michael and his young(er) clothing designer wife who just started a youtube channel for funzies
ur daughter is ‘🐣’ ! (reader doesn’t have a face ofc, i just put the pics for vibes <3. pics from pinterest)
https/www.youtube.com
an unsuccessful attempt at making clothing !! ♡
uploaded march 8, 2011
[VIDEO START]
YOU: okay, how do i… ew not that angle..
you’re fighting with the camera, fixing your hair when you finally place it down in front of where you sit.
YOU: um hello, today i’m a bit busy but i wanted to give you all a little peek into-
🐣: MOOOOMMYYY LOOK AT MY PICTURE I MADE!!!
a tiny hand holding construction paper covered in glitter glue comes up into frame. michael is adamant on not putting the kids’ faces online, so thankfully that’s all that’s visible.
🐣: look! look! look! it’s a present for daddy.
you move back as your daughter completely shoves it in to your face for you to see.
YOU: yes i see it baby! it looks so beautiful! daddy’s gonna love it.
🐣: thank you, i go make more now!!!
little footsteps can be heard running away as you put your hands together and sigh at the camera.
YOU: where was i? … right!
you look around before leaning in as if you’re spilling a secret, and not posting this to the worldwide web…
YOU: okay, don’t tell anyone, but i was thinking of selling some new pieces, something like this?
you point your sketchbook at the camera, the silhouettes showing through the grainy quality. until you’re interrupted by a knock at the door.
MICHAEL: hey mama, what’re you up to?
michael bends down into frame, taking your face into his gentle hands as he gives you a sweet kiss. it makes you blush and smile at the camera as if you were caught in real time.
YOU: babeee! i was making a video…. i need to edit that somehow… i should probably just start over at this point
he makes eye contact with the camera, eyebrows raised before laughing softly.
MICHAEL: ah no no, sorry love i don’t mean to interrupt. just wanna see what my lady‘s been doing. look at all this…
you grab the camera to pan over fabric samples and color swatches. michael’s hands are grazing over them, feeling at the different textures.
YOU: exactly what i was going to show next! the materials im debating on using.
your manicured finger can be seen pointing as you try and explain.
YOU: so i was thinking this one on the skirt, and-
your husband reaches over you, nearly bumping the camera out of your grip.
MICHAEL: lemme see.. this one’s real pretty. and pink. i’ve never seen so much glitter before.
you laugh at how much he’s over exaggerating.
YOU: ….. you literally wore glitter jeans and shoes yesterday, babe! and can you move your big ass hands please? why don’t you go see what your daughter is doing!?
you give up trying to hold the camera steady and just place it back in position. but he’s still sifting through the pile, a shiny gold patch catching his eye.
MICHAEL: wait a minute.. i like this one here.
he picks it up, twirling it in his fingers for a second.
MICHAEL: y’know what you can make outta this?
YOU: what?
michael grins at you.
MICHAEL: an armband!
he holds it up against his arm, modeling it for you. noticing you just staring at him, he gives a breathy laugh.
MICHAEL: what? im serious. wouldn’t it go nice?
he’s looking at his own reflection in the camera now, hitting as many different outrageous poses as possible before getting shy.
MICHAEL: please, make one just for me, baby? i’m puttin’ in a custom order.
his suggestion had nothing to do with the task at hand, but he’s so cute that you can’t even deny him. you can only giggle.
YOU: of course mikey, i’d love to sew you one but i’m trying to work on-
MICHAEL: gee, will you? i can’t wait.
he peppers kisses on your hands and then your forehead, cheeks, and lips, before looking at the camera.
MICHAEL: oh.
YOU: MIKEYYYY-
[CUT]
you’re holding the camera facing yourself, laying on the fluffy carpet now.
YOU: my family won’t allow me to be productive, so im actually gonna call it a day. maybe take a nap! well, that’s if they even let me. bye!
you blow kisses to the screen as your husband’s still meddling around.
MICHAEL: baby, this one would make a nice little swimsuit..
[VIDEO END]
and yes, you made his custom gold armband!
a/n: Try not to write about michael hands challenge. can you tell i’m obsessed with that man’s hands ? whewww. and pls lmk if this format was too much ! wanted it to read like a video but idk if this is any good lmaoaoo. also lets be mutuals pls guysss
summary: you’ve been running empty for days, just the hollow motions of existing. when seongje finds you at a convenience store at 3 AM, barely recognizable without your usual armor of makeup and carefully maintained appearance, he doesn’t ask if you’re okay. he already knows you’re not.
content: fluff, hurt/comfort, mentions of depression/lack of energy/lack of appetite/dissociation, seongje helps you shower, nonsexual nudity, seongje typical smoking, cuddling, hwangmo shows up for like one paragraph, reader is mentioned to typically wear makeup
based off this request. role reversal version here.
⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔
The fluorescent lights hum overhead with that specific frequency that makes your skull ache if you pay attention to it. You have not been paying attention to much lately. The past few days have passed in a blur of disconnected moments that your brain stopped trying to organize into linear time.
Your hand hovers over the shelf of instant noodles. Shin Ramen sits in its red package. The package in front of you blurs slightly. You blink. It stays blurred.
The question of when you last ate surfaces without urgency. Yesterday feels like a possibility. The day before seems equally likely. There was toast at some point.
You put the noodles in your basket without remembering the decision to reach for them. They join the other items you have collected. Energy drinks you will not open sit next to bandaids for cuts you do not have. A bag of cheap sugar cookies that taste like cardboard rounds out the selection. The basket weighs almost nothing in your hand. Everything weighs almost nothing these days.
The glass door of the refrigerated section reflects someone you don't quite recognize. Your hair is pulled back in a knot that was never meant to last four days. No makeup covers the greyish tint your skin has taken under these lights. You're wearing one of Seongje's hoodies. The sleeves hang too long and there is a stain on the cuff that might be coffee. The fabric smells like him and cigarette smoke.
He’s never seen you like this.
The thought arrives with unusual clarity, cutting through the static that has replaced most of your thoughts. In the eight months you have been together, he has never seen you barefaced. The version of yourself he knows is maintained and deliberate.
The version currently buying random shit at three in the morning looks like she has been underwater for a week.
You move toward the register on autopilot, body carrying you there without conscious input. The cashier is some college student doing overnight shifts. He glances at your basket and then at your face. Something flickers in his expression that looks like concern.
"You okay?" he asks.
The question takes too long to process. You blink at him and form the word in your mouth before speaking. "Fine."
He does not look convinced but he's not paid enough to push. The scanner beeps as he runs your items across it. Each beep sounds too loud in your skull. Everything is too loud or too quiet lately.
His voice carries from the next aisle over.
Seongje says something you do not catch. Then laughter follows. Hwangmo is probably with him. The sound makes your stomach drop in a way that almost registers as emotion. That makes it the strongest thing you have felt in seventy-two hours.
Your hand tightens on the basket handle. The cashier continues scanning. The energy drinks beep. The cookies beep. Your brain screams at your body to move faster but everything moves through honey.
"That'll be-"
You shove money at him before he finishes, not bothering to wait for change. The plastic bag crinkles as you grab it and turn toward the door. If you can just get outside before he rounds the corner then maybe he won’t see that the girl in his hoodie with greasy hair is supposed to be his girlfriend.
"Yo, isn't that your girl?" Hwangmo's voice carries that specific amusement that means he is about to say something stupid. Every muscle in your body locks. Your back is to them but you can feel the weight of attention shifting in your direction.
"Where?" Seongje sounds closer than you expected.
"Right there. Chick at the register."
You keep walking. The automatic doors are right there. Five more steps separate you from escape.
"Wait."
Four steps remain.
"You guys have the wrong person." Your voice comes out flat and empty. The doors slide open. You are almost through when footsteps sound behind you.
"Turn around."
The words are not a request.
You stop in the doorway. Night air hits your face with sharp cold. The plastic bag cuts into your palm. Behind you Hwangmo is probably grinning. The fluorescent lights are bright enough to see through your closed eyelids.
"I said turn around."
You do.
His eyes land on you and something in his expression shifts. His gaze moves over your face and catalogs the absence of makeup. The circles under your eyes look dark enough to be bruises.
Hwangmo says something. You don’t hear it. Seongje isn’t looking at him.
"When did you eat last?" The question comes out quiet and matter-of-fact. He could be asking what time it is.
You open your mouth and then close it. The answer requires accessing information you do not have. "Today."
"Bullshit." He steps closer. Cigarette smoke clings to his jacket. "When?”
"I don't know."
"You don't know." He moves close enough that you have to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact. "You don't know when you ate."
"I've been busy."
His eyes drop to the plastic bag in your hand. Energy drinks and cookies, things that are not food in any real sense, look back at him. When he looks at your face again, something cold and controlled has settled into his expression.
"How long has it been since you slept?"
"I sleep."
"How long?”
Your brain tries to count backwards. It gets lost somewhere around yesterday afternoon. The timeline refuses to organize itself. "I don't know. A few hours here and there."
He reaches out and touches your face. His thumb presses gently under your eye where the skin is darkest. You flinch from the shock of being touched after days in a body that stopped feeling like yours. "You look like shit."
"Thanks." The word has no bite to it. It just falls out of your mouth and lands between you.
Hwangmo still stands nearby. Seongje does not glance at him. His attention stays fixed on you with that careful intensity that makes you feel pinned in place.
"You're coming with me."
"I have to go home."
"No, you don't."
"I have-"
"Whatever you have can wait." His hand drops from your face to your wrist. The grip is firm but not painful. "You're coming with me."
You should argue. You should pull away and insist you are fine. You should go back to your apartment and continue the very productive spiral you have been in. The thought of doing any of that requires energy you stopped having days ago.
"Okay," you hear yourself say.
His expression doesn’t change but something in his posture relaxes slightly. He takes the plastic bag from your hand and turns to Hwangmo.
"Go home."
"But-"
"Go. Home."
Hwangmo must see something in his face that makes arguing a bad idea. He shrugs and wanders toward the back of the store. Seongje's hand is still around your wrist. The warmth and solidity of it registers as the first real thing you have felt in days.
"Can you walk or do I need to carry you?"
The question should be humiliating. Instead it just sounds like an assessment of your current functionality.
"I can walk."
"Then walk."
He doesn’t let go of your wrist. He pulls you gently toward the door and out into night air so cold it almost feels like sensation returning to your skin. You follow because the alternative is standing in a convenience store trying to remember what functional human behavior looks like.
His apartment is six blocks away. You have walked this route before as the version of yourself that wore lipstick and laughed at his dark jokes. That version seems very far away now, unreachable.
"You've been avoiding me," he says after the first block.
You stay quiet.
"Three days. No texts. Calls going to voicemail." His voice stays even without accusation. "I thought you were pissed about something."
"Not pissed."
"Then what?"
You don’t have an answer that makes sense. How do you explain the emptiness? How do you describe going through the motions of being alive without any of the actual living parts working? You have been wearing his hoodie for four days straight because it was the only thing that felt like it belonged to something real.
"I don't know," you say finally.
He makes a sound that might be acknowledgment. He does not push for more. He just keeps walking with your wrist held loosely in his hand, like he’s afraid you will disappear if he lets go.
Maybe you would.
His apartment looks the same as it always does. A couch sits against one wall while a low table holds an ashtray and his phone charger. There are no decorations or photos. The functional space could belong to anyone.
A hand on your shoulder guides you to the couch. The pressure feels gentle but firm enough that your body follows without question. You sink into the cushions and watch him move toward the small kitchen area.
"Stay there," he says.
The couch has become the most comfortable place you have sat in days. Your body settles into it like it might never get up again. Going anywhere was not part of your plans anyway.
Water hits metal too loudly in the quiet apartment as he fills a pot from the sink. The pot goes onto the stove and he turns the burner on. Blue flames lick up the sides. A cabinet opens and he pulls out two packets of instant ramen. The cheap kind costs less than a dollar and tastes like salt and MSG.
His movements are efficient and practiced as you watch with detached interest. This is clearly not the first time he has made food at three in the morning. The water begins to boil. Torn packets release noodles into the pot. Seasoning follows. Steam rises and fills the small space with the smell of artificial beef flavor.
A bowl appears in front of you on the low table three minutes later. Noodles sit in their broth and release heat into the air. Chopsticks rest across the top of the bowl.
"Eat," he says.
Your stomach turns at the thought of eating in a way that has nothing to do with nausea. Food has become an abstract concept over the past few days. Your body stopped asking for it.
"I'm not hungry."
"I don't care. Eat anyway."
The chopsticks feel heavy in your hand as you pick them up because arguing seems harder. Some noodles lift from the bowl and broth drips back down. Steam hits your face. The chopsticks lower without any food reaching your mouth.
"What's the problem?" he asks.
"I'm just not hungry right now."
"You haven't eaten in days. You're hungry."
"I don't feel hungry."
A long moment passes while he stares at you. Processing this information seems to lead him toward finding it unacceptable. His jaw tightens slightly. Frustration rather than anger shows in the gesture. "Why?”
The chopsticks go back across the bowl as you set them down. Noodles sink back into the broth. Your brain searches for an explanation that will make sense.
"I usually shower before I eat dinner," you say. "So I'm not hungry right now."
The logic sounds reasonable in your head. Out loud it sounds less convincing. His expression suggests you have just said something in a language he does not speak.
"You're not hungry because you haven't showered," he repeats slowly.
"I always shower before dinner. It's just a thing."
He stands up from where he has been leaning against the arm of the couch. The new information gets processed. Some conclusion forms that you cannot see.
"Okay," he says. "Then go shower."
"I don't have any clean clothes here."
"I have clothes. Go shower."
Standing up and walking to the bathroom seems like the logical next step. Your body refuses to respond to these commands. The couch cushions might as well have grown roots into your spine.
Ten seconds pass before he reaches down and takes your hand. Steady pressure pulls you up until you are standing. Your legs remember how to hold your weight but only barely.
"Come on," he says.
His hand stays wrapped around yours as he walks toward the bathroom. Following requires less energy than resisting. Water turns on as he reaches into the shower. Steam begins to fill the space.
Temperature adjustment happens while you stand in the doorway and watch. The sound of water hitting tile almost drowns out the ringing in your ears that has been there for days.
Turning back to you, he reaches for the hem of his hoodie that you are wearing. You take a step backward and create distance. His hands stop.
"What are you doing?" you ask, suddenly shy.
"Helping you shower."
"I can shower by myself."
"Can you?"
"Yes."
That same careful assessment from earlier returns to his expression. Showering alone probably exceeds your current capabilities. Standing without swaying takes most of your energy. Coordinating the complex series of actions required to wash your hair feels impossible.
"I'm coming in with you," he says.
"What? No. I can do it myself."
"You've been wearing the same clothes for four days. You can't remember the last time you ate. You look like you're about to pass out. I'm not letting you get in the shower alone."
"That's weird."
"I don't care."
A staring contest begins. Steam continues filling the bathroom. Exhaustion has soaked so deep into your bones that arguing feels like climbing a mountain.
"I've never showered with someone before," you say finally.
"There's a first time for everything."
"This is weird."
"You already said that."
"Because it is."
"Are you getting undressed or am I doing it for you?"
Your gaze drops to the hoodie and sweatpants you cannot remember putting on. His hands move to the hem of the hoodie.
The fabric catches on your hair tie and pulls it loose. Greasy strands fall around your shoulders. The hoodie drops to the floor. Sweatpants follow. Underwear joins the pile. Once you’re completely naked, you feel no embarrassment or self-consciousness like you thought you would. His shirt comes off next, followed by his jeans. Looking at your body does not seem to interest him particularly. Nothing sexual lives in this moment.
You step into the stall first. Hot water hits your skin and the sensation shocks your system. Heat seeps into your muscles and reminds them that relaxation used to be possible.
He steps in behind you. The shower stall allows maybe six inches of space between your back and his chest. Water hits both of you. Standing under the spray lets you watch it run down the drain.
"Tilt your head back," he says.
Compliance comes easily. Water hits your hair and soaks through to your scalp. His hands follow and work through the tangled mess with unexpected gentleness. A bottle opens somewhere behind you. Then his fingers return with shampoo that smells like mint.
Slow circular motions scrub your scalp. The pressure feels good without hurting. Your eyes close. Water runs down your face. Days of grease and grime get worked through by his fingers. Rinsing removes the shampoo and the bottle opens again. The conditioner works through the ends of your hair where tangles are worst.
"You smell like cigarettes," you say. Your voice sounds strange in the small space.
"I was smoking earlier."
"You're always smoking."
"Yeah."
The conditioner rinses clean. His hands on your shoulders turn you around until you face him. Water runs between your bodies. Wet hair pushes back from his forehead. A washcloth hangs from a hook and he reaches for it. Body wash pours onto the fabric. He begins washing your arms with the same methodical attention he gave your hair.
"This is really weird," you say.
"You already said that twice."
"I'm saying it again."
Your shoulders receive attention next. Then your back and stomach. The washcloth scrubs away layers of sweat and stale air that have been clinging to your skin. Standing still and letting him work seems like the only option. Your brain has stopped trying to process what is happening. Making sense of anything no longer seems possible so passive observation takes over.
Legs get washed. Then feet. Every part of you receives the same careful attention. When he finishes, the washcloth gets handed to you.
"Your turn," he says.
The washcloth gets handed to you and you take it with hands that barely remember how to grip properly. Body wash pours onto the fabric in an amount that is probably too much. Your hands move to his chest and start scrubbing with all the coordination of someone who has forgotten how arms work.
The washcloth slides across his skin in uneven strokes that miss spots and repeat the same areas. You go over his left shoulder three times while barely touching his right. Your movements lack any kind of rhythm or purpose. This is not helping him get clean and both of you know it.
He stands completely still anyway and lets you work with clumsy hands and unfocused attention. No corrections come from him. He doesn’t guide your wrists to the areas you are missing. Your hand drags the washcloth down his arm and then back up. The water has started to run cool but he does not rush you or take over. He waits.
Eventually your hands slow and then stop moving entirely. The washcloth hangs limply in your grip while you stare at his chest like you have lost track of what you are supposed to be doing.
"Done?" he asks quietly.
The question takes a moment to process before you can answer. "Yeah."
The washcloth drops from your hand and hits the shower floor with a wet slap. He reaches past you and turns the water off in one smooth motion. Sudden silence fills the small space and makes every other sound seem amplified.
"Feel better?" he asks.
"A little," you say.
"Good. Now you can eat." He steps out of the shower first and grabs a towel from the rack. The fabric wraps around his waist with practiced efficiency. Another towel gets pulled down and held open in both hands. You step out on unsteady feet and he wraps the fabric around you immediately. His hands tuck it in above your chest with quick movements. The towel feels rough and clean against your skin while holding more warmth than you expected.
He leaves you standing there wrapped in his towel. Movement sounds from the other room as drawers open and close. He comes back with a t-shirt that will be too big on you and sweatpants with a drawstring waist.
"Get dressed," he says. "Then we're eating."
The clothes get pulled on with movements that feel disconnected from your brain. The t-shirt hangs off your shoulders and reaches mid-thigh. Sweatpants bunch around your ankles even with the drawstring pulled tight. You shuffle back to the couch where the bowl of ramen still sits on the low table. Steam no longer rises from it. The broth has probably gone lukewarm.
Sitting down takes more effort than it should. Your body folds onto the cushions and you reach for the chopsticks. They still feel heavy. Everything feels heavy.
Seongje settles into the spot next to you with his own bowl. Noodles disappear into his mouth at a steady pace. A small amount lifts to your lips and you chew slowly. The taste registers as salt and something vaguely meat-flavored. Swallowing requires conscious effort.
Another bite follows. Then another. Each one takes time to get from bowl to mouth to stomach. Your jaw moves like it has forgotten the mechanics of chewing. The noodles are soft enough that this does not matter much.
He finishes his bowl in the time it takes you to eat maybe a quarter of yours. The empty dish gets set on the table with a quiet click. Settling back against the couch cushions, he reaches into his pocket. A cigarette pack emerges. The familiar sound of the flame catching fills the quiet.
Smoke curls up toward the ceiling as he takes a drag. The smell of tobacco mixes with the lingering scent of artificial beef broth.
Your hand reaches out without thinking about it. The gesture asks for what your mouth does not bother saying.
He looks at your outstretched hand and then at your face. The cigarette stays between his fingers.
"No," he says.
"Why not?" Your hand stays extended in the space between you.
"Because I said no."
"You're literally smoking right next to me." The smoke still hanging in the air gets a vague gesture from you.
"That's different."
Your hand drops back to your lap with more force than necessary. The chopsticks pick up more noodles but your movements have lost what little coordination they had. "How is that different?"
"You breathing in my secondhand smoke and you smoking directly are not the same thing." He takes another drag and this time turns his head to blow it away from you.
"The distinction seems pretty arbitrary."
"It's not arbitrary."
Another bite goes into your mouth while you stare at the remaining noodles in your bowl. "You smoke around me all the time. What difference does it make if I'm the one holding it?"
"The difference is you're already self-destructive enough without adding nicotine to the list." His voice stays matter-of-fact while the cigarette dangles from his fingers. "This is the last thing you need."
"That's hypocritical." The words come out without heat.
"I don't care."
"You're sitting here smoking while telling me I can't smoke." Another bite lifts to your mouth and the chopsticks shake slightly in your grip.
"Yeah." He takes another drag and blows the smoke away from your face. "I am."
The energy required to argue about this does not exist in your body. Your brain tries to form a rebuttal and gives up halfway through. Whatever. The fight is not worth having. Going back to eating your noodles in mechanical silence seems easier.
Silence settles between you like a physical presence. His cigarette burns down slowly and leaves a trail of ash that he taps into the ashtray. Eating at your glacial pace continues. The bowl is maybe half empty now. Progress exists even if it feels minimal.
He reaches over and taps ash into the ashtray on the table. The movement is practiced and automatic. Smoke continues to curl upward while you continue to chew with your eyes half-closed from exhaustion.
"When did it start?" he says after a while.
The question is vague enough that clarification seems necessary. "When did what start?"
"This." He gestures vaguely at you with the hand holding the cigarette. Smoke trails from the lit end. "The not eating and sleeping. All of it."
Your chopsticks pause halfway to your mouth and hover there while you think, trying to pinpoint when things started going wrong feels impossible. There was no clear beginning, just a gradual slide from functional to whatever this current state is.
"I don't know," you say finally. "A week ago maybe. Could be longer."
"What happened?" He stubs out the cigarette in the ashtray and immediately reaches for another one.
"Nothing happened."
"Something always happens." The lighter flicks and catches. New smoke joins the old.
"Not this time. I just got tired."
"Of what?"
"Everything." The word comes out flat and empty as you set the chopsticks down across your bowl. "All of it, the constant effort of being a person."
He does not respond right away. His eyes stay on you with that careful attention he gives to things he is trying to understand. The weight of his gaze feels heavy enough to press you further into the cushions.
"You should have called me," he says finally.
"I didn't know what to say." Your hands fold in your lap while your thumbs press against each other.
"You don't need to say anything. You just needed to call."
"I'm done," you say, not sure if you were referring to the noodles, or to the weight of everything on your shoulders.
"You barely ate half." He looks at the bowl and then back at your face.
"It's more than I've eaten in three days."
"Fine. That's enough for now."
Standing up requires pushing yourself off the couch with both hands. Your legs remember how to support your weight but protest the effort with a slight tremor. The bowl gets picked up as you turn toward the kitchen area.
"I'll wash this and then head out," you say.
"Why would you head out?" The question comes immediately.
"Because I should go home." Your feet are unsteady as you take a step towards the kitchen.
"Why?"
The question stops you mid-step. Going home means going back to your apartment, the unwashed dishes and the pile of laundry. It means going back to the space where the spiral started.
"I just should," you say without turning around.
"That's not a reason." His voice comes from behind you on the couch.
"I can't just stay here." The bowl trembles slightly in your grip.
"Why not?" The leather creaks as he shifts on the couch.
"Because I have things to do." Your knuckles are white where they grip the bowl.
"What things?" His voice stays level but something in it suggests he already knows you are lying. "What do you have to do at four in the morning?"
"I don't want to be a burden," you say. The words come out barely above a whisper.
"You're not." The couch creaks again and footsteps sound behind you.
"I'm literally falling apart in your apartment. That seems like a burden."
"I don't care. You're staying here."
"You can't just decide that,” You argue as you finally turn around to face him.
"I just did." He stands now and looks at you with that immovable expression.
"That's not how this works." Your voice lacks conviction.
"You can barely stand up without swaying. You're not going anywhere."
“I don’t have my stuff,” you say weakly.
“You don’t need stuff. You need sleep.”
“I can sleep at home.”
“No you can’t.” The certainty in his voice allows no room for argument. “You’ll go back to your place and stare at the ceiling for six hours and then come back here looking worse than you do now.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes I do.”
He is probably right. Going home means another day of going through motions without any actual living happening.
Your mouth opens to protest again but nothing comes out. The exhaustion has finally won. Fighting takes energy you stopped having days ago.
“Fine,” you say. “I’ll take the couch.”
“Get in the bed or I’m carrying you there.” The bowl gets taken from your hands before you can respond. Water runs in the kitchen as he rinses it. Dishes clink together.
He comes back and finds you still standing in the same spot. His hand wraps around your wrist.
“Come on,” he says, leading you to the bedroom.
You climb onto his bed without waiting for further instruction. The mattress gives under your weight.Muscles you did not know were tense begin to release. The pillow smells like him.
He moves around the room for a moment. A drawer opens and closes. The lamp on the nightstand gets turned on and casts warm light across the space. Then the overhead light goes off and the room becomes softer.
"Move over," he says.
You shift toward the wall and your body protests the movement. The mattress dips significantly as he climbs in next to you. His weight settles and changes the entire landscape of the bed. The blanket gets pulled up higher over both of you. An arm drapes over your waist with familiar weight. Warmth radiates from his body into yours and seeps through the borrowed t-shirt you are wearing.
“If you kick me I’m going to the couch,” you mumble into the pillow.
“I’m not going to kick you.”
"You say that now." Your words slur slightly with exhaustion.
“Go to sleep.”
“Thank you,” you say quietly. The words barely make it past your lips. “For not letting me leave.”
His arm tightens around your waist slightly. “You’re not going anywhere. Not anymore.”
Sleep pulls at the edges of your consciousness. For the first time in days it feels possible rather than theoretical. Your body starts to let go.
“Don’t disappear again,” he says against your hair. His breath is warm on the back of your neck.
You manage a sound that might be agreement. Your brain has stopped forming coherent words. His warmth and the weight of his arm and the smell of cigarette smoke all blend together into something that feels almost like peace.
The static that has been filling your head for days finally quiets to nothing. Sleep takes you under like water closing over your head, but this time it feels like relief instead of drowning.
❛ Road trip ❜ with The Jacksons pls! Reader is Michael's best friend (he has feelings for her ofc) but there is barely any room in the van so she has to sit in someone's lap. At first Michael being all nervous lets her sit on one of his brother's lap (you can choose) but then he starts getting jealous so he makes her sit on his lap wink wink
THE GIRL IS MINE — MICHAEL JACKSON
featuring: pre otw era!michael jackson, best friend!reader, marlon jackson.
synopsis: reader has to sit on marlon's lap (he won the poll) because there is no space in the van and michael is having none of it.
warnings: the jacksons being menaces.
a/n: i LOVED writing this. to the people who keep asking if i take requests for the other brothers, yes i doooo!
You and Michael had been best friends for as long as either of you could remember. It all started in elementary school, more specifically, one day a kid named Ronald decided to bully Michael. You stepped in without thinking twice, and after the bully finally gave up and walked away, you sat beside Michael and offered him a handful of the strawberries your mom had packed in your lunch.
You spent the rest of recess talking about Peter Pan, your favorite animals, and all the adventures you wished you could go on. By the time the bell rang, you'd already become inseparable.
From that day on, you became inseparable; and as the years passed, your friendship only grew stronger.
You were always there for Michael, and he was always there for you. Through thick and thin, that never changed.
When The Jackson 5 started to become more famous, people often insinuated that Michael would eventually forget about you. They said success would change him and that as he got older, with fans and girls throwing themselves at him, there wouldn't be room in his life for an old childhood friend. But you knew better than to listen to them.
Your friendship with Michael was more than just a friendship—it was a real, deep, and honest connection, the kind of bond many people never manage to find in friendships or relationships. And besides, those people didn’t know Michael the way you did.
All that "you're going to be forgotten" speech stopped when you started traveling with them to shows.
At first, because you were still young, your mom would travel with you or drive you herself. But as you got older, you began traveling with them instead.
Michael was your best friend, but you were close with all of his brothers. You cared about them as much as they cared about you, including Jermaine who could definitely be a pain in the ass sometimes.
What neither of you ever said out loud was that, somewhere between the lines, the friendship had shifted into something deeper. Michael cared for you in a way he couldn’t quite explain, a way he had never cared for anyone else.
He always noticed the small things. He always wanted you close, and when you were with others, like his brothers, it bothered him—without him really understanding why. You felt the same way, but neither of you was brave enough to take that leap of faith.
So you both stayed silent, convincing yourselves it was only friendship, while missing the obvious truth sitting right in front of you.
That is how, once again, you found yourself getting ready for yet another adventure with the Jacksons.
You had been staying at the Hayvenhurst house for a couple of days so the whole packing process wouldn't be such a turmoil. That, and because, as always, Michael needed help packing. Well, he didn't really need help, he just "liked the way you pack things more," his own words.
You made your way out of the house and sat beside Michael, who, like you, was waiting for Jermaine to give the word that it was time to leave.
"Why does he always take so long? He's worse than me, and I'm a girl. I am allowed to be late." You rolled your eyes as you adjusted your tucked-in T-shirt.
"You take long because you want to. He takes long because he needs to." He placed a soft kiss on your cheek.
"I heard that." Jermaine's voice came from inside the house before he finally walked out.
Tito and Jackie finished loading the luggage into the trunk, giving Jermaine a thumbs up. Marlon and Randy, who had done absolutely nothing, gave him a thumbs up too.
"Time to go." You stood up, and Michael followed.
Tito sat in the front with Jermaine. Then Jackie, Marlon, and Randy exchanged a look. Michael frowned, confused about what that was supposed to mean.
"Uh... so..." Randy started. "We won't all fit." Marlon continued. "You are going to have to sit in someone's lap." Jackie finished as he looked at you. Tito and Jermaine tried not to laugh.
"Why?" Michael was the first to ask. "Blame Jackie, he keeps getting bigger." Randy pointed at Jackie. "Guys, it's fine. Really." You said. "So, on whose lap are you sitting?" Jermaine looked back from the driver's seat.
The four brothers looked at Michael.
For some reason, Michael went silent. He wanted to tell you to sit on his lap, but the words wouldn’t come out.
"She can sit on mine, it's no biggie." Marlon broke the silence. "It's only a three-hour drive. We'll be fine." You nodded and waited for everyone to get into the van.
You got in and sat on Marlon’s lap, and he wrapped one arm around your waist. Michael, sitting next to both of you, shot him a glare. Jackie and Randy found the scene extremely amusing.
Thirty minutes in, you started feeling sleepy. Both Marlon and Michael noticed. The problem was that you were sitting on Marlon’s lap—not Michael’s.
"You can lie on me. I don’t bite." Marlon said, looking at you. "Besides, you look like you could use a nap."
Michael, who was reading a book, looked up quickly.
"Thanks." You gave him a soft smile as you started leaning into him.
Michael felt his heart sink. It was now or never, he thought. Nervously closing his book, his gaze found yours.
"No!" He blurted out, making everyone’s heads snap toward him. "I mean, come here. Marlon doesn’t know how to hold your neck so it doesn’t hurt."
Your heart fluttered as warmth rushed to your cheeks.
"I’ll let you rest." You patted Marlon’s chest and carefully moved over to Michael’s lap, making Marlon roll his eyes.
"Hey," Michael finally whispered, a big smile spreading across his face. "Hey." You snuggled into his chest, resting your head on his shoulder while his hand found the back of your neck, supporting it gently.
"I’m glad you switched. Marlon doesn’t know anything about your sleeping habits and needs." He pressed a kiss to your forehead, his free hand resting on your knee.
"Mhm. You’re cute when you’re jealous." You closed your eyes. "I have the right to be. You're my girl." You opened one eye. "But I'm not..." You started before he interrupted. "Yet."
"Let me take you out on a date." He said, playing with your hair. "Let me take a nap." Jackie scoffed. "Y'all aren't even whispering."
You let out a soft chuckle as you snuggled closer into Michael. He hugged you closer and looked down at you.
"The answer is yes." You gave his lips a soft peck, making Michael smile.
Hi! Love your fics. Can you please write a fic with Michael x wife or fiancé Reader? The reader is back stage while Michael is rehearsing and she gets hurt, she asks for Michael and is rudely told “no” by staff. Michael gets angry for not being told. Thanks!
MY GIRL
f!reader (fiancée reader) / off the wall michael
(lowercase INTENDED!) & not proofread !
preview: what happens when you’re touring with michael and his brothers for their destiny tour and things get heavy backstage with lingering disrespect after asking for help?
A/N: hii mi amor <3 thank youu sooo much for the request and the support bb :,) means truly a lot!! i hope you all enjoy this sweet lil’ thing !! MWAHH
michael picks his hair as he finishes last minute touches before having to head back upstage for more tour practice. his hands making sure his hair was perfectly in tact as his eyes suddenly wander from his head to his background through the vanity mirror.
his eyes instantly landing on your calm frame as you lay down on the dressing room sofa, deep in between the velvet cushions while managing to flip a magazine with one hand and drinking a small cup of iced water in the other. his smile growing wider as he stops what he’s doing and turns around in the chair.
“c’mere pretty” he mutters softly as your eyes snap from your magazine towards his pretty dolled up face. you smile softly before dropping your things down and standing up to walk towards his seat.
leg’s instantaneously spreading wider, michael invites you on his lap before feeling your legs wrap next to his frame. his hands now touching your hips gently before giving you a sweet kiss on your temple. with a slight hum you look up at him and smile. “you ready for practice?” he nods now placing a kiss amongst your shoulder.
you let a slight giggle at the ticklish feeling of michael’s lips gently grazing over your smooth skin. “do you still want dinner tonight when we leave?” you try making conversation with only a small ‘yes’ of a response from him as he continues to kiss down towards your neck and collarbone.
before things could get more intense, a loud knock is being heard from the door immediately having michael remove his lips from your skin and groan in the nape of your neck at the interruption.
“mike we gotta start!” you hear tito’s voice boom from the other side as he continues to knock on the door. you remove yourself from michael’s lap as he stands up, fixes himself, and walks towards the door.
once tito’s frame came to view his eyes go from michael’s to yours before giving you a small smile. “hi sweetheart.” he spoke with a wave before apologizing for having to take your lovely fiancé away.
you shake him off as you laugh before letting michael go with a quick kiss on his cheek. “we’ll be done soon. promise” michael rubs your shoulder softly before leaving with a small ‘i love you’ fading away. your heart swelling with warmth as it felt like it was going to beat out of your chest.
you simply found your soon to be husband to be an actual cutie. no matter how bold or brave michael tried to be he always ended up with red cheeks and sudden shyness shadowing over him. which is one of the main reasons you first fell so in love with him back in ‘75.
as you now stand in the empty dressing room, you catch a sudden glimpse of one of michael’s performance outfits laying over a dresser. brows furrow and in pure confusion, you walk towards the dresser before picking up the outfit.
at the sudden lift of the material up in your hands, you feel a few beads fall towards the floor soon hitting your toes over your open wedges. “shit.” you mutter as you quickly kneel down and pick up the beads that had fallen from the material.
you knew this outfit was one of the first few he had to wear for their upcoming shows. and you ALSO knew how much michael loved this outfit. the beaded design was his favorite part right beside the wide bell bottom pants.
with your mind now beginning to fill with worry, you realize the small sewing kit you had always carried around in your purse. a sudden gasp surpassing your glossy lips as you go towards your bag, soon grabbing the blue sewing kit from inside and propping it up and open to start fixing the beading.
as your fingers start moving around with the small needle, picking and poking to make sure the beads stayed on the material, you soon yelp at the digging feeling of the needle in the tip of your finger.
the sudden rip feeling catching you off guard as you throw the outfit to the side and pull the needle as quickly as you could from your fingertip. instantly, red starts dripping from the tip as you wince trying to find something to apply pressure with.
with your finger now dripping blood surprisingly at a quicker pace than normal, you hear a few pairs of heel clicks coming closer towards the room as the door suddenly opens up. your eyes catch up on the two girls now standing almost in-front of you.
realizing it was michael’s makeup artists you smile at them quickly even with blood still dripping now down your palm. “i-im sorry i accident really hurt myself” you justify as you continue to dab napkins you’ve found on michael’s vanity for the bleeding.
the two girls simply stare at you before one of them kisses their teeth and walks deeper inside. “you’re literally ruining the floor. could you please be nasty somewhere else?” at the quick tone and snappy voice you raise your head up not fully understanding if this was now real or your imagination.
“excuse you?” her friend sighs before walking now next to her and grabbing a makeup bag over michael’s vanity. “you heard her sunshine. pack it up and go we have work to do.”
immediately standing up you look at them with a crazy face before raising your brows at their sudden disgusting behavior. “can you guys call my fiancé and tell him that i need him?” at the sudden question they pause before laughing right in your face.
your hands now slightly balling up into fists over your chest as the blood soaked napkin now scrunched in between your palm and your curled fingers. you were trying very hard not to lose your patience as you continue to hear them degrade your name and your character as a person.
one of the girls suddenly looks towards where you were fixing michael’s outfit before gasping and running towards it. her hands grasping over it before looking at her other coworker. “she was gon’ ruin the night 2 outfit!” rolling your eyes you tried telling them off before another gasp bounces off the room.
“you freak!” as more comments roll off their tongue with such hatred. suddenly making lies about ruining michael’s look for the tour night, you try talking to them before breaking almost completely at their last horrid comment.
“bleed on yourself for all we care but do NOT ruin our jobs! just go home and fix that damage yourself eugh!”
as angry tears begin to glaze over your eyes, trying once more to contain your raging anger at their bitterness towards you, you suddenly hear a loud bang from the door making everyone in the room—including yourself jump at the sudden sound.
everyone’s eyes now staring at a slightly sweaty and now angry michael as he watches the scene displaying in-front of him. “michael”
“mr. jackson!” the girls spoke in unison over your own voice as they clutch tighter on his clothes. their body now tense as michael shakes his hair slightly letting a few drops trickle down his temple before walking inside. “the hell is going on in here?” he questions, already knowing the answer by hearing it stepping close to the room.
the girls immediately begin lying, soon telling michael you had cut yourself on purpose and wanted to ruin his clothing for the tour by bleeding over it and cutting it. michael, not believing a single word the girls had said, soon snatches the outfit away from their hands before dropping it back in your own.
their eyes now wide and lips slightly quivering nervously, michael places a hand over each of their shoulders to feel the slight pressure of his palm now colliding tensely amongst their shoulder blade.
with a smile now over his lips you carefully watch his every move. michael being a silent and shy man was a usual thing, but seeing him like this was another. you knew when michael was mad. and you most certainly knew when michael was beyond pissed off.
“the next time i hear you or see you anywhere near my wife i will personally remove you both from anywhere in the industry and your pathetic careers.”
both the girls lips part open as your heart begins to beat rapidly. you were caught off guard at his sudden words before seeing him take a quick breath and simply continue like nothing.
“such disgusting behavior for such disgusting women. and then not wanting to GET me while she’s hurt is absolutely appalling. get the hell out of my room.”
“now.”
immediately dropping his hands away from their shoulders, they both scurry off without another word before seeing michael slam the door shut and place his forehead amongst the door.
soon afterwards he pulls away before walking back towards you and catching your palm into his own, quickly unraveling the dampened napkins and seeing blood still leak out at the deep cut.
now bleeding much more slower than before.
“they’re nasty baby i’m sorry i wasn’t here before.”
“are you okay mama?” he now spoke softly once more as he grabs a fresh napkin and wraps it around your fingertip again. you nod before lifting up your free hand and cupping his cheek gently. “m’fine baby but….”
his brows furrow confused as you look him right in the eyes, feeling your body now heat up at the closeness between you two. “you called me your wife.”
you giggle as michael smiles before huffing out a breathy laugh, now getting back to his usual shy self. “not yet angel baby.”
your voice now fading out as he instantly places his lips softly over your own, now sending tingles to spread through your body and a giggle to reverberate against his lips. soon pulling away gently, he closely watches your face before smiling once again.
“still soon.”
“my beautiful beautiful wife.”
meaning every single word he said, he kisses you again before taking you out where the nurses on set where to attend your bleeding cut.
Content: in which every month of your pregnancy Michael records a new video
Video one, month one.
“Michael! I'm not even showing yet!” The camera panned out, your hand covering the lens, yet it still caught the smile on your face.
“I know, I know… I'm just so happy.” There was a slight shake in his voice, like he was on the verge of tears as he zoomed in, the camera shaking slightly as he let it fall to your stomach. The light from the morning sun sent a ray through the kitchen window that seemed like a sign from the heavens.
The soft sound of breathing filled the room. The camera caught every bit of the pure silence before cutting out.
Video two, month two.
“Baby, how are you feeling?” His voice was soft. The camera caught you laid out on the bed, your eyes softly fluttering closed from the nausea that ran through you.
“Like I just puked up dinner from last night.” Your voice was hoarse as you spoke, using your arm to cover your eyes in an attempt to stop the dizziness.
“You still look gorgeous, even if I just witnessed that.” He laughed behind the camera, turning it around so that he could be seen. The only thing that could be heard was a groan before you spoke again.
“Go away,” you mumbled, your face not shown, but the camera still picked it up as he waved, stopping the video.
Video three, month three.
The video opened with the two of you sitting on the couch, parenthood books and flyers scattered all around. The TV played softly in the background as the camera zoomed in on your small bump.
“Mikey, they say the baby is the size of a plum or a lime right now!” You held the pamphlet in your hand, a smile plastered on your face.
“Is that so?” He leaned closer, angling the camera so that the pamphlet could be shown, zooming in on the small letters.
Video four, month four.
“Share your pregnancy cravings with us.” The camera zoomed out, revealing you sitting at the table, your head in your hands as you laughed, looking up.
“Well, usually at night I eat a lot of ice, which is pretty normal,” you started, your face showing that gorgeous pregnancy glow. “But today I'm craving pickles and peanut butter! Oh, and lots of ice cream that Michael buys me nearly every day because I eat it so much.” You smiled, watching as Michael’s face turned into disgust behind the camera.
“Oh, come on, it's good, you should try it.”
“I love you, but no thank you.”
Video five, month five.
You held an envelope, the flap sealed shut in order to contain the surprise inside. “Are you ready?” Your voice shook with excitement as you slid your finger against the seal, the sound of the paper ripping filling the room.
The camera was shaky; Michael was unable to keep his hands still. “I'm nervous,” he laughed, the softness of his voice fitting the scene in front of you.
“Oh my god, Michael,” the camera caught your expression as your eyes scanned the page. It was almost like you could hear the sound of his heartbeat through the camera.
“It's a girl!” You shouted, the camera becoming blurry with all the movement Michael was making as he hugged you, the two of your laughs filling the air even if the camera couldn't catch it all.
Video six, month six.
This video was shorter than the others. The only thing that could be seen was the movement from your stomach, a small kick gently stretching the skin, but not painfully.
“Look at our angel,” Michael whispered, as if he spoke too loudly she'd stop making herself known before he pressed his lips to your belly, tracing his free hand along your stomach.
Video seven, month seven.
At this point your feet were sore and swollen, and the only thing you could do was waddle around the house. The camera caught you in action, moving slowly to the living room as you sat down. Your eyes focused on the TV.
“Michael, I see you,” you crossed your arms above your expanded belly, gently placing them on top. Your eyes made contact with the lens of the camera.
“How'd you see me?”
“I always do,” you rolled your eyes playfully.
Video eight, month eight.
“How do you feel, baby?” He whispered as if he was afraid to wake up the baby in your stomach, as he zoomed out, catching the faint smile on your face.
“Like I want this baby out,” you giggled, rubbing another lazy circle around the stretched skin.
“I'm tired,” you yawned, covering your mouth with your hand.
“Let's get you to bed.”
Video nine, month nine.
The video already started off hectically. Well, mostly on Michael's part as he tried his best not to panic, but his heart was damn near falling out of his chest; his heavy breathing could be heard faintly through the mic.
“Mike, grab the hospital bag!” You yelled from the front door, the camera catching a faint glance of you and your round belly as you rubbed it gently.
It was honestly too blurry to see what was going on, but considering the pure stress that Michael was causing himself, you couldn't have expected anything better.
The camera caught him grabbing the bag before it cut short. The next clip showed you in the hospital taking deep breaths in order to ease some of the pain before cutting again.
warnings: caretaker!michael, body worship, mention of insecurity regarding weight gain and acne, smutty (period sex mentioned duh), emotional intimacy
♡ these can be any era, & let me know if you’d like me to expand on any!!!!
requests: open :,)
if you ever bled through in your sleep, it is not a problem to michael. he kisses you awake n runs a warm bath for you. he takes care of the laundry, takes out your favorite cozy clothes, and washes your precious body. while you may be a little embarrassed, he reassures you that he loves to take care of you, and he truly does.
whether it’s getting acne or gaining weight on your period, some days you just won’t leave bed. michael, however, refuses to let this happen. he reassures you of your beauty, kissing any spot you deem an imperfection. michael adores every bit of you. also, more often than not- you’re just sad because you haven’t taken care of yourself properly. he bathes you and styles your hair, all of a sudden you’re good as new. he loves to see you light up again.
whenever michael comes home, if you’re awake, he insists on taking a warm bath with you. you guys do shower together when possible, but there’s something so intimate about being able to wash your tender body while you lay on him. he’ll press gentle kisses along your neck and shoulders while you two exchange stories about your day.
unsurprisingly, michael loves loves period sex. missionary, oral, fingering- michael loves seeing you so vulnerably. it soothes him knowing that you’re comfortable with him. also, he read in a book somewhere that period sex reduces cramps- so he had to try it.
he is very much a caretaker, the moment he learns you’re on your period he’s got a movie on with the coziest blankets and your favorite comfort food. he caresses your aching stomach, and kisses you gently, his hands or lips never leaving your body.
michael checks in on you whenever he can, routinely around lunch and dinner- especially when he’s out at work all day. he makes sure you’ve eaten, and that you’re well taken care of by the home staff.
> on that note, if he’s out all day, he sends the home attendants to order or make all of your comfort foods. there’s usually a note left from michael with your meal. having him around though he isn’t physically there is comforting and soothes your mind.
before he heads to the studio, he places gentle kisses on your tummy. he whispers sweet i love yous, asking your tired body if you need anything. this is sometimes the only time you two share with each other, and so you may gently intertwine your fingers into his head- nudging him between your legs. and, like the good boyfriend he is, he complies.
on your period, sometimes press and paparazzi can be a bit too overwhelming. it’s overstimulating and headache inducing. during times like this, michael insists you stay home rather than attending an event with him- to which he comes home to cuddle with your sleepy head.
> on the contrary, if you do attend with him, he never lets you leave his sight. he’ll check in ever hour that you’re alright n that you don’t need to leave yet.
if you’re feeling extra moody on your period, michael is very well at keeping his composure. you may be more prone to attitude, but your feelings are just enhanced. he compensates by meeting your (sometimes) ridiculous requests, cuddling with you as often as possible, and spending lots of time with you. a kiss is also the perfect method at soothing an attitude sometimes.
michael has kind of psychologically linked to your period- he always knows when it’s coming. it’s in the little things- like when you take an extra cookie than normal, or maybe you shed a tear because you love him so much it’s overwhelming. michael never makes fun of you either, he just meets your level of affection. he kisses you more tenderly, makes sure your clothes are freshly pressed, and he’ll even shed a tear with you.
request: "i just saw a funny tiktok about a couple and the girl had just given birth and had clogged milk ducts and her husband helped her out and that was her "why" 😭 and i was likee waiitt husband!michael sucking on ur nips after giving birth to help u 👀👀"
eaturing: dad!michael jackson x mom!reader
sypnosis: when you get a clogged milk duct from breastfeeding your newborn son, and no other remedies are working, michael asks (lowkey begs) to help you out
warnings: fem!reader, breastfeeding mentions, tit sucking (not smutty though), fluff, not proofread because i'm tired
wc: 1,070
an: i did research on clogged milk ducts for this, google probably thinks i am a breastfeeding mother now
masterlist ✶ request page
You were sitting on your and Michael’s bed, grimacing in pain whilst holding a warmed damp rag to your breast. In the next room in his crib, sleeping soundly, completely unaware of your discomfort was your newborn son, Prince. It has been a little bit over a month now since you and your husband welcomed your first baby into the world. Everything had been wonderful so far, sure there were sleepless nights and times where Prince just cried for hours it felt like, but it was worth it. Worth all the exhaustion, tears, and meltdowns, all of it was worth it. Getting to watch Michael be a father has been one of the most beautiful things you have witnessed. Being a dad was something he has wanted for so, so long, and now to be able to see that dream of his come true, it made your heart so full that you felt like it could actually burst. You adored your baby so much, there have been so many nights where you and Michael have just watched him sleep, like if you blinked he would disappear, almost like your minds couldn’t comprehend having something so perfect.
So yeah, everything has been amazing.
Until now today that was, because you had woken up with a clogged milk duct this morning, for the first time.
And you had been expecting to get one eventually. Nurses and lactation consultants at the hospital had told you that it was something that could happen, and they made sure to explain all you can do to get in unclogged.
What you weren’t expecting was for it to hurt so damn bad. I mean seriously, it felt like somebody had beaten up your boob while you were sleeping. It was so painful and tender feeling.
What you also hadn’t expected was for none of the remedies to work. No seriously, you had done everything the nurses told you to do.
All of it.
The whole list, top to bottom, bottom to top.
None of it had worked.
You had tried letting Prince nurse on that breast, to see if he could suck it out just by nursing. Nope, that didn’t work.
You had taken a warm shower, then massaged it to try to get things moving back on track. Yeah, that didn’t work either.
You had used an icepack in an attempt to reduce the swelling. That didn’t really help either.
You even pulled out the manual breast pump to try and get it out yourself. That one didn’t work. Shocker, right?
Then you repeated all of those things.
Multiple times.
To no avail obviously, because you were still sitting here in pain.
When Michael walked into the bedroom and saw the grimace on your face, his own face immediately dropped. He came over to sit next to you, the bed dipping under his weight.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” He asks softly, concern etched onto his features as he looks over you.
You look at him with a small frown, dropping the warm rag onto the side table in defeat, “I have a clogged milk duct.”
His face softens, “Clogged milk duct, huh?”
You nod, “I’ve tried everything, Michael, literally everything.” You rub your hands over your face. “I’ve tried letting Prince nurse to get it out, I tried pumping it myself, warm compress, massaging. All of it. Nothing has worked.”
“Well, you haven’t tried everything.” Your husband suggests, rubbing his hand up and down your arm soothingly.
You look at him, perking up a bit, “What haven’t I tried?” You question.
Michael looks down for a moment, before looking back up at you. “I could try to suck it out.”
You blink in surprise at his offer, “I don’t know, angelface. I mean it would be gross, a clump might come out and-”
“It’s not gross, that’s how our son eats. It’s amazing that your body can do that.” He cuts you off.
You shake your head, “I’m not saying breastfeeding is gross, I’m saying the clump that may come out is gross.”
“It’s not gross to me.” Michael shakes his head, “C’mon, mama. Let me help you, you’re in pain.”
You bite your lip, hesitating, but you end up nodding. “Okay.” You whisper.
Michael smiles softly once you agree, gently pushing you back onto the bed. “Lay down for me, baby.” He softly instructs.
You let him push you back until you were laying down on the plush mattress. Michael hovers over you, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips. “Gonna make it feel better, ‘kay baby?”
You nod as he scoots down until his face is level with your breast. Then he gently takes your nipple into his mouth, beginning to suckle at it. One hand is massaging your tit, his other hand is supporting his weight on top of you. It is almost immediate relief, you can slowly feel the pressure in your tit loosen up as Michael continues massaging and sucking it.
Then you feel it come out, all pain in your breast resolving right after. You let out a breath you didn’t even know you were holding in. You feel Michael swallow before he unlatches from you with a wet pop. “Did I get it?” He asks, sitting up.
You nod, “Yeah, it feels so much better.” You let him pull you back up to sit. You pull your shirt back down.
He brings you into a kiss, “Good, I told you I’d make it feel better.”
“Was there a clump?” You ask.
Michael shakes his head, “I don’t think so, if there was I swallowed it.”
“Mike!” You squeak shyly.
“C’mon sweetheart, can’t let any of it go to waste.” He smiles at you softly.
The baby monitor goes off then, small cries coming through it. Both your heads turn to look at it, then you turn back to look at each other. Michael gets up first, offering his hand to help you up, you take it, standing up with him. He brings you closer to him, hands resting on your hips. He kisses you, resting his forehead against yours.
“I think he may want your boob now.” Your husband teases with a grin.
You scoff, smiling despite yourself, “Shut up.” You teasingly push Michael’s chest, he laughs, that boyish laugh that you love.
Michael leads you towards the bedroom door, “C’mon, mama. Let’s go see what our little Prince needs.”
summary: you and michael haven’t seen each other in weeks. as he waits for you to get home, his curiosity (aka: nosiness) gets the better of him and he discovers the one thing you hoped he would never find. (and he’s never gonna let you live it down)
pairing: pre-thriller!era Michael Jackson x Reader
w/c: 7.5k
notes: inspired by this fic by @brownsugarletters. she is amazing and kindly gave me permission to use her story as inspiration 🩷
fluff ahead with a touch of comedic ridiculousness!!! michael is a nosy lil shit and menace in this fic… but we love him for it.
reader is a nurse, but it's not a huge plot point. she’s briefly described as shorter than michael but otherwise physical description is kept vague.
there may be some timeline inconsistencies and a touch of cringiness, but i hope you enjoy 🩷
disclaimer: i give absolutely no one permission use my writing to train AI ‼️ (also…… heavy use of em dashes ahead—shield ur eyes if ur illiterate)
Michael is halfway through zipping his jacket up when the phone rings.
The room is washed in that late-afternoon haze that makes everything feel a little softer, a little quieter—settling over Hayvenhurst like a sigh.
His overnight bag sits neatly by the door, having been packed and ready to go for hours now. He’s been ready to leave all day, practically buzzing at the thought of finally seeing you, of getting to spend the whole weekend together, counting down to the occasion like a holiday.
It had been far too long since you’d shared more than a rushed phone call or sleepy goodnight. With him confined to the studio working on Thriller, and you drowning in back-to-back hospital shifts, you had been living on opposite schedules for weeks. This weekend was the first time they had aligned in what felt like forever.
He crosses the room to where the phone sits on his nightstand, and picks up. “Hello?”
“Oh, thank goodness you haven’t left yet!” Your voice bursts through the speaker in a breathless rush.
“Hey, pretty girl,” He says, plopping down on the edge of the bed, smiling at the sound of your voice. “Y’alright?”
“I’m fine,” you respond. In the background he can hear the typical hospital noise—the clatter of something in the distance, overhead pages, phones ringing urgently—a chaotic soundtrack he’s grown used to hearing whenever you call him from work. “I’m just… held up. Again.”
He can picture you clearly: scrubs wrinkled, hair messily pulled back, your foot tapping as you anxiously fiddle with the phone cord.
“Let me guess… Your coworker?”
“Yes,” you groan. “The same one. Late, again! I swear she lives in a different time zone.”
Michael chuckles under his breath, trying to ignore the slight pang of disappointment in his chest at the thought of your long-awaited plans being delayed. He didn’t want to make you feel even worse. “I was about to head downstairs for Bill.”
”I know, I know, and I’m sorry, baby.” You say quickly. “But listen—I still want you to come over. Just head over to my place. Use your key.”
The key.
Even after months of having it, the reminder of it still makes something flutter in his chest. His palm lands softly on his front pocket, where the small silver key sits on its own ring.
You had tried to be nonchalant as you handed it to him, but he hadn’t missed the way you blushed and stumbled over your words when offering it—still nervous and giddy around one another despite nearly two years together.
”You sure?” He asks, now having taken the key out of his pocket, fiddling with the cold metal between his fingers.
“Positive.” You assure him. “I’ll only be an hour… or two. Tops.”
Your voice lowers. “And before you say anything—I bought groceries this time.”
He blinks, chuckling at your declaration. “You did?”
“Yes, Michael. Real groceries. My refrigerator now contains more than stale bread and expired milk.”
“I wasn’t gonna say anything!” He laughs again, warm and bright.
“You absolutely were!” You counter. “But you can’t, because I stocked up on your favorites.”
That gets him.
He feels it—the soft, quiet bloom of warmth in the center of his chest at the feeling of being considered. You’re tired, juggling a dozen things at once, and still, you thought of him.
”Alright,” he says, cradling the phone between his ear and shoulder as he stands up to zip his jacket the rest of the way. “I’ll head over now.”
”Good.” You say, a smile in your voice. “Make yourself at home, okay?”
He bites his lip shyly; smiling at nothing, at everything. “I always do.”
There’s a small pause—the kind that only happens when neither of you wants to be the first to hang up.
“I love you,” you say softly.
His smile deepens, that feeling in his chest growing even warmer. “I love you too, baby. See you soon.”
You both linger for a beat before the line finally goes quiet.
By the time Michael arrives at your apartment, the sun has dipped low enough to paint the sky in soft pinks and golds. He thanks Bill, throws his bag over his shoulder, and exits the vehicle with a quiet, eager energy he hasn’t felt in weeks.
It’s been too long—too many late nights for him in the studio, too many early mornings for you at the hospital, too many missed calls and ‘sorry baby, I just got home,’ messages, and he misses you.
He misses this—the simple act of spending the weekend with his girlfriend.
He reaches your door, pulling out his key and slipping it into the lock.
He steps inside and closes it behind him with a soft click, shrugging off his jacket and draping it neatly over the back of a chair. He toes off his loafers with a relieved sigh, nudging them aside neatly with a soft scrape against the floor.
He exhales, shoulders finally relaxing as he takes in the space.
He loves your apartment, he always has; each and every corner a reminder and reflection of you.
Photos line the walls—some crooked, some perfectly straight—more stuck to the fridge with mismatched magnets. Knickknacks and trinkets cover every shelf and surface; mismatched decor, tiny animal figurines from your childhood, little gifts he’s given you over the years.
Your books and record collection are neatly arranged, meanwhile a heap of mail is stacked in a slightly chaotic pile on the counter. A few dishes from breakfast sit in the sink. Your diplomas hang proudly on the wall outside of your bedroom. Below, a small mountain of laundry waits patiently on the floor.
It’s lived-in. It’s warm. Clean, despite the clutter. It smells like you—familiar and comforting.
He smiles to himself, wandering further into the kitchen. When he opens the fridge, he actually laughs out loud. You really did buy groceries.
An unopened gallon of orange juice sits front and center: a blue post-it with your handwriting pasted to the front of the jug: “for angel face <3”
He blushes, shaking his head at your shameless flirting, and is about to close the door when something on the fridge catches his eye—a photo tucked under a magnet shaped like a strawberry.
A photo of him.
It was taken the night of the Off The Wall release party in 1979. He’s smiling wide, laughing at something or someone outside of the frame. He has a hand in the pocket of his blue jacket and he balances on roller skates.
He remembers the night vividly—but not because of the party.
Because of you.
Michael’s smile softens as the memory pulls him in—
The rink was buzzing that night—music loud, neon lights spinning, people laughing as they wobbled around on skates.
You were working part-time at the roller rink—juggling shifts between nursing school classes and study groups. It wasn’t glamorous, but it paid the bills. You were behind the rental counter that evening, exhausted and burnt out, but still smiling at everyone who came your way.
Then Michael walked in with his friends and family, and the whole atmosphere of the room shifted.
Of course, you had recognized him—all of them, actually—instantly. Aside from being a fan, you knew the group was coming, your manager having told the whole crew in advance about the party being held in honor of Michael Jackson releasing his new solo album, Off The Wall. You were all under strict instructions not to make a scene—or swoon—when they arrived.
The same could not be said for Michael himself, though.
He had walked into the room excited and proud, ready to finally celebrate the album he had worked so hard on with some of his favorite people, but the moment he saw you, he stopped in his tracks. Completely.
You were laughing at something a coworker said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear when he felt it—a sudden, ridiculous flutter in his chest.
“Mike,” Jackie nudged him. “You good?”
He didn’t answer. He was too busy staring.
“Earth to Michael,” Tito added, waving a hand in front of his face.
Nothing. He was hopelessly, helplessly smitten at the sight of you in your cute little uniform, totally oblivious to his swooning just ten feet away.
When he finally approached the counter to collect his skates (or was he shoved?), you looked up at him with that bright, open smile—the one he would eventually come to love more than anything—and he was speechless. Utterly speechless. As in, literally unable to form words.
“What size?” You had asked, pen poised over the rental sheet.
He didn’t respond. He simply stared at you—openly, hopelessly—essentially forgetting the whole reason he was there the second he laid eyes on you.
”Um… what size skates do you need?” You repeated, blushing.
He blinked, snapping out of it. “Oh—sorry! Uh, size… nine? Yeah, nine. Please.”
You handed him the skates, trying not to be too obvious as you stared into his pretty brown eyes.
“Happy birthday,” you had said, shy but sincere as you recalled the date.
He smiled, but shook his head. “Thank you, but… we’re actually here to celebrate the release of my new album. Would you like a copy?”
He gestured to the box his team had brought with them—signed copies of the album to give to the staff as a ‘thank you’ for hosting the party.
“Oh! I would but I… kinda already have one.”
He blinked. “You do?”
You nodded, a blush rising to your cheeks. “I stood in line for hours at the record store this morning. I’m…kind of a big fan.”
His heart did a full somersault at that, his smile turning boyish and shy. “Well, then… you should have a signed one too.”
Before you could protest out of sheer politeness, he reached into the box and handed one to you, trying not to become flustered as your hands accidentally brushed.
He giggled nervously as you thanked him, quickly disappearing into the crowd in hopes of not embarrassing himself further.
He tried to act normal the remainder of the night, he really did, but he failed. Miserably.
Every few minutes, he’d drift dangerously close to the wall because he was craning his neck to catch another glimpse of you. At one point, he’d nearly collided with a group of kids doing tricks, almost wiping out himself.
His brothers noticed—because of course they did— and didn’t hesitate to tease him mercilessly.
”I’m not!” Michael protested, while actively staring.
”Uh-huh,” Tito adds. “Our little Mikey’s in love.”
“Shut up Tito!” He hisses under his breath, cheeks becoming hotter by the minute.
”Just go talk to her!” Jackie urged.
“I did talk to her,” Michael shoots back, his cheeks turning more and more red the further they taunt him.
”Yeah,” Marlon said. “And you stared at her like a lovesick fool. Go ask for her number, you pathetic schmuck.”
By the end of the night, after watching him sneak glances and make a fool of himself for hours, the entire group had had enough. Marlon himself eventually grabbed Michael by the shoulders, and physically shoved him toward the rental counter.
”Go. Now. Before I do it for you.”
”Marlon!” Michael hisses, mortified, heart hammering in his chest as he stumbled toward you. If he were being truthful, the only thing worse than him making a move and being rejected was the thought of Marlon making a move and getting your number instead.
He set the pair of skates on the counter—harsher than intended—and immediately began rambling. “Uh—hi. I mean—hello. Again. I just, uh, wanted to return these. The skates. Obviously. And also I—well—I was wondering if maybe, if it’s not too forward or anything—if I could, um…have your number? Your… phone number?”
You froze, jaw falling open in shock as he babbled, totally unconvinced that you weren’t simply daydreaming.
Taking your silence as rejection, Michael immediately began to regret all of his life decisions and had opened his mouth to backtrack when you began to scramble wildly for anything to write on—a receipt, a napkin, a scrap of paper, anything.
You finally settle on a crumpled up candy wrapper and scribble your number down with shaky hands, and hand it to him, your fingers brushing once again, sparks igniting at the brief contact.
You both pretend not to hear his brothers hooting and cheering in the background.
-
Michael closes the refrigerator door gently, continuing to smile fondly at the photo. The memory continues to unfold—not just that night, but everything that followed.
The truth was, you never expected him to actually call.
You were flattered of course, dizzy with disbelief. You had practically floated home that night, clutching the signed album to your chest as if it were made of gold.
But you knew who he was: famous, busy, traveling the world and performing for millions of people. And you were just… well, you: an ordinary girl working part-time at a roller rink trying to survive college.
But he did call. The very next day, actually.
You were in the middle of studying for an exam when the phone rang. Then you heard his voice—soft and shy—and you nearly dropped the receiver.
“It’s Michael. Remember? From the roller rink…?” He had said. You had to hold back a giggle at his introduction—acting as if he were just some random guy who had asked for your number, and not Michael Jackson himself.
You didn’t get any more studying done that night, the call lasting hours.
He called the next day too. And the day after that. And the day after that.
Even when he was on the road, even when you were drowning in exams and clinical rotations, you talked. Somehow, no matter how chaotic life became, the two of you always made time for each other—sometimes five minutes, sometimes hours, and sometimes just enough to say “I miss you.”
You had clicked instantly.
Not simply as a crush, but as friends—real friends. The kind who could talk about everything and nothing without ever running out of things to say.
The kind who laughed until your stomachs hurt, the kind who felt strangely familiar from the very beginning—saying things to one another that you had never said out loud to another soul.
It wasn’t long before he asked you on a date, and it took even less time for him to ask you to be his girlfriend.
His first girlfriend. His first everything. And he wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.
You had fit into his world with an ease that surprised everyone around you. His sisters adored you. His mother welcomed you with open arms, always insisting you stay for dinner or come by whenever you had time. Even Joseph tolerated your presence… well, somewhat—which was about as high of a compliment as you could get from that man, so Michael took it as a win.
His brothers teased the both of you relentlessly, flirting with you shamelessly simply to get under Michael’s skin. You never missed a beat, though, effortlessly putting them in their place with a quick comeback or humbling retort—and they loved you for it.
Michael loved you even more for it.
He loved the way you held your own with his family, the way you made him laugh, the way you treated him like a person rather than a superstar. He loved the way you made everything feel lighter on even the heaviest days.
It wasn’t until your third date—a quiet dinner with the two of you sitting close enough that your knees brushed beneath the table—that you finally admitted to him that the night at the roller rink hadn’t actually been the first time you met.
Months earlier, you and a friend had won a radio contest—front row tickets to The Jacksons’ Destiny Tour that included a meet and greet with the group.
When you told him, he was absolutely devastated. ‘You were there? And I didn’t remember you?’ His voice had gone soft, quivering slightly as if he had failed you somehow.
You reached across the table, grasping his hand. ‘Michael, don’t be silly. You were exhausted. And it was so quick, you probably met hundreds of fans that day.’
Still, he was crushed. In his mind, he was mourning the extra months he could have had with you. You, on the other hand, seemed… relieved? “Honestly…I’m kind of glad you don’t remember.”
“Why?” He blinked.
“I mean…” You shrugged, cheeks growing hot as you tried to deflect. “I was so excited to meet you all. I probably embarrassed myself.”
He was sure that wasn’t true—you were always perfect in his eyes. You insisted though, so he let it go and he accepted your reassurance, despite his disappointment.
Michael finally shakes himself from the memory, feeling hopelessly lovesick as he tears himself away from the photo. You couldn’t get home soon enough.
A half hour slips by before Michael grows restless. He tries to be patient—really, he does.
The first ten minutes pass easily enough.
He puts on one of your records, something he knows you like, letting the music fill the quiet of your apartment. He sits on the couch for a while, stretching out and tapping his fingers against his knees, humming along to the soft tunes.
Another ten minutes pass. He checks the clock. Then checks it again two minutes later.
He even considers taking a nap, leaning back against the cushions and closing his eyes for a moment. But the stillness of the apartment, the soft hum of the record spinning and the faint scent of your perfume lingering in the air all make him restless in a way he can’t quite shake.
Then, his curiosity wins out. It always does.
He tells himself he’s not snooping. He’s just… looking around. Appreciating the space. He really tries to believe it, but after a few minutes of wandering around the living room with his hands in his pockets, he sighs and admits it to himself:
Alright. He’s snooping.
It’s a terrible habit—one he’s had since he was a little boy. He’s always been endearingly curious, poking around drawers and closets he had no business opening. His mother used to scold him for it constantly, telling him it was bad manners and just plain rude.
He should know better by now, he really should—but he can’t help it. He loves your space—loves the little pieces of you tucked into every corner, and he never gets tired of learning things about you that you never think to mention. It makes him feel closer to you, even when you're not there.
And, frankly, you should have known better than to leave him unattended and bored.
He starts with the bookshelf, running a finger along the spines of your novels and old nursing school textbooks. At the end, a few cookbooks.
He snorts softly. You own cookbooks.
You, who barely has time to buy groceries, let alone cook. He shakes his head in amusement, imagining you optimistically buying them and then promptly forgetting they exist. He pulls one out and quickly leafs through it—finding not a single page dog-eared, nor one stain or smudge. He snickers under his breath before sliding it back into place.
And that’s when he spots it—a thick, slightly worn high school yearbook wedged in at the end.
He pulls it out carefully, glancing nervously toward the door like you’re about to walk in at that exact moment, then settles onto the couch with it resting on his lap. He examines the pages slowly—scanning the class photos and candid shots of students laughing in hallways. It takes him less than a minute to find you.
He spots your photo and immediately breaks into a grin that he couldn’t hide even if he tried. You look younger, of course—softer around the edges and hair styled differently, but still undeniably you.
He giggles under his breath, tracing the edge of the photo with his thumb. He reads the messages your classmates wrote to you in the margins—grinning at the inside jokes he doesn’t understand and the sweet notes from friends he’s never met.
He wonders, not for the first time, how differently things would have turned out if the two of you had gone to school together—if he’d seen you in the hallways, or sat behind you in class, or watched you laugh with your friends at lunch.
Would you have gone to prom together? Went to football games hand-in-hand? The thought makes him smile, then laugh softly at himself.
Who was he kidding? He was nearly too shy to talk to you when he met you at age twenty-one. If he had met you as a teenager, he probably would have tripped over his own feet trying to say hello.
He allows himself another moment of reminiscing before putting the yearbook away where he found it.
He continues exploring. On the bottom shelf of your TV stand, he finds an old shoebox with a lid that doesn’t quite close all the way. He hesitates for barely a second before picking it up and lifting the lid.
Inside is a jumble of old memories—some new, some old: friendship bracelets, faded movie tickets, a few Polaroids, some photo negatives, a folded note or two. He smiles as he sifts through them, careful not to bend or misplace anything. It feels like flipping through a scrapbook of your life before he knew you.
Then, he finds something else tucked near the bottom of the box—a bundle of photos with a rubber band holding them together. He pulls them out gently.
On top is a ticket stub—The Jacksons’ Destiny World Tour. 1979.
Jackpot. He thinks to himself, immediately sliding the rubber band off and beginning to look through the photos—grainy, slightly overexposed shots of the stage. The crowd. Him and his brothers mid-dance.
Then he finds one that makes his heart skip a beat: a photo of him—he’s mid-spin, completely unaware that somewhere in the crowd, a girl he hadn’t met yet was watching him with a camera in her hands. The girl he would fall in love with.
The girl he would marry someday—he’s sure of it.
He continues flipping through the stack of photos, settling deeper into the couch. He recognizes some of the photos, you had shown them to him before, back when you first told him about the concert you attended.
He had to coax you into letting him see them at all—he recalls how shy you were, insisting they were so embarrassing. Michael disagreed.
He flips to a photo of you and your friend outside of the venue, both of you pointing excitedly at the billboard advertising the tour. You’re both grinning so wide it looks painful.
You both wear white t-shirts: “The Jacksons” and “Destiny Tour 1979” spelled out in bright lettering across the front, the design clearly homemade. He had tried to tease you about the DIY project when you originally showed him the photos, but he’d barely gotten a sentence out before you smacked his arm playfully and told him to hush.
“We were broke college students! We had to make our own merch!”
He remembers laughing—he had never seen someone look so adorably proud in a t-shirt they had designed themselves with a pack of fabric markers.
He moves onto the next photo, another shot of the two of you outside the venue, this time with your arms thrown around each other mid-laugh, the crowd buzzing behind you. He can feel the energy radiating from the photo—the anticipation, the excitement, the electricity.
Then, he reaches the first photo from the meet-and-greet.
He’s seen his photo before too, but for some reason, it hits him differently this time. Maybe it’s because he’s sitting in your apartment, surrounded by your things, thinking about your history all afternoon.
There he is—right in the middle, where he was always positioned.
You’re sandwiched between him and Marlon, and your friend stands on the opposite side between him and Randy.
Him and his brothers look exhausted—sweaty, flushed, hair sticking to their foreheads—but they’re smiling, bright and genuine, still riding the adrenaline high from the performance. Always excited and grateful to meet fans.
Michael can’t stop looking at you in the photo; so young, so excited and unbelievably cute.
It still drives him crazy that he can’t remember you. He knows he shouldn’t feel bad— he’s told himself that a million times. It was after a show, he was exhausted. You were one face in a sea of faces.
But still.
He wishes he remembered you, that he had noticed you that day, that he had looked up and seen the girl who would someday become the most important person in his life.
He flips through the rest of the photos with a quiet fondness, taking his time with each one as the stack gets smaller and smaller.
Then he reaches the last photo and freezes, nearly dropping the whole pile in surprise.
He’s never seen this one, he’s sure of it. He would have remembered.
It's another shot taken in front of the venue, but this one was taken from behind—you and your friend standing with your backs to the camera, hips popped out dramatically, each of you pointing your thumbs toward writing on the backs of your DIY t-shirts, the lettering bold and bright.
Written on the back of your friend’s shirt:
‘Randy’s #1 Girl’
On yours?
‘Marlon’s #1 Girl’
Michael’s jaw drops.
Then, he bursts out laughing. It's loud, sudden and completely unrestrained—the sound surprising even himself. He doubles forward, hand flying over his mouth, shoulders shaking. His cheeks flush, partly from amusement, and partly from the sheer irony of it all.
“Oh… oh lord…” He wheezes, wiping at his eyes.
He should be jealous, he thinks.
And a year or two ago, he probably would have spiraled—making up all sorts of ridiculous scenarios in his head, convincing himself you would have preferred someone else, letting his insecurities gnaw at him until he was sick.
Maybe he is a little jealous, just a tiny bit.
But more than that? He’s delighted. Absolutely thrilled.
Because this—this—is leverage. Real leverage. The kind he never gets with you.
You almost always have the upper hand when it comes to teasing.
You’re quick, clever, merciless in the most affectionate way. You know exactly how to fluster him, exactly how to make him blush, exactly how to get him sputtering and defensive.
He tosses the rest of the stack to the side and holds the photo up, grinning like he just discovered buried treasure.
“Girl… you are never living this down.” He murmurs to himself.
Admittedly, if it were anyone else, perhaps he would have been jealous, but it's not anyone else. It’s Marlon.
You and Marlon bicker like you were siblings yourselves—loud, dramatic, ridiculous, and completely harmless. Michael has never once felt threatened by your relationship with any of his brothers. Even if he does get irritated at times, he knows their natural flirtiness is just part of who they are, and you’ve always handled it with humor and a scathing comeback.
Besides, it was Marlon himself who gave him the final shove toward you at the roller rink. A fact that his older brother likes to bring up constantly, essentially crediting your entire relationship to his self-proclaimed matchmaking genius.
Michael leans back into the couch, snickering to himself.
He cannot wait for you to walk through that door.
-
You finally pull into your driveway, turning off the engine and letting your head fall back against the seat for a moment, closing your eyes and letting out the kind of long, heavy sigh that only comes after a shift that lasted far too long.
What was supposed to be a normal twelve-hour shift had stretched into fifteen—cutting into your perfect evening with Michael—all because your stupid coworker was late. Again.
You’d spent the last few hours trying not to fall asleep on your feet, counting down the minutes until you could go home and fall into his arms.
You’re exhausted in that bone-deep way that only healthcare workers understand. All you want to do is to peel everything off and stand under a hot shower until the day melts off of your skin.
Preferably with your very pretty boyfriend in there with you.
Despite the exhaustion, though, a spark of energy remains humming beneath your ribs—the excitement that’s been building for days.
Because the rest of the night belongs only to you and Michael—movies, snacks, and a whole weekend with no interruptions, no opposite schedules, and no rushed phone calls squeezed in between responsibilities.
Just the two of you, finally in the same place at the same time.
It had been too long—truly too long.
You’re so incredibly proud of him—of the work he’s pouring into Thriller, of the long nights and early mornings he spends in his studio, of the way he talks about his music like it’s alive—an entity of itself.
You can’t wait to hear the final record. You have no doubt that the sneak-peeks and demos he sometimes lets you hear do no justice to the finished project.
But more than anything, you can’t wait to have him to yourself for a little while.
The thought of coming home to him tonight makes your heart flutter in a way you try not to think too hard about—especially when it’s quickly followed by the thought of coming home to him everyday.
The idea of moving in together has crossed your mind more than once—slipping in between late-night phone calls and early mornings when you’re half-awake and missing him more than anything.
You wouldn’t have to worry about going weeks without seeing each other if you shared the same bed every night and woke up next to each other every morning.
Maybe soon. Maybe once the album is out. Maybe when life slows down just enough for the two of you to breathe at the same time.
You gather your things—your bag, your change of shoes, the lunch you never had time to eat—and step out of your car into the cool evening air.
Your body aches, your feet hurt, and you’re dog-tired, but none of that matters because Michael—your Michael—is inside waiting for you, and suddenly the day doesn’t feel quite so heavy anymore.
The moment you push open your apartment door, the familiar warmth of home wraps around you like a blanket—the soft lamplight, a hint of vanilla from a candle Michael must have lit while waiting for you, soft hum of a record spinning in the background, and a whiff of his cologne coming from his jacket draped over the chair closest to the door.
You barely step one foot inside the threshold when you hear it—the unmistakable sound of footsteps hurriedly making their way toward you.
Then Michael appears—or rather, launches himself into the room—skidding around the corner. He couldn’t possibly look more goofy as his socked-feet slide a little on the hardwood and he catches himself on the wall.
He straightens himself quickly, like he meant to do that, and hadn’t just sprinted toward you like a puppy greeting its owner. He tries to look casual, lifting his chin as he leans nonchalantly against the doorway—but the bright, boyish excitement in his eyes gives him away instantly.
You, meanwhile, don’t even pretend to play it cool.
You drop your things to the floor in a completely ungraceful heap, and you’re in his arms before either of you can say a word.
He catches you easily, arms wrapping around your middle with a kind of desperation that makes you want to melt into him and resurface. He squeezes you tight, lifting you just slightly off the ground before setting you back down, but not letting go yet.
“Hi, baby,” you murmur against his skin, burying your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling deeply.
He smells like home—the scent hitting you so hard that you almost do melt—right then and there.
He hums a soft sound—something between a laugh and a relieved sigh—and presses his cheek against the top of your head. You can feel him smile against your hair, his arms tightening even more. “Hi.”
You pull back just enough to get another look at his handsome face—and you lean in and kiss him. He sinks into it, his warm hands gliding up your back simply for the opportunity to hold you a little closer.
“I hope you didn’t get too bored waiting for me,” you say, finally breaking away for air, brushing your thumb along his jaw.
Before he can respond, the dam breaks—the exhaustion and frustration of your very long day comes rushing back all at once, and you start shedding layers as you talk—your coat first, then your scrub top, the long sleeved undershirt getting tangled along with it as you pull the fabric over your head and throw it aside. You kick off your shoes haphazardly, causing them to land messily next to Michael's neatly-placed loafers.
You ramble on without taking a breath, words spilling out in a rush as you stand there in your bra in front of him, long past any shyness or decorum.
”You would not believe the day I had—fifteen hours, Michael, fifteen! I swear if my coworker is late one more time I’m going to lose my mind. I’m starving, I’m exhausted, I feel gross. I just want to shower for an hour and then order pizza and put on a Disney movie and—”
You stop when you realize he’s staring at you. Not in a worried or confused way, or in a ‘my girlfriend is standing in front of me half-naked’ kind of way—but in a way that is so foreign it makes your stomach flip and your brows knit together.
He’s trying—very poorly—to suppress a smirk, and he’s holding one hand behind his back.
You narrow your eyes. “What are you doing?”
”Nothing,” he says, far too quickly.
“Michael Jackson.” You say sternly, crossing your arms at his evasion.
”Nothing!” He giggles—actually giggles—the sound bubbling out like he just can’t help it. “I just missed you.”
You squint at him, suspicious. “Then why are you looking at me like that?"
He shrugs, all innocence, though the corners of his mouth twitch. “Just looking at my girl.”
You soften a little at that, and begin to turn away to gather your dirty clothes off the floor—until he adds with a casualness so deliberate it was practically glowing:
“My #1 girl.”
You freeze.
Oh no. Oh no, no no.
Your entire body goes still—his words hitting you like a jolt of electricity.
You spin around on your heel so fast you nearly lose your balance, because you know exactly what he’s referencing—that exact phrasing.
And he knows you know.
He stands there, trying—and failing—to hide the cocky grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, hand still tucked behind his back like he’s holding an explosive.
You stare at him with a wild, startled look. Your pulse jumps as your eyes dart around the room, and then you see it: the source of his smugness.
Your memory box, wide open—sitting on the coffee table in the background like a glowing neon sign that reads: you fucked up!
Your soul briefly leaves your body as you look back up at him to see what he’s holding.
The photo. That photo. The one you probably should have burned.
He pinches it between two fingers, dangling it in the air like bait—a victorious expression spread across his stupidly pretty face.
You let out a horrified, choked sound—and immediately lunge for it.
But he’s faster.
He lifts his arm effortlessly, holding the photo high above your head. Damn your height. Damn his height. Damn the universe for giving him such long arms.
“Michael!” You whine, standing up on your tip-toes, fingers brushing uselessly at the air.
He giggles again, stepping back just enough to keep the photo out of your reach.
“Or…” he says, drawing the word out torturously, eyes sparkling with mischief. ”Is it Marlon’s #1 girl?”
You gasp, making another grab for the photo. He lifts it even higher. “Michael Joseph Jackson! You nosy little—“
You jump again, uselessly—your fingertips missing the photo by a good four or five inches.
You can only imagine how pathetic the scene would look to anyone watching—you, dressed only in a bra and wrinkled scrub pants, leaping like a frantic gremlin while your boyfriend stands there laughing at you.
”You weren’t supposed to find that!” You whine, continuing to stretch your arm as far as it will go. You briefly consider getting a stepstool.
You stop jumping, finally admitting defeat.
Your shoulders slump as you let out a long, dramatic groan, dropping your head until your forehead lands against his chest. Michael simply stands there, smug and delighted. He looks so pleased with himself—too pleased, really, for your taste—and you know there’s absolutely no recovering from this.
You should have known better. You did know better.
Leaving your sweet, curious boyfriend alone in your apartment with nothing but time and his lifelong, incurable nosiness to keep him company? That was on you.
”Baby?” You mumble against his chest, your cheeks warm.
“Hm?”
“Are you mad?” You ask, suddenly feeling a little guilty and ashamed for hiding the photo from him at all.
The question hangs in the air—soft, genuine, vulnerable—and for the first time since he flashed that stupid smirk, his expression changes. The teasing fades just a little, replaced by something else entirely. Your chest tightens.
He lowers the photo a fraction, dark bambi-eyes softening as he looks down at you, then back at the photograph.
His expression shifts into something thoughtful, humming softly—the sound low in his throat, and says, almost to himself, “I mean… I probably should be mad.”
You look up at him with wide, pleading eyes, searching his face for any sign of real hurt or insecurity. He doesn’t give you one, and the uncertainty makes your breath catch.
You would almost rather die than hurt his feelings, intentionally or not.
“I really should,” he continues, nodding solemnly while keeping his eyes on the photo. His tone is slow, deliberate and downright torturous, each word landing heavier than the last.
”I mean…my girlfriend, my sweet, beautiful girl…” He pauses, tilting his head slightly. “…swooning over another man. Right in front of me.”
He lifts the photo a little higher, examining it like evidence. Your face burns even hotter. “And over my own brother, no less.”
Now, your entire body feels like it's on fire. With every teasing word, your embarrassment grows. You want to disappear into the floor. Or snatch the photo and run. Or both.
”Michael…” You whisper, fully mortified.
Michael looks at you fully now, biting his lip, and finally lowers the photo, extending it toward you.
You snatch it back gently but urgently, gripping it with both hands and holding it protectively against your chest, effectively hiding it from the world.
Your cheeks burn, the heat blooming all the way to your ears. You can barely look at him in the eye, your embarrassment so intense it borders on dizzying.
Before you can open your mouth to defend yourself—or scold him some more, you haven’t decided—he leans down and kisses you.
Not a quick, teasing peck, but a deep, steady kiss that anchors you right where you stand, immediately silencing every frantic thought swirling around in your head.
His hands cradle your face for a moment, warm and steady, before one pinches your cheek gently, affectionately, causing you to let out a surprised squeak.
His hands trail down your sides and land on your bottom with a soft, mischievous squeeze. He pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, his gaze intense.
“I’m not threatened by anyone,” he says quietly, but firmly. “Especially not Marlon.”
You let out a long, shaky sigh of relief, shoulders finally relaxing.
“Good,” you murmur, still clutching the photo that has begun to crumple slightly in your grip. “Because I love Marlon, but as a brother. As a friend. There were never any sparks. Ever.”
You pause at that, and add with a groan, “And he can never find out about this photo. If he does, I’ll never hear the end of it.”
Michael laughs at that, clearly imagining exactly how unbearable Marlon—and the rest of his brothers, really—would be with this information.
You roll your eyes and continue, “Besides, my other friend—you remember Kayla? From middle school?—had already claimed you as her favorite member. I couldn’t break girl code like that. So naturally I had to pick someone else.”
Your cheeks heat up in embarrassment as soon the words leave your mouth. Good god, you sound like a 16 year old.
Michael simply laughs again, shaking his head. He pinches your cheek again. “I’ve been in this industry for a very long time, sweet girl. I am very familiar with fangirl logic. It’s very cute.”
You smack his shoulder lightly, your embarrassment finally giving way to amusement. “Well, if it makes you feel better, my favorite has definitely changed.”
He nods, eyes sparkling with mischief again. “Good. Because we are going to the store first thing in the morning to pick up fabric markers so you can make yourself a new shirt.”
You groan, burying your face in his chest again. He giggles again, wrapping his arms around you again.
He pulls away slightly, studying you for a moment—your flushed cheeks and embarrassed little frown, the way you’re still clutching the photo like it might leap out of your hands and betray you for a second time—and he kisses you again.
You melt into him without thinking, the tension of your day dissolving with the warmth of his mouth against yours.
When he finally pulls away, he doesn’t go far. Instead, he presses another kiss to the corner of your mouth. Then your cheek. Then the other. Then the tip of your nose. Your forehead.
You start to giggle helplessly as he continues—kissing all over your face with exaggerated affection, each one softer than the last.
He trails down your jaw, your chin, the crook of your neck, beginning to nip and bite at your collar bones. He continues until you’re laughing openly, half-heartedly pushing at his shoulders.
”Michael—!” You squeal, half-laughing, half-pleading as he continues his assault.
He grins against your skin, clearly delighted by your reaction. His hands glide down your waist, fingers curling gently as he delivers a playful tickle against your bare skin—just enough to make you squirm and laugh harder.
“Stop, stop!” You shout breathlessly, attempting to twist out of his grip. He finally relents, pulling back to take another look at you—cheeks flushed, eyes bright, breath unsteady from laughing. He smiles, impossibly in love.
He turns you by your hips, pushing you gently towards your bedroom, delivering a light, affectionate swat against your backside to send you on your way. “Go on, get in the shower and change into something comfy f’me.”
You watch as he begins walking in the opposite direction with a little bounce in his step. “And what are you doing?”
“Ordering us a pizza!” He calls over his shoulder.
You bite your lip, shaking your head as you start down the hallway toward the washroom. Your heart is impossibly full—still fluttering from his kisses, cheeks warm from his teasing, ribs aching from how hard he made you laugh.
You can hear him humming—something soft and unfamiliar—and you can’t help but smile. Then, you realize you’re still holding the photo and another thought hits you.
You stop dead in your tracks, spinning around so fast your hair whips in front of your face. You clear your throat loudly, and he freezes mid-stride, turning to look at you with confusion.
You narrow your eyes, lifting a finger to point at him with all the authority you can muster for a person who was just kissed breathless. “Don’t you dare get into anything else while I’m gone. I mean it, Michael. Not one drawer. Not a single cabinet. Not one.”
He blinks innocently, lips twitching as he tries to think of a retort. You continue, “Because if you do, I swear to god my new shirt is going to say ‘Jermaine’s #1 Girl.’”
His jaw drops in faux-outrage, clutching his chest as if he were mortally wounded. “…You wouldn’t.”
“Wouldn’t I?”
“Now you’re just playin’ dirty.” He shoots back, hands landing on his hips.
“Oh really?” You raise an eyebrow. Clearly, it was time to show him exactly what ‘playin’ dirty’ actually looked like. You casually reach behind your back and unclip your bra. “Try me.”
He watches as it falls to the floor. He chuckles slowly, taking a single step toward you. “You better run, girl. You’re in for it now.”
You let out a yelp as you bolt down the hallway, laughter spilling out as he chases after you.
Pizza and movies would have to wait. You have a long and eventful night ahead of you. It’s good to be home.
a/n: thank you from the bottom of my heart for reading this far. this is my first time writing for michael, please enjoy and be kind!
any and all feedback is greatly appreciated.
summary: michael and the cute little mother and son duo finally talk again, and heartbreak only seems to make their hearts grow fonder
i’ve been trying to write this but they deserve a happy ending as a cute little family𑣲⋆
a few days after the event in downtown new york, the high had finally left both you and zain, leading to the normal life you both lived.
the tuesday afternoon wore on you, a rough day at work but a short shift meaning you could pick zain up from kindergarten and make a lovely meal for the both of you.
zain was sat in the living room, thoroughly invested in the star wars movie playing on one of the channels whilst you collected the dirty laundry scattered around the house.
you reached under the couch, pulling out one of zain’s socks he had probably kicked under there along with a piece of paper.
“zain, honey.. please stop abandoning your socks under the couch”
“mhm, sorry mama” he replied, focused more on the tv than you, his hands dipping into the small popcorn bag beside him.
walking back into the kitchen to put the machine on, you unfolded the note, seeing the familiar words that had kept you up at night. the note the security guard had slipped into your half closed palm with michael’s number on it.
folding it quickly and putting it on the counter, only one thought crossed your mind. you most definitely were not calling him.
later that night, after you had washed up, given zain a bath and read him a story to get him to sleep, you had ventured back into the kitchen.
you turned towards the glass cabinet, gripping the handle tight and opening it to grab a glass of water. when you turned, your attention quickly drifted to the note you had left on the counter.
placing the glass down, both hands picked the paper up like it was a precious or fragile item but instead it was the key to your future, even though you didn’t know that yet.
you glanced between the note and the landline phone that was sat in the corner of the room, the green light blinking to show you it was plugged in. biting your lip, you walked over to the phone, your slippers sticking slightly to the floor as you moved until your hand took the phone out of its holster and pressed the numbers in.
the phone rang, your fingernail tapping against the countertop as you waited. it felt like it had rang forever, but just as you had finally made up your mind to hang up, the ringing stopped and breathing echoed down the speaker.
“hello, who is this”
you paused, eyes widening as you realised this was for real. michael jackson had actually given you his number and this wasn’t some sick joke somebody had played on you.
“hello? is anyone there?” he questioned, sounding more confused then he did when he answered it.
“oh-erm… hi michael, the security guard gave me your number the other day.. you know, zain’s mother”
“oh, hi!” he suddenly sounded much more awake, “how are you? how’s zain?”
you twisted around with the phone still in your hand, moving to sit atop the counter.
“yeah im great, thank you for asking. zain’s doing good as well, he’s just asleep at the moment.. how are you?”
“oh i’m so pleased to hear that! i’m okay now that i’ve heard that” he said, shocking you as you had only met him once before this phone call.
“may i ask why you gave me your number? i mean i could be like a psycho fan that you’ve just given it to… i’m not! but like i’ve just been wondering”
he chuckled, letting the question linger before replying,
“i don’t really know.. i think maybe it’s just ‘cause zain really warmed my heart that day, and you may have also left a lasting impression too, mama”, sounding more shy as he continued.
you giggled lightly, a warm flush spreading across your face
“well i really appreciate that, michael, thank you… zain hasn’t been able to stop talking about meeting you, he keeps asking when he can see you again”
“zain is a lovely little boy and i would be delighted to meet him again if it would make his day.”
“careful” you laughed, “if he hears that, he’ll be asking every day”
michael’s laugh crackled down the phone,
“i don’t think i’d mind”
the words settled between you both, and you found yourself smiling at the kitchen tiles.
“well, i’m sure he would be happy to hear that”
“maybe we could meet again, maybe at a zoo.. or neverland!”
“neverland?” you repeated.
“yeah,” he said, “i’m pretty sure i can survive a park”
you couldn’t help but laugh, the conversation continuing as if you were catching up with someone you had known forever.
two days after the original phone call, both you and zain were in the kitchen eating ice cream, his little legs swinging below him”
as you were nodding, asking little questions about his day, the phone rang beside you, zain suddenly quieting down in curiosity.
“who is it, mama?” he asked, his voice getting slightly higher as he lent forward.
you shrugged, picking up the phone and pressing answer before lifting it to your ear, “hello?”
“hi! it’s michael, how are you doing?”
you turned to zain, still speaking to michael, “i’m doing good, someone’s here wondering who i’m talking to”
you giggled, watching zain’s eyebrows furrow in confusion
“oh, past the phone to him, i would love to say hi”
you pulled the phone away from your ear, holding it out to zain, “it’s michael”
“MICHAEL!?” he grabbed the phone quickly, pulling it to his ear
“michael? is that really you?”
“hi zain! yes it is me, how have you been?”
zain looked as though he had a little mini heart attack, his eyes widening and smile growing across his face.
“i’m good! i didn’t think i would be able to talk to you for, like.. EVER”
michael laughed, your ears picking it up from across the kitchen,
“well i’m glad to hear you soundin’ so happy! your mama told me that you’ve been non stop talking about our meeting the other day”
“mama! why did you tell himmm” he whined, “i guess so… i just missed you”
“hey, me and your mama have been talking, and how about we have a fun day together, and maybe you can even come to neverland!”
“neverland.. what’s that?”
“that’s my home! it’s got a cinema, a zoo, lots of candy, slushies, slides, everything.”
“a zoo?!? what animals have you got in your zoo?”
“well how about when you come, we can go and look at all of the animals together. i’ll give you a little hint, i have a giraffe”
“a giraffe! oh my goodness..”
you laughed, his little mispronunciation of giraffe sounding more like a ‘gifaffe’.
“only if you stay on your best behaviour, okay?” you bargained, eyebrows slightly raised to show you were completely serious.
zain gave you a big cheeky grin, his teeth showing and his head tilting to the side, “i’m always a good boy, mama!”
the next day, you had picked zain up from kindergarten. his eyes were glued to the window as he stayed unusually quiet.
“zain, are you okay, baby?” you asked, looking at him through the rear view mirror.
“yeah, mama…” he let out a loud sigh, his lip beginning to pout.
“hey, hey.. what’s the matter?”
his head dropped, tears beginning to fall and his shoulders shaking,
“a boy in my class said i was lying”, he said quietly, “he said i didn’t talk to mikey”
your hands tightened on the steering wheel, watching him quietly sob in the backseat.
“baby, we both know you spoke to him. so if he doesn’t believe you, then that’s on him, not on you because you aren’t a liar”
that night, after you had given zain a shower, you tucked him in, sitting beside him on the bed, the phone in your hand.
“zain, i have a little surprise for you for being such an amazing boy” you said, smiling slightly at him.
his hands rested on top of the covers, head tilted towards you as the moons from his nightlight scattered across his face.
you pressed a button on the phone, a voicemail being read out.
“hi zain, your mama told me about the boy in your class. listen, you are so amazing, and so kind, and so thoughtful, and me and your mama both know that you aren’t a liar, okay? soon we will have the funnest day ever, sleep tight, i love you”
zain’s eyes brightened, flicking between the phone and you. once michael’s voice had finished coming from the phone, zain let out a quiet squeal.
“i can’t believe it, mama! i can’t wait to go and see him again!”
your hands smoothed over his hair before brushing down the side of his face, trying to soothe him and relax him to go to sleep.
“i know, baby. very soon we will see him again, okay. now it’s bedtime, i love you so much, baby”
he let out a yawn, your finger working its way down his nose and back up.
“love you too, mama. night night”
his eyes drooped before shutting completely, his breathing evening out.
you stood, walking towards the door and closing it slightly, still leaving it cracked open.
very soon you both would be seeing michael, and you could not wait to see zain’s reaction.
┊ ♡ ﹒ summary : a little drabble about a bratty and whiny michael who knows he's being unreasonable but can’t regulate himself in the moment.
┊ ♡ ﹒ byi : michael is emotionally immature here and behaves unfairly. his reaction is fed by insecurity, guilt, and fear of losing access to your attention, not actual wrongdoing on your part. mild angst, emotional dependency, bossy reader x pathetic michael, possessive behavior, this could be manipulation.. if it is.. he’s very good at it.
By the time Michael finally worked up the courage to call, it was embarrassingly late. Hayvenhurst had fallen into the peculiar stillness that only existed after midnight, when even a house full of family and staff seemed to take its break from constant movement and surrender to sleep. The television downstairs had long since been abandoned and the hallway lights had been cut off, so the occasional creak of the floorboards sounded louder than it should have in the stillness. Earlier, his brothers had noticed him wandering aimlessly from room to room and pressed to know why he looked like he was stressed out. Michael brushed them off and they’d laughed at him but eventually they’d gone to bed, leaving him alone with the increasingly obvious fact that he was avoiding something.
The irony was that the situation itself wasn’t particularly complicated. He’d promised her he’d come by. He hadn’t. Even worse, he’d failed to call. Rationally, the solution seemed very straight the fuck forward. Pick up the phone. Apologize. Explain what happened. Any reasonable person would have done exactly that hours ago. Unfortunately, the longer Michael sat with the mistake, the less it looked like a simple conversation and the more it began to feel like he was actually awaiting trial. By midnight, the phone call had become significantly larger than the thing he was actually calling about.
Every few minutes, he found himself replaying the evening in painful detail. Not the recording session itself, but all the moments in which he.. could have left. The moments he’d thought about leaving. The moments he’d remembered her. There had been dozens of them, that’s what made it so difficult to defend himself against. He hadn’t forgotten at all. Forgetting would’ve been.. maybe something he preferred at this point. But, he’d repeatedly acknowledged his obligation and then chosen, over and over again, to stay just a little longer. One more conversation. One more adjustment. One more thing that needed his attention. Each little decision had felt insignificant at the time. Looking back on them now, they appeared lined up in a neat row, forming a trail that led directly to the realization that she’d spent her evening waiting for her boyfriend who never arrived.
The phone sat on a table in the living room, and Michael found himself glancing at it whenever he entered the room to make sure it was still there, as though it were to up and walk away or something. Twice he picked up the receiver before setting it back down. Once he dialed half her number before losing his nerve. The problem wasn’t that he didn’t know what to say, he knew exactly what to say. But what unsettled him was the possibility that she’d answer sounding exactly like the particular tone she got when she was genuinely disappointed in him, one that never rose above conversational volume and therefore left him with nowhere to hide.
The longer he delayed, the more unbearable his anxiety became. What if she didn’t answer? But what if she did? Somehow the second possibility felt worse. At least silence would allow him to postpone the conversation until tomorrow. Hearing her voice would require him to confront the reality of what he’d done. Michael knew her well enough to know she wasn’t going to accuse him of betrayal or break up. If anything, she was likely to be annoyingly.. cold about the entire thing. Michael had always found her disappointment significantly more effective than anger when it came to making him feel guilty.
Because he craved her validation.
Eventually he found himself sitting alone on the couch, elbows resting on his knees, staring at nothing in particular. The house remained quiet but somewhere upstairs, a door opened and shut. The clock continued ticking. Time had slipped through his fingers so easily earlier that evening, but now it seemed so determined to make itself known. He thought about her sitting at home. Thought about her checking the time, about all the opportunities she’d given him to call before eventually deciding he wasn’t coming. The image lodged itself in his chest.
That more than anything else, finally pushed him toward action. The simple realization that every minute he spent avoiding the conversation was another minute she spent believing he hadn’t cared enough to have it. Michael stared at the phone for several seconds before reaching for it. His heart was pounding so hard that would’ve been embarrassing under normal circumstances. He was about to make a phone call, not jump from a plane. Yet the receiver felt unusually heavy in his hand all the same. Before he could talk himself out of it again, he dialed her number and pressed it to his ear, listening as the line began to ring.
The first ring made his stomach drop.
By the second, he was considering hanging up.
By the third, he had somehow convinced himself that she was probably asleep and that would be for the best! He could tell himself he’d tried! He could revisit the problem tomorrow when he felt less like a sinner approaching the creator.
Then the line clicked.
“Hello?”
The relief that accompanied the sound of her voice lasted for approximately half a second before reality hit him again.
She didn’t sound asleep, in fact she sounded very awake and alert for the time. She sounded perfectly normal. No obvious anger or irritation, but enough distance in her voice to make him suddenly aware of how unprepared he was for this conversation.
“Hi.” Michael says softly.
There was a brief pause. “Hi, Michael.”
Her response lacked the warmth he’d grown accustomed to hearing whenever she answered one of his calls, and the absence was noticeable enough that he immediately found himself wishing she’d just yelled at him instead.
For a moment neither of them spoke.
Michael had spent the better part of an hour rehearsing various versions of this conversation in his head, yet now that she was actually on the line, every apology he had seemed to have abandoned him.
“..Did I wake you up?” He asked finally.
“No.” Another pause followed.
“Oh.” The conversation stalled almost immediately.
Under normal circumstances, she would’ve rescued it by now. She would’ve asked a question. Made a joke. Offered him something to work with. Tonight she seemed perfectly content to let him figure it out himself.
Unfortunately, Michael was discovering that he preferred her assistance significantly more than he’d previously realized.
He cleared his throat. “I just wanted to call.”
“Mm.”
“I didn’t come.” Because there is no elegant way into it, he just says it. No easing the statement in place without it sounding worse the longer he delays it.
“So, you called me for what, Michael?” She snips at him, her patience clearly running thin.
He swallows once. “Because I know you’re mad at me,” He says.. and hears quickly how inadequate that answer is to her question, like he has answered a completely different question.
There is a faint rustle on her end. Fabric shifting. Something being moved around, continued motion where he has none.
“Well, I’m getting dressed, so I can’t sit here on the phone with you.” She says after a second, picking up the conversation again where it stalled.
That pulls him out of his apology mid thought. “You’re what?”
“Getting dressed, Michael.”
He pops up, standing on his feet. “Why?”
A nasty, nasty feeling starts in his chest. Slow at first, like a knife pushing into his sternum before dragging down into the pit of his stomach.
“No!” He says before he can stop it. It’s an immediate, reactive response. Childish in tone because he does not yet have language for this yet, only how he feels.
Silence on her end.
“..Excuse me?” She asks, her tone shifts and it’s clear now her attention has fully turned toward him versus whatever she had been doing on the line.
Michael straightens slightly, his body is trying to catch up with what just came out of his mouth.
“That’s not—I didn’t mean—” He starts too fast, words tripping over each other. His pretty hand tightens around the phone cord. “I just.. I didn’t even finish talking to you,” He says, feeling the frog form in his throat before he can soften it. “I mean I called and you’re-”
“I cancelled on my friends earlier,” She cuts him off. “For you And you stood me up without even so much as a call.”
“I know but..”
“But what, Michael.”
“I don’t want you going out..” The sentence surprises even him in the moment it leaves.
“Michael,” She says slowly, tasting the fact that he just said that out loud. “What did you just say to me?”
His throat tightens and he shifts his weight, his body is trying to back up from something his mouth already committed to. “Nothin’.. I’m just frustrated, okay..?”
That makes her laugh, a really mean laugh. Frustrated? Oh, what a joke. He knows it too.
“You don’t get to tell me what I can and can’t do,” She says. “And you definitely don’t get to do it after you call me after midnight, and stood me up tonight.”
He swallows and the phone cord again tightens slightly in his hand again, “I wasn’t trying to—” He starts.
“You were.” She says quickly.
Michael doesn’t answer right away. He tries to, but whatever he reaches for doesn’t come out.
“I was. I’m sorry.” He gives up, no longer having it in him to sit and try to talk himself out of this. It was never going to happen. “I really am sorry..” He says, quieter now.
And then his breathing changes slightly.
He blinks hard once, like it’ll reset something in him.. but the tears form anyway and pool at the bottoms of his baby doe eyes.
“I just don’t like thinking about you going out.. without me..” He says, “Havin’ people look at you when you’re mad at me..”
On the other end she hears it in his voice, the tears. “Michael,” She calls for him, softer now. The correction is gone from her voice and so is the firmness. “Hey.”
He shakes his head even though she can’t see it, trying to deny the reaction his body is having. “I’m okay..” He says, which makes it worse.
“Don’t do that.” She’s still upset but how can she be so firm when he’s on the other line sounding like a kicked puppy? “You’re crying, my angel.”
He breathes in, uneven. “I—” He attempts, but it breaks halfway through, and that’s the point where he stops trying to finish the sentence at all.
There’s a quiet sound on her end, she’s shifting how she’s holding the phone. “Okay,” She sighs. “Listen to me.”
He doesn’t answer because if he tries, it won’t come out right.
“Yes, I’m upset with you, Michael..” She says. “But you’re very overwhelmed right now, yes? So please calm down..” Then softer still, “I’m going out for a bit, and then I’m coming home. Okay?”
He lets out a shaky breath he didn’t realize he was holding, “I don’t like it.” He admits, barely audible.
“I know, Mickey..” And there it is again, that shift where she stops being strict with him. “But I can’t deal with this right now, the girls are here.” She says eventually. “But I’m not ignoring you, okay?”
He nods again out of instinct, forgetting she can’t see it.
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow..” She adds.
“Okay,” He manages.
“Good,” She says, gently. “Go sit down for me.”
And he does, he hadn’t even realized he stood up at some point.
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
The line stays open for a second longer with the both of them still there, neither quite ready to fully end it until she finally lets it go.
“you’re coming tonight,” she’d said over the phone earlier that week, not even giving you a chance to decline.
“janet—”
“nope. no excuses. i don’t care if you’re tired or if your cat learned how to talk. you’re coming.”
you laughed. “i don’t even have a cat.”
“exactly. see you friday.”
so there you were. backstage at the destiny tour.
the venue buzzed around you in a way that felt almost unreal. crew members hurried past carrying equipment, stagehands spoke into headsets, and distant cheers filtered through the walls as thousands of fans settled into their seats.
janet sat cross-legged beside you in a folding chair, peeling the label off a soda bottle.
“you nervous?” she asked.
“for what?”
“being around all this.” she gestured vaguely.
you shrugged. “not really.”
before janet could respond, movement caught your attention.
michael emerged from farther down the hallway.
he looked beautiful under the fluorescent lights. dark curls framing his face, costume pressed neatly.
he glanced up, his eyes landed on you.
and immediately widened.
you smiled, waving.
“hi, michael.”
“oh—” he blinked, looking you up and down. you were wearing a cream trench-style jacket with a belted waist and oversized lapels. you paired it with a brown pinstripe mini skirt with ruffle and lace-up detailing across the waistband, along with dark brown knee-high boots. your naturally curly, voluminous hair fell just right below your shoulders, framing your face perfectly with your baby hairs laid.
“hi.”
he continued walking — directly into a stack of equipment cases.
janet stared.
michael stumbled backward.
“i’m okay,” he muttered quickly, face turning pink before disappearing around the corner.
“…interesting,” janet mumbled.
you frowned. “what?”
“nothing.”
“janet.”
“nothing.”
you narrowed your eyes, but she still refused to elaborate.
· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
by the time the lights dimmed, the entire arena erupted. the screams were deafening.
janet grabbed your hand, excitement practically radiating from her.
“this is my favorite part.”
the brothers took the stage to roaring applause.
and michael,
pretty much transformed.
gone was the shy boy who couldn’t make eye contact for more than three seconds backstage. under the spotlight, he became a superstar.
he danced effortlessly, smiling here and there, and took over the stage like he usually did. you couldn’t help smiling.
janet bumped your shoulder.
“told you.”
song after song blurred together beneath flashing lights and endless applause.
until the familiar opening notes of “dreamer” floated through the arena.
across the stage, michael adjusted his grip on the microphone, then began to sing. his voice wrapped itself around the lyrics with an ache that made your chest tighten.
there was something different about it, something quieter; more vulnerable.
his gaze swept across the crowd.
fans screamed, arms waved, camera flashes sparkled like stars.
then — “a romantic fool….
thats what i am. i think about you all day long.”
his eyes found yours as his brothers sang the chorus.
you blinked. for a moment, you assumed it was coincidence. there were thousands of people, he couldn’t have been looking at you. right?
he looked away, continued singing. you relaxed.
until it happened again.
“i just can't wait, ‘til i go to sleep
i’ll be with you, all night long.”
his gaze returned to you as his brothers sang the chorus again.
if anything, he looked startled each time your eyes met. as though he’d forgotten you could actually catch him staring.
janet slowly turned her head.
looked at you, then looked back at michael.
who was singing directly toward your section.
looked back at you.
“it's fantasy, i just like to share these moments together.”
“…oh my god.”
you frowned. “what?”
she grabbed your arm. hard.
“oh my god.”
“janet.”
“look at him!”
“i am looking at him.”
“no. look at him.”
you opened your mouth to argue, then stopped.
because michael wasn’t scanning the audience.
he wasn’t performing for the crowd.
he was looking at you — performing for you, eyes dropping shyly whenever you noticed.
blushing beneath stage lights.
the realization sent warmth rushing through you.
“janet—”
“that song is about you.”
your heart nearly stopped. “what?”
“that song is about you.”
“don’t be ridiculous.”
“i’m serious!”
“janet—”
“he has looked over here literally the entire song!”
you glanced back toward the stage.
michael reached the chorus.
his voice remained steady. his hands did not.
even from where you sat, you noticed the way his fingers tightened around the microphone whenever he looked your way. as though gathering courage, making your pulse flutter; because suddenly, moments from the past few months replayed differently.
the way he laughed too hard at your jokes.
the way conversations with you always ended with pink cheeks and nervous smiles.
how he’d volunteer to walk you to janet’s room only to stand awkwardly in the doorway afterward.
how his brothers exchanged knowing looks whenever you entered the room.
you swallowed. no. surely not.
then michael looked over again.
and this time,
you didn’t look away.
instead, you smiled. just for him.
the effect was immediate.
his eyes widened.
he missed his cue, causing marlon to elbow him sharply. michael startled before recovering, the tips of his ears turning bright red.
janet made a strangled sound beside you.
“oh, he’s gone.”
“janet.”
“he’s in love with you.”
your face burned. “he is not.”
she pointed toward the stage.
michael, somehow still singing flawlessly, couldn’t stop smiling.
the grin lingered for the remainder of the song.
it softened his features. made him glow.
and every now and then,
he looked at you again.
· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
backstage after the show was chaos.
crew members celebrated, voices overlapped, the brothers laughed about missed choreography and costume mishaps.
you stood near janet, trying desperately to ignore the pounding of your heart.
then michael appeared, still flushed from performing.
still so beautiful.
he froze when he noticed you. janet’s eyes lit up.
too late, you realized exactly what expression she wore. the expression of someone about to cause problems.
“so,” she said loudly.
michael blinked.
“…so?”
“how long have you been in love with my best friend?”
everything stopped. michael’s entire face went crimson.
“janet!”
“michael joseph jackson!”
“janet!”
you stared. janet stared.
michael stared at the floor.
“…i’m going to kill you,” he whispered.
“you sang dreamer to her in front of thousands of people!”
“i did not!”
“you absolutely did!”
silence.
your voice came out softer than intended.
“…dreamer?”
michael froze.
to him, the room suddenly felt very small. he looked up, his dark eyes meeting yours. all traces of embarrassment remained.
but beneath it, there was honesty.
he glanced toward janet, toward his brothers, then back at you.
“…yeah,” he admitted quietly.
your breath caught.
he rubbed nervously at the back of his neck. “i didn’t mean for anybody to know.”
“michael—”
“i just…” he laughed weakly. “i wrote it because i thought that’s all it’d ever be.”
your eyebrows knitted together. “what?”
he looked down. “a dream.” his voice barely rose above a whisper.
“you and janet were always together. and you’re…” he shook his head, smiling shyly. “you’re you.”
you stared at him.
“and i’m me.” his cheeks darkened.
“yeah.”
something inside your chest ached. despite sold-out arenas and screaming fans and stage lights bright enough to rival the stars,
he looked at you like he couldn’t understand why you’d ever choose him.
you stepped closer.
“michael.”
he finally met your gaze.
“i’m really glad janet made me come tonight.”
his expression shifted into 3 emotions in 5 seconds; hope, disbelief, joy.
“…you are?”
you smiled again, just like when he was performing the song. just for him.
“yeah.”
for a second, he simply stared.
then —
he smiled back.
behind you, janet shrieked.
“I KNEW IT!”
michael buried his face in his hands. “janet!”
“don’t janet me! i have been waiting months for this!” you laughed, michael looking up at the sound.
and just like he had during “dreamer,”
he looked at you as though the entire world had disappeared around him.
“…so,” he said shyly, “would you maybe wanna…go out with me sometime?”
janet gasped dramatically.
you smiled. “i’d love to.”
michael blinked.
“…really?”
you laughed. “really.”
his answering grin was so bright it rivaled every spotlight he’d stood beneath that night.
and somewhere down the hallway, janet was already planning exactly how she’d tell la toya she had to ‘pay up’ $10.
Synopsis: Being Michaels girlfriends means you get the privilege of spending many late nights in the studio with him over the years.
Era: Goes through all of them!!
Content: Pure fluff. Established relationship.
Masterlist
OTW!Michael: When the two of you start dating he's hesitant to invite you to the studio while he's working. He always nervous that you won't like his music or you'll get bored.
OTW!Michael: Can't help but watch you from the booth, eyes tracing over your face carefully determining how you feel about the music. He gets jittery when he knows you're listening to him running through his songs.
OTW!Michael: Always makes sure you're comfortable, asking through the sound system if the couch is soft enough. He asks if you're hungry or thirsty. He always seems to have your favorite drink stocked in the fridge.
OTW!Michael: When things get hard for Michael, you're always there to kiss his cheek or tell him he's doing a good job.
Thriller!Michael: Starts getting more comfortable with you hanging around the studio. You become a integral part of the space, your presence always calming him down when he gets frustrated.
Thriller!Michael: Who winks at you everytime he records or re-records PYT. Before each punch in he calls to you from the booth, "This is for my very own pretty young thing." And gives you a wink. You always get flustered
Thriller!Michael: Gets thrilled when you start asking him questions about how things work. He'll spend hours teaching you different mechanisms and techniques that he and quincy use. Always smiles when he sees you light up after Quincy let's you hit the big red start button.
Thriller!Michael: When things start to get stressful he always sits closer to you on the couch. If he and Quincy are butting heads he's the first thing he reaches for. He'll either grab your hand or your thigh, like your his anchor. You always squeeze his hand and make sure he's okay, often stepping out into the hallway with you.
Thriller!Michael: Who always always always includes you in the recording of each song in someway. Has you do small harmonies or has the your voice humming the instrumental lightly.
Bad!Michael: He starts asking you more about how you feel about his demo's. He trusts that you've been around long enough to know what may be missing from his songs.
Bad!Michael: Get's way more flirtatious in the studio, always smirking at your or getting you worked up before he locks himself in the sound booth.
Bad!Michael: Session's become way longer, often going long into the night and into the early morning. You refuse to leave until he does, making sure that you're with him through all of the stress.
Bad!Michael: The two of you often curl up on the couch together, taking quick power naps after pulling all nighters working. He pulls you on top of him, wrapping you up in his arms.
Bad!Michael: Gets a lot snappier with everyone in the room, including you. You know it's the pressure of following the success of Thriller, but when he snaps at you for playing around you can't help but deflate slightly. He always apologizes afterwards and makes it up to you by treating you to a nice dinner.
Dangerous!Michael: You're now a vital part of the studio. Things don't feel right when you're not there, like a piece of him is missing. When you're not there he has a harder time focusing, his mind wandering to thoughts of you. Quincy has called you plenty of times begging you to come to the studio so Michael can get at least one take done.
Dangerous!Michael: You've now moved from the couch in the back to sitting at the mixers right next to Quincy. After spending so many years there, watching, observing, and learning, Quincy trusts that you know how to run some of the sessions.
Dangerous!Michael: When Michael has an idea while the two of you are at the ranch he wakes both of you up and drags you both to his home studio.
Dangerous!Michael: When he first started waking you up you were very grumpy and not happy at all. But you soon got used to his bizarre sleep schedule and found his passion admirable.
History/BotDF!Michael: You both try your best to not be stuck in the studio while making this album. You start to prioritize going out into the world and experiencing things together. But you're always ready to drop everything and go to the studio if Mike gets a good idea.
History/BotDF!Michael: When the two of you do go to the studio you always make sure things are exactly how he likes them. You dim the lights to his liking and always ALWAYS have orange juice on standby.
History/BotDF!Michael: Now that you've started helping out with making the albums you and Mike get into fights more often. Some might think that it puts a strain on your relationship, but it's the opposite.
History/BotDF!Michael: If there is a particularly bad fight, you both take a day or two to sort things out on your own before making up.
History/BotDF!Michael: You both want what's best for the other, and sometimes you need a reminder of that.
History/BotDF!Michael: On the rare occasion that he does an interview, he always credits you for helping out with the process of making the albums.
Invincible!Michael: Michael loves to say that he's been working on this album from the moment he laid eyes on you. When he first told you he was dedicating the album to you, you cried.
Invincible!Michael: This is by far the most nervous he's been when making an album, he's always looking to you to see if you like what you hear.
Invincible!Michael: Ask you to come into the sound booth with him so he can get a good look at his muse.
Invincible!Michael: Despite how freaky some of the lyrics are, you know that he's a gentleman at heart. He always checks with you to make sure you feel respected before giving the greenlight on some songs.
Invincible!Michael: Yall make out a lot during the process of this album. And I mean A LOT.
Synopsis: Being Michaels girlfriends means you get the privilege of spending many late nights in the studio with him over the years.
Era: Goes through all of them!!
Content: Pure fluff. Established relationship.
Masterlist
OTW!Michael: When the two of you start dating he's hesitant to invite you to the studio while he's working. He always nervous that you won't like his music or you'll get bored.
OTW!Michael: Can't help but watch you from the booth, eyes tracing over your face carefully determining how you feel about the music. He gets jittery when he knows you're listening to him running through his songs.
OTW!Michael: Always makes sure you're comfortable, asking through the sound system if the couch is soft enough. He asks if you're hungry or thirsty. He always seems to have your favorite drink stocked in the fridge.
OTW!Michael: When things get hard for Michael, you're always there to kiss his cheek or tell him he's doing a good job.
Thriller!Michael: Starts getting more comfortable with you hanging around the studio. You become a integral part of the space, your presence always calming him down when he gets frustrated.
Thriller!Michael: Who winks at you everytime he records or re-records PYT. Before each punch in he calls to you from the booth, "This is for my very own pretty young thing." And gives you a wink. You always get flustered
Thriller!Michael: Gets thrilled when you start asking him questions about how things work. He'll spend hours teaching you different mechanisms and techniques that he and quincy use. Always smiles when he sees you light up after Quincy let's you hit the big red start button.
Thriller!Michael: When things start to get stressful he always sits closer to you on the couch. If he and Quincy are butting heads he's the first thing he reaches for. He'll either grab your hand or your thigh, like your his anchor. You always squeeze his hand and make sure he's okay, often stepping out into the hallway with you.
Thriller!Michael: Who always always always includes you in the recording of each song in someway. Has you do small harmonies or has the your voice humming the instrumental lightly.
Bad!Michael: He starts asking you more about how you feel about his demo's. He trusts that you've been around long enough to know what may be missing from his songs.
Bad!Michael: Get's way more flirtatious in the studio, always smirking at your or getting you worked up before he locks himself in the sound booth.
Bad!Michael: Session's become way longer, often going long into the night and into the early morning. You refuse to leave until he does, making sure that you're with him through all of the stress.
Bad!Michael: The two of you often curl up on the couch together, taking quick power naps after pulling all nighters working. He pulls you on top of him, wrapping you up in his arms.
Bad!Michael: Gets a lot snappier with everyone in the room, including you. You know it's the pressure of following the success of Thriller, but when he snaps at you for playing around you can't help but deflate slightly. He always apologizes afterwards and makes it up to you by treating you to a nice dinner.
Dangerous!Michael: You're now a vital part of the studio. Things don't feel right when you're not there, like a piece of him is missing. When you're not there he has a harder time focusing, his mind wandering to thoughts of you. Quincy has called you plenty of times begging you to come to the studio so Michael can get at least one take done.
Dangerous!Michael: You've now moved from the couch in the back to sitting at the mixers right next to Quincy. After spending so many years there, watching, observing, and learning, Quincy trusts that you know how to run some of the sessions.
Dangerous!Michael: When Michael has an idea while the two of you are at the ranch he wakes both of you up and drags you both to his home studio.
Dangerous!Michael: When he first started waking you up you were very grumpy and not happy at all. But you soon got used to his bizarre sleep schedule and found his passion admirable.
History/BotDF!Michael: You both try your best to not be stuck in the studio while making this album. You start to prioritize going out into the world and experiencing things together. But you're always ready to drop everything and go to the studio if Mike gets a good idea.
History/BotDF!Michael: When the two of you do go to the studio you always make sure things are exactly how he likes them. You dim the lights to his liking and always ALWAYS have orange juice on standby.
History/BotDF!Michael: Now that you've started helping out with making the albums you and Mike get into fights more often. Some might think that it puts a strain on your relationship, but it's the opposite.
History/BotDF!Michael: If there is a particularly bad fight, you both take a day or two to sort things out on your own before making up.
History/BotDF!Michael: You both want what's best for the other, and sometimes you need a reminder of that.
History/BotDF!Michael: On the rare occasion that he does an interview, he always credits you for helping out with the process of making the albums.
Invincible!Michael: Michael loves to say that he's been working on this album from the moment he laid eyes on you. When he first told you he was dedicating the album to you, you cried.
Invincible!Michael: This is by far the most nervous he's been when making an album, he's always looking to you to see if you like what you hear.
Invincible!Michael: Ask you to come into the sound booth with him so he can get a good look at his muse.
Invincible!Michael: Despite how freaky some of the lyrics are, you know that he's a gentleman at heart. He always checks with you to make sure you feel respected before giving the greenlight on some songs.
Invincible!Michael: Yall make out a lot during the process of this album. And I mean A LOT.
— growing up near jaafar meant you were always around him, but that also meant you were around a certain boy who would never leave you alone, a nerd, an ass, he was all the same in your eyes. but when you see him over the couple of years, you wonder, when did he get so hot?
— childhood enemies, nerd!jermajesty, fluff, suggestive themes eventually, reader and jermajesty have that “arguing to hide their feelings” type of relationship, blackfem!reader
authors note: this is all my writing, no ai in sight pls dont beat me up
taglist: @siiighrns open!
PROLOGUE — THE BEGINNING.
the sun beams down harshly on the world, causing your shirt to stick to your sweat slicked back. your arms ached from moving boxes inside your new house, you thought since you were the youngest, your mother would let you off the hook with unpacking.
that was a pipe dream.
you heave out a sigh as you slump against the cold wood floor in your bare bedroom that was surrounded with boxes. you definitely weren’t gonna try and unpack yet, you’d probably pass out.
“Lil girl, get up off this clean floor.” your mother trudges inside, hands on her hips.
you groan and slowly sit up, looking up at her with dazed eyes. “The movers are coming with your new bed and you cant be in the way when they come.” she grabs your hand and lifts you up.
“i didn’t wanna move in the first place..” you huff. “Neither did reggie.” your mother sighs and shakes her head.
you’d been sour ever since your mother packed you up and moved all the way to California, i mean, it was a nice place but you still resented leaving all your friends at your old school and neighborhood.
“I wont tell you or reggie again, i moved down here for a new job opportunity. So you and him need to suck it up. how about you go greet the neighbors?” she reaches out and cups your face. “you can make new friends just like you did back in new york.”
you pout but oblige, swiping the sweat from your hair line. you hoped your hair didn’t puff up from the heat, but you knew it did. whenever your mother straightened it, the heat always messed it up.
“and you better be nice too.” your mother warns behind you.
“i will.”
———
you stand awkwardly at the neighbors house with a basket of cookies, hyping yourself up to knock at the door.
“just greet them.. just say, ‘hi! im the next door neighbor!’” you mumble before inhaling and raising your hand, knocking against the door.
in and out.
in and out.
the door swings open and you don’t see a grown woman or man, you see a boy who’s taller than you and probably a bit older than you. “Hello?” he says.
your mouth falls open and your face heats—but not because of the sun this time. “H-Hi! um.. my name is yn, and i just moved in next door..” you point to your house.
he smiles down at you before calling out into the house. “Jermajesty! Come here!”
Who the hell?
After a moment, a boy with curly hair appears, apparently his name was Jermajesty. you look between them both.
“Are.. you guys brothers?” You ask dumbly, and the taller one laughs, nodding. “Yeah, im jaafar and this is my little brother Jermajesty.” he nudges the shorter boy.
Jermajesty scowls before looking down at you. You both seemed to be the same age. “Um… right well, these are for you.” you hold out the basket in your hand, biting your lip. “My momma made them.”
Jaafar hums and takes the basket. “Thank you, we’ll be sure to enjoy them.”
you smile for the first time and nod before turning around and scurrying away.
———
JERMAJESTY POV.
later in the day, when he was laying on his bed after eating dinner, he thought about the girl with the smooth skin and big brown eyes. they way she looked nervous.
she was cute, her two ponytails decorated with two bows. the sun had shined down and made her skin glow like gold.
he couldn’t stop thinking about the girl, she barely gave him two glances but still, his heart beat picked up when she smiled. Not at him, but at his brother.
he sighed. “Damn Jaafar.” he huffs.
he had plenty of crushes on girls before, all of them short and fizzled out quickly.
but had a feeling deep in his gut, the same feeling that came over him when saw your cute face.
Synopsis: Being Michaels girlfriends means you get the privilege of spending many late nights in the studio with him over the years.
Era: Goes through all of them!!
Content: Pure fluff. Established relationship.
Masterlist
OTW!Michael: When the two of you start dating he's hesitant to invite you to the studio while he's working. He always nervous that you won't like his music or you'll get bored.
OTW!Michael: Can't help but watch you from the booth, eyes tracing over your face carefully determining how you feel about the music. He gets jittery when he knows you're listening to him running through his songs.
OTW!Michael: Always makes sure you're comfortable, asking through the sound system if the couch is soft enough. He asks if you're hungry or thirsty. He always seems to have your favorite drink stocked in the fridge.
OTW!Michael: When things get hard for Michael, you're always there to kiss his cheek or tell him he's doing a good job.
Thriller!Michael: Starts getting more comfortable with you hanging around the studio. You become a integral part of the space, your presence always calming him down when he gets frustrated.
Thriller!Michael: Who winks at you everytime he records or re-records PYT. Before each punch in he calls to you from the booth, "This is for my very own pretty young thing." And gives you a wink. You always get flustered
Thriller!Michael: Gets thrilled when you start asking him questions about how things work. He'll spend hours teaching you different mechanisms and techniques that he and quincy use. Always smiles when he sees you light up after Quincy let's you hit the big red start button.
Thriller!Michael: When things start to get stressful he always sits closer to you on the couch. If he and Quincy are butting heads he's the first thing he reaches for. He'll either grab your hand or your thigh, like your his anchor. You always squeeze his hand and make sure he's okay, often stepping out into the hallway with you.
Thriller!Michael: Who always always always includes you in the recording of each song in someway. Has you do small harmonies or has the your voice humming the instrumental lightly.
Bad!Michael: He starts asking you more about how you feel about his demo's. He trusts that you've been around long enough to know what may be missing from his songs.
Bad!Michael: Get's way more flirtatious in the studio, always smirking at your or getting you worked up before he locks himself in the sound booth.
Bad!Michael: Session's become way longer, often going long into the night and into the early morning. You refuse to leave until he does, making sure that you're with him through all of the stress.
Bad!Michael: The two of you often curl up on the couch together, taking quick power naps after pulling all nighters working. He pulls you on top of him, wrapping you up in his arms.
Bad!Michael: Gets a lot snappier with everyone in the room, including you. You know it's the pressure of following the success of Thriller, but when he snaps at you for playing around you can't help but deflate slightly. He always apologizes afterwards and makes it up to you by treating you to a nice dinner.
Dangerous!Michael: You're now a vital part of the studio. Things don't feel right when you're not there, like a piece of him is missing. When you're not there he has a harder time focusing, his mind wandering to thoughts of you. Quincy has called you plenty of times begging you to come to the studio so Michael can get at least one take done.
Dangerous!Michael: You've now moved from the couch in the back to sitting at the mixers right next to Quincy. After spending so many years there, watching, observing, and learning, Quincy trusts that you know how to run some of the sessions.
Dangerous!Michael: When Michael has an idea while the two of you are at the ranch he wakes both of you up and drags you both to his home studio.
Dangerous!Michael: When he first started waking you up you were very grumpy and not happy at all. But you soon got used to his bizarre sleep schedule and found his passion admirable.
History/BotDF!Michael: You both try your best to not be stuck in the studio while making this album. You start to prioritize going out into the world and experiencing things together. But you're always ready to drop everything and go to the studio if Mike gets a good idea.
History/BotDF!Michael: When the two of you do go to the studio you always make sure things are exactly how he likes them. You dim the lights to his liking and always ALWAYS have orange juice on standby.
History/BotDF!Michael: Now that you've started helping out with making the albums you and Mike get into fights more often. Some might think that it puts a strain on your relationship, but it's the opposite.
History/BotDF!Michael: If there is a particularly bad fight, you both take a day or two to sort things out on your own before making up.
History/BotDF!Michael: You both want what's best for the other, and sometimes you need a reminder of that.
History/BotDF!Michael: On the rare occasion that he does an interview, he always credits you for helping out with the process of making the albums.
Invincible!Michael: Michael loves to say that he's been working on this album from the moment he laid eyes on you. When he first told you he was dedicating the album to you, you cried.
Invincible!Michael: This is by far the most nervous he's been when making an album, he's always looking to you to see if you like what you hear.
Invincible!Michael: Ask you to come into the sound booth with him so he can get a good look at his muse.
Invincible!Michael: Despite how freaky some of the lyrics are, you know that he's a gentleman at heart. He always checks with you to make sure you feel respected before giving the greenlight on some songs.
Invincible!Michael: Yall make out a lot during the process of this album. And I mean A LOT.
