Welcome to "The Unsweetened Truth," a haven for those who crave raw and authentic romance narratives featuring Black protagonists. As the author behind these narratives, I invite you to join me on a journey where the stories reflect my real life with a giant sprinkle of delusion. But be warned: the content found within these pages is intended for mature audiences only, with themes and imagery that reflect the complexities of adult relationships. So, take a seat, immerse yourself in the stories, and discover the unfiltered beauty of romance through the eyes of Black protagonists. And remember, all content is exclusive to this platform, protected under #unsweetimagines—because some truths are meant to be savored, not shared.
* indicates smut
The Adored One (Complete)*
Nereyda is a member of the Doras—a marginalized class whose purpose is solely for pleasure. But Nereyda is no ordinary Dora; she holds a special place as the chosen companion of Prince T'Challa.
The Adored One* | Giving You the Best | Warmth* | What You Won't Do* | On Your Mind | All This Love | Yours*
Who Hurt You (One Shot)*
T'Challa, the esteemed leader of Wakanda, ventures into the dimly lit confines of a hidden establishment, not as a king, but as a man driven by his own desires. There he finds you.
Come Sit On My Lap (One Shot)*
T'Challa isn't paying enough attention to you so you decide to go out without him. You're not ready for the repercussions.
Promises (Complete)*
Erik left more than just his girl behind. It was time to keep some of his promises.
ִֶָ۶ৎ˖ִ ˚ lakers cheerleader | michael jackson ۶ৎ˖ִ ˚
pairing: !1983 m.jackson x !lakers cheerleader reader
synopsis: michael attends a lakers game and can’t stop watching one of the cheerleaders. after the game, bill forces him to introduce himself, and they immediately click.
cw: fluff
he’d arrive fully intending to watch. he’d clap when everyone else clapped, stand when everyone else stood, cheer when something exciting happened on the court. and by the time he got home, the entire thing had blurred together into noise and bright lights and the occasional memory of somebody scoring.
years later, if somebody asked him about a lakers game he attended in 1983, he wouldn’t remember the final score, but he would remember you.
it started sometime during the first quarter.
the cheerleaders ran onto the floor during a timeout, the crowd’s attention shifting away from the game for a few minutes. michael watched absentmindedly at first. there wasn’t any particular reason his eyes settled on you. there wasn’t some dramatic moment where the rest of the arena disappeared.
he just looked, and then looked again.
by halftime, bill had noticed. of course he had. bill noticed everything.
“you know they’re playing basketball down there, right?”
michael glanced away from the court immediately.
“i am watching.”
“mhm.” bill didn’t even sound convinced.
michael hated that, mostly because bill was right.
the second half wasn’t much better. every time the cheerleaders came back onto the floor, michael’s attention wandered. he found himself looking for you before he even realized he was doing it.
you always seemed to be smiling. that was what stayed with him more than anything else. the arena was loud, crowded, exhausting, and you looked like you were having the time of your life up there.
one time, while another cheerleader was talking to you during a break, you laughed so hard you nearly missed your cue.
michael smiled without meaning to, and bill caught that too.
the lakers won. the crowd exploded. people started heading toward the exits while reporters swarmed the players.
through all of it, michael caught one last glimpse of you disappearing into a hallway beneath the arena.
that should have been the end of the story, but instead, bill stood up.
michael already knew that look.
it was the same look bill got whenever he had decided something was happening regardless of anyone else’s opinion.
“don’t.”
“i haven’t said anything.” bill said, while he adjusted his jacket.
“you don’t have to.”
five minutes later, michael was following him through the lower level of the forum while questioning every decision that had brought him to this point.
the hallway was quieter than the arena above. voices echoed somewhere in the distance. staff members passed carrying equipment and boxes. every step made michael more certain this was a terrible idea.
then they turned a corner, and there you were.
you were sitting in a folding chair near one of the dressing rooms, one sneaker already untied while you searched through your gym bag.
for a second michael just stared. he’d spent the entire evening accidentally looking at you from across an arena filled with thousands of people, and somehow standing ten feet away felt worse.
you looked up and your expression changed almost immediately.
recognition, surprise, then a smile. a real one. the kind people gave when they were genuinely happy to see someone.
“hi.”
michael had spoken to world leaders, he’d performed in front of packed stadiums, he’d accepted awards on national television, but for some reason, that single word nearly got stuck in his throat.
“hi,” you said back.
there was a brief pause, but it wasn’t not awkward exactly. just two people trying to figure out the next sentence.
“did you enjoy the game?” you asked, looking at him in the eyes.
bill made a suspicious noise beside him, one that sounded like a giggle.
michael ignored him.
“yeah.”
“really?” you tilted your head slightly.
something in your voice made him suspicious.
“what’s that supposed to mean?”
“nothing.” your smile widened.
“you weren’t watching half the time.” you eventually said, smiling.
michael blinked, and you laughed immediately. the sound of your laughter bounced off the hallway walls.
“you should’ve seen your face.”
“my face?”
“every timeout.”
bill turned away, and that was all the confirmation michael needed. you looked far too pleased with yourself.
“i can’t believe you noticed.”
“i was on the floor.” you giggled
“there’s not much else to do besides notice the celebrity sitting courtside.”
the conversation somehow became easier after that, but not because either of you stopped being nervous, but because neither of you seemed to mind.
you asked him about touring, and he asked how long you’d been cheering for the lakers, then you told him about balancing rehearsals with classes, and he told you he’d spent most of his life in rehearsals too. every answer seemed to lead naturally into another question.
at some point michael stopped wondering what to say next, and eventually another cheerleader appeared down the hallway and called your name.
you glanced over your shoulder, then back at him.
“that’s my ride.”
for a second, neither of you moved. the conversation had lasted maybe fifteen minutes, but it felt much shorter.
“well,” you said, adjusting your bag onto your shoulder, “next time try watching the game.”
michael laughed.
“i’ll work on that.”
you smiled one last time before walking away, and michael watched until you disappeared around the corner. then kept looking for another second anyway. when he finally turned around, bill was waiting.
“did you get her number?” bill asked, raising his eyebrow.
the silence answered for him, and bill closed his eyes.
“michael.” bill sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.
𝙖𝙡𝙤𝙙𝙞𝙚'𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙚𝙨. oh and ladies, that mf be manipulative asf too... js remember that. anyways here a little blurb for yall <3
❤︎. 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒖𝒏𝒏𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒅𝒊𝒗𝒐𝒓𝒄𝒆 is that nobody tells you what happens after. nobody tells you that your ex husband will still show up at your front door every Friday at six o'clock to pick up your daughter.
nobody tells you that he'll still knock even though he has a key, because he has your key. he kept it. And you never asked for it back.
maybe because you forgot, maybe because you didn't care, maybe because some tiny, embarrassing part of you couldn't handle another thing disappearing from your life.
a knock comes at the door right on time. ofcourse. Michael was never late when it came to his daughter. You open it And there he is.
There is that same face that used to make you forget every reason you were angry.
"Daddy!" Michaella runs past you before you can even say hello. Michael's whole expression changes. Every ounce of the world's biggest superstar disappears, and he's just a father. "Hey, princess." He drops down immediately, picking her up. "Y' been good for mama?" a tiny nod. "Good girl." and you stand there. Watching, because despite everything...
despite the papers, the arguments, the nights you spent crying over the man standing in your doorway—he is still a good father... a damn good one then his eyes find yours, and everything changes.
that little smile disappears and there's a sadness there now, sadness that wasn't there when you first met him. "Hey." a simple word and somehow the hardest one. "Hi."
"How y' been?" You actually amost laugh, almost. Because that is such a Michael question.
like he doesn't already know the answer, like he doesn't have people asking about you, like he didn't spend the last year wondering. "I'm fine." a lie. You both know it. "That's good." another lie. He's not glad that's all you gave him. He wanted more.
He always wants more. "Michaella, go get your teddy, baby. Daddy's gonna wait right here, okay?" the little girl runs off, and now it's just you again. Just like it used to be. You cross your arms. "Get our daughter, Michael. Keep her safe. Bring her back Sunday."
Cold & professional right? like he's a babysitter. not the man you spent years loving.His face falls for half a second. Only half.Because he's learned how to hide it. "That's all y' got to say to me?"
"What else is there to say?" He looks at you. really desperate. and fuck. You hate that he still does that.like he's reading every thought you've ever had. "a lot."
"Michael, There isn't."
"There is."
"Michael—"
"I miss y'." and silence hits. ofcourse, ofcourse he would say it like that, Just throw the grenade into the room and watch what happens. Your jaw tightens. "Don't say that."
"Why?"
"Because it doesn't matter."
"It matters to me." Your heart betrays you. You hate him for still having that effect. "We divorced."
"I know." He hates that you keep mentioning it. "We ended for a reason."
"I know."
"Then stop looking at me like that." That one catches him. His eyes soften. "Like what?"
"Like I'm still your wife." The room goes quiet. and the answer takes too long, Way tooooo long.Then—"Because in my head..." His voice drops, almost ashamed. "Some days, y' still are." You close your eyes, because that was unfair. So unfair. "Michael."
"I know." and for once, no arguments, no charming smile.Just a broken man standing in your doorway."I know I don't get to say that anymore." And somehow that's what hurts the most. a tiny voice interrupts. "Daddy, teddy!" Michaella comes running back.
And just like that, the moment is over. Michael wipes his face quickly. He picks her up and walks to the door. Then he stops. His hand rests on the handle.
The same hand that used to unlock this house every night.The same hand that still has your key. He turns around. "I still got it, y' know." You frown. "Got..what?" a small smile, a sad one. "The key." Your throat tightens. "Michael—"
"I know i should give it back." He looks around your home. his old home. The place where he held his daughter for the first time. Where he kissed you in the kitchen. Where he promised forever. "I just..." He swallows. "Couldn't make myself do it." And for the first time in a year... you don't tell him to leave.
For The Cameras (Chapter 11: The Weight Of Knowing)
Pairing: Michael Jackson x fem!reader
Chapter: 11/?
(Click for previous chapters: One / Two / Three / Four / Five / Six / Seven / Eight / Nine / Ten)
Tags: fake / contract relationship, slow burn, strangers to friends to lovers, romance, hurt/comfort, not actually unrequited love, mutual pining, mutual admiration, angst with a happy ending, idiots in love
Summary:
Michael Jackson is no stranger to rumors, but when increasingly invasive articles begin dissecting his private life, even he starts to feel the weight of the headlines.
At the same time, Hollywood's favorite leading lady is growing tired of being reduced to pretty smiles and successful romance films while her dreams of becoming a serious actress remain firmly out of reach.
A carefully negotiated relationship offers a solution to both of their problems. For Michael, it provides a much-needed shift in public perception. For you, it opens doors that have always remained frustratingly out of reach. It's mutually beneficial, protected by a contract, and entirely for the cameras.
At least, that's what it's supposed to be.
October 1986
The cigarette had burned down further than you'd intended.
That happened sometimes when your thoughts wandered far enough, when the distance between where your mind was and where the rest of you had become large enough that small things like cigarettes and the passage of time stopped registering entirely.
The ashtray on the windowsill was already full of evidence that this had been happening quite a lot lately.
You watched the ash grow longer without really seeing it. Outside, Los Angeles went about its morning with complete indifference to the specific shape of your silence, traffic moving steadily along the street below, someone's radio drifting up from a window somewhere, the sounds of a city that didn't know and didn't particularly need to know.
A week.
It had been a week since the phone call. Since the careful measured voice and the practical language and the arrangement has run its course and the soft I'm sorry that had somehow made everything hurt more rather than less.
A week since you'd heard his voice.
You had tried calling yesterday. Once. Bill had answered and told you politely that Michael wasn't available, and something in the specific courtesy of it, the way Bill's voice had carried a different quality than his usual warmth, had told you everything you needed to know about whether trying again would produce a different result.
So you hadn't.
The unfairness of it moved through you in waves that arrived and receded and arrived again without ever fully resolving. Not the magazine, not the accusation, not even the dissolution papers John had brought earlier that week. Those things were painful but they were also comprehensible, each one the predictable consequence of a situation that had spiraled past anyone's original intentions.
What felt unfair was the silence.
Because whatever else had happened between you, whatever the magazine had done and whatever conclusions his fear had driven him toward, you had been his friend first. You had been his friend genuinely and completely and with none of the performance that had characterized everything else about the arrangement. The phone calls, the evenings, the conversations that wandered nowhere and arrived somewhere real anyway, none of that had been manufactured.
He knew that. He had to know that.
And yet the phone hadn't rung.
You turned the thought over, the way you had been turning it over for seven days, looking for the angle at which it would stop hurting quite so much. Trying to find the version of the story in which the silence made sense.
And every time, without fail, you found it.
Because you knew him. You knew the specific weight of his distrust and the years it had taken to build it and the particular devastation of having someone you cherished appear in a magazine doing the exact thing every woman before her had done. You knew what that felt like from the outside because you had watched him carry it. You knew it from the inside because he had told you.
So when your mind tried to settle into self-pity, when it reached for the comfort of a grievance you were entitled to, it kept arriving instead at the same place.
He was hurting. He was frightened. He was a person whose wounds had been reopened by something that looked, from where he was standing, like the pattern he had been trying to escape his entire adult life.
You couldn't be angry at him for that.
You had tried. On the third day you had genuinely tried, had sat on this couch with Casper across your lap and deliberately assembled the list of things that were unfair. The accusation. The money comment. The phone call. The silence.
Every time you arrived at something that should have made you angry, your mind quietly offered the counterargument before you could even finish forming the thought.
He accused you of taking money because the women who came before you actually had.
He ended things over the phone because he needed space and he told you that honestly.
He hasn't called because he's in pain and doesn't know how to be in pain and you of all people understand what that looks like.
You had eventually given up trying to be angry and simply sat with the sadness instead, which was less useful but at least more honest.
The pain arrived before you registered what had happened, a sharp bright sting across the back of your knuckles that snapped you out of your thoughts so completely that for a moment you simply stared at your own hand in confusion.
The cigarette had burned all the way down while you weren't paying attention and the ash had fallen onto your skin.
"Oh."
You stubbed it out quickly in the ashtray, adding it to the considerable collection already accumulated there, then moved to the sink and held your hand under cool running water. The sting subsided gradually. You dried your hand and found a band-aid in the bathroom cabinet, wrapped it carefully around your finger, then stood for a moment in the small quiet of the bathroom looking at nothing in particular.
Then you remembered the kettle.
You had put it on before the cigarette had claimed your attention entirely. It had probably been whistling at some point while you were somewhere else entirely in your head, the sound simply not reaching you.
The water was still hot. You poured it over the teabag and watched the color bloom slowly through the cup.
It was only as you were carrying the mug back to the couch, wrapping both hands around its warmth, that you noticed what you had just done.
The kettle.
Not the microwave. The kettle, sitting on the stove exactly where it had lived ever since a few months ago. You had used it automatically. Without thinking. Without any of the mild resentment that had once accompanied the action whenever he was standing in your kitchen lecturing you about the proper preparation of tea with the seriousness of a man who had decided this was his personal cause.
You had simply used it. Because that was what you did now.
You stood in the kitchen doorway holding your mug and looking at the kettle for a moment longer than was strictly necessary.
His fingerprints were everywhere. Not literally. But in the small accumulated ways that a person left themselves behind in the life of someone who had let them in completely.
The kettle.
The first edition sitting on your shelf that he had borrowed and returned with such careful reverence that you had laughed at him for treating it like a museum artifact.
The keyboard he had declared was now “ours” and which had never left your house.
The specific arrangement of your bookshelves, reorganized during one of his visits when he had been unable to help himself and you had pretended to object while secretly finding the result considerably more intuitive than the system you had previously employed.
Casper, asleep on the armchair, who pressed his nose against Michael's shoes within three seconds of his arrival every single time.
He had woven himself into the fabric of your daily life with such complete and natural ease that his absence now showed up in every corner of it, standing out the way a missing piece stands out in a familiar pattern, obvious and impossible to ignore once you started looking.
You stopped looking.
You carried your tea to the couch, sat down, and took a slow sip. Your eyes landed on the dissolution papers on the coffee table.
John had come three days ago.
You hadn't been surprised to find him at your door. The dissolution papers required delivery and John Branca was not the kind of man who delegated things he considered important. You had stepped back to let him in and noticed immediately that he couldn't quite meet your eyes, which was unusual enough to register. John was a man who had built an entire career on the ability to look at difficult situations directly without flinching.
He placed the folder on your coffee table and opened it without preamble, which you appreciated. You didn't want preamble. You wanted it done.
The document itself was straightforward. The contract between you was formally dissolved. The financial penalties outlined in the original agreement would not be pursued. Both parties were released from their obligations with immediate effect.
You read everything carefully before signing. Not because you expected anything unexpected but because signing things without reading them was a habit you had never been able to develop regardless of circumstances.
Then you signed.
John gathered the folder and snapped it shut and stood, and you had the distinct impression that he was relieved to have that part finished. You were too.
You walked him toward the door.
He had almost reached it when he stopped.
For a moment he simply stood there with his briefcase in both hands, looking at the door rather than at you, and you waited because something in his posture suggested he hadn't finished yet.
Then he turned around.
He looked at you properly for the first time since arriving. The discomfort he'd been carrying since he walked in hadn't disappeared, but something else had joined it. Something that looked, on John Branca's face, almost like an apology.
"I've been informed about the court case," he said.
You nodded. Your lawyer had told you as much. John followed everything involving his client's name in a legal context with the thoroughness of someone who understood that information was the most important currency available to him.
"I'm in touch with your lawyer."
Another nod.
John was quiet for a moment. Then he said: "I believe you."
The words arrived simply. Without elaboration or performance.
"I never believed you said those things."
You opened your mouth. You wanted to tell him he didn't have to do this. That you weren't asking for his validation or his absolution or his explanation of anyone else's behavior. That you had made your peace with the situation as best you could and didn't need it unpacked by someone else on your behalf.
But John continued before you could find the words.
"What was done to that interview was deliberate and it was wrong." A pause. "And what was said to you in that studio was said from a place of hurt rather than from a place of certainty."
"John." You shook your head gently. "You don't have to."
"I know." He held your gaze. "I also know that a tell-all interview of the kind he accused you of giving would have paid you somewhere in the range of five figures at most. If that."
You were quiet.
"Barely six figures in an exceptional case." His voice remained measured. Professional. Stating facts rather than defending anyone. "Which would not have represented any meaningful financial benefit to someone at your level of career."
You looked at him.
"And I know," he continued, with the careful precision of a man who had spent decades saying important things in rooms where every word mattered, "that the legal fees you are currently paying to pursue this case are significantly more than that amount."
The apartment was very quiet.
"Which means," John said, with the same flat professional certainty he brought to everything, "that you are currently losing money in order to clear his name."
Neither of you spoke for a moment.
You looked at John Branca, standing in your hallway with his briefcase in his hands, and felt something shift in your chest. Not relief exactly. Not vindication. Something quieter than either of those things.
Simply the strange unexpected comfort of being seen accurately by someone who didn't have to look.
You stepped forward and put your arms around him.
The hug was brief and slightly awkward in the way that hugs between people who don't usually hug tend to be, and John accepted it with the stiff dignity of a man who was touched and would never admit it.
When you stepped back he gave you one last look. Something in it that you suspected was as close to compassion as John's expression ever traveled.
Then he picked up his briefcase, turned toward the door, and left.
The tea had cooled slightly by the time your thoughts returned to it.
You took another sip anyway. Outside, the light had begun its slow shift toward noon, the particular gold of Los Angeles falling through the windows and settling across the floor in long warm rectangles.
Casper stirred on the armchair, relocated himself to the couch beside you with the focused determination of an animal conducting important business, and pressed his nose against your arm before settling.
You put your hand on his back.
The court case was progressing. Your lawyer had called that morning with an update that was cautiously optimistic, the kind of update that meant things were moving in the right direction without being reckless enough to promise anything.
You were doing what you could do.
Michael wasn't calling.
Both of those things were true simultaneously and you had been living inside that particular combination for a week now, navigating the space between them as carefully as you could manage.
You took another sip of tea.
Outside, Los Angeles continued.
–
November 1986
The weeks that followed had a specific texture to them that was difficult to describe to anyone who hadn't lived inside something similar.
Not dramatic. Not acute. Just quietly, persistently difficult in the way that only certain kinds of loss managed to be, the kind that didn't arrive all at once but accumulated instead, adding weight to ordinary moments until even small things like making tea or sitting in a familiar chair carried a heaviness they hadn't possessed before.
You threw yourself into the court case.
It was the only thing that helped. Not because it distracted you from missing him, nothing quite managed that, but because it gave the missing somewhere useful to go. Every morning you sat with your lawyer's latest correspondence. Every afternoon you reviewed documents, answered questions, provided additional context wherever the legal team needed it. The case was building methodically and your lawyer's cautious optimism had solidified into something that felt increasingly like genuine confidence.
You held onto that.
The rest of the time you read. More than usual, considerably more, working through the stack of books on your nightstand with the focused determination of someone using literature as architecture, building walls out of other people's words to keep the quietest hours manageable.
Friends called occasionally. You answered, met them for coffee when the alternative felt too isolating, kept everything surface level because the full truth was too complicated and too private and too much to ask anyone to hold.
When your agent called about events, premieres, industry functions, the usual obligations of a career that continued existing regardless of your personal circumstances, you declined almost everything. Sick, you told him. A prior commitment, you told him. Something vague enough to deflect without requiring elaboration.
He didn't push. He had known you long enough to recognize when pushing would produce nothing useful.
Casper remained the most uncomplicated part of your days. He asked for nothing except breakfast and dinner and the occasional confirmation that your lap was still available, and he gave back the particular steady comfort of a creature who had survived considerable difficulty himself and seemed to understand, in the wordless way animals sometimes did, that presence was the most valuable thing on offer.
You were grateful for him in ways that would have sounded absurd to anyone who hadn't spent enough time alone to understand what it meant to come home to something that was genuinely glad you were there.
Then the tabloids found the silence.
It took approximately three weeks before the absence of photographs became a story in itself. Three weeks of no red carpets, no restaurant sightings, no carefully orchestrated appearances outside buildings while Frank's strategically positioned photographers captured moments of effortless romance for the entertainment pages.
Three weeks was long enough.
TROUBLE IN PARADISE? MICHAEL AND Y/N NOT SEEN TOGETHER IN WEEKS
SOURCES SAY JACKSON ROMANCE ON THE ROCKS AMID INTERVIEW CONTROVERSYIS IT OVER?
AMERICA'S FAVORITE COUPLE CONSPICUOUSLY ABSENT FROM LA SOCIAL SCENE
You read them the way you had learned to read things that couldn't hurt you if you maintained the right distance. Quickly. Without lingering. Setting them down before the words had fully landed.
Some were simply speculative, the breathless relationship journalism that filled column inches without requiring evidence of anything except an absence. Those were manageable.
Others were not.
Y/N FOLLOWS IN FOOTSTEPS OF MICHAEL'S EXES: DID SHE SELL HIM OUT?
THE REAL Y/N: HOW AMERICA'S SWEETHEART BROKE THE KING OF POP'S HEART
You read those more slowly. Not because you wanted to but because your eyes moved across them before your better judgment could intervene, absorbing sentences that described you in terms you didn't recognize, assembling a version of events that bore almost no relationship to anything that had actually happened.
The reputation you had spent years building carefully, the America's Sweetheart the magazines had decided you were and which you had never entirely believed but had nonetheless benefited from, was being dismantled in the same publications that had constructed it.
Efficiently. Without ceremony.
With the particular appetite that the entertainment press reserved for people whose fall made for better sales than their rise.
You said nothing publicly.
Your lawyer advised against it and you agreed with his reasoning, but the truth was that you would have said nothing regardless. Not because silence was comfortable but because there was nothing to say that wouldn't make things worse, and you had learned long ago that the most dignified response to being misrepresented was often simply to wait for the truth to catch up.
You were waiting.
–
Across the city, Michael was not sleeping.
The insomnia had settled in during the first week after the phone call and showed no signs of relocating. He lay in the dark for hours most nights, his thoughts circling the same territory repeatedly with the relentless efficiency of something that had been given nowhere else to go, until eventually he gave up and went to the studio instead because at least there the sleeplessness had something to occupy it.
The album was nearly finished. He worked on it with an obsessiveness that his family had begun to notice and that he couldn't entirely explain even to himself, filling every available hour with recording sessions and revisions and the particular kind of perfectionism that was sometimes genuine artistic commitment and sometimes simply the most productive available alternative to thinking too hard about everything else.
He had finished recording Bad.
The song sat in its completed form now, waiting, and he played it back more times than was strictly necessary because listening to it required his full attention and full attention meant the other thoughts had to wait their turn.
He would soon leave for New York to record the short film for it and a part of him was glad to physically get away from California.
He had been receiving his usual weekly collection of mail for review, and somewhere around the second week the tabloids had started appearing with increasing frequency, their headlines making the absence of sightings of you both into a public story with a clear villain and a clear victim and very little resemblance to anything he recognized as the truth.
He read them the way he had always read things written about him. Carefully at first, then with growing discomfort, then with the particular hollow feeling that accompanied seeing someone he cared about reduced to a headline.
Your name, attached to words like betrayal and calculated and following in the footsteps of his exes.
Your reputation, the one that had been part of why he had thought of you in the first place, being dismantled piece by piece in publications that had once devoted covers to you.
He thought about how you must be reading those articles. Alone, probably, with Casper somewhere nearby. With the same quiet composure you brought to everything difficult, absorbing it without making anyone else responsible for managing it.
The thought made him feel genuinely terrible.
On more than one night, lying awake while the house settled around him and Hayvenhurst went quiet, he reached for the telephone.
He got as far as lifting the receiver twice.
Once he dialed three digits before stopping.
Each time he put it back down and lay there staring at the ceiling instead, telling himself that calling you was not the right thing to do yet, that he needed to be certain before he said anything, that reaching out without certainty would only make things worse for both of you.
He told himself these things with decreasing conviction as the nights accumulated.
Your arguments from the studio kept returning to him. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Simply with the quiet persistence of things that were true and that he already knew were true and could not stop knowing no matter how many times he tried to set them aside.
The meeting at Hayvenhurst before the interview. John and Frank in the room helping to approve questions that weren't the questions printed above your answers.
Why would you have arranged that meeting if you intended to betray him?He still had no answer to that ever recurring question. He had been looking for one for weeks and it stubbornly refused to appear.
He thought about the phone call. About your voice when you'd asked if you could meet, just once, to talk properly. The gentleness of it. The complete absence of anger. The way you had simply accepted his answer and said okay and meant it.
He thought about how he had said no.
He thought about that more than he wanted to.
Downstairs one evening, his mother asked him if he was alright with the particular careful phrasing she used when the answer was already obvious and she simply wanted him to know she had noticed.
He told her he was fine.
She looked at him for a moment with the expression she had been giving him since he was small, the one that meant she knew perfectly well he wasn't fine and was choosing to let him arrive at honesty in his own time.
Then she squeezed his hand and went back to whatever she had been doing.
Nobody else commented. But the looks his brothers exchanged when they thought he wasn't watching said enough.
Hayvenhurst had a different quality to it lately. Not worse exactly. Just quieter in a way that had nothing to do with noise levels and everything to do with the specific absence of something that had gradually, without anyone formally announcing it, become part of the rhythm of the place.
Michael noticed.
He suspected everyone else noticed too.
He simply didn't know yet what to do about it.
–
The calendar on your lawyer's wall said the fourteenth of November, which meant it had been just over six weeks since the morning you had woken up to your agent's excited phone call and a courier at your door and a magazine that had seemed, for approximately twenty minutes, like one of the best things to happen to your career in years.
Six weeks.
You sat in the familiar chair across from your lawyer's desk and turned that number over in your mind while he organized the papers in front of him. Six weeks since the magazine. Six weeks since Hayvenhurst. Five weeks since the phone call and the dissolution papers and John standing in your hallway telling you you were losing money to clear someone else's name.
It felt simultaneously much longer and much shorter than that.
Your lawyer looked up. For the first time since you had walked into his office weeks ago with barely contained fury and a very clear account of what had been done to your interview, he looked genuinely content.
"Well, we won our case."
The words landed simply. You exhaled slowly. You already knew you’d won. That was the very reason you were here today.
"Tell me everything."
He opened the folder in front of him and leaned forward slightly.
"Aurora's legal team pushed back hard initially. Harder than I expected, honestly." He tapped one of the pages. "Their position was that the editorial decisions made around your answers constituted standard journalistic practice and fell within their protected rights as a publication."
You raised an eyebrow. "Standard practice."
"Their words." He didn't look particularly impressed by them either. "They argued that rearranging the order of interview questions for narrative flow was a common editorial technique and that the framing around your answers represented opinion rather than fact."
"Opinion," you repeated.
"Opinion." He nodded. "Which would have been a defensible argument in some cases. The problem for them was the pre-approved question list."
He slid a document across the desk toward you. You recognized it immediately. The list of questions provided by Aurora to you before the interview took place so you could circle the ones you wanted to be asked.
"This was the deciding factor," he said. "Because Aurora had access to that document before the interview took place. They knew which questions had been approved. They proceeded to print entirely different questions above your answers anyway. That's not editorial flow. That's deliberate misrepresentation of a documented agreement."
"And the recordings?"
He smiled slightly. "The recordings were what made their position completely untenable. Once we obtained the original audio through discovery, we had a verbatim record of every question actually asked and every answer actually given. Comparing that to what was printed removed any remaining ambiguity about intent."
He folded his hands together. "At that point their lawyers advised them to settle rather than take it to a full trial. Which, given the evidence, was the only rational decision available to them."
You nodded slowly. "How long did cases like this usually take?"
“Usually anywhere starting from two months." He looked at you with something approaching professional admiration. "But we had everything we needed from the beginning, so we had a strong case right from the start. It was simply a matter of building the case methodically enough that their team couldn't find a foothold."
You simply nodded. “Thank you for your efforts.”
He smiled, then reached for another page.
"The penalties."
You straightened slightly.
"The court has ordered Aurora to compensate Michael Jackson in the amount of one million and two hundred thousand dollars." He glanced up briefly. "Given the demonstrable reputational damage during a major album release period and the deliberate nature of the misrepresentation, the judge was not lenient."
Something warm moved through your chest. Good.
"Your compensation has been set at three hundred thousand dollars."
He slid the relevant document toward you.
You looked at it for a moment. Then looked up at him.
"Add my portion to his."
Your lawyer paused. A brief pause, professional and contained, the kind that communicated surprise without performing it.
"You want to redirect your entire settlement to Mr. Jackson?"
"Yes."
He looked at you for just a moment longer than strictly necessary. Then he picked up his pen and made a note without commenting.
"That brings his total compensation to one million and five hundred thousand dollars." He wrote the figure down. "I'll have the paperwork amended accordingly."
You nodded. He moved on.
"In addition to the financial compensation, the court has ordered Aurora to publish a formal retraction." He turned another page. "The retraction must appear in the same publication, in the same section, with comparable prominence to the original feature. It cannot be buried."
"What does it have to say?"
"Specifically." He read from the document. "That the questions printed above the interviewee's answers did not reflect the questions actually asked during the recorded interview. That the editorial framing applied to the interviewee's responses created implications that were not supported by and were inconsistent with the content of the original recorded conversation. And that the resulting feature constituted a misrepresentation of both the interviewee's statements and the private life of Michael Jackson."
He looked up.
"They are also required to publish a public apology to both you and Michael Jackson by name."
You were quiet for a moment.
"And they have to print all of that."
"In full. Under legal obligation." He closed the folder. "If they fail to comply within the specified timeframe, the penalties increase significantly."
You sat back in your chair.
For the first time in six weeks, something that had been wound very tightly somewhere beneath your ribs loosened slightly. Not completely. Not enough to feel like relief exactly. But enough.
Enough to breathe.
"Good," you said quietly.
Your lawyer nodded once. "I'll handle the remaining paperwork and be in touch when everything is finalized."
You thanked him. Shook his hand. Gathered your things.
On your way out, you paused in the doorway.
"The recordings," you said. "Now that the case is concluded. Is there anything I need to do with them?"
He shook his head. "They'll remain as part of the legal record. Copies are available to both parties if wanted."
You considered that for a moment. Your own voice on a tape, answering questions you had answered honestly and carefully and within every agreed term, your words wrapped in implications you had never intended.
"I don't want them," you said. "I don't want any reminder of that magazine. I just want to move past it."
He nodded. "Understood."
You stepped out into the November afternoon.
The air outside was cool in the specific way Los Angeles air became cool in November, not cold exactly, just no longer warm, a subtle shift that most people from other places would barely register but that felt significant to anyone who had spent enough years in a city where seasons arrived gently rather than dramatically.
You stood on the pavement outside your lawyer's office for a moment, your bag over your shoulder, and simply breathed.
Done.
The word settled over you quietly. Not triumphantly. Not with the particular satisfaction of a victory that felt uncomplicated. Simply with the specific exhausted relief of something finished that had needed to be finished.
You had done what you came to do.
His name was cleared. The record existed. The magazine would have to print its retraction and its apology and live with the public acknowledgment of what it had done, and whatever else happened or didn't happen, that part was no longer in question.
You had done the right thing. Even when it was painful. Even when it cost you things.
That had to be enough.
You thought back to your own schedule.
Your agent had been calling with increasing frequency over the past few weeks as your consecutive refusals of every event and appearance on his calendar had presumably begun to alarm him in a professional capacity. You would call him back eventually. Not today.
At some point a few days ago you had turned on the television in the evening, looking for something mindless to fill the quiet, and had found instead a brief segment of entertainment news showing Michael at some promotional appearance in New York. A press event of some kind, the details of which you hadn't fully absorbed because your attention had narrowed immediately to his face, to the practiced ease with which he moved through public spaces, to the fact that he was there and you were here and several thousand miles of distance existed between you.
You had turned the television off.
But the image had stayed.
There was something almost comforting about him being in New York right now. Not because distance made things better, it didn't, but because distance made them simpler. The particular low-grade anxiety of existing in the same city as someone you were trying to stop thinking about was temporarily suspended.
He was there. You were here. The city felt slightly easier to move through as a result.
Not easier enough to move through publicly, though. The tabloids were still running their versions of events and you had no interest in being photographed looking whatever you currently looked like, which you suspected was not your best.
You got in your car and drove off.
The video rental store on Melrose was quiet when you pushed open the door twenty minutes later, sunglasses on despite the overcast sky, a hat pulled down with the particular casual thoroughness of someone who had been navigating public spaces in disguise for long enough to do it without thinking.
The horror section occupied most of one wall.
You stood in front of it and made your selections with the focused efficiency of someone who had arrived with a very specific plan and intended to execute it. Something with monsters. Something with ghosts. Something with a murderer in a large empty house. Ideally several somethings, enough to fill the next few days without requiring you to resurface for anything more demanding than snacks and sleep.
The snacks came from the grocery store two blocks away. You moved through the aisles with the same focused efficiency, selecting items based entirely on their capacity to provide comfort rather than nutrition. Ice cream. Chips. The specific brand of chocolate you only bought when things were genuinely difficult. Popcorn. Several varieties of things that came in large bags and could be consumed over the course of multiple films without requiring any preparation more complex than opening the packaging.
By the time you arrived home, arms full, Casper meeting you at the door with his usual reliable certainty that your return was the most significant event of the day, you had a plan.
Films. Snacks. No thinking. No industry events. No agents. No magazines. No phones answered unless the number was someone you actually wanted to speak to, a category that had grown considerably smaller over the past six weeks.
For the next few days, that was all.
You set everything down on the kitchen counter, fed Casper his dinner, and carried everything to the couch.
The first film went into the player.
You pulled the blanket up around yourself.
Casper relocated himself to your lap with the quiet authority of an animal who had assessed the seating arrangements and made his decision.
Outside, November continued.
Inside, for the first time in six weeks, you let everything else wait.
–
He returned to California on a grey afternoon at the end of November, the kind that Los Angeles occasionally produced as though reminding its residents that weather existed beyond sunshine and smog.
The Bad short film was finished.
Weeks in New York with Martin Scorsese had produced something Michael was genuinely proud of, the kind of work that made the exhaustion feel worthwhile, and he had spent most of the flight back already thinking about the album's release, about what came next, about the machinery of preparation that would consume the coming months.
It was easier to think about work. Work had parameters and timelines and specific problems that could be identified and solved.
Everything else was considerably less cooperative on that front.
He had been home for less than two days when John called to ask for a meeting. Frank would be there too. Something in the particular neutrality of John's voice on the telephone suggested this wasn't a routine discussion about legal matters or contract renewals.
They arrived together in the early afternoon, Frank with his usual energy and John with his usual measured composure, and Michael watched them settle into chairs and waited for whichever one of them was going to explain why they were there.
John spoke first.
"Y/N opened a defamation case against Aurora magazine." A brief pause. "On the same day the feature was published."
Michael went completely still. For a moment he simply looked at John.
Then:
"How long have you known about this?"
"I was aware from pretty much the beginning."
"And you didn't tell me?"
John held his gaze steadily. "I made a judgment call."
Michael said nothing. He waited.
John folded his hands together on his knee with the careful deliberateness of someone organizing his thoughts into the right order before releasing them.
"When I have legal matters developing that involve your interests, my standard practice is to wait until they're resolved before informing you. You were in New York. You were working. I didn't want to interrupt that."
A pause.
"But there was a second reason."
Michael waited.
"She never contacted me about it," John said. "I found out through her lawyer, not through her. She wasn't performing this for an audience. She wasn't ensuring word reached you. She simply began and continued and finished without telling anyone who might have passed the information along."
The studio was very quiet.
"I decided to honor that," John said simply. "It seemed like what she would have wanted."
Michael's jaw tightened slightly. He said nothing.
John’s words arrived quietly but they landed hard.
The same day.
He had been sitting in this studio reading that magazine with shaking hands while you had been driving to your lawyer's office. While he had been letting the phone ring unanswered, while he had been sitting with Frank and John trying to understand what had happened, you had already begun the process of undoing it.
He had not known.
He had spent six weeks not knowing.
John gave him a moment. He took it.
The guilt arrived before he had fully processed what he'd been told, a specific and unpleasant pressure somewhere beneath his ribs that had nothing to do with the magazine and everything to do with the phone call he had made three days after you left the studio. About what he had said on that call. About what he had accused you of before in the studio.
You had gone to your lawyer on the day the magazine dropped.
He had called you three days later to end the contract.
"Tell me the rest," Michael said quietly.
John nodded.
"The case was concluded two weeks ago. She won." He said it without drama, as though the outcome had never been in serious question, which Michael suspected was exactly how John had assessed it from the beginning. "Aurora's legal team fought hard initially, largely on the grounds that editorial rearrangement of interview questions constituted protected journalistic practice. The outline of the questions specifying which ones could be asked made that argument untenable. Once the original recordings entered discovery and could be compared directly to what was printed, the magazine had no defensible position remaining."
Michael's eyes drifted toward the console. Away from John.
"The court ordered Aurora to compensate you financially," John continued. "The amount reflects the reputational damage sustained during the work for a major album release period and the deliberate nature of the misrepresentation."
He named the figure.
Michael blinked. Then nodded once, slowly, the way he nodded when information arrived that he needed time to fully absorb.
"Additionally," John said, reading off the documents in his hands, "the magazine is legally obligated to publish a formal retraction in the same publication, in the same section, with comparable prominence to the original feature. The retraction must state explicitly that the questions printed above her answers did not reflect the questions asked during the recorded interview, that the editorial framing created implications inconsistent with the original conversation, and that the feature misrepresented both her statements and your private life."
He paused briefly.
"They must also publish a public apology to both of you by name."
Michael said nothing.
The studio remained quiet. Through the windows the November light had gone flat and grey, the kind of afternoon that seemed to absorb sound rather than carry it.
Frank shifted in his chair but didn't speak for once.
John looked at Michael for a moment. Then he exhaled slowly, the particular exhale of a man who had been waiting to say something for considerably longer than was comfortable and had finally decided to say it.
"I want to repeat something I said to you the morning the magazine dropped." His voice was measured but carried an edge underneath it that John's voice rarely carried. "About the accusation you made."
Michael's jaw tightened.
"I don’t aim to offend you with this. But you know this industry as well as I do," John said. "You know what publications pay for stories of that nature. A tell-all interview from someone in her position, about someone in yours, would have paid her somewhere in the region of five figures. Barely six in an exceptional case." He held Michael's gaze steadily. "That amount would not have represented a meaningful financial benefit to someone of her profile. You knew that when you said what you said, even if the hurt made it feel true in the moment."
A pause.
"The legal fees she paid to pursue this case alone far exceed what any magazine would have paid her for that interview. She spent more money fighting for your name than she could ever have made by betraying it."
The words sat in the room.
Across the studio, Frank nodded once, quietly, and said nothing.
Michael looked at the floor. His hands rested still on his knees.
He did know. That was the part he had been trying not to examine too closely for weeks. The financial logic had been flawed from the beginning and some part of him had recognized it even in the moment of accusation, had recognized it in the days afterward when her counterarguments kept returning with their maddening refusal to be dismissed.
He had made the accusation anyway. Because the fear was louder than the logic. He had always known the fear was louder than the logic.
That had never stopped it from winning.
"I might be overstepping my role as your lawyer by saying this," John continued, with the particular tone of a man who had decided to overstep anyway. "So I’ll say it as your friend. We have worked together for long enough that I believe I can be honest with you."
He met Michael's eyes directly.
"She did nothing wrong."
The silence that followed lasted a long time.
Michael didn't answer. He looked away from John toward a point somewhere beyond the console, his expression impossible to read from the outside and entirely too legible from the inside.
Because John was right. He had known John was right for weeks. He had known it in the studio when her arguments sat in the silence around him after she left. He had known it on every sleepless night when he reached for the telephone and put it back down. He had known it every time a tabloid arrived in his mail pile with her name attached to words that slowly destroyed her image.
He had known it and chosen fear anyway.
John stood. He reached into his briefcase and withdrew a single cassette tape.
He crossed the room and set it down on the console in front of Michael without a word.
Michael looked at it.
"Her original interview," John said. "The recordings obtained through discovery. Everything she actually said and everything she was actually asked." He paused. "As your lawyer I had legal access to all materials pertaining to a case involving your name. So I obtained a copy."
He straightened. "Listen to it."
He said it simply. Not as an instruction exactly. More as the kind of statement that contained its own undeniable logic and didn't require elaboration.
"I'll contact you when Aurora publishes the retraction. It should be soon."
He picked up his briefcase.
Frank stood as well. Exchanged one brief look with Michael that communicated something that didn't need words. Then both men moved toward the door.
Michael didn't watch them leave. He was looking at the cassette tape on the console.
The door closed behind them, but he could hear the two men talking once outside.
The studio fell quiet.
Michael sat alone with the tape in front of him and the afternoon light fading through the windows and John's words still rearranging themselves in the silence around him.
She had been attending meetings and reviewing evidence and spending money she would never fully recover to clear a name she hadn't damaged.
She had won.
And she had never told him. Had never let word reach him through any of the channels available to her. Had simply done it and said nothing and let it remain exactly as private as she had apparently decided it should be.
Michael stared at the tape.
He couldn't listen to it.
Not tonight. Maybe not tomorrow either.
Because listening meant hearing her voice. Hearing her talk about him the way John had quietly implied she had, honestly and carefully and within every agreed term while the magazine built something unrecognizable around her real words.
Hearing her say things that had been twisted into weapons and then fighting for months to have the twisting acknowledged and corrected.
He couldn't sit in this room and hear all of that. Not tonight. Not with the knowledge of the case sitting fresh and heavy in his chest alongside everything else he had been carrying since October.
He looked away from the tape.
Looked at the pinboard instead. At the Polaroid still pinned among the lyrics, the same place it had been for months, the same beach and the same windswept hair and the same smile directed at something outside the frame.
He had pinned it there and she had never noticed it.
He looked away from that too.
And for a long time, he simply sat with everything John had told him and the specific, exhausting weight of knowing things he had chosen not to know until now.
–
December 1986
The tape sat on the console for two days.
Michael worked around it. Ate around it. Moved through Hayvenhurst around it with the particular careful awareness of someone navigating a room that contains something they've decided not to look at directly.
It didn't help. The not looking required just as much attention as looking would have.
On the first day he spent six hours in the studio working on album edits that should have taken three. His concentration kept fracturing at irregular intervals, sliding away from the music and toward the cassette sitting three feet to his left before he pulled it back through sheer effort of will.
He achieved less than he had in any single session since beginning the album.
On the second day he didn't go to the studio at all. He told himself he was resting. He watched television without absorbing any of it. He ate dinner with his mother and answered her questions about New York with enough detail to satisfy her without inviting the deeper conversation she was clearly prepared to have if he gave her an opening.
He didn't give her an opening.
Marlon stopped by the studio that afternoon for no particular reason, stayed for twenty minutes talking about nothing significant, and left without commenting on the cassette sitting visibly on the console. Michael appreciated that more than he could have explained.
The second night he lay awake until past two in the morning before finally giving up.
He went to the studio.
The house was completely still around him as he moved through the dark hallways, the particular deep quiet of a large house in the small hours when everyone else had long since surrendered to sleep. He didn't turn on all the lights. Just the lamp near the console. Just enough.
He sat down.
The tape was exactly where John had left it.
For a long moment he simply looked at it before he reached out and picked it up.
He turned the tape around in his hands, then slowly put it in the player and finally pressed play.
The sound that emerged from the tape was slightly muffled in the way recorded audio always was, the ambient quality of a room captured by equipment that preserved atmosphere alongside voice. He could hear the faint sound of movement, someone settling into a chair, the small adjustments of a person making themselves comfortable before something began.
Then the interviewer's voice.
“Can I ask about Michael?”
A pause. Then yours.
“You may.”
Michael closed his eyes briefly. Your voice sounded exactly as he knew it. Warm and slightly amused and entirely like itself, none of the careful performance he had been half bracing for, just you answering a question the way you answered everything.
“How are things going with Michael?”
“That's your question?”
The laugh that followed was so recognizably yours that something tightened in his chest before he could stop it.
“I thought I'd start gently.”
“They're going well.”
A brief silence. Then the interviewer laughing.
“That's all you're giving me?”
“For now.”
Michael sat very still.
He thought about the question printed above that answer in Aurora. About his former partners. About emotional distance. About the walls that never seemed to come down.
And what the magazine had made of “for now”.
He looked at the tape turning slowly in the player.
“For now”.
Two words chosen carefully enough that their weight is impossible to ignore.
He remembered that sentence. Had read it so many times it had carved itself somewhere permanent. Had let the magazine's interpretation of it settle into the space where his own judgment should have been.
He hadn't heard the laugh that came before it. He hadn't heard “that's your question?” said with the particular fondness of someone who found the simplicity of the opener genuinely funny rather than evasive.
He hadn't heard any of it. He had only read what came after.
A few other questions passed on the tape before the interviewer's voice shifted toward something more specific.
“The kiss at the awards ceremony.”
The sound that followed was immediate and completely unambiguous. A laugh, startled out of you before you could contain it, accompanied by what Michael recognized as the particular sound of someone covering their face with their hands.
“See? I knew that would get a reaction.”
“I knew this question was coming.”
“It was impossible not to ask.”
“That's probably true.”
Michael sat very still.
He remembered the kiss. He had been constantly thinking about it in one form or another since the moment it happened, turning it over with the same careful avoidance he brought to everything that felt too significant to examine directly. The cameras. The red carpet. The specific fraction of a second afterward when he had looked at you and forgotten where he was.
He had not thought about how you might have felt answering questions about it in an interview room several weeks later.
“What was it like watching the entire country collectively lose its mind over one kiss?”
A brief pause on the tape. He could hear you considering the question.
“I think people sometimes underestimate how invested they become in stories.”
“Even when those stories involve real people?”
“Especially then. People like romance. They always have.”
“Did the attention surprise you?”
“A little. Though I think spending time around Michael has permanently altered my understanding of what qualifies as normal attention.”
The interviewer laughed. On the tape it sounded warm. Genuine. The laugh of someone who found the answer charming rather than loaded.
Michael sat with those words for a moment.
“Permanently altered her understanding of what qualifies as normal.”
He knew exactly what Aurora had done with that sentence. Had read it so many times in the weeks following the feature that he could have recited the paragraph from memory.
What he heard on the tape was someone laughing about cameras. What Aurora had printed was a woman describing damage.
The same words. Completely different meaning. The difference located entirely in what question had been asked to produce them and what editorial framework had been built around them afterward.
He continued to listen.
“What surprised you most about Michael?”
A brief pause on the tape. Then your voice, unhurried and warm.
“I think the contrast.”
“Meaning?”
“Most people only know Michael Jackson the performer. People see someone who walks onto a stage in front of eighty thousand people and completely commands a crowd. But then you spend time with him and discover he's actually very shy. Almost surprisingly shy.”
Michael went very still.
“There's also a kind of innocence to him that people don't really expect. He's very genuine. And he's much more romantic than people would probably guess.”
The interviewer said something appreciative that Michael barely registered. Because he was thinking about the question in the magazine.
“Is Michael Jackson capable of real intimacy?”
That was what they had printed above this answer. A direct question about his capacity for physical and emotional intimacy, assembled from years of tabloid speculation and his former partners' public statements, handed to readers as the context in which you had chosen your words.
He remembered reading the magazine's commentary beneath your answer.
“Shyness, in the language of intimacy, is not simply a charming personality trait. It is a wall. A retreat.Innocence in a grown man suggests someone not yet fully arrived at the kind of openness that real intimacy demands.Romance without intimacy is performance.”
He had read those sentences and felt them land with the specific weight of things that were already half believed. Had felt the magazine's interpretation slide into the space where his own understanding should have been, filling it so completely that the original question had stopped mattering.
What he heard on the tape was a question about what surprised her most about him.
What he heard in your answer was someone who had paid enough attention to see past the performance to the person underneath it and had chosen to speak about that person with genuine warmth.
Shy. Innocent. Romantic.
Not weapons. Not carefully chosen deflections around an uncomfortable truth. Simply true things said by someone who knew him and meant them.
The distinction between what you had actually been asked and what Aurora had placed above your answer was so complete and so deliberate that sitting with it now, hearing your voice say these words in the context they were actually spoken, Michael found it difficult to understand how he had accepted the magazine's version as readily as he had.
He knew how. He had always known how.
He had been afraid. And fear had always been a more efficient editor than any publication. He sat with that for a long moment. Then exhaled slowly and waited for the tape to continue.
Then the question changed.
“When did you first realize you loved him?”
Michael's hands went still on his knees.
A pause on the tape. Longer than any pause that had come before it. He could hear the quality of the room shifting slightly, the particular silence of someone taking a moment not because they didn't know the answer but because the answer mattered enough to find the right words for.
“There was a moment.”
Your voice was quieter than it had been. Something in it had softened without becoming less certain.
“I mentioned something completely in passing once. Nothing important. Just one of those comments people make without expecting anyone to remember it.”
A brief pause.
“And then some time later he showed up at my front door with a cat.”
Michael closed his eyes.
“Casper, yes.”
He heard you laugh softly. The sound of it in the quiet studio was almost more than he knew what to do with.
“I think what stayed with me wasn't the gift itself. It was realizing he'd listened. He'd heard something I said some time earlier. He remembered it. He cared enough to do something about it.”
The tape continued turning. Michael didn't move.
“I think that was the moment I understood what kind of person he really was and that I loved him.”
Silence on the recording. Then the interviewer's voice, quieter than before.
“That's a beautiful answer.”
“It was a truthful one.”
Michael sat in the studio for a long time after that without doing anything at all.
He thought about that afternoon. About the pet carrier in his hands and the way you had opened the door and gone completely still before launching yourself at him. About the tears that had arrived too fast to be managed. About the kisses pressed to his cheeks before you had consciously decided to press them.
He had always believed that moment was real. Had held it apart from everything else as the one thing the actress problem couldn't touch, the one reaction that had happened too quickly and too viscerally to be performance.
He had been right about that.
What he hadn't known, what he was only hearing for the first time in an empty studio at two in the morning, was what that moment had meant to you.
Aurora had never printed this answer.
He understood why. It didn't serve the story they were building. There were no implications to construct around it, no shadows to cast, no way to make it sound like anything other than exactly what it was.
Someone saying honestly and without embellishment the moment they fell in love.
With him.
He almost let himself believe it. Then remembered that Frank had approved that specific question precisely because it sold the story. She had known it was coming. She had answered it the way the arrangement required.
That was all.
Except Aurora had never printed it.
He sat with that for a long time.
The tape ran on into the remaining questions of the interview, but Michael had stopped hearing them properly. His attention had stayed somewhere in the moment your voice had gone quiet and found those words.
Then he reached forward and stopped the tape.
The studio was completely silent around him. Outside, Hayvenhurst had gone as still as it ever got, the particular deep quiet of the small hours when even the property's animals had long since settled.
Michael sat in the silence and thought about a woman who had gone to her lawyer on the day a magazine dropped and spent the next six weeks building a case.
Who had told the truth in a room with nobody watching and then quietly, privately, let it remain exactly as true as it had been when she said it.
He looked at the tape in the player.
Then he looked at the Polaroid on the pinboard.
Then he looked at the stuffed animal from Disneyland still sitting on top of the piano where it had lived since September, slightly dusty now, entirely ridiculous, and entirely impossible to move because moving it had never felt like an option he was willing to take.
He stayed in the studio until the sky outside began to lighten.
He didn't sleep.
But by the time the first grey suggestion of morning appeared through the windows, something that had been wound very tightly somewhere in his chest for the past six weeks had shifted.
Not resolved. Not finished.
But shifted.
Like the first small movement of something that had been frozen for a very long time and was only now, slowly and tentatively and without any certainty about what came next, beginning to thaw.
–
The Writers Guild annual dinner was the kind of event Michael could decline approximately once every two years before the declining itself became a story. Frank had made that calculation explicit enough that showing up felt like the simpler option.
He arrived with Bill, moved through the entrance with the practiced ease of someone who had been doing this since before most of the room had begun their careers, accepted the greetings and the handshakes and the congratulations about the album’s upcoming release with the automatic warmth of a man whose public social fluency had been built over decades of events exactly like this one.
Inside, the room was full of the particular energy of industry people who had decided tonight was for celebrating rather than competing, screenwriters and directors and producers occupying round tables beneath low lighting while a band played something unobtrusive in the corner.
Michael found his table. Smiled at the right moments. Answered the questions that were answerable.
There were many questions about you.
“How are things with you and–” deflected with a smile and a redirect toward the album.
“We haven't seen the two of you out recently, is everything–” deflected with a vague comment about busy schedules and the demands of finishing a record.
“There's been some talk about that magazine piece, do you have any–” deflected so smoothly and so completely that the person asking seemed to forget they had asked at all.
He had been doing this for decades. He could deflect in his sleep.
What he couldn't do, even after decades, was stop thinking.
He thought about the tape. About your voice in the empty studio at two in the morning answering questions honestly and carefully and with a warmth that Aurora had apparently found impossible to weaponize. About the Casper answer that had never been printed because a publication willing to twist everything else had found nothing there worth twisting.
He thought about what came next. Had been thinking about it since the morning after the tape, moving through the days with the particular restlessness of someone who knew something needed to happen and couldn't yet determine exactly what shape that something should take.
You deserved an apology. That much was clear. That much had been clear for weeks if he was being honest with himself, which he was trying increasingly to be.
What wasn't clear was everything else.
Whether you wanted to see him. Whether the two months of silence had done damage he didn't yet understand the full extent of. Whether showing up at your door, after everything, would make you feel comfortable or simply be another thing he was doing on his own timeline with insufficient regard for yours.
He had missed you every day. The missing had been so constant and so specific that it had become a kind of background noise, present in every room he entered, every phone he didn't pick up, every morning he woke up knowing you weren't going to call and that it was his fault you weren't going to call.
He thought about Frank telling him quietly a few weeks ago that you hadn't been seen at any industry event in months. That you had gone almost entirely quiet publicly. That the tabloids had done their work and you had simply absorbed it without retaliating.
He thought about this room and events like it and how a year ago he had been the one looking for you across crowded spaces, the one who had first approached after the gay rumors article, the one who had wanted to be in whatever room you were in.
Now he was the reason you weren't in any rooms at all.
That thought sat particularly heavily.
He was making his way toward the edge of the room, drink in hand, when someone called his name.
"Michael."
He turned.
Peter Calloway looked exactly as Michael remembered him from the Thriller days, slightly rumpled in the specific way of writers who considered their appearance a secondary concern to their ideas, warm smile already in place.
"Peter." Michael returned the smile genuinely. He had always liked Peter. "How are you?"
"Good, good." Peter shook his hand firmly. "Heard your new album is nearly done and you filmed the short film for the title track?"
"Yes. Scorsese was extraordinary to work with."
They talked for a few minutes about the film, about a project Peter was developing, about the general shape of the industry landscape as it currently stood. Easy conversation. The kind Michael could navigate without much conscious effort.
He was beginning to think about how to make a natural exit when Peter's expression shifted slightly into something more casual, the particular shift of someone moving from professional topics to personal ones without making a production of the transition.
"I ran into Robert Hastings last month, by the way."
Michael's attention sharpened slightly beneath the surface. He kept his expression easy. "Oh?"
"Briefly." Peter waved a hand. "At something or other. We got talking about that dinner last spring." He shook his head with the mild distaste of someone revisiting an unpleasant memory. "Uncomfortable evening."
"What dinner was that?"
Peter looked slightly surprised, then recovered. "With your girlfriend. Well." He paused briefly. "Former girlfriend, I suppose, based on what I've been reading. Though I never put much stock in tabloid narratives."
Michael said nothing. Simply waited.
"Robert had invited her," Peter continued, his tone remaining completely matter of fact, the tone of someone relaying information he assumed was entirely familiar to his audience. "This would have been around spring. He was developing something and clearly thought having her attached would open certain doors."
Michael kept his expression neutral. "Right."
"She handled it well, from what I saw." Peter's voice carried a note of genuine respect. "Robert was being Robert, you know how he gets. Started asking questions that were frankly none of his business. About you specifically." He tilted his head slightly. "Personal questions. The kind you'd expect from someone who was more interested in the connection than the project."
"How did she respond?"
"Deflected everything." Peter said it simply. "Every single question about you, she redirected or declined to answer. Very graceful about it. Didn't make a scene. There was also a moment Robert insinuated that she should use her body to persuade you to work with him." He said, looking disgusted. "But she remained respectful and left early. Which I think said everything that needed saying."
Michael’s grip around his glass tightened. "I see."
"Robert called her afterward apparently." Peter continued with the easy confidence of someone delivering information that was, from his perspective, entirely unsurprising to the person receiving it. "Offered her the role formally. She turned it down."
Michael was very still.
"I only put it together later," Peter said. "That she declined because of how Robert had behaved at that dinner. Because of what he was clearly expecting in return for the role." He shrugged slightly. "Which, knowing Robert, wasn't particularly subtle."
"No," Michael said carefully. "It rarely is."
"Anyway." Peter smiled. "Good for her, I thought. Robert was furious about it, which tells you everything." He glanced toward someone across the room and raised a hand briefly in acknowledgment. "I always assumed you knew, obviously. Given that it involved you directly."
"Of course," Michael said.
His voice came out entirely normal. He was grateful for decades of practice.
They exchanged a few more words. Michael laughed at something Peter said. Agreed about something else. Made the kind of easy exit that left no impression of urgency whatsoever.
Then he found Bill.
"I'd like to go home."
Bill looked at him once. Nodded. Asked no questions.
In the car, Michael sat in the back seat and watched Los Angeles move past the windows and said nothing for the entire drive.
Robert Hastings had offered her the role.
She had turned it down.
Because of how he had spoken about Michael at that dinner. Because of what he had wanted from her in exchange for the opportunity. Because she had sat across a table from a man who viewed Michael as a resource and found herself completely unable to follow through.
William Ashford had done the same thing, there was no doubt about it. Michael understood that now with the particular clarity of someone who had been given the final piece of a puzzle he hadn't known was incomplete until this moment.
She hadn't failed to get those projects.
She had walked away from them.
Quietly. Without telling him. Without making him feel responsible. Redirecting conversations whenever he asked because she hadn't wanted him to know what it was costing her.
He thought about the accusation he had made in the studio.
About the financial logic that had never quite held up even when he was making it.
About John's voice telling him the legal fees she had spent exceeded what any magazine would have paid her.
About the tape in the player and the Casper answer Aurora had never printed.
About two months of silence during which she had been fighting a legal case and redirecting her own settlement and walking away from career opportunities and doing all of it without once making sure he knew.
The car moved through the city.
Michael looked at his own hands in his lap.
Everything he had accused you of.
Everything you had actually been doing.
The gap between those two things was so vast and so complete that sitting with the full shape of it felt like something physical. Like the floor had dropped away and he was only now, in the back of a car on a December night, registering the fall.
He had to talk to you.
Not eventually. Not when he had figured out the right words or the right moment or the right way to do it that minimized the risk of making everything worse.
He had to talk to you.
He didn't notice he was crying until the city lights through the window blurred into something unrecognizable.
It started quietly. The way grief sometimes does when it has been waiting long enough, a single breath that didn't finish properly, a pressure behind his eyes that arrived before he understood what it was. He pressed the back of his hand against his mouth as though that might contain it.
It didn't.
Because there was too much behind it. Too many weeks of sleepless nights and telephone receivers lifted and set back down. Too many mornings waking up knowing the silence was his fault. Too many evenings staring at a stuffed animal on a piano and a Polaroid on a pinboard and a cassette tape he couldn't bring himself to touch.
The quiet sobs became something else entirely before he could stop them, tearing through him with a force that had nothing quiet about it, the kind of crying that bypasses dignity and composure and every carefully constructed wall and arrives at something much older and much more honest underneath. His shoulders shook with it. His chest ached with it. The sound that came out of him was something he hadn't heard from himself since he was a boy, raw and unguarded and completely beyond his reach.
He had accused her of taking money.
She had spent her own clearing his name.
Los Angeles moved past the windows, indifferent and luminous and entirely unmoved, while Michael Jackson came apart in the back seat of a car and finally, after months of refusing to, felt the full weight of everything he had done.
In the front seat Bill went very still.
He didn't say anything. There was nothing to say. He simply drove.
By the time Bill pulled through the Hayvenhurst gates, Michael's breathing had become ragged enough that opening the door felt impossible. Bill parked. Turned off the engine. Neither of them moved.
The silence stretched. Bill turned around slowly. Looked at him.
"What do you need?"
Michael shook his head. Just that. A small tight movement.
Bill nodded. Turned back. And stayed seated.
It took a long time. The shaking subsided in stages, each wave quieter than the last, until eventually there was just the exhaustion underneath it, the specific weight of someone who had been holding something too heavy for too long. He wiped his face with the back of his hand. Then again. Then sat for another moment in the dark just breathing.
Finally Bill passed something back without turning around. A handkerchief. Michael took it.
When his breath had steadied enough, he opened the door.
"Bill."
"Yeah.”
Michael looked out at the dark shape of the house.
"I made a mistake."
Bill was quiet for a moment. Then: "I know."
Michael nodded slowly. Then went inside, moving quickly through the hallways toward his bedroom before anyone could find him like this, closing the door behind him and sitting in the dark for a very long time.
@ jacksons era!michael x female reader
(part 2 of elopement)
summary: you and michael are back at hayvenhurst after your vegas elopment and the family finds out that now you're married. they all have different reactions. some good, some not.
themes: fluff, hopelessly in love michael, joseph attempting to intimidate
author's note: reposted from my wattpad & ao3.
1978
hayvenhurst
You woke up the next morning surrounded by warmth.
Soft sunlight streamed through the windows in pale golden streaks, casting a quiet glow across the room, but it wasn't the sunlight that held you there in that sleepy haze between dreaming and waking. It was Michael.
His body was still wrapped around you completely, his arms secure around your waist, like even in sleep, he couldn't let you drift too far from him. His head was buried in the nape of your neck, soft curls brushing your skin every time he breathed, his chest pressed firmly against your back, warm and steady and comforting in a way that immediately makes you melt further into him.
You snuggle more into him instinctively, even as you feel yourself beginning to wake up more fully. Michael, though, is still fast asleep, and you can feel the difference in him immediately.
He's resting, really resting. It's the most rested he's felt in months.
There's no tension in his body, none of that tightness he carries in his shoulders even when he's trying to relax. No faint crease between his brows from overthinking, no restlessness beneath the surface. He's completely still against you in the best possible way, like for once, his mind finally let him stop running.
Carefully, you turn in his arms until you're facing him, his hold loosening just enough to let you move before tightening around you again automatically, even in sleep. Your eyes slowly flutter open fully as you look at him, and the sight of him like this makes something warm spread through your chest so quickly it almost aches.
Your husband.
The thought hits you all over again.
You still couldn't believe it was real. You couldn't believe you and Michael really got married last night. Even now, lying here in his bed at Hayvenhurst with the morning light spilling over him, it still feels surreal in the softest way.
You love how peaceful he looks when he's sleeping.
Without the pressure of cameras or rehearsals or expectations pulling at him from every direction, he looks younger somehow, softer. His lashes rest against his cheeks, his lips slightly parted in sleep, his breathing deep and even as he stays curled around you.
And he does look like he's getting real rest.
You know how hard it is for Michael at times to sleep. You've heard the exhaustion in his voice on late-night calls, felt the way his body crashes the second he finally lets himself stop moving, and watched him struggle to quiet his mind enough to actually rest. But now he looks still... in a good way.
Like for one night, everything else stayed outside the room.
As you lie here and look at him, you still can't believe he's your husband. He's fully yours in the way that matters most, and the thought settles deep into your chest with a warmth that feels overwhelming and grounding all at once.
You know the two of you can't stay in this bubble forever; reality is going to come back in eventually. His family, yours, the questions and reactions.
But for right now, this moment still belongs to the two of you, and you want to hold onto it for as long as you can.
You gently run your thumb across his jaw, your touch light and slow as you memorize the way he looks when he's completely at peace. His long lashes flutter slightly against his cheeks at the feeling of your touch, his body instinctively responding to you even before he fully wakes, but he keeps his eyes closed.
You lean forward and gently press your lips to his, and it doesn't take Michael too long.
The second he feels your lips against his, you feel his body begin waking up beneath your hands, slowly registering what's happening before he kisses you back almost immediately, soft, warm, and still heavy with sleep. His arms tighten around you as he pulls you even closer to him, even though there's no more space between you two, like somehow he still wants you closer than this.
Michael is the first one to pull back, and when he does, his eyes slowly flutter open, remnants of sleep still clinging to him. His curls are messy from sleep, his voice still rough around the edges when he speaks, but he looks content. And for the first time in months, he looks rested.
"Good morning, Mrs. Jackson," he whispers to you.
The words hit you instantly, Mrs. Jackson.
Your cheeks flush so fast it almost embarrasses you, warmth spreading across your face as you bury your head into his shoulder with a soft laugh, suddenly overwhelmed all over again by the reality of it.
"Good morning, husband," you say as you gently kiss the soft skin of his neck. A quiet sound leaves him at that, somewhere between a hum and a sigh.
"Hmm, say that again," he says softly.
You lift your head to look at him, smiling as your thumb traces slowly along his jaw, your touch lingering there. "Husband," you say with a smile.
Michael smiles widely immediately, the expression bright and completely unguarded as he grabs your hand in his. His gaze drops to the ring he had gotten for you, the one he presented at the ceremony in Vegas, and his thumb brushes over it gently before he lifts your hand and presses a soft kiss against it.
The gesture makes you blush all over again.
"I love the sound of that," he says.
You nod because you love the sound of it too. More than you thought you would. There's something about hearing him call you his wife that makes everything feel more real every single time.
"Me too," you say softly.
Michael leans in and kisses you again, slow and affectionate, and you smile against his lips as you kiss him back. You know you'll have to leave the bubble and face his family eventually. You know this quiet little world the two of you created can't stay untouched forever.
But right now, none of that feels close enough to matter. Right now, you're content, and you want to stay in this moment with him forever.
"The first day of waking up like this for the rest of our lives," Michael says as he tucks your hair behind your ear. Your smile widens immediately. He's so corny at times, hopelessly so, but that's one of the things you love most about him. The sincerity in everything he says, the way he means even the cheesy things with his entire heart.
"And as my first day as Mrs. Jackson... I would love to make my husband breakfast," you say.
The words make Michael's entire expression soften. Husband. Every time you say it, it affects him all over again, like he still can't fully believe this is real either. His eyes stay on you for a second longer, warm and soft.
He leans in to kiss you again, slow and lingering, like he can't stop touching you now that you're his wife. The kiss makes warmth spread through your chest all over again, your stomach twisting pleasantly as his hand slides against your cheek with familiar tenderness.
Every kiss with Michael feels like kissing him for the first time.
Not because they're unfamiliar, but because he kisses you like he still can't believe he gets to.
When you pull back, the two of you get out of bed and get dressed, the softness of the morning still lingering between you both like something fragile you don't want to disturb too quickly. You slip on a pair of shorts and one of Michael's t-shirts, the fabric still carrying his scent, warm and comforting against your skin, and he pulls on a t-shirt along with sweatpants, his curls still slightly messy from sleep.
The two of you walk downstairs together, your fingers brushing against each other every few seconds without either of you realizing it, and when you step into the kitchen, you find it surprisingly empty.
You and Michael exchange a look immediately because Hayvenhurst is rarely this quiet in the morning, but after a second, you just shrug lightly and move toward the fridge. You've practically lived at Hayvenhurst anyway, so you know where everything is without thinking about it, and soon you're moving around the kitchen with an easy familiarity, pulling ingredients out while the stove heats.
Michael watches you the entire time.
He props himself up on the counter beside you, one foot hooked against the cabinet beneath him, his expression soft and openly affectionate in a way that still makes warmth spread through your chest every time you catch him looking at you like that.
"Look at that, we might actually be able to have our first breakfast as husband and wife alone," Michael says with a soft smile. A laugh immediately slips out of you at the way he says it so casually, so happily, like he's still trying the words out every chance he gets simply because he loves the sound of them.
"Your first breakfast as what!?" The voice cuts sharply through the kitchen before either of you can react, and the warmth of the moment disappears so quickly it almost feels physical.
You and Michael both freeze at the same time.
When you turn around, LaToya and Janet are standing just inside the kitchen doorway, staring at the two of you with identical wide-eyed expressions, shock written all over their faces after clearly catching what Michael said.
For a second, nobody moves.
Then LaToya suddenly rushes toward you, immediately grabbing your wrist and pulling you gently away from the stove where you were scrambling eggs. Your heart starts pounding as she takes your left hand into hers, and the second her eyes land on the wedding ring sitting on your finger, her entire expression changes.
"Oh my God," she breathes.
The disbelief on her face only deepens as she immediately turns toward Michael, grabs his hand next, and stares at the gold wedding band on his finger, too, before looking rapidly between the two of you.
"You two got married!?" LaToya asks in complete disbelief.
"Who did what!?" The sound of Joseph's voice snapped through the kitchen like a crack of thunder.
You feel Michael tense beside you before you even fully turn around, the reaction immediate and instinctive, and when you look at him, all the color has drained from his face so quickly it makes your chest tighten painfully. The softness from moments ago is completely gone now, replaced by something tight and guarded as Janet instinctively moves closer toward Michael near the counter.
You and LaToya slowly turn around, and the second you see Joseph standing in the doorway, the atmosphere in the room shifts so heavily it feels suffocating.
"LaToya, Janet, get out of here," Joseph says. His voice isn't loud, but somehow that makes it worse. There's a sharpness underneath it that immediately puts everyone on edge.
LaToya looks at you sympathetically right away, concern flashing across her face as she gently squeezes your hand before wrapping an arm around Janet and quickly leading her out of the kitchen. Janet keeps glancing back nervously the entire way out before the two of them disappear completely, leaving the room painfully quiet.
You turn the stove off because you already know breakfast is over now, the smell of eggs and butter suddenly feeling strangely out of place against the tension filling the room, and you move immediately to stand beside Michael. The second you do, he pulls you closer until you're standing between his legs, where he's still perched against the counter, your back pressed firmly against his chest.
The gesture is protective and grounding all at once.
Even terrified, Michael's first instinct is still to pull you closer to him instead of away. You can feel the tension radiating through his body, the way every muscle is tight beneath your hands, but he still keeps you tucked securely against him like he's silently making it clear that no matter how uncomfortable this gets, he isn't letting you stand alone in it.
He's never let Joseph disrespect you, and he wasn't going to start now.
"What was that LaToya said?" Joseph asks as he looks between the two of you.
"We got married last night," Michael says immediately.
There's no hesitation in the words, and although his voice is firm, you still hear the slight tremor underneath it because you know him too well not to. You can feel how hard his heart is beating against your back, even while he forces himself to stay steady under Joseph's stare.
"And what in your right mind made you do that?" Joseph asks.
"Why do people get married, Joseph?" you say before you can stop yourself. The words come out sharper than you intended, but once they're out, you don't regret them.
Joseph's eyes immediately snap toward you, his stare hard enough that most people in this house would've folded underneath it, but you don't look away. Your pulse jumps, but you hold his gaze anyway because you refuse to let him make this feel shameful.
"Oh, so you're pregnant? He don't got time to be a father right now," Joseph says. You scoff instantly, the accusation irritating enough to briefly overpower your nerves.
"She's not pregnant, Joseph. Rebbie, Tito, Jermaine, Jackie, and Marlon are all married. Rebbie, Jermaine, and Marlon were younger than we are when they got married," Michael says.
"And they were fools for that, too," Joseph snaps back. You roll your eyes immediately, frustration flashing hot through you as Michael's grip around you tightens slightly.
"And even if she were pregnant, I would make time to be a father and be there to care for my wife and our child," Michael says pointedly.
The words land heavily in the room, deliberate and unwavering, and despite the fear you can still feel running through him, there's something steadier underneath it now, too. Every time Joseph pushes, Michael seems to hold onto you harder, like defending this marriage is strengthening his resolve instead of weakening it.
Joseph takes another step further into the kitchen, and you feel Michael's body tense sharply against yours again. "You got something you want to say, boy?" Joseph asks.
The threat underneath the question is unmistakable, and you feel Michael instinctively straighten slightly behind you even while his body remains tense. Years of fear are still there; you can feel them, but so is something else now.
Defiance.
"This is a distraction, one you don't need. You need to be focused on this album," Joseph says. You shake your head immediately before Michael can even respond.
"Did you have this same conversation with Tito, Jackie, and Marlon, who are all also married and have children? Do you question their dedication to the album? Or is that only reserved for Michael?" you challenge.
Joseph looks directly at you, but this time he doesn't answer right away, because all three of you already know the truth. This was never really about marriage being a distraction.
It's about Michael: the money maker, the center of the Jackson family machine.
Softer footsteps sound in the hallway, a completely different rhythm from Joseph's heavy presence, and a second later, Katherine Jackson walks into the kitchen. The second she steps inside, she immediately feels the tension hanging in the room.
Her eyes move across all three of you quickly, taking everything in at once: Joseph standing rigid near the doorway, you pressed protectively against Michael, and the way Michael is trying so hard to look steady despite the fear still lingering tightly underneath his composure.
"Well, good morning, is everything alright?" Katherine asks.
Her voice is gentle, but there's caution beneath it now as she studies the room more carefully. She sees how intense Joseph looks, sees the way you and Michael are standing your ground while still visibly on edge beneath the pressure of the confrontation.
Joseph turns toward his wife sharply. "Your son ran off and got married over the weekend," Joseph snaps.
Katherine's eyes widen slightly at the words, genuine surprise flickering across her face before she settles herself almost immediately. Unlike Joseph, she doesn't react with anger first. Instead, her attention shifts directly to you and Michael, and when she starts walking toward you both slowly, your stomach tightens all over again.
Because her opinion matters more.
Joseph's anger is intimidating, but Katherine's disappointment would hurt.
You've always had a good relationship with Katherine. She's always treated you warmly, lovingly, like you already belonged here long before this. But you also know that being LaToya's best friend and Michael's girlfriend is very different from secretly eloping with her son without telling her.
Katherine reaches you both and gently takes your hand first before taking Michael's too, her touch calm and grounding as she examines the rings resting on both of your fingers. The kitchen stays painfully quiet while she looks at them, and you can feel your heartbeat pounding harder the longer she says nothing.
Then Katherine lets out a slow breath before lifting her eyes back to both of you.
"Are you two happy?" Katherine asks as she squeezes your hands.
The question catches you slightly off guard because it's so simple, not accusatory or angry, just honest. You nod immediately, and beside you, Michael nods too.
"We are. I'm sorry we didn't tell you so you could've come with us, Mother," Michael says.
There's guilt in his voice now, softer than before, because unlike with Joseph, this is someone whose feelings genuinely matter to him in a completely different way. Katherine nods slowly as she squeezes your hands again, and the tension in your chest tightens while you wait for her response.
"Thank you, baby... If you both are happy, then I am too," Katherine says.
The relief that rushes through you is so immediate it almost makes you dizzy, and you let out a breath you didn't even realize you'd been holding this entire time. Beside you, you feel Michael's body loosen slightly too, some of the tension finally easing from him for the first time since Joseph walked into the kitchen.
Katherine gently pulls you into a hug, then, sensing your nerves immediately and wanting to calm you down, the kindness of it almost overwhelms you after how tense the room has been.
"You've always been family sweetheart, from the first day LaToya introduced you to us... now it's just legally official," she says. Your eyes sting slightly at the softness in her voice, and you smile as you hug her back.
"Thank you, Momma Katie," you whisper to her.
"Katie, are you serious!?" Joseph snaps.
The sharpness of his voice cuts through the warmth of the moment immediately, but Katherine doesn't flinch. She slowly pulls away from the hug before turning to face her husband, and there's a calm steadiness in her expression that makes the contrast between them even more obvious.
"Five of our other children are married, Joseph... I don't see the issue," Katherine says.
The same point you made earlier. Why is Michael the one being singled out? But everyone in the room already knows the answer to that question, even if nobody says it out loud.
"So you're telling me you're okay with this?" Joseph asks.
"We'd be hypocrites not to be," Katherine says simply before she leaves the room.
The kitchen falls quiet again after she's gone, but the energy has shifted now. Joseph no longer has Katherine backing his anger, and all three of you know it.
Joseph looks directly at the two of you, his jaw tight with frustration, before he points a finger at Michael.
"You'd better stay sharp, boy," Joseph says before he storms out of the kitchen.
The second he's gone, you feel Michael loosen behind you almost immediately, like his body had been braced for impact the entire conversation and is only now allowing itself to breathe again.
You turn around right away and wrap your arms around his torso, laying your head against his chest as he hugs you close without hesitation, his arms tightening around you like he needs the comfort just as much as you do.
"Are you okay?" he asks. Your eyes soften. Even after all of that, he asks about you first.
You nod against him before lifting your head slightly. "Are you?" you ask.
Michael sighs softly before kissing the top of your head, lingering there for a second. "Always... I have you," he says. The words make your chest ache warmly because you know he means them completely. For all the fear Joseph still puts in him, Michael still chose this. He chose you.
But then his expression shifts slightly, some of the softness dimming as reality creeps back in again.
"But we all know why he wouldn't say why it's such a big deal for me to be married compared to everyone else... the money maker can't be distracted," Michael says.
You frown immediately at the bitterness underneath the words. "Stop that, Michael... you're more than that," you remind him.
He shrugs, but the movement feels heavier than casual indifference. "Not to him," he says.
Your heart twists painfully at how easily the words leave his mouth, like this belief has been carved so deeply into him that he doesn't even question it anymore. You shake your head immediately before lifting your head fully from his chest, so he has no choice but to look at you.
"But to me and everyone else, you're more... and you need to be more to yourself, too. What Joseph says isn't who you are. You determine who you are," you say.
Michael's eyes stay on yours the entire time, softer now, quieter, and after a second, he cups your cheeks gently in both hands before leaning down to kiss you.
The kiss is slow and grounding, nothing desperate about it, just warm and full of feeling as your hands settle against his torso while you kiss him back. When Michael finally pulls away, his thumb lightly trails across your jaw as he looks at you with that same softness that somehow never disappears, no matter how hard the world is on him.
"Right now, I'm more than happy being your husband," Michael says.
A smile immediately pulls across your face, and you lean in to give him another quick peck. "Goof," you say. Michael smiles.
You go back to cooking like you had been before you were interrupted, although the atmosphere in the kitchen feels different now. Softer again. Not completely untouched by what just happened, because you can still feel remnants of the tension lingering beneath the surface, especially in Michael, but lighter than before.
The normalcy of cooking helps. The sound of the pan, the smell of breakfast filling the kitchen again, the quiet domestic rhythm returning little by little, it settles both of you more than either of you says out loud.
Michael stays close the entire time.
Sometimes leaning against the counter beside you, sometimes brushing against your shoulder when he reaches for something, like after everything with Joseph, he doesn't quite want space between you right now. And honestly, neither do you.
Once everything is made and the two of you are finally settled at the table together, plates full in front of you, softer footsteps sound in the hallway again before LaToya and Janet come back into the kitchen.
"Are you guys okay? We heard Joseph yelling," LaToya says. There's genuine concern in her voice immediately, her eyes flicking between you and Michael as if checking for damage after the confrontation.
Michael nods. "Yeah, we're okay. Get some breakfast and join us," Michael says.
You smile and nod in agreement immediately, and the tension in the girls' shoulders visibly eases at the invitation. The normalness of it helps all of you, pretending for a little while that this is just another morning at Hayvenhurst instead of the morning after you secretly married Michael Jackson in Vegas.
LaToya and Janet move around the kitchen making their own plates from the breakfast you made: pancakes, bacon, eggs, toast, and of course, orange juice from the fridge because Michael loves orange juice and there is somehow always enough stocked in this house specifically for him.
The familiarity of all of it settles warmly around you. When the girls finally sit down, Janet looks at you and smiles, still clearly trying to process everything.
"So you two are really married?" she asks.
You nod immediately, unable to stop your own smile from spreading again at hearing someone say it out loud. "Yeah, is that okay with you?" you ask in a teasing tone.
Janet rolls her eyes slightly in that younger sibling way that immediately makes Michael laugh under his breath beside you. Janet is the baby of the family, adored by everyone in this house, but you know she's especially attached to Michael, LaToya, and Randy.
"Yeah, there are a lot of boys in this family, it's nice to have another girl," Janet says as she shrugs before starting to eat her food.
The answer makes you laugh immediately, and beside you, Michael laughs too, the sound softer and freer than it had been all morning. Even LaToya laughs, shaking her head affectionately at Janet while the heaviness from earlier continues easing little by little.
Then your attention shifts toward LaToya.
Your chest warms slightly just looking at her because you know none of this would exist without her. Without the sleepovers after school. Without years of friendship. Without her pulling you into this family long before you ever became Michael's wife.
Her opinion matters to you, too. "What about you, Toya?" you ask.
LaToya looks at you for exactly one second before laughing. "You've been my sister for over 10 years... I was just waiting on the two of you to catch up and make it official," LaToya says.
The words immediately make you and Michael look at each other at the same time before both of you quickly look away again, and the reaction only makes everyone laugh harder because it's obvious both of you are blushing now.
You can physically feel the heat in your cheeks, and beside you, Michael bites down on his lip shyly while reaching for his orange juice, clearly trying and failing to hide how flustered he is.
The four of you slowly settle into breakfast after that, eating and talking and laughing together while the girls tease both of you endlessly about secretly getting married without telling anyone. Every few minutes, Janet gasps dramatically about how offended she is that she didn't get to come to Vegas, while LaToya keeps pointing out how obvious it's been for years that the two of you were going to end up married anyway.
And little by little, the earlier tension with Joseph fades further into the background as you and Michael focus on the people at the table who are happy for you instead.
You did not doubt that the second LaToya and Janet went upstairs earlier, LaToya probably called every single one of their siblings and told them the news already, so you fully expected you'd be hearing from the rest of the Jackson family later.
But for now, sitting beside your husband while laughter fills the kitchen again, that future feels far enough away that you can let yourself enjoy this moment first.
────୨ৎ────
The moment comes sooner than expected.
One minute, you and Michael were upstairs in his room after cleaning up the kitchen from breakfast and getting ready for the day, enjoying the quiet little bubble you kept managing to find your way back into whenever you were alone together. The next minute, you're both seated in the living room with all of his siblings standing in front of the two of you, staring at your ringed fingers in varying levels of shock, disbelief, amusement, and excitement.
Apparently, LaToya's phone calls had worked fast.
The room is loud in that distinctly Jackson-family way, everyone talking over each other while simultaneously trying to process the fact that Michael, the shy, soft-spoken youngest brother they all still instinctively baby despite his fame, had secretly gone to Vegas and gotten married.
"Wait, so you're really married?" Marlon asks as his eyes bounce between your ring and Michael's again, like he's still trying to make it make sense.
"Yes," you say.
"Marriage license and everything?" Rebbie asks, and Michael laughs immediately beside you.
"Yes!" Michael says, smiling as he shakes his head, the disbelief in everyone else's reactions clearly entertaining him now that the initial stress of Joseph finding out has passed.
There's something lighter about him again, sitting here with his siblings. The tension that had wrapped itself tightly around him earlier is gone now, replaced by excitement and nervous happiness that keeps slipping out every time somebody calls you his wife.
"My god... who would've thought little Michael would sneak off to Vegas and elope," Jackie says.
The comment immediately makes everyone laugh because it's true. Out of all the Jackson siblings, Michael honestly might've been the last person anybody expected to secretly run away and get married. And of course, once all the siblings gathered downstairs, they made you and Michael tell the full story of how the marriage happened in the first place.
"Did Joseph have a heart attack?" Tito asks.
"Unfortunately not," you say.
That gets another round of laughter out of everyone, even Michael, who drops his head slightly as he laughs beside you while absently rubbing circles against the back of your hand with his thumb.
"Ya'll should've seen the way she stumped Joseph, too. She challenged him about why he was being so hard on me for getting married and not getting distracted from the group, but not the rest of you," Michael says as he gestures toward his brothers.
The second the words leave his mouth, all of their expressions shift slightly.
Their eyes widen as they look toward you because they all understand exactly what Joseph hadn't said out loud. None of them is confused about why Michael marrying young suddenly became such a catastrophe when several of them had done the exact same thing.
Because Michael isn't treated like the others.
"No way," Tito says.
Michael nods immediately, and there's something almost proud in the smile on his face as he looks over at you, like seeing you stand up for him against Joseph affected him more deeply than he's fully saying out loud.
"What did he say?" Marlon asks.
You laugh softly. "Nothing... granted, that was also when your mother walked into the room, but I don't think Joseph would've had a response either way," you say.
That gets another round of laughter from the siblings, though there's understanding underneath it too. They all know Joseph well enough to know you backed him into a corner with that question.
"Oh, god... Mother! How did she take it?" Rebbie asks. Michael's expression softens immediately at the mention of Katherine, and you feel his fingers tighten gently around yours before he answers.
"I think what upset her the most about it is that she wasn't there... and I did feel guilty about that, because it would've been wonderful to have Mother there... to have all of you there, really... but I also wanted this to be just us," Michael says as he squeezes your hand.
You look over at him immediately when he says it, warmth spreading through your chest all over again because you know exactly what he means. Vegas had been intimate and perfect and entirely yours in a way neither of you regretted, but that didn't mean you didn't love these people too.
"Michael, we understand, and we're happy for you... really. We all knew this was coming anyway," Jackie says with a smile. The sincerity in his voice visibly eases something in Michael again, and you can see it in the way his shoulders loosen slightly beside you.
"I was thinking about maybe doing another ceremony here... so all of you can attend," Michael says.
Immediately, his siblings' faces light up. The energy in the room shifts all over again, excitement replacing shock now as everyone starts reacting at once, already talking over each other about the idea before Michael turns toward you.
"And so your family can come too," he continues.
Your expression softens instantly at the thoughtfulness behind it. He already gave the two of you the intimate ceremony that belonged only to you both, but now he's thinking about everyone else too, about your mother getting to see you walk down an aisle, about Katherine getting to witness her son marry you properly, about your families getting to share in this happiness instead of only hearing about it afterward.
And honestly, the idea sounds perfect.
You smile while nodding your head. "That's a really good idea, Michael," you say with a smile.
Michael smiles too immediately, looking relieved and happy that you love the idea as much as he does, and he leans over to give you a quick kiss before standing up from the couch.
Almost instantly, his brothers surround him.
The room fills with teasing and congratulations as they start talking all over him, Tito clapping him on the shoulder while Marlon dramatically complains about not getting invited to Vegas. Michael laughs through all of it, smiling shyly but brighter than he has in days, and watching him like this: happy, relaxed, surrounded by people who genuinely love him, makes something warm settle deeply in your chest.
Meanwhile, the girls move over to join you on the couch.
Janet immediately curls up beside you and looks up at you expectantly. "Can I be a flower girl?" Janet asks. You laugh immediately, the request so earnest and hopeful that it's impossible not to smile wider.
"Janet, you're almost a teenager, wouldn't you rather be a bridesmaid instead?" you ask.
Janet's eyes widen instantly before a huge smile spreads across her face. "Really?" she asks.
You laugh again while nodding.
"Of course," you say before turning toward Rebbie. "I was wondering if maybe Stacee would be the flower girl, and you would be another bridesmaid?" you ask.
Rebbie's expression softens immediately at the suggestion. Rebbie has two daughters, and Marlon has one too, but Rebbie's younger daughter and Marlon's daughter are still toddlers, whereas Stacee is seven now, old enough to actually understand what being the flower girl means.
And judging by the emotional look on Rebbie's face, she already knows Stacee is going to lose her mind with excitement. Rebbie smiles immediately, warmth spreading across her face in a way that softens the last of the lingering tension from the morning.
"Of course, we'd both be honored," she says.
The sincerity in her voice makes your chest warm because there isn't even a second of hesitation in her response. Just love.
Then LaToya clears her throat dramatically from beside you, and when you turn toward her, she's already giving you a teasing look that immediately makes you laugh because you know exactly what she's about to say.
"You forget about me?" LaToya asks.
You laugh immediately, reaching for her hand. "How could I forget about the person who brought me into this family? I need you as my Maid of Honor," you say.
The reaction is immediate.
LaToya's eyes instantly water before she throws her arms around you, hugging you tightly enough that you laugh softly against her shoulder. The emotion catches up to her quickly, and honestly, it catches up to you, too. Because she really did bring you here. None of this would exist without her inviting you over all those years ago, without childhood sleepovers turning into family dinners and movie nights, and eventually falling in love with her little brother without even realizing when it happened.
Then suddenly, all the girls are hugging you.
Janet practically launches herself into the embrace while Rebbie wraps her arms around both of you, too, and for a moment, you're surrounded by warmth and perfume and overlapping laughter as they hold onto you tightly as if you've officially become something that, truthfully, you've already been to them for years.
"I know we have four other sisters-in-law... but you're our favorite," Janet says.
The comment immediately makes all four of you burst into laughter, loud enough that it echoes through the living room, and you barely even notice Michael turning around. The second he sees the three of his sisters wrapped around you while you hold onto them just as tightly, his entire expression softens.
Something emotional flashes across his face so quickly and openly, because to him, this means everything.
It makes his heart clench with love and adoration watching all of you together like this, watching the people he loves most seamlessly wrapping themselves around each other, and in that moment, he feels overwhelmingly grateful that you and LaToya became friends all those years ago and that she brought you home for a sleepover.
His life wouldn't have been the same without that moment. Without you.
For a second, he just stands there watching you quietly while his brothers continue talking around him, his gaze fixed entirely on you with that same softness that always appears whenever he looks at you for too long. Then Tito nudges him hard enough to pull him back into the conversation, making Michael laugh under his breath before his brothers immediately drag him back into whatever teasing they'd been doing before.
Meanwhile, the girls slowly pull away from the hug, though everyone still stays crowded close together on the couch.
"We've also never seen Michael this happy since before all the fame," LaToya says.
The words hit you quietly but deeply.
Your eyes soften immediately because you remember that conversation with Michael perfectly. The night he admitted how lonely he felt, how isolating all of this had become despite constantly being surrounded by people. You remember the exhaustion in his voice when he told you how fame made him feel loved by everyone and truly known by almost nobody.
And you remember the way he looked at you after telling you that, like you were the first place he'd felt understood in a very long time. You had made that loneliness better for him.
Not the fame, not the success, and not music. You.
The realization settles heavily and warmly inside your chest as you sit there surrounded by his family's love and acceptance, and for the first time since Joseph walked into that kitchen earlier, you let yourself fully settle into the fact that this is real.
You're his wife.
And despite the fear and tension and uncertainty, you were grateful to be here now, sitting in this living room surrounded by people who genuinely loved both of you.
You weren't going to let Joseph bring you down.
He didn't intimidate you before, and he wasn't going to start now, and more than that, you weren't going to sit back and let him continue controlling Michael through fear either.
Before, you had just been LaToya's best friend and Michael's girlfriend. Back then, there had always been a line you didn't feel entitled to cross, moments where you bit your tongue because this wasn't technically your family, and you didn't feel like you had the right to step fully into those confrontations.
But things were different now. Now you were Michael's wife, and you weren't going to tolerate Joseph's treatment of him anymore. Not quietly. Not while watching the man you love slowly convince himself he's only valuable when he's performing for somebody else.
Your thoughts break apart when you look up and catch Michael turning around across the room. The second your eyes meet, his expression softens all over again, and he lets out a slow, contented breath before smiling at you.
"I love you," he mouths silently. The words make warmth bloom through your chest instantly.
You smile back at him immediately. "I love you more," you mouth back.
Michael's smile widens in that shy, boyish way that still somehow makes your heart race after all these years, and he ducks his head slightly while his brothers immediately start teasing him for smiling at you like that.
The rest of the afternoon passes wrapped in warmth and noise and laughter.
You spend hours with Michael's siblings talking, playing games, and teasing each other while plans for the second ceremony slowly begin forming around all of you, naturally. Janet becomes deeply invested in bridesmaid dresses within ten minutes, LaToya immediately starts talking about decorations, and Rebbie starts mentally organizing family logistics before anyone even asks her to.
And sitting there beside your husband while the people you both love surround you, you realize the second ceremony will be different from Vegas. The first wedding had belonged only to the two of you, and this one would be filled with just as much love as the first.
Only this time, it would also be filled with family.
┊ ♡ ﹒ summary : the most famous man in the world has developed a deeply inconvenient crush on a stripper who wants nothing to do with him.
┊ ♡ ﹒ byi : stip club setting and sex work themes.
jealous coworkers and workplace hostility. references to michael’s vitiligo. blurred boundaries and complicated relationship dynamics. michael is a trick, but not on purpose. while not mentioned, I wrote this with the reader being slightly older than michael (24 & 27).
A sharp crack of a palm against the vanity made the bulbs around the mirror tremble. (Name) looked up from the tube of lip gloss in her hands to find Jasmine already leaning over her station, one hand planted against the countertop and the other gripping the edge so hard her knuckles had gone pale. She wasn’t joking or teasing. There was genuine irritation in her expression, the kind that had been building for months.
“That boy is here for you,” She said flatly. “Again.”
The dressing room fell into a murmur.
Music still thumped faintly through the walls, hair dryers still buzzed and girls still moved between mirrors but the atmosphere shifted all the same. Several heads lifted and a few eyes met in the reflection of the vanity mirrors. Someone muttered beneath her breath.
Nobody needed to ask who Jasmine meant, because the entire club knew.
At first, Michael Jackson had been little more than an entertaining piece of gossip. The most famous man in America wandering into their club had been bizarre enough on its own. The fact that he kept returning had made it funny.
The fact that he only ever asked for (Name) had stopped being funny weeks ago.
The jealousy had started gradually. A stray comment here, an eye roll there. Nothing serious. Then Michael kept coming back. Again and again and again. He never requested another girl or ever changed his routine. Never even pretended to browse. He’d appear through the back entrance, ask for (Name), and wait however long it took. Then came the gifts.
Not flashy at first—a bouquet after she’d mentioned having a bad week. Money slipped into her hand after overhearing her complain about a mechanic. A designer coat because she’d once mentioned being cold waiting outside after work. And a matching designer handbag she still hadn’t opened because she was almost afraid to find out what it cost.
Each gesture seemed entirely genuine, entirely thoughtless. As though spending thousands of dollars on someone was no different than offering them a stick of gum.
The other dancers couldn’t even comfort themselves with the idea that she’d “worked” for it.
..She hadn’t.
Michael simply seemed to have looked at her one day and decided he was completely enamored with her for whatever reason he had in his head.
The unfairness of it all had become impossible to ignore.
The club owners had initially been thrilled. Michael Jackson visiting regularly was good for business. Excellent for business! Until they realized Michael Jackson wasn’t actually spending his money inside the business.
He wasn’t buying packages. He wasn’t booking rooms. He wasn’t paying for services. The money went directly to her. Every time. The dancers were considerably even less charitable. Every woman in the building knew exactly what Michael Jackson looked like. Every woman in the building understood what it meant to have a man with that level of fame, money, and influence completely captivated. And every woman in the building had watched him bypass them all without a second glance.
The worst part was that (Name) didn’t even seem.. particularly grateful for it. If anything, she seemed annoyed.
Which only made everyone resent her more.
Because while other women would have killed for that kind of attention, (Name) treated it like an inconvenience. Michael would show up carrying roses worth more than someone’s electric bill, and she’d sigh. He’d hand her enough cash to solve a month’s worth of problems, and she’d look vaguely irritated. The behavior bordered on offensive to people who were working twelve hour shifts in heels to scrape together rent.
Jasmine straightened slightly, her expression growing darker the longer (Name) remained silent.
“I swear to God,” she muttered, shaking her head. “I don't know what he sees.” A few girls glanced away but nobody said anything to disagree with her.
Because that was the ugly truth sitting beneath months of gossip and bitterness. Michael wasn’t choosing between dancers. He wasn’t choosing between women in general. He was choosing her. Repeatedly. Publicly. Unapologetically. And nobody could understand why.
(Name) stared at her reflection in the mirror for a long moment before finally setting the lip gloss down.
Three months ago, Michael Jackson had walked into the club looking so hopelessly out of place she had almost laughed. Most men arrived wanting something. Sex. Attention. Validation. Fantasy. Michael had wanted conversation. Somehow, against all logic, that remained true. He never asked for dances. Never asked for private rooms. Never pushed. Never demanded. Instead, he sat with the earnest patience of a man entirely unaware of how absurd the situation looked from the outside, talking about books he’d read, songs he was writing, movies he’d watched, childhood memories he’d suddenly remembered. Sometimes he brought flowers. Sometimes gifts. Sometimes money. Always because she’d mentioned something in passing weeks earlier that he’d somehow remembered or just for the hell of it.
It should have made her feel special but it made her uneasy.
Michael was too kind.
Too sincere.
Too sweet.
The world had spent years teaching (Name) that generosity came with strings attached. Michael seemed to have missed that lesson entirely. Which was precisely why she wanted nothing to do with him. Looking at him sometimes felt like looking at a puppy that hadn’t yet realized cars existed. And she wanted absolutely no part in whatever fantasy he seemed determined to build around her.
Michael Jackson was, without question, one of the strangest men any of them had ever encountered.
Not creepy or sleazy.
Just.. strange.
Strange that showed up to a strip club carrying roses and wanted to discuss Peter Pan. Strange that tipped like a millionaire but flirted like the homeschooled church boy he is.
Jasmine slapped the vanity again. “Hello? He’s been sitting out there for twenty minutes.”
(Name) closed her eyes briefly.
Of course he had.
Because Michael never seemed bothered by waiting for her. And somehow, after all these months, that fact still irritated her more than it should have.
(Name) stared at her reflection for another moment before pushing herself to her feet. She didn’t bother reaching for her cover-up hanging beside the mirror ot bother adjusting her costume. If Michael wanted to spend his evening lurking outside the back entrance like a smitten fool, then he could deal with the reality of interrupting her in the middle of a shift. The stool scraped loudly against the floor as she stood. Jasmine shifted just enough to remain in her path but (Name) didn’t alter her course. Their shoulders knocked together on her way past hard enough to make her point, casting a glance at her over the shoulder. She heard Jasmine mutter something beneath her breath as the dressing room door swung shut behind her.
The back end of the club seemed to part around her as she crossed through the dark hallways. Music pounded through the walls and floorboards, vibrating through her Pleasers with every step. Conversations faltered. Eyes followed. They always did now. Everyone knew where she was going. By the time she reached the employee exit, even the security guard stationed by the door looked amused. He offered her a sympathetic look that somehow felt more insulting than outright laughter before pulling the door open for her.
Chilly night air rushed over her skin the moment she stepped outside and the noise of the club dulled behind the heavy metal door, leaving only the faint hum of traffic and the light of neon spilling across the pavement. A sleek black car sat parked along the curb.
Bill stood beside it. Michael stood beside Bill.
The second she appeared, Michael straightened. A subtle shift that would’ve gone unnoticed by anyone who didn’t know to look for it.
Dark aviators concealed his eyes despite the late hour, the lenses catching reflections of streetlights and neon signage between the two clubs. Between the sunglasses, the tailored jacket, and the mysterious air that seemed to follow him everywhere these days, he looked every bit the superstar splashed across magazine covers.
Then he saw her, and a smile appeared slowly and softly.
The corner of his mouth lifting first before the rest followed.
Bill noticed her at roughly the same time. More specifically, Bill noticed the fact that she was wearing approximately the amount of clothing expected from a woman halfway through her shift. And, being a far more intelligent man than his employer, his gaze shot somewhere toward the skyline, then the pavement, then the car.
Anywhere but directly at her.
“Miss (Stage Name),” he greeted politely. “I’ll give you two a moment.” And with that, he disappeared toward the front of the car.
(Name) looked back at Michael. He was holding flowers.
A bouquet of pale pink peonies and white roses rested comfortably in the crook of his arm, wrapped in expensive paper that probably cost more than some people’s dinner. The arrangement was beautiful. Thoughtfully chosen. Excessive in exactly the way everything Michael did seemed to become excessive without him realizing it.
“Michael.”
His smile remained.
“What do you want?” The question should have sounded harsher than it did and perhaps it would’ve worked on someone else.
Michael only stepped forward and offered her the bouquet. “I got these.” The words were accompanied by a small shrug, boyish despite everything else about him. “For you.”
(Name) stared at the flowers before reluctantly taking them. The moment her fingers closed around the bouquet, something in Michael's expression softened further. Relief.
As though some small hope had been rewarded because he had spent the evening wondering whether she would accept them.
“Why?”
Michael glanced down at the peonies and his smile turned almost shy.
“They reminded me of you.” The answer arrived without hesitation. “I saw them earlier," He said quietly. “And I thought they were pretty.”
A brief pause followed, then: “And then I thought about you.”
The simplicity of it made it difficult to respond because Michael never seemed embarrassed by his affection for her. He never tried to disguise it or attempted to make himself seem less invested than he was. He simply handed her flowers because they reminded him of her.
Remembered things she liked because he cared enough to remember them.
Showed up because he wanted to see her.
The sincerity should have felt childish but it was very disarming.
”You like pink,” He continued after a moment. “And peonies.” He smiled, adjusting his aviators. “I remembered.”
Yeah. Michael remembered everything.
Every passing comment. Every preference. Every insignificant detail most people would've forgotten before the conversation even ended. And it wasn’t calculated. That was the problem. If it had been calculated, she could have dismissed it. Instead it came from a place so genuine that it left her with nowhere to direct her irritation.
Standing dressed for work and already late for her set, (Name) found herself confronted once again with the same impossible reality she’s been avoiding for three months.
Michael Jackson looked at her like she was something worth protecting. Something worth remembering.
“You can’t keep doing this,” she said finally. It came out steadier than she expected, more final than she felt.
Michael didn’t react immediately, he rarely did. There was no offense in his expression, no shift into defensiveness. Just a small pause, as if he was turning the sentence over carefully in his mind, trying to understand where it led.
“Doing what?” he asked.
And there it was again: a calm confusion because the rules everyone else lived by had simply never been explained to him.
“Showing up,” She said. “Here. At my job.”
“Mhn.”
“You know I’m working,” she continued.
“I know.” A second passed and Michael adjusted the sleeve of his jacket slightly. “I just wanted to see you.”
The simplicity of it made her jaw tighten. “Michael.”
His head tilted slightly, his attention. He was trying to follow her logic carefully, step by step, without missing anything.
“You won’t let me see you any other time.” The words landed softly but his tone wasn’t accusatory. Just observed, observing a conclusion he had reached after a long period of trying and failing to understand the rules she was setting.
“I ask,” he continued, voice still soft and even, “And you say no.”
Silence stretched between them for a moment.
Traffic passed somewhere on the street over. The club door opened and closed in the distance, spilling a flicker of bass into the night before swallowing it again.
Michael didn’t move. Didn’t push. Didn’t soften the point or dress it up. He just stood there in it.
Then, more quietly: “So I come here.” The honesty of it should have been frustrating.
And it was..But not in the way she expected. Because there was no calculation behind it.
No strategy. No manipulation.
Just a man who wanted to see her, repeatedly, and had run out of ways to do it that she wouldn’t refuse. (Name) shifted slightly, the flowers in her grip suddenly too present.
“That’s not how this works,” She said.
Michael looked at her still hidden behind the sunglasses, impossible to read fully..But his voice softened when he spoke again.
“So, how does it work then?” He wasn’t challenging her. He was asking her to explain something he genuinely didn’t understand.
As if there was a version of the world where wanting to see someone required permission from every angle except the one he was standing in.
As if rejection was a rule he hadn’t learned yet, not a boundary he was choosing to ignore.
And worse than that he looked like he would follow whatever answer she gave him.
She opened her mouth to speak but whatever she had been about to say didn’t make it out. Michael’s attention shifted first, just slightly, his gaze dropping past her face to her shoulders observantly, making it hard to pretend he wasn’t noticing everything.
“Are you cold?” He asked.
“Huh?”
He looked at her a little more directly, as if the question was already settled in his mind. “You’re cold.”
“I’m not—”
But he was already moving.
Michael shrugged out of his jacket, the fabric sliding from his shoulders and revealing the line of his shirt beneath. For a moment his hands disappeared into the sleeves as he adjusted his grip, and when they reemerged.
He stepped in close, too close for the conversation she had been trying to maintain.
The jacket lifted between them and settled over her shoulders before she could argue further. It was warm. Noticeably so, still holding the heat of him. The weight of it sank into place, just as oversized as it was on him than it was her.
He adjusted it carefully, tugging it into alignment with small motions. One hand brushed near her shoulder as he smoothed the fabric down, the other guiding the front edges together before pausing at the zipper.
Up close, there was no ignoring the details.
His hands were steady. Long fingers moving with an ease that made everything look so elegantly pretty. There was something disarming about how gentle they were for someone who lived so publicly, contact with him was something he still treated with care.
She noticed faint irregular patches along his forearms. Subtle, uneven shapes of pigment that broke up the skin tone. Michael didn’t notice her noticing, he only finished the motion of zipping the jacket up until it sat properly against her.
And then there was the smell.
Clean, soft, him. Something warm underneath it—fabric, skin, a trace of cologne. It lingered where the jacket closed faintly, settling into the space between them and making her more aware of how close he had just been.
Michael stepped back half a pace, looking at her as though he’d completed a task.
“There,” he said quietly. The night, the argument, and her refusal had all been briefly irrelevant in the face of making sure she wasn’t cold.
(Name) held the bouquet loosely in the crook of her elbow, the earlier irritation fading into something she didn’t fully consent to. She looked at him for a long moment—aviators still on, posture relaxed, that faint satisfaction sitting at the edge of his mouth.
Then he lifted a hand and removed his sunglasses.
It changed him immediately, harder to ignore because he’s—well, he was so pretty. His eyes were steady when they met hers, focused on her and only her. It made everything else feel secondary, like she was the only thing he was actually tracking in the space between them.
There was a small shift at the corners of his mouth. It was shy and didn’t match the ease of everything else about him. It seemed like he was briefly aware of himself in a different register and didn’t entirely know what to do with it. The sunglasses protected him in that way.
But he looked pleased to see her regardless, quieter about it now.
“Thank you, Michael,” She said, though.. her tone was spent.
He nodded once, still holding that softened expression, the words had landed exactly where he expected them to.
“You’re welcome.” He shifted his weight slightly, sunglasses dangling loosely from one hand now, the other lifting halfway before stopping like he was checking himself before speaking.
He asked anyway. “Can I have a little more of your time?” The same steadiness that hadn’t changed no matter how many times she’d pushed back against it.
The club door opened and shut behind her, spilling faint bass into the alley before swallowing it again.
Michael waited, still and composed.
And (Name), wrapped in his jacket, holding his flowers, found that she didn’t answer immediately.. for the first time.
SUMMARY: inspired by this request. Michael spends months hiding an engagement ring and waiting for the perfect moment to propose. unfortunately, Y/N doesn’t know about either of those things and writes a song making that everybody else’s problem.
CONTENT: michael jackson x singer!reader. established relationship. raye inspired reader. “where is my husband!” - all credits go miss raye! fluff. comedy. public shenanigans. michael needs to hurry up. did no proofread.
.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・.・。.・゜✭ .
Everyone had accepted one simple truth: Michael Jackson and Y/N were going to get married.
Nobody questioned ‘if’ anymore. They only questioned the ‘when’.
Which, unfortunately for Michael, had become the most frequently asked question in entertainment journalism.
They had been together for nearly four years now.
She was the industry’s newest darling—a powerhouse vocalist whose soul, jazz and pop influences had made her one of the fastest-rising artists at the time. Every awards season belonged to her just as much as it belonged to him.
Together, they were impossible to ignore.
Magazine covers.
Award shows.
Movie premieres.
Charity galas.
Somehow they always ended up photographed laughing in corners, stealing little glances when they thought cameras weren’t paying attention.
And every interview somehow eventually became the same conversation.
“So…” The interviewer smiled knowingly. “When’s the wedding?”
Y/N always laughed. “Don’t look at me!” She shook her head and held out her hands. “It’s not me you should be asking that!”
The audience laughed.
Michael laughed.
The interviewer laughed.
Then the camera inevitably cut to Michael.
He’d smile innocently. “What?”
“What do you mean, ‘what’?” she’d tease. “They’re asking you!”
He’d simply shrug. “I don’t know what everyone’s talking about.”
“Oh, you know exactly what they’re talking about.”
“I really don’t.”
“You’re such a bad liar!”
Another interview. Another city. Another red carpet.
“So,” another reporter grinned, “have you started planning the wedding?”
Y/N sighed dramatically. “Well, I’ve started.”
Michael blinked beside her. “You have?”
“Yes, I have.” She nodded throughly. “I’ve picked flowers.”
Michael tilted his head at her. “You have?”
She nodded once again. “I’ve picked music.”
“…You have?”
“Oh, honey, I’ve even picked the cake.” She stated in a very serious tone.
Michael laughed. “Of course you have.” He said, pulling her closer with the arm he had around her shoulder and placing a kiss on her temple.
The clip aired everywhere.
Fans adored them.
The jokes became a running thing.
Whenever Michael left for another leg of his tour, Y/N would wave him goodbye dramatically.
“Come back with a ring!”
He’d point at her. “No promises.” She threw hands every time.
Months passed. Another tour. Another album. Another awards season.
And still…
No proposal in sight.
But what nobody knew—not the press, not the fans, not even Y/N—was that tucked safely inside the back drawer of Michael’s dresser sat a navy velvet ring box.
Inside rested the most beautiful marquise-cut diamond he’d ever seen.
He’d spent nearly six months searching for it.
Six long months of sneaking around in jewelry stores.
Six long, exhausting months of yearning to drop on one knee and call the woman he loved his fiancée and eventually wife already.
But Michael simply refused to rush something he’d dreamed about his entire life.
He wanted the moment perfect. She deserved nothing but perfection.
Y/N, meanwhile, was getting very impatient.
Not genuinely, thought. Comically impatient.
On one specific afternoon she stormed into the studio chewing on some gun and carrying righteous indignation.
Her producer looked up from the piano. He grimaced. “Should I be worried?”
“Yes.” She answered, dropping onto a chair near the piano.
He sighed, turning on the bench to face her. “What happened?”
“My boyfriend is testing me.” She pressed the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes harshly.
“…Michael?”
“Michael.” She affirmed in a low voice while nodding.
“He do something?”
“Absolutely not.”
“…Okay?” The producer frowned. That man was getting confused.
Y/N groaned and dropped her head dramatically. “He won’t propose.”
Silence.
He pondered for a few seconds before nodding. “Yeah, that’s actually fair.”
“Thank you!” She threw herself dramatically onto the chair one more time. “I’ve been so, so patient.”
He snorted at her, getting up from the bench and placing his hands on his waist. “Darling, you’ve been making jokes about it on national television.”
“Exactly.” She pointed a sharp finger at him.
“So what’s your plan?”
Y/N sat up slowly, a mischievous smile slowly spreading across her face.
“I am about to write the most direct song of my entire tiny career.”
Her producer immediately started laughing. “Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes.”
Three hours later she walked into the vocal booth.
The band watched through the glass.
The backing vocalists waited beside their microphones.
She adjusted her headphones. Smiled and cleared her throat.
Then announced: “Okay, this one goes out to my wonderful boyfriend,” A beat. “who apparently needs some instruction.”
Her producer snorted, shaking his head at her. This girl was impossible.
When the recording was finished, the producer slowly removed his headphone. “You’re going to send Michael Jackson into cardiac arrest.” He noted.
“Oh, I know.”
“You’ve publicly declared war.”
“Well, you know what they say,” She said through the microphone while shrugging slightly.
The producer shrugged and frowned. “Uh, I actually have no idea what ‘they say’” He paused. “Please, enlighten me.”
Y/N smirked. “All’s fair in love and poetry.”
⋆⭒˚.⋆
She kept the song secret for a few weeks.
Even from Michael. Well, especially from Michael.
Which made the invitation to perform at a major Award show ceremony all the more dangerous.
Nobody knew what she planned.
Not the audience.
Not the press.
Certainly not the man sitting front row in a black tuxedo who believed he was simply there to support his girlfriend.
The auditorium lights dimmed. A spotlight illuminated center stage. The curtain lifted and the audience erupted.
Y/N stood beneath a vintage microphone wearing a floor-length crimson gown that glittered beneath every light in the room.
The silhouette hugged her perfectly before flowing elegantly to the floor.
Her hair curled softly beneath her jaw.
She looked like she’d stepped straight out of a 1950s Hollywood film.
Behind her waited an entire live band.
Piano.
Double bass.
Drums.
A brass section.
And three women in matching satin gowns standing behind vintage microphones.
Michael smiled immediately at the sight. But something about this entire setup made him a bit nervous, what he couldn’t place a finger on it.
“You know, she didn’t let me hear this one yet,” Michael commented casually to the man sitting beside him. It was Y/N’s producer, who didn’t take his eyes off the stage.
“Oh, trust me, I know.” He answered with a scoff.
Michael frowned a little at that response. “She just keeps saying it’s ‘special.’”
The man scratched the back of his neck and clicked his tongue. “It is.”
“You’ve heard it?” Michael asked, turning towards him.
“Unfortunately.”
Michael laughed. “Unfortunately?”
“Yeah, yeah,” The producer finally looked at him. “You’ll see.”
Then the lights dimmed.
The pianist played the opening chord.
Y/N wrapped one elegant hand around the microphone.
Smiled sweetly.
“Oh, baby…” She sang, her voice floating through the room like velvet. Warm. Playful. Dangerously theatrical. Then she tilted her head, a mischievous grin appeared on her red lips. “Where the hell is my husband?”
The audience exploded.
People gasped and screamed before she’d even finished the sentence.
Michael covered half his face with one hand.
“Oh my God…” He murmured under his breath.
The cameras immediately found him. Worst possible thing ever for Michael.
Because Michael Jackson looked like he was trying to decide if he should laugh, cry or faint.
Y/N caught him looking. Smirked. Then continued.
God, how he loved her.
Michael slowly turned to her producer with widened eyes.
The producer was doing his absolute best to not look back at him.
Michael shook his head in disbelief, a smile starting to appear on his face. “You knew about this?”
“Mhm.”
“And you let her do this?”
The man shook his head with a tiny smile, but after a few seconds the nods turned into a negative head shaking, the smile vanishing from his face as he stared at a very amused Michael Jackson. He gulped.
“Michael, I value my life.” He kept glancing between Y/N and Michael. “Do you know how stubborn your girlfriend is?”
Michael grinned and nodded knowingly.
“Your wife can be very persuasive—No, not wife—I mean, I—girlfrie—wife to be—I mean—“ Michel roared with laughter at the poor man. “I’ll just…” He sealed his lips shut and turned towards the stage once again with cheeks as red as Y/N’s gown.
Michael stared at him for a few more seconds before sighing with content and turning his eyes to his girlfriend on stage.
The backing vocalists answered every phrase behind her like a mischievous Greek chorus.
“Woo-hoo…” She wandered slowly across the stage. Shielding her eyes dramatically as though searching the audience. “What is taking him so long…” She scanned the balcony, the orchestra and the celebrity tables. “…to find me?” She pointed at herself.
By the second verse the audience had completely surrendered to her.
“I’m doing lonely acrobatics…”
She dramatically reached behind herself pretending to unzip the back of the gown.
Then threw one hand dramatically into the air. “This where your wife is!”
Without missing a beat she pointed directly toward the front row. Toward Michael.
Every head in the theater turned.
Michael slowly leaned back in his chair.
He couldn’t stop smiling.
When the bridge of the song came through entire room somehow got louder.
“I would like a ring…” She lifted her left hand beneath the spotlight. Completely bare, no ring in sight.
She admired the nonexistent engagement ring as though it were worth millions. Turning her wrist elegantly, smiling proudly at absolutely nothing. “I would like a diamond ring…”
She extended the imaginary diamond toward the audience.
“I would like a biiiiig…” Her hands spread dramatically apart. “…and shiny diamond…” She suddenly gasped and shielded her eyes.
“Oh!”She stumbled backward theatrically. “It’s blinding.” She said, a little comment in between the verses.
Then the choreography began.
All four women lifted their left hands simultaneously.
Waving their empty ring fingers around the theater, turning their wrists and admiring invisible diamonds from every angle.
One backing vocalist pretended to faint over Y/N’s imaginary engagement ring.
Another applauded.
The third dramatically shielded her own eyes from the ‘sparkle.’
The theater roared.
Michael had both hands over his mouth now, shoulders shaking with laughter. He wasn’t even trying to be discreet about it.
Y/N looked directly at him and grinned wider.
She was loving every second of this.
The music softened, brass disappearing and drums fading away, until only the piano remained.
Y/N glanced toward the ceiling.
Then slowly lifted one finger upward. “…Grandma?” She nodded to herself, pointing upwards once again. “Oh, there she is.” She smiled with satisfaction.
Then, through the speakers, a female elderly voice echoed through the speakers.
“Your husband is coming.”
The audience yelled at the iconic line.
Michael looked at the producer in disbelief, his cheeks starting to hurt from smiling and blushing. “She even got grams involved?” He couldn’t believe it!
The producer nodded once like it was obvious.
“Oh, yeah, the whole family’s is out to get you.” He said bluntly. Michael laughed loudly once again.
Then, Y/N clutched her chest dramatically.
She laughed into the microphone at herself before stepping away from it completely.
And instead of returning to center stage she wondered towards the very edge of it.
Toward the front row.
Toward Michael.
Every camera followed.
Every screen in the theater showed only them now.
She stopped directly in front of him.
Only a few feet separated them.
Michael looked up at her with the expression of a man realizing he was absolutely not surviving this performance.
Then—to everyone’s surprise—Y/N gracefully lowered herself onto the edge of the stage, onto her stomach and resting on her elbows. Her chin settled into her hands. High heeled feet kicked lazily behind her in the air. Completely girlish. Completely shameless. Like she was lying on her bedroom floor gossiping with her best friend instead of performing in front of Hollywood.
The crowd completely lost whatever composure they still had left.
Michael threw his head back laughing before looking back at her with the most loving and tender eyes known to mankind.
“Oh, my love…” He mumbled through smiles.
She smiled innocently at him and batted her eyelashes. Then pointed directly at him.
“Where…” She tilted her head, singing in a paused voice. “…is my husband?” She smiled so sweetly it was almost criminal.
The cameras immediately cut to Michael.
He bit his lip, a big, big smile on his face.
The audience screamed louder.
He shook his head lightly before looking around the theater innocently. Then—that teasing, teasing man—pointed towards himself. “Me?”
The audacity of this man! Y/N only raised a sharp brow in response.
The building practically shook.
People were already standing.
Cheering.
Screaming.
Whistling.
Y/N laughed so hard she had to pull the microphone away from her mouth.
She leaned forward just enough to tap the tip of Michael’s chin with one finger before gracefully pushing herself back to her feet.
She smoothed down the shimmering red gown as though she hadn’t just publicly confronted the biggest pop star on Earth just because she could.
Then she turned and walked back toward center stage with the effortless elegance of an Old Hollywood leading lady.
The band exploded back to life.
The brass returned.
The backing vocalists joined her one last time.
She held the final note effortlessly.
The lights cut.
Blackout.
Then, half a second later, the standing ovation hit.
It was deafening.
Michael stood immediately. Still laughing. Applauding louder and harder than anyone in the room.
She caught his eye from across the stage.
Blew him a kiss.
He caught it.
Pressed it dramatically against his heart.
Then mouthed “You’re unbelievable.”
She simply winked. Not sorry. Not even a little bit.
The ovation continued.
And then, something nobody noticed. Not the cameras. Not the audience. Not even Y/N.
As the applause kept going Michael quietly slipped one hand inside his tuxedo jacket.
His fingertips brushed against the small navy velvet box resting inside of his inner pocket.
He smiled and looked down at the object. Then his eyes traveled back to woman taking her final bow beneath a shower of applause.
She thought she’d just cornered him.
She thought she’d declared war.
She thought she’d just spent four minutes publicly bullying her boyfriend into proposing.
Little did she know the ring she’d spent the entire performance pretending to wear already existed.
And was less than two feet away from her.
Michael closed his hand around the little velvet box for a second longer than necessary before slipping it carefully back into his pocket.
Beside him, Y/N’s producer happened to glance down at that exact moment, his eyes catching the corner of the small box. He blinked once. Twice. Mouth opened and closed. Then looked slowly back at Michael. Actual relief crossed his face.
“Oh, thank goodness, man!” He ran a hand through his hair.
Michael didn’t say anything, just smiled and bit his bottom lip. He simply looked back toward the stage, where Y/N was taking another bow beneath the thunderous applause, still wearing that triumphant smile she wore whenever she thought she had won a battle.
The producer followed his gaze.
A slow grin spread across his face.
“Well,” he murmured. “Guess she wasn’t singing to the void after all.”
Michael laughed quietly to himself.
“No,” he admitted, unable to take his eyes off her. “She wasn’t.”
The applause kept echoing through the theater.
Y/N waved one last time before disappearing behind the curtain, completely unaware of Michael’s plans.
Michael smiled to himself. ‘Okay,’ he thought. ‘I think I’ve made my future wife wait long enough.’
“She is never going to let you live this performance down, you know that, right?” the producer asked rhetorically.
Michael’s smile only grew. “Oh, I know.” He patted the pocket of his jacket almost absentmindedly.
the place to find all works pertaining to michael and nanny.
works are posted out of chronological to michael and nanny's story, but are organized into chronological order
when nanny started working for the jackson family
blurbs
the introduction to nanny!reader
michael wants you to move in
the grocery store run in
michael may want to make you a mother 18+ pt. 2
wanting to tell the kids about your's and michael's relationship
you leave your cardigan at the house 18+
you and michael take the kids trick or treating
going on vacation
christmas cards
playing in the rain with the kids and michael (requested)
headcanons
domestic bliss : some instances in which michael and you function as a couple . . . which you guys aren't. just a really, really good team.
fics
real man : when the usual tension thickens between you and your boss upon letting him know that you'll need to leave earlier than you usually do on friday night because you have a date, you never expected that he'd be the one to save your night. and you never thought that fateful night would later lead to truths being unfolded. or michael shows you how a real man treats a woman. 18+
why has nobody written a michael fic where reader pops out in a moomoo 😩 imagine her coming out of the bathroom changed into one and everything is just shaking every time she walks and michael is over there gobsmacked and so whiny just wanting to feel her everywhere
ok i took some artistic liberties with this one because this made me cackle when i read it and .... this was born hahahah. enjoy!!
── .✦ mile high .....
... a moomoo crackfic!
pairing: dangerous era mj x reader (established gf ig)
word count: 1.7k
tags: fluff, dangerous era, private jet shenanigans, mile high club PENDING?, make out, you are wearing a moo moo and its so funny, michael is so soft, hes so BOYFRIEND!!!!,
authors note; i have severe writers block w some smut im writing at the moment and needing something to make me laugh and i saw this ask come in... and just could not help it. ps. this has barely been proof read so if it is shit,..., sorry
₊˚ෆ
The California morning sun was a merciless, bleaching gold against the tarmac of the private airstrip. Inside the cool, dim cabin of Michael's private jet, the loud sound of the engines before take off was a soothing lullaby to anyone else, but to you, it was the frantic drumbeat of your own humiliation. You were curled into a plush leather seat, trying to make your entire body disappear.
Across the aisle, Michael was a study in composed, elegant energy. He was reviewing outfits for promotional appearance in Tokyo, before his 'Dangerous' tour nights in the city. His slender fingers tracing the lines of a schedule and the drawings, a soft, absent melody humming in his throat. He was wearing a crisp, military-inspired jacket with gold tassles on the shoulders, the fabric a deep crimson that made his skin glow against the sun beaming in through the small window.
You, in stark, catastrophic contrast, were swaddled in a garment of such profound ugliness it seemed to absorb the very light around you.
It was a moomoo. Not a cute, vintage Hawaiian muumuu with flowers, but a true, floor-length, sack-like moomoo. The color was a oppressive, eye-searing mustard-bile yellow with a pattern of what could only be described as bruised avocado shapes, all rendered in a synthetic, slightly shiny polyester that whispered unpleasantly against your skin with every tiny movement.
You had packed in a bleary-eyed, 4 AM panic, grabbing what you thought was the silk pouch of your new lingerie set for… well, for the possibility of a romantic interlude during the trip.
Instead, your fumbling hands had seized the vacuum-packed moomoo your well-meaning but fashion-blind Aunt Margaret had sent as a joke gift. You hadn’t even unpacked it; you’d just tossed the whole plastic bag into your suitcase, thinking it was the lingerie.
You’d discovered the horror only after takeoff, when you’d retreated to the plane’s small, luxurious bathroom to “freshen up” and change into something comfortable for the long flight, as there was a bed in the back of the cabin. The moment you unrolled the atrocity, a cold wave of nausea had washed over you. It was the only thing you had in your carry on besides your travel clothes.
So you’d put it on, the act itself one of profound surrender, and now you were a sentient, pulsating blob of mustard shame.
“You’re very quiet over there, sweet thing” Michael’s voice cut through the engine drone, smooth as velvet. You flinched. He hadn't looked at you since you walked out, so engrossed in his work
“Mhm,” you managed, a non-committal sound, muffled by the hands you had pressed firmly over your face. If you couldn’t see him, he couldn’t see you. That was the logic at this point.
You heard the soft rustle of fabric, the gentle click of a seatbelt being undone. His presence approached, a subtle shift in the air, a whisper of his signature fragrance— laundry detergent, Bal à Versailles and ... the smell of rain on dry earth.
The leather of the seat beside you sighed as he sat, not across, but right next to you.
“What’s this?” he asked, his tone laced with a playful, genuine curiosity. A single, cool fingertip traced the puffy sleeve of the moomoo where it billowed around your arm. “This fabric… it’s... interesting. Is it new?”
A mortified groan escaped you, vibrating against your palms. “No. It’s a mistake. A terrible, terrible mistake.”
“Let me see, you, silly” he coaxed, his voice a soft melody. You shook your head violently, your face still buried.
You felt his hands, gentle but insistent, wrap around your wrists. His touch was always so deliberate, so careful, yet there was an undeniable strength there. He pulled your hands down from your face, and you had no choice but to meet his eyes.
He was sort of laughing. Not in a cruel way, but in a loving one. His dark, luminous eyes were wide with fascinated amusement, his head tilted like a curious sparrow.
He took in the full, devastating panorama of the moomoo; the high, frumpy neckline, the shapeless empire waist, the way it pooled around you on the seat like a deflated, toxic balloon.
“Oh, my,” he breathed, a smile playing on his lips. “It’s so… big? And this colour!” He picked up a fold of the fabric between his thumb and forefinger, rubbing it. “It’s like… a very nice... vomit colour. Wowwww”
You wanted the plane to crash. Immediately. “It’s a moomoo,” you whispered, the word itself tasting like dust and regret. “My aunt sent it. I packed it by accident. I thought it was something else.”
“A moomoo,” he repeated, in a funny deadpan way.
“well, if you're wearing it. I like it. It’s… well.. it's cute. It’s like you’re hiding in a little tent.” His smile widened, transforming his whole face, crinkling the corners of his eyes.
The teasing was there, but it was warm, enveloping, devoid of any malice. It made the humiliation somehow more acute and yet, paradoxically, less heavy.
“I look like a walking illness,” you protested, trying to pull your hands back, but he held them firm in your lap, his hands over yours. "I feel and look so ugly"
“No,” he said, and the single word was so quiet, so final, it silenced you. His gaze traveled from your eyes, down your nose, to your lips, then back up.
“You could wear a burlap sack and you would still be the most beautiful thing on this earth. in this universe” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a intimate murmur that competed with the engines.
“You have a light, you know. Inside. You are so beautiful. This…” he plucked at the moomoo again, “…this funny yellow thing can’t dim it. Not even a little bit.”
Tears, hot and sudden, pricked your eyes. It was not from sadness, but from the sheer, overwhelming contrast between your grotesque exterior and the tender sincerity in his face. Why the hell did you not check for your lingerie? A completely differe dynamic would be occurring if you had packed it.
He must have seen the sheen in your eyes. His expression softened further. Without a word, he shifted, his hands moving from yours to your waist. Even through the voluminous polyester, you could feel the heat and intention of his grip.
In one smooth, effortless motion, he lifted you. You gasped, the world tilting, as he gathered you up; lots of ugly fabric and all—and carried you the few steps to the plush, wide couch at the back of the cabin that served as a lounge area. He laid you down on the cream-colored leather, the moomoo spreading around you like a malignant flower.
He sat down beside you and then patted his thigh as if 'come sit'. You clambered on top of him, one knee on either side of his hips, straddling him in you yellow lumpy yellow form. He caged you in with his arms, your slender frame in front of him, was blocking out the cabin lights, casting his face in shadow.
You could feel the solid weight of him, the lean muscle of his thighs pressing against your own through the fabric. The playful tease was gone from his eyes, replaced by a dark, smoldering intensity that made your breath catch.
He peered up, his face inches from yours. You could feel his breath, sweet and warm, fan across your lips. “You know,” he whispered, his voice a rough, delicious scrape against the engine noises, “all this time you’ve been worrying about this… outfit.” One of his hands came up, his fingers threading into your hair at your ear, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. “But it doesn’t matter.” He lowered his head that final inch, and his lips met yours.
The kiss was slow at first, a soft, searching pressure. Then it deepened. His mouth moved over yours with a growing hunger, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips until you opened for him with a soft, helpless sigh. You started to forget, bowing to the taste of him, the feel of his body aligned over yours, the scratch of his jacket’s embroidery against the vile polyester of your.... moo moo.
As he kissed you, deeply, languidly consuming your mouth, his hips began to move. A slow, deliberate roll, grinding the hard ridge of his jeans against the apex of your thighs, separated only by the layers of fabric. The dry, insistent friction was maddening. A low, ragged moan vibrated in his throat and transferred into your mouth. Mmmph-hmm…
The moomoo was rustling loudly in protest, a ridiculous soundtrack to the building heat. One of his hands slid down from your face, over the billowing fabric of your chest, down your side, to grip your hip, holding you steady for his rhythmic, grinding thrusts. The other remained tangled in your hair, angling your head to take the kiss even deeper.
He broke the kiss only to trail his lips along your jaw, down the sensitive column of your throat, his breath hot and damp against your skin. “See?” he murmured into the hollow of your collarbone, his hips never stilling, a relentless, delicious pressure. “All this fuss.” A nip, gentle but possessive, made you gasp. “For nothing.”
His large arms roamed all over your body, squishing the bits of you that were a bit plusher -- he loved feeling you up, how curvy you were. he palmed the swell of your breast, and then through the thick fabric, toyed with your nipple.
"mhm, you like that don't you?" he teased.
You fought back the urge to whine out loud, holding it deep within.
He noticed you're frustration despite the hunger in your belly for him to take you.
"you're frustrated aren't you, sweetheart?" he asked, laughing a little, trying to now look at your face. he brought his hands back down to squeeze your ass roughly through the ugly night dress. His lips connected with yours again, devouring the taste of you; making the most of the plane being grounded and him not having to be stuck in his seat.
He lifted his head again, his eyes black pools of desire, his lips kiss-swollen. He looked from your eyes down to the high, frumpy neckline of the moomoo. A wicked, triumphant smile touched his lips.
“It’s coming off anyway,” he said, the words a husked promise, and his fingers hooked into the neckline of the hideous garment. With a soft, decisive rrrrip of a hidden seam, the oppressive, mustard-yellow world was peeled away.
"easy access, I guess" he giggled, as he picked you up again and walked with you, attached to him like a koala, to the private bedroom area of the cabin. It was completely sealed off from the rest of the crew who were up at the front of the plane.
He threw you playfully onto the bed, a massive grin on his face as he started to unbuckle and take off his belt, his large hands roaming across his waist to find the buttons on his trousers.
"Should i buy another then, michael, since you ripped up that one?" you had a mischievous gleam in your eye, as you lay on the bed with you back arched, posing for him in a sultry manner. He pulled off his jacket dramatically, like he was in a hurry.
He finally made his way onto the bed, clambering on top of you, his curly hair, now slightly falling into your face.
"mhm, I'll just rip anything off of you if you look cute enough" He said, squishing your backside in his hands as he scooped you up and flipped you over on top of him.
"so no, please do not buy another one" he laughed, and then caught your lips in another blissful kiss.
synopsis: you went against what michael said when he told you not to go out with your bad influences and you pay the price for it, him giving you the cold shoulder until you do something that you know he can’t resist.
warnings: slight angst, smut, mile high club, michael being a little controlling, make up sex, riding, missionary, slight choking.
a/n: this is based on this request. i love this idea so so so much, i hope yall enjoy. also keep sending requests, i love writing what yall want to see. also i’m sorry if there is any mistakes in this, i didn’t proofread this.
you stood before the expensive vanity mirror in you and michael’s bedroom at the hayvenhurst estate, smoothing lipstick over your mouth, dressed in an outfit that was undeniably lethal—black long sleeve bodysuit, sheer tights, sequin black low waisted mini skirt and black heels, an outfit designed to turn heads your way.
michael leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching you with those intense, unreadable eyes. he hadn’t said a word through your entire transformation, but his disapproval was palpable. you knew he hated when you dressed like this, knew he hated when you went out with your friends.
“is that what you’re wearing?” his voice was low, almost dangerous. you spun around, hand on your hip, not backing down. this wasn’t the first fight you’d had about your social life since you started dating the biggest pop star on the planet. “yes, michael.”
“it’s cold outside,” he pointed out, his gaze lingering on the short hem of your skirt. you rolled your eyes, grabbing your coat. “i’ll be fine. we’re going to a club, not the north pole.” you turned to leave, but his voice stopped you cold.
“you’re not going.” the command was quiet, absolute. you froze, coat halfway on. “excuse me?” you turned back slowly, meeting his stare—those eyes that could be so soft, so loving, and in the next breath could cut like glass. “i said you’re not going.” he pushed off the doorframe, stepping closer.
“i most certainly am going.” you pulled your coat closer defiantly. “it’s just a girls night. and you’ll be in the studio anyway.” your voice softened slightly. “please don’t do this. not again.”
he ran a frustrated hand through his curls, jaw tightening. “i don’t like you going out like this,” he repeated stubbornly. “those clothes…you look like you’re asking for trouble.” he uncrossed his arms and stepped even closer, lowering his voice. “and those guys at the clubs? they’re always all over you.” his jealousy was obvious.
“and don’t get me started on your friends.” he shook his head, a hint of disgust curling his lip. “natasha, brittany…they’re not exactly the influences i want in your life.” he paused, his eyes searching your face.
“they’re my friends, michael.” you said firmly, pulling your coat tighter. “and they’ve been there for me since before i ever met you. they don’t want anything from me—unlike half the people crawling around you.” you turned to grab your keys, but he moved fast, blocking the doorway. “you’re staying here tonight.”
“move, michael.” your voice was sharp now, patience wearing thin. you tried to sidestep him, but he planted his feet, that stubborn look crossing his features—the one that meant he wasn’t budging.
“i’m not kidding,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “i don’t want you out there tonight. not with them.”
“so what am i supposed to do?” you demanded, throwing your hands up. “stay at home like a good little girl while you’re off god knows where with quincy?” the moment the words left your mouth, you knew you’d hit a nerve. his expression hardened.
“at least i’m not going to some club to get drunk and dance with every guy in the place,” he snapped back. the words hung heavily between you, laced with jealousy and anger. before you could retaliate, he grabbed your wrist, his grip surprisingly tight. “you’re staying here.”
“get your hands off me.” you yanked your wrist free, the anger in your eyes matching his. “i am going out, michael. and you’re not stopping me.” with one last defiant look, you shoved past him, your shoulder knocking hard against his chest, and stormed out the bedroom. you didn’t look back.
the house was dark and silent as you stumbled through the door, well past 3am. your heels clattered on the marble floor, echoing through the empty halls. you were drunk—really drunk—and your vision swam as you kicked off your heels and fumbled with your coat.
you made your way down the hallway, swaying slightly, guided by instinct rather than sight. the bedroom door was ajar, a sliver of moonlight spilling across the floor. you pushed it open quietly, wincing at the creak of the hinges. michael was sprawled across the bed, one arm flung over his face, the covers kicked halfway off. he was breathing deeply, fast asleep.
your fingers fumbled with your clothes, your movements clumsy from the alcohol. you caught your reflection in the mirror—smudged eyeliner, flushed cheeks, hair disheveled from dancing. you looked like a mess, but you didn’t care. you slipped under the covers, careful not to wake him.
you hadn’t made it two seconds under the sheets before his voice cut through the darkness—low, sharp, and unmistakably awake.
“having fun tonight?”
you froze. his arm hadn’t moved from over his eyes, but his body was tense, shoulders rigid. you could smell the alcohol on your breath, could feel the thudding headache approaching. “michael, i—“
“did you dance with a lot of guys?” his voice was quiet, deadly quiet. you knew that tone—jealous, hurt, angry. his hand slowly lowered from his face, revealing those piercing eyes that were now staring into the darkness, awaiting your response. the room was thick with tension.
“i’m drunk, michael,” you mumbled, turning your back to him. “i don’t want to fight right now.” you closed your eyes, hoping he’d just let it go and go back to sleep. but you knew better than to think this was over.
“of course you are,” he said, his voice tight with restrained anger. you heard him shift behind you, the bed creaking under his weight as he sat up. “was it worth it? going out like that, wearing that…letting them look at you? letting your friends control you?” his words stung, cutting through your drunken haze. “i told you not to go.”
“and i told you to stop trying to control me,” you shit back, sitting up too fast. the room spun violently. you gripped the sheets to steady yourself. “you’re not the boss of me, michael. i’m not one of your employees, i’m not one of your backup dancers.” the alcohol made you braver, harsher than you would’ve been sober.
“whatever,” he muttered under his breath, his voice laced with disappointment. without another word, he lay back down and pulled the covers over himself, turning his back to you. the room fell silent except for the sound of his even breathing as he deliberately ignored you, signalling that the conversation was over.
you stared at his back for a moment, frustration bubbling in your throat, but your head was pounding too hard to argue anymore. you collapsed back onto your pillow, squeezing your eyes shut as the room tilted and spun. the silence was heavy, filled with unspoken anger and disappointment. within minutes, the alcohol pulled you into a heavy, dreamless sleep.
you woke up to the harsh morning light streaming through the window, your mouth dry and your head throbbing like a drum. your groaned, rolling over to find michael’s side of the bed empty. the note on the nightstand caught your eye.
you squinted against the light, reaching out with a heavy hand to grab the piece of paper. it was folded neatly, your name scrawled across the front in michael’s familiar, jagged handwriting. you unfolded it, wincing as the movement sent a sharp spike through your skull.
“on the plane waiting for you. quick as you can.”
that was it. no “i love you” no “im sorry.”
he didn’t even wait for you, making you get your own way to the jet.
you sighed deeply, rubbing your temples as you tried to shake off the remnants of last nights alcohol. the fight, the harsh words—it all came back in a rush. you threw off the covers and stumbled to the bathroom, splashing cold water on your face before quickly getting dressed.
as you slid into the backseat, you wrapped your long, lavish fur coat tightly around yourself. underneath, you were wearing nothing but the skimpy, black lace lingerie set you’d thrown on to tease michael. the coat was massive, hitting your ankles, shielding the scandalous outfit from the drivers view.
the drive to LAX was intense, your mind racing with thoughts of michael. why had he left without a word? you stared out the window, watching the city blur past, your fingers fidgeting with the fur trim of your coat. when the car pulled up to the private terminal, the driver hurried you inside, where a flight attendant greeted you with a knowing smile.
you stepped onto the private jet, your heels clicking against the polished floor. michael was sitting in the leather recliner, his face hidden behind his signature aviator sunglasses. his jaw was clenched, giving away his anger even though his eyes were concealed. he didn’t look up as you entered.
“you didn’t even wait for me,” you said, sliding into the seat across from him, crossing your legs. the fur coat fell open slightly, revealing a hint of black lace underneath. michael’s jaw tightened, his gaze dropping for a split second before snapping back to your face.
“you were taking too long to wake up,” he said tightly, his voice low and neutral. it was the same gone he used when he was angry, but trying not to show it. his hands were clasped together, knuckles white.
“and what about last night?” he snapped, finally taking off his sunglasses and revealing the fire in his eyes. “you think it’s okay to come home at 3am, reeking of alcohol and god knows what else?”
“god knows what else?” you shot back, your own anger rising. “are you seriously accusing me of something? i was out with friends, michael. something you should try sometimes instead of working 24/7.” the air was thick with tension.
“friends?” he let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “you mean those people who encourage you to drink until you can barely stand? who push you to wear next to nothing in public?” he snapped, his eyes darkening. “i saw how you were looking at me last night. like i was the enemy.”
the jet took off, climbing into the sky, but the argument didn’t stop. “and i’m supposed go just stay home alone all the time?” you shouted over the engine noise.
“no, you’re supposed to be respectful!” he yelled back, matching your volume. “to me, to our relationship, to the fact that i’m trying to build something here while you’re out chasing some…some freedom fantasy!”
“freedom?” you laughed bitterly, throwing your hands up. “you call this freedom? being controlled, questioned, judged every time i step out the door?” your voice cracked slightly. “i can’t even have a drink with my friends without you acting like ive committed some crime!” the plane jolted slightly as it hit turbulence, but neither of you backed down.
“a drink? is that what we’re calling it now?” michael’s voice was rising dangerously. “because from where i was standing, you weren’t just having a drink. you were wasted, barely recognisable, dressed like…like some stranger!” he gestured sharply at you.
“and don’t even think about trying and turn this around on me because i know you will,” michael lectured, his hands flying wildly as he paced the small aisle of the cabin. “i work my ass off for this lifestyle, for our future, and i come home to a girlfriend who doesn’t even know her own limits! it’s disrespectful, it’s reckless, and quite frankly, it’s embarrassing—“
the tension snapped. you stood abruptly, your heels clicking on the carpet as you slowly slipped off your oversized fur coat. it fell to the floor in a pile of soft luxury, revealing the black lace lingerie beneath; the matching bra hugging your breasts, the tiny panties riding low on your hips. michael’s jaw dropped. his angry words died in his throat.
michael froze mid sentence, his eyes widening as they raked over the scandalous black lace set that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. the angry lecture vanished instantly, replaced by a stunned, heated silence. his gaze traced the curves of your hips, the sheer fabric, the skin that was practically bare. “what the hell are you doing?” he choked out, his voice dropping an octave.
“making my point,” you said coolly, walking toward him in nothing but the lingerie and heels. michael backed up against the leather seat, his composure completely shattered. he tried to look away but his eyes betrayed him, glued to the sheer lace and it way it hugged your body. “put your coat back on,” he demanded, though his voice came out raspy and weak.
“why? so you can pretend you’re not looking?” you stepped closer, stopping just inches from him. michael’s breathing grew heavy, his chest rising and falling rapidly beneath his button-down shirt. his hands gripped the arm rests, knuckles white, fighting every instinct to reach for you.
“i am not looking,” he lied through gritted teeth, his eyes practically burning a hole through the sheer lace. “put your coat back on. now.” but he didn’t move. he remained trapped against the leather seat, his self-control crumbling with every step you took closer. the vein in his neck throbbed visibly. “this isn’t solving the argument.”
“isn’t it?” you challenged, sliding onto his lap, ignoring his order. the lace scratched deliciously against the expensive fabric of his trousers. michael groaned, a sound torn between frustration and desire, his hands instinctively gripping your waist to steady you—or push you away—he couldn’t decide. “get off me,” he warned, though his grip tightened. “we are fighting.”
“then fight me,” you whispered, pressing your body flush against him, feeling the hear radiating off his toned chest. one hand slid up to the back of his neck, fingers threading through his curls. “but don’t pretend you’re not attracted to what you called reckless and embarrassing two seconds ago.” you leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “your hands are trembling, michael.”
michael’s entire frame tensed. his hands, still clamped on your waist, were indeed trembling. not from anger anymore—from pure, desperate restraint. “you think this is a game?” he hissed, his voice thick, his hips bucking involuntarily as you shifted your weight. “you think showing up half naked solves anything?”
“i think it gets your attention,” you purred, grinding slowly against the growing hardness in his trousers. michael’s head fell back against the seat, a low growl escaping his throat as his control snapped. his hands moved from your waist to your hips, gripping them hard, fingers digging into lace and skin. “stop fucking with me.”
“i’m not fucking with you. you started this fight.” you whispered, rocking your hips deliberately against him. “you called me reckless, embarrassing, disrespectful…” you leaned down, biting his lower lip softly. “now look at you. trembling underneath me.” michael groaned violently, his eyes rolling back. “stop.” it was a desperate warning, utterly powerless. “i am serious.”
“are you?” you challenged, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze. his dark eyes were hazy with want, lips swollen from your bite. “because your hands say something completely different.” you guided his trembling fingers to the edge of your lace panties, pressing them against the damp fabric. michael let out a broken sound, his forehead dropping against your shoulder.
“god help me,” he muttered against your skin, his hot breath ghosting over your collarbone. his fingers twitched against the lace, fighting the urge to push the fabric aside. “you’re impossible. you know that? absolutely impossible.” his hips bucked up meeting yours, a needy thrust that betrayed his words. “we were arguing about your drinking, your behaviour—“
“and now?” you whispered proactively, rolling your hips to feel every inch of his arousal beneath you. “are we still arguing about my drinking, michael? or are you thinking about how easy it would be to tear this lace off me?” his head fell back, exposing his throat, a guttural moan tearing from his lips. “i hate you.”
“no, you don’t.” you corrected softly, pressing open mouthed kisses along his jawline. your hands roamed over his chest, unbuttoning his shirt slowly. “you hate that i make you want things you shouldn’t.” you found his belt, fingering working to quickly undo it.
michael’s hand flew to yours, stopping you mid-buckle. “don’t,” he wanted, his voice low and dangerous. “don’t do this right now. we’re not having sex to end an argument.”
“then what are we doing?” you asked, leaning back to look at him. your chest rose and fell rapidly, your lips parted slightly as you breathed. “because it sure as hell feels like you want to fuck me out of this stupid lingerie set.” you shifted your weight, pressing down onto his erection.
“i do,” he admitted, his hips jerking up to meet yours. his hands tightened on your wrists, torn between pushing you away and slamming you onto his cock. “god, i want to rip this thing to shreds and fuck you senseless. but that’s not how we solve our problems.”
“then how?” you demanded, frustrated by his restraint. “we fight, you yell, i storm out, we make up in bed—that’s our cycle, michael. break it.” he released your wrists, you then slide your hands up his chest to cup his face. “talk to me. really talk to me. without the anger.” his eyes softened, searching yours.
he started to talk but then you rolled your hips once, and his restraint finally shattered. he flipped you onto your back, the seats creaking as you landed beneath him. “talking is overrated anyway,” he growled, yanking the delicate lace aside. his mouth crashed onto yours as he fumbled with his belt, impatient, desperate. “i’ll yell at you tomorrow.” one hand gripped your thigh, hiking it over his hip.
“damn right,” you murmured against his mouth, wrapping your legs around his waist as he settled between them. you didn’t want to talk either. you wanted him to fuck the anger and jealously out of him. you wanted him to remind you why you loved him even when he drove you crazy.
michael groaned as you pulled him closer, his hips grinding against yours through the thin barrier of fabric. “fuck,” he hissed, his teeth grazing your earlobe. his hands roamed everywhere—your waist, your thighs, the curve of your ass—possessive and hungry. the argument was forgotten, replaced by raw need. “you drive me insane,” he muttered against your neck.
“shut up and kiss me again,” you ordered, pulling his face back to yours. michael obeyed instantly, his mouth covering yours in a brutal, dominating kiss. his tongue pushed past your lips, duelling with yours as he reached between your bodies to unzip his pants.
michael’s hand slid between your bodies, shoving his expensive slacks down just enough to free his hard, aching cock. he didn’t both removing them completely—there was no time, no patience. the plane hit a small air pocket, tipping slightly, causing you to gasp as his tip pressed against your lace covered entrance.
he hooked his fingers into the damp lace, tearing the flimsy fabric aside with a sharp sound that was swallowed by your moan. before you could catch your breath, he surged forward, burying himself deep inside you in one thrust. your back arched off the leather seat, a cry tearing from your throat as he stretched you, filling you completely.
“oh my god,” you whimpered, your nails digging into his back as he began to move, his hips snapping forward and back in a bruising pace. “michael, wait—“
“shh, baby, i’ve got you,” he panted against your neck, his hand sliding up to wrap around your throat gently.
“i’ve got you,” he repeated, his voice low and commanding. he lifted your hips slightly to change the angle, hitting that spot inside you that made your vision blur. the planes gentle rocking only intensified the sensation, making every thrust deeper, more intense. “look at me,” he demanded softly.
you forced your eyes open, meeting his intense gaze as he continued to fuck you with deep, powerful strokes. his thumb pressed lightly against your pulse point, a silent reminder of who was in control. the argument from earlier was long forgotten, replaced by this raw, primal connection. “i love you,”
the words slipped out between grunts and gasps, his forehead pressed to yours. “i love you. even when you’re being a brat in this lingerie. even when you drink too much. even when you go against what i say.” each declaration was punctuated by a hard thrust, his hips grinding in perfect circles. “remember that.”
“i remember,” you choked out, your eyes rolling back as his pelvic bone ground against your clit. “i love you too.” your orgasm coiled tight in your belly, the friction from his relentless strokes pushing you closer to the edge. the leather seat squeaked beneath you, the smell of expensive cologne and sex filling the cabin. “please, don’t stop.”
“never,” he growled, suddenly flipping you over so you were on top. his hands gripped your hips tightly as he guided you to ride him. the change in position hit new spots, making you both moan loudly.
you arched your back, taking him deeper as you started to bounce on his lap, meeting his thrusts with your own eager movements. the plane hit another air pocket, causing you to yelp and grab onto his shoulders for stability. michael just smiled wickedly and kept fucking you from below.
“you like that, huh?” he teased, his hands sliding up your sides to cup your breasts, squeezing firmly as you rode him. the friction was driving you insane—your clit grinding against his pelvis with every downward stroke. “like this, baby?” he bucked up hard, hitting that spot inside you that made your toes curl. “you feel so good, mama.”
“michael—“ your voice broke into a sob as your orgasm crashed through you, stars exploding behind your eyelids. your walls clenched around him, milking every inch as waves of pleasure ripped through your body. michael’s grip on your hips tightened as he bottomed out deep inside you, his own release spilling hot between your thighs with a guttural groan.
he held you there, still buried deep, both of you panting heavily as the aftershocks of your orgasms rolled through your joined bodies. his thumbs traced lazy circles on your hips, the possessive fire in his eyes now softened to something tender. “my god,” he breathed against your shoulder. “we should fight more often.” you shoved at him weakly, laughing breathlessly.
as the high of your intense makeup sex wore off, reality began to set in. michael’s hands slid from your hips to gently cup your face, his thumbs brushing away any lingering traces or tears or sweat. his voice was soft but sincere, completely opposite from how he’d been acting earlier. “baby,”
“i’m sorry,” he said quietly, his forehead resting against yours. “for everything. for telling you not to go out, for being an asshole when you got home, for ignoring you, for being rude, for—“ he took a shaky breath. “for acting like a possessive caveman who doesn’t trust his own woman.”
“i trust you,” he continued, his dark eyes searching yours earnestly. “i do. i just…i get this thing in my head. this fear that you’re going to do something stupid, that someone’s going to take you away from me.” he pressed his lips softly to your forehead. “there’s no excuse. i shouldn’t have acted like that. i shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.”
you reached up, cupping his face in your hands and pulling him down for a slow, tender kiss—nothing like the bruising one from before. when you finally pulled apart, you whispered against his lips, “i forgive you. just…talk to me next time. don’t shut me out.” michael nodded, holding you close against his chest as the plane descended toward new york city.
summary: michael is exhausted and tired of everyone making decisions for him, so he decides to make a decision on his own. marrying you!
themes: fluff, hopelessly in love michael, secret wedding, smut
author's note: reposted from my wattpad & ao3.
1978
hayvenhurst / vegas
You're sitting on Michael's bed with your legs tucked beneath you, your sketchbook balanced in your lap, pencil moving in soft, absent strokes as the quiet of his room wraps around you. It's one of the few places that ever feels still for him, and by extension, for you too.
The door opens, and the shift in the air is immediate.
You look up before he even says anything, your chest tightening the second you see him.
Michael looks exhausted. Not just tired, not just worn down, but drained in a way that settles deep into his bones. His shoulders are tight, pulled upward like he's been bracing himself all day, but they still slump under the weight of it. His eyes don't carry that usual softness, that light that always seems to find you, no matter how chaotic everything else is. Instead, they're heavy, crestfallen, like something in him is just... worn thin.
Your pencil stills in your hand. He doesn't say anything as he walks further into the room, and you don't ask. You can read it all over him.
When he reaches the bed, he doesn't ease himself down: he just drops, the mattress dipping under the sudden weight of him as he flops onto his back beside you. The movement is careless, unguarded, like he doesn't have the energy to be anything else.
You don't hesitate. You set your sketchbook aside without a second thought, forgotten on the bed as your attention shifts completely to him. And almost immediately, like it's instinct, like it's the only place he knows how to go when he's like this, Michael turns into you.
He lowers his head into your lap, letting it rest there as he lets out a deep breath that feels like it's been sitting in his chest all day.
Your fingers slip gently into his curls, slow and careful, moving in that familiar rhythm you've learned over time, the one that always seems to quiet something inside him. You don't speak. You just let your touch say what words don't need to.
For a moment, the room settles into silence.
You can feel how tense he still is at first, the tightness in his shoulders beneath your hands, the way his body holds onto everything he's been carrying. But you stay steady, your fingers moving through his hair, your touch grounding, patient.
And slowly, piece by piece, he starts to let it go.
The tension in his shoulders begins to ease, the stiffness softening under your presence. His breathing, once uneven and shallow, starts to deepen, to slow, to find a steady rhythm again. His eyes slip closed, his lashes resting against his cheeks, and his arms wrap loosely around your legs like he needs to anchor himself there, like this is the one place he knows he can finally stop holding everything together.
You don't move, you just stay there with him, letting him take what he needs.
It's only been a week since he and his brothers got back from the Goin' Places tour, and already, they've been thrown straight back into the studio, working on their new album, Destiny. And on top of that, he's been writing for his own solo album too, something you know means everything to him, something he's been quietly pouring himself into whenever he can find a second to breathe.
But there hasn't been much time to breathe at all.
You've seen it in the way his days blur together, in the way he comes back to Hayvenhurst looking like he's been pulled apart and stitched back together just enough to keep going.
There are nights when he walks through this same door and barely even looks up before heading straight to the shower, and by the time he comes back out, he's already half-asleep. He'll collapse into bed before you can even ask him how his day was, before you can even get more than a quiet "hi" out of him.
Other nights, when you stay over, you don't even see him come in. You're already asleep by the time he finally gets back from the studio, and the only sign he was there at all is the warmth beside you when you wake up.
And when you're not here, when you're at your home, he still tries. He always calls before you go to bed. Even on the nights when you can hear it in his voice, how heavy it is, how he's forcing himself to stay awake just a little longer, just enough to talk to you because he doesn't want to let you down. You can hear the exhaustion in every word, the way his sentences start to slow, to trail off.
Those calls usually end the same way.
His voice faded mid-sentence, his breathing evened out on the other end of the line as he fell asleep without even realizing it, and you never hang up.
You stay there, listening to him breathe, letting that quiet, steady sound settle something in you, too. Knowing he's finally resting, that he's finally getting even a little bit of sleep, helps ease the worry that's been sitting in your chest all day. Eventually, it lulls you to sleep too, the phone still pressed close, like it's the closest thing to being beside him.
There are nights he's so exhausted he forgets to call at all, but even then, he never lets it go.
The next morning, without fail, your phone rings first thing, his voice soft and apologetic as soon as you answer. He always says he's sorry, even when you've told him over and over again that he doesn't need to be, that you understand, that it isn't his fault.
You know exactly where the pressure is coming from. You know how Joseph pulls him and his brothers in every direction he wants, without stopping to consider how much it's costing them, how much it's costing him.
And sitting here now, with his head resting in your lap, his body finally starting to relax under your touch, you feel that ache settle deeper in your chest. You hate what it's doing to him. You hate how much of himself he's having to give away, piece by piece, just to keep everything running.
So you don't say anything, you just keep your fingers in his hair, gentle, steady, letting him have this moment, letting him have you, because right now, it's the only place he gets just to be Michael.
"You okay, baby?" you ask softly, your voice barely above a whisper as your fingers continue their slow, steady movement through his curls.
Michael opens his eyes, already facing you from where his head rests in your lap, and a soft smile comes onto his face when he looks at you, the kind that isn't forced or performed, just quiet and real, like seeing you is enough to ease something in him, even if it doesn't fix everything.
"You always make things better," he says, and you smile at him, your hand never leaving his hair, but when he sighs, the sound is heavier than before, lingering in the space between you. You slightly frown because you can tell something is on his mind.
"What's going on?" you ask.
"It's just Joseph," he says with a heavy sigh, and you frown immediately, the name settling in your chest with a familiar weight. You're no stranger to Joseph Jackson and his treatment of his kids. You've been friends with LaToya since primary school; you've grown up with and around them, so you're no stranger to Joseph's cruelty, to the way his presence alone can shift the atmosphere of a room, to the way Michael carries it even when he's not there.
"What's he doing now, besides working you and your brothers to the ground?" you ask, your tone still gentle but edged now with something protective, and Michael sighs again, your fingers still moving through his hair as he holds onto your legs a little tighter, like he needs something to steady himself.
"He gave 'permission' for me to work on my solo album, but I still have to do things with the Jacksons, and I love my brothers, you know I do. But I have so many ideas in my head for songs that I want to be my own songs, not songs of the Jacksons," he says, and you frown, not because you think he's wrong but because you hate the pressure he's under.
The way that one word, permission, sits so wrong, because something that belongs to him so deeply shouldn't have to be approved by anyone else, and you hate that he feels like he can't express himself creatively and separately from the group without it.
Music lived in Michael; you've seen that since the day you met him, seen it in the way he disappears into it completely, like it's the only place he's fully himself. And you love the way he gets when he's writing songs. The way he's completely focused, humming melodies under his breath without realizing it, writing like a man running out of time, like the ideas won't wait for him, and you've always been in awe of his process, of how natural it is for him, how alive he looks in those moments.
"That makes sense. You've been performing with your brothers for the last... 15 years, so of course you want to do your own thing," you say, your voice soft but certain, and Michael sighs again, the sound quieter this time but still heavy.
"I'm not a little kid in a band anymore. I've grown up, and I want to be able to express myself creatively," he says, and you nod without hesitation, because he's right, and you lean down to press a kiss against his temple, letting your lips linger there for a second, your hand still in his hair, grounding him in something steady, something that isn't asking anything from him.
"The first step to that is firing Joseph as your manager, baby... which I know is easier said than done, but that's the only way you're going to be able to manage your own career and not be dictated to do things a certain way," you say, your voice gentle but honest, because you won't lie to him just to make it easier.
Michael sighs, snuggling more against you, and you feel it in the way he shifts closer, pressing into your lap like he's trying to stay right here, in this moment, where things are simple, where he doesn't have to make decisions that feel impossible.
He knows you're right, but as you said, it's much easier said than done, and although Michael tries not to show it around you, he's terrified of Joseph. You've seen glimpses of it before: in the way his voice lowers, in the way he chooses his words more carefully, in the way his shoulders tense in a completely different way than they do now.
"I can't do that," he whispers, his voice softer than before, almost fragile, and you nod, not wanting to push because you understand why Michael wouldn't be able to do that on his own. Firing Joseph isn't just firing a manager; he's still Michael's father, and that adds a complicated layer to things that doesn't just go away because it should.
"Whatever you decide to do, Michael... I love you, and I support you no matter what," you say, your voice steady, unwavering, because that part is simple, even if everything else isn't.
Michael lifts his head at your words, sitting up to look fully at you, and he grabs your hands, his fingers wrapping around yours like he needs to hold onto you for what comes next. You can see it in his eyes; he has something to say. His eyes are still soft, they always are when he looks at you, but there's something else there now too, something more serious sitting just beneath it.
"Marry me," he says, and your eyes widen when his words register in your head, the moment stretching in a way that feels almost unreal, like your mind is trying to catch up to something your heart hasn't even had time to process yet.
"W—What?" you ask in shock, and Michael nods, his hands still holding yours, steady, grounding, like he's completely certain even as you're trying to find your footing.
"You're the one thing that's constant in my life. The one person I'm sure about. I love you," Michael says as he gently rubs your knuckles with his thumbs, the motion slow, absent, but intentional, like he needs to keep that contact with you while he says it.
You can see it in his eyes; he does mean it, there's no hesitation there, no doubt, and that's what shocks you even more, the certainty of it, the way he's looking at you like this isn't a question for him, it's already decided.
"I love you too, Michael, but—" he softly cuts you off.
"We've talked about marriage before," he says, and you laugh a little, in disbelief, the sound coming out lighter than how it actually feels in your chest, because you had talked about marriage before, but it was before you two were officially together, when Michael had still just seen you as 'LaToya's best friend,' before feelings got involved, before any of this became real.
"Yes, before we got together and you asked me what type of man I saw myself married to... which in hindsight, I pretty much described you without realizing it," you say with a laugh, and Michael squeezes your hand as he smiles, his fingers tightening around yours just slightly, like he's holding onto that moment, onto you.
"I want to make a decision that is completely my own, my choice... and it's you I'm choosing," he says, and the words settle heavy in your chest, not overwhelming, but significant, like you can feel how much this means to him beyond just the question itself. You take a deep breath as you gently squeeze his hands back, trying to steady yourself, trying to slow everything down just enough to think.
"Michael... marriage is a big deal, we can't just rush into something like this," you say, and Michael shakes his head immediately, the movement small but firm.
"I'm not rushing. I've been thinking about this for years, and even more so when you said you'd be my girl two years ago," he says, and you feel your face getting hot as your cheeks flush, the memory hitting you all at once, how long this has been building for him without you fully realizing it.
"What about your family?" you ask, because that thought comes just as quickly, just as heavy, and he shrugs like it doesn't carry the same weight for him in this moment.
"What about them?" he asks.
"We can't just run off and get married and then what? Keep it a secret?" you ask, your voice soft but grounded, trying to make sense of something that suddenly feels like it's moving too fast and not fast enough all at once, and Michael shakes his head again.
"Not a secret, just ours. We don't have to tell anybody anything," he says, and you look at him, really look at him this time, searching his face for any sign that this is impulsive, that he hasn't thought this through, but you don't find it. His eyes are determined, steady in a way that doesn't waver, but still with that same softness behind them, the same warmth that's always there when he looks at you. He gently squeezes your hand again, and you take a deep breath, feeling the weight of the moment settle around you.
"Where are we going to live, Michael? Married couples normally live together," you say, your thoughts trying to catch up, trying to make this practical, real, something you can hold onto, and Michael chuckles softly.
"Baby, we can live here," he says, and you give him a look, because it's not that simple, not really.
"And what would you tell your parents? You're a Jehovah's Witness, I'm sure Momma Katie wouldn't appreciate me randomly moving in here... and what would I tell my parents?" you ask, and Michael sighs as he moves one of his hands from yours and cups your jaw, his touch gentle but steady, guiding your attention back to him, back to this moment instead of everything that comes after it.
"Baby... we can figure all that stuff out later... what I know for certain right now is that I love you, and I want you to be my wife," Michael says. The way he says it, so simple, so sure, makes your chest tighten, because there's no confusion in him, no hesitation, just clarity.
You let out another breath, your thoughts still spinning, your heart caught somewhere between the weight of what this means and the certainty of how you feel about him. It's not that you don't want to marry Michael; you do, you've felt that in quiet moments, in the way you already choose him every day, but you don't want him to decide this impulsively, don't want this to be something he regrets when everything else comes crashing back in.
"I love you, Michael..." you say, and he nods, like that alone is enough to keep him steady. He squeezes your hand, grounding you, and his other hand is still resting on your cheek, warm and familiar, anchoring you in place.
"Marry me, baby... just you and me. I love you so much, and I never want to be without you... marry me," Michael says again, gently kissing your knuckles, and something in you gives at that, the sincerity of it, the way he's asking you not out of pressure but out of love, out of certainty. You feel your eyes watering, the emotion rising faster than you can contain it, and you nod.
"Yes, Michael," you whisper, and the second the words leave your lips, his face lights up, his smile wide and immediate, relief and happiness mixing together as he leans in and kisses you, cupping your jaw as he pulls you close. His arms wrap around your waist, firm and certain, and he pulls you onto his lap without breaking the kiss, holding you there like he never wants to let you go.
Your arms go around his neck as a warmth spreads throughout you, his hands still firm at your waist, holding you close like he's afraid to put any space between you now that you've said yes. The kiss lingers, soft but certain, and you can feel the way everything is shifting all at once, settling and unraveling at the same time.
Were you really going to do this? Getting married spontaneously?
The thought moves through you quickly, not sharp enough to stop you, but present enough to make your chest tighten just a little. It's not that you didn't want to marry Michael; you do. He's the love of your life, and you know that for a fact. There's no hesitation in that, no doubt when it comes to him. But you're both still young; he's 20, you're 22, and his career is still growing, still becoming something bigger every day, something that already pulls at him from every direction.
But even with all of that sitting there, pressing at the edges of your thoughts, one thing stays steady: you know you want this. You want him, now and forever.
When you pull away, it's slow, like neither of you really wants to be the one to break the moment, and Michael follows you just slightly before letting his forehead rest against yours. The contact is grounding, intimate, your breaths still a little uneven as they begin to settle into something calmer, something shared.
"I'll have Bill quietly arrange everything. We can leave tomorrow night," Michael says.
The words are so simple, said like it's already decided, like there's no space for doubt in him at all. Your throat tightens as you swallow, the reality of it landing fully now, how fast this is moving, how real it already is, but you nod anyway, because even with the nerves, even with everything you're thinking, you're not pulling away.
"I love you so much," he says. The softness in his voice wraps around you, and you can feel it, the sincerity of it, the way he means every word without hesitation, and it steadies you more than anything else.
"I love you more, Michael," you whisper. He presses another quick kiss to your lips, light but affectionate, like he can't help himself, before his attention shifts, his eyes flicking toward your sketchbook where it still rests on the bed beside you.
"What were you working on?" he asks.
You smile, a little shy now as you bite your lip, your gaze dropping briefly before you look back at him.
"Just sketching you from memory," you say.
Michael bites down on his lip, that familiar shyness surfacing immediately, the way it always does when the attention turns to him, when you say something like that so easily, like it's the most natural thing in the world.
"Baby," he says. There's a softness to it, a quiet disbelief that makes your smile widen just a little as you reach for your sketchbook and place it in his hands. You watch him as he looks down at the page, and the reaction is immediate.
His eyes widen slightly, taking in the lines, the details. The way you've defined his face, his brown eyes, soft and warm, his curly afro: it's all there, captured in a way that feels too real, too honest. You can see it hit him, the way his cheeks start to warm, color rising under his skin as a wide smile spreads across his face, unguarded and bright.
He looks up at you, and his eyes soften even more. "This is amazing," he says.
"Well, my muse is always very beautiful," you say.
The words come out light, teasing, but there's truth in them, and it lands on him immediately. Michael flushes again, his gaze dropping as he bites his lip, that same bashful reaction you've seen so many times, and it pulls a quiet giggle out of you. You reach up, gently lifting his head so he has to look at you again, your fingers light against his chin.
"We're really gonna do this?" you ask. There's a softness to the question, but it's real. A final moment of checking, of making sure you're both standing in the same place before everything changes.
Michael nods without hesitation.
"I can't wait to be your husband," Michael says as he kisses you again. The words settle into you differently this time, deeper, more permanent, and you smile as you kiss him back, your hands still resting at his neck, holding onto him as the reality of it sinks in fully.
By this time tomorrow, you're going to be Michael's wife.
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By the next night, you and Michael were in Vegas.
Everything about it feels unreal in a way that hasn't quite settled yet. One day, you were sitting in his room at Hayvenhurst, and now you're here, a hotel room miles away from everything familiar, with a few hours standing between you and becoming his wife.
Joseph never really questioned much when Michael left with Bill. Michael never said where the two of you were going, just that you would be gone for the weekend. That part almost makes it feel easier and harder at the same time. Easier because there were no questions, no obstacles at the moment. Harder because you know what's waiting when you go back.
You were nervous, really nervous.
The kind of nervous that doesn't sit in one place. It settles in your chest, then your stomach, then back again. You didn't know how you were going to tell people... his family and yours. You were worried that his family would think you manipulated him into it since you're older than he is. The thought alone makes your chest tighten, because you know how much he's fought for his own voice, how much this decision means to him. You were worried your mom might have a heart attack, since you got married and she wasn't there to see it, the image of her reaction flashing through your mind in quick, uneasy waves.
"What are you thinking about, pretty girl?"
Michael's soft voice breaks through everything, close enough that you feel it more than just hear it, and you look up from where you're sitting on the bed in your hotel. You and Michael had already obtained your marriage license, and the ceremony was in a few hours, and the reality of that sits between you as you meet his eyes.
"You changing your mind?" he asks.
There's something in his voice he tries to hide, but you hear it anyway. Fear. Worry. The quiet possibility that maybe this is too much, too fast, that maybe you don't want this anymore.
"No, baby, of course not," you say, reaching your hand out for him without hesitation.
Michael moves toward you immediately, like he doesn't want to waste even a second of that reassurance, taking your hand as soon as he's close enough. You pull him down next to you, needing him close, needing that contact just as much as he does.
"I love you," you say. Michael leans over and kisses your temple, the gesture soft and familiar, grounding in a way that makes everything else fade just a little.
"I love you more," he says, and then he tucks a piece of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering just slightly as his eyes stay on your face. "But I can tell you're thinking about something," he continues.
You turn to him and smile, your gaze softening as you really look at him, letting yourself take him in fully for a moment.
His afro is perfectly curly and fluffed, shaped in that effortless way that somehow still feels intentional, like every detail about him carries its own kind of care. He's wearing a white suit, clean and sharp, with a light pink button-up shirt underneath, the color soft against his skin, warm and gentle in a way that suits him completely. There's something about seeing him like this, knowing what this moment means, that makes your chest tighten all over again, but this time it's not nerves, it's something deeper.
Your hand comes up to rest against his jaw, your thumb brushing lightly against his skin as you hold his gaze.
"I'm just worried about how your family is going to react... and I'm not worried about me, I'm worried about you... I just don't want Joseph to..." You trail off, shaking your head because you don't want to think of it, don't want to put words to something that already feels heavy enough.
"Rebbie and Marlon got married when they were 18, Jermaine got married at 19, and my parents were fine. I'm 20," Michael says.
You nod, because you knew that. You've always known the stories, the patterns, the way things have unfolded in his family before. But you also know something else.
Michael isn't treated the same as his siblings. He never has been, and he's sometimes had rebellious streaks against Joe, ever since he was little.
You remember Katherine telling you the story of how Michael threw one of his bottles with perfect precision at Joseph when he was a baby, a story told with a softness that didn't quite hide the tension beneath it. His brothers told you how he used to run from Joseph, how quick he was, how sometimes Joseph didn't catch him. You remember the way they laughed when they said it, but you also remember the look in Michael's eyes when he listened.
"I know, baby... but you know Joseph sees you differently than your brothers... he sees you as—"
"The money maker," Michael says, cutting you off. The words land harder coming from him than they ever could from you, flat and certain, like something he's accepted even if it hurts.
You frown immediately, your hand still resting against his jaw, your thumb stilling for just a second before moving again. Michael has expressed to you multiple times that he knows Joseph only sees him as a paycheck, and he said before, when he was younger, back when he and his brothers first became The Jackson 5, he would perform so hard and try to make sure everything was perfect, because he felt that if he were perfect, maybe Joseph would show him even the tiniest slither of love and fatherly affection, but he never did.
"You're so much more than that, Michael... you know that, right?" you ask. Michael shrugs, his gaze dropping slightly, going quiet like he normally does when the conversation gets hard, like he's retreating into himself just a little.
You don't let him stay there. You gently turn his face, guiding him back to you, making sure he looks at you, really looks.
"Michael... you're more than what Joseph says you are. You're kind, genuine, funny, beautiful... and I love you so much," you say. Michael bites down on his lip as he shyly smiles, the reaction immediate, almost automatic, like he doesn't quite know what to do with being seen like that, with being told something so certain and so different from what he's been given before.
"You really think so?" Michael asks.
The question is soft, almost careful, like part of him still expects the answer to change. You smile at him, your expression steady, unwavering.
"If I told you everything now, I wouldn't have anything left to say in my vows," you say.
Michael laughs at that, the sound lighter, freer, and he pulls you closer to his side, his arm wrapping around you as he presses another kiss to your temple, lingering just slightly like he needs that closeness.
"You ready?" Michael asks.
You nod, even though your heart is still racing, even though everything about this moment feels big and overwhelming and right all at once.
He looks you over again, and this time you feel it, the weight of his gaze as he takes you in fully.
Since you're getting married in Vegas and not having a big wedding ceremony, you chose an ivory colored dress, knee-length. The fabric is soft and light, the skirt falling gently, the sleeves sheer and delicate, catching the light every time you move. It's simple compared to what a wedding is "supposed" to be, but standing here now, it feels exactly right.
Michael smiles again, his heart feeling full; he couldn't believe this was happening. You can see it in the way his expression softens, in the way his eyes linger on you like he's trying to memorize every detail.
"You look so beautiful," he says.
And the way he says it: quiet, certain, and completely in awe, makes everything else fall away for just a moment, until it's just you and him, standing on the edge of something that's about to change everything.
"So do you," you say, and Michael bites down on his lip, that familiar, shy reaction surfacing again as the compliment settles into him, his smile soft but full as you both stand up from the bed. His hand finds yours immediately, your fingers locking together as if grounding each other before everything shifts.
You walk toward the door together, side by side, and when it opens, Bill is already waiting just on the outside, calm and steady as always, ready to take you to the chapel. You take a deep breath as you both step out, the air outside the room feeling different, heavier somehow now that this is really happening, and Michael nods at Bill, quiet but certain.
Bill escorts you both to the elevator, his presence reassuring without being overwhelming, giving you space while still being right there. The ride down feels quicker than it should, like time is moving faster now, and before you can fully sit with it, he's guiding you both out through the back private entrance where the car is waiting.
Once you two are in and settled, Bill starts the drive.
The movement of the car is smooth and steady, but your thoughts aren't. They drift, pulling you back to the first time you met him. When LaToya had invited you over after school once to hang out, and Bill had been there, watching quietly, observing in that way he does. He had assessed you without making it obvious, making sure you weren't a crazy fan girl using her to get to her brothers. You hadn't even realized it at the time, not fully, but looking back now, it makes sense.
He's always been like this: quiet, steady, observant, and safe.
You love how much he supports and cares for Michael, how he's always been there in a way that's calm and consistent, never demanding, never overwhelming. He's the real father that Michael deserves, and you're glad that Bill is here, especially tonight, to keep Michael balanced by being the opposite of how Joseph is.
"You two ready for this?" Bill asks.
His voice is even, grounded, and there's no judgment in it, not even a hint. He's not questioning your decision; he's checking in. Making sure this is what you both want, because he understands what this means. Marriage isn't small; it isn't something to take lightly, and he cares about both of you too much not to ask.
"I am... this is what I want," Michael says as he looks at you.
His words are steady, but it's the way he looks at you that makes your chest tighten, like everything else fades just for a second, and it's only the two of you in this moment. You smile back at him, the nerves still there but softened by the certainty in his gaze.
"Me too," you say.
Michael leans over and kisses the top of your head, the gesture gentle and grounding, like he's sealing something between you without needing anything more than that. Bill nods from the front, saying nothing else, but you feel his support.
It settles quietly around you both, something unspoken but clear, and you're grateful for it, especially knowing what's coming. Because this isn't something that can stay hidden forever. Eventually, Michael's family will find out, and when they do... You don't know how it will go. But knowing Bill is on your side, on both of your sides, makes it feel just a little less overwhelming.
The car pulls up to the chapel, and everything sharpens again.
Bill escorts you both in through the back, moving carefully, intentionally. The last thing you need is for paparazzi and cameras to spot Michael Jackson walking into a wedding chapel. This moment is yours, and he's making sure it stays that way.
Inside, it's quieter than you expected.
Bill was going to be serving as your witness, and the weight of that sits gently but firmly in the back of your mind as you and Michael sit down to wait for your turn. Your hands are still intertwined, fingers laced together like neither of you wants to let go, and Michael's thumb moves slowly against your palm, a soft, repetitive motion that tells you everything he's not saying out loud.
He can feel your nerves, and he's trying to soothe them the only way he knows how.
He leans over, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple before squeezing your hand, the contact warm and reassuring. When you turn to look at him, something in you settles, the nervous energy easing just a little as you take him in again.
You're about to marry the love of your life.
The thought lands differently this time, less overwhelming, more grounding, and you smile at him, the emotion soft but steady in your chest. Michael smiles back, his eyes warm, certain, as your names are called.
The sound pulls you both to your feet, and together, you, Michael, and Bill make your way into the chapel, where the minister is already waiting at the altar. The space feels small, intimate, like it was made for moments like this, quiet and personal.
Michael gently squeezes your hand again as you walk down the aisle, each step bringing the reality closer, making it more real with every second. You can feel it in the way his grip tightens just slightly, not out of doubt, but out of presence, like he's fully here with you in this moment.
He squeezes your hand again as you get in front of the minister, and you present your marriage license, the paper suddenly feeling more significant than it did before, like it holds everything you're about to become.
The minister asks about a witness, and Bill stands without hesitation, his presence steadying both you and Michael in a quiet, reassuring way. He's here; you're not alone in this.
The minister does his introduction, his voice calm and practiced, before turning it over to you and Michael for your vows. Michael smiles, soft and encouraging, gesturing for you to go first.
You take a deep breath, your fingers tightening around his just slightly as you feel everything settle into this one moment.
"Michael... I remember the first time I met you, when LaToya had gotten permission for me to spend the night after a weekend at school, and you were this adorable, shy little boy. We've grown up together, and you're still adorable and shy, but I've also seen you come into your own person, and I'm so proud of you, I'm so proud to be with you. You're such a light in this world and in my life, and there's so much magic in you. I can't wait to see where you go next, and I'm honored that you've chosen me to be by your side during it. I'll always be by your side. I love you, Michael," you say.
Your voice holds steady longer than you expect it to, but the emotion is there, threaded through every word, sitting just beneath the surface. As you speak, the memories move through you just as vividly as the moment itself, him younger, quieter, watching from a distance, and now standing in front of you, holding your hands like he never wants to let go. By the time you finish, your chest feels tight with it, your grip on his hands just a little firmer.
Michael has tears running down his face.
They slip down slowly, quietly, like he's not even fully aware of them at first. His eyes don't leave yours, wide and soft and completely open, and it pulls something deeper out of you, your own vision blurring as tears gather and fall down your cheeks too.
And you know you're going to cry harder when Michael gets to his vows.
"I also remember that first time we met, and I remember thinking, ' Wow, she has to be an angel in disguise, but she probably only sees me as LaToya's little brother,' and for a while, you did," he says, and there's a small, breathy laugh between you, the sound breaking through the emotion just enough to let you breathe as you both laugh while you squeeze his hands.
"But somewhere along the way, in all the time we've spent together, getting to know you outside of being my older sister's friend, I gave my heart over to you. I couldn't help but fall in love with you, and every day I fall more in love with you. I know we're young, but I also know this is meant to be, and together we can do anything. I love you," he says.
His voice isn't perfectly steady, but it doesn't waver in meaning, in certainty. It's all there in the way he looks at you, like there's no version of his life where you aren't standing right here with him.
He reaches up, his hand gentle as he wipes the tears from your cheeks, his thumb brushing under your eyes with so much care, even as tears are still falling from his own. He doesn't try to hide them. He doesn't pull away from them. He just stays right there with you, open and vulnerable in a way that feels rare and real.
The minister takes you through the rest of the ceremony, his voice guiding you both forward, grounding the moment in something official, something binding. The exchanging of rings feels heavier than the metal itself, the promises spoken carrying more weight now that they're being sealed, made real in front of someone else, in front of the life you're stepping into.
And then it happens: he pronounces you both husband and wife. The words settle into the air, into your chest, into everything, and for a second it feels like time pauses just long enough for you to feel it fully.
He tells Michael he can kiss his bride.
Michael smiles immediately, wide and bright despite the tears still clinging to his lashes, and he pulls you to him without hesitation, one hand coming up to cup your jaw as he presses his lips to yours. The kiss is warm and sure, filled with everything that's just been said and everything that hasn't needed to be.
You smile into it as you kiss him back, your hands finding him just as quickly, holding onto him as the feeling settles deep inside of you, wrapping around your chest, your ribs, your entire being with a warmth that feels steady and real.
You're officially his wife.
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When you and Michael get back to Hayvenhurst, you feel giddy and a little nervous all at once, the emotions sitting side by side in your chest in a way that makes it hard to separate one from the other. The drive back feels like it passed too quickly and too slowly at the same time, and now that you're here, standing just outside the front door, the reality of it settles in again.
You get back early in the morning and hope that nobody is awake.
When you walk into the house, you're met by quiet, the kind that feels almost protective, like the walls themselves are giving you this moment, and you let out a breath of relief you didn't even realize you were holding. Michael's hand is still in yours, his grip firm but warm, like he's feeling the same mix of anticipation and nerves.
You and Michael go up to his bedroom, your steps instinctively quieter now, careful against the stillness of the house. He reaches for the door and quietly opens it, and when he steps inside, he pauses for just a second before turning back to you, a soft smile spreading across his face.
"What?" you ask, tilting your head slightly, curiosity flickering through you at the look on his face.
"Isn't it a tradition that I have to carry my wife over the threshold?" he says.
The word hits you again, wife, and your cheeks warm instantly as you start blushing, a quiet laugh slipping out of you, light and a little breathless.
"You goof," you say.
Michael just smiles wider at that, his eyes bright with something playful and affectionate as he steps closer, reaching down without hesitation and lifting you into his arms. The movement is gentle but sure, like he's been waiting to do it, like he's been holding onto that thought the whole way back.
Your arms wrap around his neck automatically, holding onto him as you let out another soft laugh, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to his cheek. He carries you into the bedroom, steady and careful, his presence grounding even in something as simple as this.
He softly closes the door with his foot behind him, the quiet click sealing you both inside, away from everything else, and carries you over to the bed. He lowers you down gently, like he's placing something precious, taking his time before straightening up and walking over to the record player.
You watch him as he flips through the records with familiar ease before settling on your favorite album, Songs in the Key of Life by Stevie Wonder. Something is comforting about that, about how naturally he reaches for something that belongs to you, too. The music starts low and quiet, filling the room just enough without disturbing the stillness of the house.
Michael walks back over to you, and you steady your breath as you sit on the bed and wait for him, your fingers smoothing absentmindedly over the fabric of your dress, your heartbeat just a little faster now.
Instead of sitting beside you, he hovers over you, his movements slow and unhurried, like time has stretched just for the two of you, like there's nowhere else he needs to be, nowhere else he wants to be. The look in his eyes softens into something warm and deeply affectionate, something that makes your chest tighten in the best way as he leans down and kisses you.
At that exact moment, the record in the room shifts.
The gentle opening notes of Knocks Me Off My Feet begin to drift through the room, soft and soulful and almost eerily perfectly timed, like the music itself understands the way the air between you has changed.
The kiss isn't rushed or urgent; it's warm and searching and full of quiet feeling, like he's trying to memorize you, like he's holding onto this moment as something that belongs entirely to the two of you.
You wrap your arms loosely around his neck, kissing him back just as slowly, just as deeply, drawing him closer until the steady warmth of his body settles fully against yours. His presence is familiar, comforting, but there's something new layered into it now, too, something deeper that comes with the weight of what you've just become to each other.
Stevie's voice begins to float through the space, and the entire room seems to narrow down to this bed, this moment, this man... your husband in your arms.
Michael's hands slide gently to the hem of your dress, his touch careful, unhurried, his fingers slipping underneath the fabric and brushing softly against your bare skin in slow, reverent passes. There's no rush in him, no urgency, just a quiet, steady closeness, like even this moment is something he wants to take his time with, something he wants to feel fully.
And the way he touches you, the way he holds you, says everything he hasn't needed to put into words.
Michael gently cups your breasts in his hands, gently squeezing them and teasing your nipples with his fingers, which makes you moan in his mouth as your back arches slightly, pushing your breasts further into his hands. You've always loved how big his hands are, for moments like this, how they can cup you fully.
Michael momentarily breaks the kiss, his voice gently telling you to turn around. You feel his hand on your shoulder as he slowly unzips your dress, sliding the fabric from your shoulders and letting it pool at your waist before sliding it down and carefully discarding it to the ground.
Then he turns you around and leans back down to kiss you again. Your hands run down his chest. You slide his jacket off his shoulders and slowly undo the rest of his buttons on his shirt. Your hands roam again, slowing at his torso as you mess with the waistband of his pants. You can already feel the growing length beneath your palm, and he's pulsing, just like you're throbbing.
Michael slides his shirt from his body as your unbuckling his belt to help him out of his pants. The kiss never breaks as you two slowly undress each other. Michael unclasps your bra and lets it fall, his hands roaming down your body as your hands stop at the waistband of his boxers once his pants are off.
He kisses you deeper when he feels you pulling his boxers down, his length coming free from their constraints, and you immediately grab him. You feel his breath hitch against you, but his kisses don't slow; instead, they get heavier, a bit quicker as you stroke him with your hand. You feel his breathing get heavier through your kiss as your hand moves slowly against him, drawing out the feeling.
One of Michael's hands trails down your body until he's cupping you outside of your panties. Your breath slightly hitches, but neither of you stops kissing the other. Michael moves the bottom of your panties aside, giving himself enough room to rub his thumb over your clit. At his movements, your hand starts moving faster against him, making him groan.
"Baby," he mumbles roughly against your lips, but neither of you stops. Michael pushes a finger inside of you while your hand still pumps him, alternating between moving quicker and slower. You moan into his mouth, and he slightly speeds up his thumb against your clit and his finger moving inside of you.
"Michael," your moan comes out as a slight whimper, and his breathing is rough against your neck. He peppers kisses across your neck as your thumb slides over his tip, and you feel him slightly shudder. You spread the precum you feel, using it to slide your hand back down his length again to the base, and you feel his fingers moving quicker. Your hips buck and grind, matching the pace of his thrusts, and you lean your head back into the pillow as you moan louder.
"I love seeing you like this," Michael murmurs as he presses a kiss to your throat, right where he can feel your pulse quickening, but he does love seeing you come apart under him. He loves seeing you pleased and making sure you reach pleasure before he does. You feel yourself getting closer, and Michael groans again when your grip tightens against him as his fingers speed up in you.
Your thighs start shaking as your orgasm comes, you cry out Michael's name, and he kisses you, deeply, his tongue immediately slipping its way inside as you ride out the wave of your orgasm. When Michael pulls his fingers out of you, they're slick with your release, and you feel your face flushing.
Michael brings his fingers to his lips and licks them clean before kissing you again. You can taste yourself on him, but still taste him in his kiss. You're the one to pull away, still gripping him in your hand. You let go and use your hands to push Michael to sit, and then you get on your knees in front of him, between his legs.
You grip him at the base again before leaning in. Your lips slide down the outside of his length, your tongue slowly licking at him, and Michael's breath hitches. He had already been close, just when you were using your hand, now he felt he was going to explode. When your tongue slowly trails back up, you stop at the head, seeing the pre cum sitting at the tip, and you rub it with your thumb to spread it before taking him into your mouth.
Michael's body shudders on contact, and he moans when he feels your tongue glide over the tip, lapping up the precum. His fingers immediately go to your hair; he doesn't pull it, he just grips it, tighter as you move. You take more of him slowly into your mouth, inch by inch, leaving your hand at the base, stroking what won't fit inside.
"You always feel so good," Michael chokes out between his moans as your pace quickens. His hands grip your hair tighter, but not enough to hurt, as you take him deeper, until you feel him closer to the back of your throat. You pause for a minute to breathe before slowly sliding back up his length, slower this time to draw it out, and Michael shudders. You feel him twitching inside of your mouth as you move again, knowing he's close.
"I need to be inside of you, baby, please," Michael says as he pulls you up from him. You're slightly gasping for breath, your chest heavy as it rises and falls. Michael lays you down, sliding your panties down your legs until they're off, and then he spreads your legs apart as he comes between you. His body flushes against yours as he lines himself up to you.
He pushes inside of your slickness with one long thrust, making you both moan at the contact. Your legs wrap around his waist, squeezing him closer. He leans down and kisses you as he moves, pushing himself into you inch by inch until your bodies press together. Your body stretches for him, like it knows that he's exactly where he belongs. Then his hips begin to roll, his strokes pushing slowly and deep.
He didn't want to just fuck you; he wanted to make love to you.
He wanted to show you how much he loved you, show you how much you mean to him, how happy he is that you're his wife. He wanted you to feel his love in ways he was still discovering how deeply it ran, and ever since the two of you said 'I do,' he'd been wanting to be buried deep inside of you for hours.
Michael's lips attach to your neck and collarbone as he presses warm, open-mouthed kisses against your flushed skin. Knocks Me off My Feet by Stevie is still playing in the background, and Michael leans towards your ear. "Oh, but I love you, I love you, I love you," he sings that specific part just for you, as you let out another moan.
"I–I love you... more," you choke out between your moans. You feel it coming, the pressure building until it explodes. The orgasm rips through you, making you shake and slightly convulse under him. Michael gently grips your hips to keep you still, as his thrusts get slower, but remain as deep.
Michael's voice stays soft against your ear as he guides you through the fading waves, his hands steady on your hips while your body trembles beneath him.
"Stay with me... Baby, stay with me," he whispers as he brings you through it.
Your legs are still shaking, muscles fluttering helplessly, your body giving those small, involuntary jolts that come after something overwhelming and all-consuming. Michael's name keeps spilling from your lips in breathless repetition, like you can't quite hold it in, like the sound of him is the only thing anchoring you back down.
You feel the subtle twitch inside you before the warmth follows, and soon he releases too, your name coming out quietly like both a cry and a prayer from his lips as he fills you.
You lift your head just enough to catch his mouth, kissing him while he slowly rolls his hips, the movement gentle now, grounding rather than urgent, easing both of you down from the edge together. Your breaths are heavy and tangled, mingling in the small space between you as your foreheads come to rest together, skin damp and warm and completely spent.
Michael leans down to kiss you again, slower this time, more tender than before, as his arms pull your body fully against his. When he finally pulls back, his fingers move with familiar care, smoothing your hair back behind your ear before he presses a soft kiss to your forehead.
He gently lets you go, settling you back against the pillows before slipping off the bed and heading into the bathroom. The quiet domestic rhythm that has always been second nature between you unfolds easily, the sound of running water, the soft rustle of fabric, and when he returns, the warm cloth in his hand is just the right temperature as he carefully cleans you up the way he always does, unhurried and attentive, and so gentle it makes your chest ache a little.
He takes care of himself next, efficiently but quietly, before discarding the used towels and reaching for a fresh pair of boxers. When he pulls them on, he leaves his chest bare, familiar and comforting, and then he grabs one of his t-shirts and brings it back to you.
You slip it over your head, the soft cotton falling around you, and you inhale instinctively, eyes closing as his scent surrounds you, warm and comforting and so unmistakably him.
Michael walks back to the bed and gathers you into his arms without hesitation, pulling you into the steady heat of his body. You melt into him easily, your arms circling his torso as you settle your head against his chest, right over his heart. You can feel and hear the steadiness of his heartbeat.
"I'm glad we did this," you whisper to him.
"Made love?" he asks, a small tease in his voice, and it pulls a quiet laugh out of you, soft and warm against his skin.
"Well, yes... but, I mean, I'm glad we got married, Michael... whatever your family thinks or reacts... We'll face it together," you say. The words come out softer than you expect, but steadier too, because even with everything waiting on the other side of this moment, you know one thing for certain: you won't be facing it alone.
Michael's expression softens in that quiet way you've come to recognize, the kind that doesn't need to be big to mean everything, and he leans down to press a gentle kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering there for just a second.
"I'm so glad you're my wife," he whispers.
The word settles differently now... wife.
You press a soft kiss to his bare chest, your eyes still closed, completely at ease as you stay wrapped around each other, your body fitting against his like it always has, like it always will. The steady rhythm of the rain outside blends with the sound of his heartbeat beneath your ear, both of them quiet and constant, wrapping around you in a way that feels safe and full and quietly perfect.
"I love you," you whisper.
"I love you more," Michael responds, his arms tightening around you just slightly, pulling you closer, like even in sleep he won't let you drift too far.
And wrapped in each other's warmth, the world outside held at a distance for just a little while longer, you fall asleep on your wedding night, feeling completely loved and fully safe in each other.
I love how when I started Knocks Me Off My Feet when it was mentioned I finished reading at the EXACT right moment. Everything lined up, even Michael’s singing
- being away from the limelight for this year had your fiancé glowing! he was smiling ear to ear seeing his fans.
- and more importantly, he had you by his side.
- with the exception of concert performances during the summer, he was all yours.
- being away from the tabloids and cameras, he found himself growing a small mustache. It just naturally grew and you didn’t seem to mind it whenever you kissed him. So he kept it.
- always telling him how handsome is everyday, never letting him doubt otherwise.
- every night before bed, you found yourself cuddling with Michael in bed, letting the tv play reruns of cartoons and family sitcoms in the background. Michael said it helped him relax a bit and helped him sleep better.
- watching Disney movies during the day and hearing Michael sing along the words under his breath. You’d join in and he always tells you sound beautiful.
- “you sound like a disney princess already.” Michael giggled a bit, faintly smiling as he looked into your eyes, falling in love with you all over again.
- you immediately get flustered and laugh, giving him a kiss in response, your chin rubbing against his short beard hairs, giggling a bit as it tickled you.
- “awe sorry honey, should I shave it?” Michael voice was apologetic.
pairings: 1976! Michael Jackson x fem reader, Mature era! Michael Jackson x reader
warnings: teenage love, angst, getting back together, trauma bond if you squint, surprisingly good communication, growing old together, home video, reflecting on life
wc: 2.3k+
“though i tried and tried to hide my feelings, they always seem to show.”
The old home movie began with the sound of laughter. Not the polite laughter people used for cameras or interviews, but the genuine kind that escaped before anyone had a chance to stop it. The image shook violently for several seconds before finally settling into focus. The first thing visible was Michael's face, much older now than the boy he used to be, though some things had never changed. The smile was still there. The expressive eyes were still there. The inability to hide exactly what he was feeling was definitely still there. "You better not tell that story," he warned from somewhere behind the camera's lens, already sounding suspicious before you'd even answered. His reaction only made your laughter grow louder.
The years had softened the memory, but they hadn't erased it. Nothing could. Some moments became permanent fixtures in a relationship. Not because they were happy, but because surviving them changed everything afterward. You settled beside him on the couch and nudged his shoulder lightly. "I have to," you replied. "It's the story that proves we were both idiots." Michael immediately groaned and dropped his head back against the cushions. "Mostly me," he corrected, though there wasn't much conviction behind the protest. His hand found yours without either of you consciously thinking about it. Decades later the habit remained automatic. "No," you said quietly, squeezing his fingers. "Mostly me."
The smile disappeared from his face then, replaced by something softer. Understanding. Because even now he remembered exactly how things had been back then. He remembered what it felt like to be eighteen years old and hopelessly in love with someone who was already halfway convinced they would eventually be abandoned. The two of you had found each other because your hurts looked similar. Neither of you spoke openly about the pressure waiting for you at home. Neither of you knew how to explain the exhaustion of constantly trying to be enough for people who always seemed to expect more. There had been comfort in finding someone who understood without explanation. There had also been danger in it. Hurt recognized hurt. Fear recognized fear. Whenever Michael felt scared of losing someone, he held tighter. Whenever you felt scared of losing someone, you pulled away first. Neither of you understood the pattern while you were living it. Looking back, it seemed painfully obvious.
The breakup happened in the summer of 1976, though "breakup" wasn't quite the right word. Looking back, both of you agreed it had felt less like ending a relationship and more like two stubborn teenagers trying to prove something neither of them actually believed. Michael remembered every detail because he'd spent weeks trying to make things work. Rehearsals consumed most of his days. Interviews consumed what little remained.
Fame was becoming larger than either of you had anticipated, and with every new obligation another piece of his time disappeared. The problem wasn't that he stopped trying. The problem was that he never seemed capable of doing enough. Every free afternoon became an attempt to see you. Every late-night phone call became an attempt to reassure you. Every argument became an attempt to fix whatever had gone wrong. Somewhere along the way he began noticing something painful. He was always the one trying to close the distance. Always the one calling first. Always the one apologizing first. Always the one asking whether the two of you were okay.
You hadn't done it intentionally. At seventeen, most of your decisions were driven by fears you barely understood. The closer Michael became, the more terrified you were of eventually losing him. Instead of leaning into the relationship, you began retreating from it. Calls went unanswered. Plans were forgotten. Excuses became easier than honesty. Deep down you expected him to leave eventually anyway. It felt safer not to need him too much. Unfortunately, Michael noticed every inch of distance you created. The more you withdrew, the harder he worked. The harder he worked, the guiltier you felt. The guilt made you retreat even further. By the time summer arrived, the relationship was trapped inside a cycle neither of you knew how to break.
The final argument started over something small. Looking back, neither of you could even remember exactly what it was. A forgotten plan. A missed phone call. Another disappointment added to a growing pile of disappointments. What Michael remembered was the feeling. He remembered standing in his bedroom at Hayvenhurst after hanging up the phone, staring at the wall while anger and heartbreak battled for control of his thoughts. For the first time since falling in love with you, he felt exhausted. Not exhausted by loving you. Exhausted by being afraid he was the only one fighting for the relationship. He spent the entire night trying to convince himself he was done. By morning, he'd almost succeeded.
Almost.
For nine days he didn't call.
For nine days he avoided every place he thought he might run into you.
For nine days he threw himself into rehearsals with a determination that bordered on desperation. Every hour of every day became an attempt to outrun his own feelings. If he stayed busy enough, maybe he wouldn't think about you. If he stayed distracted enough, maybe the ache in his chest would finally disappear. At first he thought it was working. The first day passed. Then the second. By the third day he started reaching for the phone before remembering why he wasn't supposed to. By the fifth day every song reminded him of you.
A laugh heard across a room sounded like yours. A jacket left on the back of a chair reminded him of the one you'd stolen months earlier. Tiny memories attacked him constantly. The worst part was realizing how impossible it was to stop them. Every morning he woke up determined to move on. Every night he found himself lying awake thinking about you anyway.
Years later, sitting on the couch beside you while the home movie continued recording, Michael laughed softly at the memory and shook his head. "I was trying so hard to be angry." The confession made you smile immediately because it sounded exactly like him. Even as a teenager, anger had never lasted very long where you were concerned. Michael looked down at your joined hands and continued speaking, his voice carrying the same affection it always did when discussing those years. He remembered pacing around his room on the seventh day, giving himself entire speeches about self-respect and moving forward. He remembered telling himself he deserved someone who would fight as hard as he did. He remembered deciding, with absolute certainty, that the relationship was over. Then he remembered sitting on the edge of his bed ten minutes later wondering whether you'd eaten lunch. The realization had irritated him so much that he'd thrown a pillow across the room. Looking back now, it was almost funny. At the time it felt miserable.
By the ninth day he finally admitted the truth. No amount of pride, frustration, disappointment, or common sense could change what he felt. He was hurt. Deeply hurt. He was tired. More tired than he'd ever been. Part of him knew getting back together might simply restart the cycle. Yet none of those things mattered enough. Every attempt to picture his future without you felt wrong. Incomplete. He could imagine being angry with you. He could imagine arguing with you. He could even imagine wanting to shake some sense into you. What he couldn't imagine was not loving you. That was the problem. Every road he followed eventually led back to the same conclusion.
So he called.
And when you answered, he immediately forgot every speech he'd prepared.
Because despite everything, hearing your voice still felt like coming home.
The ninth day ended exactly where Michael had promised himself it wouldn't. Standing outside your front door with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans, staring at peeling paint and a porch he'd spent the entire week avoiding. He hated that he was there. Hated that after all the speeches he'd given himself, after all the frustration and hurt and disappointment, he'd still ended up right back where he'd started. For several seconds he considered leaving before you answered. Then the door opened. The moment your eyes met his, every prepared speech vanished. Neither of you spoke immediately. The silence stretched between you, heavy with nine days of separation and months of unresolved feelings. "I thought you were done with me," you finally said, your voice quieter than he remembered.
Michael laughed softly at that, though there wasn't any amusement in it. "Yeah," he admitted, looking down at the porch before shaking his head. "I thought so too." Something in your expression tightened immediately. "Then why are you here?" The question should have been simple. Instead it felt impossible. Michael dragged a hand through his curls and exhaled sharply. "Because I spent nine days trying not to be here." His eyes finally lifted back to yours. "And somehow that didn't work."
The two of you ended up in his room at Hayvenhurst less than an hour later. Looking back years afterward, neither of you could remember who suggested it. What both of you remembered was the tension. Michael stood near the window while you remained by the door, as though neither of you fully trusted yourselves to close the distance. The room felt smaller than usual. Every emotion seemed amplified. "You keep acting like this is all my fault," you said eventually, folding your arms across your chest.
Michael's immediate reaction wasn't anger. It was exhaustion. "Because I'm tired," he admitted. "I'm tired of pretending everything's okay when it isn't." You rolled your eyes and looked away. "There you go again." His brow furrowed. "What does that mean?" The frustration in your chest finally spilled over. "It means every conversation turns into me apologizing. Every fight ends with me being the bad guy." Michael stared at you for several seconds before laughing bitterly. "You really think that's what's happening?" The question caught you off guard. "Isn't it?" His jaw tightened. "No." The answer came immediately. "What's happening is that every time something goes wrong, I'm the one trying to fix it."
The accusation hung heavily between you. You hated how quickly it found its target because part of you knew he wasn't entirely wrong. Michael saw it happen. Saw the guilt flicker across your face before you managed to hide it. "See?" he said quietly. "That's exactly what I mean." You looked away again. "You don't know what you're talking about." Michael laughed once. "I don't?" The hurt in his voice was becoming impossible to ignore now. "I've spent months wondering whether you even want to be here anymore." The confession immediately stole the air from the room.
You opened your mouth to respond, only to realize you didn't know how. Michael continued before you could. "Do you know how many times I've called first?" he asked. "Do you know how many times I've sat by the phone waiting for you to call and nothing happened?" His voice wasn't getting louder. Somehow that made it worse. "Every time we fight, I come back. Every time you pull away, I chase after you. Every time I think we're falling apart, I'm the one trying to hold us together." He swallowed hard. "And the whole time I'm wondering whether you even care enough to notice."
The words hurt because they were true. Not completely true, but true enough. Your eyes dropped toward the floor. Michael immediately saw it. His expression softened for a brief second before frustration reclaimed it. "That's the thing," he continued quietly. "I know you love me." The statement startled you enough to look up. Michael shook his head. "I do. That's what makes this so confusing." He laughed bitterly and paced away from the window. "Because if you didn't love me, this would be easy." Another restless pass across the room followed. "I'd be angry, I'd get over it, and that would be the end." He stopped walking and looked directly at you. "But I know you do." The conviction in his voice made your chest ache. "Then why isn't that enough?" you whispered.
For a moment neither of you moved. Michael's expression crumpled slightly at the question. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded heartbreakingly young. "Because loving somebody and making them feel loved aren't always the same thing." The honesty knocked the breath from your lungs. You could tell immediately he'd been carrying those words for a long time. "Michael..." He shook his head before you could continue. "No, let me finish." His eyes glistened slightly under the afternoon light pouring through the window.
"I spent the last nine days trying to convince myself I was done." A sad smile appeared. "I really tried." The confession sounded almost ridiculous now that he was saying it aloud. "I threw myself into rehearsals. I stayed busy. I told myself I deserved somebody who wouldn't make me work this hard." He laughed again, this time entirely at himself. "And every single day I failed." His shoulders slumped. "I'd hear a song and think about you. I'd drive past somewhere we went together and think about you. I'd wake up in the morning planning not to think about you and somehow end up doing it anyway." He shook his head slowly. "I couldn't stay mad. I couldn't stay away. I couldn't stop loving you long enough to actually leave."
By then tears had begun gathering in your eyes. Michael noticed immediately. He always noticed. Some part of him softened despite everything. "See?" you whispered, wiping furiously at your face. "This is why I pull away." Confusion crossed his expression. "What?" You laughed shakily. "Because you make it sound so easy." Michael stared. "Easy?" The word sounded almost absurd. "Nothing about this has been easy." You shook your head. "You don't understand. You keep fighting for us because you actually believe I'm worth fighting for." The confession slipped out before you could stop it. Silence immediately followed. Michael looked stunned. Not because he'd never considered it. Because suddenly everything made sense.
And that, more than the argument itself, became the conversation neither of you ever forgot.
Pairing: Michael Jackson x fem!reader
Chapter: 7/?
(Click for previous chapters: One / Two / Three / Four / Five / Six)
Tags: fake / contract relationship, slow burn, strangers to friends to lovers, romance, hurt/comfort, not actually unrequited love, mutual pining, mutual admiration, angst with a happy ending, idiots in love
Summary:
Michael Jackson is no stranger to rumors, but when increasingly invasive articles begin dissecting his private life, even he starts to feel the weight of the headlines.
At the same time, Hollywood's favorite leading lady is growing tired of being reduced to pretty smiles and successful romance films while her dreams of becoming a serious actress remain firmly out of reach.
A carefully negotiated relationship offers a solution to both of their problems. For Michael, it provides a much-needed shift in public perception. For you, it opens doors that have always remained frustratingly out of reach. It's mutually beneficial, protected by a contract, and entirely for the cameras.
At least, that's what it's supposed to be.
May 1986
A little over a month had passed since Michael had appeared at your front door carrying a pet carrier and casually altered the entire rhythm of your life.
The whirlwind surrounding your latest film had finally begun to settle, the premieres and interviews slowly giving way to a quieter stretch of time between projects, and although your agent continued flooding your apartment with scripts that seemed to arrive faster than you could read them, you found yourself in the unusual position of having enough breathing room to actually be selective about what came next.
Several luxury brands had approached you about endorsement deals, fashion magazines had begun competing for exclusive photoshoots, and there was even talk of a long-term ambassador partnership with a designer label whose name would have made your younger self fall directly out of her chair. For the first time in years, your career felt stable enough that you could afford to be patient.
Unfortunately, patience was considerably harder to maintain when it came to Michael.
The phone balanced comfortably between your shoulder and ear while you sat cross-legged on your couch surrounded by a truly ridiculous amount of work, a stack of glossy photographs waiting for your signature occupying most of the coffee table while several scripts lay abandoned nearby, and throughout all of it Michael's voice drifted steadily through the receiver as though talking to him for hours at a time had somehow become the most natural thing in the world.
"I'm telling you," you said while uncapping another marker and signing your name across yet another publicity photograph, "If I have to read one more script where the female lead exists exclusively to stare at the male lead with admiration while he solves every problem in the story, I'm going to start mailing them back with notes."
A soft laugh sounded through the line, followed by the faint notes of a piano key.
"You could always write your own."
"That sounds suspiciously like work."
"It is work."
"Then I definitely don't want to do it."
The laugh came again, warmer this time, and you found yourself smiling despite having heard it hundreds of times by now.
At Hayvenhurst, Michael sat in the studio surrounded by sheets of handwritten lyrics, cassette tapes, and several notebooks that had gradually become filled with ideas for the next album. Every so often a melody would appear in the middle of your conversation and he'd absent-mindedly reach toward the keyboard beside him, testing a handful of notes before scribbling something down and returning to whatever topic you'd been discussing without missing a beat.
It had become strangely normal.
Some nights you talked for ten minutes. Some nights you talked for two hours.
Occasionally neither of you said much at all, simply continuing your respective work while enjoying the quiet comfort of another person's presence through the phone line.
A sudden weight landed across your stomach. You looked down.
Casper had apparently decided that your autograph session required supervision.
The white cat stretched dramatically before rolling onto his back directly across your lap, his paws curling toward the ceiling while his nose searched for your hand with remarkable confidence.
"Oh, there he is."
"What?" Michael asked.
"My son."
"Your son?"
"Yes, my son."
You set the marker aside and immediately abandoned your work in favor of rubbing Casper's furry belly, earning an enthusiastic purr that became audible even through the phone.
"I could swear he's been living here his entire life." The confession escaped before you could stop it.
Your hand continued moving through the soft white fur. "It doesn't even feel like I've only had him for a month anymore."
For a moment Michael didn't respond. When he finally did, his voice sounded oddly pleased.
"That's good."
You smiled down at the cat. "He's completely taken over my home."
"You sound upset."
"I'm devastated."
Michael laughed again. The sound settled somewhere uncomfortable beneath your ribs.
These days that happened far too often.
Your eyes drifted toward one of the magazines from last month resting on the coffee table, its cover displaying a photograph taken the day Michael had brought Casper home.
The photographer had captured the exact moment you'd thrown yourself at him in the doorway.
The article itself had practically written the relationship narrative for the press.
MICHAEL JACKSON'S SURPRISE VISIT TO GIRLFRIEND'S HOME.
INSIDE THEIR SWEETEST MOMENT YET.
The public had loved it. More importantly, they had believed it.
The fact that your reaction hadn't contained a single ounce of acting probably helped.
"You know that cat may have done more for the arrangement than that first gala."
Michael laughed. "That's depressing."
"I'm serious." You glanced toward the magazine again. "Nobody can fake that reaction."
"No," he agreed. "You definitely couldn't."
The teasing in his voice made your cheeks warm. Fortunately he couldn't see it.
Since then, photographs of you carrying Casper to veterinary appointments had appeared in several magazines, often accompanied by unnecessarily dramatic captions about Michael's thoughtful gift and your devotion to the elderly rescue cat. The public seemed to adore the story almost as much as they adored the relationship itself, and every new photograph only strengthened the narrative Frank had been building for months.
Not that either of you needed Frank's help anymore.
At some point the act had stopped feeling like work. Not because the relationship had become real. But because the movements had become instinctive.
The smiles, the touches, the comfort.
None of it required effort anymore.
–
Several weeks later, another charity event brought the two of you together beneath a storm of flashing cameras, though by now the experience felt remarkably different from those first awkward outings where every touch required conscious thought and every photograph felt like a performance.
The second Michael stepped out of the car and offered you his hand, your fingers found his automatically.
No hesitation, no nerves, no awkwardness.
Just familiarity.
The cameras loved it.
You moved through the crowd together with the ease of people who had spent months existing in each other's orbit, pausing whenever photographers called your names while Michael's hand remained comfortably at your waist and your own settled against the front of his jacket.
Neither of you had planned the pose.
It simply happened.
Yet judging by the rapid explosion of camera flashes, it was exactly the sort of photograph the press had been hoping for.
"Over here!"
"Michael!"
"Y/N!"
You turned toward another cluster of photographers, smiling instinctively as Michael shifted closer beside you.
Then, without warning, you felt him lean down.
A moment later soft lips brushed your cheek.
The movement lasted barely a second.
Just long enough for every camera in the vicinity to lose its collective mind.
Your breath caught. The photographers erupted. Michael looked entirely satisfied with himself.
"There," he said quietly as he straightened again. "Frank's going to frame that one."
You hated how quickly warmth flooded your face. The worst part was that he hadn't done it to fluster you.
He'd done it because it felt natural.
Because somewhere along the way, neither of you seemed to be acting quite as much anymore.
The difference, unfortunately, was that only one of you understood why.
–
June 1986
By June, Michael had become almost impossible to keep up with.
The deeper he moved into preparations for the new album, the more his entire world seemed to narrow until it consisted almost exclusively of music, unfinished lyrics, and whatever melody happened to be occupying his head at any given moment. Whenever you called Hayvenhurst these days, there was a decent chance someone would inform you that Michael was in the studio, had just left the studio, or was on his way back to the studio after claiming he was finished for the night several hours earlier.
Not that you were complaining.
If anything, watching him work had become one of your favorite things.
Which was why, when he invited you over one afternoon to sit in on a recording session, you agreed almost immediately.
This wasn't like the previous times you'd visited while he worked, however. Instead of finding him alone at a piano experimenting with melodies or pacing around the room while humming half-finished ideas into a tape recorder, the studio was bustling with activity by the time you arrived. Quincy Jones was there along with several engineers, assistants, and enough equipment to make the room feel considerably smaller than usual, everyone moving with the efficient rhythm of people who had spent years creating music together.
You remembered Michael mentioning that he wanted to make the new album entirely from his home studio this time instead of spending months driving across Los Angeles to work at the recording studio he and Quincy usually used.
You quickly learned that watching Michael record was an entirely different experience from watching Michael write.
The playful, easygoing man who spent hours talking to you on the phone about books, movies, animals, and whatever bizarre thought happened to enter his head that day seemed to disappear the moment recording began, replaced by someone intensely focused and almost frighteningly dedicated to getting every detail exactly right.
He repeated lines over and over without complaint, adjusted tiny inflections that nobody else would have noticed, and listened back to recordings with an attention to detail that bordered on obsession.
Hours passed without either of you really noticing.
Eventually the session came to an end, Quincy departed with promises to call the following morning, and one by one the remaining engineers gathered their things and left until only the two of you remained in the studio.
You found yourself lingering near the mixing console while Michael organized several sheets of music and notes into a pile.
The room had fallen comfortably quiet.
Then a familiar sound drifted through the speakers.
A heartbeat. Slow, steady and rhythmic.
Your attention immediately shifted toward the newly finished recording he had rewinded to listen from the start.
"That's a nice touch."
Michael looked up.
"The heartbeat." You pointed toward the speakers. "I like it."
A grin spread across his face almost immediately. "The song’s name is Smooth Criminal."
The excitement in his voice was unmistakable, and you couldn't help smiling at it.
"Really?" you asked dryly. "I never would've guessed from the twenty times you worked the title into the lyrics you sang today."
Michael's grin only widened. "It's one of my favorites."
Then, looking entirely too pleased with himself, he added:
"That's my own heartbeat."
For a moment you genuinely thought he was joking. "What?"
"The heartbeat." His grin widened. "It's mine."
You stared. Then laughed. "No way."
"Yes."
"You're lying."
"I'm not."
Still looking delighted by your disbelief, Michael crossed the room and rewound the tape before playing the opening section again.
The heartbeat filled the studio once more.
You looked from the speakers back to him. "You actually recorded your own heartbeat."
Michael shrugged as though that was the most normal thing in the world.
"I thought it sounded interesting."
The laugh escaped before you could stop it. "Michael, that's insane."
"I prefer creative."
"I prefer insane."
He accepted the correction surprisingly easily.
While the heartbeat continued playing through the speakers, you found yourself stepping closer to him, still shaking your head in disbelief.
"You really can make music out of anything, can't you?"
His shoulders lifted slightly. "Inspiration's everywhere."
The answer sounded so genuine that it made you laugh again.
Then, before really thinking about what you were doing, you placed your hand lightly against his chest.
"Hold still."
Michael blinked. "What are you doing?"
"I want to compare."
The heartbeat echoed softly through the speakers while your palm rested over his chest, feeling the steady rhythm beneath his shirt.
For a moment neither of you spoke.
Then you looked back toward the speakers. Then at him. Then back toward the speakers again. The comparison lasted perhaps five seconds. Six at most.
Long enough for you to start laughing.
"You're ridiculous."
Michael looked offended. "I'm a visionary."
"You're recording your own organs."
"They make excellent music."
You laughed so hard you nearly doubled over.
Eventually your hand slipped away from his chest and you returned to the mixing console, still smiling.
Michael smiled too. Yet for reasons he couldn't quite explain, he remained aware of the exact spot where your hand had rested for several moments afterward.
–
A few weeks later, another rare evening found Michael arriving at your apartment carrying takeout containers and absolutely no intention of doing any work whatsoever. Well, unless inspiration struck him out of nowhere.
At least that had been the plan.
The movie playing on your television had been forgotten almost twenty minutes ago, largely because both of you had spent most of it making fun of increasingly questionable dialogue choices, but neither of you seemed particularly interested in changing it. The film continued playing in the background while you occupied opposite ends of the couch, trading observations about the plot and occasionally stealing food from each other's containers whenever neither person was paying attention.
Eventually the takeout containers were abandoned on the coffee table, and the conversation gradually faded into one of those comfortable silences that only seemed to exist between people who had long since stopped feeling the need to fill every quiet moment.
Michael stretched out across the length of the couch with a dramatic sigh as he rested his head on the edge of the couch, claiming he was merely "making himself comfortable" before promptly invading half your space anyway. Against your immediate objections, he somehow managed to wedge his feet beneath your thighs for warmth, completely ignoring your complaints while looking entirely too pleased with himself.
"Stop invading my space."
Michael grinned. "Don’t care."
You rolled your eyes and tried again. "Why are your feet under me?"
"They're cold,” he said and you could feel him wiggling his toes under your thighs.
"You are impossible."
Michael merely smiled without opening his eyes, apparently deciding that your irritation wasn't convincing enough to be taken seriously.
Despite yourself, you let him stay exactly where he was.
For several minutes the only sounds in the room came from the television, the occasional rustle of Casper shifting somewhere nearby, and the faint hum of traffic outside your windows. The quiet wasn't awkward in the slightest. If anything, it felt strangely peaceful.
Then, eventually, you found yourself commenting on the fact that the male lead was making what was quite possibly the worst decision of the entire movie.
No response came. You waited, your eyes still fixed on the television screen. Still nothing.
Frowning slightly, you looked toward Michael. Then immediately smiled.
He had fallen asleep.
Sometime during the last fifteen minutes his breathing had settled into the slow, even rhythm of someone completely exhausted. Considering how relentlessly he'd been working for months, the fact that he'd managed to stay awake this long was honestly impressive.
What made the sight even worse, however, was Casper.
The cat had apparently decided that a sleeping Michael made an excellent pillow.
Curled against his shoulder with all the confidence of an animal who believed he owned your house, Casper had tucked himself directly beneath Michael's chin and appeared entirely content with the arrangement.
Your chest tightened painfully. The sight was almost unfair.
For a moment you simply sat there watching them.
The man you loved. The cat he had given you. Both asleep. Both completely unaware of the effect they were having on you.
You thought briefly about taking your camera and snapping a Polaroid, like you always did with moments you wanted to keep, but ultimately decided against it. This was a moment you could keep in your heart without any physical evidence.
A lock of dark hair had fallen across Michael's forehead.
Before you could stop yourself, you leaned forward and carefully brushed it away. The movement was gentle enough not to wake him.
Michael shifted slightly in his sleep but otherwise remained undisturbed.
Your smile softened.
Then, after quietly retrieving a blanket from the nearby armchair, you draped it over him and Casper before returning to your own corner of the couch.
The movie continued playing, but you didn’t pay much attention. Instead your gaze kept drifting back toward him.
Toward the way exhaustion had erased every trace of tension from his face. Toward the familiar comfort with which he now occupied your home. Toward the simple reality that he had become such a permanent part of your life that imagining your days without him felt increasingly difficult.
For the first time in weeks, a dangerous thought slipped through your defenses.
Maybe this could work. Maybe you could continue like this.
You had managed to hide your feelings for months already, after all.
Every photograph where you'd looked at him too fondly had been dismissed as good acting. Every smile had been explained away as part of the arrangement. Every lingering glance had been interpreted as commitment to the role.
Even Michael himself seemed completely convinced that whatever emotions appeared on your face existed solely for the cameras.
The irony would have been funny if it weren't so devastating.
Still, sitting there in the dim light of your living room while Casper slept under his chin and the movie played forgotten in the background, you allowed yourself to believe for just a moment that perhaps things could stay this way indefinitely.
That perhaps loving him quietly would be enough.
That perhaps friendship, companionship, and stolen evenings like this might somehow satisfy the part of your heart that wanted more.
It was a comforting thought. A dangerous one. And unfortunately, it was also completely wrong.
Eventually your eyes grew heavy as well.
The television blurred. The room softened.
And sometime later, without even realizing it, you drifted off to sleep too.
–
July 1986
By July, your life had settled into a strange rhythm that somehow managed to feel both busier and quieter than it had only a few months earlier.
The frenzy surrounding your most recent film had largely died down by now, the premieres, interviews, and press obligations gradually fading into memory while Hollywood's attention inevitably drifted toward the next exciting thing.
Yet despite no longer actively promoting a project, you found yourself busier than ever. Scripts continued arriving from your agent at a steady pace, accumulating into increasingly intimidating piles on your dining room table, while fashion houses, luxury brands, and magazine editors suddenly seemed determined to convince you that your face belonged on every billboard, cover, and advertisement in California.
One such commitment found you seated in front of a makeup mirror on an unusually warm morning while an entire team of stylists worked around you with military precision.
The photoshoot itself was for the cover of Vogue. Even now, the realization felt slightly absurd.
The photographer spent most of the morning directing you across a series of increasingly elaborate sets, occasionally climbing onto furniture or crouching on the floor in pursuit of the perfect angle while assistants hurried around adjusting lights, smoothing fabric, and making sure every detail remained exactly as intended. By lunchtime you had already changed outfits five separate times and posed against three different backdrops.
The final setup involved a dramatic evening gown that flowed elegantly around you as the photographer circled the set with growing enthusiasm.
"Perfect," he called. "Tilt your chin slightly."
You complied.
"Beautiful." Another flash. "Hold that." Another. "Excellent."
The session continued for another twenty minutes before someone finally announced the end, at which point you got to change back into your own clothes and were escorted toward a quieter corner of the studio where a journalist waited with a notebook balanced across her lap and a tape recorder resting on the table between you.
The interview began exactly the way you'd expected.
Questions about your latest film. Questions about the response. Questions about fame. Questions about Hollywood.
Safe territory. Comfortable territory.
"What has surprised you most about the response to your latest project?" the interviewer asked.
You smiled slightly before answering.
"I think the thing that's surprised me most is how many people connected emotionally with it. Every actor hopes people will care about the characters they play, but you never really know if that connection will happen until the film is out in the world."
The interviewer nodded while scribbling something down.
"And now that you've had a major commercial success, what are you looking for next?"
That question came easier.
"I'd like to challenge myself more." You folded your hands comfortably in your lap. "I love the work I've done so far, but I've always been drawn toward more dramatic material. Characters that are complicated, flawed, difficult to understand. The kinds of roles that scare you a little when you first read them."
The interviewer smiled. "So you're actively looking for more serious projects?"
"Very much so." You laughed softly. "I think every actor reaches a point where they want to see how far they can push themselves creatively."
The conversation continued in that vein for some time, drifting through discussions about filmmaking, acting techniques, directors you admired, projects you hoped to pursue one day, and your experiences navigating the industry.
Then, inevitably, the interviewer arrived at the subject everyone seemed incapable of avoiding.
"One personal question, if you don't mind."
You immediately recognized the careful phrasing. The warning. The setup.
"What kind of question?"
The interviewer smiled politely. "Michael Jackson."
Of course. You should have known.
To her credit, however, the question itself remained surprisingly respectful.
"What has surprised you most about him?"
That, at least, felt harmless enough. You considered the answer briefly.
"Probably how creative he is."
The response came honestly.
"I think most people understand he's talented, but spending time around somebody who genuinely lives and breathes creativity is very different from seeing them perform on stage."
The interviewer looked intrigued. "What do you mean?"
You found yourself smiling. "He never really stops. Music is constantly happening somewhere in the background of his brain. He hears rhythms in ordinary sounds. He'll stop in the middle of a conversation because an idea occurred to him. It's fascinating to watch."
The answer seemed to satisfy her.
Fortunately, no additional questions about Michael followed.
The rest of the interview remained firmly focused on your own career, your goals, your ambitions, and the future you hoped to build for yourself.
Exactly the way you preferred it.
–
August 1986
A few weeks later, another suggestion from Frank found you standing outside a designer boutique in Los Angeles while photographers lingered across the street pretending not to watch.
The suggestion itself had been simple enough. You had mentioned to Michael in passing that you wanted to go shopping with your friends, but that your schedules didn’t align. So Frank came up with an idea: Go shopping with Michael instead.
”Be seen. Look happy. Sell the relationship.”
Frank had made it sound remarkably straightforward.
The reality was somewhat different.
Particularly because Michael apparently believed his role in the outing involved making you wear everything he picked out for you.
You followed him through the boutique while Bill and security remained discreetly nearby, watching as he moved from rack to rack with growing enthusiasm, occasionally stopping to pull out a dress, blouse, or jacket before immediately declaring that you should try it on.
"This one."
You eyed the garment skeptically. "Michael."
"What?"
"I would never wear this."
"You haven't tried it on."
"There's a reason for that," you said exasperatedly. “Also, you’re not here to pick outfits for me, I can do that myself, thank you.”
He ignored you entirely and handed the item in his hand to a sales associate. You sighed.
The sales associate looked delighted.
Several outfits later, you found yourself standing in a changing room surrounded by enough clothing to open a small department store.
The first dress wasn't terrible. The second was surprisingly nice. The third looked exactly as ridiculous as you'd predicted.
Yet every time you stepped out of the changing room, Michael reacted as though you'd just emerged wearing the greatest piece of fashion ever created.
"You look amazing." The first time.
"Beautiful." The second.
"I love that one." The third.
By the sixth outfit, you had completely lost patience.
"No."
Michael blinked. "No?"
"There is absolutely no way all of these look good."
His expression remained infuriatingly sincere. "They do."
You pointed toward the dress currently hanging from your shoulders. "This one makes me look like somebody's curtains."
"It does not."
"It absolutely does."
"It absolutely doesn't."
You narrowed your eyes. Michael remained unmoved.
The worst part was that he genuinely appeared to believe every word he was saying. Eventually you gave up entirely.
"I wish my friends had been available. You are the least helpful shopping companion I've ever had."
Michael looked offended. "I'm being honest."
"No you're not."
"I am."
"You are physically incapable of criticizing anything."
His grin widened. "That’s completely wrong. You just look good in everything."
The answer earned another eye roll. Yet somewhere deep down, a small part of you found the whole thing embarrassingly endearing.
By the time the shopping finally concluded, Michael had successfully talked you into purchasing far more than originally intended, though "talked" was perhaps the wrong word considering he'd quietly informed the cashier that he was paying before you'd even reached the register.
The checkout counter sat near the front windows of the boutique, where photographers had managed to position themselves strategically enough to capture occasional glimpses through the glass.
You noticed them immediately. So did Michael. Years of experience had made both of you very aware of cameras.
By now, however, the awareness no longer created nervousness. Instead it felt almost instinctive.
As the final shopping bag was handed over and Michael turned toward you with a satisfied expression that suggested he'd somehow won a battle nobody else knew existed, an idea occurred to you.
Before you could overthink it, your arms wrapped around his neck. The movement caught him completely off guard.
You laughed. "Thank you."
Michael instinctively placed his hands at your waist.
For a moment you remained there, comfortably suspended in each other's space while flashes erupted outside the windows.
Then, knowing it would make good photos, your fingers drifted toward the back of his neck. The gesture was absentminded. Thoughtless.
A simple scratch through the hair resting at his nape.
The reaction was immediate. Michael visibly shuddered as you kept hugging him.
Then the moment passed.
Photographers continued clicking furiously outside.
The resulting pictures would later look like the portrait of a couple completely comfortable with one another. Neither of you realized quite how accurate that was becoming.
A short while later, both of you emerged from the boutique carrying enough shopping bags to suggest questionable decision-making before climbing into Bill's waiting car.
The ride home began quietly.
Then Michael glanced over. "I like your improvisations."
You looked up. "My improvisations?"
The corner of his mouth twitched. "The little things."
He didn't elaborate. You didn't ask.
Instead you shrugged. "Pure talent."
The answer made him laugh. "You’re annoying."
"That's not what the magazines say."
"That's because the magazines don't know you."
Bill listened to the conversation unfolding behind him and smiled to himself while keeping his attention firmly on the road.
Neither of you noticed.
You were far too busy arguing about whose fault it was that you now owned enough new clothing to fill an entirely separate closet.
–
The phone call arrived on an otherwise unremarkable afternoon while you sat cross-legged on the floor of your apartment, surrounded by enough scripts, notes, and half-finished cups of tea to suggest that you had every intention of being productive despite having spent the better part of the last hour rereading the same three pages.
Casper, meanwhile, had decided that your attempts at organization were deeply offensive and was currently asleep across a stack of papers your agent had specifically told you not to lose, his white fur spread across the pages as though he personally owned every document in the room.
You nearly let the phone ring itself out.
Not because you were busy, but because most calls these days seemed to involve some variation of the same conversation, whether it was another photoshoot, another advertisement, another interview, or another script that sounded suspiciously similar to three others already sitting somewhere in your apartment.
Fortunately, something made you answer.
The moment you heard your agent's voice, however, you sat up straighter.
He sounded excited. Genuinely excited.
The kind of excited that usually accompanied major opportunities, significant contracts, or career developments substantial enough to justify interrupting somebody in the middle of their day.
"Please tell me you're sitting down."
Your brow furrowed immediately. "I am."
"Good."
A pause followed, just long enough to make your curiosity grow.
Then he said:
"Robert Hastings wants to meet you."
For several seconds, you genuinely thought you had misheard him.
The name alone was enough to send a jolt through your entire body, because Robert Hastings wasn't simply another successful director whose work happened to receive good reviews and respectable box office numbers. He was the director whose films had shaped entire periods of your life, whose interviews you'd clipped out of magazines as a teenager and tucked between the pages of books, whose work had convinced you that acting could be more than simply standing in front of a camera and reciting lines written by somebody else. Long before you'd ever stepped onto a professional set yourself, Robert Hastings had been one of the people responsible for making you believe that storytelling mattered.
Casper slid halfway off the papers as you sat up so quickly that he gave an annoyed ‘meow’.
"What?!"
Your agent laughed immediately. "Oh, good. That's exactly the reaction I was hoping for."
The rest of the conversation blurred together so completely that you would struggle to remember most of it later. Robert Hastings was preparing a new dramatic feature, you had heard of this many months ago. He was currently searching for a female lead. He had seen your latest film. He had apparently asked your agency about you specifically. He wanted a meeting. He wanted to discuss the project. He wanted to see whether you might be interested in auditioning.
By the time the call ended, your heart was still racing.
The first person you called was Michael.
He answered somewhere around the third ring, sounding distracted in the familiar way he always did whenever you caught him working.
"What happened?"
You blinked. "What makes you think something happened?"
"Because you're breathing like you just ran a marathon."
The observation was irritatingly accurate.
For the next several minutes, your explanation came out in fragments, excitement repeatedly interrupting your own thoughts as you attempted to explain the situation while simultaneously processing it yourself. Michael listened patiently throughout the entire thing, occasionally asking a question when he lost track of your increasingly chaotic storytelling, until eventually he managed to piece together enough information to understand what had happened.
"Robert Hastings?"
You nodded automatically despite the fact that he couldn't see you. "Robert Hastings."
For a moment there was silence.
Then Michael laughed. Not because the situation was funny, but because he sounded genuinely happy.
"That's incredible!"
The sincerity in his voice caught you off guard.
For months you had watched the arrangement benefit him in ways both large and small, from the improvement in public opinion to the renewed confidence that seemed to accompany every new article about the upcoming album. You had watched him become happier, more focused, more excited about the future, and although you had never regretted helping him, there had always been a small part of you that wondered whether anything would ever come from it on your side.
Apparently Michael had been wondering the same thing.
"I knew somebody would notice eventually."
You frowned. "What?"
"Your work."
His answer arrived so naturally that it took a moment to process.
"I've watched enough of your movies by now to know how good you are, and if it took the rest of Hollywood this long to catch up, that's their problem."
The warmth that suddenly settled in your chest had nothing to do with Robert Hastings. That was the truly unfortunate part.
–
The meeting itself took place several days later in Robert Hastings' production offices, and by the time you arrived you had already spent the better part of the drive attempting to convince yourself that you weren't about to embarrass yourself in front of one of the most respected directors currently working in Hollywood.
As it turned out, the nervousness had been unnecessary.
Robert Hastings was exactly the sort of person you had hoped he would be after spending years admiring his work from afar, greeting you personally the moment you arrived and immediately putting you at ease with the kind of warmth that seemed entirely genuine rather than rehearsed. He offered you coffee before the meeting had even properly begun, asked thoughtful questions about your career, and spent nearly an hour discussing acting, storytelling, filmmaking, and the kinds of projects that interested you, treating you less like a celebrity and more like a fellow artist whose perspective he genuinely wanted to hear.
He referenced specific scenes from your films, mentioned character choices you'd made that most viewers probably wouldn't have noticed, and even brought up one particular performance from a smaller project that had never received much attention, explaining in surprising detail why he thought the emotional restraint you'd shown in several scenes had been more effective than a more dramatic approach would have been.
The entire conversation felt almost unreal.
For years you had imagined what it would feel like to sit across from people like Robert Hastings and be taken seriously as an actress rather than a celebrity, and now it was actually happening. Every answer seemed to lead naturally into another discussion about filmmaking, every topic revolved around storytelling and performance, and by the time the meeting was drawing to a close, you found yourself forgetting entirely that you had walked into the room hoping to impress him.
Then Robert smiled. "I'd like you to audition."
The words were simple enough. The effect they had on you was not.
For a moment you were genuinely afraid your excitement might become embarrassingly obvious.
"I'd love to."
–
The audition took place several days later and somehow managed to go even better than you had expected.
You would never have described yourself as someone who walked out of an audition feeling completely confident, because acting was far too subjective for that, but by the time you left the building that afternoon you couldn't deny that things had gone well. Robert seemed genuinely pleased with your performance, several members of the casting team complimented your reading afterward, and there had been enough encouraging smiles exchanged across the room to leave you cautiously optimistic.
As you gathered your things and prepared to leave, Robert stopped you near the doorway.
"A few of us are grabbing dinner afterward."
You looked up.
He smiled. "You should join us."
At the time, it seemed like a perfectly normal invitation. And for the first hour of the dinner, it really was.
The restaurant Robert had chosen was upscale without being intimidating, the kind of place where producers discussed budgets over expensive wine and actors celebrated premieres in quiet corners while hoping nobody recognized them. By the time you arrived, several members of the production team were already seated around a long table near the back of the restaurant, and as introductions were exchanged, you quickly found yourself seated beside a screenwriter named Peter Calloway, who immediately struck you as the sort of person who spent more time observing people than talking about himself.
Unlike most people you'd met recently, Peter seemed completely uninterested in discussing your relationship.
Instead, he wanted to talk about movies. Actual movies.
Within ten minutes the two of you were debating endings, arguing about which performances should have won awards they hadn't won, and exchanging recommendations for films the other hadn't seen. The conversation flowed so naturally that you almost forgot how nervous you'd been coming into the evening.
At one point Peter mentioned that he'd worked on the short film for Thriller, and when your attention immediately sharpened, he laughed.
"Not directly with him very often," he clarified. "Mostly with people around him. But I met him quite a lot of times."
You smiled. "And?"
Peter looked genuinely surprised by the question. "And what?"
"And was he nice?"
The answer came without hesitation. "He was one of the nicest people I've ever met in this industry."
Something warm settled in your chest.
Peter continued. "Most famous people spend ten seconds talking to you and make you feel like they're waiting for the conversation to end. Michael somehow manages to make five minutes feel like twenty."
You laughed softly. "That sounds like him."
Peter pointed at you. "Exactly."
The conversation moved elsewhere after that, but the exchange stayed with you.
For the first hour, everything felt exactly the way you'd imagined these kinds of evenings were supposed to feel.
People discussing films. Writers discussing scripts. Directors discussing projects. Actors discussing performances.
The kind of conversation you'd spent years hoping to be included in.
Then, gradually and almost imperceptibly, the subject began drifting elsewhere.
Toward Michael.
At first the questions felt harmless enough.
Someone asked how he was doing. Another person wondered whether he was excited about the new album. Robert asked whether you had heard any of the songs he was currently working on.
None of those questions felt particularly unusual. By now they were practically unavoidable, and you answered them the same way you always did, offering vague but polite responses before attempting to steer the conversation back toward the film.
Unfortunately, Robert seemed increasingly determined to steer it in the opposite direction.
"You know," he said casually while swirling the contents of his glass, "A Michael Jackson soundtrack would be incredible for a movie like this."
You smiled politely. "I'm sure it would."
His eyes immediately lit up. "You should ask him."
The suggestion made something tighten inside your stomach.
"I don't really make promises on Michael's behalf, especially when it comes to his music."
Robert laughed. Not offensively. Not yet. "Oh, come on."
You smiled politely. "I'm serious."
"At least mention it to him."
"His music is his business."
The answer should have ended the discussion. Instead it merely paused it.
As the evening continued and more drinks appeared on the table, Robert seemed to become increasingly interested in a topic that had very little to do with the movie and increasingly more to do with the man you happened to be dating publicly.
The questions kept returning.
Did he ask for your opinions on his work?
Did he trust your judgment?
How involved were you in his creative process?
The longer the conversation continued, the more uncomfortable you became, because the questions were no longer really about Michael as a person. They were about access. About influence. About how much control you might have over someone Robert had apparently been trying to get a soundtrack from for years, even though they were friendly acquaintances.
You noticed Peter becoming quieter as the evening progressed. The easy smile he'd worn earlier had faded. The same thing that was bothering you seemed to be bothering him.
Then Robert leaned back in his chair.
"You know, I've been asking him to do a soundtrack for me for years. Getting you interested in the project might actually be the easiest way to get him interested too."
The comment was delivered casually enough that several people barely reacted.
You did. A small knot formed in your stomach.
You laughed politely. "I don't think that's really how Michael works."
"No?"
Something about Robert's smile had changed.
Only slightly. But enough.
"I'm sure you have ways of persuading him… If you know what I mean."
The implication landed immediately. You felt your jaw tighten.
Across the table, Peter's expression darkened.
For a moment you considered responding. Instead you reached for your glass and pretended not to understand what Robert meant.
The image you had carried of him for years developed its first crack.
Then came the second.
Robert took another sip of his drink before leaning slightly closer. "You know what I've always wondered?"
You already disliked the tone. "What?"
A smirk appeared. "Whether any of those rumors are actually true."
The table grew noticeably quieter.
You frowned. "What rumors?"
Robert laughed. "The ones about him."
Nobody spoke. Not even Peter.
Robert seemed encouraged by the silence. "Come on. Half of Hollywood's been trying to figure it out for years."
Your expression cooled immediately. "Figure what out?"
His grin widened. "Whether he's actually interested in women."
The words settled over the table like a bad smell. Several people looked uncomfortable. Peter looked outright annoyed.
Robert either didn't notice or didn't care.
"You're dating him," he continued. "You'd know better than the rest of us."
You stared at him.
The disappointment hit harder than the anger. Because this was Robert Hastings. The director you'd admired for years. The man whose work had inspired you.
And somehow he suddenly sounded exactly like a tabloid reporter.
Then he leaned even closer. "But between us..."
Your stomach dropped.
"...does he actually have sex with you, or were his exes right all along?"
For several seconds nobody spoke.
The noise of the restaurant seemed to disappear entirely.
Across the table, Peter looked horrified. Someone beside him muttered something under their breath.
Robert simply waited. As though he'd asked a perfectly reasonable question.
What disappointed you wasn't even the question itself. Hollywood was full of people like Robert.
What hurt was realizing that someone you had admired for years apparently wasn't any different from the rest of them.
Even now, sitting at a table that was supposed to be celebrating your audition, he seemed far more interested in gaining access to knowledge about Michael he could use against him to get his way than in the actress he had invited there.
The realization left a bitter taste in your mouth. You forced a smile. A polite one.
The kind of smile years in Hollywood had taught you to wear even when you wanted to walk away.
Then you stood. "I should probably head home."
For a brief moment confusion crossed Robert's face. Then disappointment. Then irritation.
Peter stood as well. "I'll walk you out."
You looked at him, surprised.
He offered a small apologetic smile.
And for the first time all evening, somebody's kindness felt genuine.
–
The drive home felt considerably longer than the drive there had, although logically you knew the distance hadn't changed.
Los Angeles passed by outside your window in a blur of traffic lights, storefronts, and passing headlights, yet you barely registered any of it because your thoughts had become trapped in a loop that seemed determined to replay the evening over and over again no matter how many times you tried redirecting them elsewhere.
Every time you thought you had finally moved on from the conversation, another comment surfaced. Another implication. Another moment that somehow managed to make your stomach twist all over again.
The worst part wasn't even what Robert had said. It was how familiar it all felt.
Because somehow, no matter where Michael went or who entered his life, people always seemed to want something from him.
Sometimes it was money. Sometimes it was access. Publicity. Influence.
The details changed, but the pattern rarely did.
People wanted pieces of him. They wanted connections, opportunities, introductions, favors, endorsements, headlines, stories, secrets, and occasionally things far more personal than any stranger had a right to ask for, and for years, before you became friends, you had watched him navigate a world full of people who viewed him less as a human being and more as a door that might open if they found the right key.
Tonight had simply added another name to a list that already felt far too long.
What made it hurt was that this particular name had mattered. Robert Hastings wasn't supposed to be one of those people.
He wasn't supposed to be another executive, another opportunist, another industry figure hoping to benefit from Michael's fame. He was supposed to be someone whose love of filmmaking outweighed everything else, someone whose work had inspired you long before you ever imagined becoming an actress yourself, someone who understood storytelling and artistry deeply enough that he wouldn't reduce another person to what they could provide him professionally.
And yet that was exactly what he had done.
The realization left you with another uncomfortable thought, one that settled heavily somewhere beneath your ribs during the drive home and refused to leave. For months you had been telling yourself that your situation was different, that the arrangement Michael had proposed had been fair because both of you were receiving something from it, but sitting there alone in your car, you found yourself questioning whether that distinction really mattered as much as you'd once believed it did.
After all, the entire foundation of the arrangement had been built on an exchange of benefits, and although neither of you had entered it with bad intentions, it suddenly felt impossible to ignore how closely that resembled the very thing that had always bothered you about Hollywood.
Somewhere along the way, without even realizing when it had happened, you had stopped wanting opportunities because Michael Jackson introduced you to the right people and started wanting them because somebody had watched your work and believed you deserved them. More than that, you had stopped showing up to dinners, premieres, and events with him because of what they might do for your career and started showing up simply because spending time with Michael had become one of your favorite parts of the week.
By the time you finally arrived home, you felt exhausted in a way that had very little to do with the length of the evening.
Casper greeted you at the door almost immediately, as he always did when hearing the jingling of your keys, his paws carrying him confidently across the hallway despite his blindness, his nose twitching as he searched for you before gently bumping against your leg.
Normally the sight would have made you smile instantly, but tonight you simply bent down to stroke his fur for a few moments before moving through the rooms in a daze, unable to shake the lingering disappointment that seemed to follow you from room to room.
–
Several days later, the phone call finally arrived.
Part of you had expected it. Part of you had hoped it wouldn't come.
The moment your agent told you Robert Hastings was on the other line, a knot immediately formed in your stomach.
You already knew what he was going to say. The audition had gone well. Too well.
And sure enough, the moment you answered, Robert wasted very little time getting to the point.
He told you that your audition had been the strongest one they'd seen, that the casting team had loved your performance, and that after considerable discussion they had decided to offer you the role. As he spoke, outlining potential schedules, production timelines, contracts, and the next steps required to move forward, you found yourself sitting completely still on your couch while Casper slept nearby in a patch of afternoon sunlight, listening to what should have been one of the happiest conversations of your entire career.
For years you had dreamed about opportunities exactly like this one.
Years.
You had spent countless nights imagining what it would feel like to receive a phone call from a director you admired, offering you the chance to finally step into the kind of dramatic role you'd been chasing for most of your career.
The dream had finally arrived. And somehow all you felt was disappointment.
Eventually Robert paused, apparently expecting excitement.
Instead, you took a slow breath. "I'm going to decline."
The silence that followed was immediate.
Not awkward. Not uncertain. Simply stunned.
"What?"
The single word came out so quickly that it almost sounded involuntary.
You closed your eyes briefly before continuing. "I appreciate the offer, and I'm genuinely grateful for the opportunity, but after our conversation at dinner, I don't think this project is the right fit for me."
For several seconds, nothing came through the phone line at all.
Then Robert laughed. The sound wasn't amused. It wasn't friendly. It wasn't even particularly surprised.
It sounded dismissive.
As though he genuinely couldn't understand why someone would walk away from something he considered valuable.
"You're seriously throwing away a career opportunity because of one uncomfortable conversation?"
You remained silent for a moment before answering. "No."
The response seemed to irritate him more than if you had argued. His tone sharpened almost immediately.
"You know, people don't get very far in this industry by being precious about everything."
The words stung, though not for the reason he probably intended. They stung because they sounded exactly like the kind of justification people used when they knew they had crossed a line and didn't particularly care.
Robert continued talking, telling you that success required compromise, that ambitious people took risks, that careers weren't built by turning down opportunities, and that nobody became a star by refusing to play the game.
You listened quietly while he spoke. Not because you were considering changing your mind. But because there was nothing left to say.
By the time he finished, the decision had somehow become even easier.
Eventually, you simply thanked him for the offer, wished him well, and ended the call before the conversation could continue any further.
The apartment immediately fell silent.
For a long time, you remained exactly where you were, the receiver still resting loosely in your hand while sunlight spilled through the windows and Casper slept peacefully nearby, completely unaware that you had just turned down the biggest opportunity of your career.
The reality of what you had done settled over you slowly.
You had spent years working toward a moment like this. Years hoping for it. Years imagining it.
And when the opportunity had finally arrived, you had walked away from it.
Not because you doubted your talent. Not because you were afraid. Not because you didn't want the role.
But because accepting it would have meant rewarding someone whose behavior had made your skin crawl and whose interest in you had ultimately turned out to be little more than interest in the man standing beside you. A wonderful man he talked about so disgustingly that it made you sick.
Slowly, you lowered your head into your hands.
Part of you wondered whether you had just made the biggest mistake of your life. Another part wondered what Michael would say if he ever found out.
You already knew the answer to that question, which was precisely why you had no intention of telling him.
And the last thing you wanted was for him to carry yet another burden that had been created because of you.
So you made a decision. You would keep this one to yourself.
The role would disappear. The opportunity would disappear.
Life would move on. And although the thought hurt more than you cared to admit, you knew with complete certainty that if you were somehow given the chance to make the choice again, you would still reach for the phone and say no.
–
The drive to the awards ceremony should have felt glamorous.
The event itself was one of the largest industry galas of the summer, attended by musicians, actors, executives, producers, and enough reporters to fill several newspapers the following morning. Michael had been invited as the guest of honor to receive a special achievement award recognizing the unprecedented success of Thriller and his continuing influence on the music industry, which meant that somewhere ahead of them waited a red carpet, a speech, and an exhausting number of photographs.
Fortunately, the ride there was considerably more entertaining.
"...and then he said no."
You looked over from your seat.
Michael was grinning. "Just no?"
"Just no."
A laugh escaped you despite yourself.
For the first time in days, it felt surprisingly easy. "That's it?"
Michael nodded. "That's it."
You shook your head.
"So you asked Prince to record a song called “Bad” with you, and he refused because of one lyric?"
Michael looked deeply offended on behalf of his own songwriting. "It was the first lyric."
"Which was?"
He pointed at you. "Don't laugh."
That warning alone guaranteed you were going to.
Michael sighed dramatically. "The song starts with 'your butt is mine.'"
The silence lasted perhaps half a second before you burst out laughing, leaning forward in your seat.
Michael immediately started laughing too. "I told you."
"You opened a song with 'your butt is mine'?"
"It sounds better when it's sung."
"I guarantee you it doesn’t."
"I guarantee you it does." Michael pressed a hand against his chest. "I am being attacked."
"You deserve it."
Bill shook his head from the driver's seat.
The two of you continued arguing about the lyric for several more minutes before the conversation gradually drifted elsewhere, eventually settling into the kind of comfortable discussion that had become second nature over the past months.
For a while Michael talked about the album. You talked about your Vogue photoshoot. Then, somewhere in the middle of the conversation, he glanced over.
"So."
His tone softened slightly. "How did it go with Robert Hastings?"
The question hit harder than you expected. For a moment you looked out the window. The city lights blurred past.
"It went well."
Michael smiled immediately. "And the audition?"
You forced yourself to return the smile. "The audition went well too."
"Then what happened?"
You hesitated. Only briefly.
"They ended up going with somebody else."
The lie settled heavily in your chest.
Michael's eyebrows rose. "Oh."
You quickly added, "It's alright."
His expression remained thoughtful.
"The role wasn't really what I wanted anyway."
That part, at least, wasn't entirely untrue.
You looked back toward him. "I admired Robert, but once I got deeper into the material I realized it wasn't really the direction I wanted to go."
Michael seemed surprised by that. Not suspicious. Just surprised.
Then, after a moment, he nodded. "Well."
His voice carried that familiar certainty he always seemed to have whenever he spoke about other people's dreams.
"Another one will come."
You smiled weakly.
Michael continued. "Actually, I think a lot of them will come."
His hand moved across the seat between you until his fingers gently closed around yours.
The gesture was simple. Instinctive. Comforting.
"You got one director interested." He squeezed your hand softly. "Others are going to follow."
You looked down at your joined hands.
Michael continued. "Give it a little time and you'll be turning projects down because there are too many of them."
A small laugh escaped you. "I'd like that problem."
"You'll have it."
The confidence in his voice made something ache painfully inside your chest.
Slowly, you placed your free hand over his.
"Thank you."
Michael smiled. Neither of you moved away.
For several minutes the car continued through Los Angeles while your hands remained together on your lap.
The silence wasn't awkward. If anything, it felt comforting.
Eventually Michael squeezed your hand again. This time to get your attention.
You looked over. "What?"
For the first time all evening, he actually looked nervous. The sight alone was enough to catch you off guard.
Michael glanced toward the window. Then back at you.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Of course."
His thumb traced absentminded circles across the back of your hand before he spoke again.
"Would you be comfortable with a kiss tonight?"
For a moment you simply stared at him.
"A what?"
"A kiss."
The answer arrived much faster than the question had, as though he had already spent several minutes debating whether or not to bring it up and wanted the actual words out of his mouth before he could change his mind.
Immediately afterward he laughed softly and rubbed the back of his neck. "That sounds strange when I say it out loud. But Frank mentioned that tonight is probably the biggest event we've attended together so far, and there are supposedly going to be photographers everywhere."
He gestured vaguely toward the city outside. "The speech, the award, the press coverage, all of it."
The explanation came easily to him. Comfortably and logically. Michael had always been good at that.
He had an incredible ability to take complicated situations and reduce them to practical decisions, to focus on outcomes rather than emotions whenever something mattered professionally.
So while your heart had already started beating faster, Michael still sounded almost entirely businesslike.
"And we've been doing this for months now," he continued. "People already expect us to act like a real couple."
A small smile appeared. "I figured eventually they'd probably expect us to kiss too."
The words should have sounded ridiculous. Instead they made your stomach twist. Not because the reasoning was flawed. Because it wasn't.
If anything, it was perfectly reasonable.
The arrangement had progressed naturally over the past several months. The hand-holding, the hugs, the dinners, the appearances, the photographs. A kiss was arguably the next logical step.
Which was exactly why Michael was suggesting it.
Not because he wanted to kiss you. Not because he had spent nights thinking about it. Not because he felt what you felt.
Simply because it made sense.
"It feels weird to ask," he admitted.
"It does."
His laugh returned. "Good."
You raised an eyebrow. "Good?"
"I'm glad it's not just me."
The sound of his laughter eased some of the tension sitting in your chest, though unfortunately not nearly enough.
Michael shifted slightly in his seat. "I just thought if we're going to do it, tonight probably makes sense."
His voice softened. "It'll help the relationship narrative."
Then, after a brief pause: "It'll help the album."
Another pause followed. "And maybe it'll help people keep paying attention to your career too.”
That part hurt. Not because Michael had done anything wrong. Not because his intentions weren't good.
But because only a few weeks earlier you had finally admitted something to yourself that you had spent months trying not to acknowledge.
You no longer wanted opportunities because of Michael. You wanted them because of you. Because somebody watched your films and believed in your talent. Because somebody saw your work and decided you deserved to be there.
Somewhere over the past several months, the arrangement had begun to feel increasingly uncomfortable, not because Michael had ever asked too much of you, but because you had slowly started realizing how many people in his life wanted something from him, and how difficult it had become to ignore the fact that the arrangement itself had been built on the exact same principle.
An exchange. A transaction.
Something for something.
The thought left a bitter taste in your mouth every time it surfaced.
Yet despite that realization, despite the guilt that accompanied it, you still couldn't bring yourself to walk away.
Not when walking away meant losing him.
Not when the best parts of your week were still the phone calls that lasted too long, the evenings spent watching movies together, the hours sitting quietly in his studio while he worked, and the countless small moments in between that had somehow become the foundation of your happiness.
Maybe it was selfish. Maybe it was unfair. But right now it was enough.
So you nodded. "Okay."
The relief that crossed Michael's face was immediate. "Okay?"
You smiled. "Okay."
For a moment he simply looked at you. Then he squeezed your hand again.
"Thank you."
The rest of the drive passed in a blur. You heard pieces of conversation. Bits and fragments. Enough to respond when necessary. Not enough to actually remember any of it afterward.
Because your mind remained hopelessly occupied by a single thought.
A kiss.
A kiss.
A kiss.
By the time Bill pulled up outside the venue, your nerves felt almost identical to the ones you'd experienced before the gala months earlier. Only worse.
Much worse.
Because back then you had still been pretending. Now you weren't.
The moment the car doors opened, flashes exploded from every direction.
Photographers crowded the barricades. Reporters shouted questions. Names echoed through the evening air from every angle.
Michael stepped out first before turning back and offering you his hand. You accepted it automatically.
The warmth of his fingers somehow made your heartbeat even worse.
Together you stepped onto the carpet while cameras immediately began following your every movement.
Neither of you acknowledged the questions. Neither of you slowed down.
Then, somewhere in the crowd, a photographer suddenly shouted: "Can we get a kiss?"
The timing of deciding to do it in the car and being asked to do it only moments later was so absurd that both of you immediately burst out laughing.
For a moment neither of you could even respond.
Michael looked down at you. You looked up at him.
And suddenly the conversation from the car felt very real.
"Well," he said softly.
You laughed. "Might as well."
His smile widened. "Might as well."
Then he stepped closer.
One hand settled naturally against your waist, familiar enough now that neither of you thought twice about it.
Your own hand found his chest while the other rested against his arm.
The cameras erupted instantly. You barely heard them.
Because Michael was already leaning down.
And then he kissed you.
The world didn't stop. The photographers didn't disappear. The noise didn't vanish completely.
Yet somehow all of it became distant enough that it no longer mattered.
The kiss itself wasn't dramatic. It wasn't rushed either.
It simply lingered.
Long enough for every photographer present to get the photograph they wanted. Long enough for the moment to stop feeling staged. Long enough for you to forget there were cameras at all.
Your eyes remained closed. His did too.
And despite everything you had spent months telling yourself, despite every reminder that this wasn't real and could never be real, some foolish part of your heart couldn't stop wishing it was.
When Michael finally pulled away, you opened your eyes slowly.
And immediately found him looking at you.
The smile that appeared on your face happened before you could stop it.
Soft, warm, unguarded.
The same smile you'd given him a hundred times before.
Yet something about it hit Michael differently.
So differently that for a brief moment he forgot how to breathe.
The feeling arrived without warning. Without explanation.
One second he had been thinking about photographs and headlines and tomorrow's newspapers. The next, none of those things seemed remotely important.
All he could see was you. The warmth in your eyes. The softness in your expression. The way your hand still rested against his chest.
The way you were looking at him like he was the only person in the world.
Something tightened painfully beneath his ribs.
Not physically. Emotionally.
A sudden overwhelming pressure he couldn't identify quickly enough to make sense of.
For a terrifying second, he forgot where he was. Forgot the crowd. Forgot the cameras. Forgot everything except the woman standing in front of him.
And that frightened him far more than he cared to admit.
"Michael?"
The sound of his name snapped the spell instantly.
He blinked. Reality rushed back as everything returned at once.
Michael straightened almost immediately, instinctively retreating behind the polished confidence that had carried him through years of public appearances.
A familiar, easy smile appeared. Controlled.
"Come on."
His voice sounded perfectly normal. At least to you.
You accepted the arm he offered and allowed him to guide you toward the entrance.
Naturally, you assumed he was simply nervous. After all, public kisses were a big deal, even for people who spent their lives in front of cameras.
What you didn't realize was that Michael had walked into that moment thinking entirely about publicity and strategy, and walked out of it feeling as though something inside him had shifted in a way he couldn't explain.
And for the first time since the arrangement began, that feeling followed him all the way into the night.
Curious about your thought on OP's internal conflict and obviously their first kiss! :)
actress!reader has a feature on ELLE Magazine and they had 'Phoning It In' as a segment to be published in their interviews.
pairing: actress!reader x bad era Michael, platonic but gets slightly questioned by interviewer
A/N: This is written in the style of a magazine interview. The whole scenario is described from what they witnessed in the call.
Initials to help you navigate the dialogue: Elle Magazine (EM), Your Initials (Y/I) Michael Jackson (MJ)
Phoning It In
EM: 'We like to do a little fun segment in our features--just a little insight on who our favorite celebrities closest friends might be. And to test that friendship, we'd like you to do a prank call. Choose someone who would one hundred percent answer your call and wouldn't hesitate to help you in a time of need. Do you have anyone in mind?'
Y/I: 'Oh! I know just the person who's always on the phone. I haven't called him back in a week! He might be a little mad.' (laughs) Y/N places the phone in her lap and quickly dials a number. The phone doesn't even ring more than twice before it was answered.
Y/I: 'Hello? Are you there, Mikey?'
MJ: 'Y/N? Girl, finally you call! What-'
Her profession takes the wheel as she schools her face to a worried expression.
Y/I: (looking slightly panicked) 'M-Mikey, Mikey, wait a second-- I need your help. I'm in a bit of trouble...'
MJ: 'What? Where are you? Are you safe, baby?'
Y/N mouths 'Oh, God.' with a look of absolute guilt on her face, meeting my eyes. I catch the little pet name at the end, curious at who would the notoriously single actress have calling her 'baby'. The soft tone of the man's voice was unmistakable, but I had to have confirmation. Is that Michael Jackson?' I mouth back to her. She nods with a shy smile and clears her throat before she continues.
The room started to feel electric then, the King of Pop--notorious for his own pranks (most of the time lead by his adorable and equally famous friend Macaulay Culkin) was on the phone getting pranked and I'm here to witness it.
Y/I: 'I-I'm safe, Mikey. I think...my car just broke down. I don't know what to do! I was on my way to you but something sounded bad with a 'POP!' and now the car won't move. Please don't be mad, but its the BMW...'
MJ: 'The one I gave you? How did that happen? Are you okay? Where are you? Hold on-'
The line crackles a bit from his end, like the sound of rustling papers and a scrape of a chair. It's a little inaudible but we hear a few voices and a muffled 'Bill!' come from the receiver. Y/N and I look at each other both out hands over our mouths to stop our laughter. Y/N's openness and energy had me feeling like we were two best friends having a slumber party, trying to make a phone call a school crush! Then, something wicked comes across Y/N's face before she lets out a yelp of surprise.
Y/I: 'Oh, Mikey! Someone pulled over! Finally. I might be saved!'
Putting her elite acting skills to work, I almost fell for it myself by the relief of her voice.
MJ: 'Wh-What? Who?'
Y/I: 'A man's here! He just pulled his big truck over in front of me. Oh, he's walking over. Uh... he kinda looks surly, Mikey. Oh there's two of them! His friend kinda looks little creepy...'
MJ: 'Do not get out of that car, girl. I'm tellin' ya! I will be there. Do. Not. Move.'
Y/I: 'Mikey?'
MJ: 'Are they still there? Are your doors locked? Bill's gone to get the car.'
Y/I: 'Mikey! No wait! It's a prank! I'm not stranded anywhere. I'm sorry!'
The mix of panic and amusement etched over her face, Y/N giggles non-stop at her friend who had gone quiet at the other end of the call.
MJ: 'Girl, are you serious right now? Baby, I thought you were about to get kidnapped or murdered!'
Y/I: 'I'm sorry! I'm at a studio with ELLE Magazine doing an interview and they wanted to do a prank call on one of my friends.'
With her face flush from laughing and excitement, Y/N coos adoringly at her frazzled friend and apologizes profusely.
MJ: 'I'mma get you back, girl. Just you wait.'
MJ: 'Maybe Muscles can pay you a visit.'
A soft hiss comes from the small speaker, the sound made by the singer himself as a threat to the actress.
Y/I: 'You wouldn't dare Michael! Please, he absolutely hates me!'
Michael's loud cackle bursts through. With a bit of sleuthing, I come to find this 'Muscles' guy was actually the famous singer's 4-foot long boa constrictor! Even I would be scared to trick the multi-platinum album singer if he had ammo like exotic wildlife.
Y/I: 'I'll let you go, Mikey. Sorry again, baby. Kisses!'
MJ: 'I will have my revenge, girl!' He teases her light heartedly before saying good bye and the line clicks dead.
EM: 'Well, that was... amazing! He really fell for it! I noticed he calls you 'baby' a lot, is that how you and your friends usually call each other?'
Y/I: (blushing) 'Yeah! Of course. We make nicknames for each other a lot.'
EM: 'He was really concerned. He was about to drive over to you even if he didn't know where you were! And he gifted you a car?'
Y/I: 'Yes. He's just very caring like that. He cares for his friends very much.'
EM: 'He sounded very protective of you.'
Y/N only answers with a laugh which leaves me to think this non-answer was slight confirmation on my 'more than friends' speculation. This might have been an innocent prank between friends, but I think we uncovered something else in this relationship... I hope we can snag an interview with the ever-so-busy and elusive singer himself to get more of the juice!
(fluff, lowercase intended, implied age gap, fem!reader)
dcc!reader who… was originally a dancer on the HIStory tour, micheal absolutely adored her passion and drive during performances and loved to work with her.
dcc!reader who… was absolutely petrified to break the news to micheal that she wouldn’t be returning as his backup dancer after this last leg of tour. she cherished the friendship she’d created with him and didn’t want to offend him at all.
dcc!reader who… wanted a change of pace, following the ultimate dancers dream of becoming a dallas cowboys cheerleader, this is something she’s wanted to ever since she could remember.
invincibleera!micheal who… was devastated with her decision not to become a returning backup dancer, even selfishly considering doubling her salary just so she’d stick around. however, he knew better then to hold you back.
invincibleera!micheal who… against his own feelings, lets you go and chase your dreams, being supportive of your decision. you are still so young and he knows you need to take these opportunities while your able to.
dcc!reader who… still regularly talks/sees micheal after leaving the tour, as she prepares for her solo, even asking him for advice on her solo and nervously requesting for him to help choreograph bits and pieces for her.
invincibleera!micheal who… is worried to bits about the long training days she puts herself through, making sure to try and check up on her as much as possible during this time, scolding her to look after herself both physically and mentally. he knows she’ll be okay, she went on tour with him for god sake! however, he needs to hear it directly from her!
dcc!reader who… once she makes the team, micheal becomes one of the first people she calls and breaks the news too. one minute, tears are streaming down her face from relief that all her hard work paid off, the next minute her cheeks heating up as she listens to his praises, picturing the grin plastered on his face over the phonr.
“i always knew you could do it sweetheart!”
invincibleera!micheal who… is secretly even more proud of her for making the team then she is! he always knew she was capable.
dcc!reader who… eventually becomes one of the most popular cheerleaders for not only her resume, working with the micheal jackson and everything, but her overall confidence and presence she brings onto the field.
invincibleera!micheal who…starts to attend all her home games in dallas, the press are surprised and curious on what he’s doing at every. single. game. he just wants to support his favourite girl!!
dcc!reader who… is shocked to see him in the crowd for the first time, nerves starting to blossom within. she starts to become hyperaware of her small shorts, leaving little to nothing to the imagination.
invincibleera!micheal who… is starstruck when she skips out onto the field, jaw on the floor and aviator quickly sitting on the top of his head as he watches her with the biggest smile adoring her face. he knows this is exactly where she’s suppose to be.
dcc!reader who… quickly pulls herself together, snapping out of her nervousness bashfully smiling as she skips onto the field for the first time. eventually even winking up at the camera when it lands on her, knowing exactly who she’s directing it to.
invincibleera!micheal who… is a blushing and flustered mess once he sees her wink, covering his face when the crowd starts screaming and giggling around him.
oh he’s down bad fr…
tag list: @slugstarzz <33 (pls lmk if you’d like to be added!!!!!)
authors note: here’s is the very anticipated first ever fic/blurb/imagine/writing i’ve ever done! i’m sorry it’s taken me so long to post… please give me any pointers, ideas ect on this au/my writing in general!!
disclaimer: original concept of dcc reader has been talked about on here before and i don’t claim to have came up with it at all!!!! i just wanted to expand on the idea more! i also love the dcc ♡
⋮ ⌗ ┆ summary: its 1984 and you and michael are having some trouble in paradise a little after midnight. he’s being overworked and you just want some time with your beloved while also wanting him to stand up for himself.
⋮ ⌗ ┆ no serious warnings, but michael refers to reader as “mama” and “baby.”
⋮ ⌗ ┆ part two here!
The house was quiet in that particular way the Jackson family home always became after midnight. Not silent exactly, there were still distant footsteps somewhere downstairs, the low hum of a television left on too late, muffled laughter fading behind closed doors. Life never fully stopped inside this house. But.. up in Michael’s room, the tension sat so thick it seemed to swallow every other sound whole.
Michael stood near the dresser in gray sweatpants and a loose white shirt, curls still damp from his shower. The room smelled like cocoa butter and Ralph Lauren Polo. Gold records lined the walls beside framed photographs and half finished notebooks filled with lyrics only he could decipher. Usually the room felt warm. Safe. But tonight it felt too small for both of you.
You sat at the edge of his bed with your arms folded tightly across your chest while he leaned against the dresser watching you with that look on his delicate, pretty face.
“Mama,” Michael said softly, “you still upset with me?”
You let out a quiet incredulous laugh. “Michael.. are really asking me that right now?”
“I’m askin’ because you haven’t looked at me for twenty minutes!” He’s not yelling per se, but he does sound frustrated..
“Maybe because every time I look at you I get more annoyed.”
Michael sighed quietly through his nose and rubbed the back of his neck. “Baby, c’mon..”
“No.” Your voice stayed hushed, but sharp enough to cut anyway. “Don’t ‘baby’ me right now.”
Downstairs, somebody walked through the hallway laughing loudly before another voice shushed them. Both of you instinctively lowered your voices even further.
Michael pushed himself off the dresser and crossed the room slowly. “You know why I agreed to the tour.”
“You told me you weren’t doing it.”
“I know.”
“No, Michael.” You looked at him finally now, anger flashing behind your eyes. “You promised me you were finally gonna stand up to your father.”
His jaw tightened almost invisibly.
“That’s not fair.”
“It is fair.”
He looked away briefly, clearly fighting irritation already simmering beneath his calm exterior. “You think it was easy for me to say yes to this?”
“I think you folded the second he pushed you.”
Michael’s expression changed instantly. Not explosive anger but something quieter; hurt mixed with pride.
“You don’t know what that’s like.”
“I know you came home and told me you were done letting him control your life.” Your voice cracked slightly despite yourself. “You said this album was yours. Your success. Your choices.”
“It is mine.”
“Then why’re you letting him drag you back into another tour you don’t even want?”
Michael exhaled slowly and turned away from you for a moment, pacing toward the window. The city lights outside painted silver along the side of his face.
“Because it ain’t just about me,” he said quietly. “It’s my brothers too.”
You shook your head immediately. “And there it is.. every single time..”
He turned back around sharply. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means everybody gets a piece of you before I ever do.”
The room went still, and Michael stared at you, genuinely caught off guard by the sadness in your voice.
“You know what?” you continued quietly, trying not to cry because his family was right downstairs and humiliation felt unbearable enough already. “I’m tired of competing with everybody else in your life.”
“Mama..”
“No, listen to me.” You stood now too, lowering your voice further when it threatened to rise. “You’re either rehearsing, recording, traveling, hiding in studios for twelve hours straight, or dealing with your family. And every time I ask for more than scraps of your attention, suddenly I’m asking too much.”
Michael’s brows pulled together. “That’s not true.”
“You canceled on me eight times this month.”
“I was working.”
“You’re always working.”
His irritation flickered more visibly now. “You think I got a choice?”
“Yes,” you snapped softly. “I do.”
That silence afterward felt immediate and heavy.
Michael looked at you for a long moment, chest rising slowly beneath the thin white shirt. Usually he knew exactly what to say. Usually he could smooth tension over with charm so naturally it felt effortless.
Tonight he looked tired.
Really tired..
“You think this is easy for me?” he asked quietly. “You think I wanted this tour?”
“I think you say no to me easier than you say no to anybody else.”
His face shifted at that.
The irritation faded instantly into something more wounded.
“That ain’t true.”
“It feels true.”
Michael looked down at the floor briefly before laughing once under his breath, humorless and exhausted. “Every time I try to make everybody happy, I end up disappointing somebody anyway.”
Your anger cracked slightly hearing how defeated he sounded, but you were too hurt to stop now.
“You told me you were finally putting your foot down with your father.” Your eyes burned. “Do you know how proud I was of you for that?”
Michael swallowed hard.
“And then suddenly you’re doing the tour anyway.”
He ran a hand over his face tiredly before sitting down heavily at the edge of the bed. “He cornered me, alright?” he admitted quietly. “He kept pushin’ and pushin’ about the brothers, about the fans, about money…” He shook his head. “And I got tired.”
You stared at him silently.
Michael looked up at you then, eyes softer now. Vulnerable in a way he hated being.
“I spend my whole life fighting people, Mama.”
The nickname came gentler this time. Less teasing. More pleading.
“And sometimes…” He rubbed tiredly at his eyes. “Sometimes I just wanna stop fighting for one minute.”
Your chest tightened painfully.
But the hurt still lingered.
“You could at least fight for me a little harder.”
That nearly broke him.
Michael went completely still before looking down at his hands in his lap. For a second, he looked young. Not the biggest star in the world. Not the man everybody demanded pieces from constantly. Just a tired twenty-something trying desperately to hold too many people together at once.
“I am fighting for you,” he said quietly.
You crossed your arms tighter. “How, Michael?”
His eyes lifted back to yours immediately.
“Because no matter how crazy my life gets,” he said softly, “you’re still the place I wanna come home to.”
The sincerity in his voice made your anger wobble dangerously.
Michael stood again slowly and walked toward you until he was close enough for you to smell his soap and the faint lingering scent of studio sweat beneath it.
“I know I’ve been gone too much,” he admitted. “I know I keep making promises and then work steals me away again.” His gaze dropped briefly before finding yours again. “But don’t stand here thinkin’ that means I love you less.”
Your eyes burned harder instantly.
“You make it really difficult not to.”
He winced.
Then quieter now, with the faintest trace of irritation finally slipping through his composure, he muttered, “You act like I’m choosing this.”
“Aren’t you?”
“No.” His voice stayed soft, but firmer now. “I’m trying to survive.” Michael stepped even closer then, close enough his hands hovered near your waist without touching yet.
“You know what scares me?” he asked quietly. “That one day you’re gonna get tired of all this before I figure out how to balance it.”
You looked away immediately because the thought had already crossed your mind more than once.
Michael noticed.
Of course he noticed.
His face fell slightly before he finally reached for you, fingertips brushing your arms carefully like he wasn’t sure he’d earned the right.
“(Name), look at me..” he whispered. “Don’t leave me alone in this.. please.”
