since there's been a lot of drama in the tags and in the community, i want to get some positivity going around. we all need it! first and foremost ā get on pinterest and type in: name + fave mj era + aesthetic and post four pictures that you see first. tag ten of your moots or your favorite blogs to take part!! š¤
hair color: black
favorite color: purple
favorite drink: cherry dr. pepper
favorite Michael Jackson solo song: if i had to pick one: it's got the hots demo from the thriller 40th anniversary album
favorite group track (Jackson 5 or The Jacksons): i'm gonna put both; from the jacksons 5 - who's loving you but from the jacksons - give it up.
go-to Jackson/MJ song for an immediate mood boost: get on the floor - michael jackson
favorite MJ ballad or slow song: you are my life or for all time
most underrated Jackson family track in your opinion: heaven knows i love you, girl (goin places album)
a song where the vocals/harmonies give you chills every time: someone put your hand out - michael jackson
if you could only listen to ONE MJ or Jacksons album for the rest of your life, which one? the triumph album, it's a no skip for me.
4. favorite Michael Jackson solo song: sunset driver - demo from the 40th thriller album
5. favorite group track (Jackson 5 or The Jacksons): BODY LANGUAGE AND UH UH UH FOREVER CAME TODAY
6. go-to Jackson/MJ song for immediate mood boost: Burn This Disco Out (got me moving like that chicken from chicken little)
7. favorite MJ ballad or slow song: break of mfing dawn, never does me wrong
8. most underrated Jackson family track in your opinion: body language. itās not appreciated
9. a song where the vocals/harmonies give you chills every time: that one part in Heaven Can Wait of him saying no, actually does something to me
10. if you could only listen to ONE MJ song or Jackson album for the rest of your life, which one?: off the wallā¦fight the wall (get it? off the wall and fight the wall š)
@tlcfrmmike @brownsugarletters @blkkbratt (thatās all i gotā¦)
āš¶š¾š šā“šā“šą¼Æ a very deep almost black-brown with blue chunky highlights(literally just had red last weekš)
ā±š¶šā“šš¾šāÆ šā“šā“šą¼Æ Red & Pink.
ā±š¶šā“šš¾šāÆ š¹šš¾šš: Most sparkling water & lemonade/ strawberry lemonade.
šŖšāÆ šš½š¾šā šā“š šā“šāÆ š¶š·ā“šš šā“šššāÆšš»ą¼Æ My ability to read intentions and attitudes
āš» šā“š šøā“ššš¹ š·āÆ š¶šš š¶šš¾šš¶š šš½š¶š šā“ššš¹ šā“š š·āÆą¼Æ A snake or Panther.
šŖšāÆ šš½š¾šā šā“šš šā“ā“šš¾šā š»ā“ššš¶šš¹ šā“ ššą¼Æ Going to the Orlando metro area with my man and my best friend.
š“ā“šš š·š¾āāāÆšš š¹šāÆš¶šą¼Æ Fulfillment, meaning, and peace. Also to become an actress but also a figure for other black women and guide us till I can't anymore.
OMGGGG YAYYY i can YAP ā ty for thinking of me š„¹!
ą³ hair color: copper (ginger)
ą³ favorite color: lavender purple .į
ą³ favorite drink(s): matcha, tea & GINGER ALE .į
ą³ one thing you love about yourself: im conceitedāeverything, lol jk : my willingness to help evb .į
ą³ if you can be an animal, what would you be?: a cat
ą³ dream place to visit: china or rome .į
ą³ one thing youāre looking forward to: celebrating my frenās august birthdays .į
ą³ my biggest dream: becoming a neurologist & publishing research on tbi & colon cancer .į
ą³ songs on repeat: okayy by latto, kiss n tell by aespa, church by mariah the scientist & f*ck swag by nettspend .į
npt: @bloomflix @satorusdreamer @kireampie @yoonsucks @swvness @toorufairy @tokkushin @chequiiita @fadingalmondhandszine @antholoji @yuucide @daflex @evfers @chosayi @valberryboos @sugurusbeloved +++ anyone who would like to join i didnāt tag evb lol!!
np tags but i lowk wanna get to know some of yall a little better : @lorelays @hysterotic @porcalinecunt @qrtem @thelibrarianangsti @chaoslibra @koretholics @lunebrew @wildflowersandbarley333 @kunaiiikittennn @bloomflix @spacedust-alley @feuillmorte @nyajiro
hair colour: dark brown (my roots are black tho they're growing out lol)
favourite colour: pink, blue, dark brown, white
favourite drinks: any kind of smoothie, apple juice, lychee tea
one thing you love about yourself: naturally have a lot of empathy?
if you can be an animal, what would you be?: a humpback whale (bc i like them but also i kinda wanna mess with orcas)
dream place to visit: wherever whales are, i wanna see a whale in this lifetime
one thing you're looking forward to: traveling with my friendss
my biggest dream: creating a safe space for queer people and being happy with my friends and and uh seeing a humpback whale irl
songs on repeat: kiss n tell - aespa, when it rains - paramore, crash out - tinashe, switchblade - beabadoobee, deep love - split end, ćććŖććć¹ććøć§ćć¬ć¤ć·ć§ć³ - asian kung-fu generation, anyway - ephraim, ęå¼¦é³ - MyGO!!!!!
no pressure tags! @pushingpesticides @cerezasefimeras
1. Hair Color: Dark brown
2. Favorite Color: Sage green
3. Favorite Drink: Pomegranate lemonade
4. Something I Love About Myself: Iām extremely outspoken about my politics and refuse to shut up
4. What Animal Would I Be?: Red panda
5. Dream Visit: Sri Lanka, birthplace of Theravada Buddhism
6. Looking Forward To: COLLEGE!
7. Biggest Dream: Living to see the fall of the powers that be
8. Songs On Repeat: Notos by The Oh Hellos
@l0velyl4vender, @shypervydolly, @sweatyfuntrash, @licoriceisback, open tags
SUMMARY: What was supposed to be one gap year after high school has stretched into several, but youāre finally getting closer to the financial goal you have for college tuition. What better way to push yourself over the finish line than being a surrogate in Los Angeles? But when the fertility agency sendsĀ Michael JacksonĀ instead of a typical wealthy Beverly Hills couple to your door, youāre not entirely sure what to expect.Ā
Spanning almost a year of quiet milestones, public scrutiny, and a hazy LA backdrop, this story follows a regular woman completely upended by the magnetic and elusive world of a celebrity father and his three kids. What starts as a hands-off arrangement slowly transforms into an intricate and painfully complicated entanglement. As youāreĀ woven into the fabric of Michaelās life, the invisible boundaries between surrogate and client begin to dissolve.
CHAPTER WC:
6.1 k
OVERALL TAGS/WARNINGS:
pairing:Ā mature era!michael x f!reader. 18+, MDNI.Ā pregnancy/surrogacy (obviously), slow slow SLOWWW burn, oblivious reader AND oblivious MJ, pregnancy symptoms, long ass phone conversations (yk how mj was running up that phone bill), age gap (reader is mid twenties), mutual pining, timeline inaccuracies/discrepancies (please letās just pretend bill is 15 years younger than he actually is bc we all know that man would not realistically be working for MJ in the 2000s), the trial never happened in this universe because EYEEE said so, MJs kids being a menace but also lowkey the best wingmen (wingchildren??)Ā ever, graphic depictions of childbirth and labor, a bit of angst but it gets resolved, kissing, eventual smut, FLUFFFFF, and a happy ending because duh!
A/N:
hiii guys! can we believe we (you) are 17 weeks along? time really flies fr (take a shot every time i use this phrase)! this chapter was so fun to write because we finally get to see you and michael interact on his turf... š. also! [] = your name! i didn't like how (name) or y/n looked when reading so hopefully you guys don't mind this instead. toodles!
17 Weeks.
November, Los Angeles, 2003.
If someone had told you your skin would look the best it ever looked in your life when you were seventeen weeks pregnant, you would have called them a bold-faced liar. But here you sat in front of your vanity, mouth slightly agape at how glowy your skin was as you curled your eyelashes. Even your mom had noticed, bringing it up at dinner a few nights ago.
āThis is my apology from the universe for my first trimester,ā you had told her, wiggling your eyebrows.
Even now as you fussed with your hair, you could hardly believe that it wasnāt thinning or falling out, which was something Dr. Gene warned you could happen at your last appointment. Zofran was no longer part of your daily routine, and you could actually enjoy food now without your stomach throwing a tantrum. Really, the only thing bothering you was your bump. Maybe ābotherā wasnāt the right word, butā¦ it was definitely an adjustment. Your abdomen had gotten to the point where strangers could do a 60/40 toss up between newly pregnant or just really bloated, and that was currently the source of your frustrations right now as you tried to find an outfit to wear for your meeting with him.
āNot a meeting; that makes it sound serious,ā you mutter to yourself in the mirror. āIām justā¦ hanginā out. With my surrogate client. Who happens to be Michael Jackson. Right.ā
After fighting with your hair and your arms being on the brink of exhaustion, you finally manage to get it to sit the way you wanted. With your hair checked off your list, you turn your attention back to your closet. You had already tried to plan your outfit days ago, but you were so unsatisfied that you gave up, convincing yourself that you would get it right on the day of.Ā
And yet here you sat, clothes piled up on the bed from your rejected outfits, and less than twenty minutes, according to your bedside clock, to decide on one. It was mid-November in Los Angeles, and the weather was doing that thing where there was a chill breeze, even if the sun would be out and shining. It was a deceptive little trick that youāve always disliked about the climate in LA ever since you moved there as a child, and it only made your outfit search that much more difficult. You had to find something that could keep you warm, but also wouldnāt make you too hot, that would be dressed up enough to show you took this seriously but not so dressed up that you looked out of place for what was supposed to be a casual afternoon lunch. If you werenāt running so short on time, you would have given yourself five minutes to scream unabashedly into your pillow. You settle on taking a deep breath instead, closing your eyes and mentally cataloguing every item in your closet.Ā
After careful consideration, you decide on a dark brown ribbed tank top with brown beading and sequin detail along the neckline, and pair it with a cream colored chunky knit cardigan and dark-wash jeans. For shoes, you decided you would steal borrow your momās calf-high buckle boots that you loved so much. She was at work anyway, so youāre sure she wouldnāt mind.
A touch of mascara and a lip gloss was really all you needed with your skin doing all of the heavy lifting. After a few sprays of perfume and a final check of your mini bag to make sure you had what you needed, you felt readyāwell, about as ready as anyone could feel in a situation like this.
You rush downstairs, rummaging in the shoe closet for your momās boots. Youāre pulling the second one onto your left foot when the doorbell rings, and you glance at your watch.
11:59 a.m..Ā
Damn, heās good.
Taking a deep breath, you tell yourself that it was just his bodyguard, not Michaelāfor now, at least. You had a whole car rideās worth of time to worry about facing him.
You open the door to an older man in a white bucket hat, and you immediately recognize him as the man who was standing outside when you had your first meeting with Michael.
āHi Bill,ā you greet him, hoping your smile doesn't look as nervous as you feel. āThanks for driving me today.ā
āItās no problem at all,ā he says warmly, escorting you to the car. The ācarā in question was a sleek, black Escalade ESV with heavily tinted windows, identical to the one Michael showed up in when you two first met almost five months ago. As Bill opens the rear door for you and you slide across the buttery leather seats, you wonder if itās the exact same one he rode in or if it was just part of many more that he may have had.
āIs the temperature alright for you? Any music you prefer to listen to?ā Bill asks, adjusting his rearview mirror.
āItās perfect,ā you reassure him. āAnd I donāt mind; you can listen to whatever you like.ā
Bill nods, and with that, he pulls out of your driveway and out of your neighborhood.
The soft hum of a smooth-jazz radio station fills the quiet cabin of the SUV, the bass low and soothing against the heavy thrum of the engine. You lean your head back against the buttery leather headrest, watching the familiar scenery of your everyday life blur past the dark tint of the window.
As Bill navigates the traffic onto the freeway, heading toward the winding, affluent hills of the city, your mind starts to drift. You glance down at the cream fabric of your cardigan, your fingers lightly grazing the hidden slope of your abdomen.
You wonder what heās doing right now. Is he pacing the floors of his mansion, feeling that same nervous energy he hinted at on the phone? Maybe heās completely unbothered and at ease. You even tell yourself there was a good chance he forgot you were even coming today; he was a busy man, after all, and he was probably just doing this to be nice.Ā
Probably.
The transition from the flat, sunny avenues of the valley into the lush, towering greenery of the hills happens gradually. The houses get further back from the road, hidden behind massive stone walls and iron gates, surrounded by sprawling palm trees and manicured ivy. You've lived in LA for years, but this side of the city has always felt like a mythāa playground reserved for old movie money and stadium-selling royalty.
Bill turns the heavy wheel, steering the Escalade onto a private, quiet cul-de-sac that seems to curve upward into the sky.
He looks over his shoulder at you with a smile. "Just a few more minutes. The kids just finished their lunch, so it might be a little lively when we get inside."
"That's fine," you say, swallowed by a sudden wave of nerves that makes your throat dry. You clear it quickly, forcing your best poker face back into position. "I love kids. I'm kind of used to the noise,ā you reassure him.
The SUV slows down as it approaches a massive, black wrought-iron gate set into a towering brick wall. There are no address numbers visible, just a discreet security camera mounted on a stone pillar, tracking the vehicle's approach. Bill rolls down his window just an inch, pressing a small clicker attached to his visor.
With a heavy, mechanical groan, the gates begin to swing inward, parting like the doors to another dimension.
The road gives way to an ordered cobblestone path, winding up a small incline before the house finally comes into view.Ā
Except house was an entirely ill-fitting choice of words to describe what you saw in front of you. No, thisā¦ this was a palace.
Youāre no stranger to extravagant mansions, having passed many of them on your adventures throughout LA. But to be this up close to one and actually get to go inside one was a different ball park entirely. The massive estate looked like an elephantine version of the fancy French chateaus that sat on the glossy pages of the travel magazines your mom received randomly in the mail sometimes. You subtly crane your neck out of the window and see two towering Italian cypress trees bordering either side of the entrance, along with vines growing on the first-story facade of the house. In the middle of the front driveway, a tiered stone fountain sent a steady, glittering cascade of water into the air.
Bill pulled off to the side, and the clanging of his keys snapped you out of your gawking. He unbuckles his seatbelt and exits, making his way around to your side to open the door for you. In the few seconds it takes him to get there, youāre pretty sure you have a mini panic attack. For some reason, it hits you again exactly who you were about to see, and you start to sympathize with the hundreds of women who were passing out at Michaelās concerts back in the day.
āYou ready?ā Bill says, swinging your door open. You offer him a meek smile, fumbling with the release of your own seatbelt before you step out of the car. It feels like youāre moving with fifty pound weights glued to your ankles as he walks you up to the door. You canāt decide which is worseāthe door opening to Michael immediately, or opening to someone else and giving you an extra minute for your cortisol to spike before you meet him.Ā
You quickly realize the latter is worse when Bill easily unlocks the entrance, letting both of you in. The hammering of your heart increases, and then settles for only a few seconds when he isnāt smack dab on the other side of the door.
The first thing you notice is the massive, glittering, champagne-colored chandelier thatās situated at the top of the dark, polished wood stairs, which is visible from the entryway. Thereās crown molding everywhere; on the walls, the ceilings, and even the baseboards, making the mansion look like even more of a castle on the inside. Several oil paintings in brushed gold frames cling to the walls, and some are mounted so high you have to fully tilt your head back to see them. The second thing you notice is the unmistakable sound of children playing, and a sudden, sharp ache twists in your chest. It hits you all over again just how much trust he is placing in your hands by letting you cross into the one part of his life that he fights so hard to completely protect from the public eye.
Thereās a muffled but unmistakable voice that calls out behind a closed door. āCome on, you two, thereās someone I want you to meet.ā
Your palms suddenly feel very, very, very Ā sweaty, and you say a quick prayer that Michael is more of a hugger than handshake type of person.
Itās as if an omnipresent power hears and answers your plea, because the dark wood paneling of the door swings wide open and Michaelās right there.
Heās in a simple, oversized red T-shirt, loose dark jeans, and a pair of white socks, his hair a little tousled. The domesticity of the image should calm you, but for some reason it only makes you more nervous.
"Hey!" His face instantly lights up with that legendary, blinding, perfect smile, and he closes the distance between you in three long, effortless strides. Before you can even process the motion, he wraps his arms around your shoulders, pulling you into a warm, genuine hug.
He smells incredible, same as the first time you metālike clean laundry, expensive sandalwood cologne, but this time with a faint hint of baby powder. You melt against his chest for a fraction of a second, his touch warming you right through your cardigan, before he pulls back just enough to look down at you, his hands resting gently on your upper arms.
"Look at you," he breathes out, his large, expressive eyes scanning your face, a look of pure relief and awe in them. "Youāre glowing. You look beautiful."
A sudden, intense wave of heat rushes from your chest straight up to your ears, and your carefully prepared poker face slips a little.
"Thank you," you squeak out, desperately hoping he didnāt feel the erratic thudding of your heart through his shirt.Ā
Before the quiet between you can stretch too far, the soft padding of footsteps on the hardwood draws your attention. Two pairs of eyes are suddenly fixed on you.
"These are my kids; well, two-thirds of them. The youngest is taking a nap," Michael says, his hand naturally coming down to rest on the shoulder of the seven-year-old boy standing at his right. "Prince, Paris, this is my friend.ā He tells them your name and you give a little wave to both of them. āShe's going to have lunch with us today, alright?"
"Hi," the older boy blurts out. His greeting is perfectly polite, but thereās an undeniable undercurrent of confidence and energy that only a seven-year-old can possess in the way he steps forward to offer a little wave. He isn't shy in the slightest; his posture is bright and energetic, his eyes tracking you with a sharp, intelligent curiosity that tells you heās used to being the center of attention.
"Hello," the six-year-old girl murmurs from Michaelās other side. Her voice is much quieter, a contrast to her brother's vibrant energy. She stands a little closer to her dad's leg, her gaze steady and deliberate as she takes you in. There's a mature, quiet focus in her eyes, a calculating look that feels less like childhood shyness and more like she's fiercely protecting her dad's space. You get the distinct impression that random visitors do not cross this threshold often, and she's currently deciding what category you fit into.
"Itās so nice to meet you both," you say, offering them a genuine smile. "Your house is so pretty."
"I can show you around if you want!" Prince offers excitedly, his polite restraint already starting to fray as his natural enthusiasm leaks through. He looks up at his dad for approval, practically vibrating on the balls of his feet. "Can I show her the fish tank first, Dad? Please?"
Michael lets out a soft little chuckle, looking down at his son with pure warmth. "Only if she wants to see it, Prince. Don't ambush her right at the door."
"I'd love to see the fish tank," you reassure him.
Thatās all the permission the boy needs. He takes off down the hall, his house slippers flapping on the polished floorboards. "Come on! We have a real shark in it! Itās a tiny baby shark, but itās still a real shark!"
His sister just lets out a tiny, long-suffering sigh at her brother's immediate loss of composure, though she steps away from her dad to follow him at a much more dignified pace.
āPrince! No running,ā she huffs, calling out after him.
Michael throws an apologetic, slightly embarrassed grin your way, waving a hand toward the hallway. "These two," he chuckles softly. "After you."
The next hour consisted of you getting a house tour, narrated almost entirely by the two children, with Michael only interjecting when Prince divulged a little too much information.Ā Ā
āThis is where we watch movies,ā Prince had said cheerfully about halfway through the tour.Ā He gestured grandly at the elaborate home theater setup. You did your best not to let it reflect in your face how astounded you were at the ceiling mural, the huge chandelier, and the luxurious velvet curtains that lined the projection screen.Ā
āOne time, Dad had a pillow fight with us and he fell over one of the couches,ā he giggled. At this, Michael cleared his throat immediately as he glanced between Prince and you.
āI did not fall, Prince. I tripped,ā Michael corrected him quickly with a nervous laugh.
āSure, Dad,ā the boy responded, sounding unconvinced before turning his attention back to you. āWanna see the pool next?ā
āWe should show her the library next, Prince,ā Paris interjected. Prince paused, looking like he was deep in thought at his little sister's suggestion. After a few seconds of contemplation, he nodded.
āOkay, Paris, letās go!ā he exclaimed, making his way up the tiered stairs to leave the home theater. āWe have like a million books in there!ā
Paris corrected Prince as she maneuvered around him. āWe have two hundred and thirteen. I counted. But just our books, not Daddyās. He has way more.ā
āThatās a lot of books,ā you smiled at her. āWhich oneās your favorite?ā
āHmmā¦ the Magic Tree House books, I think,ā she said decisively, leading all of you around the corner to the library door. āWe have all of them.ā
āOh, I love those,ā you replied, matching her serious tone. āThe one with the dinosaurs is the best.ā
Parisās eyes widened slightly, a flicker of genuine excitement breaking through her cool exterior. āThe Valley of the Dinosaurs one? Thatās my favorite too! Jack and Annie almost get eaten by a Tyrannosaurus Rex.ā
She proudly pushed open the double doors, revealing a room that smelled intensely of old paper and expensive leather. The library was breathtakingātwo stories of floor-to-ceiling dark oak bookshelves, accessible by a rolling wooden ladder that Prince immediately tried to climb before Michael caught him by the back belt loop of his shorts. A massive marble fireplace dominated one wall, flanked by plush velvet armchairs, and a large wrought-iron spiral staircase in the corner led up to a second-floor wrap-around balcony. It looked less like a private home and more like a sanctuary for centuries of history.
By the time the tour finally started winding down, your brain was actively struggling to process the sheer, enormous scale of the estate. If your mental math was correct, the kids had casually marched you past a sprawling home gym that rivaled a professional private health club, a five-lane bowling alley hidden in the basement, an elevator with polished brass doors, and a wine cellar that looked like an underground cave. Prince had proudly pointed out his favorite hiding spots across thirteen bedrooms and seven bathroomsāa number that made you think of the single, cramped bathroom you and your mom shared back home and laugh hysterically inside your head. Outside the towering windows, you had caught glimpses of a sunken tennis court, sprawling manicured gardens, and a detached guesthouse that was easily triple the size of your entire house. It was an overwhelming, mind-boggling display of wealth, yet the way the kids chased each other through the corridors making lightsaber noises made it feel weirdly... lived-in.
You were just trying to imagine the logistics of cleaning a house with seven bathrooms when the rich, savory aroma of garlic, fresh herbs, and toasted rice began to drift down the grand hallway, interrupting your thoughts.
Right on cue, a kind-faced woman with curly dark hair in a crisp white apron poked her head around the corner. "Lunch is ready, everyone," she announced with a warm smile before vanishing back toward the kitchen.Ā
āDo you like risotto? Kai made it for us,ā Paris asks, brushing hair out of her face.
āYāknow what, Iāve actually never had it, but Iām excited to try,ā you tell her honestly. āMy mom tried to make it from a recipe book once, but she ended up burning the riceā¦ donāt tell her I told you.ā
She giggles at your confession, easily leading the three of you to the dining room door. The massive, rectangular table carved from dark wood competes with the beguiling chandelier hanging above it for the center of attention. There are enough chairs to host an entire basketball team and then some, but three mismatched woven placemats and a green high-chair with smears of mystery sauce, both tucked into the end corner of the table, catch your attention. It's a messy, beautifully human anchor right in the middle of all that overwhelming luxury, and it makes something warm soften in your chest.
"Don't worry, your secret is safe with us," Michael murmurs, a playful grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he steps forward to slide out a heavy, cushioned chair for you, right next to his own seat.Ā
Paris and Prince scramble into the chairs directly across from you, their earlier "polite guest" filters entirely gone. Within minutes, Kai reappears from the kitchen, plating a steaming, generous helping of wild mushroom risotto on the delicate chinaĀ in front of you.
The rich, savory aroma hits your nose, and instead of the usual wave of nausea that defined your entire first trimester, your stomach gives a happy, demanding rumble. Michael takes his seat at the head of the table right between you and his kids. He watches you with hawk-like vigilance, his eyes tracking your hand as you pick up your fork. "What do you think?"
You scoop up a small bite, the creamy, perfectly cooked rice practically melting on your tongue. "Oh my gosh," you breathe out, your eyes widening in pleasant surprise. "Okay, yeah. This is absolutely amazing."
Lunch passes in a blur of easy, chaotic comfort. You spend most of the meal being thoroughly entertained by the kids. Prince enthusiastically explains the entire plot of a cartoon you've never heard of, while Paris calmly eats her side of roasted vegetables and occasionally chimes in to tell you when her brother is exaggerating. Michael spends the whole time effortlessly wearing his Dad hatācutting up Princeās food, reminding them to use their napkins, and chiming in with that soft chuckle that makes you feel strangely at home.
Just as Prince is finishing up a dramatic story complete with accompanying hand-gestures, a woman that you can assume is one of the house staff slips into the dining room, offering a gentle smile. "Alright, you two. Lunch is over, which means it's time to head upstairs and check on the baby before your quiet hour. Let's go wash our hands."
"Aw, man!" Prince groans, though he's already sliding out of his chair. He looks over at you, offering a bright, lingering smile. "Bye! Thanks for looking at the shark with me; Iāll show you the pool next time!"
"Bye, []," Paris says softly. She hesitates for a second, her quiet eyes dropping to your cream cardigan before she looks back up. "I hope you come back soon."
Your throat tightens with a sudden wave of affection. "I'd love to. Bye, guys," you say, waving as they make their way through the dining room door.
You watch them trudge down the hall after the lady, their voices fading until a heavy, profound silence drops over the massive dining room.
Suddenly, the protective buffer of the children is gone. The reality of the situation rushes back in, and your palms instantly feel a little damp against your dark wash jeans. You take a slow sip of your water, trying to maintain your poker face as you look right next to you at the man who youāve finally been left alone with for the first time all day.
He's leaning his elbow on the table, his chin resting in his hand as he looks at you, the warmth of his full attention smothering you like a heavy blanket. The sharp, exhausted edge he had on the phone two weeks ago is completely gone, replaced by a quiet, steady warmth.
āIām really happy you were able to come over today,ā Michael tells you, a smile taking over his face.Ā
āMe tooā¦ Prince and Paris are little comedians,ā you laugh. āI bet youāre never bored.ā
āNo, never,ā he chuckles. His hand comes up to rub his jaw, and it draws your attention to the slight stubble adorning his chin. You take the opportunity to look at him, like really look at him. He looks handsome like this, relaxed in his own space with the coat of fatherhood softening the edges of the regal pop persona that you thought you knew.Ā
āI miss them, though,ā he continues. āYāknow, whenever Iām away at meetings trying to sort things out with my team, or when Iām making music. I try to do as much of it as I can from home, butā¦ itās hard. I feel like Iām not here enough sometimes.ā The tinge of sadness in his voice almost makes you want to reach over and hug him, but the invisible, professional boundary between you two keeps you glued to your seat.
āWell, I know itās my first time meeting them, butā¦ from what I saw in the way they interacted with you, youāre definitely not a stranger to them. They adore you,ā you reassure him. āI mean, I donāt really know anything about being a parent, but I think youāre a great dad.ā
Michaelās eyes go wide for a fraction of a second, and he gives you a small smile before looking down at the table, as if the weight of your praise was too much for him to bear.
āThank you. That really means a lot to me, truly,ā he says softly, looking back up at you. āBut enough about me. What about you? Is the baby kicking yet?ā
āOh gosh, not yet. I think it's too early for him or her to,ā you giggle. āItās gonna be interesting having a baby kicking my ribs while Iām working.ā
āYou work?ā Michael asks, raising his eyebrows. āWhat do you do?ā
āWell, I work as a waitress, but I switched to doing only part time now,ā you explain, trying to sound as casual as possible. āJust a few mornings a week at a little diner six minutes down the street from my house.ā
Michaelās eyebrows shoot up even higher, his entire posture shifting as a wave of genuine alarm crosses his face. āA waitress? Itās justāI donāt think itās a good idea for you to be on your feet, carrying heavy trays and running around a restaurant right now. You didnāt quit after the contract?ā
āItās really not that bad, I promise,ā you say quickly, waving a hand to dismiss his worry. āMy managers and co-workers are super understanding. They donāt even let me lift anything heavier than a coffee pot; Iām treated like Iām made of glass, honestly. My team is mostly old ladies, and they love me. I think theyāre just excited to have someone young and expecting working with them.ā
A small, reluctant smile tugs at the corner of his mouth at the image of a diner full of grandmas babying you, but the stubborn, protective look in his eyes doesn't budge. He leans across the table, his tone dropping into something incredibly serious and quiet.
āI appreciate that theyāre looking out for you, but you shouldn't have to work,ā he says softly, his dark eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that makes your breath catch. āThatās the whole point of the compensation in the contract. If you need more financial supportāif the baseline isn't covering everythingāyou just have to tell me, and we can re-draft it right away. Whatever you need.ā
āNo, no, the stipend is more than generous, Michael, seriously. I mean, youāre rightāI technically donāt need to work anymore,ā you admit. You toy with a bead of condensation on your water glass in an effort to avoid his intense gaze. āButā¦ it keeps me busy, you know? If I just sat in my house all day with my mother, Iād lose my mind. I mean I love her, donāt get me wrong; I just need something thatās for me, not for my mom or my relatives or even the baby. Going to the diner gives me a routine. It keeps me normal.ā
Michael stares at you for a long moment, clearly trying to find a loophole in your logic, but the sheer sincerity in your face leaves him without any real argument. He lets out a sigh of quiet surrender, though the apprehension in his gaze dissipates completely.
He relents, just a tiny bit. āAlright,ā he murmurs. āBut the second it gets too hard, or the second those nice ladies let you lift a tray thatās too heavy, you quit. Deal? Promise me.ā
You canāt help the genuine laugh that slips past your lips. āDeal. I promise. And, if it makes you feel better, I swore to myself Iād stop the moment I couldnāt see past my feet.ā
āThat makes me feel a lot better,ā he grins.
God, him smiling at you like that made you feel like a giddy teenage girl with a secret hallway crush. It was taking everything in you not to let it show how much he was affecting you. You rack your brain for something, anything of intelligence to say instead of beaming like an absolute fool.
āHowād, uh, the meetings with your label go?ā you finally say, remembering how stressed he sounded on the phone about it. āI know you said theyāre on a break for a bit, but I hope theyāre not still giving you a hard time or anything.ā
The grin fades gradually from his face, replaced by a slow, thoughtful exhale as he settles back into his chair. He doesn't look angry; moreso tired, in a way that seems to go deeper than a lack of sleep.
"They're... getting there," he admits, tracing a pattern on the dark wood grain of the table. "They want a specific sound for the next album. Something radio-friendly, commercial. And I'm just trying to make something honest. It's a constant tug-of-war. You spend years working to get to a point where you have a voice, and then you have to fight twice as hard just to use it."
āThatās wildly unfair. Iām really sorry,ā you say softly. The tension in his shoulders is palpable, built-up pressure from decades of being told what to do and having a life that belonged more to the public than to him. And although you canāt possibly begin to imagine what that must feel like, you still wish you had something of substance to say.
āIt is what it is,ā he shrugs, offering you a small smile. āBut Iām very fortunate, all things considered. My āproblemsā are trivial compared to everything else going on in our world right now.ā
You look at him for a moment, watching the subtle tightness around his eyes that he's trying so hard to mask with a polite smile.
āYou can be fortunate and still be tired, Michael,ā you say gently. āYou're allowed to just be frustrated. You don't have to qualify it.ā
The words hang in the quiet space between you, heavy and thick. His dark eyes are entirely focused on you, pondering the simple truth in the words you had just spoken.
āIā¦ I guess Iāve never thought about it like that,ā he murmurs, his voice dropping into a low, rumbling register that vibrates right through your chest. Surely your imagination is betraying you, because you swear he leans a fraction closer. His gaze drops to your hands, then up to the soft curve of your neck, before finally rising to meet your eyes. The air in the grand dining room feels thick, warm, and entirely too close. Your heart hammers against your ribs, and for a terrifying, exhilarating second, you wonder if he can hear it. You find yourself leaning in just a millimeter, hypnotized by the quiet warmth radiating off him.
BZZZZZZTāWAAAAAH!
The sharp, sudden burst of static and a loud, high-pitched wail from an electronic baby monitor on the sideboard shatters the atmosphere like a brick through glass.
You both flinch, instantly snapping backward in your chairs as if you've been caught doing something illegal. The spell is broken, and a frantic spike of adrenaline replaces the heavy tension almost immediately.
"Blanket," Michael breathes out, his eyes wide as he quickly pushes his chair back, his white socks sliding on the dark wood floor as he scrambles to his feet. He swipes the monitor off the counter, his fingers fumbling with the volume dial to quiet the baby's sharp cries. "Sorry... usually when he naps this long, he wakes up very fussy."
"Oh, no, I totally get it!" you say quickly, your voice a little higher than usual as you mentally feel yourself go into an absolute lockdown. Youāre reeling, your chest heaving as you frantically try to piece together the meaning of whatever the hell that was. You stand up as smoothly as you can, toying with the pearlescent buttons on your cream cardigan over with subtly trembling fingers. "Itās getting late anyway. Iāll leave you to it."
He pauses, the crying baby still crackling through the small speaker in his hand, looking at you with a mix of surprise and disappointment. "Are you sure? It doesnāt take me too long to change him and fix him a bottle."
"Oh, no, itās okay!" The lie slips past your teeth with practiced ease, a desperate shield to get you out of his house before you do something stupid. "I promised my mom Iād help her out with something today anyway, and sheās almost home from work by now, so... I probably should start heading out."
He looks like he wants to press it, but another sharp cry from the monitor makes him sigh, offering you an apologetic, slightly frazzled smile. "Okay. Let me tell Bill to pull the car around. Come on, I'll walk you to the foyer."
The walk back to the massive front entrance is a blur. You're trying your absolute best to act like your chest isn't entirely on fire while he walks beside you.
Just as Bill opens the heavy, wrought-iron front door, letting in the cool, deceptive November breeze, a voice calls out from the hallway.
"Wait! Wait, I have something for you!"
Kai comes rushing around the corner, slightly out of breath, carrying a massive, heavy-duty insulated catering bag. She offers you a bright, maternal smile, handing the straps over to you.
"I put together some sheet pan meals," Kai explains warmly. "There's roasted chicken, steak fajitas, and roasted veggies. The big pans can be warmed up right in the oven, and the smaller ones are microwave-safe for when you donāt feel like cooking. You need to eat, okay? For the baby and for you."
Your throat seizes at the genuine kindness of her gesture. "Kai... oh my gosh, thank you so much. You really didn't have to do this."
"Itās nothing! Take care of yourself, okay?" she says, giving your arm an affectionate squeeze before turning back toward the kitchen.
You turn back to Michael, the heavy catering bag held tightly against your thudding chest like a shield. He looks at you, his large eyes soft, completely ignoring the baby's quiet fussing on the monitor for one last lingering second.
"Thank you for coming, []," he says softly. "Seriously. It meant a lot to me."
"Thank you for having me. Tell the kids I said goodnight," you reply, offering him a fleeting smile before you practically fly out the front door and down the grand stone steps toward the idling black Escalade.
Bill opens the rear door, and you slide across the buttery leather seats, letting out a massive, trembling breath the second the heavy door clicks shut. Safe.
You hate the way your heart is hammering away in your chest over nothing, over a moment that was probably just all in your head. And instead of maintaining your composure, you decided to run away like a frightened animal. The only thing you can do now is pray that Michael didnāt notice how awkwardly you had acted.
As the SUV slowly rolls down the brick driveway, circling the tiered stone fountain, you can't resist the urge. You glance back out the heavily tinted window, feeling safe in knowing that no one could see you through it.
Through the glass panel next to the massive front door, you see Michael. He's still standing there in his red T-shirt and socks, clutching the baby monitor in his large hand, entirely still. Even from a distance, you can feel the weight of his gaze tracking the black SUV as it moves toward the gates. He stands there, staring out into the driveway long after the car has already cleared the cobblestones until the heavy iron gates finally swing shut, locking him back inside his palace.
I've gone back and forth on whether or not to speak on this. Generally, Iām only here to get my fix on all things Michaelāthe pictures, the videos, the stories, and the art. Lately, though, itās been impossible to ignore the drama filling the tags and my timeline. Between Black writers experiencing racism and people constantly criticizing creative content, it feels like we are losing the plot.
Speaking as one of the older fans in this community, it's disheartening. If we call ourselves Moonwalkers, our interactions should reflect the values Michael stood for. He was a peaceful person who deeply loved humanity, the world, and his fans. I won't dive too deeply into the racism discourse today, other than to state a simple fact: whether people want to acknowledge it or not, Michael was a Black American. He endured segregation and the intense racism that followed him even as he became the greatest entertainer who ever lived. Seeing prejudice within his own fandom is completely out of touch with his legacy.
What I primarily want to address, though, is the ongoing discourse among fanfic writers regarding what "should" and "shouldn't" be filling the tags. The reality of this fandom is that it accommodates every genreāsmut, angst, and fluff alike.
As an avid reader, I adore reading everything. I consume fluff, smut, and angst without hesitationāif a story sticks out to me, I'm going to read it. I genuinely believe everyone on this platform is talented in their own unique shape, way, or form. As a writer myself, Iāve written in all of these categories, so I see the value in every single one of them.
My stanceāand this is just my opinionāis that none of this needs to be a battleground.
If you don't enjoy smut, you have every right to skip it, but criticizing people for writing or reading adult themes is unnecessary. By the same token, fluff writers shouldn't be criticized for creating soft, sweet scenarios; sometimes people just need a comforting escape. And angst writers shouldn't be criticized for diving into heavier emotional tonesāwriting through pain, heartbreak, and struggle is often how people process complex feelings or highlight Michael's resilience. Most importantly, no one's writing should be ignored or cast aside simply because it doesn't fit someone else's personal preference. Every author puts time and heart into their work, and that effort deserves respect.
Social media gives us all the tools to curate our own reading experience. If a trope or genre isn't your thing, you can simply scroll past, filter the tags, and engage with the stories that bring you joy without making others feel invisible.
Michael Jackson was many things: incredibly gorgeous, deeply kind, and a dedicated humanitarian. But above all, he was a human beingācomplex, multifaceted, and real. Fiction reflects that full spectrum.
Furthermore, we have to remember the operative word here is fanfiction. Expecting 100% biographical or historical accuracy from writers who are doing this for free, purely out of passion, is an unfair expectation. Yes, we know the reality of his financial situation and debt later in life, despite his massive assets. But criticizing a writer for creating a fantasy where he buys a reader lavish gifts completely misses the point of creative writing.
What I'm getting at is that maybe we need to take a collective step back and remember why we're all here. We are a community built on a shared love for Michael and his art. Let's bring back the "don't like, don't read" mentality, appreciate and uplift the talent in our community across every genre instead of criticizing or ignoring it, and get back to enjoying the man who brought us all together in the first place.
nearly maxed out tags cus iām crazy and just have so much love in my heart i wanted to tag everyone but i had to condense so iām sorry if i missed anyone also but just know i love you all so bad
also a lot of you i havenāt interacted with in a long time and i feel bad abt thatš and some ppl that i tagged havenāt even been active since last year or longer like omg pls come back soon i miss you guys š£š£
OMG THANK YOU SM BABY I MISS INTERACTING WITH YOU TOO<\3
my most favourite people herešāāļø: @cherryvvave @moviecritc @bloomcissa @cryptic-doe @rh1nestcned @lechelovestoyap @luviery @vianawaits @scissorhvnds @dreamersentity @kamislop @batwngs @sakunai @mystiquevoid @1nsignia @patientofarkhamasylum @arfemiz @froggibus @tinafication @bitemysin @torupng @brinawing @biovomit @evilmanhater @gr0und-zer00 (i'm sorry if i didn't tag someone, but know that you're very dear to me too<3)
i feel like i don't say it enough, but i love you all, and y'all are very very dear to me. here on tumblr i found the community i feel sort of belonging to and with who i have experienced peak girlhoodā„ļø
GAH STOP THIS IS SO SWEET siri how do i tag all of my 150+ mutuals-
i'm going to tag some of my babygirls and if i miss some PLEASE DON'T TAKE IT PERSONALLY i love and cherish all my lovely mooties :( even if we don't interact much
āShe go by the Stallion 'cause she tall, thick as hell, and got legs that'll make a grown man forget what he was finna say.Ā And once she start rappinā? She gonā outrun everybody in the room.ā
SYNOPSIS: Michael meets the hottest new female rapper on the scene and he's completely head over heels.
CONTENT: fluff, 18+ due to mature themes, pining!Michael, mature!Michael, era 2002, slow burn, eventual smut
Request: @muddyloserlia : HEY GORRRRL..so like i have an idea right mature era michael x megan thee stallion reader like JUST think about tht..mike did say he like tall women
Author's Note: GIRL I COULD KISS YOU FOR THIS REQUEST. the zest it gave me omgggg. I love Meg down so 1,000x yes. My inspo is like 90's lil kim or foxy brown since both of them were the only females in their crew. But with a southern belle flavor. This so different from what I usually write lmk what y'all thinkkkk. I think this might be a series y'all š
It was late at night when Michael got home from a long day of back-to-back label meetings.Ā
He was exhausted, he didnāt want to see another contract or board executive for the next month. Michael moved quietly about his home as he made himself comfortable. Everything was quiet except for the low hum of the television that painted soft shadows across the living room.
He kicked off his shoes and stretched out on the couch, resting the television remote on his thigh. Some random late-night show was playing, and they were cycling through the newest music videos. Truthfully, this was one of Michaelās favorite pastimes.Ā
Michael was an innovator, someone who constantly looked for ways to improve his craft. And for this reason, he made sure to stay current with the times regarding what people were into these days. Most of the new stuff, to be frank, Michael was not impressed with.Ā
No one had their own signature style anymore. Something he had worked hard to establish for himself. When Michael was starting his solo career, he was hungry to set himself apart. From his siblings. From others in his genre. From other people in the industryĀ period. These days, everyone wanted to be like someone else.Ā
Michael absentmindedly ate his popcorn as the video jockey introduced the next music video.Ā
This next one, sheās a real hot girl. They call her Bliss. Straight outta Houston, takinā no prisoners, and takinā the game over already. And get this? Sheās theĀ onlyĀ female in her crew. Yāall gonā love this one.Ā
Michael sat up a little bit straighter. Finally, something new. The beat dropped and the sub-woofer vibrated the floor.Ā Ā The beat was hard and heavy. The rhythm had a sharp, southern bounce that was unlike anything Michael had ever heard before. And the man had an ear for innovation.
The video started. Candy painted cars, perfect lighting, and the silhouette of a female sitting on the trunk of the car.Ā
And then she stepped into frame.Ā
Tall. Thick. A gorgeous, deep peanut butter complexion that looked like it had been kissed personally by the sun. It was glistening like it had been oiled, catching the lights every time her body moved, highlighting her collar bones and the curve of her waist.Ā
She had on a cropped black t-shirt that barely covered anything. It rode up showing the undersides of her breasts every time she flowed to the music. On her head was a fitted Houston Astros cap that was covered in silver sequins and under it was a silk Gucci scarf that framed her pretty face and trailed down past her shoulders. Long, dark hair poured out from beneath it and swung all the way down to her ass.
And thenā she opened her mouth, and Michael was hypnotized. It was iced out. Top and bottom grills flashed every time the woman smiled or parted her lips to spit a bar.
Around her neck were heavy Cuban links. Rings. Big gold hoops. The whole thing was completely captivating Michael.Ā And it wasnāt because of the flashy jewelry.Ā Michael had been around flashy pieces before.Ā
Back in his twenties, during the golden era of hip-hop, he ran in the same circles as the rappers who made gold chains and fronts cool in the first place.
Run D.M.C. LL Cool J. Eric B. and Rakim. He had partied with them. He even owned a few pieces himself, thick ropes of gold he used to wear when the mood struck. He knew the culture. Heād lived it.Ā
But the way the jewelry adorned this womanās body unapologetically, glimmering under the lights against her supple skin as if it belonged there, made it difficult for Michael to look away.
The woman rolled her body to the beat. It wasnāt the tight synchronized choreography that he was used to. It was slow. Laced with southern twang. Her hips rolled in a smooth, confident wave, like the music lived in her bones and was just coming out through her body.Ā
She leaned back against the trunk of a candy-painted car, one hand with long, red nails pushing the fitted cap up just enough so that the camera could catch that million-dollar smile. Then she dropped to her knees, her waist rolling in a deep rhythmic pattern that made her whole frame move like liquid.Ā
Michaelās mouth went dry.
He felt the stir first. It was low and sudden, right between his legs. It hit him so fast he actually shifted in the chair trying to ignore it, but the more she moved the worse it got.Ā
Her body kept rolling to the beat. Cropped shirt riding higher. Skin gleaming. Hips working that beat like it was made for her. Michaelās eyes stayed locked on the screen, heart picking up speed.
He wasnāt used to this. He wasnāt used to anybody looking that free and that powerful at the same time. He wasnāt used to anybody beingā¦ wellā cooler than him.
Her lyrics were raunchy, funny, and sharp asĀ hell. She rapped her sultry lyrics with a country-tinged drawl that somehow still landed as heavy as east coast style rap. Then the camera cut to a close-up of her face. Siren eyes looked straight into the lens like she knew exactly what she was doing.
Michael swallowed hard.
His body was reacting before his mind could catch up. The tent in his pants was growing, heavy and obvious, and he couldnāt look away long enough to do anything about it. He dragged a hand down his face, fingers lingering over his mouth, and just stared.Ā
The way she moved. The way she rapped.Ā
How she owned every second of that camera. It was so different from anything he had ever seen. So bold and unfiltered.Ā SoĀ damn sexy without even trying to be.
He kept replaying the same moments in his head even as the video kept playing. How her body moved. The way her pretty lips parted to show her grills. AndĀ godāĀ that smile. It was confident. Like she already knew she had the whole room (and Michael) in the palm of her hand. Michael felt another low pulse between his legs and shifted again, this time his breath catching a little.
The song ended.
The screen cut to the video jockey smiling in a brightly lit studio, introducing the next video. But Michael didnāt move. He just sat there. Stuck. Heart still thumping just a little too hard. The VJās voice faded into the background, white noise.
Michaelās eyes stayed on the blank space where Blissās body had been.
He swallowed hard again and looked down. The tent in his pants was unmistakable. Full and heavy. Aching a little. Michael hadnāt realized he was holding his breath until he let out a quiet sound that was half laugh, half disbelief. He dragged his hand over his face, trying to ground himself.Ā
āā¦She somethinā elseā he mumbled to the empty room. He stayed like that for another full minute, trying to will his body to calm down while the next video playedāignoredā in the background. The image of Bliss kept replaying in his mind.Ā
After a long while Michael exhaled, leaning back against the chair and closing his eyes.Ā
He already knew he needed to meet her.
āāāĀ āā āā āĀ āāā
A few weeks later, Michael stood in front of his bedroom mirror, giving himself a once over.
He hated red carpet appearances. But alas, his presence had been requested by a close peer who was being honored this year. So grudgingly, he found himself front row in a sea of A-listers.Ā
The stage thrummed with energy; bright lights cut through the haze as the next act was introduced. Michael was always respectful to his peers, but truth be told, the night could not end faster.
Then, a bass-heavy beat throbbed through the arena, and from the fog emerged three men in baggy jeans and oversized jerseys. Immediately Michael sat forward from his slouching position.
This was the group.Ā HerĀ group.
Michal recognized them because heād been playing them on repeat for weeks. Heād brought them up in more conversations than he probably should have ā āHave you heard this new group? The girlā¦ sheās different.ā
Shamelessly, heād gone digging through their entire catalog and every interview he could find. He was chasing that same rush he felt the first time he saw her video
The men on stage traded gritty bars with East Coast swag that was unmistakable. The crowd bopped along, present but not fully engaged. The bass was so heavy it rattled in Michaelās chest. He was a sucker for a good bassline.
The real shift came when Bliss stepped up.
Out of the fog, she stepped out into the spotlight, legs preceding her. She commanded the stage immediately. She was every bit of 5ā10 and it was accentuated even further by the Louboutin heels that adorned her feet.
She was striking.
A flowing mink coat slipped off one of her shoulders, revealing a skimpy bikini that hugged her full hips and her breasts perfectly. Her long legs were glistening under the lights, and they looked endless in heels that clicked with every step.
A custom cowboy hat sat perfectly tilted on her head, and her long hair cascaded down her back and over her ass, swaying with her every move. Grills flashed in her mouth like stars every time she grinned and delivered another line. She was glowing.Ā
The crowd had been somewhat engaged, but when Bliss dropped her first verse? The energy in the arena exploded.
Her sultry southern drawl cut effortlessly through the east coast beat like it was meant to. Smooth like whiskey, sassy, vulgar, and unapologetic. She rolled her body with athletic grace as she spit her lines, hips and waist moving in sync in slow hypnotic waves that had the audience howling for more.Ā
Then, she did something that made Michael audibly gasp, raising a hand to his chest to calm his thumping heartbeat.Ā
āSo yāallā¦ I heard the King of Pop is in the buildināā¦ and this is one of his favorite songs. Aināt that right, Mikey?āĀ
For a moment, Michael thought he was imagining it. He nearly forgot he was Michael Jackson as he stood there starstruck at the fact she knew him. He nodded wordlessly in agreement, eyes glued to Bliss.
āThis oneās for you, Mike. A real OG.ā
Bliss dropped into a deep squat, knees bent wide, rocking her hips between them in a twerk that made her ass bounce like water. It was hypnotic.
She shifted her mink coat to the side with a manicured hand, giving the crowdāand Michaelā an unfiltered view while she kept spitting lines that made Michael want to repent.Ā Ā
But heĀ lovedĀ it.Ā
And she kept her eyes locked on Michael the whole time.
The audience went wild, screaming and vibrating the floor with a volume that they hadnāt had all night.Ā
Michaelās breath caught in his throat. He couldnāt look away.Ā
Sheās magneticā¦ the way she moves. Her confidence. Itās like she was born for this stageĀ he thought to himself.
He tried and failed to bite back the nervous laugh that escaped him as he covered his face. Then he raised his hands to his lips and blew her a kiss.
Bliss reached out and caught it, blowing him one back in return.
He felt a familiar heat stirring low in his body as he watched her work the crowd like all these people came for her. She was so, so fucking cool. And original. Nothing like the performers he had become accustomed to.Ā
And, she was fine as hell. Tall and thick in all the right places, with an electric sex appeal Michael hadnāt seen, or rather felt, since he was in his 20ās. Suddenly he felt like a horny inexperienced 20-something year old all over again. He had seen the video, but seeing her live? HitĀ soĀ different. And now, she had spoken to him. Given him attention.Ā
She was way better than anything heād imagined.
The second the performance ended and the applause thundered through the room, Michael turned to his manager. āIām going backstage. I gotta meet her.āĀ
His people moved fast. Minutes later, Michael was led into a bustling dressing room. Men hooted with laughter, the air was thick with smoke from a blunt that was being passed around, and a heavy hip-hop rhythm added to the vibe in the room.
There she was. Looking like the prettiest flower out of place, but somehow at home all at once. Her curvy frame was now clad with a t-shirt that bore the logo of her group, The Corporation. Before Michael could fully drink in Blissās appearance, a thundering voice cracked out over the music.
āOhhh shit! What up, Mike!!ā A tall man wearing a jersey who Michael recognized as Tone quickly ashed the blunt out of respect before he stepped up and dapped him hard as he grinned ear to ear. Tone pulled Michael into a rough, brotherly hug that lifted him nearly an inch off the ground. The other members of the group, Ghost and Ace followed suit. They laughed and clapped him on the back in disbelief.
āYooo this is crazy, my pops not gonā believe this! My man Mike really just popped up on us!ā Ace was talking with hands, a thick New York accent in full effect.
āWe grew up on you manā this is crazy.ā Ghost pitched in.
Michael chuckled, genuinely ticked by the groupās enthusiasm. His smile was warm as he returned the handshakes and hugs. āYou guys are great. I loved the show. That energy out there was just incredible.ā
The group of men chopped it up for a bit, the men were animated and constantly talked over each other. About the performance, the grind, how surreal the moment was. Michael listened with admiration; he missed that stage of his career. When everything felt so surreal.Ā
But, his attention kept drifting across the room to Bliss.
She was in the corner with a few of the other group members leaning over a notepad. She was fully in her element. Popping her shit in a southern belle way. Michael couldnāt help but notice how starkly her country accent stood out over the east coast drawl that was dominating the room.Ā
āThatās hot. I like that, now!ā She said, tapping the page with a manicured nail. āNow flip it on its head and say it the other way. Make it hit just a lil bit harder.āĀ
Michaelās gaze lingered. He was drawn to the way her hips shifted when she moved. The confident tilt of her head, and the way her long hair brushed the curve of her ass when she did so.Ā
Sheās somethinā special.
Bliss hadnāt noticed Michaelās presence yet. Ace threw an arm around her shoulders, grinning. āBliss had that shit poppinā like firecrackers. We might as well be Bliss and the Corporation instead of the Corporation.ā
Bliss threw her head back and laughedāloud, full bellied and free. She made gunshot noises with her fingers, long nails catching the light as she pretended to fire them off one by one.
āThatās what I do, baby. These folks love a real stallion shuttinā the stage down.ā
Michaelās eyes went wide with pure amusement. A soft surprised laugh escaped him. The energy was unfiltered but it was also deeply familiar to him. It reminded him of growing up with his brothers, the way they used to talk shit and clown each other. He wasnāt used to this level of rawness around him anymore, but something about it felt like home. Real.
āYou cats are wild,ā he said, still smiling, voice full of genuine enjoyment. āI love the way yāall move together. That chemistryā¦ itās real. And special. Hold on to that.ā Michaelās gaze lingered on Bliss.
Tone caught Michael staring and smirked, nudging Ghost and nodding his head at Michael. āLook like Mike got eyes for our stallion.ā Ghost glanced over in Blissā direction and chuckled.
āShe tends to have that effect.ā The other men laughed knowingly.Ā
āStallion? Is that a nickname you guys gave her?ā Michaelās eyebrows knitted in confusion as he looked between the men.
āShe go by the Stallion 'cause she tall, thick as hell, and got legs that'll make a grown man forget what he was finna say.Ā And once she start rappinā? She gonā outrun everybody in the room.ā
Michael instantly felt heat creeping up the back of his neck from the description, he cracked up, a hand coming up to cover his face. āOhhh, I never knew that. She really does do an amazing job, Iāve never seen anything like it.ā The men nodded proudly.
āYou wanna meet her? Sheās spicy behind that mic, but sheās really sweet as pie. Thatās our princess. Bliss, cāmere baby girl.ā Ghost called her over, and when Bliss finally looked up her eyes widened involuntarily.Ā
Her gaze raked over Michael. He was dressed almost entirely in black, a glossy black leather jacket catching the light as he moved. It hung effortlessly from his frame, oversized just enough to make him look relaxed instead of overdone. The collar spread open to reveal the smooth column of his neck and a peak of his chest. Every piece of him looked expensive without him having to try. Large black sunglasses concealed his eyes despite being indoors, lending him an air of mystery.
Blissās first thought however was,Ā Bitch, is that Michael Jackson in our dressing room?And am I crazy, or is he looking at me like a meal?Ā But she recovered fast before her mouth could get ahead of her. She was used to men staring, and she knew exactly when they liked what they saw.
She sauntered over, heels clicking against the concrete floor, a confident easy sway in her hips, making her long legs look even more dangerous.Ā Her long hair swayed with every step. Then, she stopped in front of him, close enough that he caught the warm, sweet scent of her perfume mixed with the faint salt of stage sweat. She extended a freshly manicured hand.
Michael didnāt shake it. He gently closed his hand over hers in that old-school, gentleman way, and he didnāt let go. His thumb brushed lightly across her knuckles as he held it, eyes dropping for a second to her mouth, watching the way her diamond grills caught the light every time she spoke. The southern drawl came out even thicker with the grills, each word slow, deliberate, and warm like Tennessee whiskey.
āWell, look who it is,ā she said, voice smooth and teasing. āMJ, in the flesh. I gotta sayā¦ you got good taste in music, baby.āĀ
Michaelās grip stayed gentle but firm. He was completely captivated by the way she carried herself like she knew exactly how fine she was, and wasnāt afraid to lean into it.Ā
The memory of what sheād done on stage was still burning behind his eyes. She looked right at him, dedicated the song to himā¦ dropped her hips between her knees while she twerked for him. And she kept eye contact the entire time.Ā
It felt personal. Bold. Even though sheād done it in front of an audience, it felt like it was just for him.Ā
He met her eyes, thumb still moving slowly over her knuckles. āI saw your video,ā he said, voice lower and more intimate than usual. āI loved it. So creativeā¦ it was magic, really. But what you did out there tonight?ā His eyes flicked down to her lips again for a brief second before returning to her siren eyes. āThat little show you put on for meā¦ I havenāt been able to stop thinking about it since I walked off that stage.ā
Blissās eyebrows lifted slightly, and for the first time her cheeks felt hot. She let out a soft, nervous laugh, tilting her head so her long hair slid over one shoulder. āDamn, you really gonā call me out like that in front of everybody?ā She glanced around at her crew, who were pretending not to listen, but definitely were. āI was justā¦ in the moment. Stage me gets a lilā bold sometimes.ā
Michaelās smile deepened, it was soft and genuine. He still hadnāt let go of her hand, his thumb was still moving slowly over her knuckles.
āI can relate. I liked it,ā he said, voice low and smooth, thumb still moving slowly over her knuckles. āYou looked right at me like you already knew what it would do. Thatās dangerous.ā
Blissās eyes lingered on Michaelās face, taking him in properly for the first time up close. He smelled good āĀ reallyĀ good. Clean, expensive, and something warm and masculine that made her want to lean in closer.Ā
His jawline was sharp even under the soft lighting, and when he reached up with his free hand and slowly took his sunglasses off, her stomach did a little flip.Ā
She knew what that meant. Michael Jackson didnāt take his glasses off for just anybody.Ā
The protection they gave him was real. But he was giving her his eyes anyway. She met them directly, voice dropping a little lower.
āWellā¦ Iām glad I could do that for you, Mr. Jacksonā she said, a small, flirty smile playing on her lips even as the embarrassment lingered in her eyes. āDidnāt mean to have you out here feelinā all types of ways in front of thousands of people, though.ā
Michael let out a quiet laugh, at this point heād forgotten he was still holding her hand, entranced in the moment.Ā
āI think I needed it.ā
The air between them felt thick. Charged. Neither of them was in a rush to look away or pull their hand back.Ā
Bliss could feel the old-school charm rolling off Michael in waves. It was present in the way he held her hand like it was something precious. How he was actually listening when she spoke. The way heād taken his glasses off just for her.Ā
It made her stomach flutter in a way she wasnāt expecting.
Michael couldnāt remember the last time someone had made him feel this off-balance in a good way.
Bliss dedicating that moment to him on stage and standing here now owning every inch of the space between them was doing something to him.Ā
He didnāt want to let go of her hand. Didnāt want the conversation to end.
Michael was already thinking about seeing her again before the moment ended.
And from the way Bliss was looking at him ā eyes soft but playful, like she already knew exactly what kind of effect she was having ā she was thinking the same thing.
āāāĀ āā āā āĀ āāā
Days later, Michael sat in the quiet of his living room long after the awards show lights had faded from his mind.Ā
The condo was still, just the faint tick of a clock and the low hum of the air conditioner breaking the silence. Heād changed into soft black lounge pants and a simple white t shirt, feet bare against the cool hardwood floor.Ā
The slip of paper with Blissās number sat on the coffee table like it was watching him. Every time he reached for the cordless phone, his palm felt damp. His heart knocked against his ribs like it was trying to talk him out of this. Heād never been this nervous about a phone call in his life.Ā
Truthfully, he had gotten Blissās number the night of the awards show from Tone. Afraid of seeming too eager, Michael decided to wait a few days before calling. But his mind kept drifting back to Blissā little moment on stage. The way the stage lights glossed over her body. How she had trailed her nails over his palm when their hands parted, sending chills down his spineā and somewhere else too.
Heād managed to wait 2 days.Ā
That was it.Ā
Finally, he dialed.
Across town, Blissās apartment smelled like lemon pinesol and something warm like brown sugar from a candle burning. Keith Sweatās āRight and a Wrong Wayā played low from the stereo in the living room, giving the apartment a cozy ambience.Ā
She was in nothing but an old cropped white T-shirt that barely skimmed the top of her thighs and a pair of simple black panties, her favorite satin bonnet snug over her hair. The phone was wedged between her cheek and shoulder as she pushed the mop across the kitchen floor in slow, steady strokes, hips swaying to the music.
āGirl, Iām tellinā you,ā she was saying, voice warm and syrupy, āMichael Jackson was lookinā at me like he wanted to eat me ALIVE backstage. I aināt never seen a man that fine get so flustered. He kept starinā like he aināt never seen ass move like that before.ā
Her homegirl laughed on the other end. Bliss grinned, pausing to swipe sweat from her brow with the back of her wrist. The conversation drifted between current fashion trends, and the latest drama within The Corporation.
āI donāt know,ā she continued, āThe bitch is nuts. Dick canāt be that good, aināt no way inĀ hell. She keep followinā us from show to show like she got a claim on one of these niggas. I told āem they better handle it āfore I do.ā She laughed again, shifting the mop to the other side of the floor, when the call-waiting beep cut through. āHold on, girl. Somebodyās beeping in on my other line.ā
She clicked over without thinking, still balancing the phone against her shoulder as she pushed the mop forward across the damp linoleum.
āHello?ā
The voice on the other end was gentle. Almost hesitant.
āBliss? Itās Michael.ā
Furrowing her eyebrows in confusion, she kept mopping.
āMichael who?ā
A giggle resounded from the other end of the line that sounded oddly familiar.Ā
āJackson, of course.ā
She froze mid-mop. The handle slipped in her wet hand and she nearly went down into the soapy water, catching herself on the counter with a sharp gasp that echoed through the apartment.
āWhat?ā Her voice cracked with pure disbelief, eyes wide as she stared at the phone like it had grown legs.Ā
Michaelās heart was already racing and his palms were slick around the phone. He had practiced the words in his head a dozen times, āIād love to take you to dinnerā, but now that he was actually saying them, his voice felt tight in his throat.
āItās me, Michael,ā he said again, softer this time, a small, nervous smile in his voice. āI was wondering if you might like toāāĀ
But Bliss didnāt let him finish. Her voice exploded through the line like a sudden thunderstorm. Loud, sharp, and completely unfiltered.
āHELL naw. Thatās some disrespectful ass shit. Stop playinā on my phone. Who the fuck is this? If you call again, Iāma star-69 yoā ass so I can find out where to send some thugs. You got me fucked up.ā
Michael physically jerked in his chair. His free hand flew up to his chest like heād been shot, fingers splayed over his heart as it slammed against his ribs.Ā
The phone nearly slipped from his other hand. He wasnāt used to being yelled atānever had been.Ā
His voice was always soft, measured, and careful.Ā
And people didĀ notĀ raise their voice at Michael Jackson.Ā
But this womanāthis beautiful, confident, yet foul-mouthed womanāhad just lit him up like the Fourth of July before he could even get the invitation out.Ā
His mouth opened, but nothing came out. He was stunned silent, heart pounding so hard he could hear it in his ears. Bliss didnāt wait for a response. Her finger slammed down on the end button so hard the phone nearly flew across the counter.
She clicked back over to her homegirl, still breathing a little heavy from the near-slip and the adrenaline of the outburst. āSo anyways, girl. My bad. Just some fool playinā on my phone again. I gotta change this number again, I swear to God. These niggas be wildinā.ā
On the other end of the now-dead line, Michael sat frozen in his chair, phone still pressed to his ear even though the call had ended. His hand was still splayed over his chest, fingers trembling slightly against the thin cotton of his T-shirt. His heart was racing so fast it almost hurt.Ā
Heād worked up the nerve, actually worked up the nerve, to ask this woman to dinner, and sheād hung up on him like he was some random playing on her phone.
For a long moment, he just sat there in the quiet of his living room. Then, slowly, the corners of his mouth twitched. A chuckle escaped. It was low at first, then it built into full, helpless laughter that shook his shoulders.Ā
He covered his face with both hands, shaking his head at himself, the sound echoing softly through the empty house.
āSheās feisty,ā he said out loud to the empty room, still laughing, the startled feeling finally starting to fade into something warmer. Something that felt a lot like anticipation. Then he tutted to himself, shaking his head again. āWe gonā have to work on that inside voice thoughā
He didnāt call back. Not right away. He let the stunned silence settle around him as the laughter fade into a quiet, private smile. She was going to be trouble.
And he was already looking forward to it.
āāāĀ āā āā āĀ āāā
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Everything posted here is written byĀ @brownsugarletters. Please do not repost, copy, translate, claim as your own, upload to AI tools, or share my writing outside of Tumblr without permission.
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