ℬackstage buzzed with energy— crew members talking into their little headsets as they shuffled by while the Jacksons got their final touch ups. You stood nearby, out of the way as you conversed with LaToya.
“You guys are on in five!”
With overlapped chatter the brothers arise from their seats with fresh curls and powdered faces. They gathered into a little circle to perform their ritual— something they do before every show— uplifting each other with chants and grunts to brings about a high, positive energy. The brothers filed toward the entrance. You gave him an achingly sweet boop on his nose as he passed by, “you’re gonna do great, baby.”
“Wait—“ Michael peeled away from his brothers, stopping in front of you. You titled your head curiously, eyes darting to the sparkly backs of his brothers to his hesitant face.
“A kiss for good luck?” he asked shyly, peering through his lashes with those big doe eyes— like he was guilty for asking such a favor.
Your heart tightened and you couldn’t help but pout— could he get any cuter than this. “Of course, angel,” you coo’ed, cupping his jaw to press a soft peck to his lips. His breath tickled your upper lip as he let out a sigh of satisfaction. The tension he didn’t know he had eased in his shoulders, lips curving into a smile.
He knew damn well he had about three minutes to get on that stage— but kissing you while everyone is waiting on him is such a rush! And makes him even more giddy for the performance.
“Where is Michael!?” Asked of the exasperated backstage crew.
He wasn’t hard to find.
As expected, all wrapped up around you with zero regrets. When you pulled away, his boyish grin stretched for miles as he gazed into your eyes lovingly. You pressed one more peck to his nose— careful of his makeup— and motioned him along.
Jackie and Tito let out a quiet huff of laughter with a shake of their head, while Randy Marlon gagged “Keep up that sappy shit, and I might just throw up on stage.”
Michael flushed and rejoined his brothers, keeping his face out of view. Looking over his shoulder one last time, you waved with your fingers and a mouthed a quick Love you.
He bit his lip as he and his brothers took their places.
i love your retired life series! do you think you could make one where they play the MJ Experience game?
𝑹𝒆𝒕𝒊𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝑳𝒊𝒇𝒆 ➊➋
Michael Jackson x Reader
Synopsis: Some of the grand kids challenge Michael to play the MJ Experience. He is incredibly confident... maybe a little too confident.
Content/Warnings: Modern Au, Michael lives, Gramps!Michael, competitive!Michael, he loves his grand babies, fluff
Word Count: 1.1k
Masterlist
The kids sat patiently as you hooked up the old Wii to the tv. Michael, on the other hand, sat there bouncing his leg while talking mad smack about how he was going to wipe the floor with them. You glanced over as he confidently told them that this was his game, that of course he would win.
Three of your older grandkids, Reggie Phoebe and Carlos, had challenged Michael to play the MJ Experience with them. Seems harmless enough, right?
Wrong, you could spot the devious glint in their eyes as he accepted with zero hesitation. Something was going on that Michael had obviously overlooked. And you might've warned him had he not immediately started boasting about how he was going to 'wipe the floor' with them.
So you stood by idly as they made a bet. If he wins then all three of them have to rearrange all of his demos, a task that has scared even the housekeeper. If they win then Michael has to buy them whatever they want.
You knew from the evil little smirks on their faces as he didn't even hesitate to accept the terms and conditions, that he was being set up for failure.
Once the game was up, Michael cleared out the whole living room. Making sure he had ample space to 'school' the three teenagers. You carefully attached the little wristlet to his hand, securing the remote from fly into your freshly painted walls.
The three looked over at him, "May the best dancer win."
Michael smirked, "I will. Just try and keep up kiddos."
You bit back a smile as you sat down on the couch and watched the chaos unfold in front of you.
He decided to let the kids pick the first song, and of course they chose Thriller. As the music started, Michael amped himself up, cracking his knuckles and his back.
One would think that because he actually was Michael Jackson, that he would've aced the game, that he would've gotten a perfect score. Unfortunately, his skills didn't matter. It didn't matter that even in his late 60's he could still dance better than almost anyone. Because despite his amazing mobility and hand eye-coordination, Michael failed at one very vital thing; technology.
So while he hit all the moves perfectly, the remote in his hand just wasn't in sync with his movements. He was too sharp, too coordinated, too good, and the poor wii remote couldn't catch up. Which meant that he never quite got a perfect score, if anything, each time he hit a pose the screen would like up with a sad 'okay.'
Meanwhile, the three troublemakers beside him were barely dancing. If anything, they were just moving their arm to the position it needed to be in to get a perfect score.
And poor sweet, Michael had no idea he was getting played for a fool until the dance was over and he was breathing heavily. He looked over at them before the scores popped up, letting out a triumphant laugh. "Have fun cleanin my demos, suckaaaaaas"
You cringed slightly as they pointed at the screen. All three of them had almost double the points that Michael had, putting him dead last. His mouth dropped open.
"Sorry, Grandpa, looks like you've just lost your magic." Reggie smirked, watching as Michael's eye twitched slightly.
"Yeah, it's okay! Everyone gets old and slow eventually." Phoebe added with fake sincerity.
You covered your mouth to stop from laughing.
"I'm not slow! You saw me! Y'all was barely doin anything and I got the lowest score!? That's bull, we're playin again." He huffed, growing frustrated.
They giggled, agreeing to play another round just to rile them up. You shook your head as you watched the three exchange knowing looks. You had pulled them aside right after they had challenged Mike, letting him warm up as you spoke to them. Their real goal had not been to get Mike to buy them all something, no, he would do that regardless. Their real goal was to get him to curse like a sailor. Michael had always been very very careful with his words around the kids, never wanting to plant naughty words in their heads, even the teens. And no matter how hard they had begged him to let out just one 'fuck,' he would always refuse.
Well... they were about to get their wish, because approximately three dances later Michael was sweaty and irritated. No matter how hard he tried, he could not seem to beat them. And they weren't even dancing! You watched his cool, friendly, loving exterior shred into that firey, competitive, rage that you found so attractive.
After taking a particularly bad beating to, ironically, Bad, Michael had enough. He turned towards the three giggling teenagers. "Alright, what did you little shitheads do? Who fuckin messed up my game, cause I know damn well I'm beatin all of your asses and I still keep fuckin losing!"
Their eyes widened with pure glee, laughing harder at his outburst, which of course only set the poor man off again. "Oh sure, laugh it up. This aint fuckin funny! In what goddamn world does Michael Jackson lose while playing his own fuckin game!?"
You couldn't hold back your laughter anymore. You joined the three kids, bursting with laughter. The room a mix of pure joy and total rage. Michael looked so betrayed by your reaction, pouting as he crossed his arms.
"This aint funny!"
You wiped a tear away, "Baby, they're messin with you!"
His anger gave way to confusion as Carlos looked up from his spot on the floor, "We just wanted to hear you cuss, grandpa! And you fell for it!"
They all burst into laughter again, rolling on the floor and pointing at him.
He tried to act annoyed, rolling his eyes, but their laughter slowly ate away at him and he quickly joined in.
"Yall really played me like a fiddle, huh." He smiled, pulling them into a big bear hug once they were all standing.
"Oh yeah! And it was totally worth it!" Phoebe smiled up at him.
"Well... now that you've officially gotten what you wanted, will you please tell me how to get a better score? I really wanna get 5 stars."
They nodded, immediately diving into an explanation about the remote and how the sensors rely on hand movement more than anything else.
You smiled, watching the rest of the night unfold into more friendly competition, even joining in on some of your favorite dances.
It was safe to say that the kids got exactly what they wanted; to hear Michael essentially cuss them out, and a week long trip to Disneyland with their favorite Grandpa.
—mike will do anything for his girl! even if it means carrying her in the pouring rain (fluff, suggestive)
The grandfather clock in your family’s downstairs hallway strikes midnight. The heavy, resonant bass of the chime bleeds through the thick wooden door of your bedroom, sounding like a warning. You freeze instantly, your back pressing flat against your mattress, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.
You wait. Five seconds. Ten. You count the agonizingly slow ticks of the clock, listening intently for the floorboards outside your room to groan, or for the low, rhythmic snoring of your parents down the hall to break.
Nothing happens. The house remains dead silent.
Slowly, you let out the shaky breath you’ve been holding. You slide out from under the heavy quilt, already dressed in a simple cotton top and a pair of denim shorts, your sneakers already tied tight. You move across the dark room on your tiptoes, carefully avoiding the one spot near the closet that always creaks. When you reach the window, your fingers are trembling, but you push the glass up centimeter by centimeter, praying the frame won't screech.
The moment the window glides open, the cool, crisp night air hits your face. It carries the sharp, heavy scent of damp earth, the unmistakable warning of a late summer storm brewing somewhere in the distance. But a little weather isn't going to keep you inside tonight.
Climbing out onto the sturdiest branch of the old oak tree outside your window is a routine you’ve perfected over the last few months. You shimmy down the rough bark, your sneakers hitting the grass with a faint, muffled thud.
The streets of the neighborhood are completely abandoned, illuminated only by the fuzzy, amber glow of the occasional streetlamp. You keep to the shadows, the cool wind whipping through your hair as your pace quickens from a fast walk to a frantic, excited jog. Your chest rises and falls with a potent mix of adrenaline and sheer anticipation.
You and Michael had planned this hours ago over a hurried, whispered phone call, his voice crackling through the telephone receiver as he promised he’d meet you at the old playground the exact moment the clock struck twelve.
As the dark, iron outline of the park’s chain-link fence comes into view, your eyes scan the gloom. And then, your heart leaps.
Michael is already there. He is a silhouette of pure 70s cool beneath the silver glow of the moon, leaning against the tall metal frame of the swing set. He’s wearing a soft, vintage ringer tee that clings to his lean frame, frayed denim flares, his afro catches the moonlight like a halo. He looks so effortlessly handsome it makes your stomach do a dizzying flip. The moment your sneakers crunch against the gravel of the playground, his head snaps up.
That bright, blinding smile of his splits across his face, instantly cutting through the midnight gloom and melting every ounce of your anxiety.
"You actually made it," Michael laughs softly, his voice a sweet, melodic whisper that seems to vibrate in the quiet night air. He takes a seat on one of the rubber swing seats, his long legs stretching out as he gently pushes himself back and forth. "Oh boy, I was starting to think you got caught, Mama."
"And miss this?" you whisper back, your chest heaving as you jog across the woodchips toward him.
The playground is entirely yours, an isolated kingdom of shadows and silver light. As you reach him, the temptation to be close to him overrides any sense of caution. With a mischievous grin, you move forward and try to clamber right onto his lap while the swing is still gently swaying.
The heavy metal chains groan loudly in protest. The swing wobbles violently sideways, and you both immediately devolve into a chaotic mess of flailing limbs, tangled elbows, and breathless, suppressed laughter.
"Dude, hold on! Stop, stop—we’re gonna break the swing!" Michael gasps, a high-pitched, giggly wheeze escaping his throat. His long arms wrap securely around your waist, his large hands anchoring you to keep you both from falling face first into the dirt.
It’s so awkward at first. Your knees digging into his thighs, your hands scramble for purchase on his shoulders, and you’re both shifting and squirming, trying to find a center of gravity on a seat meant for one person. But Michael’s laughing so hard his entire chest is heaving against yours, his eyes crinkling at the corners in that beautiful, familiar way.
"Okay, okay, I think we got it," he whispers, his breath warm and sweet against your cheek as you finally settle into his lap.
Michael plants his sneakers firmly in the dirt, pulls back until the chains tauten, and then pushes off with all his might. The swing lifts, and suddenly you’re soaring through the night air together. The cool wind rushes past your ears, lifting your hair and carrying the sound of your shared, childish gigiggles into the dark. It’s pure, silly, unadulterated bliss—two young adults playing like kids in the dead of night.
But as the momentum naturally begins to slow, the playful energy in the air starts to thicken.
The wind dies down. The swing grounds to a crawl, and the silence of the night rushes back in. Michael’s sneakers drag heavily into the dirt, stopping the motion completely. Suddenly, you are acutely aware of how close your faces are. The silly, giggly boy vanishes in a fraction of a second, replaced by a sudden, electric heat that makes your breath catch in your throat.
His breathing turns shallow, his chest rising and falling heavily against yours. Michael's large, warm hands slide down from your waist, his long fingers gripping your hips securely, anchoring your body against his. His gaze drops, locking onto your lips with an intensity that burns.
When his lips meet yours, the innocence of the playground is entirely scorched away.
The kiss is heavy, needy, and desperate, fueled by the thrill of the midnight air and the intoxicating danger of being caught. You wrap your arms tightly around his neck, pulling him closer, your fingers tangling in the soft, springy curls of his afro. Michael groans softly against your mouth, a low, rumbling sound that vibrates against your lips. His hands tighten on your hips, pulling you flush against his lap.
The friction of your bodies, the rhythmic, heavy grinding into each other on the cramped swing seat sends a jolt of pure fire straight down your spine. It isn't subtle anymore. It's desperate and hungry. Your hearts are hammering frantically against each other's ribs, both of you breathless, dizzy, and consumed by a heavy, needy passion you’ve never allowed yourselves to explore until this exact moment.
Then, a cool, sharp drop hits your bare shoulder. Then another.
You pull apart, both of you panting heavily, your lips swollen and wet. "Is it... raining?" you whisper, blinking up at the dark sky.
Michael blinks, his eyes dazed, heavy-lidded, and hooded with desire as he glances up. "Ah, it'll probably pass. Just a little cloud," he murmurs, his voice deep, raspy, and stripped of its usual softness. His hands tighten on your hips again, trying to pull you back down to resume where you left off.
But the sky has other plans.
In a matter of seconds, the gentle drizzle erupts into a violent, roaring summer downpour.
"Oh my god!" you shriek as the freezing rain drenches you both instantly. The water plasters Michael's thin ringer tee to his chest, completely flattening his hair, water streaming down his face in sheets.
"Come on, run!" Michael yells over the deafening roar of the storm, instantly hoisting you off his lap. He grabs your hand, his grip tight and warm despite the freezing water. "My house is closer! I can sneak you in!"
You bolt toward the edge of the park together, laughing hysterically, your eyes blinking rapidly against the blinding sheets of water. But the grass has instantly turned into a slick, treacherous mud pit. Your sneaker slips on a hidden tree root. With a sharp, sickening twist, your ankle gives way beneath you.
A cry of pain escapes your lips, and you tumble hard into the wet grass.
Michael, running a few paces ahead, suddenly realizes your hand has slipped from his. He spins around, but the sudden combination of the pouring rain and a thick, heavy fog rolling across the grass makes it impossible to see a thing.
"Y/N?! Where are you?!" he calls out, a sharp edge of panic piercing through his voice, stripping away his composure.
"Michael! Down here!" you cry out, clutching your throbbing ankle as the cold rain beats down on you.
He materializes through the gray, blurry fog like a ghost, his eyes wide with terror as he drops to his knees in the mud right beside you. He doesn't care about his clothes or the mud soaking through his jeans. "Are you okay? What happened? Sweetheart, talk to me."
"My ankle," you gasp, pushing yourself up to try and stand, but the moment you put weight on it, a white-hot flash of pain shoots up your leg. You collapse back into his chest. "It hurts too bad. I don’t think I can walk."
"I got you. Don't worry, I've got you," he says instantly, his voice fierce, deep, and protective. Without a second thought, he turns his back to you and crouches low in the mud. "Get on. Wrap your arms around my neck tight."
You climb onto his back, wrapping your arms around his neck, and Michael hoists you up with a grunt of exertion. His powerful legs drive through the mud and slick grass. He runs the rest of the way through the blinding storm, carrying you on his back as if you weigh absolutely nothing, his lungs burning and his chest heaving as he navigates the pitch black streets toward the Jackson home.
When you finally reach his backyard, you are both shivering violently, soaked to the bone and completely miserable from the cold. Michael carefully unlocks the back door, slipping inside with the practiced stealth of someone who knows exactly which floorboards to avoid.
He freezes in the dark kitchen, his eyes scanning the hallway, listening intently over the sound of your loud shivering. The house is completely quiet, but the stakes are incredibly high—if his father Joseph wakes up, or if one of his brothers stirs in a nearby bedroom, you're both dead. Holding his breath, he guides you down the hallway and slips into the sanctuary of the bathroom, shutting the door with a soft, barely audible click.
You sit on the porcelain edge of the bathtub, your teeth chattering so hard they click. The pain in your ankle is duller now, replaced by the sheer, biting cold of your drenched clothes.
"I'm freezing," you whisper, wrapping your arms around yourself. "Can... can I take a shower to warm up?"
"Yeah, of course," Michael whispers back immediately, his voice filled with concern as he reaches into the shower to turn on the hot faucet. "I'll go grab you a dry towel from the hall closet, and I'll wait out in the bedroom—"
"Michael," you interrupt softly, reaching out to catch the hem of his soaked shirt. "Take it with me."
Michael freezes dead in his tracks. He turns around slowly, his dark eyes widening to the size of saucers. A deep, dark flush instantly creeps up his neck, staining his cheeks a brilliant, burning red under the dim bathroom light.
You’ve been dating for a while, but you’ve never done anything truly sexual, never even seen each other naked. The innocence of your relationship has always been fiercely guarded, making this moment feel incredibly heavy with vulnerability. A sudden wave of shyness washes over you, but you keep your gaze steady on his.
"Y-you mean... together?" he stammered, his voice cracking noticeably as he swallows hard. "Like, both of us? In there?"
You look up at him, your eyes pleading as you squeeze his trembling hand. "Please. I just want you with me."
The anxiety and shock in his eyes melt away, replaced by a wave of profound, protective tenderness. "Are you sure?" he whispers, searching your face. When you nod, he takes a slow, steadying breath. "Okay. Okay, let me help you."
With extreme reverence and trembling fingers, Michael steps closer. He reaches down, his hands shaky but incredibly gentle as he helps you peel away your soaked, muddy clothes. He keeps his eyes firmly locked onto your face, a beautiful show of modesty, giving you whatever privacy he can even as his gaze burns with a raw, undeniable attraction.
When it’s time for his clothes to come off, you reach out with shivering hands, helping him pull the heavy, wet cotton of his shirt over his head.
There is a breathless, sacred pause as you stand before each other completely bare for the very first time. The thick steam from the shower cascades over you both, cloaking you in warmth. Michael looks at you with pure, unadulterated awe, a soft, reverent gasp escaping his lips as his eyes map your frame, looking at you like you are the only beautiful thing left in the world. There is no judgment in his eyes, no objectification—only a deep, consuming adoration.
Michael steps into the warm spray first, then reaches out his long arms to gently guide you in. The moment your foot touches the wet tile, you wince, unable to balance on your hurt ankle.
"I've got you, I've got you," he murmurs, stepping in close.
He wraps one strong, muscular arm securely around your waist, pulling your front flush against his chest so you can rest your weight entirely on him. The feeling of his bare, warm skin pressed against yours, combined with the hot water rushing over your shoulders, makes your heart race a mile a minute.
He reaches for the bar of soap, lathering it between his washcloth until it was covered in thick, warm suds. Then, with absolute gentleness, he begins to wash your body.
There are no urgent, lustful undertones here. His touch is slow, careful, and filled with a profound, consuming love. He washes the dirt and mud from your shoulders, strokes down your back, and mindfully avoids putting any pressure on your swollen leg. He treats you like something incredibly fragile, something sacred that he has been trusted to protect.
Tears of pure warmth prick your eyes. You lean up on your good foot, pressing a sweet, lingering, deeply grateful kiss onto his wet lips. "Thank you, Mikey," you breathe against his mouth.
Michael smiles, that soft, dimpled look returning to his face as he kisses your forehead. "Always."
You lather your own washcloth and begin to wash his shoulders, mapping the smooth, elegant line of his collarbones and running your fingers through the damp, softened curls of his hair. The mutual trust between you feels unbreakable, solidifying into something far deeper than anything you’ve ever shared before.
Once you are both thoroughly clean and warmed to the bone, Michael turns off the water. The bathroom is a haven of thick, heavy steam. He steps out first, grabbing a large, fluffy towel and wrapping it securely around you. Before you can even attempt to step out, he hooks his arms under your knees and back, lifting you into his arms once more.
He carries you across the dark hall, slipping into the dark sanctuary of his bedroom and closing the door with his foot.
He gently sets you down in the center of his mattress, leaving for a brief moment to rummage through his dresser. When he returns, he carries one of his oversized, incredibly soft vintage t-shirts. He sits beside you, carefully helping you slide your arms through the sleeves and pulling it over your head. It swallows you whole, cascading down to your thighs and smelling perfectly of his sweet cologne and cedarwood. After throwing on a pair of dry sweatpants himself, Michael moves to the foot of the bed.
"Let me look at that ankle," he whispers, his voice low and serious in the dark.
He gently lifts your swollen leg, resting your foot in his lap. His large thumbs begin to massage the skin around the joint with incredible, practiced tenderness, his face pulled into a tight frown of focused concern. "Does it hurt right here?"
"A little," you murmur, leaning back against his pillows.
Michael leans down, his afro brushing against your shin as he presses a soft, lingering kiss right to the side of your swollen ankle. He looks up at you through his eyelashes, a soft, dimpled smile playing on his lips. "To make it feel better."
Your heart melts completely.
He climbs under the heavy, thick blankets beside you, instantly opening his arms. You slide into his embrace, burying your face in the crook of his neck as he pulls the covers up to your chin. Outside, the summer storm continues to rage, the rain beating furiously against the windowpane—a chaotic, violent contrast to the perfect, absolute peace inside his room.
You lay together in the dark, your limbs tangled, listening to the steady, calming beat of his heart beneath your cheek.
"We really almost broke that swing, didn't we?" Michael whispers into the dark, a sudden, quiet giggle vibrating in his chest.
You laugh softly, pressing a kiss to his jaw. "We definitely did. You're a dork, Michael Jackson."
"Yeah, but I'm your dork," he murmurs, his grip tightening around you, pulling you as close as humanly possible. He plants one last, sacred kiss onto the crown of your head, his voice drifting off into the cozy warmth of the room. "I love you so much."
"I love you too," you whisper back, closing your eyes as the rhythm of his breathing safely guides you both into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Hiii!!, I'm a big fan of ur work and I know that u already posted the retired life series list, but I was just wondering if u could do smthing where Michael and reader react to the edits the fans do of their relationship (like a little fluff), mind u this is just a suggestion, u can do whatever you'd like with this (whether just mention it on one of ur incoming fics of the series, or do a whole one about it, just whatever u want babe). That's all bae, u absolutely are not forced to do it, love ya byee 😙😙
𝑹𝒆𝒕𝒊𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝑳𝒊𝒇𝒆 ➊➊
Michael Jackson x Reader
Synopsis: You and Michael are curious to see what comes up when you type his name into the search bar on tiktok.
Content/Warnings: Tiktok mentioned, modern au, Michael lives, Gramps!Michael, thirsting, Michael has no pr training, kinda spicy, mentions of past breakup, Michael loved his wife bad
W.C. 1k
Masterlist
"Oh come on, mama. Please? Let's just peak at it, how bad can it be?" Michael shook your hands in his with a small pout. He had been scrolling on his grandkids TikTok pages when he saw his name written in blue at the top of the comments. He had leaned over, utterly confused as to why his name was in blue, when you informed him that it was a quick search that once you clicked on it sent you to videos containing the topic. He wanted to click it so bad.
You adjusted your reading glasses, peering down at his phone. "Alright alright, you've piqued my interest. Hit the dang button or whatever it is."
Michael smiled and scooted closer holding the phone between you. He carefully tapped the wording, the screen instantly showing videos upon videos of his face. The first one played automatically.
House real big, cars real big, dick real big, everything real big.
The video that played along with the sound was a masterful edit of Michael.
The two of you stared down at the phone speechless. The edit playing over and over again.
"Oh my." You blinked, slightly taken aback.
Michael nodded along to the music, "I like the song choice." He smiled widely as you rolled your eyes.
You clicked into the comments, eyes skimming through them.
Bro he's too fine.
Dih real big??
I have nothing appropriate to say
Till my jaws lock bye
Damn, Y/n must be God's favorite fr
You let out a laugh as you read the last one. Michael smiled and turned to you, "I'm the real lucky one." He kissed your cheek.
"Mhm, now lemme see that edit one more time, I need to get a closer look." You teased, reaching for the phone.
He swiped it away, "Hey look, your name is blue too!" He clicked it without even thinking twice.
The screen filled with videos of your face, most with Michael but a few on your own. You automatically clicked on one that showed you and Michael smiling at each other.
There's only me and you...
Sweet music played through the phone as clips of you and Michael all the way from your first public appearance with each other up to the very present washed over the screen. Clips of sweet smiles and longing looks radiated up at the two of you. You smiled brightly, and looked over at Michael who was staring at the screen fondly.
"I like these ones a lot." He scrolled to the next one. More sweet edits of the two of you filled up the space, even a couple edits showing off your very very large family which brought a couple tears to Michael's face. He continued scrolling, eyes locked onto the screen when his own voice filled his ears.
The doggone girl is mine, she's mine. She's mine. No no no she's mine. The girl is mine. The girl is mine. The girl is mine. The girl is mine!
Small clips of you with both Michael and Prince filled the screen, causing Michael to mumble under his breath with furrowed brows. You help back laugher, mind immediately going back to that very small rough patch in your relationship with Michael.
He looked up at you, "I'm still upset about that."
Your mouth dropped open, "Nuh uh! You know dang well I only entertained Prince cause you got with Lisa."
He pouted, "Yeah but did you really have to go with Prince??" He whined.
"Hey, I told him upfront about my plan. And it worked cause you came crawling back immediately, and now look at us."
He continued to pout as he opened up the comments.
She got both Michael and Prince in their prime, that's a real baddie
Imagine saying that you dated Michael Jackson AND Prince and then MARRIED Michael!?
The ultimate 90's diva
And the gag is she still looks amazing in her 60's
I'd let her hit it then, I'd let her hit it now
I just know MJ thanks God every night for that stunning woman
You smiled, head leaning on his shoulder. Another smile found its way to his face.
"They're right y'know?" He looked down at you.
"About what?"
"All of it." Before you could stop him he replied to the comments, agreeing with them and hyping you up more. He truly didn't seem to care that we would be caught watching edits of his own wife, if anything he liked the idea of it. He even left his own comment under the video, a simple 🥵, that had you doubled over with laughter.
"Michael! That's so embarrassing."
"It's not embarrassing to let people know I find my wife very very attractive, and to also remind people that I'm your husband... not Prince." He smiled and kissed your head before scrolling to the next edit. This one was the most freaked out, sexy, edit of you and Michael.
Legendary Lovers blasted through the tiny phone speakers as clips of you and Michael serving absolute face flashed across the screen. The edit used a particularly controversial photoshoot the two of you had done once you had gotten back together. Photos of you and Michael in explicit poses and little to no clothing were edited to perfection, along with clips of the two of you kissing on red carpets and all together being a lethal couple.
You hid your face in his shoulder, "I forgot about that photoshoot!"
He smirked, "I didn't"
You playfully smacked his shoulder and peaked at the phone. "We look good."
He smiled, wrapping an arm around your waist, "Yeah we do."
The comments under the video only confirmed the thought.
I just know they ran hollywood
I'll take both, thank you
Get me that damn chair, all I want it to watch
Release the tapes NOW
I'm their third
Hot in literally any era
Sorry, I just barked
And they still look good!
Michael shook his head with a laugh, "I like watching these."
You nodded, "Me too, especially the ones where they zoom in on those big ass belts you used to wear."
Michael smirked, "Oh I remember how fond you were of them, I remember very well."
The two of you spent the rest of the night watching more and more edits, adding your favorites to a private folder.
Jaafar's stressing about the perfect proposal, and you're just having a good time (he's so loverboy)
Naively, Jaafar had thought the hardest part about all of this would be finding a ring.
He already knew the kind of jewelry you preferred, and he had a vision in his brain of exactly what the ring should look like. But, making that vision materialize proved harder than he thought. Every single ring he looked at was just a little off, not quite perfect enough for you. He spent hours scouring every website he could find, researching whenever he had a free second.
It was a miracle you didn’t find out.
Eventually, though, after months upon months of searching, he found the perfect ring. Just looking at it, he could picture your expression when you saw it for the first time, could picture how it’d look on your ring finger every day for the rest of your life.
“That’s the hard part done,” he’d thought to himself, the ring box tucked safely in the back of his side of the closet, somewhere you’d never look but somewhere he could find in an instant. All he had to do now was plan and pull off the actual proposal. He knew you so well, he figured he could have everything pulled together in a matter of weeks.
He should have seen the ring debacle for the sign that it was.
The worst part was that he just loved you so much, he’d settle for nothing less than perfect. He needed you to know how much thought and effort he put into it, that this wasn’t just some spur of the moment thought, some impulse he acted on. He’d been thinking about it for weeks before he even started looking for a ring, and by the time the day actually rolled around, it had been on his mind for almost half of a year.
Sometimes, he thought about just asking you, desperate to spend the rest of his life with you. He started to bring the ring with him sometimes when you went out, thinking that maybe the perfect moment would just appear, that he’d somehow be able to tell. Instead it just made him anxious and jittery, hand fumbling for the box every time you turned your head only to chicken out at the last second.
You deserve something spectacular, something that showed how much thought and care he’d put into crafting the perfect moment. You deserved to feel like a princess, like you were living out a dream come true. All he ever wants is to make you feel loved, to make you know that you’re the most special person in the world to him.
And right now, that meant planning the perfect proposal.
Truth be told, he knew you’d say yes no matter how he asked. He could pass you the ring across the table at your favorite restaurant, or ask you as you lounged on the couch together, pressed against his chest. You’d look back fondly however he asked, but he couldn’t get it out of his head that you deserve the best, deserved the big moment with the big declaration of love.
You loved each other quietly, in every way imaginable. He felt your love when you woke up early with him, when you waited up late at night to ask about his day. He felt it when you picked up his favorite things at the grocery store without him needing to ask, when you decided to buy matching shirts for the two of you and giggled with pure delight when you showed them to him.
And he did the same for you, pouring his love and affection into every moment, every teasing look and playful joke, every filled water bottle by your night stand and surprise drink in the fridge when you woke up in the morning. He loved you every second of every day, and he knew he didn’t need a big gesture to prove it to you.
Still, he wanted things to be perfect.
A few agonizing months later while the ring seemed to taunt him every day, he finally had what he thought to be the perfect proposal planned. Now all he needed to do was pull it off without you catching on.
For weeks now, you could sense something was up with him. He’d get all jittery sometimes when you went out together, as if he was expecting something to happen. Sometimes he’d get a strange sort of look on his face, and it’d be gone by the time you looked back. It didn’t seem like anything bad, though, so you let him have his secrets while you simply went about your business, wondering idly what he could possibly be up to.
“When’s the last time you got your nails done?” He blurts out, inspecting your hand in his, attempting to sound casual and failing miserably.
“Few weeks ago,” you say as you look at your other hand, at your grown out nails. As observant as he is, Jaafar has never asked a question like that before, and your curiosity is piqued. “Why?”
“No reason,” he says with a shrug, as if he wasn’t the one who started all this. “I could make you an appointment for tomorrow afternoon, if you wanted?”
“That’s very nice of you,” you coo, pressing a kiss to his cheek as he beams at his own handiwork, as if you don’t suspect a thing.
“The one by the coffee place you like, right?” He asks, already searching for his phone. You nod, and he squeezes your hand once before going to make the call, leaving you to wonder what he could possibly be up to.
It’s entirely possible that he’s just being sweet, that he simply wanted to do a nice thing for you. It’s not the first time he’s made an appointment for you to get some sort of beauty treatment, a little surprise to make you smile during a busy week or a relaxing way for you to spend a free afternoon.
The thing is, he’s never approached it quite like this. Normally he’d simply book the appointment and text you the confirmation, all suave and casual like he wasn’t sitting there grinning as he typed. So even though you’re certain he’s got something up his sleeve, you just smile when he comes back to tell you the appointment time.
“What color are you gonna get?” He inquires, and the strange behavior continues.
“Dunno yet,” you say as you look down at your nails, tilting your head to the side as you think. The last few times, you’d gotten something fun and vibrant for the summer, bright colors and flashy patterns. Maybe it’s time to switch it up.
Jaafar nods, still failing at looking like this is all coming out of the blue. He resists the urge to say you should get something neutral, like white or that pale pink you seem to like. At the end of the day, this proposal is more about you than him, and if you want to get bright blue nails with some crazy pattern because it makes you happy, then he thinks that’ll be perfect.
Lucky for him, by the time your appointment rolls around, you’ve settled on a baby pink chrome, something timeless and shiny and perfect for what he has planned. He practically feels the relief wash over him when you sent him a picture of the final product.
Hours later, the two of you are curled up in bed, his restless hands intertwining with your own. You lay with your head on his chest, feeling his heart thumping a frantic rhythm beneath his ribcage. You wonder what’s got him so worked up, the question on the tip of your tongue when he beats you to the punch.
“We still good for tomorrow?” He asks into the quiet of your bedroom. He’s been letting himself get consumed by worst case scenarios for the last few hours, internally spiraling as you went about your evening routine the same way you always did.
“Course we are,” you respond, trying to stifle a laugh at the idea that you’d cancel your plans with him at the last minute, as if you could find something better to do. You turn your face to press a kiss to the bare skin of his sternum, and you feel him exhale deeply beneath your head.
“D’you know what you’re gonna wear?” His voice is small, like he knows the question is silly but can’t stop himself from asking it. You’re burning with the desire to ask him why he’s so tied up in knots, but you know he’d tell you if he wanted you to know, that he’ll tell you when he’s ready.
“Not yet,” you say, shifting your position. You gently tug your hands away from his, using them to prop yourself up on your side to look at Jaafar in the darkness. You can barely make out the shape of his face, but you don’t need to see him to imagine the look he has. “Do you?”
He shakes his head, even though he knows exactly what he’s going to wear. In fact, he has three different alternative options picked out depending on what outfit you end up wearing. Even in the dark of your bedroom, he can make out the expression on your face that says you know something is up. He’s worried that you’ll ask, and he’ll crumble because he can never lie to you. He’s practically bracing himself for impact when, luckily, you drop it.
You lean yourself down to press a kiss to his cheek, landing on the corner of his mouth. It makes you both smile, and you kiss him again in the same spot before lying back down. His heart feels steadier beneath your head, but it’s still thudding away like he’s about to run a marathon. Your head swirls with possibilities as you fall asleep, and Jaafar spends most of the night staring up at the ceiling.
Jaafar barely sleeps, his mind spinning as he plays through possibilities for how tomorrow goes. Your answer has never been a question to him, he knows you’re going to say yes. But you deserve nothing but the best, so he needs to make sure that tomorrow goes off without a hitch. Getting some sleep would probably help, and even as his mind continues racing, your soft, sleeping body next to his eventually lulls him to sleep as well, your breathing steady and your touch warm.
He wakes a mere few hours later, jolted awake with a sense of anticipation and excitement akin to what a child feels on Christmas morning. Jaafar manages to extract himself from your hold and get out of bed without waking you. Pulling on some clothes, he creeps from the bedroom, closing the store softly behind him.
Making his way to your favorite coffee shop, he suddenly wishes he knew exactly what you were in the mood for. Jaafar knows all of your go-to drinks, knows the way they change depending on the location and the time of year and your mood. He settles for getting three different drinks, all some of your favorites, and a selection of pastries for you to pick from when you wake up.
There has to be some sort of otherworldly force looking out for him, because you’re still asleep when he returns. He manages to double check every confirmation for later before you emerge from the bedroom, all rumbled from sleep.
“Where’d you go?” You ask, voice scratchy, as you take in the sight of him fully dressed in the kitchen. At first, you don’t even register the drinks and bags of treats on the countertop, having eyes only for him.
“Couldn’t sleep, went to get breakfast,” he explains, and your brain is still booting up so you don’t bother asking any more questions, until you realize just how many drinks there are.
“Why so many?” You tilt your head to inspect the labels on them, written in the familiar handwriting of the barista on the Saturday morning shift at your favorite spot.
“Didn’t know which one you would want,” he says with a shrug, as if it’s not one of the sweetest things you’ve ever heard. It’s second nature to him where you’re concerned, and he never seems to realize the way these little things manage to rock you on your axis with the gentle force of his affection.
You inspect the cups some more, humming in delight when you find the one you want. Jaafar takes one that you passed over, placing the last cup in the fridge as you sort through the pastries.
“What’s the plan for today, then?” You ask as you brush the remaining crumbs from your hands onto your plate. Now that you’re caffeinated, you remember how strange Jaafar’s been acting recently and how it all seems to be centered on today. You have your theories, but it would be too embarrassing to be wrong, so you keep them to yourself.
“It’s a surprise,” he responds as he takes your empty plate and brings it to the skin. You groan in faux frustration, tilting your head back over the chair.
“Then how am I supposed to know what to wear?” You’re reminded of his questions as you were trying to fall asleep, hoping this will get him to reveal something.
“You’d look perfect in everything,” he says sweetly, with a smile that makes you want to squish his face between your hands or pepper kisses over every inch you can reach. Instead, you grumble.
“Irritating,” you say lowly, not even breaking character when he laughs at your pout. You cross over to him, wrap your arms around his waist, and press a kiss to the nape of his neck. He seems to relax against you, as if he’s made of pure tension and you’re the only relief. You press another kiss to the same spot before letting him go, grinning when he groans at the loss of contact.
“Sorry,” you call out as you make your way back to the bedroom, “I have to figure out what to wear.”
Even though you always take care with your outfit choices, especially when you know Jaafar is doing the same, something about today feels different. You keep second guessing everything, wondering if there’s some correct answer that you haven’t found yet. When Jaafar joins you in the bedroom, freshly showered, there’s a pile of clothes where your bed used to be.
“Baby,” he says, setting his hands on your shoulders softly and using the contact to spin you around, “this is silly.”
“You’re the one who won’t give me any details,” you complain, rolling your eyes when he laughs softly at your frustration.
“I told you, anything would be perfect.” He dips down to kiss your forehead, kissing you again when you preen at the contact.
“Again, not helpful.” You cross your arms and spin around again, surveying the mess you’ve made of your room.
“Here,” Jaafar says, reaching down to grab a dress you’d tried on and then discarded a few minutes later. It’s short and flowy and white, a piece you’d bought for a vacation you took together the summer before, and you both have very fond memories of it. “This one works.”
“You think?” You ask as you take it from him, inspecting the fabric in your hands. You’d thought it would be too much, that if he wasn’t doing what you thought he was doing you’d simply feel like a fool. You try not to think about it too much, though, and lean up to kiss his cheek when he nods.
Dress in hand, you slip away to get ready. Jaafar still hasn’t told you anything, but based on the input for your outfit, he’s got something nice planned. You take extra time with your hair and makeup, spraying on a perfume he compliments every time you wear it. When you re-emerge, Jaafar can’t help but think how perfectly the ring he picked out will compliment the rest of your jewelry.
His plans, it turns out, are simple yet dreamy, the perfect way to spend a Saturday. You get lunch at your favorite restaurant, and you’re so wrapped up in the food that you don’t notice how sweaty his palms have gotten, how he keeps pressing his hand against the pocket of his jacket to make sure the ring hasn’t somehow disappeared. You don’t even question the fact that he brought a jacket, even though it’s a perfectly beautiful summer day.
After lunch is a walk, where window shopping turns into actual shopping because Jaafar just loves seeing the way you smile. He can’t say no to you, even when you’re not even asking.
“C’mon, I just wanna spoil my girl,” he tells you when you ask if he’s sure for what seems like the hundredth time. He carries your bags, because he always does, and it’s the perfect excuse for him not to actually hold your hand and have to explain the way he’s shaking with nerves. You wrap your hand in the crook of his elbow, feeling his pulse beating away beneath the layers of fabric.
“Aren’t you warm?” You ask eventually, cocking an eyebrow in disbelief when he shakes his head. You come across an ice cream shop, and neither of you say a word before ducking inside, simply knowing that the other wanted to go in.
It’s a perfectly romantic day with all of your favorite things, so it’s not entirely out of the ordinary. If he wanted to, he could just explain it away as wanting to spend time with you, wanting to take advantage of the nice weather. You’re too wrapped up in it all to question him, though, and he’s eternity grateful for that.
By the time the late afternoon rolls around, things get a little more suspicious. Jaafar keeps checking his phone, and you’d think he was just keeping track of the time if the screen didn’t keep making him sigh. Whenever you looked his way, he just smiled, and it was so genuine that you didn’t have the heart to tell him that you could sense something was up.
“Maybe we should go down there,” he says eventually, all forced casualness. He’s gesturing down a little pathway that leads to a garden, something a little more private than the streets and paths you’ve been walking all day. You let him lead, feeling anticipation rolling off of him like waves. Your own heart rate starts to tick up when he sets the bags down on a little bench and grabs hold of your hand again.
You walk a little farther before he pulls you to a stop in front of a backdrop of blooming flowers, the sun just beginning to set and casting the both of you in an angelic sort of light. You sense movement from down the path, but then Jaafar is shifting to face you, to take both of his hands in your own, and the thought leaves your mind almost immediately.
He’s looking at you with so much love it makes you feel a little breathless, and he peaks his tongue out to wet his bottom lip, air stuttering out of him like he can’t quite manage to speak.
“Been a good day so far, yeah?” He asks, voice cracking towards the end of his sentence. You’re not sure if he’s asking for a confirmation or just because he’s not sure how to start, so you nod eagerly, smiling up at him. He smiles back, and the force of it is enough to rival that of the sun setting behind you.
Jaafar takes a deep breath, letting go of one of your hands to fumble in the pocket of his jacket the way he’s been doing all day, but this time, he sinks down to one knee.
“Jaafar…” you start as if you can’t quite believe what you’re seeing, even though it had been what you’d suspected all along. Still, the reality made your heart beat faster than you ever thought possible.
“I wanted this to be perfect,” he starts, taking a beat to steady himself when his voice breaks, “because you’re perfect. You’re the most perfect thing in my life, and I want you to be with me forever, I want to show you how much I love you forever. Because I will love you forever, I know that.”
“I love you too,” you practically whisper, and Jaafar feels his eyes start to well up with tears. He blinks them away before they can fall, before he’s too overwhelmed to ask the question he’s been wanting to ask for months now.
“Will you marry me?” You’re already nodding before he can even finish, giddy and eager and full of so much love.
“Of course I will,” you respond as Jaafar slips the ring from the box, slides it gently onto your finger, “of course it’s yes.”
With that, Jaafar stands and wraps you in his arms because he can’t stand the thought of staying away for another second. He squeezes you tightly, and you feel the stutter in his chest, the tears of pure joy that he’s trying desperately to keep under wraps. When he pulls back, you set your hands on either side of his face, and the feeling of the cool band of your engagement ring against his skin is almost enough to send him over the edge and let the tears fall.
You’re smiling so hard, when you kiss him it’s mostly teeth but neither of you care. You’ll have an infinite amount of kisses to get it right again in the future, right now you’re both so wrapped up in each other you’re not even thinking about it.
Eventually you pull back, cheeks hurting from grinning as Jaafar sniffles, and you reach a hand up to wipe his eyes gently with your thumb. The person you’d seen earlier was a photographer Jaafar had hired, since he knew he wanted the moment to be captured forever. She comes over to congratulate you both and confirm that she’ll send the photos as soon as they’re edited before walking away with a wave, leaving you and Jaafar alone again.
Unable to help yourself, you settle your left hand against his cheek, admiring the way the ring glints in the light of the setting sun, and you kiss him again. It’s softer this time, and your teeth don’t clack together, but it’s still so full of love you swear you can physically feel it in your chest.
After sharing a few moments of peaceful silence, letting the adrenal and anticipation run its course in your bloodstream, Jaafar speaks up.
“We still have dinner reservations to get to,” he says, and it makes you giggle, feeling utterly giddy. He laughs right along with you, kissing you twice more before you’re the one reminding him and you get on your way.
The whole evening, spent at a private little table tucked away at a restaurant you’ve been talking about trying for months, you can’t stop yourself from twisting your hand this way and that, watching how the light reflects off your ring.
“It’s perfect,” you say, looking across at the man who’s now your fiancee.
“I know,” he retorts, and that earns him a chunk of bread thrown softly at his face. It makes him smile at you like you’re the most perfect thing he’s ever seen, so you just stick your tongue out at him.
It only increases the lovesick look on his face.
once again thank you so much to @szalipcombo for coming up with the idea for me to expand on!!! ughhhh i loved writing this (got a bit carried away lmao) and i'd be happy to write more if y'all were interested <3
☆ Pairing: offthewall!Michael x black!rockstar!reader
☆ Summary: Michael has artist's block that melts away after he secretly attends your show and finds himself completely enamored with you. After finally going mainstream, your band is invited to appear on a talk show alongside multiple guests, including Michael, whom you admire. One thing leads to the other; you are pushed to reveal who your celebrity crush is (Michael) while he sits a few feet away from you, breaking your badass rockstar image.
A/N: Tom Holland's level of manifestation. Also, this is loosely inspired by @ghoulxeg fic idea post about the talk show.
☆ Content/warnings: fluff, sfw, awkward in love, shy-and-cute-Michael, mention of Diana Ross, pushy/teasing interviewer
☆ Word Count: 4.6k
March 1981.
Nothing should have brought Michael to you. You were working on two different sides of the industry; your paths were not meant to cross, despite the mutual friends.
He became aware of you on a random Monday. He had been browsing through the classic vinyl records in a music store in Los Angeles, Bill close behind him, per usual. It was then that he heard your voice through the speakers, the volume low not to disturb the customers. The voice of a dark angel, honey to his ears despite the fierceness it carried.
It was when it all began.
Spotting you during events became strangely easy, natural even. Your presence was so imposing that the room would shift as you'd walk in, accompanied by your band, the Lawbreakers. Chin up and perfect posture, it was as if you owned the world, your musicians as your generals. It was intimidating, yet Michael could not bring himself to look away.
He never mustered the courage to approach you or even ask about you. Frozen on the spot, his feet forgot how to function. In reality, he was nervous at the idea of making a fool of himself in front of you. You were overflowing with confidence and charisma, while he was shy and timid--too different to match.
Still, you had an established corner in his mind.
And something shifted on a spring night.
The quiet was usually a relief for Michael, clashing with the loudness and chaos of the show business. Now, at Westlake Studios, it had become unbearable, nearly driving him closer to madness every second more. It was the materialization of the artist's block he was facing, a wall that prevented him from reaching ideas, the perfect idea that even Prince could not come up with.
But nothing. Just silence.
"What about we try again tomorrow, man?" Quincy said. "Sometimes there are days when inspiration just doesn't hit."
Michael was well aware of that, but he refused to accept it. He refused to have this day be wasted with nothingness and no advancement made. If he wanted to make the best album ever that the Grammys could not snub, he had to be at the studio at all times.
But Quincy stood up from the swivel chair and gathered all his notes. Michael sat up, ready to convince him to stay another hour, when his eyes caught sight of a black paper in his folder.
"Wait," he said, leaning forward.
Under Quincy's curious eyes, probably thinking his mind had finally unlocked some ideas to explore, Michael took the paper. A flyer with a five-person rock band.
You posed in the middle, silver jewelry hanging from your neck, contrasting with the beautiful brown of your complexion that seemed to contain gold dust. An oversized leather jacket resting on your shoulders, you held a mic, hand decorated with many rings matching your necklaces.
But it was your eyes that caught Michael's attention. The sharpness of them, like a feline ready to pounce on its prey. The black eyeshadow deepened your gaze, only reinforcing its strength. Like the Medusa, it stilled him on the spot each time he'd look at them, a sweet shiver tickling his spine. Like a sailor to a mermaid, he was drawn to your eyes so mesmerising, rendering him unable to look away.
"They're in town?" Michael asked.
"Yeah, they end their world tour tonight."
Michael's eyes went wide. "Tonight? Their last date is tonight?"
Quincy chortled. "What? You wanted to go?"
"Well..."
Michael's eyes moved back to the flyer. He was a lover of music, though rock was not the genre he listened to the most. He was quite selective with the songs that he enjoyed. But there was something about you, the energy that you conveyed through your music, but also the versatility of the atmospheres, while not losing your identity. You could express pure anger and vulnerability while still having an electric guitar going off in the background.
So naturally, Michael was looking forward to seeing you perform at the American Music Awards as you were a contender (and winner) for Favorite Rock Band and Favorite Rock Album. But you and the Lawbreakers did not attend any award ceremony because you were still touring. So instead, he resolved himself to attend one of your shows. That is, until he got carried away with his own projects. Now seeing how late it was, the concert had already begun. There goes his dream.
"I think we can still make it," Quincy said. "I know the bassist, Jace. Security will let me through."
Michael's head snapped up. "You kiddin'?"
"C'mon, Mike. Or we'll miss half of it."
Michael rushed to gather all his stuff and got Bill to drop them at the Forum. The show had already begun, but just as Quincy promised, there was not much of an issue getting in. All he had to do was show his ID. Apparently, Jace had put him on a special guest list.
The venue was shaking when they entered a VIP lounge. Fans were going mad, the music booming, each strain in the bass sending waves of vibration through their bodies. The night was cool, yet the heat was turning the venue into a furnace, though no one seemed to be affected by it.
And he could understand why.
His feet moved on their own, bringing him to the balustrade as his eyes remained fixed on you.
You stood at the center of the stage, your jacket hanging from your elbows, showcasing your crystal-lined bralet, matching your signature black and thick platform boots. Your voluminous curls whipped, your head banging, as the music possessed you. Resonating throughout the venue, your voice reached him. Michael could feel the vibration of your vocal cords, a subtle growl in it, belting and singing the lyrics as if your life depended on it.
It was nearly frightening, the ease with which you commanded the stage, attracting all the eyes with your every move, enchanting every soul like a siren. It was almost paradoxical. There was no grace, only strength and fierceness that was so controlled it was bewitchingly beautiful. A dark beauty; Nyx, a respected goddess even Zeus himself feared.
"Alright," you said, breathless.
A chill tickled him. Michael had never heard your speaking voice, which was surprisingly softer, yet still assured.
Pacing around the stage as the music slowly came to a stop, you looked at the crowd.
"We've reached the fun part of the show." The corner of your tainted lips curled up. "You know, the part where you chose what I sing."
The crowd erupted into an excited roar of cheer, clapping and jumping.
"You can choose whatever." You stopped in the middle. "A song of our catalogue that didn't make the setlist, or a song from any artist of your choice. Doesn't have to be rock, can be pop or a ballad, you choose."
The fans hurried to recommend songs from all kinds of artists; Prince, Cher, Chaka Khan, and someone even threw out Frank Sinatra's name. All voices overlapping each other, it was impossible for you to discern any proposition.
You leaned forward, a hand behind your ear. "What? Wait, lemme get closer."
You jogged to the very edge, kneeling, and handed your mic to the closest fan who was bent over the barricade.
"Rock With You!" The fan exclaimed. "Sing Rock With You by Michael Jackson!"
His heart missed a bit. Quincy playfully nudged him.
You stood back up. "What do you think, people? Want us to perform Rock With You by Michael Jackson?"
The crowd answered with a loud 'yes', which earned them laughter from you.
"Alright." You turned to your bandmates, who all nodded. "Just hope we won't get in trouble with Epic, though. The things I do for you guys."
As the fans amusement in your words, you motioned to your drummer to start the music.
It was hard for Michael to put words to what he was feeling. Hidden from the world, he had secretly attended your show, for he had been harboring a concealed crush on you for months. And now you were singing his song. And it baffled him how much your voice changed to fit the music. Your entire demeanor shifted, a radiant smile on your lips, accompanied by smooth dance moves. There were a lot more skills and techniques you had never shared with the world, facets of your personality hidden that he craved so much to discover.
Your band did not make a rock rendition of his song, and you did not try to modify the melody to suit you. You sang the song exactly the way it should be sung, exactly how he imagined it.
And it made his stomach pleasantly twist.
There was something in hearing you sing his song so faithfully that made his heart flutter.
What a pretty young thing, Michael thought.
Inspiration found him again, at last, and he spent the next few days locked in his home studio in Hayvenhurst to work on demos. His new album was slowly coming to life, and he owed it all to you.
It was silly, he thought. You were not even aware of the aid you had provided him, that you had dissipated his artist's block with such ease. Yet he still wished he could thank you properly. But as soon as the idea crossed his mind, he chickened out. Why would you hang out with him?
But it was then that life decided to hear his wish.
Michael did not like doing interviews, nor attending talk shows. Any offer he would receive would be immediately turned down by his manager. And this one had, too, until LaToya went to him.
"They want us both on a multi-guest show," she had said with her high-pitched voice.
Michael's nose crunched, not looking away from the Peter Pan book on his lap. "I don't want to. I'm working on my album, I'm busy."
"It's a friendly show, Mike," she insisted.
"I said I'm busy."
"You're reading a book."
"I'll be busy when that talk show happens."
"I was told the Lawbreakers will be there--"
Michael's head snapped up, his eyes wide. "The Lawbreakers?"
LaToyal nodded. "Yes. They're confirmed to be part of the guest list."
Michael snapped his book shut and stood up.
"Lemme call my manager."
She laughed. "Oh, so now you're free for the talk show?"
He didn't respond and grabbed the phone's receiver instead.
•☆•••☆•••☆•••☆•••☆•••☆•••☆•••☆•••☆•
The set's curtains were the only barrier between you and the live audience, barely doing anything to cover their excited cheers. Rubbing your sweaty palms against your black pants, you attempted to ease yourself with breathing exercises as Jace patted your back in support.
Talk shows were not your thing. Singing on a stage in front of thousands of people, yeah, you loved it. Sitting down to talk about you, not so much. Entertaining people with your personality was not something you were comfortable doing. You felt like a court jester amusing nobles.
Having a clear line between your persona on stage and who you truly were off-stage was more than practicality; it was a need. Because the difference was too striking, and you did not wish to disappoint people. You did not wish to end the myth of the cool rockstar. At least, that was what you told yourself.
But it was part of the job, so you obliged.
Especially now, as the tour ended. The Lawbreakers could finally focus on making new music. It was a good opportunity to utilize the momentum and ride the new wave of fame you gained. After nearly ten years of hard work and performing in pizza restaurants at fifteen, you had finally made a name for yourself, and the Lawbreaker was recognized around the world. And you were not ready to let it go.
The host introduced your band, and light struck you when the curtains were pulled open, the loud screams deafening your ears. With an assured grin, you lead your band to the set, occasionally waving at the live audience. Several signs were dedicated to the Lawbreakers.
As you neared the couch on which the other guests were, your gaze locked with a pair of big, shimmering doe eyes. You flashed a smile, but quickly looked away, feeling your face already heating up.
Let's just blame it on stage fright.
You knew Michael would be attending, and you had believed you had mentally prepared yourself for it. Clearly, you had not. Heart mad, sweaty palms, temperature rising; you were flustered.
Nothing should have brought you to him. You worked in two very different genres and had two very distinct styles of performing. So you would always stand on a different side of the room. He, with soul and R&B icons, and you with rock figures. Sometimes, both sides would merge because he was Michael Jackson.
But you would remain where you stood, watching him converse with the Bee Gees. Watching him giggle with a smile that could light up the world. Watching him look away so shyly as if he were unaware of his genius. Watching him help his female friends down the stairs so they wouldn't trip over their own gowns. Such a gentleman, something so rare in an industry so extravagant. Or a little puppy that was excited about life, just happy to be here.
Jace had tried to get you to talk with him. He was a friend of Quincy Jones, Michael's producer, so it would be rather easy to link you up to him. But you declined, each time. You didn't want him to think you were an opportunist, chasing him for increased fame. You were too different, anyway. What if he found you 'too much'?
You sat at the end of the couch, nearest to the host's desk, as your bandmates filled the remaining space.
"I gotta say," the host began, tuning to you as he leaned on his secretaire. "You are told to be intimidating, and I'll have to agree. I'm quite shy to ask you anything."
"Yeah, I get that a lot." You chuckled, with a one-shoulder shrug. "I have a very mean resting face, and people often tell me I look like Imma cuss them out. Which, if you don't irritate me, will not happen."
Laughter arose from across the room.
"So, I think it is the first time we've had such a disordered cast of people," the host continued. "It is the first time you all are in the same room, right?"
"Well, we've seen each other in passing," LaToya replied, looking at all your band. "At award shows and after parties."
"But it is the first time we actually stand so close to one another," Jace joked.
"Well, there's a beginning to everything," the host replied. "The Lawbreakers have been on top of the rock 'n roll world for the past two years. So, Hollywood is a brand new thing to you, right?"
You glanced at your bandmates, silently asking if they wanted to take the question, but they motioned to you.
"Hollywood, yes. Music, not so much," you replied. "We've been a band since we were fifteen, performing in local restaurants and school sporting events. So we were already kinda used to the stage when Mick Jagger asked us to open for the Rolling Stones. But, yeah, talk shows and interviews, I guess we're still getting the hang of it."
"It's quite baffling." He turned to Michael. "You've been through that, too, Michael, when you debuted with the Jackson 5. You know Hollywood, you have experience, what advice would you give them?"
Despite being the same age, Michael had the experience of a veteran, which broke your heart to think about it. It was hard to wrap your head around the fact that when you were playing tag outside with the neighborhood's kids, he was already an employee of Motown. It didn't feel right.
"Um, I'd say to have some fun," Michael replied. You had to stop yourself from grinning at his so soft-spoken voice, sweeter than honey. "We have the chance to create art that makes people happy, so we should not forget how lucky we are to live from it. We shouldn't lose sight of why we do what we do."
The interview continued smoothly for a while, sometimes slowing down with laughter as your bandmates would crack jokes. But Michael's eyes would often flicker back to you; to your sharp gaze, to the way the corner of your lips curled in that so attractive smirk, the way you leaned against the armrest, your legs crossed, and your head tilted, your curls gracefully falling on one side--so magnetic.
It was the closest he ever got to you, even though there were five people in between. And any Billboard or flyer truly did not do justice to your beauty. He wished he could be closer, though.
"Michael, you were recently featured on a Diana Ross TV special," the host said. "You were often seen with her this year. You once said she was your celebrity crush. Has it changed since?"
Michael let out a nervous chuckle, fidgeting with his hands as his eyes briefly darted to you for a split second.
"Um, I guess so, yeah," he replied, hoping the subject would change soon.
"Do you have any celebrity crushes?" the host asked the rest.
Everyone answered truthfully, sometimes receiving teasing, until it got to you. Michael was quite curious to hear your answer and, quite honestly, already envious of the person you would cite.
While you, on the other hand, were trying your best not to freak out. The moment the question was asked, your gaze had briefly moved to Michael before averting your eyes, all the while Jace stiffled his laugh, sensing your growing nervousness. Of all the questions the host could ask, it had to be this one. What should you do? Should you lie? Say a random name? But what if it follows you for years, and you have to keep the lie up for the rest of your life? Should you be honest? Hell nah. Never.
"What about you?" The host turned to you.
You controlled your face as all eyes turned to you. You had performed in arenas, in front of dozens of thousands of people, and delivered a stellar performance each time, yet here, under the scrutiny of the person you were attracted to, it was the most nerve-wracking thing you had ever gone through.
But you kept your composure, "I don't have any celebrity crush."
Your bandmates nearly burst into laughter. You did not react.
The host's eyes widened. "Really?"
"Yeah. No one."
"There has to be someone. Anyone you've ever admired."
You feigned thinking, then shook your head. "Mhm, no. No, no one."
"Well." He looked at you suspiciously, then at your friends. "Your bandmates clearly seem to know who it is."
You mentally cursed as Jace and the others were basically wheezing, trying to hold their laughter. Their faces red and tears in their eyes.
Jace coughed, trying to calm himself down. "She's too shy to admit it here."
Fucking traitor, you thought.
"Well, we're not going to judge," the host reassured.
"It's not the judging I'm worried about, honestly," you admitted.
You kept your eyes on the interviewer, your leg bouncing up and down as you felt his eyes on you. It only rendered you all the more nervous, your heart beating madly and resonating in your head.
"Come on, the audience is dying to know." The crowd screamed to second his statement. "Is it an unattractive man?"
You frowned. "What? No, he's--"
At this point, your bandmates were openly laughing. You nudged Jace, the closest to you, which only increased his amusement. You were truly contemplating airing all his business on live television as vengeance.
You cleared your throat. "I'm not gonna say who it is."
As much as Michael wanted to know who your ideal type was, he was feeling bad at how uncomfortable you were, and did not want you to be forced into something you did not want to do or say.
So he stepped in. "I think we shouldn't press further."
But the crowd shouted a loud 'no'.
"Well, it seems the people won't leave it alone," the host said, then turned to you again, eyes glimmering with mischief. "The only way to end this is to say who your celebrity crush is."
The audience encouraged you to speak, and it was clear that the host would not move on from the topic until you said a name. So you sighed, sinking into your seat, bracing yourself for the incoming endless teasing you were about to receive.
"Oh my God... okay." You cleared your throat, fidgeting with the zipper of your jacket. "Michael Jackson...," you muttered, but too low for anyone to hear.
The host frowned, leaning forward, "What?"
Your bandmates were left in a fit of dying laughter, while you, eyes closed, having lost all resolve, hid your already red face, "Michael Jackson...," you repeated, louder.
In an instant, the audience gave the loudest, most deafening screams of excitement ever as Michael stilled, his mouth agape as he stared at you. LaToya, beside him, giggled and nudged him, but he was too stunned to react. For a second, he thought perhaps he had heard wrong, or that it was a joke, but the way you hid your face behind both your hands, wishing the earth would swallow you, he knew it was real.
It was then that his heart began acting up, picking up in pace as his cheeks grew red. He was your celebrity crush. You had a crush on him. Him.
"Oh. I see now why you didn't want to say it here." The host said, enjoying a little too much seeing you completely and utterly flustered. "What's your favorite song of his?"
"Come on, please--"
"What attracts you to him?"
"Can we drop the--"
"Oh my, wait!" He held his hand, eyes twinkling as he remembered something. "When I asked about your crush's looks, were you about to say he was handsome? When did you fall for him exactly?"
Your face was so hot you thought you had been rendered a cartoon character with steam coming off your head. You completely hid behind your hands, unable to look at anyone and certainly not wishing to meet his eyes, for you knew it would only worsen your state. You could barely align a thought or utter a word.
So you could not see Michael biting his whole bottom lip, trying hard to control his wide smile.
The host chuckled at you state, then looked at him. "Michael, any comments?"
You sank even further into the couch as if trying to force it to absorb you. As the seconds passed, your confidence and cool image you had created melted away and disappeared into oblivion, turning you into a blushing mess. To admit this in front of the person, in front of a live audience, on national TV--if only you could just vanish already.
Michael giggled, scratching his arm. "Well, um, er, it's very nice to hear." He could barely hear the crowd losing its mind, the high of the moment clouding his head. His eyes moved to you, who could not look his way, which made him both pleased and flustered. "Um, if I'm honest..." he cleared his throat, fidgeting with his hands. "If I'm honest, she's my celebrity crush too, but I was too shy to admit it here."
You stilled, and it was only then that you moved your hands away, the crowd losing their voices once more. He was already looking at you, though he averted his eyes when he met yours. Jace gently shook your shoulder, as if to hype you up, saying, 'Heard that?'
"Oh, really?" The host asked, interested.
Michael nodded, a smile on his face. "I think she's a very beautiful girl with lots of talent. Her voice is amazing, too."
And you could have died just there.
"Would you like to sit together?" Jace teased, asking Michael, earning a sharp nudge from you.
Still, your entire band scooted away from you to give Michael enough space to sit next to you. He was hesitant; he, too, was a blushing mess, as his sister was encouraging him to take action.
And he did.
Under the cheers of the entire set, Michael stood up and shyly took the seat beside you. You sat up properly, moving the curls out of your face. The most you could do was look at his feet so close to yours. There was a little gap between the two of you, him not wanting to invade your space. But your mind had already short-circuited.
You were so used to watching him from afar, and now he was just a centimeter away from you. You could smell his perfume, so sweet just like him.
You finally mustered the courage to gaze up at him, but when your eyes locked with his, the two of you looked away. And just like that, the woman who was so fierce on stage was rendered shy and speechless by him.
Jace became the spokesperson for the rest of the interview, with occasional interventions from you. Most of the time, you were too focused on Michael's presence to listen to anything that was being said. Whenever his gentle voice reached you, a smile stretched on your lips. Whenever his hand would graze yours, your heart would nearly stop.
The awkwardness never disappeared until the ad break was called in.
"I'm sorry," he said. You looked at him, confused. "If I made you uncomfortable."
"No, no, you didn't," you reassured. "I should be the one to say sorry, I put you on the spot like that."
"No, it's fine. It's, uh, I was surprised, but I was happy." He looked down, timid. "Um, can I ask you why me?"
You scratched the nape of your neck, pursing your lips. "Um, well, obviously you're an amazing artist, and I really love what you do. But, er, really, it's your kindness."
He tilted his head, surprised. "My kindness?"
You smiled. "Yeah. You're always so polite and respectful to everyone. I've seen crazy things these past few years. It's easy to get carried away by fame and money. But you stayed... You. You're never rude to anyone, and you're so benevolent. And, I don't know, there's something reassuring in that."
All Michael could do was stare at you, at a loss for words. It had never occurred to him that you could be so aware of him. He expected, perhaps feared even, that you would bring up his career. That you would find him boring. Instead, it was his personality that caught your eye. It was his personality that attracted you. And there was no greater compliment.
"I feel a little dumb now," he admitted.
You tilted your head to the side. "Why?"
"Well, you have such a great answer, and I, um, well, I find you really cool."
You had to bit you lip to prevent yourself from smiling too hard. He's so cute.
"It makes me very happy to hear that," you said.
"Really?"
You gave an excited nod, your eyes twinkling with joy.
He could have just melted right there.
You were so different than when you were on stage. So much more approachable. So much more radiant. So damn adorable.
He absolutely loved it.
"I also think--" He got interrupted by the producer, who warned the crew that the ad break was coming to an end. Michael turned back to you, "Would you agree to dinner with me?"
You blinked. "What?"
"Dinner with me? After the show?" He repeated, hopeful.
Summary: You & Jaafar get called up to the twins' school for fighting the reason why....kinda valid
WC: 1,050 be happy or get popped
Warnings: principal gets checked, white lady gets crazy, microaggressions
Note: Calling all agents, another fic has been posted. I know it's late but grandma called me to the house, and yall know how it is when them elders summon you so my bad N E WAYZ, so let’s take it easy because 🩴 I don’t play…
You and Jaafar don’t get called up to the school often unless your two little ones are sick.
Unfortunately, the only thing sick is your stomach as you grimace at the busted lip child who is currently sitting next to your chubby-cheeked, doe-eyed, long-lashed, afro-wearing, chocolate babies. The call from their school came out of left field. You were at your office, going over papers for a very important case, while Jaafar was in the studio. Seeing as you both were called in meant it was serious, but now you see why. Your babies weren’t misbehaved children by far, absolutely not, you don’t play that, but they can get a bit rowdy and snarky sometimes, something they got from both sides of their family. Usually just a quick call about them having a giggle fest, or talking at the wrong moment. So, to say you were confused would be an understatement.
Walking into the principal’s office and seeing your husband, who beat you there, you looked at him and then your twins. Holding up a hand to the principal that was about to say “ Sorry, one second-” squatting urgently in front of your twins, “ hi, babies, are you guys okay?” moving their faces around to make sure there were no scratches on them. Taking a seat next to your husband, who intertwines your fingers and raises your hands to kiss your knuckles, “ Hi, love”. You sigh, looking at him, “ J, baby, hey,” exhaling, you turn to the principal, “What happened here?”
“I’m sorry, are you serious?” “What happened here?” scoffing, “That’s your question, your kids busted my kid's lip,” comes the voice of Polly the parrot in the form of a tall white mom. Beady blue-brown eyes, too much lip filler, bad highlights, and a husband who looks two seconds from dropping because of steroids. The sweaty principal begins to explain after seeing you completely freeze and stare at the woman like she had 4 heads sticking out of her body.
Across in the little chairs are your babies kicking their legs as you listen to their principal tell you how they beat up their classmate. Snapping your head back so quickly, you were surprised the curls in your silk press stayed. You put a little reminder to take your uncle's wife out to lunch for doing such a great job. “ I’m sorry, did you just say that my two-” pointing a sharp red almond-shaped acrylic at yourself “ beat him up?” staring at him, you quirk an eyebrow. “ Elaborate quickly, please.”
Jaafar steps in just as the principal goes, “Well, Mrs.Jackson, your boy and girl”. “I would prefer you address my children by their names and not boy and girl”. Stuttering, he tries to clean it up, “I intend no disrespect, Mr.Jackson,” clearing his throat and fixing his tie. “ It’s just that well,” smiling nervously ‘ I’m sure Jermiah and Daryl can explain it”
“He was being rude to us, Mommy,” exclaimed Jermiah, the nicer one of our babies. Sighing, you scratch your eyebrow. “Well, what did daddy and I say about handling rude people?”
Daryl looks at Jaafar, then at you, “ he was talking about you, so we listened to what daddy said”
Turning to look at Jaafar, “ And what exactly did daddy tell you that was different from mommy?” When Polly the parrot goes to speak, “SEE, obviously your parenting needs work, that's why these children are fighting. I say they should be suspended for a month”.
Stuttering the principal wipes his bald head “ ma’am that’s not necessary they’re just in second grade” Scoffing she stands up so fast it causes the chair to scrape across “not necessary they hurt my poor robby” grabbing said poor robby by the arm and swinging open the office door “ if you will not punish these people properly then I am taking my money to a better establishment” slamming the door as her, her bad highlights, husband, and robby leave.
Sighing, the principal wipes his face. “I apologize for that, as you were”. Nodding, you turn back to Jaafar, “Yeah, there is a lot of restraint going on, so please explain,” you say in a strained voice.
He sighs, wiping his hand down his face, speaking softly, and grabbing your hands. “ I spoke to the twins one day about defending the honor of the women they love, especially black women.” With a half-way smirk on his face, he goes, “ I guess they took it a bit more literally,” chuckling.
Dropping your head onto his shoulder, “Oh, you goof, you know you got to clarify with them two”.
Grabbing your purse, standing up, “What’s the result of this whole situation?” looking at the principal, who shakes his head, looking too stressed out to last another second. “ Mrs.Jackson, we’ll just file this under a little spat between children”.
“Come on, things 1 and 2, also don’t think when we get home, we won’t be having a conversation about keeping our hands to ourselves,” holding the back of Jeremiah and Daryl’s necks. Hearing Jaafar chuckle behind you as you walk out, you speak without turning around. “Uht, unt sir, don’t think you’re off the hook either.”
Intertwining your hands, “Mama, they were defending you. This is a good lesson if you think about it”. Side-eyeing him, “ Mr.Jackson, let’s not dig a bigger hole”
Making it around to your side after buckling the kids in, he gives you a light swat on your backside as you climb in, “ excuse you, sir.” Hopping into the driver's seat, finding the situation funny, he begins to drive out of the school parking lot, full-on laughing now.
Looking at him, “ Jaafar, what is so funny, man?” baffled. He turns to you, still laughing, “ I mean technically our lesson was successful, right like they listened to us.. right”. laughing too, “You know what you, your brother, and dad have in common?” “What, mama?”
“All of y'all full of Jashit now, drive the car. I got to figure out what to cook for dinner”
“I love you, Mrs.Jackson, don’t we, twins”
The twins yell, “ WE LOVE YOU MOMMA”
Laughing, “I love you all too”
Outer Galaxy Space Agents
Tags- @mamasturn @swavydadon @niyahctrl @neighbourscat @melaninjoys @darkseidex @mouthfullofrocki @moodymp4 @multifandomposts-blog @callmeoncette @cherrishkissed @herweirdass @angelfacediary @esioleren @allth3stars @sintizc @jaafarsaura @yourleogf @narratedillusions @bawdylanguageee (let me know if anyone wants to be removed)
do u ever think that michael would just serenade reader with his deeper voice when you’re mad at him? like when you’re giving him the silent treatment, he’d kiss her ear and speak in that soft but sultry voice 😩 likeee “i’m sorry, angel,” while he’s caressing your body. i have too much fantasies i’m sorrrrryyyy
i love this thought so bad bc like he wouldn’t even take your anger seriously at first, which only irritated you more. you’d be sitting on the couch with your arms crossed or while he’s following you around the house.
“you still mad?” no answer. “baby.” still no answer. “okay.” then five minutes later. “you real mad?” and when that doesn’t work, that’s when he starts getting clingy like laying his head in your lap or wrapping his arms around your waist.
but the second he realizes you’re genuinely upset is when his voice drops into that sultry sweet tone. he’d pull you against his chest and just mumble, “c’mon angel, don’t do this…” and because his deep voice was genuinely your weakness you’d finally crumble, “you’re so annoying.” and he’d just hold you in his arms.
context: you discover an early sign of vitiligo on your son.
"You look just like me,"
You whispered into the dark nursery, leaning over the wooden railing to poke his soft thigh. "Don't listen to your father. You have my toes. And my ears. We basically twins, Peanut."
The nursery was quiet at three in the morning, save for the rhythmic, mechanical hum of the baby monitor and the soft, heavy breathing of five-month-old Sean—affectionately dubbed "Peanut" by Paris the very first day he came home from the hospital.
You stood over the crib, your hair wrapped in a silk bonnet, wearing one of Michael’s oversized flannel shirts as a makeshift robe. Peanut was fast asleep on his stomach, his little knees tucked up under his chest, his diapered bottom sticking up in the air. He had a full head of thick, tight, jet-black curls that defied gravity, a tiny button nose, and a pair of chubby, dimpled cheeks that you spend half your days kissing.
"Who are you tryna to convince, applehead?"
A low, raspy whisper came from the doorway. You turned to see Michael leaning against the frame, his frame silhouetted by the dim hallway light. He was wearing black pajama pants and a loose white V-neck, his own hair tied back in a messy, loose bun. He looked exhausted from a long string of meetings with his management team, but the moment his eyes landed on the crib, that soft, incredibly smug fatherly smile broke across his face.
He walked over on quiet tiptoes, the floorboards barely groaning beneath his feet, and slid his arms around your waist from behind. He rested his chin on your shoulder, his skin warm against your neck, smelling of lotion and the lavender soap he used before bed.
"I'm not trying to convince anyone," you sniffed playfully, leaning back into his chest. "I carried this child for nine months, Michael. I endured swollen ankles, heartburn, and a literal midnight delivery. I deserve at least one feature."
Michael let out a breathless, silent laugh against your neck, his chest vibrating against your back. He peered down at the sleeping baby. "Beautiful, you are a vision, and I love you with all my heart, but that boy is a literal carbon copy of me from the Gary days. Look at that lip. Look at those curls. You just provided the penthouse suite for nine months."
"A penthouse suite is crazy." you mumbled, turning in his arms to face him. But you couldn't help the smile that tugged at your lips.
He wasn't lying. When Peanut had been born five months ago, it had been a whirlwind of emotion. The labor had been fast and furious, hitting you like a freight train in the middle of the night. You remembered Michael panicking, trying to grab the prepackaged hospital bag while simultaneously tripping over Blanket’s toys, while Prince and Paris stood at the top of the stairs in their pajamas, cheering you on like you were running a marathon.
When the doctor had finally handed the baby to you, wrapped in a striped hospital blanket, the room had gone completely still. Michael had wept openly, his hands shaking as he cut the cord, falling to his knees by the bedside to kiss your damp forehead over and over again. And when the rest of the Jackson clan had come to visit the ranch a few weeks later, the agreement had been immediate. Katherine had held the baby close to her chest, her eyes crinkling with tears as she whispered,
“Oh, Mike, he looks just like you did when you were a baby. Exactly like you.” Every single one of Michael's brothers had teased him about having a literal clone running around the house.
Life with a newborn had turned Neverland into a beautiful, chaotic playground.
Prince and Paris had adapted to their roles as big siblings with fierce, almost comical devotion. Prince considered himself the "Head of Security" for the nursery, strictly monitoring who entered and making sure anyone who wanted to hold the baby used a generous pump of hand sanitizer first.
Paris treated Peanut like her live-in doll, constantly picking out his little onesies, singing him off-key lullabies, and insisting on holding his bottle during feeding times. Even little Blanket, who was still the baby of the house himself, would toddle into the nursery just to press his favorite blue blanket against the baby’s tiny feet, making sure his little brother was warm.
By the afternoon, the heat of the California sun had mellowed into a golden, lazy warmth that flooded through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the main living room.
The house was filled with the comfortable, domestic sounds of a family at peace. Peanut was down on the rug, happily playing inside his large mesh playpen. He was surrounded by a generous assortment of soft plush animals and a bright plastic teething ring that he was currently gnawing on with pure determination. Prince and Blanket were sitting on the hardwood floor right next to the pen, intensely focused on a massive game of ‘who can build the biggest lego tower’.
They were building an elaborate, multi-tiered fortress completely surrounding the playpen, treating their baby brother like a royal king protected inside an impenetrable castle.
"Don't put that block there, Bigi, it's gonna fall on the perimeter," Prince instructed in his serious, older-brother voice, carefully balancing a wooden piece. Blanket just let out a quiet grunt, happily passing Prince another block, his eyes occasionally darting to Peanut to make sure the baby was still smiling.
A few paces away, the open-concept kitchen was separated from the living room by a wide marble island. You and Michael were working together in tandem, preparing a late lunch for the kids. The radio was playing a soft, soulful Motown track in the background. Michael was humming along, his hips swaying slightly to the rhythm as he expertly sliced up red apples and peeling oranges on a wooden cutting board. You were beside him, assembling ham and cheese sandwiches, spreading mayonnaise over the white bread with practiced ease.
"Think we should take them to the movie theater on the property later?" Michael asked softly, tossing a small piece of apple into his mouth. "Prince said he wanted to see that new cartoon again."
"Only if you promise not to let them eat their weight in snacks before dinner," you replied, nudging his hip with yours. "Last time, Paris had a sugar rush that lasted until midnight."
Michael chuckled, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners. "Hey, I can't help it if the concession stand has the best—"
The heavy, frantic slap-slap-slap of bare feet sprinting down the long hallway shattered the peaceful atmosphere.
The kitchen doors flew open with a loud thud. Paris stood in the frame, her chest heaving underneath her overalls, her eyes wide with a sudden, absolute panic. Her little hands were gripping the edges of her shirt.
"Mama! Daddy! Come quick!" she gasped out, her voice trembling with an innocent but terrifying urgency. "Peanut's skin is coming off! It’s gone!"
Your heart violently dropped into your stomach like a lead weight. The butter knife slipped from your fingers, clattering loudly against the marble counter. A cold, suffocating wave of pure adrenaline rushed through your veins. "What?!" you shrieked, your maternal instinct instantly flaring into overdrive.
Michael didn't even speak. The apple slice he was holding dropped to the floor as his face went completely pale. He vaulted past the kitchen island, his long legs carrying him down the hallway in a blur of motion. You were right on his heels, your heart hammering against your ribs as a million horrific medical scenarios flashed through your mind—burns, a sudden allergic reaction, an infection, ANYTHING.
Michael burst into the living room, practically sliding on the polished wood floor to reach the playpen. Prince and Blanket looked up, startled by the sudden, dramatic entrance of their parents.
You scrambled in right behind Michael, your hands shaking as you reached into the mesh pen and scooped a confused Peanut up into your arms. You frantically turned him over, inspecting his face, his chubby hands, his neck, his ears. Peanut just blinked his wide, dark eyes up at you, completely unfazed, letting out a wet bubble and waving his arms.
"Where, Paris? Where is it?!" you breathed, your voice cracking as you scanned his skin.
Paris rushed over, pointing a trembling finger at the baby's left side, right under his arm. "Right there! I saw it when he rolled over to grab his toys! His skin is rubbing off!"
You didn't hesitate. With trembling fingers, you gently gathered the hem of the baby's soft cotton onesie and unsnapped it, pulling the fabric up to expose his chubby little torso and ribcage. You carefully turned him toward the afternoon sunlight streaming through the window, your eyes scanning the rich, beautiful brown complexion of his skin.
And then, you saw it.
Right near his ribs, just below his tiny armpit, there was a small, irregular patch of skin about the size of a dime. It wasn't bleeding. It wasn't raw, or peeling, or inflamed. It wasn't a rash.
It was simply a patch of skin that was completely devoid of its pigment—a stark, milky-white contrast against the rest of his smooth, dark skin.
You let out a long, ragged breath, the immediate terror of a physical injury or a chemical burn leaving your body. You ran a gentle, soothing thumb over the spot. It felt perfectly smooth. Exactly like the rest of him. "It's... it's just a light spot, Paris," you whispered, trying to calm your own racing pulse. "Maybe a new birthmark. He's okay."
You turned your head to look at Michael, expecting him to give a sigh of relief.
The words caught completely in your throat.
Michael hadn't moved. He was frozen on his knees beside the playpen, his gaze locked entirely on the nickel-sized white patch on his son's torso. Every single drop of color had drained from his face, leaving him a ghostly, fragile shade of pale. His jaw was slightly slack, his lips parted, and his dark eyes were wide, glassy, and completely unblinking.
He didn't cry. He didn't make a sound. But the sheer, agonizing weight of a silent realization hung over him like a suffocating shroud.
He knew exactly what it was.
It was vitiligo.
It was the very same autoimmune disease that had ravaged his own body, turned his teenage years into a nightmare, and transformed his adulthood into a cruel media circus. It was the disease that had physically altered him, causing him decades of physical pain in the sun and unimaginable emotional scarring from a world that refused to believe he was sick.
And now, it was appearing on his innocent, five-month-old baby boy—years, decades earlier than it had ever appeared on him.
"Baby?" you murmured softly, your voice dropping into a cautious, protective register. The kids were watching, and the sudden, heavy silence in the room was making them uneasy.
Michael didn't look up. He couldn't. His hands, usually so expressive and steady, were visibly trembling as he slowly reached out. His index finger hovered just a millimeter above the white patch on Peanut's skin. He looked like he wanted to touch it, to wish it away, but he was too terrified that his touch would somehow make it real.
Prince looked between you and his father, his brow furrowing with that quiet, intuitive maturity he often showed. "Dad? Is Peanut sick?"
The sound of his oldest son's voice seemed to snap a cord inside Michael. He closed his eyes for a brief second, swallowing hard, forcing the raw panic down into the deepest recesses of his chest. When he opened his eyes, he forced a weak, incredibly gentle smile onto his face, though his eyes remained entirely hollow.
"No, Prince. Peanut isn't sick. He's perfectly healthy," Michael whispered, his voice remarkably controlled, though it carried a fragile, paper-thin edge. He looked at Paris, reaching out to tousle her hair. "You did a good job watching your brother, Paris. Thank you for telling us."
He cleared his throat, standing up with a deliberate, slow movement. "Prince, why don't you take Paris and Blanket back to the kitchen? Go ahead and start on the fruit slices. Mama and I will be right there in just a minute. We're just going to change Peanut's diaper."
Prince searched his father's face for a moment, then nodded solemnly. He took Paris and Blanket by their hands, leading them quietly out of the living room. The wooden doors of the kitchen swung shut behind them, leaving the room entirely silent.
The moment the kids were out of sight, the mask completely fell away.
Michael didn't cry, but he looked entirely, completely drained, as if the physical energy required to hold himself together had aged him ten years in a span of ten seconds. He sank back onto the couch, burying his face in his hands, his breathing shallow and ragged.
You didn't say a word. You carefully tucked Peanut back into his onesie, snapping it shut, and carried him over to the couch. You sat down right next to Michael, placing the baby gently in the space between you. Peanut, completely unaware of the heavy gravity in the room, immediately rolled onto his side and began to happily pull at the fabric of Michael's pajama pants.
You wrapped your arm around Michael’s shoulders, pulling his rigid, trembling frame against your side. "Michael," you murmured, your voice a steady, grounding anchor in the dark. "Honey, talk to me. Look at me, baby."
Slowly, Michael dropped his hands from his face. His eyes were bloodshot, staring blankly ahead at the wall.
"I passed it to him," he whispered, his voice entirely devoid of its usual melodic warmth. It was a flat, broken sound. "I prayed so hard. Every single night since you told me you were pregnant... I begged God to let him have your skin. To let him be safe from this."
He turned his head to look at you, and the sheer, raw vulnerability in his eyes broke your heart.
"Before I met you... my ex-partners, they... they didn't want to have children with me because of it," Michael confessed, his voice dropping into a raw, painful whisper, sharing a piece of trauma he had kept locked away for years. "They were terrified. One of them told me straight to my face that she didn't want to risk having a child who would get the vitiligo, or a child who would be too dark, or a child who would look like... like a freak to the world. They were scared of my genetics. They were scared of me."
Your grip tightened around his shoulder, your fingers digging into his shirt as a fierce, protective anger surged through you on his behalf.
"And I started to believe them," Michael continued, a bitter, hollow smile touching his lips. "I started to think that maybe I shouldn't have any more kids. Because look what I did to him. He's only five months old, and it's already starting. The world is going to tear him apart, Baby. They're going to accuse him of trying to change, they're going to call him names, they're going to look at his skin like it's a mistake. He looks just like me, and now he's going to have to suffer just like me."
"Michael, look at me," you commanded gently, reaching up with your free hand to firmly cup his jaw, forcing his eyes to lock onto yours. Your thumb brushed over his cheekbone. "Listen to me very carefully."
Michael blinked, his breath hitching as he looked into your eyes.
"Those women were blind, and they didn't deserve a single piece of the beautiful man you are," you said, your voice fierce, steady, and filled with an absolute, unwavering certainty. "You did not curse our son. You gave him life. You gave him those big beautiful eyes, that sweet smile, and a soul that is going to be just as kind and brilliant as his father's."
You leaned down, pressing a deep, lingering kiss to his forehead, then to his lips, letting him feel the entire weight of your love.
"And you listen to me," you continued, sliding your hand down to rest over his heart. "The world is different now. He is not going to go through what you went through alone. Do you know why?"
Michael swallowed hard, his dark eyes searching yours. "Why?"
"Because when you were a kid going through this, you didn't have anyone who understood," you whispered, a tear of your own finally slipping down your cheek. "But Peanut has you. He has a father who knows exactly how it feels, who can teach him how to be strong, how to hold his head high, and how to love himself. And he has a mother who will tear this entire industry apart before she lets anyone make her baby feel any less than perfect."
You shifted slightly, picking up Peanut and placing him directly into Michael’s lap. The baby immediately let out a happy coo, his tiny, chubby hands reaching up to blindly grab at the silver buttons on Michael's shirt.
"Look at him, Mikey," you murmured softly. "He doesn't care about a spot on his skin. He just wants his daddy."
Michael looked down at his son. He watched as Peanut's little fingers tangled in his shirt, his big, round eyes full of absolute, unconditional adoration for the man holding him.
Slowly, the heavy, suffocating tension began to melt out of Michael's shoulders. He let out a long, shaky breath—not a sob of defeat, but a release of the agonizing fear he had carried alone for decades. He wrapped his long, slender arms around the baby, pulling Peanut close against his chest, burying his face into the baby’s sweet, lotion-scented curls.
He reached out with his other arm, wrapping it securely around your waist and pulling you into the tight, fiercely protective circle.
"Thank you," Michael whispered against the baby's hair, his voice thick but finally steady, anchored by the strength you had poured into him. "Thank you, Mama. I don't know what I'd do without you."
"You'll never have to find out," you murmured, leaning your head against his shoulder as the three of you sat together in the soft sunlight. "We're a team."
seen this on tiktok earlier, it just reminded me about all the people who says he’s a “toxic baby daddy” now this comment might not be true but…🤷🏻♀️ it’s kinda weird how people judge him based off his looks.
Literally thats why i said how much of his so called toxicity is really just stereotypes
hey girl! i love your retired life series, it’s so cute and funny! you know the tiktok trend that’s going around, where you have ur parents say “are you digging in your ass?” in different emotions? could you write michael and special guests, the rest of the jackson brothers engage in that trend pls? 🤍
𝑹𝒆𝒕𝒊𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝑳𝒊𝒇𝒆 ➒
Michael Jackson x Reader
Synopsis: When Michael's brothers see that Michael is going viral on Tiktok again, they decide they want in on some of the action. You help them film some trend at a family function.
Content/Warnings: Modern Au, Michael Lives, Tito lives, Gramps!Michael, fluff, Jackson Brothers, Tiktok, brainrot
W.C. 1k
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9 (Current)
Masterlist
Michael crossed his arms with a slight frown, "Do we really have to do this?"
He was sitting on the couch squished between Marlon and Jackie, looking at you with pleading eyes, silently willing you to give him an excuse to get up. You simply smiled at him and gave him a little wink.
Marlon clapped a hand on Michael's shoulder, "Come on, Mikey. You can't have all the fun, you gotta give us a little."
Michael smiled despite himself. Truthfully, he was kind of excited. Doing something silly like this reminded him of when they were all kids. Jermaine sat in an armchair, while Tito and Randy plopped themselves on the edge of the couch.
This whole thing had been Marlon's idea, of course. He had seen the trend bleeding over onto instagram reels, and thought it would be fun to join in with the younger generation. So when the family had gotten together for dinner at the house, Marlon had secretly asked you to help gather the brothers to make the video. You thought the idea was hilarious and agreed instantly.
"Okay, explain this again." Randy sighed, leaning back on the couch.
Marlon sat up excitedly, clearing his throat. "So, there is going to be a phrase that we all have to say. And all of us go down the line saying it with a certain type of emotion, like happy, sad, confused, befuddled, and so on."
"What the fuck is befuddled?" Tito glanced over at him.
"Confused." Everyone answered at the same time.
"So does everyone get it?" He looked around. The brothers all nodded slowly, trying to keep up their annoyed facade.
"So what's the phrase and how do we have to say it?" Michael looked at him.
"We're gonna do happy, confused, supportive, disappointed, and sad." Marlon read from the small list he had made.
Jermaine looked over, "Aren't sad and disappointed kinda the same?"
"What no?" Marlon crossed his arms defensively.
"They kinda are." Jermaine retorted.
Michael quickly took Marlon's side. "Yeah of course you would think that."
Jermaine side eyed him. Despite the back and forth, there was no real malice behind it, just old brotherly love.
"So what's the phrase?" Jackie finally asked.
Marlon and you shared a giggle before he spoke, "You've been diggin in your ass."
The brothers all immediately burst into retaliation, shaking their heads and calling him crazy if he thought they would actually say that. You laughed with Marlon at their reaction. "Oh come on, y'all are no fun, it's just a little joke." You spoke.
Michael folded immediately. "We should do it, there's no real harm in it."
Marlon wrapped an arm around his shoulder, "Exactly, Mikey. Good to know at least one of my brothers is still fun."
That comment alone was enough to make the rest give in, not wanting their fun card revoked from the family.
Marlon started. He cleared his throat before eagerly stating the phrase. "You've been diggin in your ass!!"
Everyone kept their lips sealed, trying not to laugh. Michael looked down, composing himself before saying the phrase with so much joy and whimsy that you couldn't help but laugh from behind the camera. You cut the video off mid take so that you wouldn't waste time. They went down the line trying to one up each other's performance of the phrase.
Jackie gave the most compelling, emotional, devastating delivery of the line. Jermaine managed to lock down the disappointed delivery, giving the camera a whole performance with the phrase. Tito naturally had the best confused delivery, mostly because he simply was still confused about this whole trend. And Randy gave the most giddy, supportive delivery of the phrase.
With each round, they all quickly leaned into the challenge, going over the top and putting on the whole works. Each take you had to pause the video for at least a minute so everyone could recover from the laughing.
When it was done, you showed them the finished video. They all giggled, making fun of each other for how serious they took a certain phrase.
Your youngest walked into the room to find the whole group huddled around the phone. "What are you guys doing?"
Michael smiled and showed her the phone proudly. "We did a fun trend!"
She stared at the screen with an unimpressed expression. "Y'all are so weird." She continued her path to her room.
Michael's brothers laughed at Michael's pout. Jackie patted his back, "Kids are hard, buddy."
Michael shrugged. "It's alright, she's going through a phase where she's embarrassed of anything and everything Y/n and I do."
Your daughter shouted from the top of the stairs. "It's not a phase dad!"
You and Michael shared a little laugh, knowing you were pushing her buttons. Marlon took the phone and posted the video. "Ugh, can't wait to get famous a second time." He said smugly.
Tito lightly hit him upside the head, "Don't be a smart ass, you were never famous to begin with."
His mouth dropped open in offense. "Excuse me, I was a fan favorite! I had the moves, what did you have a guitar and a big ass hat?"
The conversation quickly devolved into them arguing who was the favorite... besides Michael.
Michael came up and hugged you from behind, placing a kiss on the top of your head. "They're such dimwits."
You eyed him, "Yeah, don't exclude yourself from that statement." You laughed as he pouted.
"You're so mean to me." He placed his chin on your shoulder, making absolutely no move to leave your side.
"You're exactly where you want to be." You turned and gently kissed his cheek.
content: Off the wall/ Destiny Tour era Michael Jackson x Wife! Reader
michael can’t fathom the idea of being away from his wife for more than a day. he needs to come home to you, matter of fact he’s not going on another damn tour if you can’t go.
warnings: 18+ minors dni, young married couple, p in v, almost caught, semi-descriptive body worship, curvy reader, freaky shit in the back of a tour bus, kind of getting caught.
wc: 930+
lover girl
The tension in the Jackson household had been thick enough to cut with a knife for weeks. Michael had been adamant, his voice trembling not with fear, but with a desperate, burning need. He wouldn't step foot on the stage for the US leg of the Destiny tour unless you were by his side.
To Michael, you were his sanctuary, and he cherished every curve of your body. He adored the lush, soft swell of your hips, the gentle, softness of your stomach that he loved to press his face into, and those thick, beautiful thighs that he claimed were the most perfect things he’d ever seen. Your natural coiled hair was a crown he loved to stroke while he whispered promises of a future where no one could tell him who to love.
Standing in the hallway, you leaned against the wall, your heart hammering against your ribs. Beside you, Lotoya and Katherine stood in supportive silence, their expressions grave. Every other wife is going why can’t you? From the home office, the shouting erupted.
"I don't care about her! This is a professional tour, Michael! We have an image to maintain!" Joseph’s voice boomed, authoritative and cold.
"That's my wife, Joseph!" Michael’s voice cracked, raw with emotion. "I can't do this without her. I can't handle the pressure, the lights, the noise unless I have her to come home to at night. Please!"
"He's right, Joseph,” Jackie chimed in, his voice calmer but firm. "Michael's been working himself to the bone. All our girls are going, why can’t his? If having her there keeps him focused and happy, why fight it?"
"Exactly," Marlon added. "She's good for him. Let him have this."
The argument raged for an hour, a tug-of-war between Joseph’s rigid control and Michael’s desperate love. You held your breath, tears pricking your eyes, until finally, a heavy silence fell.
"Fine!" Joseph spat, the word sounding like a defeat. "She comes. But she stays out of the way. One slip-up, one distraction, and she's on a plane home boy."
Fast forward to the US leg of the tour. The tour bus was a humming beast of chrome and diesel, cutting through the night. In the front lounge, the atmosphere was rowdy. Marlon and Jackie and their significant others were half-drunk, laughing loudly and playing card games with a few members of the stage crew, their voices echoing through the cabin. The others were on a second tour bus of their own.
In the back room, however, the world had shrunk down to just the two of you.
Michael had lost all his composure the moment the door clicked shut. He had stripped you with a frantic hunger, his hands gripping your wide, soft hips, pulling your plush body against him. He had ripped your underwear off with a guttural growl, but he didn't throw them away. Instead, he had stuffed the soiled fabric deep into your mouth, gagging you to stifle the screams of pleasure he knew you’d let out.
Now, you were bent over the small built-in table, your ass hoisted high in the air, your heavy, soft thighs trembling. Michael was behind you, his lean frame contrasting with your generous, pillowy curves. He was buried deep inside you, his cock slamming into your pussy with a rhythmic, violent intensity.
Slap. Slap. Slap.
The sound of his pelvis hitting your full cheeks was loud in the small room. You could hear the wet, sloppy pap-pap-pap of your drenched pussy being hammered raw. To make it even more intense, Michael had shoved his thumb deep into your tight asshole, stretching you open, his digit hooking inside you while he drove his cock into your cunt.
You were losing your mind. Your eyes were rolled back, your muffled moans vibrating against the fabric in your mouth. You tried to push back, trying to fuck yourself back onto him, your wide hips grinding against him in a desperate search for more.
Michael was struggling to stay quiet. He had the bottom of his stage shirt clenched tightly between his teeth, biting down hard to keep from whimpering or crying out as he felt your tight walls squeezing his shaft. He was obsessed with the way your soft hips moved with every thrust, the way your hair spilled over the table.
Suddenly, the heavy footsteps of a drunk Marlon stumbled toward the back. He banged loudly on the door, his voice slurred and teasing.
"Y'all better not be in there being nasty!" Marlon yelled, laughing to himself. "I know you, Mike! Keep it clean!"
The sudden threat of being caught sent a jolt of pure electricity through your spine. Your pussy clamped down on Michael’s cock like a vice, flooding him with an explosion of heat and lubrication. You let out a muffled, high-pitched keen into the gag, your body shuddering.
Michael didn't slow down. If anything, the risk made him more feral. He let out a muffled groan into his metallic shirt, his thrusts becoming shorter, faster, and more desperate. He hammered into you one last time, burying himself to the hilt, his thumb pressing deep into your rectum.
"Oh god... yes..." he whimpered against the fabric of his shirt.
With a final, powerful thrust, Michael erupted inside you, his warm cum filling your pussy to overflowing. At the same moment, your own orgasm crashed over you in waves, your internal muscles pulsing violently around him. You collapsed onto the table, shaking and breathless, while Marlon’s laughter faded as he stumbled back toward the front of the bus, completely unaware that his brother had just claimed you in the most explicit way possible.
