache is peeling."
His entire body froze. Slowly...very slowly...he reached up. Sure enough...one corner had come unstuck. Silence.
The cashier blinked, she then spoke dryly. "So... should I make the receipt out to 'Michael Jackson'?"
Michael stared at her for a full three seconds before letting out the most defeated little laugh. "...You knew?"
She looked around the shop. Every single fan looked back at him with identical amused smiles. One of them raised a hand. "We knew the second you walked in."
Another nodded, "The glasses didn't help."
"The mustache made it worse."
Michael covered his face with both hands. "Oh, my goodness..."
The room filled with affectionate laughter, one fan gently nudged his shoulder.
"Don't worry, we weren't going to bother you."
"We figured today..." another added with a grin, "...you deserved to just be one of us."
Michael lowered his hands and his smile softened. "...Thank you."
It was a simple sentence. Quiet. Completely genuine.
The room fell warmly silent for a moment before someone held up one of your newest posters. "So..."
Michael immediately smiled again.
"What about this photoshoot?" The discussion resumed as though nothing had happened. Unfortunately for Michael...
The paparazzi had much sharper eyes than he did, because the next morning, newspaper stands across Los Angeles displayed nearly identical headlines.
MICHAEL JACKSON SPOTTED IN MYSTERIOUS DISGUISE!
KING OF POP VISITS (NAME) FAN CLUB?
SECRET SHOPPING TRIP ENDS WITH ARMS FULL OF MERCHANDISE! KING OF POP OR PRESIDENT OF THE FANCLUB?!
Grainy photographs covered nearly every entertainment section.
One showed Michael standing outside the shop in his oversized coat, awkwardly tugging at the fake mustache that had already begun peeling away.
Another captured him leaving with so many shopping bags that they nearly reached his shoulders, forcing him to peek around them just to see where he was walking.
Perhaps the most humiliating picture of all showed him enthusiastically pointing at one of your posters while speaking to a circle of laughing fans, his hands moving animatedly as though he were giving an academic lecture instead of discussing his favorite artist.
Hayvenhurst was unusually quiet that morning. Michael sat at the breakfast table with the newspaper folded neatly beside his plate.
He hadn't touched it in ten minutes. He was pretending it didn't exist.
Unfortunately...His brothers had eyes.
Jermaine walked into the dining room first, coffee mug in hand. He noticed the newspaper immediately. He stopped. Looked at the front page. Looked at Michael. Looked back at the newspaper.
A grin slowly spread across his face. "Oh..."
Michael kept buttering his toast. "No."
Jermaine hadn't even said anything yet as Jackie wandered in next, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Morning—"
Jermaine silently turned the newspaper toward him. Jackie read the headline. Then doubled over laughing so hard he had to grab the back of a chair to stay upright.
"What?" Tito called from the hallway. Jermaine couldn't answer, he simply pointed. Tito picked up the paper.
Five seconds later, he burst into laughter loud enough to bring Marlon into the room. "What happened?"
Jackie wiped tears from the corners of his eyes. "Our little brother..." He could barely finish the sentence. "...joined a fan club."
Michael sighed deeply. "I did not join a fan club."
Jermaine snorted. "No?"
He tapped one photograph.
"Then why are you buying enough merchandise to open your own museum?"
"I was supporting her."
"You bought four copies of the same album."
"They're different pressings."
"The article says you debated her bridge on track six with strangers for almost an hour."
"They understood what I meant."
"They called you 'Mike' by the end."
Michael muttered something unintelligible into his coffee as his brothers laughed.
From that day forward...an inside joke was born.
Whenever Michael entered a room, one of his brothers would immediately stand up, walk over with exaggerated seriousness, and extend a hand. "Welcome to the fan club."
Michael would groan before reluctantly shaking it.
Jermaine always followed with an overly formal nod. "Our president has arrived."
Marlon would clap dramatically before cackling.
Tito usually added, "Have you paid your membership dues this month?"
And Jackie—who somehow found the joke just as funny every single time—would lean over and ask with the straightest face imaginable, "Any new merchandise releases we should know about, Mike?"
The four of them would dissolve into laughter before Michael even had the chance to defend himself.
"I hate every single one of you," he'd mumble, unable to hide the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Jermaine would throw an arm around his shoulders, still chuckling.
"No, you don't."
Jackie nodded toward the newspaper still sitting on the table. "You know what the funniest part is?"
Michael sighed. "What?"
Jackie grinned.
"You never denied being her biggest fan."
Michael looked down at the photograph of himself leaving the fan club with his arms full of shopping bags. After a moment, the corner of his mouth lifted into a sheepish smile. "...Because it's true."
———————
The award show itself was spectacular.
Every seat in the auditorium glittered beneath golden lights that swept across the audience like slow-moving stars.
Crystal chandeliers reflected flashes from hundreds of cameras, while orchestral music drifted through the room between commercial breaks.
Conversations filled every corner of the theater as the biggest names in entertainment greeted one another with hugs, laughter, and handshakes.
Backstage was even more chaotic.
Stage managers hurried down hallways with clipboards tucked beneath their arms, assistants rushed costumes from one dressing room to another, makeup artists chased performers for last-minute touch-ups, and producers spoke urgently into headsets while counting down to the next live segment.
Michael had just stepped offstage after delivering one of the most electric performances of the evening. His breathing was still uneven from the choreography, tiny beads of perspiration clung to the curls framing his forehead.
An assistant gently draped a towel around his shoulders while another handed him a bottle of water. "You were incredible, Michael."
"Thank you."
"You can go back to your seat now." He nodded absently, barely listening.
His attention had already drifted somewhere else.
Down the hallway, standing near a cluster of dressing rooms...
Was you.
You were speaking with your manager, one hand wrapped loosely around a cup of tea while the other moved naturally as you laughed at something someone had said.
Even from several yards away, your smile carried easily through the busy corridor, warm enough that people passing by found themselves smiling back without realizing it.
Michael stopped walking. His fingers slowly lowered the water bottle. His shoulders straightened instinctively.
For just a moment, the bustling hallway seemed strangely quiet. He couldn't hear the stage crew anymore.
There was only one thought in his mind.
She's actually here.
Not on a television screen. Not on the cover of an album. Not across an arena.
Right there.
Only a few steps away.
His heartbeat picked up so suddenly that he instinctively pressed a hand against his sweaty chest. "Oh..."
A stagehand walking past noticed where he was looking and smiled to himself before continuing on.
Michael inhaled slowly, he smoothed the front of his blue polo. Ran a nervous hand through the curls at the back of his neck.
Then quietly muttered to himself, "Just say hello."
He took one step—stopped. Shook his head.
"No, that's weird."
Another step.
"What if she's busy?"
He took a third.
"What if she doesn't know who I am?"
An assistant passing by blinked at him. "...Michael." He looked over. "She definitely knows who you are."
"Oh." He laughed softly at himself. "Right."
He felt ridiculous but still...
He started walking again, one careful step after another. Trying very hard not to look like someone walking toward the person he'd admired for nearly a decade.
You happened to glance in his direction, your eyes met for the briefest instant.
You smiled politely.
Michael forgot how to function.
His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. He managed exactly one tiny wave.
You returned it with a smile. The most beautiful smile he's ever seen.
He thought his heart might actually stop. He was close enough now that another few seconds would have been enough.
Enough to introduce himself, enough to tell you how much your music had inspired him, enough to finally have a conversation after years of only speaking about you in interviews and defending your artistry to anyone who would listen.
Then—
A familiar voice called your name.
You turned. Prince appeared from the opposite end of the hallway, already dressed for his upcoming performance.
He greeted you with an easy grin. You smiled back.
One of the producers hurried over. "There you two are!"
He clapped his hands together. "You're on in two minutes."
Michael's smile slowly disappeared.
He watched as Prince naturally fell into step beside you. The two of you exchanged a few words that he couldn't hear before disappearing behind the stage entrance together.
Michael remained exactly where he was, completely still.
His eye twitched.
A dancer from his crew approached cautiously. "...uh..Mike?"
Without taking his eyes off the curtains, Michael answered in an unusually flat, low voice. "They're performing together?"
"I... think so."
"They're doing a duet?"
"...Looks like it."
Michael slowly nodded once. "I see."
The dancer shifted awkwardly.
"You okay?"
Michael smiled. It was the tightest, most painfully forced smile anyone in the room had ever seen.
"I'm wonderful."
"You don't look wonderful."
———————
The moment the lights dimmed, the entire atmosphere of the award show shifted.
The endless chatter that had filled the room softened into anticipation as the stage transformed, the golden glow of the spotlights cutting through the darkness while the audience settled into their seats.
Michael had been expecting another performance—another impressive display from two of the biggest artists in the world, trying to put his jealousy aside—but he was not prepared for the sight that unfolded in front of him.
The opening notes echoed through the venue, smooth and dramatic, and then you stepped onto the stage beside Prince, immediately commanding the attention of everyone watching.
There was a confidence in the way you carried yourself, the kind that came from years of knowing exactly who you were as an artist. You didn't need to demand attention; the room naturally followed you.
Every movement was deliberate, every expression matching the emotion of the song perfectly.
The audience immediately reacted, cheers rising as you began the first verse, your voice filling the arena with a warmth and power that made people instinctively lean closer.
Michael, however, barely moved.
He had been sitting with the composed expression he always wore at award shows, one hand resting against his chin, the other tapping lightly against his armrest.
But the second your voice came through the speakers, that carefully controlled expression disappeared.
His eyes widened slightly, his head tilting forward as if he needed to make sure he was hearing every single note correctly.
He knew your voice better than most people did.
He had spent years listening to your albums, studying the choices you made, admiring the way you could turn a simple lyric into something emotional.
But hearing you live was always different. There was something raw about it that recordings could never completely capture.
He watched you move across the stage, watched the way you connected with the audience, watched the way you shaped every phrase with such effortless control, and despite himself, he found himself smiling.
A genuine smile, the kind he rarely showed in public unless he was truly impressed.
One of the people sitting near him noticed almost immediately.
Michael wasn't watching the performance like a fellow celebrity watching another celebrity. He was watching like a fan.
Then Prince joined in.
At first, Michael tried to remain neutral.
He really did.
Prince was talented. Michael knew that. He respected him as a musician and understood why audiences loved him.
But as soon as the two of you began harmonizing together, Michael's admiration for your part of the performance quickly became something much more complicated.
The two of you moved around each other effortlessly, trading lines back and forth with a chemistry that was impossible to ignore.
Prince played into the performance with his usual confidence, leaning into the dramatic energy of the song, and you responded naturally, smiling as the two of you sang together.
And Michael hated how much the audience loved it.
Not because you weren't incredible—you were.
That was the problem.
You were so incredible that he couldn't even convince himself he was annoyed at the performance itself. His frustration was entirely focused on one person standing beside you.
Prince.
Michael's expression slowly changed. The smile faded. His eyebrows drew together slightly. His fingers, which had been tapping along with the rhythm, stopped. He shifted in his seat.
Then shifted again.
At first, people around him thought he was simply enjoying the performance intensely, but anyone who knew Michael well could see the difference.
His eyes followed every single interaction between you and Prince. Every glance. Every smile. Every moment where the two of you stood closer than necessary.
When Prince stepped toward you during the final section of the song, Michael immediately straightened.
When you laughed at something Prince whispered during the performance, Michael's mouth pressed into a thin line.
And when the final chorus arrived, the entire audience erupted as the music built toward the ending.
The stage lights became brighter.
The crowd was already on their feet.
Then Prince took your hand.
Michael's eyes narrowed.
He watched as Prince spun you gracefully, catching you at exactly the right moment before lowering you into a dramatic dip.
You trusted him completely, your laughter blending with the cheers of the audience as the final note rang through the arena. It was a classic award-show ending—the kind designed to make people scream.
And people did.
Everyone except Michael.
Michael sat frozen, his jaw tightened and his eyes remained locked on the stage.
Then, as Prince held you there for the final pose, he looked out into the audience.
And his eyes landed directly on Michael. For one brief moment, neither of them looked away.
Prince's expression was subtle, but Michael understood immediately.
It was a challenge.
A playful one.
A smug one.
The kind that only made Michael's jealousy worse.
His eyebrows lifted slightly, almost offended.
His lips parted.
Then, barely audible beneath the roaring applause, he muttered to himself, "He's dead."
The person sitting beside him turned sharply.
Michael immediately realized what he had done.
"No, no, I mean—"
He quickly composed himself, forcing his expression back into something polite as the cameras swept across the audience.
"Congratulations to them," he said, much louder.
The problem was...
Nobody believed him.
The people around him exchanged amused looks.
They had heard exactly what he said.
And judging by Michael's expression as he clapped his large hands loudly with a lot of force—he knew they knew.
———————
When it was finally time for the award for Best Male Performer of the Year, the tension in the room had completely changed.
The earlier performances had set the stage, and now the audience waited as the presenter stepped forward with the envelope in hand. The nominees appeared one by one on the massive screens, each name receiving applause from the crowd.
Michael Jackson.
Prince.
Several other legendary performers.
The moment Michael's name appeared, the audience erupted.
He sat calmly, hands folded together, his face unreadable.
But those closest to him could see the tiny hint of confidence in his expression.
The presenter opened the envelope.
"And the winner is..."
The entire room became silent.
Michael leaned back slightly.
"...Michael Jackson!"
The crowd exploded. The applause was immediate and deafening.
Michael paused for a moment, allowing the reaction to wash over him. Then slowly, almost dramatically, he stood from his seat.
And there it was.
That smile.
The one that appeared whenever Michael knew he had something to prove.
He adjusted the front of his jacket, smoothed down his sleeve, and accepted congratulations from those around him before making his way toward the stage.
But as he walked past Prince, he couldn't resist.
He stopped.
Just for a second.
Prince looked up at him.
Michael smiled.
Not a rude smile.
Not openly.
But definitely smug.
The kind of smile that said remember earlier?
Prince's expression immediately hardened.
His jaw tightened.
He knew exactly what Michael was doing.
"You enjoy that too much," Prince muttered quietly.
Michael leaned slightly closer, pretending not to hear.
"What was that?"
Prince stared at him.
"Nothing."
Michael's smile widened.
"That's what I thought."
Then he continued toward the stage.
Prince watched him walk away with an expression of pure irritation.
The cameras didn't catch the quiet exchange.
But everyone close enough to see it were so shocked and knew that they would be sharing this story for years to come.
This was no longer about the award.
———————
Michael reached the microphone holding the award.
He looked down at the trophy in his hands before looking back at the audience, his voice soft and slightly nervous as he began,
"Wow. Thank you. Thank you so much. Um, honestly, I don't know what to say. This is such a great honor because there are so many incredible artists here tonight, so many people who inspire me and continue to push music forward..." He paused as he smiled shyly.
"I want to thank God, my family, especially my fans, everyone who has supported me throughout my career. I wouldn't be standing here without the people who believed in me when I was just a kid who loved to sing and dance. This award means more than I can really explain."
He paused, taking a breath as the applause continued. For a moment, he looked exactly like the shy Michael everyone knew—the humble artist who never wanted to appear too proud of himself. Then his eyes moved toward you in the audience. His expression softened.
"And I also want to say something about tonight's performances. There are moments when you watch someone perform and you remember why you love music in the first place. You remember why you started. And tonight, I had one of those moments watching (Name). She has one of the most incredible voices I've ever heard. The way she feels a song, the way she connects with people, the way she can take a simple melody and turn it into something that stays with you... that's a gift. That's something special."
The audience smiled, immediately understanding where his attention was. Michael's confidence grew as he continued, his shoulders relaxing, his famous playful side beginning to appear.
"And, uh, I also saw her duet tonight." He looked toward Prince who had an unreadable but obviously irritated expression briefly before smiling.
"Very interesting performance. Very entertaining. But I think everyone here knows when someone has a voice that can carry a song, they don't need much help."
Laughter immediately spread through the room. Michael smiled wider. "Sometimes one person just has that magic. And (Name), you definitely have that magic." He lifted the award slightly.
"So next time you want to do a duet, I think you should choose someone who can keep up with you a little better."
The audience erupted in gasps and shock. Michael laughed, now completely comfortable, the shy nerves gone.
"Maybe someone with a little more experience. Maybe someone who knows how to let that incredible voice shine."
He looked directly at you, blowing a kiss between his two fingers before adding with a playful wink, "I'm just saying, I'm available."
The entire theater exploded into laughter and applause.
Michael stepped back from the microphone, smiling proudly as you sat there completely stunned, your cheeks warm and your expression caught somewhere between disbelief and amusement.
You put your hand over your mouth in absolute shock. “What the hell just happened…?”
.
.
.
Note: This came to me in a dream…I channeled it before Prince could 😆🤣 No shade to Prince at all hahaha 😂 Soo much love to you all! 🫶🏽❤️
🍫summary: Your period is on the way and you know from the sore ache from your nipples. Your lovely bestfriend, Michael, is itching to help and you know just the way!
The smell of Chinese food filled the cozy living room, and the laughing soundtrack played from the television. The soundtrack was layered mixing in with Michael’s boisterous laugh next to you.
It was another Friday night, you had the house to yourself, and you didn’t waste any time to invite your best friend over. He showed up with Chinese takeout in his hand, and a big grin on his face.
Both of you sat on the carpet, played a random sitcom, and tore into the delicious food that he got from a hole in the wall Chinese restaurant nearby.
This was the usual, along with your occasional needy staring that he has yet to notice. Your bottom lip found purchase between your teeth, tasting the salt from the soy sauce you recently consumed.
Your eyes skimmed down the veins in his arms, peeking from under his brown complexion. His slender fingers that held the plastic fork. His pink tongue slipping out to quickly lap at the small piece of rice on the corner of his mouth.
You needed that. Badly.
“Ugh I’m stuffed.” Michael groaned closing the white takeout box and setting it on your wooden coffee table. He leaned against the bottom of the couch, pressing his curly coils against the cushion as he rubbed his stomach.
“Me too.” You agreed, reaching to set your takeout plate on the table aswell but you paused with a sharp hiss. The bloody devil called a period was on the rise and the very hard, sore peaks that pressed against your shirt didn’t feign to remind you.
“Are you okay?” Michael’s head shot up hearing the painful sound you emitted. You glanced at him and nodded, “Yea, just my period is coming so I’m a bit sore.” You explained.
Michael nodded slowly, glancing over you for a peace of mind to see if you were outwardly okay. His eyes did land on the small pebbles pressed against your cotton shirt but to remain respectful he looked away.
“Do you need anything?” He asked, scooting a bit closer. For a second you genuinely thought of something that could relax you. Hot tea? A heating pad? Chocolate? Those all sound great but when you looked at Michael, and the slight sheen from him licking his lips that all went out the window.
You see his eyes glance to your nipples, not lingering on them for even a split second out of fear of sexualizing you. "Actually, you can help." You smiled. He looked at you with an eagerness, being one that loves to please others.
"What is it?" His voice seemed lighter, and he set his palm on your bare knee. Your pajama shorts suddenly felt too thin and flimsy as you felt yourself grow damp from the feeling of his touch. "My nipples are really aching"
Michael's eyes widened at the confession, and he fought hard to not shift his attention downward to the clear proof of your words. He swallowed his nerves, keeping his focus on your face. "O-oh, do you need ice or something?"
His concerned expression only brought another wave of heat through you. Michael wasn’t dumb but he was definitely naive. Naive enough to do whatever his best friend says and takes it as truth.
“I heard a relief is like a warm suction.” You told him, a playful glint wavering in your eyes. His eyebrows furrowed and he tilted his eyes. “Warm suction?” He questioned.
“Yeah, like…sucking on them.”
He stared at you for a split second and his eyes widened with the tiniest gasp. “Like with my mouth?”
You nodded quickly, placing your hands in your lap. “I know friends help each other and you want to help right?” You reached to caress his wrist, his skin was soft and supple to the touch.
His words were caught in his throat, face burning from getting so intimate with you. But as your friend it was his duty to help you. He nodded his head, hyperaware of the air feeling thicker.
You gave him a warm, comforting smile, which also secretly hid the joy you find in having him in the palm of your hand. You grasped your tee shirt, tugging it over your head and you felt the cool breeze glide against your nipples.
It was a small amount of relief but it only made them more rigid. Michael practically drooled at your chocolate aerolas but shut his mouth realizing he’s supposed to be helping.
He felt weird looking at his bestfriend in this way, he hoped you couldn’t tell. He watched as you laid flat on the floor, and the tv fell to background noise.
The carpet felt fuzzy and rough against your back but that was the least of your worries. You just wanted to feel Michael’s mouth on you.
“Go ahead, just be gentle.”
Michael let out a shaky breath, crawling closer towards you before laying flat on his stomach. His mouth hovered right above your nipple and he looked at you for a final hint of permission.
You looked at his doe eyes, filled with curiosity and you nodded at him. Taking a deep breath, his tongue hesitantly licked at your peak making you gasp. The warm, wet sensation actually did provide relief to the ache.
But it came with pleasure. Too much of it.
Once he knew you were okay with his actions, he lapped a bit more confidently against your nipple. He swirled his tongue gently around the tip before sucking it into his mouth.
You clenched your eyes tightly, hands finding a grip on the short strands of the carpet. You couldn’t help but suck on your bottom lip to pacify your moans.
Michael’s eyes were closed as he created a small suction, sucking your nipple into his mouth. It felt beady, and fleshy, it was satisfying to him.
Your thighs clenched in hopes of finding relief from the sensation of your clit. Wet smacking noises hit your ears and you felt a small layer of spit coat the nub.
You tried to pant quietly but it felt so good, you probably could’ve came right there. Michael lifted his head to check on you, a faint line of spit connecting your nipple to his mouth, stretching until it snapped
A small breeze passed over your nipple once it was removed from his warm tongue and a shiver went up your spine. “Am I doing okay? Does it still hurt?” He asked. Small wet marks were across his chin and jaw, shining in glistening spit but the concern from his eyes never left.
It was a lovely sight to see. “You’re doing great, they’re feeling better,” you were itching to feel him again, and his passion to help made it no better. “Can you do the other one, please? This one is really sore.” You added a small pout for extra measure.
He didn’t hesitate nodding and shifting to the other side, and you stared in a daze of lust. In Michael’s caring fashion, he splayed his fingers on the underside of your boob.
“Is this making you uncomfortable?” He asked but all you could focus on was the way his fingers gently pressed against you. You wanted to feel them inside of you in all honesty.
“No, Mikey, go ahead.” You let out a shaky breath. His tongue once again slithered out, lapping at your nipple but with no hesitation. His eyes closed once again as if it was a calming moment to him, a contrast to your raging hormones.
His tongue slowly circled the nub, and it was one of the most intimate things you ever saw. You couldn’t take your eyes off of him. The way his soft lips were separated, and his fingers gently massaged your skin, you felt a ball in your stomach. If he kept going you were going to cum right there on the floor, and you know you couldn't hide it.
A small wave of panic and arousal hit you at the same time, should you stop him? It felt so good you never wanted to stop but you also did not want to have an orgasm in front of him.
His lips wrapped around your nipple, suckling it into his mouth and releasing with a small pop. He repeated the action and your eyes rolled back. Your hand flew to his hair, gently grasping his curls.
“Michael, don’t stop.” You sighed. You’re so glad he didn’t ask questions. He just continued his actions, and his head began to slightly move in the process. He was truly getting into it as if he was licking ice cream.
He flicked your nipple with the tip of his tongue and your hips rocked back and forth as if you were grinding on something. God, you wish you were.
You took the hand across your underboob and and trailed it across your soft skin to your other nipple. “Can you rub it for me?” You asked, out of breath clearly. Michael was too caught up in his helpful activities to pay attention that you were on the verge of cumming right before his eyes.
His long fingers circled your other nipple, gently rolling it between his index and thumb. Your lips automatically folded inward, holding back your moans with everything you got.
The soft wet lapping mixed with his fingers and the fact it was Michael had you snap in an instant. You couldn’t fight the small whimper that tumbled from your mouth, and the way you clenched around nothing.
Your stomach contracted and your eyes rolled back as your legs slightly shook making Michael look at you. To see his surprise, you were in absolute bliss writhing on the floor under him.
“Are you okay?” He asked, placing his hand on your shoulder. You finally were pulled out of the clouds, trying to catch your breath. He noticed your glazed over eyes, your swollen lips from you biting on them, and the tremble in your thighs.
The Chinese food was long cold now along with the staticky tv that shut off in the midst. “I’m okay,” you panted. “Did I help atleast?”
“You helped a lot,” you felt your orgasm slowly seep out of your entrance and pooling in your underwear, and another idea popped into your head.
“I have another ache though, can you help?” You asked him with a tilt of your head.
“Of course, where?”
You reached and grasped his warm hand, and his eyes followed your movements.
You watched his face transform as you guided him to your tummy.
A look of concern.
You trailed it farther down to the waistband of your shorts.
A look of confusion.
Finally, you slipped his hand inside of your shorts letting him feel your soaked pussy.
So idk if you've ever watched Euphoria but I was lowkey thinking of a messy cassie and maddy situation where the reader has a shit ex that the Jackson clan hates and she's over at their house for whatever reason and kinda like how rue blows up Cassie's spot, the reader's bff exposed for messing around with their ex in front of everybody and the jackson clan supports the reader during the fallout and she becomes closer with Micheal or something and then they start dating and Michael is low key happy about it because before the bff was exposed the reader was gonna get back with her shitty ex
𝐨𝐟𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐭.
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: otw/pre-thriller!michael jackson x black!reader
𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: after a chaotic blowout at hayvenhurst exposes your best friend and toxic ex, the jackson family rallies around you to heal the heartbreak and in the quiet fallout, michael finally steps out of the shadows to claim the heart he's loved all along.
𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: angst (with a happy ending), cheating (not with michael, her best friend ain't shit fr), protective!michael, the jackson family doesn't play about reader, hurt/comfort.
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 5.7k
𝐝𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐲’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: this was anon requested, but if you're reading this whoever you are, you ate down with this request. i'm an angsty writer at heart so i honestly was eating this up. if you have any angsty requests, please let me know.
Hayvenhurst always carried a distinct weight—a blend of polished mahogany, expensive cologne, fresh flowers, and the faint, unmistakable smell of pine from the massive grounds outside. Beyond the gated perimeter, Encino hummed with the steady pulse of late 1970s Los Angeles: warm summer asphalt, neon lights along Sunset Boulevard, and the distinct smog settling over the Valley. But inside the main house, the rest of the world felt muffled, as if the thick carpets and grand architecture were built specifically to keep the noise of reality from seeping in.
Tonight, however, the silence in the living room was suffocating.
You sat tucked into the corner of the deep cream velvet sofa, your fingers wrapped around a tall glass of orange juice that had long lost its cool. The ice cubes had melted into tiny slivers, diluting the orange liquid, but you hadn’t taken a sip in twenty minutes. Across the low glass coffee table, Valerie—your best friend since the ninth grade—was practically vibrating with anxious energy. Her long, manicured acrylics clicked rhythmically against the side of her leather clutch, a fast uneven staccato that was slowly driving you mad.
“You’re doing it again,” Valerie murmured, leaning across the gap between the couches. Her eyes darted toward the hallway before snapping back to your face. “That face you make when you’re overthinking. What’s going on in that head of yours?”
You swallowed the lump in your throat, staring down at the condensation pooling around the base of your glass. “Nothing. Just… thinking.”
“About Marcus?” Valerie’s voice dropped an octave, laced with a strange, jittery sharpness. “You still caught up on what he said when he pulled up to your apartment last night?”
Just hearing his name made a cold, familiar knot tighten in the pit of your stomach. Marcus. You had been dealing with his hot-and-cold routine for nearly two years. He was the kind of man who knew exactly how to speak to you when he wanted something—soft-spoken, dripping with charisma, promising the moon and the stars—only to turn around and treat you like a second-tier option the moment he felt secure again. He canceled plans at the last minute, flipped every valid argument back on you until you were the one apologizing, and subtly chipped away at your confidence while demanding total, unquestioning loyalty in return.
And yet, when he had shown up on your doorstep at two in the morning, standing under the flickering yellow porch light with his hands shoved in his pockets and tears shining in his eyes, swearing he’d hit rock bottom without you, a traitorous part of your heart had softened. You were so tired. So utterly exhausted from the emotional whiplash that giving in and believing his lies felt easier than fighting them.
“He sounded different this time, Valerie,” you whispered, keeping your voice low so it wouldn’t carry toward the kitchen. “He swore he was done with the games. He said he realized what he’s losing, and he wants to actually step up. I don’t know… maybe people can really hit rock bottom and change.”
Valerie’s jaw tightened, a weird, flicking shadow crossing her features before she smoothed her expression back into a sympathetic pout. “I mean… if you think he’s being real, babe. You know I just want you to be happy.”
Before you could reply, a burst of bright, booming laughter echoed from down the hallway, instantly cutting through the heavy mood in the room.
“Man, if you don’t get outta here with that!” Marlon’s voice carried around the corner, followed by the heavy, rhythmic thrum of a bassline playing softly from the stereo unit in the far corner of the family room.
A second later, Marlon strolled into the living room, tossing an orange in the air and catching it with one hand. Randy was right behind him, fanning himself with a vinyl sleeve, arguing passionately about a bass bridge on a track they’d been messing around with in the home studio.
And then came Michael.
Seeing Michael in the summer of 1979 was like looking directly at a solar flare. He was standing on the precipice of absolute global dominance with Off the Wall taking over the airwaves, yet here in Hayvenhurst, he was still just the quiet, incredibly observant core of his family. Sporting an oversized thin-stripped button down shirt rolled up loosely at his forearms, dark fitted slacks, and a thin silver chain resting against his collarbone. His afro was picked out into a soft, perfectly rounded halo framing his sharp jawline and deep, soulful eyes.
He radiated an effortless, magnetic youthfulness, but the moment his gaze swept across the room and landed on you, everything about his posture shifted.
The easy, playful smile resting on his lips faltered. His dark eyes—sharp, intuitive, and entirely too perceptive—scanned your slumped shoulders and the anxious way you were nursing your warm juice. He picked up on your mood in less than a second.
“Look who finally decided to come out of the shadows,” Marlon teased, dropping onto the leather armchair across from you and taking a loud bite of his orange. “We thought you fell into the pool, girl.”
“Very funny, Marlon,” you managed a weak chuckle, though it sounded thin even to your own ears.
Michael didn’t say a word to his brothers. He walked across the room with that light, silent, almost floating stride of his, stepping right past the empty armchair and dropping onto the plush sofa cushions right next to you. He sat close—close enough that you could smell the subtle, comforting scent of broad-spectrum vanilla, warm musk, and sweet hair sheen that always seemed to follow him.
“Hey,” he whispered. His voice had that signature soft, high-pitched cadence, but underneath it lay a firm, grounded warmth that instantly made the tension in your shoulders give way.
“Hey, Mike,” you murmured, offering him a tiny, exhausted smile.
“You’re quiet tonight,” he noted softly, tilting his head. His eyes locked onto yours, completely ignoring the chatter starting to build as the rest of the house woke up around you. “And don’t tell me you’re fine, because I know that look. What’s going on?”
You shifted uncomfortably on the cushion. “It’s nothing. Just tired from work.”
Michael raised a single brow, a subtle crease forming between his eyebrows. He leaned in a fraction closer, lowering his voice until it was a private hush strictly meant for your ears. “You were talking to him again. Weren’t you?”
You didn’t have to ask who he was. Michael knew about Marcus. In fact, Michael knew more about the emotional toll Marcus took on you than almost anyone else, mostly because Michael was the one who had sat with you on the back patio two weeks ago until three in the morning while you cried over another forgotten date.
Michael’s jaw tightened sharply, a rare, flickering flash of irritation breaking through his usually gentle expression. He hated Marcus. It wasn’t just a mild dislike—it was a deep, visceral revulsion. He couldn’t fathom how a man could hold your heart in his hands and treat it like garbage.
To Michael, who had spent months admiring your grace, your humor, your quiet strength, and your staggering beauty from a safe, respectful distance, watching you be dismantled by a loser was pure torture.
“You can’t do this to yourself,” he said, his voice dropping into an earnest, urgent whisper. “You can’t keep giving that guy passes to tear you down. He doesn’t see you, girl. He really doesn’t.”
“Michael, it’s just… it’s complicated,” you sighed, looking down at your lap, feeling the burn of shame in your throat. “He said he wants to try again. He apologized.”
“Apologies are just words,” Michael countered softly, reaching out. For a brief second, his long and slender fingers brushed against the back of your hand—a light, fleeting touch that sent a sudden jolt of electricity straight up your arm. “You deserve somebody who respects you from the start. Somebody who doesn’t have to lose you first to realize what you’re worth.”
You swallowed hard, looking into his big, expressive eyes. The sincerity in them was overwhelming. It was terrifying, honestly, how deeply Michael cared for you, and how easily he could see right through the defenses you spent so much energy building up.
Before you could figure out how to respond to Michael, the heavy double doors leading to the grand foyer clicked open, breaking the intimate bubble Michael had built around the two of you.
Jackie walked in first, tossing a set of car keys onto the entry table, complaining loudly about the traffic on the Ventura Freeway, with Jermaine right behind him, draped in a light sweater and adjusting his watch. A moment later, Mrs. Katherine stepped into the room carrying a heavy silver tray laden with fresh glasses, a pitcher of iced sweet tea, and a plate of warm lemon square bars.
“I brought some tea for everybody,” Katherine announced, her warm, soothing voice instantly blanketing the room in motherly comfort. “It’s hot out there tonight. Y’all need to stay hydrated.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Katherine,” you said, forcing a polite smile as the room filled up with the chaotic, vibrant energy that only the Jackson family possessed.
The living room had suddenly become the center of the house. Marlon was stretched out on the rug, Randy was flipping through a stack of 45s near the studio, Jermaine and Jackie were leaning against the archway discussing a mix tape for an upcoming studio session, and Katherine was settling into the wingback chair near the window.
You took a deep breath, trying to shake off the heavy conversation you’d just had with Michael. You felt cluttered, your purse sitting on the end table near the floor lamp feeling miles away.
“Hey, Valerie,” you said, turning slightly toward your friend. “Can you hand me my bag from over there? I need my lip balm.”
Valerie jumped slightly at the sound of her name, looking almost guilty for being addressed. “Oh—yeah. Yeah, sure, hold on.”
She reached over the side table, but instead of just grabbing your leather purse, her elbow clumsily knocked against her own heavy designer clutch. The bag tottered on the glass edge for a second before slipping, crashing onto the hardwood floor with a sharp, echoing clatter.
The impact popped the metal latch wide open.
Lipstick tubes, a compact mirror, a cloud of loose powder, keys, a thick fold of cash, and several loose items exploded across the glossy dark wood floor, sliding toward the center of the room.
“Dang it!” she cursed, her voice suddenly pitching an octave higher than normal—sharp, shrill, and laced with immediate panic. She practically threw herself off the couch, dropping to her hands and knees to frantically sweep everything back toward her. “I got it! I got it, don’t worry about it!”
“Relax, Valerie, it’s just a bag,” Marlon laughed, reaching down from his spot on the rug to grab a stray lipstick tube that had rolled near his knee.
Randy, who was sitting the closest to the side table, leaned over to help. “Here, let me grab this—”
Randy picked up a small, heavy object that had skittered under the edge of the coffee table, along with a thick square piece of paper that had landed face-down near his shoe. He casually flipped the paper over to see what it was before handing it back.
But the moment Randy’s eyes locked onto the photograph, his hands stopped dead in mid-air.
The playful smirk vanished from his face instantly. His eyebrows pulled together in the deep, confused scowl, his eyes darting from the small photo to the heavy silver item in his palm—a thick, custom-engraved Cuban link bracelet with a distinct dragon-head clasp.
“Yo…” Randy’s voice cut clean through the cross-talk in the room. It was flat, sudden, and heavy with instant anger. “What the hell is this?”
The tone in his voice was so sharp that the entire room fell dead silent within two seconds. The track playing on the stereo seemed to fade into background noise. Jermaine stopped talking mid-sentence. Katherine paused with her tea glass halfway to her mouth.
“Randy, give me that!” Valerie practically shrieked, lunging across the floor with her hand outstretched, her face flushed a bright, splotchy red.
Randy snapped his head back, standing up fully and holding the item way out of her reach. He wasn’t laughing anymore. His face was dark, his eyes blazing as he looked from the heavy silver bracelet in his hand, down at Valerie on the floor, and then straight over to you.
“Wait a damn minute,” Randy said, his voice rising, thick with disbelief and disgust. “Is this Marcus’s chain? The one he never takes off? The one with his initials stamped on the inside of the clasp?”
Your stomach dropped into a bottomless, freezing pit. The room seemed to tilt on its axis. “What…?”
Michael sat up straight beside you. All the gentleness, all the soft, dreamy energy that usually defined him vanished in a fraction of a second. His spine went rigid, his posture shifting into something razor-sharp and intensely alert. “Randy, what are you holding?”
“This is Marcus’s chain,” Randy said loudly, turning the object over in his hand before holding up the small glossy paper for the whole room to see. “And this is a Polaroid. Taken in a room at the Beverly Hilton.”
“Randy, give it here, don’t look at that!” Valerie cried out, her voice cracking as she scrambled to her feet, tears of pure panic springing to her eyes. “It’s personal! You have no right to touch my stuff!”
“Shut up!” Jermaine barked from the doorway, taking three long strides across the room and snatching the Polaroid directly out of Randy’s fingers.
Jermaine looked at the print for three seconds before his jaw set into a hard, furious line. He looked over at you, his eyes filled with a sudden, overwhelming pity that made your blood run cold.
“Show her,” Jermaine said quietly, his voice dangerously low.
Randy took the Polaroid from Jermaine and stepped over to the couch, placing it gently on the glass coffee table directly in front of you.
You leaned forward, your hands trembling so violently that you could barely keep your balance on the edge of the cushion. You looked down at the photograph.
It was crystal clear. It was a flash-photography photo taken in a dimly lit hotel room. Marcus was sitting on the edge of a messy bed, wearing his signature black silk shirt—unbuttoned at the top—with his arm wrapped tightly around Valerie’s shoulders. Valerie was leaning into his chest, laughing hysterically, wearing a silk robe that you recognized because you had given it to her for her birthday last year. The white date stamp in the bottom right corner of the glossy paper read: JULY 27, 1979.
Two weeks ago.
The exact weekend you were laying in bed at home with a hundred and two-degree fever, shivering under three blankets, while Valerie had called you saying she was driving down to San Diego to visit her aunt.
The breath was completely sucked out of your lungs. It felt as if someone had taken a sledgehammer and slammed it directly into your chest, shattering your ribs into a thousand tiny needles. Your vision blurred around the edges, the room spinning, the sound of your own heartbeat echoing like thunder in your ears.
“Valerie…?” Your voice didn’t even sound like yours. It was small, fragile, a broken whisper that barely carried across the glass table.
Valerie stood frozen in the middle of the living room, her face pale, her lips trembling as tears streamed down her cheeks. “Look—listen to me! Please, just let me explain! It’s not what it looks like!”
“Not what it looks like?!” Marlon roared, stepping up beside Randy, his face contorted in pure rage. “Are you out of your mind?! That’s a picture of you in a hotel room with her damn man! While she was sick at home!”
“He manipulated me!” Valerie screamed back, completely crumbling under the weight of the room’s collective anger. She reached out toward you, her hands shaking. “You know how Marcus is! He was calling me, he came by my place, he made me feel like—he said you guys were over anyway! He said you didn’t care about him like I did!”
“Don’t you dare put this on anybody else!” Jackie barked, stepping into the living room, his voice booming off the high ceilings. “You brought your fake, snake-in-the-grass ass into our home! You sat on our furniture, ate our food, and listened to this girl cry her out over that man, knowing damn well you were sleeping with him behind her back!”
“I was gonna tell her!” Valerie sobbed wildly. “I was gonna tell you! It was a mistake!”
“A mistake?!” Randy spat, holding up the heavy silver bracelet. “You kept his chain in your purse like a damn trophy! You been carrying this around while sitting right next to her!”
“Get up.”
The command was not loud. It was not shouted. It didn’t carry the booming rage of Marlon or the booming authority of Jackie.
It was quiet. Ice cold. Deadly serious.
It came from Michael.
You looked up through the blur of your tears. Michael had stood up from the sofa. He was standing right between you and Valerie, his tall, slender frame acting as a physical, unyielding wall protecting you from the mess in front of you.
His dark eyes were locked onto Valerie. The softness, the light, the youthful warmth that usually defined Michael Jackson was completely gone. His face was a stone-cold mask of absolute, uncompromising fury. His fists were clenched tightly at his sides, his chest heaving with deep, controlled breaths.
“Michael, please—” Valerie choked out, taking a small step back, terrified by the look in his eyes.
“Don’t you say my name,” he said, his voice dropping into a register so low and dangerous it made the hair on the back of your neck stand up. He stepped forward, pointing a single finger directly toward the grand front doors. “Don’t you say her name. Don’t you look at her. Don’t you ever, ever step foot on this property again.”
“Mike, listen to me—”
“I said get out!” he snapped, his voice cracking with a sudden, explosive power that shattered the air. “Get your things and get out of this house before I have security throw you into the street!”
Mrs. Katherine stepped forward, her face a heartbreaking mixture of deep grief and absolute, unshakeable sternness. She looked at Valerie with eyes that held no mercy. “Valerie, sweetie… you need to go. Right now. You have brought venom into my home, and you have broken this child’s heart in a way that is unforgivable. Pack your things and leave.”
Jermaine didn’t wait. He walked over to the side table, snatched up Valerie’s open purse, shoved the loose items, the Polaroid, and the silver chain back inside, and shoved the bag roughly into Valerie’s chest. He grabbed her firmly by the elbow, pulling her toward the foyer.
“Move,” he demanded coldly, walking her straight out of the living room.
Marlon and Jackie followed right behind them to make sure she didn’t turn around, their voices echoing down the hallway as they barked at her to keep it moving.
A second later, the massive, heavy oak doors of Hayvenhurst slammed shut with a deafening, thunderous BOOM that rattled the glass windows of the living room.
The silence that settled over the house in the wake of the front door slamming was heavy, absolute, and suffocating.
You sat frozen on the velvet sofa, staring blankly at the empty spot on the glass table where the Polaroid had rested just moments before. Your brain felt entirely numb, completely unable to process the sheer scale of the betrayal that had just been unraveled in front of you. The two people you had trusted the most in the world—the man you were foolishly considering taking back, and the best friend who had held your hand through every tearful night—had been laughing at you behind closed doors.
A ragged, shuddering gasp tore through your throat, and before you could suppress it, the first sob broke free.
Instantly, the cold, furious energy in the room shattered, replaced by a wave of intense, protective family devotion.
“Oh, sweet baby,” Mrs. Katherine whispered softly, rushing over to the sofa and sinking to her knees right beside you. She reached out, taking both of your ice-cold, trembling hands into warm, soft palms. “It’s alright. Let it out, child. Take a deep breath. You are safe here.”
“Unbelievable,” Jackie muttered, pacing back and forth near the rug, shaking his head in disgust. “Absolute human trash. Both of ‘em. You don’t ever have to worry about seeing either one of those snakes again, you hear me? We’ll make sure security has their plates. They won’t even make it past the front gate.”
“They’re dead to you,” Randy added firmly, leaning over the back of the couch, his voice thick with protective anger. “Dead and buried. Neither one of them exists anymore.”
While his brothers paced and vented their rage, and while Katherine held your hands, Michael did something different.
He didn’t speak. He quietly walked out of the living room and into the kitchen. A minute later, he returned carrying a tall glass of ice water and a small, soft cotton towel soaked in cool water.
Michael crouched down directly in front of you, sinking to his knees on the carpet right next to his mother. He placed a gentle, steady hand on your knee. The fierce, terrifying anger that had flickered in his eyes just moments ago had completely melted away, replaced by an overwhelming, painfully tender warmth.
“Here,” he whispered softly, his voice a feather-light hum that seemed to cut straight through the roaring in your ears. “Drink a little bit of this for me. Just a sip.”
Your hands were trembling so badly that when you reached for the glass, the water sloshed over the rim. Without a second thought, Michael reached up, his long, slender fingers wrapping around yours to steady your grip. He held the glass with you, helping you bring it up to your lips so you could take a slow, cool swallow.
Once you set the glass down, Michael took a damp towel and began softly dabbing away the warm tears spilling down your cheeks, his touch so light, so extraordinarily gentle, it felt like a breeze.
“Look at me,” he whispered, his voice low, steady, and anchoring.
You forced yourself to pull your eyes away from the floor, looking down into his dark, luminous eyes.
“You listen to me,” he said, his tone carrying an unshakeable, absolute certainty that made your frantic, racing pulse begin to slow down. "You are done with both of them. You hear me? You are never going back to that guy. Ever again. And you don't need a friend who treats your heart like it's cheap. You don't deserve that. You have never deserved that."
A choked sob escaped your lips, but Michael didn't pull away. He leaned closer, his hand shifting from your knee up to wrap securely around your shaking fingers, pressing a warm, firm squeeze to your hand.
"You have us," Michael whispered fiercely, his eyes shining with a deep, emotional truth. "You have Mother. You have Marlon, Randy, Jackie, Jermaine... you have me. We are your family. We are going to take care of you."
As his words sank deep into your chest, something in you finally snapped—not in brokenness, but in total, liberating clarity. The heavy, suffocating web that Marcus had spun around you for two long years shattered into dust. The illusion was gone. The ex was dead to you. Valerie was dead to you.
And sitting right in front of you, holding your shaking hands in his, was the one man who had loved you quietly, purely, and endlessly from the very beginning.
Deep down inside Michael’s chest, beneath the genuine, aching fury he felt for your heartbreak, a quiet, golden spark ignited. The toxic fog had cleared. The man who had kept you trapped was finally gone forever.
Michael looked at your tear-stained face, squeezing your hand tighter, swearing to himself in the quiet of his heart that he would spend every single day from this moment on proving to you what real love actually felt like.
The days following the blowup at Hayvenhurst felt like living inside a soft-focus velvet bubble.
Mrs. Katherine had flatly refused to let you go back to your empty apartment that night. She had led you up the grand staircase herself, tucked you into one of the guest suites on the second floor, and made sure a fresh set of oversized satin pajamas was laid out across the duvet. For three days, the Jackson home became your fortress.
The outer iron gates remained locked tight against the outside world; security had explicit, unyielding orders from both Jackie and Michael that neither Marcus nor Valerie was to be allowed anywhere near the property.
By the fourth morning, the overwhelming shock had given way to a quiet, lingering ache—a tender bruising of the spirit that left you exhausted.
You sat on the cushioned window bench in the second-floor conservatory, staring out at the sun-drenched gardens. The morning L.A. warmth was rising off the lawns, smelling faintly of cut grass and blooming honeysuckle. You wore one of Michael’s thin, worn-in striped studio shirts over a pair of lounge shorts, the sleeves rolled up past your elbows. It smelled softly of him—sweet vanilla, clean cotton, and a hint of warm sandalwood.
You turned your head to see him leaning against the doorframe. He looked effortless and gorgeous in the golden morning light: a white t-shirt, black fitted slacks, and his hair loosely picked out in that soft, iconic Off the Wall halo. In his hands, he carefully balanced a silver tray loaded with fresh strawberries, buttered toast, a small bowl of scrambled eggs, and a glass of chilled orange juice.
"Michael, you didn't have to do all that," you said softly, a genuine, warm smile breaking through the quiet haze of your morning.
"I wanted to," Michael replied, stepping into the room with that light, silent, almost floating stride of his. He set the tray down on the small glass table next to the window bench and sat beside you, tucking his long legs under himself. "Mother said you barely touched your dinner last night. You gotta eat to keep your strength up, girl. I'm taking care of you."
"I know," you murmured, looking at the spread. "Thank you, Mike. For everything. Your family has been... incredible. I don't even know how to repay y'all."
His expressive eyes softened instantly. He reached out, his fingers gently closing over your wrist, his thumb resting over your steady pulse. “Don’t ever talk about repaying us. You’re family. You hear me? We take care of our own.”
He picked up a strawberry from the plate, holding it out toward you with a playful, encouraging tilt of his head. “Here. Take a bite.”
You chuckled softly, shaking your head at the stubborn attentiveness, but leaned in and took a bite. The sweetness burst on your tongue. Michael watched you with a quiet, intense satisfaction, a slow, breathtaking smile spreading across his face—the kind of smile that made his eyes crinkle at the corners and instantly lit up the entire room.
“There,” Michael murmured, his voice dropping into a soft, tender register. "That's better. I like seeing you smile again."
Later that evening, after the heat of the day had settled into a cool, breeze-filled dusk, the rest of the family had cleared out—Marlon and Randy were out at a record company event, and Mrs. Katherine was turning in early. The grand house was quiet, save for the low, rhythmic thrum coming from the private recording studio tucked into the lower wing.
You walked down the carpeted hallway, pulled toward the sound of music like a moth to a flame.
When you pushed open the heavy acoustic door, you found Michael standing in the center of the wood-paneled room. He was wearing dark headphones rested over his neck, standing beside a grand piano with a notebook spread open over the keys. An unreleased instrumental track was looping softly through the studio monitors—a smooth, mid-tempo disco-groove laced with lush strings and a thumping, irresistible bassline.
He was moving to it—just slightly—his body swaying with that natural, instinctual rhythm that lived in his bones. But the moment the door clicked, he paused, turning around.
"Am I disturbing you?" you asked from the threshold, suddenly feeling self-conscious.
"Never," Michael said instantly. He took off the headphones, setting them on the piano, and gestured for you to come inside. "Come here. I want you to listen to something."
You walked into the studio, the ambient yellow dim lighting creating an intimate, magical world cut off from the rest of the universe. Michael stood by the piano, watching you closely as you approached.
"Is this for the next record?" you asked, leaning against the edge of the piano console.
"Maybe," Michael whispered, stepping a little closer to you. The distance between you narrowed until you could feel the soft warmth radiating off his body, smelling his sweet, hypnotic scent. "I've been working on the melody all day. But... every time I try to write the lyrics, my mind keeps going back to one thing."
Your heart took a sudden, hard thud against your ribs. "To what?"
Michael looked down at you, his dark, soulful eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made the breath catch in your throat. All the playful, shy innocence he carried during the day seemed to melt away, revealing the deep, burning passion that made him who he was.
"To you," Michael said softly, his voice barely a breath.
The studio fell dead silent, the instrumental loop fading into the background.
"Michael..." you whispered, your heart hammering against your chest like a trapped bird.
"I mean it," Michael continued, stepping directly into your space. He reached up, his long, warm hand gently resting against the side of your neck, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone with a delicate, trembling touch. "I hated seeing you hurt the other night. It broke my heart into a million pieces watching you cry over those people. But..."
He hesitated, his jaw tightening slightly as he searched your eyes, searching for permission to finally speak the truth he’d kept buried for months.
"But what, Mike?" you whispered, leaning imperceptibly into his touch.
"But a part of me... a selfish part of me... was glad," Michael confessed, his voice dropping into a raw, breathless whisper. "Because I couldn't stand watching him treat you like you were nothing. I wanted to scream every time you went back to him. Because I've been standing right here the whole time... just waiting for you to see me."
Your breath hitched. The air in the room became thick, electrified, supercharged with a romantic tension that had been building between you two for over a year—hidden under the guise of late-night phone calls, shared secrets, and lingering glances.
"Michael..." you gasped softly, staring at his plush, beautiful lips. "I... I see you. I've always seen you."
Michael’s eyes darkened with a sudden, overwhelming emotion. "Really?"
"Really," you murmured, reaching up to lay your palm against his chest. You could feel his heart hammering wildly beneath his shirt, just as fast as yours. "I was just... scared. Scared to ruin what we had. Scared that someone like you couldn't really want someone like me."
"Don't ever say that," he breathed, his hand sliding from your cheek down to wrap around the back of your waist, gently pulling you flush against his body. "You're everything to me. You're beautiful, you're strong, you're sweet... you're everything I've ever dreamed of."
Before you could say another word, Michael leaned down.
The first touch of his lips against yours was hesitant, sweet, and unbelievably soft—a gentle, questioning press that made your knees go weak. But as you wrapped your arms around his neck, sinking your fingers into the soft curls at the nape of his neck, Michael let out a soft, shuddering sigh against your mouth.
The kiss deepened instantly.
He pulled you tighter against his chest, his hands anchoring you to him as if he was afraid you might disappear into thin air. His lips moved over yours with a desperate, pent-up passion, taste-testing you, claiming you, pouring every unspoken feeling, every late-night yearning, and every ounce of his pure, electric heart into the kiss.
It wasn't the chaotic, manipulative pressure you were used to with Marcus. This was reverence. This was being held like you were the most precious, fragile, irreplaceable treasure in the entire world.
When Michael finally pulled back just a fraction to catch his breath, his forehead rested gently against yours. Both of your chests were heaving, your lips flushed and tingling, your eyes locked together in the dim studio light.
Michael’s hands remained securely wrapped around your waist, his thumbs gently caressing your hips through the soft fabric of his shirt. A brilliant, breathless, ecstatic smile broke across his face.
"I'm never gonna let anybody hurt you again," Michael whispered against your lips, his voice thick with devotion. "I promise you. You're mine now."
You let out a soft, genuine laugh—a sound full of freedom, joy, and peace for the first time in years. You cupped his cheek, leaning up to press a sweet kiss to the corner of his smiling mouth.
"I'm yours, Michael," you murmured softly. "I'm yours."
Outside the heavy studio doors, the L.A. night was dark and quiet, the shadows of the past officially washed away. But inside the sanctuary of Hayvenhurst, wrapped in Michael Jackson’s arms under the soft studio lights, your new story was just beginning—and it was breathtakingly beautiful.
Summary: Your Jackson-obsessed sister gets herself into trouble at Studio 54, forcing you to rescue her in the middle of the night. What starts off as a mission to clean up another of her messes takes a turn when you cross paths with Michael Jackson in a chaotic encounter.
Content: slow burn + little fluff, thrad era, no use of y/n
wc: 3.1k
A/N: this is my first time writing fan fiction and posting it :) Inspired by the ICONIC Disney movie Starstruck! Going back to my roots and writing my own stories just so I can read it but sharing it instead lol (dividers by @pixopix and @strangergraphics)
Part 1 - “Prepare to get starstruck”
Brooklyn, New York. 1985.
Music filled the small apartment as your sister sang along to a Jackson 5 song at the top of her lungs. Outside, the wind howled as leaves swirled through the air. You sat in the small living room, snuggled beneath a blanket with a book in your hands. It was the perfect fall evening to stay in and read.
"Hey, what do you think of this dress?" Looking up from your book, you gave your sister a puzzled look. She walked into the living room, holding up a super mini black dress.
"Em, you do remember where we live, right? Plus, it's the middle of November,” you asked concerned. The wind would surely blow her back to Texas.
"Well, duh." She smiled. "Obviously, I'm bringing a jacket and wearing tights. I'm not an idiot." You love your sister; you do, but ever since moving to the city two years ago, she’s proven that it’s a possibility. The girl thought the subway was a myth to scare tourists. Bless her heart.
“When they see me in this dress, surely one of them is going to fall in love with me.” She holds it to her chest and shrieks. “Stay there, I’m gonna put it on!" She spins before skipping off to her room.
Emeline is the biggest Jackson - actually, Michael Jackson fan you know. Against your will, you've learned far more about him than you ever wanted to. The absurd animals he has for pets, what snacks he likes to eat and even his favourite movies. So, when she heard the rumour that they were in town for Diana Ross's birthday, she was extra determined to spend another weekend night at Studio 54. It seems like moving to New York with you has finally begun to pay off.
A few minutes later, she walked back into the living room. The dress was short, but at least she had tights on. Over it, however, she wore a denim jacket. A denim jacket?
"Em, please put on a real coat, or you're not going." She rolled her eyes but obliged.
"I am 23, not a baby."
"You are still my baby sister."
"By a whole year!"
You sighed. "All right, all right. You know, I just want you to be okay. Don’t want you coming home sick or anything."
"I know, but I'll be fine.” She grabs her purse. “And I finally get to see my husband." She slipped on an actual coat. You scoffed and returned to the page in your book.
"Sure, whatever. Just don't do anything crazy tonight."
She smiled.
"Yeah, I don't know why I even said that." Honestly, it was a miracle she hadn't been banned yet.
"See you tonight!" She waves as she exits the apartment.
Manhattan, New York. 1985.
Studio 54 was more packed than ever tonight. With the news that Diana would be celebrating her birthday here, along with the Jacksons and a bunch of other celebrities in attendance, it came as no surprise. The air was warm inside, music blasted through the speakers, and bodies bounced off one another on the crowded dance floor. It was chaos.
Michael observed it all from the balcony above. A beautiful kind of chaos, he thought.
He felt Diana's presence before he heard her voice.
"You ready?" He nodded.
She looped her arm through his as they began descending the grand staircase. Heads turned instantly. A wave of cheers erupted from the crowd, cameras flashing as people gave them all their attention. It had been Diana's idea to make a grand entrance together, an homage, she'd called it, to the years they'd spent living in the city. She had insisted on walking in with him. Michael hadn't objected. After everything she'd done for him over the years, it was an easy request to say yes to.
Across the club, the rest of the Jackson brothers watched from their booth.
"It's a shame, really," Jermaine said, swirling the drink in his hand. The others looked at him.
"He looks like a lovesick puppy."
Tito nudged him with his elbow and shook his head.
"He's over her."
Jermaine raised an eyebrow. "And how would you know?"
Tito nodded toward Michael as he laughed at something Diana had whispered.
"That look right there," he said. "That's not the look of someone in love."
"Oh?"
"That's the look of someone who's accepted their feelings aren't going to be returned." For a brief moment, the booth fell silent. Then Jermaine burst out laughing.
"Whatever, Socrates." He pushed himself to his feet. "I'm getting a different drink. Who's coming?"
As the party wore on, Michael found himself wanting nothing more than to be back home with his animals. He enjoyed being around people for a while, but his social battery was running low.
He'd spent most of the evening sitting beside Diana in their booth. Every time a lady asked him to dance, she'd gently grab his arm and ask him to stay. Sit with me, she'd say. Since it was her birthday, he didn't mind. It was her night, after all. But the longer he stayed, the more aware he became of everything around him. The music now seemed impossibly loud. The smell of alcohol hung heavily in the air. The lights and camera flashes a bit too much. Even Diana's hand, that would rest on his arm, lingered a little too long for his comfort.
"Hey, Diana?"
She turned to him.
"Hm?"
"I'm gonna step outside for a breather."
She immediately started to stand. "Oh, let me come with-"
"No." He offered a small smile. "Stay. Enjoy your party. I'll only be a minute."
She hesitated before nodding.
Michael slipped out of the booth and carefully maneuvered through the sea of people. He had no idea where his brothers had disappeared to, but he was certain they were having a much better time than he was. This was their kind of place.
Not his. He sighed.
All he needed was a little fresh air. Just a few minutes of peace before heading back to the hotel. That plan was interrupted when someone slammed into him.
"Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry!"
The young woman did not even look back before taking off again.
Michael watched, confused, as she sprinted down a restricted hallway with a security guard chasing after her.
"What in the world?" For a brief second, he considered following to see what all the commotion was about. Then he thought better of it.
No.
Instead of continuing down that hallway, he formed a plan, he turned toward the staircase leading upstairs, hoping he'd find a quieter corner of the club while security dealt with whatever that was.
Brooklyn, New York.
You were jolted awake by the loud ringing of the landline. Half asleep, you reached across the nightstand and fumbled for the receiver.
"Hello?"
"It's me, Emeline. Can you please come get me?"
You shot upright, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. "What? Where are you? What happened?"
"Can't talk now, but meet me at the 18th Precinct."
"The what?!" you shouted.
"It's not that far from home, I think? So please use the car. My feet hurt."
"You're in jail! In Manhattan!?" you yelled.
"Look, I have 5 seconds left on this call, hu-"
The line went dead. You stared at the phone in disbelief. What the hell had she done? Throwing off your blankets, you pulled on a hoodie and a pair of sweatpants before glancing at the clock.
2:17 a.m.
This was not how you imagined spending your Sunday morning. You grabbed the car keys, the ones for the car you and Emeline barely used but still had thanks to your parents, and hurried down the apartment stairs.
She'd better have one hell of an explanation.
‧₊ ♪˚⊹
The drive was short. The moment you stepped inside the precinct, however, you wanted to find your sister and smack the back of her head.
"Hi," you said, approaching the front desk. "I'm here to pick up an Emeline?"
The woman behind the desk looked up from her computer. Before she could answer, a police officer rounded the corner.
"Oh, thank God," he said with a hand on his chest. "Someone is here to get her. She hasn't stopped talking my ear off about some... Carmon, Marvin, I don’t know some guy."
Caught off guard by his sudden appearance, you blinked. "Where is she?"
"She's in a holding cell. She tried to get into a restricted area at Studio 54 to follow some star, then punched a security guard when he wouldn't let her through."
Your eyes widened. Oh no. "Is she being charged with anything?"
"No." The officer shook his head. "She's lucky. The guard decided not to press charges. Probably didn't want to admit he'd gotten punched by a young lady.” He giggles before getting serious, “But she might not be so lucky next time." He deadpanned.
You let out a long breath. This was exactly what you got for telling her not to do anything crazy.
"We just need a family member to sign her out. Do you have some ID?"
After the paperwork was finished, the officer unlocked the holding cell and released Emeline. The second she stepped out, you grabbed her wrist and dragged her toward the exit.
"Ow! Ow! Owwie! I can explain!"
"No."
She stumbled after you.
"But I swear I saw Marlon-"
"I said no." You repeat. "The cop already told me everything I need to know. You're lucky neither Studio 54 nor that guard decided to press charges."
She pouted but stayed quiet. For almost five whole seconds. As soon as the two of you climbed into the car, she spoke again.
"Do not get mad at me, but I left my purse at the club." She sheepishly smiles.
You froze with your hand on the ignition and turned your head slowly to face her. "What?"
"My employee badge is in there too. If I ask for another one, they're surely gonna fire me." Could this night get any worse? She gave you an apologetic smile.
"You owe me." Without another word, you started the car and pulled away from the precinct.
‧₊ ♪˚⊹
The car pulled up to one of the club's more discreet side entrances. The sky was pitch black with only a few street lights cutting through the darkness. The wind whipped through the empty alley, sending loose trash and leaves in the air. You parked and turned to Emeline.
"I have to walk down there? Why this entrance?" She avoided your eyes.
"Well, the front is packed…” A pause. “And I guess the cop didn't tell you everything." Another pause. "I got banned. Apparently, I am legally not allowed on the premises or something?" You stared at her. "On the bright side, I won't be bothering you with my clubbing stories anymore?" You continued staring. Face blank.
"Just tell me what to do," you said through gritted teeth. "Because if you keep talking, I swear to God I'm going to hit you."
"Okay, okay!" She held up her hands in surrender. "Just knock on the exit door. One of the employees should answer. Ask for Sarah. She probably knows where my purse is."
"And they won’t throw me out too?"
"No, probably not."
"Probably?" Emeline winced. Rolling your eyes, you climbed out of the driver's seat. This is the last time I'm fixing one of her messes, you thought. Deep down, though, you already knew that wasn't true.
The cold air hit you immediately. The wind tugged relentlessly at your hair as you made your way toward the metal door, keeping your head lowered so your hair wouldn't blow into your face.
You reached the door and lifted your hand to knock.
Before your knuckles made contact, the heavy metal door, with the help of the wind, flew open and slammed directly into your forehead.
"Ow!"
The impact knocked you backward, and you landed hard on the pavement. You groaned. This night had to be some kind of nightmare.
A hooded figure immediately rushed out and knelt beside you.
"Oh my goodness! Are you okay?" A soft voice asked as a pair of hands gently steadied your shoulders. "Did I just hit you?" The panic in his voice sounded genuine, but you had reached your limit for the night.
“No, the door hit me by itself.” Shrugging off his hands, you stood up.
Bad idea.
The world tilted violently, and you nearly collapsed again. Your vision blurred. You didn't care though. You just needed to get Emeline's purse so the two of you could finally go home.
"Move," you muttered, as you wobbled past the hooded man. "I just need to get something inside." You took one unsteady step before your knees buckled. Before you could hit the ground a second time, an arm wrapped carefully around your waist, keeping you upright.
"Easy." The stranger adjusted his grip, making sure not to hurt you. "Please, don’t move. Let me help you." He pleaded softly. He guided you toward the wall so you could lean against it.
Your hand instinctively went to your forehead. You winced. A bruise was definitely beginning to form. "Ouch."
You finally looked at the hooded figure in front of you. Large brown eyes stared back. Gentle and concerned. He looked oddly familiar. You frowned.
Have I seen him before? You thought. Then it clicked.
“Are you M-” His hand quickly covered your mouth before you could finish. He glanced around, checking the empty alley.
“I will give you front row tickets to my show if you don’t scream my name.” He was paranoid that a journalist would be hiding somewhere, waiting to capture this moment and spin it however they wanted. It wouldn’t be the first time. Ripping his hand from your mouth, you stared at him.
“I do not want to see your concert, nor do I care. I need to get something inside.” Michael blinked, clearly caught off guard.
“Okay…” he said slowly. No one would pass on free tickets to one of his shows he thought. Something must be wrong. “I really need to get you to a doctor.”
He reached for the door handle and gave it a firm tug. Nothing. He frowned and tried again, putting more weight behind it. The door didn't move. It was locked.
"Shoot." He let out a quiet sigh before looking back at you. "Forget it. Do you have a car?"
You nodded.
"Good."
Without another word, he stepped closer.
"Sorry." Before you could ask what he meant, he gently lifted your arm over his shoulder. One arm stayed securely around your waist, steadying you as he slowly guided you toward the opening of the alley.
The two of you walked in silence. His grip was firm but careful, making sure you didn't lose your balance again. Every now and then he'd glance over, checking to see if you were still conscious.
"You okay?"
"I've been better."
"I…yeah." An awkward silence settled between you.
"Mike?" A voice echoed from behind you. "I figured you'd be out here." The voice grew closer before adding with a laugh, "Didn't think I'd find you with a date, though."
You stopped walking.
"A what?" Your head slowly turned toward the hooded man beside you.
Michael's eyes went wide. You could feel his body stiffen.
"No. No, no, no." Even in the dim light of the alley, you could see the colour rise in his cheeks.
"It's not like that."
The approaching footsteps came to a stop a few feet away.
"We're... kind of in a pickle here, Marlon."
Marlon stepped into the faint glow spilling from the club's back entrance. His amused grin faded the second he noticed the bump on your forehead.
"Mike." He looked from you to his younger brother. "What happened?"
"The door," Michael answered immediately. "The wind caught it."
"You hit her with a door?"
"I didn't mean to!"
"Can we just go to my car?" You interrupted, your voice louder than you intended. "It's freezing, and it's right there." You pointed weakly toward the dark sedan parked at the end of the alley.
"The keys are already inside and so is my sister." Your stomach dropped. "Oh my gosh"
Em.
The weight of the night hit you all at once. The phone call. The police station. The drive. The door. The pounding in your head. Everything crashed together. Your vision blurred.
"Oh, boy." Both brothers turned toward you. Michael's arm tightened around your waist.
"You don't look so…"
"I think I'm gonna-" The word never came out. Your body went limp.
"Oh, shit," Marlon muttered.
Before you could hit the ground, Michael caught you. Without thinking, he slipped one arm beneath your knees and another behind your back, lifting you into his arms with ease.
“I got her."
The two brothers hurried toward the car. Michael knocked urgently on the passenger-side window. Inside, Emeline looked up. Her eyes widened. Her jaw practically on the floor. For a moment, she simply stared. Then she blinked.
Once. Twice.
Michael knocked again. "Please, open the door."
Still stunned, Emeline fumbled for the lock.
Click.
The door flew open.
Michael carefully slid into the back seat, cradling you against his chest before easing you onto the seat beside him. You didn't move.
Your head fell on his shoulder.
Marlon climbed into the driver's seat before extending a hand toward the speechless woman beside him.
"Marlon Jackson."
Emeline looked at his hand. Then at his face. Then back at his hand.
"What's happening?"
"Your sister fainted," Marlon said as he started the engine. "Mike accidentally hit her with a door. We're taking her to the hospital." She stared in shock.
In the back seat, Michael gently adjusted your position so your head rested comfortably against his shoulder.
"Come on," he whispered. "Wake up." His fingers lightly brushed your cheek.
No response.
Emeline twisted around in her seat, panic finally replacing the starstruck expression she'd been wearing. "She's going to kill me."
"This wouldn't have happened if I hadn't chased after you." She pointed accusingly at Marlon. "So technically, this is your fault."
"My fault?" Marlon repeated, eyes fixed on the road.
"Yes! I was trying to run after you, but security kept stopping me!"
"That was you!?"
"No comment."
Michael drowned out the noise from the argument unfolding in the front seat. His attention never left you.
The streetlights flashed through the windows, briefly illuminating your face before disappearing into darkness again. He studied your features. The way your hair framed your face. Your long lashes. The faint bruise beginning to bloom on your forehead. He gently brushed his thumb across your cheek. Just trying to wake her up, he told himself.
Nothing more.
Your eyelashes fluttered. Michael's breath caught.
Your eyes slowly opened.
Realizing how close the two of you were, he quickly pulled his hand away. His heart pounded against his ribs.
You blinked several times, trying to make sense of your surroundings.
The moving car. The shoulder beneath your head. The warm arm supporting you. Confused, you slowly looked up, straight into a pair of worried brown eyes.
Can we get a bad! Michael x rival! reader pregnant fic?
The thing about y/n is…she absolutely would NOT let michael get her pregnant. Shes at the peak of her career and is definitely team FUCK THEM KIDS…I just don’t see it happening at all.
Like maybe Michael would suggest it one day after seeing you bounce his nephews and nieces on your hip at a little get together, enjoying the smile on your face as you coo at them. He could totally picture you guys having a little family…maybe one girl and one boy so they can play together and whatnot, but you immediately crush his dreams as soon as the word 'baby' leaves his mouth, your face twisting in disgust.
"And ruin this body? Yeah, you’ve lost your fucking mind."
For the sake of this request though, let’s imagine an alternate reality where it does happen..
He hadn't given up on the baby idea, of course. Michael was nothing if not relentless. Over the next month, he wooed you into a literal contract of promises. He promised a full team of night nurses, an entirely renovated wing of your Bel-Air estate, a brand new custom wardrobe for every single stage of the process, and a cute push present from Cartier that could buy a small island.
When the two pink lines finally appeared on the test strip in your marble bathroom weeks later, you stood frozen in pure, dramatic terror, clutching your stomach. Michael, on the other hand, had dropped straight onto the cold tile floor, weeping tears of pure joy, pressing fervent, worshipful kisses to your still very flat stomach while you yelled at him for ruining your expensive slippers with his tears.
The first twelve weeks were an absolute nightmare, and you made sure Michael suffered every single second of it.
Your morning sickness was legendary. You spent the early hours of the day draped dramatically over the hand carved porcelain toilet in your robe, weeping about how he had "poisoned" you with his sperm and dumb genetics. You swore your skin was losing its glow, your waist was already expanding, and that you were going to sue his entire management team for breach of peace.
Michael was an absolute saint. He ran hot baths at three in the morning, held your hair back with gentle, trembling hands, and brought ginger tea on silver trays. No matter how vicious your insults were—no matter how many times you called him a "reckless, disgusting, smooth talking piece of shit"—he just smiled, kissed your forehead, and whispered how beautiful you were.
Then came week thirteen.
Almost overnight, your nausea miraculously vanished. You woke up with glowing skin, an insatiable appetite, and an ungodly amount of energy. You strutted around the estate in high heels, ordering the staff around like a royal monarch.
Michael, however, suddenly woke up pale, shivering, and clutching his stomach.
It turned out the pop icon had contracted a severe case of Couvade syndrome—sympathetic pregnancy.
While you lounged on the velvet loveseat eating fresh mango and pineapple, Michael was doubled over the toilet, dry heaving like a sad Victorian child.
You stood in the bathroom doorway, wearing a custom dress, a delicate hand resting on your hip as you looked down at him with equal parts pity and utter irritation.
"Michael, pull yourself the fuck together," you sighed dramatically, tossing a cold, lavender-scented towel onto his head. "You look completely pathetic. How am I supposed to enjoy my breakfast when you're down there making those horrific sounds? I’m the one carrying the child, Jackson."
Michael groaned from the floor, his curls damp against his pale forehead, looking up at you with heavy, pathetic dark eyes. "Mama... my stomach hurts so bad... I think I'm dyin'..."
"You aren't dying, you're being a pussy," you huffed, though your expression softened just a fraction. You knelt down on the rug—making sure your dress didn't wrinkle—and gently reached out, running your manicured fingers through his damp curls. "Drink your peppermint tea, baby. Come on."
Michael let out a weak, breathless laugh, leaning his head into your lap. Even while he was miserable, the fact that you called him baby and petted his hair made his chest swell with pure adoration. "You're s'mean to me," he mumbled into your silk dress, his hand weakly reaching up to pat your waist. "So mean to your poor, sick prince..."
"I'm a saint for not leaving you on the curb," you retorted, though you pressed a quick, sweet kiss to his clammy temple. "Now sit up before I change my mind."
By month five, your tiny bump had finally bloomed into a distinct, undeniable swell.
To the rest of the world, your absence from the public eye was causing mass hysteria. The tabloids speculated everything from an international scandal to a secret album. When you did pop out, you made it an absolute spectacle. You wore massive, floor length dresses, dramatic trench coats buttoned only at the neck, and carried outrageously oversized Hermès Birkin bags held directly in front of your stomach.
Behind closed doors, however, Michael was completely obsessed with your changing body.
At your twenty week doctor’s appointment, you sat on the examination table in a private high security clinic, wearing giant dark sunglasses indoors. You acted completely indifferent, complaining loudly about the cold air conditioning and how the ultrasound gel was going to ruin your silk top.
"If this goop stains my top you're getting a mean cleaning bill," you warned sharply, crossing your arms. "I paid three thousand dollars for this in Milan."
The doctor suppressed a grin, nodding politely. "I'll be very careful, ma'am."
Michael sat on the stool beside you, dressed in his black fedora and oversized sunglasses, holding your hand so tightly his knuckles were white. He was practically bouncing in his seat. "Ignore her, Dr. Evans," Michael interjected smoothly, a warm chuckle in his voice. "She's just nervous. She's actually been talking about this appointment for three days straight."
"I have not!" you snapped, turning your head toward him with a lethal glare. "Don't spread slander about me in front of medical professionals, Jackson."
"You asked me four times this morning if I thought the baby was going to have my nose," Michael teased quietly, leaning in to whisper against your ear. "You said if the baby got my forehead you were sending it back."
"That was an exclusive conversation!" you hissed, though a tiny flush crept up your neck.
"Alright, let's take a look," the doctor said, pressing the transducer against your abdomen.
Suddenly, the quiet examination room was filled with a loud, rapid, rhythmic sound.
Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump.
The sharp, mean line of your mouth instantly slackened. Your breath caught in your throat. You stared at the grainy gray monitor screen, your dark sunglasses slipping down the bridge of your nose.
Beside you, Michael let out a ragged, choked gasp. Tears immediately spilled over his eyelashes, dripping down his cheekbones. He dropped to his knees beside the examination table, burying his face into the side of your neck, his body trembling as he sobbed quietly.
"That's... that's our baby, mama," he wept softly, his voice thick and broken with awe. "Listen to that... listen to how strong..."
You tried so hard to maintain your cold, untouchable mask, but your eyes welled with hot tears. You placed a trembling hand on top of Michael’s curly head, pulling him closer, your thumb stroking his ear. "Of course it's strong," you whispered, your voice cracking slightly. "It's mine. It wouldn't dare be anything less."
A few weeks later, during a quiet weekend escape to his ranch, the baby kicked for the first time.
You were taking a slow walk down toward the barns, draped in a soft cashmere shawl. Michael was walking beside you, his arm wrapped firmly around your waist to support your back, chattering endlessly about how he wanted to build an entire fairytale playground near the gardens.
As you passed the stalls, Louie the llama leaned his long neck over the wooden fence. The animal gave a low, gentle hum, softly pressing his wet snout right against your rounded stomach.
(Bubbles on the other hand sensed your intense mood swings and sudden change in aura and decided to avoid you completely, which you counted as a total win. Dumb ape)
"Look at that," Michael marvelled softly, slowing his pace. "Louie knows."
"Louie has more emotional intelligence than half your security team," you remarked haughtily, reaching out to stroke the llama's soft ears. "Don't you, Louie? You're a refined gentleman."
Suddenly, right where Louie's nose had touched your belly, a sharp, weird flutter rippled beneath your ribs. You gasped out loud, clutching your stomach.
"Michael! Get the fuck over here!" you shrieked.
Michael practically jumped out of his loafers, scrambling to face you with wide, terrified eyes. "What? What's wrong? Are you having contractions?! Do I need to call the helicopter?!"
"Shut up and put your hand here!" you demanded, grabbing his large, warm hand and slapping it onto the right side of your bare bump under the cashmere.
For a second, nothing happened. Michael held his breath, his dark eyes wide and searching your face, his whole posture frozen.
Then—thump. A distinct, solid little punch hit the center of his palm.
Michael froze. A slow, radiant, breathtaking smile broke across his face—the kind of smile he only ever wore when he was looking at something he considered a miracle.
"Oh... oh God," he whispered, a breathless, giddy sound escaping his chest. He lowered himself onto his knees right there in the soft grass, his dark eyes brimming with unshed tears as he pressed his cheek directly against your belly. "Hi, little one," he murmured softly to your bump, his voice dropping into that quiet, rhythmic tone he used for lullabies. "Hi, baby. It's your daddy. I hear you..."
You looked down at him—this global superstar, this grown man kneeling in the dirt in front of a llama, weeping against your stomach—and felt a sudden, terrifying wave of fierce, unadulterated love crash over your chest. You reached down, lightly playing with the soft curls at his nape, humming softly while he talked to your belly for an hour.
By the seventh month, your nesting instincts kicked in, but because you were a diva at heart, it manifested as pure, dictatorial chaos.
You fired three celebrity interior designers in a single week.
"The shade of ivory on these silk drapes is a sickening, cheap eggshell!" you yelled at the third designer, who looked ready to faint. "It makes the room look like an airport motel! Get out of my sight before I have my security feed you to my man's animals!"
Michael walked into the nursery just as the designer scrambled out the front door. He carried a silver tray with a plate of warm chocolate chip cookies and a glass of cold milk, looking utterly unbothered by the dramatic scene.
"Fired another one, huh?" Michael asked, a fond, teasing smile playing on his lips as he set the tray on a side table.
"They're all incompetent, Michael!" you raged, sitting down heavily in a plush armchair and taking a cookie. "Is it too much to ask for a perfect nursery for my baby? Why am I surrounded by amateurs?"
"S'kay, baby," Michael murmured, walking over to sit on the arm of your chair. He reached down, unbuckling your designer flats and lifting your swollen feet onto his lap to massage them. "I'll finish the room myself."
And he did. That very night, Michael put on an oversized, paint splattered t-shirt, picked up a fine detail brush at two in the morning, and hand painted golden stars across the vaulted ceiling himself. You sat in your armchair in a silk robe, eating treats, making comments like, "That star on the left is lopsided," while he just chuckled softly, dipping his brush in gold paint and whispering, "Whatever you say, my queen."
The Jackson family baby shower was held at a private, gated estate in Holmby Hills. It was an extravagant, gold and ivory fairytale. Katherine Jackson practically took you under her wing, holding your hand and beaming at your growing belly.
"You look absolutely radiant, my dear," Katherine said softly, gently patting your shoulder. "Michael hasn't stopped smiling for seven months. You've brought so much light into his life."
"Well, somebody has to keep him grounded, Mrs. Jackson," you replied, softening your voice just a fraction. "He'd buy the moon if I didn't remind him of his budget."
Your sisters in law cackled loudly from across the terrace. "Are you kidding?!" Janet yelled over her champagne glass. "She's got him running across Bel Air at three in the morning for organic mangoes! He's completely whipped!"
During the gender reveal, as pastel pink and gold balloons fluttered up into the afternoon sky, Michael pulled you behind a high boxwood hedge away from the family. He reached into his jacket pocket and handed you a sleek, navy velvet box. Inside rested a breathtaking, yellow canary diamond ring, surrounded by a halo of pink diamonds.
"To match the first one," he whispered, stepping close and kissing your temple as you gasped at the sheer, blinding size of the stone. "For carrying our little princess."
"It's acceptable," you managed to choke out, immediately slipping it onto your finger and admiring how it caught the sunlight. "Though you still owe me a vacation once she's out."
"Anything you want, mama," he chuckled warmly, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind and resting his chin on your shoulder. "Anything in the world."
Later that night, long after the party guests had gone and the estate had settled into quiet darkness, that facade finally crumbled.
You were sitting up in the center of the bed, propped up by a mountain of body pillows. Your bump was heavy, your lower back ached terribly, and the reality of what was about to happen in a few short weeks hit you like a freight train. Tears began to silently spill over your lashes, dripping onto your silk nightgown.
Michael came out of the bathroom, drying his hair with a towel. The second he saw you sitting there crying silently, he dropped the towel and was across the room in two seconds.
"Baby? Hey... hey, what's wrong?" he asked gently, climbing onto the bed and pulling you into his chest, his large hands resting securely on your hips. "Are you in pain? Is the baby moving too much?"
"I'm scared, Michael," you sobbed softly, burying your wet face into the warm crook of his neck, your fingers gripping his shoulders desperately. The strong armor was completely gone, leaving only the terrified, vulnerable woman underneath. "I'm so fucking scared."
Michael didn't tease you. He didn't make a joke. He just wrapped his arms around you, pulling your heavy weight completely into his lap, rocking you gently back and forth.
"Talk to me, sweet girl. Tell me," he whispered softly into your hair.
"I'm going to be an awful mother," you wept, your voice cracking with a raw, painful honesty. "Look at me! I'm selfish, I'm mean, I'm vain, and I care about shoes and diamonds more than anything. What if I ruin her? What if I can't protect her from... from everything out there? Everyone watches us, Michael. Everything we do is under a goddamn microscope. I don't know how to be soft like your mother. I only know how to fight, because I have to."
Michael listened in complete silence. When you finally finished, his dark eyes were full of a deep, tender love.
He reached up, cupping your face in both of his broad, warm hands, wiping your tears away with his thumbs. He looked straight into your eyes, his voice grounded and sincere.
"Listen to me," he said firmly, his low voice cutting right through your panic. "You are not going to ruin her. You are the strongest, most fierce, most brilliant woman I have ever met in my entire life. You think you're mean, but I know the truth. I see how you talk to Louie in the barn. I see how you look at me when you think I'm sleeping. I see how much you already love our girl."
He leaned forward, pressing a soft, lingering wet kiss to your forehead.
"She doesn't need a soft mother who lets the world walk over her," Michael whispered passionately, his dark eyes shining. "She needs you. She needs a mother who is going to teach her how to stand tall, how to command a room, and how to never let anyone shrink her light. You're going to protect her, mama. And I'm going to be right beside you every single step of the way. You are never, ever going to do this alone."
You stared at him, your chest heavy, a watery, fragile smile finally breaking through your tears. "You really mean that?"
"With my whole heart," he breathed, leaning down to press a deep, sweet kiss to your lips. "Now... do you want me to rub your back? Or do you want to whine some more?"
You let out a breathless laugh, resting your head against his collarbone, feeling the steady, comforting beat of his heart beneath your cheek.
"Rub my back," you mumbled sweet-and-sourly, closing your eyes as his hands found the aching muscles of your lower spine. "And if you stop before I fall asleep... I'm throwing you in the pool."
Michael chuckled softly in the dark, pulling the heavy duvet over both of your bodies, holding you close against his chest as the soft night wind rustled through the trees, slowly awaiting for his beautiful baby girl to arrive.
…but this’ll never happen. like everrrrrrrrrr. cute thought tho
"The sound lured Michael closer, like a siren calling to a sailor. He was mesmerized. The soulful melody led him to right outside the master bathroom. A soft gasp escaped his throat when he realized where the sound was coming from...
“My girl can sing” Michael said to himself quietly, his hand drifted to his chest over his palpitating heart"
SYNOPSIS: Michael catches reader singing in the shower now he's obsessed with writing the perfect song just for her.
CONTENT: SUPER SWEET FLUFF, slightly suggestive, era 1995, history era!Michael,
Author's note: Found out I'm a mezzo soprano and started thinking what it would be like to have mike write a song for you that compliments your voice 🥺 I know the pic is from bad era but let's pretend it's history era mmk 🤫 love you 🫶🏾
Btw: The song I imagined Mike writing for her is Love on the Brain by Rih Rih
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
It was early afternoon when Michael arrived home unexpectedly. These days, most of his time was divided between the recording studio and the dance studio. It was rare that he was allowed a moment to breathe, so he decided to come home for a little during his studio engineers' lunch break.
Michael slid off his loafers and placed them neatly on the shoe rack before wandering into the kitchen.
“Baby, I’m home” he called out to you. Usually around this time of day, you were in the den reading or doing yoga out on the patio. Michael perused the fridge absentmindedly looking for something good to snack on. He settled on a charcuterie style lunchable you’d meal prepped for him; grapes, berries, cheese, almonds and pepperoni. You knew he wasn’t someone who particularly enjoyed eating, so you made sure you kept his favorite snacks ready for him when the mood did strike. Just another small way you showed your love for him.
Michael stood at the counter munching quietly. When your soft voice never called back out to him, he went looking for you. He wandered up the stairs, and he was nearly to the top when the sound reached him. Low and warm, rich like honey. Notes with a slight raspy edge caressed Michael’s ears and he stopped in his tracks.
Was someone else here? That’s weird. You never mentioned one of his sisters or your girlfriends stopping by. And this wasn’t the day Michael worked with his vocal coach.
The sound lured Michael closer, like a siren calling to a sailor. He was mesmerized. The soulful melody led him to right outside the master bathroom. A soft gasp escaped his throat when he realized where the sound was coming from.
It wasn’t a stereo that had been forgotten, still churning out melodies. And there was no one else here.
“My girl can sing” Michael said to himself quietly, his hand drifted to his chest over his palpitating heart. He had heard you sing before, but never like this. Usually, it was half-hearted melodies or sing-songy Broadway tunes that made Michael giggle. This was different.
Michael closed his eyes and instantly he saw colors and shapes. The notes danced together behind his eyelids, soft gold that melted into a burnt amber before dissolving into a deep violet at the edges. The colors moved the way your voice did, warm and slow, folding into one another.
He had wandered inside the bathroom without even realizing it. He rested his back against the wall and the experience became euphoric. Warm steam flooded from the shower and the manuka honey and vanilla body wash that he loved drifted in the air.
Michael couldn’t believe it. You had been together for just over 8 months, cooking together, lying awake at night chatting about any and everything, and most recently you’d moved in with him. You had accompanied him on more flights and drives than he could remember. And he never knew. It was completely lost on him that the woman he’d been sharing his daily life with possessed a gift of this caliber that had gone unheard.
Before he knew it, the producer in him roared like a lion.
“She’s a mezzo soprano”
“Her chest voice is incredible. She can do so much with that.”
“I love how she carried that vowel; she came up with that on her own”
“How long has she been able to do that?”
“Does she know she can do that?”
Before Michael realized it, he had been still for a full minute— and without meaning to— he did what he always did when he heard a melody he couldn’t shake.
His lips parted and he found the harmony you’d been carrying. It was soft, a few notes below your melody. His voice intertwined with yours as naturally as your bodies tangled together in the warmth of your bed as you lulled each other to sleep. As natural as breathing. The notes locked together and blossomed as if you and Michael had been harmonizing together your whole lives, like two missing pieces of a puzzle.
On the other side of the shower curtain, your eyes flew open when you realized a third voice had joined you and Lauryn Hill. The water kept running but your singing had stopped cold, leaving Michael’s tune drifting through the air.
“Mikey?” You opened the shower curtain and peeked at him. There he was with a lazy, adoring smile tugging at his lips.
His eyes drifted over you longingly, admiring the way your soft brown skin contrasted against the pale, soapy bubbles dripping down your body. Water droplets dripped from your lashes onto your cheekbones and your curls began to coil once removed from the stream of water.
Having natural hair meant that your wash days were extensive, so you had to find some way to entertain yourself. You hadn’t accounted on your doting boyfriend coming home early and catching you belting out notes from "I Used To Love Him".
“Wow baby. Why didn’t you tell me you could sing?” He asked, tone full of wonder. He leaned in to kiss you and let his lips linger, savoring the moment, before pulling away.
Immediately you covered your face.
“How long you been there? Oh God.” You felt heat spreading across the back of your neck from embarrassment. You shut off the water and stepped out of the tub, allowing Michael to wrap a towel around your body.
“Long enough mama, how long were you gon’ keep this lil’ secret?” He teased as he watched you wrap an old t shirt around your curls to dry them. You tried to slip past him into the bedroom and instinctively, his palm cracked across your ass, squeezing gently to soothe it.
You made a face and rolled your eyes.
“Don’t start Mike, I was just messin’ around.” Michael continued to trail behind you like he always did when he planned to ask you a million and one questions about a discovery he’d made about you.
“I’m serious. I’ve never heard you sing like that before.” He murmured, taking the bottle of lotion from your hands. He squeezed a little into his palm before dropping to his knees. His hands roamed over your thighs and calves gently, massaging the lotion into your skin as he looked up at you.
“That’s because I don’t. Especially not around you or any of my loving sister and brother in laws.” You laughed to yourself under your breath at the idea of trying to hold a candle to anyone in the Jackson family. Singing was really just a hobby to you. Something you took great pleasure in when you could be as loud as you wanted without fear of anyone judging you.
Confusion made its way through Michael’s features. He trusted you with his whole soul and hoped you felt the same way about him.
“Especially not around me?” the question came naturally he was genuinely lost.
You cocked your head to the side like he’d just said the most foolish thing you’ve ever heard.
“Mike, you serious? Because you’re Michael Jackson.” Your statement had every bit of “duh” laced through it, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Ain’t no way I’m gonna try to hold a tune ‘round you when you’ve got the voice you do.” You took the lotion from him and added, “And I’ve seen the face you make when somebody can’t sing. You can’t help it.”
At that, Michael laughed, full-bellied and warm. He was absolutely guilty as charged. Woman, man, nor child was safe from the concerned look that would screw up his features when someone was off-key. And unfortunately for him, it happened often. Just like when he froze mid-sway with a look of absolute discontent while recording “We Are the World” when Huey Lewis took over the melody and messed up his whole groove. Unfortunately for Michael, the camera caught the whole thing and now it was a running joke. Admittedly, Michael was a perfectionist.
“You ain’t wrong. But that, baby— that was perfect pitch. You’ve got one of the strongest chest voices I’ve heard in a real long time. Full of soul, the perfect mezzo-soprano. Reminds me of my Motown days, don’t nobody sing like that these days.” You continued to stare at him skeptically through the mirror as you rummaged through the dresser for something comfortable to put on.
“You not messin’?” You asked, voice a little shy.
“No baby, I’d never play with you like that. I really mean it. You got somethin' special.” He came up behind you once you’d slid on a t-shirt and a pair of boy shorts. He rested his chin on your shoulder so he could meet your eyes in the mirror. His arms wrapped around your midsection and pulled you close to him.
“C'mon, let me hear it again. Just a lil’ bit. One little tune.”
Teeth found your bottom lip and you shook your head even though you were laughing, a clear signal you were close to giving in. Michael’s voice dropped into a low, old-timey soulful tone, the one he always used when he was teasing. He sang the words deep and sweet,
“IIIIIII would like to sing with youuuu, would you like to sing with meeee?” The melody was simple and he smiled at you boyishly in the reflection of the mirror as he brushed his lips over your shoulder.
Instinctively, you answered in perfect pitch. Your voice was rich and clear, “Nooo” you sang, holding the note with a vibrato and his eyes lit up. Michael turned you in his arms.
“That’s what I’m talkin’ about. You been holdin’ out on me.” You tried to look away as a smile continued to take over your features. He moved his head, following your gaze. “Don’t hide from me, pretty girl. Let me see you. All of you.” Soft lips brushed against yours as he swayed you both back and forth.
“Mike, I’m not a singer. ‘S just for fun.” You were still shaking your head at the idea.
“I’ma put you on a record, baby. Maybe start with background vocals, maybe more. That voice is dangerous.” Your eyes widened at his statement and instantly you blurted,
“Who?! Not me, that's your job papa.” You patted his chest and smiled cheekily. He laughed at your small outburst and pressed a kiss to the tip of your nose.
“Mark my words, you gon’ sing for me, mama.” Nodding, a glimmer of mischief twinkled in his eyes. One you realized all too well.
Before he could get any more ideas, you wiggled out of his grasp and sashayed out of the room.
“Boy quit botherin’ me and go shower. You smell like you been dancin’.”
“Hey!” Michael frowned, lifting one arm and sniffing before his eyebrows rose. “Oooh, you right” he mumbled to himself before wandering back to the bathroom.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
A few days later Michael found himself absentmindedly tapping a pen against a notepad. His studio engineers had gone off for break and he was left alone with the same melody looping through the speakers.
Michael sighed and rubbed his tired eyes. He needed to pivot to get his creative juices flowing again. He began absentmindedly flicking through different melodies he’d been sent by various producers. Sometimes he liked to listen to the tracks again after stepping away from them for a while, maybe inspiration would strike.
Then the speakers changed to a track that Michael didn’t remember declining. The melody was lazy, bluesy like the stuff he grew up on. Marvin Gaye, Sam Cooke, Etta James. It had the warm soul doo-wop that was lost from today’s music.
Immediately, Michael’s fingers began moving. He layered an electric piano, a clean electric guitar, a deep thumping kick that gave the tune a soulful rhythm, a ticking snare. His mind kept drifting back to your warm, velvety tone. He began building the song around that memory. Every layer he added complimented the sultry, thick mid-register notes Michael had heard you deliver. Before he knew it he had completed the entire melody.
“Oh” punched from his chest softly when he played back the final result.
It was so good. So you.
He snatched his notepad from the desk beside him so fast that he nearly ripped the top page. He began messily scribbling down lyrics. The song reminded him of “I’d Rather Go Blind” by Etta James, and immediately it got his gears turning.
A pen tapped Michael’s lips as he played around with the lyrics in his head, singing softly to himself before jotting.
And you got me like, oh.
What you want from me?
And I tried to buy your pretty heart, but the price too high
Michael paused every few moments and paced the studio as he continued to work through the song. Within 30 minutes, he had the lyrics and melody completed along with a demo.
His studio engineers returned, and Michael was in a flow state. Quickly, he dismissed them, telling him they’d reconvene that evening. When Michael got like this and a new idea for a song grabbed a hold of him it possessed him until he saw it through.
The confused engineers looked at each other and shrugged, thanking Michael for the extra break time. The second they left Michael swiveled his office chair over to the phone.
He dialed the number he knew by heart and tapped his foot anxiously as he waited for you to pick up. The line trilled three times before your voice came through the receiver,
“Jackson residence, who’s speaking?” Michael couldn’t help but smile to himself at you performing wifely duties already.
“It’s me, baby. How you doin’?”
The clerical tone melted away from your voice and it was replaced with the warm, loving tone he was used to.
“Doin’ fine just came back in from yoga. What’s up, papa?” You were still wiping sweat from your brow from your work out.
“I need my muse. Can you come down here and lay eyes on some new stuff I been workin’ on? Want your opinion on if its album worthy, and I need some inspiration. Come sit with me.”
Warmth spread through your chest at his words. Michael never failed to make you feel needed, loved, and wanted. He often referred to you as his muse, a source of pure inspiration.
“Of course. Gimme an hour to shower and get dressed and I’ll stop by, alright?”
“Fine by me baby. I’m gonna send someone to get you, take your time.”
You told him you loved him and ended the call. Wonder what he has up his sleeve now.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
A woman of your word, you arrived at Michael’s studio just an hour later. You were dressed cute and comfy. You wore a loosely buttoned flannel that fell open just enough the reveal the curve of your cleavage. The sleeves were rolled up to your forearms showing the smooth brown skin there.
A pair of black shorts sat low on your wide hips and hugged the full shape of your thick thighs. Anklets rested against each ankle and a pair of strappy sandals adorned your feet. A pair of sunnies were pushed into your hair, holding your curls back from your face and spilling freely around your shoulders. You weren't wearing makeup and your bare face was soft and open.
Michael felt a possessive tug in his chest as his eyes trailed over your collarbones. Your signature gold jewelry caught the studio lights as you moved, a gold plate that bore Michael’s initials rested there. Unashamedly he took in your shapely figure, admiring the way you rolled your hips as you walked over to him.
You gently grabbed his face, squishing his cheeks as you gave him a warm wet kiss. Michael felt his heart flutter, like it always did when you loved on him like that. You sat in the empty office chair next to him, obviously confused by the lack of studio engineers.
“What’s up, baby? Where is everybody?”
“Gave ‘em the afternoon off. I needed to work somethin’ out. Check this out for me?”
You trailed the tips of your toes up his clothed shin affectionately as he brought up the track. The demo Michael had just recorded began floating through the room and his eyes flicked up to yours. He watched your face the way he always did when he wanted your honest opinion and thought you might hold back. He filed every little expression away mentally with time stamps. He would adjust those parts later.
When it ended, Michael turned fully toward you.
“So, what do you think?”
“It’s beautiful… really beautiful.” You looked over at him. “Who is it for?” You had heard all the tracks for his upcoming album, and you were aware that this was not one of them.
Sometimes, Michael would record demos for his siblings to emulate if he was writing new material and wanted to hear how it sounded with someone else’s voice or in a different key. This was something he often did with La Toya, sometimes Rebbie.
A shy look took over Michael’s expression and he smiled while biting down on the right side of his lip. He moved closer to you and took your smaller hand in his. He pressed his lips to your palm, giving it soft kisses while he held your gaze tenderly.
“It’s for you.”
His statement didn’t register at first and you just blinked at him.
“Quit playin’. You givin’ it to Rebbie or La Toya? I think it fits Toya more.”
Michael shook his head and pressed your palm to his cheek.
“That’s too bad, ‘cause this was written exclusively for your vocal range. That chest voice of yours is what this song needs to pop.” You still looked unconvinced, disbelieving almost. Wandering lips drifted over your palm and knuckles again.
“C’mon baby, for me. Please? I wrote it just for you.” He coaxed in a tone that would make the bees give up their honey. His doe eyes never left yours as he waited patiently, trying not to pressure you— even though he was aching to hear that voice of yours wrap around the lyrics he’d written. He could already imagine your pretty lips forming the notes effortlessly.
Your heart rate picked up when he didn’t take it back or say he was joking. Pointing a finger at your chest, you lifted your eyebrows.
“For me? You serious right now?”
Michael’s expression didn’t change. He was dead serious.
“I’m always serious when it comes to you.” He stood and continued holding your hand, brushing his thumb over your knuckles sweetly. “You don’t even have to do the whole thing. Just try the chorus or the first verse. Whatever feels good to you. If you hate it, we’ll stop… I promise.”
The room was empty. It was just you, Michael, and the soft hum of machinery. This was the definition of no pressure, Michael had set up the environment perfectly for you. He knew his woman. This was a gift you’d been protecting for a long time, and he wasn’t going to let anyone snuff that light out. There was no one to tell you to sing differently or anyone who could try to polish your authenticity. And he damn sure wasn’t going to.
You were still sitting motionless. Staring at him with a bewildered look. He was acting as if he wasn’t Michael Jackson— like he didn’t just tell you he wrote a song especially designed to cater to your voice. Your eyes blurred with tears and Michael’s expression softened.
“Baby don’t cry, I’m sorry” he cooed, dropping to his knees. “Was it something I said? Am I pushing too hard?” He brought his hands up to your cheeks and brushed your tears away, ready to do anything to soothe whatever ache had arisen.
Your hands came up to his wrists, not to push him away but to anchor yourself and hold him closer. You shook your head before saying,
“No one’s ever done anything this thoughtful for me before. I can’t believe you did this. You’re always watering me and helping me grow, and I just—” He rose to his feet and pulled you into his chest, he held you tight. He understood everything you were trying to say without you needing to.
“I love you. I’ll never dim your light baby, you’re a star to me.”
He held you like that for a long while. He didn’t push or bring the song up again. Just rocked you back and forth like he was soothing a hurt child. After a long while, barely above a whisper you said
“I think I’m ready.”
“You don’t have to do anything you don’t wanna do baby.” Michael mumbled against your hair. He loved the song he’d made for you, but your comfortability was more important than any of that.
You sniffled and pulled away a little to look up at him.
“I want to. Let’s do it.”
Michael studied your face for a moment looking for any trace of distress before finally nodding and agreeing. He turned and held your hand in his as he guided you inside the booth. Instinctively he adjusted the mic stand to your height from his. He resized the headphones so they were snug and placed them over your ears before placing a kiss to your forehead.
He lifted your arms and gently removed the gold bangles that you wore one at a time.
“These’ll make too much noise, I’ll hold on to ‘em for you.” He slid the bracelets into the pocket of his slacks. A room temperature water bottle was placed on the stool next to you and he handed you the notepad that contained the lyrics he’d messily scribbled down while in his flow state. “Sip on that and look the words over. Make any changes you want, whatever feels natural. It’s your song, baby.”
Michael was prepping your vocal chords with the room temp water and making sure everything was perfect. When he went back to the control center, he smiled brightly at you and gave you two thumbs up before making a heart with his hands.
After giving you a few moments to study your lyrics and jot down any revisions you wanted to make you gave Michael a thumbs up. He leaned into the mic to speak to you.
“You ready, mama?” You nodded and took a deep breath. “You’re gonna kill it, let’s do it.”
Michael counted you in and started the track. Your voice filled the studio just as Michael imagined it would. Warm, rich, and soulful. He was on the edge of his seat and an astonished smile spread across his face. It was like he finally plugged in the one piece the song was missing. You.
When the last note faded, Michael almost broke his thumb trying to hit the talkback button.
“Sooo good, baby. That was magic. Please let me hear it again. Just… one more time.”
So, you sang the song again. And once more after that, just because he asked in that soft tone and looked at you like you had just given him something irreplaceable— a look that made you wanna throw your panties at him.
When you finally exited the booth you nearly fell over from the force of Michael colliding into you and wrapping you in his arms. He pressed his cheek to your head and held you tight, swaying you like he always did when one of you was overcome with emotion. This time, it was him.
“You’re so incredible” he murmured against your temple. “I already knew it, but that was amazing, baby I’m so proud of you.”
Your laugh was a little shaky when it came out from the adrenaline you were still feeling.
“Boy stop, you’re so extra. You’ve been in the studio with the likes of Stevie Wonder and Smokey Robinson. I can do a lil sum’, but I ain’t all that.”
“You all that and two bags of chips.” He pulled back to look at you and you laughed hard at his twist on the euphemism. “I’m serious. We’re keeping this. This belongs to you. And one day when you’re ready… I hope you’ll show the world. I want the whole world to hear what I heard that day you were in the shower.”
“Maybe.” Your voice was softer than you intended and full of possibilities.
The track kept humming in the background under the low studio lights. Michael’s heartbeat was steady under your cheek, and for a long moment neither of you said anything. Everything else could wait— including the unfinished tracks Michael had forgotten he was supposed to be working on.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
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