Synopsis: A love letter, a mission share between husband and wife, and a loyal confidant. A secret that will surely melt with the snow. ────❥Prev chapters
Pairing: Mafia boss!Michael Jackson x fem!Reader
Warnings: Description of death and dismemberment.
Word Count: 4.2k
Drea's note: I'm curious how y'all think this series is going to end. I feel like a lil sicko writing this but I'm having fun lol. ENJOY.
1 December 1935
Snow falls outside your large home, coating the ground in a fluffy layer of pre-Christmas charm. You sit near the fireplace in your bedroom with a mug of tea and a magazine propped on your knee, mindlessly skimming through the pages with a light frown brushed across your face.
Michael has been in prison for far too long now, and it’s starting to bother you a lot more than you’d like to admit. He said he’d be home soon. He should be home by now. How much more time does he need?
“Mrs Jackson? There’s someone on the line for you.” Claire calls from outside the bedroom door. Her tone is neutral, somewhat tired from household chores.
“Thank you. I’ll pick it up.” You hummed back, getting up from the plush carpet and heading to the telephone near your bed. “Hello?”
Static wisps through the line for a moment before someone responds.
“Darlin?” Michael’s charming voice carries through, “How are you, my love?”
“Mike,” you breathe out and sink onto your bed with relief, “I haven’t heard from you since—“
“I know, darlin,” he interrupts, clearing his throat, “listen, I know you don’t want anything to do with what I do for a living, but I need your help.”
Your heart rate quickens as you listen to what he says. You’ve already burned his Halloween costume and destroyed evidence against him. What else does he need? A part of you wants to hang up the phone and never look back, but he’s your husband, and you love him.
“I found it,” Michael comments when he realises you’ve gone awfully quiet. He waits for you to respond, bouncing his leg in anticipation.
The air between you shifts. Halloween night had changed how he saw you. Your demeanour had changed, morphing from the soft-spoken housewife into a woman who’d do anything to sustain herself. Perhaps the best way to describe it is that he fears you in a way, knowing that you’ll do anything to protect him or yourself.
“The rat.” You respond, crossing one leg over the other. Michael hums in response, not saying anything else. “What do you need?”
“I sent you a letter through the mail—a love letter, to say the least. It’s all in there.” Michael sings through the line. You can hear metal clanking in the background, possibly from a guard dragging his baton over the prison bars.
“I’ll write to you when I can,” you stand and hang up, shaking your head in resignation as you walk downstairs to the living room before skimming through today’s mail.
Michael’s POV:
When the line goes dead, I stand up from the rusty metal seat in the small telephone room. A guard opens the door and heads to the canteen. My steps are slow, taking my time to really look at my surroundings.
‘Southwest Entrance’ on the right as I walk. 2 guards on the left and 2 more up north.
“Pick up the pace, Jackson.” A guard inhales a long swig of his cigarette, following me down the cold hallway.
I scoff. This place stinks. I run a hand through my damp curls and keep my slow pace, turning left into another hallway. One guard on the right and another just behind me. A few paces forward is a laundry room. It’s barely lit, and there's no guard on watch.
“What time is it?” I ask the guard breathing down my neck. Damn, he smells just as bad as the corridors.
“5 minutes to 8pm,” The guard coughs out along with his cigarette smoke. A puff of smoke rises above my head, “You’ve got a date or something, Jackson?” He chuckles.
I roll my eyes and pick up the pace. The canteen illuminates a few strides ahead. I stand in line for dinner and mentally go over what I saw in the hallways.
2 hallways, one left turn, 6 guards, one laundry room — no guards there.
I sit by one large table on my own, cringing at the slop on my food tray. “Disgusting,” I hold my breath and shove a spoonful of watery chicken stew into my mouth, swallowing it without much chewing.
My solitude is short-lived when a pair of men walk towards my table and lazily take a seat around me. I sigh and swallow another awful portion of stew.
“Evening, boss,” the biggest one greets me. I tilt my head in acknowledgement before turning my attention back to the grub on my tray.
“Big G, I’ve got a job for you,” I inhale another spoonful of stew, wincing at the horrible taste, “think you can get it done?”
That big man nods enthusiastically. Pathetic. He leans in across the table and waits for me to explain further. I inhale deeply and force myself to be as kind as possible. The big man is quite a crybaby.
“Yes, boss. Anything for you.” He gulps down his own stew as if it tastes good.
“I need you to get a shift in the southwest laundry room next Sunday, 19:55. I’ve got a dry cleaning I need taken care of.” I push my tray away. I’d rather starve at this point.
“How many jumpsuits need cleaning?” Another man — Ronald — jumps in. He pushes his glasses up his nose bridge like a proper genius. Smart guy. He’s in here for making bombs or something…can’t remember. I don’t care, really.
“6 of ‘em,” I mutter dismissively, crossing my arms. Ronald and Big G look at each other. Their faces morph into a wicked grin before they look at me again.
“6 is a lot, boss. What’s the occasion?” Big G asks through a mouthful of food.
“I’ve got a date with someone my wife’s bringing over. I need options.”
4 December 1935
Your POV:
You step out of the car and sigh. The air is cold, really cold. The tall apartment building looms over you like a giant waiting to swallow you up as soon as you walk into it.
“This the right place?” You bend over and rest your elbows on the daylight opening. Bill nods, fixing his beanie on his head.
“71 W Hubbard St, Apt 1402,” Bill reads the address from the love letter. It sits half crumpled on his lap, parts of it scribbled on as if you dissected every word Michael wrote, “this is the place.”
You press your heels into the snow and stand up straight, fixing your large coat before nodding. “I’ll be 15 minutes.”
“Be safe, Mrs Jackson.” Bill nods and closes the window as he watches you disappear into the apartment building.
The building’s cold. The walls are grey, and the faint sound of a bucket catching water from a leaking pipe echoes through the lobby. The receptionist has her head propped up in her hands, her elbows supporting the weight on the old wooden desk.
“Hello, ma’am,” she speaks lazily, “May I help you?”
You force an amiable grin and step closer to her desk. Her gaze travels all over your attire, clearly judging your expensive outfit.
“Good morning. I'm here for Mrs Cooper. Apartment 1402.” You clasp your hands together, rings clinking in response.
“And what is the reason you’re here for her, ma’am?” The receptionist enquires with an unbothered tone.
“I’m here for a wellness check-up on her.” You mimic the receptionist’s attitude, slurring your words like hers, “It’s that a problem?”
The receptionist—who you’ll come to learn is named Milla— giggles bitterly and sits up. She swirls her gum around her fingers and sighs. “Ok then. You know the way up.”
Michael’s POV:
I loosely cross my legs over the tiny cot in my cell, my hands behind my head as I lie lazily with a cigarette in my mouth. The prison’s alive with murmur bouncing off each wall. Guards run to and fro in a panic, alarms ringing nonstop as prisoners are pushed back into their cells. A guard pushes Ronald into our shared cell.
“What’s all the commotion about?” Ronald falls onto his cot, his glasses sliding off his face as the guard locks the cell.
“No fucking clue,” I lie, exhaling a puff of smoke, humming a soft tune I dreamt about a night ago, “guards are yelling about a dead man in the showers or something like that.”
Ronald lifts his glasses and puts them on again. He squints for a moment before resting his elbows on his knees. I inhale another breath of cigarette smoke, exhaling lackadaisically.
“Nobody’s showered yet this morning…must’ve happened last night.” He comments, and I smirk.
“I wonder who it was,” I pout in mock sorrow, sitting up to wipe ashes off my orange jumpsuit, “may he rest in…peace.”
A beat of silence passes between us. A guard yells outside our cell. “Dead. In the shower. Slit throat. There’s blood everywhere.”
“Poor thing,” I stand and drop a broken razor blade into the toilet bowl, “probably went out slowly.”
Water swirls in the toilet as I flush. I whistle in a B minor scale, watching the tiny piece of metal disappear down the drain.
Your POV:
You knock on the apartment door, the unit number glistening on the bronze plaque. An old heating system is buzzing in the far end of the hallway, creating an awkward ambience as you wait for a response.
“I cannot believe I’m doing this,” you think to yourself, clutching your purse for some form of support. “This is ridiculous.”
You knock again, and finally, a muffled voice responds from the other side of the door. The sound of a key turning in the lock snaps you out of your thought before a short, sweet-looking old lady opens the door. She flashes a toothy grin as she looks up at you, admiring your dazzling winter coat and high-heeled leather boots.
“Ah, good morning. You must be the wellness check lady. I just got off the phone with a man named Billy about your arrival.” The old woman beams with excitement.
“Billy? That’s the name Bill went with? Really?” You think to yourself, giggling softly before you answer.
“Yes, good morning, Mrs Cooper. May I come in?” You tilt your head, and she nods, motioning for you to enter. The apartment is cosy, books piled up in one corner, and family photos line the walls. One particular photo hangs low near the kitchen. It’s a photo of Mrs Cooper and two younger men standing on either side of her.
“Oh, those are my two sons. Aren’t they handsome?” Mrs Cooper laughs softly, taking a seat on her brown recliner.
You assess the two men in the photo. The one on the left is covered in tattoos, his buff arms riddled with different patterns as he wears a tank top. The other man is graciously dressed in a black suit, holding a beer in one hand.
“The one in the suit is Isaiah. He’s a lawyer—works for the District Attorney’s office,” she boasts, “The other one is Malik…” Her tone is less enthusiastic.
“What's the matter with Malik?” You pry, looking down the hallway to her bedroom. You notice a shadow moving in there, and a quiet male voice beatboxing.
“He’s a letdown that one. Got himself incarcerated for embezzlement a few years ago,” Mrs Cooper starts, clearly needing to vent, “I told him to be good, that the job was good, but no, he got greedy and stole from his employers. Now he’s locked up for god knows how long.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, ma’am.” You mutter. “Is someone here with you?”
“Oh! Yes!” She stood from the couch, “Isaiah’s here, he’s fixing my TV cable connection. The old thing died out on me last night. Isaiah! A lovely lady is here to check up on me.”
“Sure, ma. I’ll be out in a second.” Isaiah mutters before appearing in the living room, “The TV’s working now. Ya should be able to use it.”
He’s much taller than he looks in the photo, slimmer too. He’s suited up just the same, though, likely on his way to the D.A’s office for morning cases. He skims your appearance, a professional smile plastered on his face. He takes a step closer to you, head tilting to the left with curiosity.
“You look oddly familiar. Are we acquainted?” He pries, showing his hands into his pockets
“I do not think so, sir. I’m sure you’re mistaking me for somebody else.” Your answer is as calm as his expression.
The telephone starts ringing, the sound doing little to snap the unspoken tension between you and Isaiah. Mrs Cooper shuffles to it with a newfound energy, picking it up and greeting whoever’s on the other side. You and Isaiah maintain eye contact, wondering who will break the silence first. The air around you is tense, and a subtle pang of excitement rushes over your spine. You’re enjoying this, enjoying the secret mission Michael’s got you on. The thrill of it is intoxicating. Maybe you and Michael aren’t too different after all.
“Oh, dear god!” Mrs Cooper yells, her voice pained as she stumbles to the ground. The phone dangles and swings when she lets it go. Isaiah’s first to respond, leaping forward to his mother’s aid with a concerned look in his eyes.
“Ma, what is it?” Isaiah’s tone is worrisome; his hands land on his mother’s shoulders to support her weight as she begins sobbing.
“Your brother! They—they,” Mrs Cooper weeps, “The warden at the prison says he’s been murdered!”
“W-what? When?” Isaiah grimaces, “How? Wha’ happened to him?”
“They said his throat was slit in the shower last night. They don’t know who did it, but they’re looking. Oh Malik! My sweet boy!” Mrs Cooper wails in agony.
You walk towards the phone and hang it up on its cradle. The line goes dead in response. Your expression remains neutral as the scene before you unfolds. The pieces are falling together smoothly. You frown, attempting to appear empathetic, and crouch down too. Isaiah side eyes you in suspicion but quickly shifts his attention to his grieving mother.
“I’m so sorry for your loss, ma’am. Is there anything I can do?” You reach out to rest your hand on her should but you stop, not wanting to stay too long. You’re sure Bill’s waiting for you in the car already.
When you straighten up, Isaiah looks up at you, his eyes leering at you. He’s still trying to decipher where he knows you from, but the train of thought is disturbed by his mother’s endless crying. As his gaze departs from you, you slip a ring off your finger, holding it in your warm palm.
“I suppose I should get going,” you comment faintly, plucking your purse off the foyer table and slipping the ring into the wet soil of a potted plant atop the table, “I am, again, so sorry for your loss. Please, don’t hesitate to call the clinic if you need support, ma’am. You too, Mr Cooper.”
You briskly walk down each flight of stairs as you make your way to the car. Your heart’s pounding in your chest, each thump louder than the next. You turn the corner in the lobby and bid Milla a speedy goodbye. She doesn’t respond, instead shaking a lazy hand at you as you disappear into the cold outdoors and hop into the car Bill’s driving.
“Is he there?” Bill revs the engine before pulling away, checking the rear-view mirror to look at you.
“Yes. He got the news, too. The mom’s a mess.” You hum as you look out the window, watching the snow begin to fall again, covering last night’s pile in fresh fluff.
“And the ring?” Bill keeps a steady speed on the road, eyes focused on keeping you safe in the backseat.
“Like a mustard seed in a cornfield.”
Bill hums in understanding, wondering what’s going through your mind. Are you okay with being involved in all of this? Are you going to regret it someday?
“My turn, then,” He murmurs, turning the car left into a new street, “I suggest you write back to your husband. He misses you.”
“Not until it’s done.”
Step one: complete.
5 December 1935
Bill’s POV:
I lean against the D.A office door to push into it, holding a neatly-sealed box in both hands. The office building is warmly lit, and a familiar form of professionalism is evident within it, displaying a soft-spoken sense of uppity legal practices. Men and women prance around, their strides muffled by the carpet beneath them. Each of them carries a briefcase or binder as they make their way to their respective offices or courtrooms.
“Excuse me, sir. Are you here to deliver something?” A middle-aged man calls out for me across the glossy reception counter. I walk towards him in my navy blue delivery wear and nod.
“Yeah. I’ve got a delivery for Mr Cooper?” I place the box on the counter and hold up the clipboard I held underneath it. “ADA Isaiah Cooper.”
“Ah, I see. Do you know where his office is, or do you need directions?” The clerk flips through today’s paper, splitting his attention between me and whatever’s written below.
“Directions would be appreciated, man, I ain’t used to fancy places like this,” I lie and chuckle, the clerk does the same.
“Take the elevator up to the 3rd floor, and the office in the far left is where you want to go.” The clerk points to the elevators in the distance, and I thank him, striding to them with the box and clipboard propped under my arms.
When I reach the office on the 3rd floor, I knock sternly, the sound rapping through the muffled hallway. I don’t wait for a response, opening the door to find Isaiah in there already. His head is propped up on his hand as he defeatedly talks into the phone held in his free hand. I flash him a lopsided smile, which he barely sees — I doubt he’s even looked at me at all.
“Yo, I need you to sign this, man,” I push the clipboard forward after placing the box in an empty chair near his desk.
He clumsily tries to brush me off, but I persist, placing the clipboard and a cheap pen in front of him. I cross my arms and wait, looking around the office with bored intrigue. Degrees and diplomas hang proudly on the walls, along with a photo of him and his mother. A photo of his brother lies out of place on his desk. Poor guy doesn’t have a clue. I look at Malik in the photo. A large ring rests on his middle finger, the diamond intimidating.
“That’s what he bought with the cash he stole? What a dumbass. Of course, he woulda gotten caught with that giant thing blinding the damn city.” I think to myself.
Isaiah continues his conversation on the landline. Something about funeral arrangements and food choices; not my problem.
“Look, man, just sign the paper so I get outta here? I got other things to deliver.” I push, tapping my index finger on the clipboard.
Isaiah grunts and flimsily signs over that black line, tossing the pen at me. I catch it and snatch the clipboard off his table and leave his office, sucking my teeth in disgust. I can’t stand people like him, all prim and arrogant, thinking he knows it all just because he’s got a few degrees.
When I make it downstairs, I nod the clerk a goodbye and pull the door open out to the cold breeze.
Step two: complete.
6 December 1935
Your POV:
The walk from your home to the bookstore is short. Cars rumble in the opposite direction from you, pressing down on the snow-covered roads. You inhale and puff out a long breath, hugging yourself as you enter the cosy building.
You smile and walk past a teenage girl. She admires your presence. Just as the days before, you’re dressed in a large fur coat and leather high heel boots, rings decorating your hands in gems and diamonds.
“You look lovely, ma’am. May I ask where you got the coat? It looks expensive.” The teen girl chirps.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” I rub my hands over the fur, “my husband gifted it to me for our anniversary. Unfortunately, I’m not sure where he bought it.”
“Ah, I understand. It’s not a bother.” She smiles and shifts her focus back towards the bookshelf before her.
You pull out an enveloped letter from your purse and hand it to the teller at the desk. He takes the envelope and inspects it, checking whether an address is written on the front.
“The prison?” He enquires, leaning closer to you as if trying to spare you any embarrassment.
“Yes, sir. That’s the right address.” You fight the urge to roll your eyes. ”Is there a problem?”
“No, no, no,” he shakes his head, swiftly placing the envelope in a box to be given to a deliveryman the next day. “You just don’t appear to be someone who has anyone in that place, ma’am.”
I chuckle and force a kind expression on my face before I hand him a few dollar bills for the mail processing.
7 December 1935
11:00
Michael’s POV:
“Jackson! You’ve got mail.” A guard tosses me a single envelope.
“Thank you, good sir,” I whistle, giving the guard an obnoxious bow. Turn back towards my cell.
When I lay on my cot, I rip open the envelope, revealing the delicately folded letter. The paper is slightly pink, with a single lipstick stain pressed in the corner of it. Red…like the lipstick I bought her.
“Ah, darlin’. My day is made.” I whisper before opening the letter.
“’My everything.
Are you healthy?
I’ve spent a month yearning for you. Our bedroom seems to have gone blue in your absence…so has my heart. My love, your letter brought me much pause, yet I did as you asked of me. The mustard seed is in the cornfield, and our great friend has received his early Christmas gift. I wonder, how will this journey play out where you are? I do not doubt your expertise however, I fear your ambitions will lead you into harm's way. I wish to see you at home soon. I wish to hold you again. To hold you, kiss you, ride you once again like I used to before we fell apart. Be safe, jaguar.
With love,
Yours only.”
My face morphs into a large grin, and a genuine chuckle escapes me as I fold the letter up again. I take in a sharp swig of air, sitting up and looking out my open cell, motioning for Ronald to get his skinny ass here. He practically jogs to me and sits on his cot too, his elbows on his knees.
“Did she do it?” Ronald pries with raised elbows.
“Of course she did. She’s capable of anything, that woman.” I chuckle and clap.
“Even the box in his office?” Ronald bounces his leg in what appears to be excitement.
“Even the box in his office.” I nod. “Big G got the job?”
“Yes, Warden Mayes basically begged him to take the job. Said the big guy shouldn’t have trouble folding laundry.” Ronald chuckles.
“Good, we’ll discuss the plan again at dinner. For now, I need to call my wife.”
Your POV:
19:00
“911, what’s your emergency?” The respondent’s neutral tone transmits through the line.
You’re standing in a phone booth near the D.A’s office, dressed in a maid’s clothing you borrowed from Diane. The booth is small, warmer than the outside, as you put on a horrified expression on your face.
“Yes, hello,” you speak in mock fear, “I would like to report a murder. A gruesome murder.”
“What is your current location, ma’am?” The respondent’s tone shifts into a serious one.
“Near the D.A’s office. I was cleaning the offices and I…I found a damp, open box in one of the offices.” You hyperventilate to heighten the act.
“What’s in the box, ma’am?” The respondent asks.
“A leg and a hand! An entire leg cut by the knee and oozing old blood,” you fake a cry over the phone, “Someone’s leg and hand are in the box, sir!”
“Police are on their way, ma’am. Which office did you find the box in?” The respondent keeps his voice professional, but the story you tell is slowly chipping away at his calm demeanour.
“In ADA Cooper’s office. Oh, sir! It’s a terrible sight!” You cry, sniffling to sweeten the performance.
You hang up after a few extra wails and step out of the booth, walking calmly to the car parked in the corner. Bill opens the backseat door for you, and you enter. He rounds the car to the driver’s side, turning on the engine and driving off away from the scene. Three police cars sing their siren song, driving in the opposite direction from you and Bill. Their tyres screech as they forcefully park on the curb near the D.A office building.
You turn in the car, watching police officers run into the building in a rush, guns strapped to their waists in case an altercation occurs between them and whoever’s inside.
“Like clockwork.” Bill continues driving away; the scene disappears from sight. You sigh and reposition yourself in your seat, tilting your head to place it on the headrest.
“This better work, Bill.” You comment, and he hums in agreement.
I’m 4k words deep into the last chapter of Midnight at Club 30 and I haven’t even reached the sexy yummy climax of the chapter. Y’all better enjoy this one because I’m putting my whole pumpum into it I swear, or I’m never posting here again
Just a reminder if you’re on the tag list. Please check your settings and make sure you’ve allowed ppl to tag you. I can’t find some ppl when I add them
Synopsis: Grammys '84. You're attending with your boyfriend (reluctantly) and unfortunately, you have to throw hands about your man.
Pairing: Thriller ear!Michael Jackson x black fem!reader
Drea's Note: I saw two posts asking for a fic where reader beats tf outta Diana and I came to deliver. PLUS, I'm in a petty mood after constantly seeing ppl leave the fandom bc of the #that documentary.
Word count: 2.2k
Award shows. Oh, how you hated them. The pretence, the press and especially being around so many coked-up celebrities never felt right to you. Of course, they’d never admit to being drug-addicted losers, but you knew better. What kind of normal person sniffles and fiddles with their nose without actually needing to blow it? Right right. You hated it. As simple as that. You hated it all, loathed it even. But your boyfriend wanted you to be there for him. It’s the Grammys after all, and his latest album is nominated in pretty much every major category. He’s going to win it all. That’s a given. He’s going to sweep up every award, and you’ll be there to kiss him in front of the cameras every single time he gets up to collect another golden gramophone.
Maybe, just maybe, you like that, but that’s a big maybe. Showing off who you are to the rising star. You don’t want to admit it, but your ego inflates every time someone reminds you that you’re dating Michael Jackson. Of course, there's no guarantee that he’ll marry you—he’s yet to bring that conversation up—but who gives a shit? Michael Jackson is yourboyfriend. Yours. And that’s all that matters.
The car ride to Shrine Auditorium and Expo Hall is tedious and silent. You’re stewing in your own self-pity. The idea of simply jumping out of the car crosses your mind. Michael notices.
“Oh, come on. Don’t be like that.” He mutters, plucking at your Afro to fluff it up at the back.
“Shut up, Mike. I don’t want to do this.” There’s no venom in your words. Michael knows that. He merely scoffs and lifts your knuckles to his lips.
“You gonna be in a mood all night? The cameras are gonna catch every scowl.” He pecks each knuckle on your hand.
Instead of responding with sarcasm, you turn to him and smile obnoxiously in a silent “I’ll pretend’ manner. Michael snickers. His lips are still lazily grazing your hand as he stares at you. God, you’re so annoyingly sassy, but he loves it. He loves how blunt you are—maybe because he’s had to be sweet and gentle all his life. You’re unmoving, like a mountain withstanding a lightning storm. So sexy. So infuriating. The car drives over a speed bump, breaking the slight sexual tension that had been building between you both. When it turns the corner into the Expo hall parking lot, you swiftly remove your hand from his delicate grip.
Cameras flash in a staccato motion. It’s overwhelming. Nauseating. Michael steps out of the car first, aviators hiding his gorgeous eyes. The cameras flash faster than before, journalists asking senseless questions all at once. Michael pays them little mind, flashing his oh-so-charming smile at them, giving them little satisfaction. He rushes to your side of the car before opening the door for you. He whispers a quick “smile, woman,” into your ear and you oblige. Photographs of you both entering the Hall are taken. Every move you make, every breath and every micro expression is documented. You’re already over it.
The ceremony—to you at least—is lacklustre. A few performances here, award winners there and unnecessary speeches flow through the Hall at a painfully laggard pace. You’re nearing the brink of sleep, but you fight it off. Can you imagine what the press would say if they caught you slumped in a theatre chair at the Grammys? Not only would that embarrass you, but your loving partner. You blink a few times, and finally, finally, Michael’s name is said.
“Male Pop Vocal Performance goes to Michael Jackson!”
And then another.
“The Grammy for Record of the Year goes to…Michael Jackson!”
And another, and another, and another until your lip gloss has finally gone dry from pressing chaste kisses on Michael’s perfectly sculpted face.
Your eyes stay fixed on him, blue-black and gold military-esque jacket glistening under expensive lights. He looks ethereal. Otherworldly. You have to admit you’re enjoying yourself now. Watching your man win 8 awards in one night gives you an indescribable high, a high he seems to notice because when he wins Album of the Year, he dedicates it to you. You kiss the bottom of his chin, a light red lipstick stain glistening on his as he accepts the award onstage. His speech is short but cutting, telling the crowd—and those watching at home—how much you inspired him throughout the album’s creation.
And soon after, the show ends, and the cameras stop broadcasting. You just have to suffer the post-award show interviews, and then you’ll be free from this glitz and glam-covered purgatory. Right?
Wrong.
“We’re going to the after-party,” Michael bounces. he hops smoothly, as if his bones are made of springs.
You want to melt there and then. Michael practically skips to your shared limousine, holding the door open for you to enter. He jumps in after you.
“I’m not going. No way.” You murmur. Michael shakes his head, holding your hand as he did on the way here.
“It’ll be fun! Drinks, food, music and dancing,” he practically sings, words dancing in the air like magic dust, “Please?”
“You’re way too jolly for my liking,” You scoff. He’s used to this, you getting all irritated by his famous lifestyle. He understands. He really does, but tonight is different. He won 8 Grammys for god’s sake; first person to do that, ever. Let alone being a black man to set that record. He’s elated, buzzing with justified pride. You can literally feel him vibrating beside you. “But fine. We’ll go to the damn after-party.”
Celebrities dance and sing alone to their own song in the warmly lit club. Alcohol flows through the room in waves and bodies sway in their elegant outfits. Some stars have changed into completely different attire. Show-offs.
You mingle as much as you can. Michael stays beside you for the most part until he’s swept away by David Bowie. He says something about “wanting to introduce Michael” to a few friends. Your arm reluctantly unhooks itself from Michael as you dolefully watch him vanish into the crowd. With a frustrated smile, you find an empty seat near the back booth in the club. A few stars greet you. Some stable nearby chairs and make small talk with you while others remain standing. You notice a few snorting coke by the bar, sipping on something strong right after.
“Good lord, get me outta here.” You mumble inwardly, pinching the bridge of your nose, disconsolation evident in your mannerism. You can hear your boyfriend's heavenly laugh in the distance. Too heavenly for your liking. A piercing pang drops in your gut and, without further thinking, you get up and stride confidently towards the sound of Michael laughing again. When you make it to him, you see her.
Diana fucking Ross.
“Oh hi!” She gleams mockingly at you, waving her hand in your direction while her other hand caresses Michael’s shoulder. “I didn’t think you’d be here, y/n.”
“Hi,” you mimic her tone, although less enthusiastically. Michael stiffens when he glances in your direction. Your jaw is clenched, and your hands are balled up in tight fists. “Didn’t think you’d be up at this hour either.” You smile wickedly.
Diana laughs it off, her lanky fingers still raking sensually over Michael’s shoulder. Michael doesn’t even move. He remains still, an awkward grin plastered on his even more awkward face. You’re not surprised he’s not moving. Michael has never been good with situations like this, and you’re well aware of the history between him and Diana. Fucking weird either way. There isn’t any situation where a woman should be all ‘touchy feely’ with a man 14 years older than him.
“What’s got you laughing so much, babe?” You question his loud chuckles from a minute earlier. Diana responds for him.
“A little inside joke between us from years ago!” She keeps up the pretence, You wouldn’t understand, sweethearts!”
Sweetheart? Who is she calling sweetheart?
“I have time.” You pry.
“Ah, it's nothing serious.” She grins.
“Seems serious enough to have you eye-fucking my boyfriend.” You quip.
Michael’s eyes widen behind his aviators. The three of you stand in thick, unbreaking pressure unnoticed by the rest of the party. Rage envelopes you in a fuzzy hug. Diana’s hand continues its journey around your man’s shoulder. Her thumb and index finger circle his chin, and without warning, she puckers her lips and kisses Michael right above his chin, leaving a purple lipstick stain on his lower's lip in its wake.
The damn within you cracks. Anger as thick and hot as molten lava seeps from every orifice and pore.
“You fucking bitch! I’m gonna fuck you up—” You lunge forward, your hands grabbing Diana’s hair as you drag her to the ground. The music keeps playing, muffling Diana’s pained and shocked screams. She’s completely taken off guard. Never in her life has anyone of Michael’s dates or girlfriends stood up to her like this. In fact, none of them stuck around long enough to have to deal with bullshit like this.
You straddle her on the floor, fists bashing at every inch of her face and chest. Each blow to her face is met with a curse and wince from her. Diana’s eyes water in agony. She cries for help, but her wails are nullified by the beating rhythm of music. Ironically, Michael’s ‘Beat It’ bounces out of large speakers, loud and deafening. Michael freezes completely. The only thing he manages to move is his hand as he disgustedly wipes Diana’s lipstick stain off his lip. He watches the scene unfold before him, eyes glistening—not with sorrow but with endearment too shameful to admit. You’re going batshit crazy on Diana right now, and he…likes it?
“Heavenly Father…” He mutters in absolute awe for you, “What a woman.”
One loud piteous cry from Diana eventually draws people’s attention, specifically David—who had been the one to take Mike away from your hold hours again. He hooks his arms under yours and drags you off of Diana. You don’t go out without a fight, kicking at her mindlessly as David drags you away. One kick in particular hits her ribs, drawing out a sharp cry from her.
All eyes are on you now. The music has stopped, and murmurs about the debacle travel to and fro. Michael eventually snaps out of his daze. His body shakes off the last remnants of sudden paralysis as he crouches down in front of Diana—not to check on her but to inspect your violent artistry. His large sunglasses hide the glint in his eyes. Diana shields her face in both hands, embarrassment evident in how she curls into herself on the floor.
Behind Michael, David still holds you back. He repeats “calm down” in your ear whenever you try to pounce. Your chest heaves energetically, hands grabbing at David’s arms when you finally try to get yourself together. He doesn’t mind. He’s seen shit like this before. If he was honest, what you did is nothing compared to what he’s witnessed on past occasions.
Soon enough, Michael is at your side, replacing David’s hold on you in a subtle manner. Instead of holding you in an undertook like Bowie had, he lovingly places his warm hands on your waist and hugs you from behind.
“Woman, you’ve done it this time,” Michael whispers. Someone rushes to Diana’s aid while another calls for medical attention. He rubs gentle circles over your hip bone with his thumbs and sighs, looking around the room. Cops could be on their way, though the chance of that is unlikely. Having police in a drug-ridden club would look bad for the Academy and the club itself.
“Who’s she feeling like? Kissing on my man? In front of me!” You lunge forward, but Michael holds you back.
“Enough, pretty thing.” Mike’s tone is stern now. As much as he’d like to entertain this further, he’s aware of how damaging this could be for you both. “Let’s go. She’s not going to press charges.”
“And you know this how?” You scoff and reluctantly ease up in his hold.
“Trust me.” He doesn’t explain further. You know what he means, and you hate it. As much as their…relationship irks you, you know Diana’s got a soft spot for him. If need be, he’ll toy with her heartstrings to get you off the hook.
The limousine ride to your hotel room is quiet. Michael massages your bruised knuckles and chuckles to himself.
“Ain’t shit funny,” you mutter, a faint smile splayed across your makeup-shone face, “I could go to jail.”
“Shoulda thought of that before you went all ‘Muhammad Ali’ on her.” He huffs, spreading his legs and shifting in his seat. He clears his throat when you notice it.
“Really, Mike? You’re sick.” You giggle.
“Might need you to beat up on me too.” Michael jokes bashfully, leaning in to kiss you.
“Boy, wash your face first…and scrub them lips extra hard.” You push him away. He pouts in mock offence but understandably nods and snickers, leaning back in his seat as the car rolls forward through the late night.
I’m 4k words deep into the last chapter of Midnight at Club 30 and I haven’t even reached the sexy yummy climax of the chapter. Y’all better enjoy this one because I’m putting my whole pumpum into it I swear, or I’m never posting here again
I go through all stages of grief thinking about Michael Jackson bro…this is why I end up disappearing from this blog. I’m literally fighting my own mind right now to stay around here
Context: After a failed at-home interview, you man Michael agree to do a live appearance together a year into your marriage. Read part 1 here
Pairing: Dangerous!Michael Jackson x Black fem!reader
Word count: 1k
Drea's Note: Brainrot in a fic! That's it. That's all I have to say.
Static, shuffling and murmur. Michael fixes the mic on his shirt. He sits beside you and locks his pinkie with yours.
Producer: Alright. Thank you for being here today. We know we let you down the first time, and I can assure you that Steve has been replaced and will not be conducting this interview.
You: He better not or I’m gonna—
Michael: Good. List of questions?
Producer: Of course. Here they are. Thank you again for making time for the show.
Paper ruffles as Michael goes through the list; you take a peek too.
You: You think they’ll stick to this script?
Michael: I doubt it. These people love to play in my face.
You: I swear to god—
Michael: Not now, y/n.
You huff. A tall, slim lady walks in and greets you both.
Interviewer: Good evening to you both! I’m excited to be interviewing you today.
You: Hello. Nice to meet you
Michael: Nice to meet you.
Michael clears his throat and murmurs something inaudible.
Producer: We’re going Live soon. Everyone ready?
All three of you nod and hum in agreement.
Producer: 1, 2, 3…
Interviewer: Good evening, and we’re back! Tonight we have a special appearance with the newlywed Jackson couple!
The small crowd cheers off-camera, and the camera pans to both your faces. You smile and wave.
Interviewer: How are you both doing tonight?
Michael: Thank you for having us.
You: Yes, thank you. We’re happy to be here.
You lie. Michael does too. A loud cheer erupts from the crowd. One audience member screams, “Y/N, make me your sister-wife!”
You: Girl, I don’t wanna share my man.
The crowd hoots, and you laugh. Michael’s face goes a slight shade of pink.
Interviewer: Haha. I’m sure you don’t. I wouldn’t too. How has the marriage been so far? You two have been married for a year now, yes?
Michael: Yes, about 18 months now. We’re very happy.
You: Very happy, yeah. Mike’s amazing.
Interviewer: Amazing? Wow, we’d love to hear more of that.
You: He’s everything I ever wanted in a man. Sweet, generous, insanely handsome
Michael: Stoppppp
Michael laughs and looks away, a bashful expression painted on his face. The crowd awes.
Interviewer: Aww, that’s adorable. So it’s safe to say that this marriage is a forever thing?
Michael: Of course. I love her.
Interviewer: What do you love about her?
Michael: She’s incredibly gorgeous and strong.
Interviewer: And how have you managed the stress of being married to such a famous man, y/n?
You: I stay out of the limelight, mostly. It’s difficult, but I’ve found my way around the cameras.
Random audience member: How’d you bag such a hottie, Michael?!
The crowd laughs at the impromptu question. You giggle and look at Michael with mock-sassiness.
Michael: To be honest, I don’t know. I’m really shy.
Interviewer: Are you really shy?
You: I wouldn’t say so…
Michael: You initiate most things, y/n!
You: Mhm, but you keep things spicyyyyyy.
You stick your tongue out and look at Michael up and down, shaking your shoulders.
The crowd ‘ooos’ and the interviewer chuckles.
Interview: Alright, alright. I think we should leave that alone, and well.
Michael (laughing bashfully): Yes please, let's move on.
Interview: I want to ask you both about your wedding. We were lucky enough to get a few snapshots of the ceremony. How did you feel in that moment, y/n?
A photo of you and Michael by the altar appears on a few TVs around the studio and the crowd awes.
You: I was nervous. It’s crazy because I was so hyped up the day before, but I couldn’t stop shaking with nerves when the morning came. My bridesmaids had to calm me down for at least an hour before I could actually walk down the aisle.
Interview: What about you, Michael? How was that morning for you?
Michael: Uhm…I was nervous too. Y/N was an hour late. I thought she walked out on me.
You: I felt so bad. Kept whispering ‘I’m sorry’ to him while the officiator spoke.
Interview: Wow, that sounds adorable. It’s good to see that you two really are just as normal as every other couple. Do you think the media will ever drop the idea that this marriage is staged?
You open your mouth to speak, but Michael answers first.
Michael: The press should mind their own. Does this look fake to you?
Michael tilts your chin to face him, then spontaneously presses a deep kiss to your glossy lips. He kisses you for what seems to be an entire 10 seconds.
The crowd cheers, and the host claps happily, speaking up once you two break the kiss.
Interview: Well, there you have it, everyone. This marriage is real!
Random audience member: When’s a baby coming?!
You (shaking your head in disbelief with a soft giggle): Girl…don’t give this man ideas, I beg.
Michael: Okay, but 18 children isn’t that bad.
Interview: 18???
You: Imagine!
Michael (trying to reason): Fine, how about 10?
You: You’re ridiculous.
Michael: 8?
You (rolling your eyes): Mike…
Michael (playful defeat evident in his tone): 5?
You: How about 2 for now?
Michael: 4?
You: Now, sir…
The crowd laughs. The interviewer laughs and pretends to wipe a tear from her eye.
Michael: Please?
You look around the room and sigh.
You: I’ll think about it…
Interview: We can’t wait to see 4 little Jacksons in the coming years!
The audience cheers and whistles in excitement. Michael bites his lip, knowing he just won an 18-month-long argument on live TV.
The interview ends. The studio empties out. You make your way to the blacked-out SUV and head home. The drive is quiet until…
You: You’re insane.
Michael (taken aback and chuckles): Whaaaaat?
You: 18 kids is crazy numbers, Mike.
Michael: It’s not!
You: I’ll be pregnant for…13 years total…
Michael (laughing): Damn, woman, did you just calculate that in your head?
You: Boy, I’m not carrying that many children.
Michael: Who said anything about you being pregnant for all of them?
You: What?
Michael: Adoption, woman…
You blink in confusion. Mike snickers, knowing he’s caught you off guard.
I need the non-black Jackson fans to stop remixing Jermajesty’s name. Please and thank you! It’s a whole micro aggression and it’s not cute fr. Lets be respectful
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