a/n: saw a few posts asking for more mj x plus-size reader stories, so i figured i'd give it a shot :) i'm not plus-size myself, but i did my best to steer away from some of the common cliché storylines. hopefully i did it justice <3
pairing: bad!michael jackson x plus size!reader
summary: after a failed dress fitting, michael is determined to make sure you never have to settle again.
cw: established relationship, bad era, plus size reader, mentions of body image + clothing size
the heavy gold-embossed envelope sat on the kitchen island between two half empty mugs of tea. michael nudged it forward with his pinky, a grin pulling at the corner of his mouth before he even spoke.
“plus one,” he said softly, leaning his hip against the counter.
you looked from the sleek black font, and invitation to the 1989 soul train awards, up to his eyes. a sudden, fluttery warmth bloomed in your chest. you snatched the heavy cardstock, turning it over in your palms to feel the raised foil under your fingers. he chuckled, stepping closer to wrap his arm around your waist, pulling you against his chest while you re-read the date three times just to make sure it was real.
two days later, the back door of the stylist’s studio closed shut, allowing you and michael private access to the boutique. the space was gorgeous. floor to ceiling windows poured soft white light over racks of silk, velvet, and tweed that swept the polished concrete floors. glass cases glinted with diamond chokers and clutch bags. garment bags labeled with couture names were draped along the perimeter.
“michael! so good to see you again!” a thin man in tailor’s chalk and tape measure came out from a back room, opening his arms wide. michael laughed, stepping into the embrace before being hurried toward a raised wooden pedestal.
within ten minutes, michael was wrapped in custom black wool. the stylist darted around him with surgical precision, chalking a line on a sleeve, pinning a hem, and tucking a lapel. michael caught your eye in the floor length mirror, sticking his tongue out playfully. you hid a smirk behind your coffee mug, mouthing so cute at him, making his shoulder twitch mid-measurement.
“and now…” the stylist spun around, clapping his hands together with a snap. his eyes swept over you, taking in your frame. “for the lady.”
an assistant wheeled out a clothing rack. the first gown was a shimmering emerald dress. you stepped behind the velvet privacy screen, slipping off your jeans and cardigan. you stepped into the silk, pulling it up over your hips. it caught midway up your thighs. you wiggled gently, pulling it upward, but the fabric held firm, tight, and unyielding. you stepped back out holding the back together with one hand.
the stylist made a soft, clicking sound with his tongue. “right. no problem. next.”
the second was a deep navy velvet with a structured boned bodice. it slid over your hips easily, but as you reached behind your back, catching the zipper pull and tugged, it stopped sharply at the small of your back. you took a slow breath, letting all the air out of your lungs and pulled again. the teeth jammed.
“don’t force it,” the assistant murmured quickly, stepping behind you to unclip it. “the lining will tear.”
the third gown was cherry red, the same shade as the accent adorning michael’s jacket. as you stepped into the fabric, it wouldn’t budge past your knees.
“i’ll check the vault,” the assistant added, already retreating toward the heavy black door at the rear of the studio.
you stood on the soft rug in your slip, your hands clasped loosely in front of you. through the gap in the partition, you could hear the soft snip of thread from michael’s side of the room and the faint hum of smooth jazz.
three minutes stretched into five. the heavy door clicked open. the assistant emerged, her hands empty, smoothing down the front of her black blazer. she walked over to the chief stylist and whispered something in his ear.
the stylist paused, his chalk hovering an inch above michael’s jacket cuff. he turned slowly, looking toward the partition.
“ahh,” he said. his voice dropped its earlier theatrical flair, flattening into something more careful and practiced. he offered a polite smile. “we don’t have anything else.”
you didn’t flinch. you didn’t feel the sting of tears, nor the flare of heat in your cheeks. your face simply relaxed into a quiet, blank stillness.
“that’s okay,” you said. your voice was smooth and completely steady.
you stepped back behind the curtain. you lifted your denim jeans off the hanger, stepping into them and buttoning the waist. you pulled your thick knit cardigan back over your head, before slipping your feet back into your boots. across the room, the soft rustle of suit fabric abruptly stopped. michael turned away from the mirror, his eyes darting past the tailor, straight to the velvet curtain just as you pulled it back.
before you could emerge from the partition, michael was already stepping off the pedestal. he looked at the empty hands of the assistant, then at the chief stylist, then at you. his forehead creased, not with anger but with a strange blank delay. the look of a man trying to translate a sentence spoken in a language he’d never heard before.
“wait,” michael said. “what do you mean, you don’t have anything else?”
the stylist offered a swift, practiced tilt of his head. “we work with specific sample sizes from the designers for this season, michael. it’s just what was sent over from paris.”
michael stood there with his arms hung loose at his sides, the black suit trousers unhemmed and pooling slightly over his socks. he didn’t get it. for years, michael’s world had operated on very simple, invisible physics: if a zipper broke, three more jackets appeared. if a color was wrong, a courier was dispatched to a boutique in another city. if one designer couldn't accommodate a request, another designer could. the machinery of his life was silent, frictionless, and endlessly accommodating.
he looked back at the racks holding acres of silk, velvet, chiffon, structured shoulders, trailing trains, a hundred thousand dollars worth of clothes hanging under bright lights. “call them,” michael said simply. he pointed a hand toward the back room. “call the showroom. have them send a few more options over.”
the assistant shifted her weight, looking down at her clipboard. “the showroom doesn’t make those sizes for the sample collection, mr. jackson.”
“it’s okay, michael,” you interrupt. “it’s fine, really. finish your fitting, i’ll wait for you in the lobby.” you offered a small small, before nodding thank you to the stylist and assistant and headed out into the lobby to wait for michael.
he took a half step after you before the tailor gently caught his sleeve. “michael, just one minute. we still need to hem the trousers.” michael stared at the velvet curtain swaying gently behind you as you disappeared through it.
the silence in the suv was heavier than its doors. outside, the rain had started as a fine mist, smearing the neon blur of the city across the passenger window into long streaks of red and yellow. the driver kept his eyes fixed strictly on the road and the faint, rhythmic thump-thump of the windshield wipers were the only sound filling the air.
michael sat staring straight through the windshield, his jaw locked so hard that a muscle twitched in his cheek every time the car hit a seam in the asphalt. you sat beside him, your hands folded loosely in your lap, and you fiddled with a loose thread on your sweater. you watched the rain gather in heavy droplets on the glass, pool for a second, and then get dragged away into the dark. your shoulders rested only an inch from his, close enough to feel the heat radiating through his shirt but neither of you shifted to fill the gap. his eyes turned toward you just a fraction, before tracing the line of your profile against the window, searching for a tear, a clenching fist, or a tremble in your chin. but nothing. just quiet.
the car slowed, stopping at a long red light beneath an overpass. shadow washed over the backseat, blotting out the ambient glow of the dash. michael turned his head completely toward you then. “y/n.” silence. “i don’t understand.”
“no it’s not. i’ll contact the designer.”
“that’s just how their sizing works. it’s okay, i promise.” you offer a weak smile before turning to face the window once more.
michael stood in the foyer, fully tailored and pristine. the black suit fit him like a second skin. the pins were gone and the shoulder seams were flawless. the metallic accents caught the soft light of the entryway chandelier. he looked like a king.
“i’m not going,” he said. his voice was flat, and settled like concrete.
“michael.” you stepped to him, reaching out to adjust the large silver brooch positioned on his chest. “you’re nominated. you have to go.”
“i can call chris,” he said, staring down at your forehead, his chest rising sharply against your hands. “i’ll tell him i’m sick. it doesn’t matter.”
“it does matter,” you said softly. you finished adjusting his suit before looking up to meet his eyes. there was no trace of bitterness on your face. “it’s your night. you worked hard for this, you’re not missing it.”
“i’m not leaving you here after-”
“i am fine,” you interrupted gently, your hand resting against his cheek, your thumb trailing over his jawline. “i’m going to watch you win from the couch. it’s one night, michael. go.”
he looked at you for a long heavy moment searching you eyes for a crack, or a lie, as a sacrifice he could refuse to accept. but you just offered him a small, steady smile, stepping back and retrieving his jacket from the bench. you held it open for him.
he hesitated, his jaw tight, before sliding his arms into the silk-lined sleeves. “i’ll be home before eleven,” he said, turning back at the doorway, his hand gripping the frame.
“go win,” you said, and softly clicked the door shut between you.
the red carpet was a wall of white light and noise. flashbulbs detonated in endless blinding strobes along the velvet ropes. publicists were barking out names, shoving artists toward the backdrop walls and frantically straightening trains and adjusting bow ties. a wall of shouting photographers echoed off the glass facade of the theater.
michael stood on the carpet, turning automatically when a hand nudged his arm, flashing the practiced, effortless grin that had taken him years to master.
“michael! you look incredible! who are you wearing?”
michael paused. the name of the designer was supposed to roll off his tongue, a quick plug for the house that had tailored the wool hugging his shoulders. he opened his mouth, but the words caught in his throat. suddenly, he wasn’t on the carpet. he was back in the studio, watching a woman in a black blazer walk out of a back room emptyhanded. he was looking at a rack of a hundred gowns that had room for everyone in the world except the person waiting at home on his couch.
“michael!” the reporter prompted, tilting her head with a polished, professional smile.
“it’s custom,” michael said. his voice was distant, stripped of its usual warmth. he didn’t name the designer and he didn’t smile. he just turned and walked past her, leaving the crew blinking in surprise as he moved toward the auditorium doors.
during the opening monologue, the crowd erupted in thunderous laughter. beside him, his peers leaned forward, slapping their knees, whispering jokes across the aisle. michael chuckled on cue, his hands clapping together mechanically, but his eyes were fixed on the empty seat to his left. he looked down at his own sleeve. the stitching was microscopic. perfect. invisible. he rubbed his thumb over the cuff, feeling the luxury of a garment crafted solely to make him look invincible. but for the first time in his life, the fabric felt heavy and suffocating.
three days later at 2 am, illuminated by the glow of the shopping network on the television, michael got to work. during the next morning's briefing, michael’s assistant, meredith, stared at the stack of catalogs in front of her, thoroughly bewildered.
“michael… why do you need women’s size charts and independent designers?”
michael didn’t look up from his notebook. “just make the call. and ask if they do custom inquiries.”
for weeks, michael became a ghost in a completely different kind of machine. he called his personal stylist, who stammered, utterly confused by inquiries about extended sizing outside of the standard designer sample houses. he tracked down independent ateliers in london, milan, and france. he learned the vocabulary of clothing construction: pattern-making, custom-block, and made-to-measure.
and while he was digging through lists of independent designers who actually made clothing for real human proportions, he started remembering. he remembered the tuesday in october when you’d stopped outside a boutique window in new york, lingering over a cream wool sweater with cable-knit sleeves. or the leather jacket you’d stroked the lapel of at a vintage shop, sighing and walking away because the shoulders were too narrow.
you unlocked the front door on an overcast thursday evening, shoving it open against a barricade of cardboard. you stopped dead in your tracks. boxes were stacked in the entryway, spilling across the oak floorboards of the kitchen, forming a fortress around the couch. shredded white tissue paper drifted across the rug like melted snow. in the middle of the living room, sitting cross legged, amidst an avalanche of open packages was michael. he was wearing a red button down, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly rumpled as he held a pair of heavy brass scissors.
he looked up, like a guilty kid caught knee-deep in the middle of a multi thousand dollar logistics operation. “hey,” he said quietly.
“michael,” you breathed, stepping gingerly over a stack of flattened shipping boxes. “what is all of this?”
“open one,” he said, gesturing with the scissors toward a long black box resting against the coffee table.
you knelt down and lifted the lid. cashmere sweaters in the exact oat and cream shades you loved. perfectly cut denim that felt like butter beneath your fingertips. a deep forest-green coat with oversized pockets. a pair of smooth leather boots. a silk pajama set. rain boots. a swimsuit. and resting beneath it all, wrapped carefully in crisp white tissue paper, was a custom-made evening gown, crafted by an independent designer who had received your exact measurements without you ever knowing.
you pulled a soft cotton sundress from a box, your fingers tracing the neat, careful stitching along the hem. the fabric was exactly the shade of pale blue you'd pointed out in a storefront window months ago. your chest tightened. “why?” you asked softly.
the brass scissors slipped from michael’s hand, clattering against the hardwood floor. he didn't rush to answer. he simply looked at you, his expression open in a way that made your throat ache.
“because,” he began quietly. “i couldn’t stop thinking about what happened that day.” his gaze drifted over the sea of boxes surrounding you before settling back on you. “you weren’t surprised.”
“like you already expected there wouldn’t be anything for you.”
the room fell silent. after a long moment you gave the smallest nod. “i guess i did.”
michael’s shoulders sank almost imperceptibly. “i don’t ever want you to feel that way again.”
you looked down at the dress still gathered in your hands, blinking hard before reaching into another box beside you. folded neatly inside was the deep forest-green wool coat. you slipped it over your shoulders and eased the zipper upward. you stood there for a moment, your hands buried in the pockets, turning slowly toward the hallway mirror. michael was already smiling. “come here,” he murmured.
you crossed the room and sank down beside him in the middle of the cardboard boxes and crumpled tissue paper, resting your head against his shoulder. around you, sweaters spilled from open packages, boots leaned against the coffee table, and garment bags draped over the couch in complete, wonderful chaos.
you gleaned toward another unopened box tucked behind him and laughed. “there’s more?”
michael looked over his shoulder, following your gaze. “maybe.” he smiled sheepishly. “i may have gotten a little carried away.”
you shook your head, laughing through the warmth gathering behind your eyes. “thank you, michael.”
he turned to look at you, his own smile softening. “okay,” he said, clapping his hands together. “fashion show time.”
