˚ · nineteen · she/her · proud latina! immigrant & vegetarian! · bisexual
˚ · currently (very) obsessed with michael jackson and jaafar jackson
˚ · trying to become a better gifmaker! i make gifs whenever i have time
˚ · if you see a grammar error — ignore it haha, english its not my first language so bare with me!
✦ what i post
⋆ gif requests are currently open — just be patient, i'm a bit slow ;3
⋆ see my about me to know which characters / shows / movies i make gifs of. All of the gifs I've created,
we're coming onto 17 years now that michael has been gone, and people simply just can't keep his name out of their filthy mouths. this man has been proven innocent TIME after fucking TIME & yet you still have the decency to say "you decide." ??? bitch dont play. in all honesty, if michael truly was such a terrible human being don't you think he'd still be alive? the elites give up their fucking arms and legs to protect the disgusting people of this world, so if that was the case with michael, why is he not alive and well?
& the fact people still make jokes about the allegations, whether they believe them or not, is disgusting. you have been desensitized to horrid criminality so you joke to make yourself feel better.
what i'm trying to say is that, you know damn well a dead person cannot defend themselves. and that is exactly why we are seeing through your cheap bullshit. "yeah we have tons of court evidence but let's wait 17 years to discuss it. oh and let's put it out right at the time people start to indulge in his innocence again." these people are fucking pathetic. and still, nobody who was around michael wants to speak out for his innocence. yk why? because he was killed by elites, and if these other celebrities speak out they know their lives are at risk too. which is still not a fucking excuse.
F.U.C.K. the press, michael you're the best. FUCK bashir, FUCK netflix & FUCK this documentary.
Seriously who keeps watching netflix???? that shit has been long gone destroyed by rich mfs who only care about money and not costumers (as always) they can go to hell and more, fuck this administration too, i know damn well they are behind this shit too.
The media continues to capitalize on an innocent black man, while all the true criminals are white men in power. Pointing their fingers at everyone but the actual guilty people while profiting off of innuendo and dramatiziced lies. All they have is speculation and controversy, no hard evidence…and they continue to use that for views. The “Michael being a child abuser” allegations have become a business in it itself and I’ll never stop defending him from the greedy systems that just want a paycheck. And FUCK Netflix.
to anyone who may be considering ethical/environmental/animal welfare-related diet changes this year, please remember that even small changes stack and compound to have a larger impact than you may realize!!!!
you do not need to be perfect to be good!!!!!
your meatless monday night dinner has a greater impact on animals and the environment than a sanctimonious redditor chastising someone for enjoying dairy cheese
your interest in environmentalism and animal welfare and the impacts of eating animals is worth exponentially more than any amount of shame about what you choose to eat
eating well is not about trying to meet an ever changing standard of purity or perfection, but about doing the best you can with what you’ve got every day :o)
Hi! Love your work, can I have a protective Michael x Wife! Reader? Maybe an aggressive paparazzi or something?
YES!
𝑮𝒖𝒂𝒓𝒅 𝑫𝒐𝒈
Michael Jackson x Wife!Reader
Synopsis: Michael was able to keep his calm when it came to most things, but when it came to your safety, he could become incredibly protective.
Content: Swearing, anxiety around large crowds, someone grabs reader, Michael lowkey loses his shit, suggestive content
W.C. 2.2k
Masterlist
You hated large crowds, something about them made your throat close up and your heart race a million miles a minute. Unfortunately for you, your husband was like a crowd magnet. Not that he really had any control over it, but wherever he went a crowd followed. Had you not hated it, you would have found it impressive.
With his third studio album having just been released, the crowds were getting more intense. You felt like you could hardly go anywhere with him without panic rising into your chest as people quickly recognized him and hovered near the two of you.
Honestly, the worst part of it was the paparazzi. They were what gave you the hardest time, always shoving, always yelling, it made your head fuzzy. Michael knew your aversion to crowds, and he did his absolute best to keep them as contained as possible. He hired more security, he even got duplicate cars to try and throw people off. But somehow those stupid buggers with their giant flashing cameras always found you two.
Since announcing your sudden marriage to the public, the paparazzi had been trailing you specifically. They were all eager to capture photos of you alone, finding any and everything to scrutinize you. It was exhausting. You felt like you couldn't leave the ranch without fearing that you might be photographed inappropriately.
You were a private person, which is why you had kept your relationship with Michael a secret until after you had said 'I Do.' At first you had liked that you had tricked the paparazzi into having not the faintest idea about your existence, but it seemed like they were determined to get back at you.
You sat in the back of the limo with Michael, your knee bobbing up and down anxiously as you drove through the streets. Michael was asked to go to some award show to present a couple awards. He wanted you to come with him officially as his wife. You had announced the marriage a few months ago but this was the first award show of any kind that you had been seen at publicly. He knew it was a big ask, but he wanted you by his side from now on, and who were you to say no to his pleading eyes.
Michael gently placed a hand on your knee, holding it gently, "If you keep that up you'll tear a hole in the floor of the car." He teased, trying to take your mind off what was waiting down the street.
You looked up at him, "Sorry, just nervous."
God you looked so heartbreakingly beautiful, it hurt Michael to look at you for too long. He smiled and kissed your head, "Don't apologize, baby. Y'know m'proud of you for coming with me tonight." He squeezed your knee gently.
You finally smiled, relaxing at his words, "You're too sweet to me."
"Impossible." He laughed, his hand gently grabbed your chin and guided your lips to his. You smiled into the kiss before pulling back slowly and bringing your thumb up to his lips, wiping the lipstick off his lips.
"Leave it, sweet girl. People know I belong to you now, there's no need to hide it."
You bit your lip, holding back your wide grin. He smiled and pulled you back into another kiss, this one deeper than the previous. He pulled you closer, disregarding the pull of his seat belt. Your lips moved gently against his, before trailing down to his jaw, then lower to his neck. He groaned lowly into your ear. "Y'sure know how to work me up right before we go out in public. It's criminal." He laughed breathlessly.
You blushed as you finally pulled away, satisfied with the claim you had placed on him. There were at least three lipstick prints on his neck and jaw, each matching the shade on your glossy lips. "I've had a lot of time mastering the skill." You shrugged and sat back in your seat.
He laughed and looked you up and down. He had bought you the most gorgeous black dress, it sat like silk against your skin, and perfectly matched his black leather suit. You both looked lethal. He sighed and played with the strap of your dress, "I can't wait to take this off you tonight." He smirked as he watched you flush visibly.
You eyed him for a moment, "Don't get ahead of yourself, pretty boy. We have a whole award show in front of us."
He laughed and kissed your knuckles.
The car slowly rolled to a stop, the moment breaking as screams erupted around you. He felt you tense up immediately, and he squeezed your hand, "I've got you, doll."
You took a breath and nodded. He got out on one side of the car, the screams exploding around him, you could see the flashes from the cameras going berserk. Before he could walk around to your side of the car and open the door for you, a group of paparazzi swarmed in, prying the door open. They stuck their cameras in the car without a second thought, blinding you quickly. You held your arm up, scooting to the side of the car Michael had left from. You could hear him shouting at the cameramen, telling them to back up. You looked out the back of the limo, seeing him being pushed back by his security.
Your ears were ringing, and you could feel your heart trying to escape your chest. You were pressed up against the left door, still trying to shield yourself from the right side, when the left door was yanked open.
You felt yourself being pulled from the car, but couldn't see by who, your vision blurry from all the flashing lights. Questions were being shouted at you left and right as people demanded to know anything and everything about you.
"Look over here!"
"Why have you been hiding?"
"Are you pregnant with Michael Jackson's children?"
"Did you trap him into marriage with a child?"
"Look this way!"
A hand grabbed your arm harshly, turning you to face the flashed head on. Your head felt like it was going to explode. Your eyes burned from the light and your ears rang so loud your head felt like it was being shoved against a brick wall.
Your throat felt more constricted with each question and command thrown at you. Your head couldn't keep up with anything around you, as the panic in your chest took hold of your body. You felt helpless against the crowd slowly closing in on you. It felt like being dragged underwater, no matter what you did you couldn't come up for air.
The grip on your arm was ripped away, a figure quickly standing in front of you as security shoved the man back. An arm wrapped around you, pulling you into his side, shielding you from the onslaught of flashes. You couldn't see him or hear him, but you knew his touch.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
The second Michael stepped out of the car without you immediately behind him he knew he made a mistake. He didn't even have time to get to your door before he saw two cameramen rip it open and shove their cameras into the car.
The smile on his face quickly turned into something more sinister as he ran around the back of the car, "Hey! Back up!" He shouted at the group that had quickly barricaded himself from you.
Everything had happened so fast that security had mistaken him as the one in need of help. They quickly flanked him, pushing him further from you. He tried shoving past them, growing angrier as more cameras flashed into the limo. "Get away from the car!" he shouted angrily before turning to the two security guards, "Get them to back up, my wife is in the car!"
They quickly scrambled to the side he had been trying to reach, pushing people away. He heard more shouts and looked over to see a man yanking your terrified form from the car.
Michael could've killed the guy. Two more security guards saw the look in his eye and grabbed his arms as he tried to get to you. They knew that if Michael got his hands on that guy things would be bad. Michael felt like he was going to go crazy if he didn't get to you. He could see the way your chest was constricting your airflow. The questions being shouted at you sent him over the edge. He yanked himself free from security's grip.
"Get your filthy hands off her." He growled at the man who was still holding onto you. His hands tore the man away, Bill quickly stepped in between him and the cameraman.
"Get her inside now." Bill nodded toward you.
It took every fiber of Michaels being not to jump the smug guy, but one glance down at you and he pulled you close. He wrapped an arm around you, hand shielding your face as he moved through the crowd easily. People quickly stepped out of his way, seeing what had gone down and seeing the murderous look on his face. He led you into the building. The security that had been hired at the venue quickly led the two of you to a green room backstage, seeing what had gone down.
Michael led you to the couch, carefully kneeling in front of you. Once the door shut he gently pried your hands away from your face.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
Everything was quiet now. You didn't know where you were, but you knew it was quiet and it was with Michael. After a moment he took your hands away from your face. Your eyes were squeezed shut, mascara running down your cheeks.
Michael's smooth voice spoke barely above a whisper, "I'm here, baby. Look at me, please. Let me see those gorgeous eyes."
You slowly opened them, your vision slowly coming back into focus. Your eyes settled onto Michael's face, twisted in concern. Your breathing was shallow, your lungs burning for air.
Michael cupped your face, "Baby, breathe with me, okay? Breathe." He took in a long breath, and held it for a second before letting it out. You followed him, breathing in and out slowly until your heart rate had returned to normal. Your bottom lip quivered slightly as you tried not to cry anymore. Michael's heart twisted, "It's okay, doll. Let it out." He pulled you into his arms.
The second his arms wrapped around you, it was like your body let go of all the tension. You melted into his arms, slipping off the couch and into his lap, head against his chest as you cried quietly. It wasn't loud or violent, it was so painful that there was almost no sound at all. Michael held you against him, rubbing your back, and whispering sweet things into your ear.
After you had calmed down you slowly pulled back, sniffling, "How bad is my makeup?"
He took a good look at you. Despite the runny mascara, and the tear stains you looked like a heartbreaking dream. "You're still the most gorgeous creature in the universe."
You choked out a laugh and gently wiped your cheeks. Michael helped you get the mascara off your face, holding your face in his hands afterwards. "I'm so sorry, baby."
"It's not your fault, Michael." You fixed a wrinkle in his suit.
"No but that should not have happened. I am going to have some serious talks with my heads of security as well as the security at this venue. That was unacceptable, I've never in my entire career seen anything like that."
"Mike, it's okay. Really, I'm okay." You cupped his face.
He shook his head, "Like hell that was okay. I couldn't even get to you! Some dick grabbed you, I swear I'll send his ass to jail for touching you like that." His face became stern. It made you smile, seeing how protective he was over you.
"There's no need for that, Michael. I'm sure Michael Jackson screaming at him was punishment enough." You tried to bring him back to earth.
"Not if I have anything to say about it. He's lucky I didn't snatch that fucking camera out of his hands and smash it on the ground."
You grabbed his chin and kissed him, bringing his mind back to the present. "Michael, all that matters is that you got me out of there. I don't want to give them the power of ruining our night."
He nodded a bit, blood starting to cool down as he looked at you. He kissed the tip of your nose and then your forehead. "You're right. Now let's get out there so I can show off my beautiful wife." He stood up, guiding you up with his hand. He walked the two of you out of the room and into the banquet hall. His hand stayed at the small of your back. Before entering the awards room you leaned up and whispered in his ear.
"You're getting something extra special for being so sexy and heroic for me."
Sypnosis: you and Michael attend the after party of the AMAs, but it seems that Diana Ross can't stop throwing herself at him. Thriller era
An~ ngl i have like 13 drafts of js unfinished stories this was lowkey one of them 🫰🏾this isn't proof read.
The club was packed.
Every important person in music seemed to be there, every producer, songwriter, model, and actor. The air smelled like expensive perfume and cigarette smoke.
The two of you usually didn't attend the after parties but after the eight awards Michael won tonight, you couldn't pass a celebratory drink up. You stood next to Michael in the VIP section with your hand wrapped around his arm , while he laughed at something Quincy said.
You gently release your grasp from Michael letting him know that you were going to go get a drink, you turn to him to kiss him on the cheek before making a beeline to the bar
The line at the bar definitely took longer than you expected. Finally getting to the front, you ask the bartender for a sex on the beach.
By the time you had got your drink and started making your way back to Michael , you stomach dropped
Tonight was supposed to be a peaceful night.
It's not like you didn't know about the crush Mike had on her but she didn't have to be in his face like she was the one he was with.
Diana had no decorum.
This was embarrassing, she was in his face. Your man. She's in his face, smiling, laughing and touching him. This just didn't sit right with you.
You silently make you way back next to Michael while sipping your drink. He looked star struck while talking to her. It pissed you off but this wasn't the time of place. Diana finally took the time to look your way.
"Oh , here she is" the smug look she had on her face didn't make the way you felt about her any better.
"Diana , this is my girlfriend (name) and (name) this is Diana" Michael introduced the two of you like you didn't know who each other were.
"Oh I know who she is , I'll see you later Mikey " Diana turned on those worn out heels of hers and walked away.
You genuinely couldn't stand this bitch ,it's like she lived and breathed just to torment you.
"Why was she talking to you" Michael turned towards you with a confused look on his face, Mike couldn't understand the tension between you and Diana.
Though this was the first time you two met in person. Anytime Mike brung one of the other up in conversation nothing nice was ever said.
"She was just being polite, she came up and greeted me baby" the smile on his face calmed you down a little, you knew he meant no harm in speaking to the girl but it still made you feel a way
After a while of sitting with Michael while you nursed your drink, Diana decided to pop up and ruin your night and possibly your image.
She interrupted your conversation. She took a seat next to him not even acknowledging your presence at the table
"Mikey , you know , no matter how old you get , you will forever be my baby" you couldn't help but cringe.
You knew Michael would eat those words up, she really had the nerve to disrespect you in your face, you couldn't help but smile while sipping your drink that should've been long gone.
"Diana.." Michael started before she cut him off.
"Oh Mikey " she said as she patted his thigh, he quite literally shuttered from that. You rolled your eyes and let out a tired breath. You were about to get up until she decided to focus her attention on you. Bad idea for her.
"You know Michael use to tell everybody that he was gonna marry me one day " you knew this , everyone did. She was his silly ass crush.
"Hm I did, but it seems I'm the one with the ring" you smiled at her but it seems that didn't shut her up.
"Nobody really knows him like I do " you practically laughed in her face , she didn't like that. "Oh do you ?" The tone she spoke with wasn't nothing you were fond of.
"Of course, he loves me and you will never feel that because you will never be me"
Oh that set you off , you set your drink down gently.
"Baby , how about we just leave " leave ? Oh now he wanted to leave because his two loves were disagreeing with each other. You weren't going anywhere now.
"Be you ? Me ? Want to be you ? A old ass bitch preying on young men? Interesting " you looked her dead in her eye. She was backing down and neither were you.
People nearby started to slowdown their conversations. They lived for drama. Especially this, the king of pops girlfriend arguing with his lifetime crush.
Michael put his hands over his face.
"I'm just saying it's always gonna be me "
And with that comment you watched all of your patience fly out the window. You stood up and she did too.
By this time a crowd had already been formed, watching the two of you. "Can we all just stop, this is very awkward " you almost listened to your boyfriend until you felt a pair of hands shove you.
You turned around and shoved her back. Michael was terrified at this point. But the situation was beyond that
You were about to handle this old ass bitch
She grabbed your arm and before she could do anything else you hit her hard enough to make her think straight. The crowd around the two of you grew and Micheal couldn't see you guys anymore
You grabbed a handful of her hair and dragged her down, with her kicking, screaming and swinging at you it just made you more angry than you already were. The couple of hits she got on you weren't worth nothing
At this point you had the both of you on the floor with you on top of her, the punches you were throwing at her were genuinely nerve wracking to some of the people surrounding you. You didn't stop till you seen blood leaking from her.
You stood up once more and took her by the hair again and dragged her in front of the bar , picking up an empty glass you felt a pair of hand grab you from behind.
"(NAME) PLEASE STOP, LETS JUST GO" Michael sounded terrified, you let go of her hair and dropped the cup back onto the bar. You turned around and walked past him. He took a look at Diana "uhh she'll be okay " and quickly turned to follow you
The crowd ate all of that up , you knew it'd be front page news by tonight. But that didn't matter you were pissed she thought she had a one up on you.
Michael followed you outside to the small balcony. Your arms were crossed as you sat down in the chair out there. He sat beside you. The silence was taking over the both of you , until he spoke.
"I'm sorry " you looked at him calmly, "what are you sorry for " Micheal looked at you.
"For letting her disrespect you infront of me , she shouldn't have said those things to you " at this point you didn't care about any of that. You laughed
"It's fine Mike , she just needed to she her where her place was"
pairing : badera!michael jackson x girlfriend!reader
summary : you comfort your insecure boyfriend
- reblog, share, like, and follow to help get my platform out there!
-masterlist
Michael and you were laying in your shared bed. His legs were tangled with yours. His head layed deep into your chest. You were rubbing his back, paying attention to the TV that was playing quietly in front of you too.
He had just gotten back from being on tour, and stated right when he walked in that all he wanted to do was lay down on the bed with you.
Your attention slowly drifted away from the TV thinking about when he walked in the house. The look on his face kept replaying in your head. His face just looked so drained, his eyes were slightly puffy, and posture was slouched. You regretted not questioning him in the moment. It’s just the look on his face convinced you otherwise.
The thoughts in your head were interrupted hearing the soft voice of your boyfriend below you.
“(Name), do you think I’m ugly?”
His voice was so small, his tone was neutral. Almost like he has said this before and gotten a negative answer. Your mouth slowly became agape. How could the man below you even say that? Woman practically fell to his knees. They fainted at his concerts. How could a thought like that even form in his head? You felt him lift his head off your chest sitting on his knees staring straight at you.
“Please answer me.”
Your boyfriend said practically pleading. You were so caught up in figuring out how he could even think this. That you completely forgot about even answering his question.
“Mike, how could you even say that- or I mean. Even for that thought.”
You were so caught off guard that you were stuttering. You were now sat upright staring into the eyes that stared back. Your eye brows were furrowed in confusion.
“I don’t know- I guess. Maybe when I was walking out of the airport on my way here. All of the paparazzi- they just were saying rude things.”
He looked down, covering his face with his hands. He shook his head. His hands pulling off from his face.
“They just kept commenting on my appearance. Saying, ‘Oh Michael! How many times have you gotten your nose done?!’ Laughing in my face- or saying ‘Michael, how does it feel that your girlfriend thinks your ugly?’ and saying-“
You couldent bare to hear further more. Embracing him into a deep hug. You lifted your head up, trying to avoid the tears that were forming. You held in his into the hug, feeling your shirt becoming wet. He was crying silently, not making a sound. The hug was just a release button to let out all of the sadness he endured throughout the tour.
You kept repeating soft ‘sorrys’ moving your hand up and down his back. With your other hand holding his head.
“Micheal, I wish I was there. I’m so sorry. Don’t ever listen to them. If I was there I would have blew there fucking head out for talking to my man like that.”
Michael laughed, wrapping his arms around your waist. You thought for a moment.
“You know, I didn’t even answer your question.”
She stated, looking down at her boyfriend who still had silent tears falling.
“I think your the most beautiful man I’ve ever laid my eyes on. I’m not just saying that because I’m your girlfriend. I’m saying that because everyone thinks it. The woman who pass out at your concerts think that, the men that accompany the woman think that, even the paparazzi that spread and say evil and malicious lies about you think that. The people who say other wise are just jealous. I could name every thing I appreciate about you right here right now without a thought.”
You stated, almost out of breath from speaking so fast and angrily. Your hands were now twisted in his hair. He looked up, his tears were now put at a falt.
“Can you?”
His voice was small, scared for your answer. Yet he questioned with curiosity. You looked down smiling, nodding your head. Quickly getting comfortable laying how you two were before.
“Well, for starters. I love your eyes. Those eyes. I could stare into them for hours. They have so much thought and feeling. I get lost in them every day. I love your nose. Every time I pass by you I always need to sneak a little peck. I love your style. I mean, I get inspired every day with how you dress. Your style is so unique. I love your voice. The way it softens when you get shy. The way your voice changes around the way you feel about people. I love your-“
“Alright, Alright..”
Michael said smiling cutting you off. When you looked down at him. His tears stained cheeks were now a bright pink. You giggled, moving to sit on top of him. The two of you both smiling big.
“What? You were the one that asked if I could!”
You leaned down, slowly, yet passionately kissing every single thing you love about his face. Ending with his lips. When you leaned up you saw how his normally tan cheeks, were bright red. You smiled.
“I love you so much Michael, please never let these haters ever get to you okay?”
Caressing his cheek, staring into his big deep brown eyes. He slowly nodded.
every time i find new content of michael for my gifs i really, really get emotional, and happy, it's like i have time to admire him more than just his music videos, but then I see the videos the press took of him going to court and i get so sad, he looked tired, and stressed, i can't even fully watch them.
(18+, dangerous era) 𓈒 ݁ ݂ husband!michael who—after constant pestering—finally lets you give him a blowjob. he ultimately denied you doing such a thing since he felt like making love should primarily focus on the woman's pleasure rather than the man's. you had bothered him with the question ever since he began refusing your offers, ultimately getting all bratty and upset each time you were told no.
but he did not know what he was missing out on, until today that is. right in the middle of a steamy make-out session, you finally gained the courage to ask the repeated question. and to your surprise, he agreed. only because you got all needy and whiny for him, of course.
oh, and yes, to answer your question—yes he did realize what he was missing out on this entire time. his toes curling as your pretty hands wrapped around his cock, your mouth engulfing his length so tenderly. he really enjoyed your gaze, your eyes big & watery as you looked through your lashes up at him.
his big hands reaching down just to hold your hair up, as it had gotten in your face a few times prior. his eyes squeezed shut, but only for a short second. he didn't want to miss a single moment of this heavenly view he had sprawled in front of him. everytime you would accidentally gag yourself on him, he would feel a lump in his throat, wanting to put an end to this so you didn't hurt yourself trying to please him. but, he knew how much this meant to you. he knew how many nights you spent hinting, well, begging for this to happen.
you popped up a few times to smile at your husband, stroking his cock slowly as you prepped yourself for some more mouth action. michael's delicate grip stayed on your hair, your husband still trying to find ways to make the whole experience enjoyable for you as well.
he wanted to deny his pleasure, since it felt so wrong and selfish... but holy hell it was difficult. the way you were working him with your mouth alone sent him soaring in the sky, his tiny groans escaping as proof.
he threw his head back onto the silky pillow that lay underneath his head, biting his bottom lip as he tightened his grip on your hair. again, it didn't last long at all—his head looking down again swiftly to watch you suck him dry.
"mmh—you've got a pretty naughty mouth for such a gorgeous girl... god. what am i gonna do with you?" he chuckled.
hii! i CANNOT get dangerous era mikey out of my head so enjoy this little thought i had for a little husband and wife action lmao,, enjoying this a lil too much 👀
summary: you and michael get into a fight about you working with someone he no longer associates with, and he avoids you for six weeks... then his team has the audacity to ask you to be at an awards show you were already going to attend
themes: horrible communication, begging, intimate sex, slightly sub michael, teasing with fingering, masturbation
author's note: yes this is inspired by when michael ignored elvis jr for 6 weeks after she went on vacay with her ex hahahaha
1995
new york
You were pissed.
Not the kind of anger that flickers and fades, not the kind that cools with time or distance. This sat heavy in your chest, constant, simmering, alive. It moved through your body like a current, sharp and electric, making it impossible to sit still on the private jet from Los Angeles to New York. Every shift in your seat, every restless adjustment of your hands in your lap, every tight inhale felt like it was barely containing it.
Your husband had been gone.
For six weeks, a little over a month, he was gone, and you had no idea where he was. That was the part that didn't settle, the part that never stopped feeling wrong, no matter how many days passed. It wasn't just that he needed space; it wasn't just that he left after the argument, it was that he disappeared in a way that shut you out completely. There was no location, no real explanation, nothing that grounded his absence in something you could understand.
And the worst part? He hadn't even spoken to you. Not once.
Every message, every update, every piece of information you'd gotten had come filtered through his team, passed along like you were just another person on a list of obligations instead of his wife. It made your jaw tighten just thinking about it, made your fingers curl slightly against the armrest as you stared out the window, the clouds stretching endlessly beneath you.
A little over a month ago, the two of you got into an argument, and when you got back to Neverland later that evening, Michael was gone. The memory of it lingered with a sharp clarity that hadn't dulled over the weeks, the way the house had felt too quiet when you stepped inside, the way something had immediately felt off before you even knew why. A note that barely gave any explanation at all sat in his place, small and insufficient for what it represented.
Needed space. Be back later.
Those words had stayed with you in a way you hadn't expected, not because of what they said, but because of everything they didn't. You had stood there longer than you meant to, staring at it, reading it again and again like it might change if you gave it enough time, like it might reveal something hidden underneath its simplicity.
And you had initially thought later would mean later that night, or even potentially the next day, because that has happened before. Because there had been moments where things got too heated, where he needed distance, where the best thing either of you could do was step away and come back when it wasn't so raw.
But no.
It's been six weeks, and you still haven't seen him or spoken to him.
Six weeks of waking up without him. Six weeks of going to sleep in a bed that felt too big, too empty in a way that made it impossible not to notice. Six weeks of conversations that never happened, of apologies that never came, of tension that never had the chance to be resolved because he never gave it the space to.
What started it all was Quincy Jones reaching out to you and asking for a favor.
Even thinking about that now felt complicated, tangled up in everything that followed, even though at the time it had felt so simple. He is the executive producer of the sitcom The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, and he asked you if you wanted to guest-star on the show as yourself because they've had a lot of musical guest stars on the show. It had felt easy to say yes in your head, easy to imagine yourself stepping into something fun, something different, something that wasn't heavy or complicated.
Michael wasn't entirely happy or comfortable with Quincy asking you for a favor because of how things ended between them after the Bad album.
You had expected that. You had known that before the conversation even started, you could feel it the moment Quincy's name came up in the context of anything that involved you. Michael had wanted more creative control and felt like Quincy was stifling that, and you had seen what that frustration looked like up close, had heard it in his voice, had watched it build over time until it became something he couldn't ignore anymore.
Quincy felt like he was owed more because of how successful all three of Michael's albums that he helped produce, Off the Wall, Thriller, and Bad, were.
And that difference in perspective had never really resolved itself. It just... ended.
But to you, it wasn't even about Quincy.
You loved Fresh Prince, and guest-starring on it was something you didn't want to pass up at all. It was yours. That was the part that mattered. It wasn't tied to history, or ego, or unresolved tension. It was something you enjoyed, something you wanted, something that felt like it belonged to you and your own career.
But Michael couldn't see past it.
He couldn't separate Quincy from the opportunity, couldn't look at it without seeing everything that had happened between them layered over it. It felt disrespectful that Quincy would treat him the way that he did, but then have the nerve to ask you, his wife, for a favor, and you understood that.
You and Michael went back and forth about it for days.
It wasn't one conversation. It wasn't something quick and resolved. You argued for days about it. The same points, the same frustrations, the same inability to land anywhere that didn't leave one of you feeling unheard. Every time it came up, it carried more weight, more tension, more of that underlying frustration that neither of you knew how to soften without giving something up.
You understood where Michael was coming from, you really did.
That was the part that made it harder. Because you weren't dismissing him, weren't brushing off his feelings like they didn't matter. You supported Michael's decision to separate creatively from Quincy because you also felt that Quincy was stifling him creatively, and you had seen firsthand what that freedom had done for him. Dangerous and HIStory were proof of that. They were bold, different, entirely his in a way that felt undeniable.
And you didn't like some of the comments Quincy had made about Michael, especially when it came to his vitiligo.
That wasn't lost on you. None of it was.
But you tried to explain to Michael multiple times, it wasn't about Quincy; it was about guest-starring on your favorite show, getting your music out there in a new way. It was about doing something that made you excited, something that felt like growth in a way that was separate from him, even if your lives were so deeply intertwined.
You're a successful artist.
That mattered. Even if it looked different. Even if it didn't carry the same scale, the same level of attention, the same weight that his name did. No one is on Michael's level, and you honestly don't want the level of fame your husband has; you get enough elevated fame from being his wife, along with being a musician in your own right.
Your two hit singles I'm Your Baby Tonight and I Will Always Love You were still in heavy rotation on the radio stations.
You heard them everywhere. In passing. In cars. In rooms you walked into unexpectedly. Little reminders of something that had come from you, from your voice, from your experiences. Both of those songs you had written about Michael, and there was something that twisted slightly in your chest when you thought about that now, about how much of him existed in your work while he had removed himself from your life so completely.
And I Will Always Love You was the song Quincy wanted you to sing on the show. The same song that had spent 14 weeks as number 1 on the Billboard charts, the same song that was used for Whitney Houston's movie, The Bodyguard.
It meant something. It carried weight. It was yours.
After days of arguing about it, you told Michael that you were sorry that he didn't like Quincy asking you for a favor, but you weren't going to pass up the opportunity to guest star on your favorite sitcom because of Quincy Jones.
There had been a finality to that moment, something that settled into the space between you that neither of you moved to fix. You told Michael you were going to the set for a meeting with Quincy Jones and the other executive producer, Benny Medina.
When you got home after the meeting, Michael was gone.
The quiet had hit you first, the kind that didn't feel natural, didn't feel like a home that was lived in, even though everything was still there. Nothing had been disturbed. Nothing had been taken. It was just... him that was missing.
You haven't heard from him since.
He didn't come home, his side of the bed remained empty, and the bed itself remained cold. It wasn't just something you noticed once and adjusted to; it was something you felt every single night, the untouched sheets on his side holding their shape like time had stopped there, like he had simply stepped away and never returned. The cold wasn't just physical; it settled deeper than that, sinking into the routine you had built together, turning something that was once familiar into something that felt incomplete every time you lay down.
He didn't call; only his team did, their voices always careful, always measured, never carrying the weight that his voice would have, never sounding like someone who belonged to you. Every message passed through them felt wrong, like a conversation that should have been yours being filtered and controlled before it ever reached you, and eventually, you stopped answering, because if Michael wanted to tell you something, he needed to do it himself. You weren't going to accept distance disguised as communication, not from him.
But yesterday, something had told you to answer the phone when it rang.
Your hand had paused before picking it up, that split second filled with hesitation you hadn't felt in the beginning, because at first you had expected him, had hoped it would be him, but now you didn't expect anything at all. Still, you answered.
His representatives from Sony called and told you that Michael wanted you to be at the VMAs, to which you told them that if Michael himself had ever bothered to pick up the phone to call you, you would've told him that you had to be there anyway because you were presenting a few awards in different categories.
The words came out steady, but there was something sharp beneath them, something that didn't need to be raised in volume to be felt. It wasn't about the award show, not really; it was about the fact that even now, even after everything, he still wasn't the one reaching for you.
And then you hung up and called your manager, Amelia.
The second she answered, everything you had been holding in found its way out, not uncontrolled, but no longer contained either. She let you vent because she knew you were pissed at Michael's behavior to begin with, so for his team to call you and tell you that he wants you at an award show you were already going to be at, pissed you off even more, because it felt dismissive, like he hadn't even thought about the fact that you had your own career, your own obligations, your own presence in that space without him.
You were already going. You didn't need him to tell you.
And then you packed your stuff, each movement deliberate, controlled, like putting everything into place was the only thing you could manage when everything else felt so unresolved. Someone from your and Michael's security team brought you to the airport for you to board your private jet, and now you were in New York, the transition happening so quickly it almost felt disconnected from everything that led up to it.
You were taken to the hotel that Michael would be staying in, and you were brought up to his room so you could get ready, but he wasn't there, and you knew he wasn't going to be. The space felt temporary, impersonal, despite belonging to him, like it was just another place he had passed through without staying long enough to leave anything behind.
You knew you probably weren't going to see him until you got to the award show, so you might as well take your time.
You take a long bath, trying to scrub away some of the stress you're feeling, letting the heat wrap around you until your muscles finally begin to loosen, until the tightness in your chest eases just enough to breathe through. It doesn't erase anything, but it gives you a moment where the anger isn't sitting quite so close to the surface.
You had intentionally picked your dress before you and Amelia left Neverland.
You wanted—no, needed to make a statement, to let Michael know that what he did wasn't okay. Not something subtle that could be overlooked, not something that could be misread or ignored, but something undeniable, something he would see and feel without you having to say a single word.
You've been married for ten years, together for 13 years in total. That kind of time wasn't surface-level; it wasn't fragile; it was built on years of knowing each other in ways no one else did, years of arguments that had always ended with resolution, even if it took time to get there. You've argued before, but those moments had never turned into this, had never stretched into silence, into absence, into something that left you alone to sit with it for six weeks without a single attempt to fix it.
It wasn't okay, and he needed to know that.
Once you stepped out of the bath, you dried yourself off before putting on your robe, the soft fabric settling around you as you stepped back into a room that was already moving with quiet urgency. Your glam team was already waiting in your room, ready to do your makeup, their presence filling the space with purpose as you sat down in front of your makeup artist.
Amelia is keeping track of time, keeping everyone on track, her attention sharp, her voice steady as she moves through the room. Your styling team is steaming your dress so it's not wrinkled, the gold fabric hanging under the light, shimmering even before you've put it on, every detail catching softly as steam lifts around it. It already looks like a statement before it's even on you.
Your makeup artist, Lauren, is asking you what kind of look you want to go for, and you tell her you want a golden smoky eye since your dress is gold.
"You okay?" Amelia asks as she watches you.
She's been watching your body language, which is relaxed, thanks to your bath, but still very much controlled, like she knows what you're trying to conceal. There's a stillness to you that isn't natural, something held too tightly beneath the surface.
"I'm fine," you say, and Amelia doesn't press because she knows you're not going to say.
You're completely focused on making sure you're ready and on the carpet on time. You weren't walking the carpet with Michael; you already knew that, and that knowledge sits quietly in the back of your mind, something you don't allow yourself to dwell on. But you knew that you would be seated by him, and that's unavoidable, something waiting for you whether you're ready or not.
After your makeup is finished, your stylist helps you into your dress.
The fabric settles against your skin like it belongs there, the gold catching the light immediately, every movement sending a shimmer across the surface. The halter neckline draws the eye upward, clean and strong, while the deep cut adds just enough edge to make it impossible to ignore. The beading is intricate, precise, laid across the fabric in a way that makes the entire dress feel alive under the lights, hugging your body through your waist and hips before falling straight down in a sleek line that elongates you completely.
And then the black feather wrap.
It drapes over your arms, soft but dramatic, the contrast against the gold sharp enough to shift the entire look. It isn't just an accessory; it changes the energy of the dress entirely, adding something darker, something more controlled, something that feels less like softness and more like armor.
Your hair, long and flowing down your back, looks glossy under the lights, shining in a way that's hard to miss, and parted in the middle, the way you like it.
You looked hot, and you knew you looked hot, and you knew Michael would know it too.
Within the hour, you were pulling up to the red carpet, the city alive outside your window in a way that felt almost electric, flashes already visible in the distance before the car had even fully come to a stop. Amelia would be meeting you inside, but for now, it was just you, the quiet interior of the car, and the weight of everything waiting on the other side of that door. She looks at you as the car stops, her eyes scanning over you one last time, not for the dress or the makeup, but for you—for whatever you were holding beneath it all—and you take a slow, steady breath, letting it fill your chest before releasing it carefully.
"You ready?" she asks, and you nod.
There's no hesitation in the motion, even if there's something tighter sitting underneath it, something you don't let surface, something you keep tucked behind the composure you've been holding onto all day.
"I'll see you on the other side," you say as the door opens for you and your driver helps you out.
The second your heel hits the pavement, the world shifts.
Flashes explode around you instantly, rapid and blinding, cameras going off in waves as voices rise over each other, your name being called from every direction. The energy hits all at once, loud and overwhelming, but familiar, something your body knows how to step into without thinking, even when your mind is somewhere else entirely.
You don't rush. You never do. You move with intention, every step measured, your expression perfectly set as you turn just enough for the cameras, giving them angles, giving them exactly what they came for without giving anything else away.
A few questions from the press do catch your ear.
"Why didn't you walk the carpet with your husband, Michael?"
"Are you and Michael having issues?! You've both been spotted separately for weeks."
"Have you seen Michael yet? Seems like you both wanted to be the hottest in the room."
The words reach you, clear enough to register, sharp enough to land, but you don't react to them. You ignore them and smile as they take their pictures, the expression effortless, practiced, the same one you've worn a hundred times before. To them, to the cameras, to the press, nothing is different. Your smile is bright, your movements fluid, your presence commanding in a way that looks completely natural, completely untouched by anything happening beneath the surface.
They don't see the control it takes. They don't see the way you're holding everything in place.
After you walk the carpet and they get the pictures they need, you're escorted inside and to your seat, the noise of the outside world fading behind you as the atmosphere shifts into something more contained, more focused. The lights are lower, the energy still buzzing but quieter, concentrated.
Now you start to feel it: the nerves, because you know you'll be seated next to Michael.
The thought settles in your chest, heavy and unavoidable, but you don't let it show. Not in your face, not in your posture, not in the way you carry yourself as Amelia meets you in the aisle. You gently grab onto her arm as you two are led to the front row, your touch light but grounding, something to anchor yourself to as you walk forward.
Because when Michael is at award shows, he's always given a seat in the front row. There's no avoiding him tonight.
You thank the usher who brought you to your seat, your voice soft but polite, and you let out a quiet breath when you see that Michael isn't there yet. The space beside you sits empty, untouched, and for a moment, there's a flicker of something you don't quite let yourself name: relief, maybe, or just the absence of immediate tension.
You take a seat, smoothing your dress slightly as you settle, the gold fabric pooling perfectly around you, catching the light even in stillness. Amelia takes a seat in the row behind you, where her reserved seat is, close enough to feel like support, but far enough that you're still on your own in this.
The seats soon start to fill up, people moving around you, voices blending in low conversation, but Michael's remains empty. You hear others talking around you, their voices casual, unaware of how closely you're listening. They say that Michael is opening the show with his performance.
And soon it was starting.
Once all the seats were filled, the lights went down, the room dimming until the stage became the center of everything, and Michael came on stage.
And just like that, your breath catches.
You hated how even when you were angry, he managed to take your breath away, how it wasn't something you could control, something your body did before your mind could catch up and remind you why you were pissed in the first place.
He had cut his hair; it was short, his curls defined and framing his face, softer in a way that made him look almost unreal under the stage lights. He looked angelic, and it pissed you off even more, because it didn't match what he had done, didn't match the frustration you had been sitting with for six weeks.
The opening notes of Don't Stop Til You Get Enough start, and Michael is immediately in it, his energy snapping into place like it always does, effortless and consuming, and so is the crowd, the reaction instant, loud, completely drawn into him.
But his eyes find yours. Out of everything, out of everyone in the room, they land on you like it was inevitable. You don't give anything away. Not in your expression, not in the way you sit, not in the way you hold his gaze for just a second before letting it go.
And neither does he.
However, seeing that you did take his breath away a little, he almost stumbled over the lyrics. It's subtle, something most people wouldn't catch, something that blends into the performance so easily it could be dismissed, but you see it. You recognize it. Because you know him.
Seeing you in that dress, your hair glossy under the lights, you looked breathtaking in the most devastating way because he knew you were pissed.
Your face was controlled, composed in a way that gave nothing away to anyone else, but Michael knows you better than anyone, and he knows your body language. He knows the difference between calm and contained, knows the way your shoulders hold just a fraction tighter, the way your stillness isn't ease but restraint.
He knows you have every right to be pissed, but he also feels validated in his feelings. And somewhere in the middle of all of that, something unspoken passes between you, something that doesn't resolve anything, doesn't soften anything, just exists.
But he knew he shouldn't have ignored you for six weeks; that was too far.
Michael performs Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough, The Way You Make Me Feel, Scream, Beat It, Black or White, Billie Jean, and Dangerous, moving through each song like he always does, completely immersed, completely lost in it, like nothing else exists once the music starts.
And you sit there and watch him the entire time. You hate how it affects you. You hate how flustered it's making you feel, because you're pissed and you want to stay pissed, you want to hold onto that anger, that clarity, that sense of control you've had all day.
But you can never control how your body reacts whenever Michael performs.
The way he loses himself in the music, giving himself over to it completely, it's always been one of your weak points, something that has never changed, no matter how much time passes, no matter what's happening between you. There's something about the way he moves, the way he exists in that space, that pulls at something deeper than logic, deeper than anger.
It's always turned you on. It's always made you want him badly. And you didn't want to feel any of those things right now, not when you were still carrying everything he had done, not when you hadn't even spoken to him yet.
But your body was reacting to what was familiar without your permission, responding to him in a way that had been built over years, something instinctive, something ingrained.
And you couldn't do anything to stop it.
The opening notes of You Are Not Alone start, and your breath hitches, the reaction immediate and completely out of your control as the sound settles into the room. It's familiar in a way that feels too close, too personal, because this isn't just another song to you. It never has been. Michael had always told you, since he started recording this song, that it was for you, and that truth sits heavy beneath every note, threading itself through your chest in a way that makes it harder to separate the performance from what it actually means.
He had asked you to be in the music video with him, and the memory comes back without effort, warm and vivid, the kind that still feels real when you think about it: the laughter between takes, the way he stayed close to you even when the cameras weren't rolling, the ease of it, the way nothing felt complicated back then. And you know he's performing it because it's a big hit right now, you can't turn on any R&B station without hearing it every hour, the song everywhere, constant, unavoidable in the same way he is.
Towards the end of it, a choir comes out to sing the chorus while Michael sings over them, their voices rising together and filling the space in a way that almost feels overwhelming, layered and powerful, pressing into you from all sides. He walks to the edge of the stage as the choir is singing, "I am here with you," they sing, and Michael sings the line as well, his voice slipping through theirs, distinct enough that you feel it more than hear it, like it's meant to land somewhere specific.
"I'm here with you," Michael sings, and then he does it; he points directly at you, and then he winks... well, attempts to wink. Michael has never been able to wink, and the second it happens, something in you shuts down just as quickly as it had opened. The softness that had been building, quiet and dangerous in the way it threatened to undo everything you've been holding onto, disappears completely, like it was never there at all, leaving nothing behind but the sharp, familiar edge of your anger snapping back into place.
How dare he?
The thought hits hard enough to settle into your body, because it isn't just the gesture, it's everything behind it that makes it feel wrong. He disappears and ignores you for six weeks and then shows up to this award show, has his team tell you that he wants you to be there, and something about him pointing to you during this performance made you even more mad, because it isn't private, it isn't real in the way it should be. It's something he's doing in front of everyone, something that looks like closeness without actually being it, and that contrast sits wrong in a way you can't ignore.
When Michael finished his performance, you stood up with everyone else and clapped, your hands moving in rhythm with the rest of the room while your expression stayed exactly where you wanted it: neutral, composed, completely unreadable. You don't give anything away, even though you knew the camera would be on you since you are his wife and he had just done a 15-minute opener, and you can feel that awareness sitting just beneath your skin, keeping everything in place.
When Michael comes back to his seat, right next to you, he's in all black, sunglasses on, in place, and he sits down in his seat. The space beside you shifts the second he's there, his presence immediate, impossible to ignore even without looking at him. You don't turn to him, you keep your focus forward, but you can feel his eyes on you, steady and waiting, like he's trying to catch something you're refusing to give.
The camera pans past you guys, and when it gets to him, he points and smiles, slipping back into that ease effortlessly, giving them exactly what they expect from him, and as soon as it passes, as soon as the attention moves on, he turns back to you.
Just as he opens his mouth to say something, one of the stagehands comes to your seat and tells you that it's time for you to go backstage to get ready to present the award for Best Dance Video. The interruption cuts through the moment cleanly, stopping whatever he was about to say before it can reach you. You nod and rise from your seat without turning to Michael, your movements smooth, controlled, like none of it affected you at all, and follow the stagehand backstage to wait for your cue.
The distance between you resets the second you step away, but the tension doesn't leave with it.
You were presenting the award with Notorious B.I.G., and you were a fan of his. When the two of you were announced, he offered you his arm, and you smiled, taking it and letting him lead you out to the podium. The contact is brief, simple, but grounding in a way that steadies your step as you walk back into the lights, the room opening up in front of you again.
The first thing you did was look at Michael, and you see how his jaw clenches when he sees you with your arm looped through Biggie's, the reaction quick but unmistakable, tension flashing across his face before it settles again. It's subtle, easy to miss if you didn't know him as well as you do, but you catch it instantly.
You let go of his arm when you two reach the podium, the movement easy, deliberate, and he goes to the microphone first.
"Yeah, uh, we up here to present the award for the Best Dance Video," he says, and you smile.
"And those of you at home are probably wondering, how do you find the best dance video? Personally, I think it should just be whichever one I like the most... but then again, given who the nominees are, you all might call me biased," you say, and that sends a laugh throughout the room because everyone knows that Scream is nominated.
"I mean, I'd say the same thing. I should give it to whoever I want to give it to, and I think we might want to give it to the same video," he says, and you turn to him with a smirk.
"This is how we do it?" you tease, and the crowd laughs again, and so does Biggie.
"Damn, you're cold, Ma," Biggie teases you, and you laugh while shaking your head, the sound coming easier than you expect, light and effortless in a way that contrasts sharply with everything sitting underneath your skin. You glance at Michael again, instinctively, and the reaction is immediate, the second your eyes land on him.
His hand is tight around the arm of his seat, knuckles tense, the grip controlled but unmistakable. He doesn't like this. It's written all over him in the way his posture stiffens, in the way his jaw sets just slightly, in the way his attention doesn't leave you for even a second.
He doesn't like how close Biggie is to you, doesn't like the ease of it, the casual way you fit into that space beside someone else. He doesn't like how Biggie is making you laugh, how that sound comes from you without hesitation. And he definitely doesn't like how you're playing into it, how you're letting it happen without pulling back, without softening it for him.
"Here are the nominees for Best Dance Video," you say with a smile as the video montage plays of all the music videos that are nominated for the category, your voice steady, smooth, slipping back into that practiced rhythm as the screen lights up behind you.
The room shifts its attention forward, but you can still feel it, that awareness of him sitting out there, watching, taking everything in, whether he wants to or not. When the montage ends, you turn to Biggie. "Do you want to read the results?" you ask as you hold out the envelope to him.
"By all means, it's all you, Mrs. Jackson," he says, and you give him a look while everyone laughs, the title landing with a weight that feels deliberate tonight, something that sits differently now than it usually does. You turn to the crowd and smile, letting the moment pass without lingering on it.
"And the winner is..." You trail off as you open the envelope, the paper sliding smoothly beneath your fingers, and when you read the name, something soft flickers across your face before you can stop it. "Michael and Janet Jackson, Scream," you announce. Everyone stands to applaud, the room rising in a wave of sound and movement while Michael and Janet get up from their seats. You were actually surprised Janet was seated on the opposite side of the room from you and Michael, the distance between all of you something you hadn't noticed until now, something that feels oddly intentional in hindsight.
Michael comes to the stage first, accepting the award from Biggie, shaking his hand with that same composed ease he carries everywhere, and when he steps toward you, you let him hug you. It's automatic, expected, and necessary. You know the press is going to talk about it if you don't, know that every movement is being watched, interpreted, dissected, and you're not giving them anything they can twist into something bigger than it needs to be. The contact is brief, controlled, nothing like what it used to be, but it's enough to satisfy what's expected.
Then Janet joins you all on stage shortly after, her presence warmer, more familiar in a way that feels grounding. She and Michael hug, and then she hugs you tightly, her arms wrapping around you in a way that feels genuine, not performative, like she's holding onto you for just a second longer than necessary. It settles something in you, just slightly.
You take a step back to allow Janet and Michael to take the podium, shifting your weight subtly, giving them the space that belongs to them in this moment, and once they are done giving their speeches, all of you are escorted backstage, the noise of the crowd fading behind you as the energy changes again. You loop your arm through Janet's, the movement easy, familiar, and the two of you fall into step together, smiling and giggling as you make your way backstage, the lightness between you real in a way that feels almost like relief after everything sitting heavy in your chest.
"I knew you guys were going to win," you say to her, and Janet smiles at you, her expression soft, knowing, before she silently gestures to Michael. It's subtle, just a small movement of her eyes, but you know exactly what she's asking without her needing to say it out loud. Have you talked?
You shake your head and roll your eyes, the motion small but telling, and she laughs, a quiet, understanding sound that carries just enough sympathy without pushing you to say more than you want to. Biggie congratulates them both again before he leaves the three of you alone, his presence fading out of the space as the moment shifts again.
Michael turns to look at you, taking his glasses off, the movement slower than usual, like he's giving himself a second before fully stepping into whatever this is about to be. Janet clears her throat, the sound light but purposeful, and excuses herself, leaving just the two of you standing there.
Now you and Michael are alone.
The space changes immediately, the air between you heavier, quieter, everything that had been held back now sitting right there, waiting. You don't speak. You've already endured six weeks of silence; what's a few more minutes? The quiet doesn't feel unfamiliar to you anymore, but it doesn't feel comfortable either. It just exists, stretching between you.
Michael isn't really sure what to say, and it shows in the way he hesitates, in the way his eyes move over you instead, taking you in like he's trying to understand something without words. Your dress catches his attention again, the gold shimmering under the backstage lights, reflecting softly against your skin, and he can't look away from it.
He knows every single curve of your body, every line, every detail, and he notices immediately how the dress accentuates all of it, how it sharpens everything, how it makes you look just out of reach even when you're standing right in front of him.
"Hi," Michael says, and you scoff, the sound sharp, immediate, your anger rising so quickly it almost feels like it's been waiting for that exact word.
"That's all you have to say to me?" You ask, and Michael shakes his head, the movement small but certain.
"No... but I can tell you're not in the mood to listen," he says, and you nod as you laugh a little, the sound lacking any real amusement.
"I was ready to listen six weeks ago, Michael... but you never came back home," You slightly snap, the words slipping out with more edge than you try to control, because they've been sitting there for too long. Michael sighs as he rubs behind his neck, the gesture familiar, almost automatic, and takes a deep breath like he's trying to steady himself before speaking.
"I know... I'm sorry, I just—" you cut him off.
"I'm not in the mood for your excuses. If you had something to say, you should've picked up the phone and called, not had your team call our home... or better yet, you should've just come home," you snap while rolling your eyes, the frustration breaking through more clearly now as you move to walk past him.
Michael catches your arm and turns you around, the contact quick, instinctive, but you react just as fast, pulling back from him like the touch itself is something you don't want.
"You don't get to touch me," You say.
"Baby, please," he says, the word slipping out rougher than he intends, his voice dropping as he stops himself from reaching for you again, his hand falling back at his side as he takes a breath that doesn't quite steady him.
"No," You respond, the word firm, leaving no space for negotiation, and Michael takes another breath, deeper this time, slower, like he's trying to keep himself grounded.
He knew this wasn't going to be easy. He knew you were going to be pissed, and he was going to have to work extra hard and give more than verbal apologies to get your forgiveness.
"Just tell me what I need to do, I'll do anything," Michael says, and you nearly roll your eyes, the reaction instinctive, but you stop yourself before it fully shows, holding onto that control even now.
"You should've come home... weeks ago," you say before walking off, your voice quieter this time but heavier, the weight of it landing differently than the anger did.
And this time, Michael doesn't try to stop you, because he can hear it, the other part that's lying underneath the anger, the part that doesn't need to be said out loud for him to understand. He hurt you.
And he knows he hurt you deeply, and there's not going to be an easy fix to it.
♡
After the award show is over, you don't feel like going to the after party, the thought of more cameras, more people, more pretending sitting wrong in your chest in a way you don't have the energy to push through. You want to go back to the hotel, somewhere quieter, somewhere you don't have to perform.
You're sitting in the car, Bill in the front, as you're both waiting for Michael, the interior dim, insulated from the noise outside. You're looking out of the tinted window at the night sky, the city lights blurring past in reflection, when you hear the door open, and you feel Michael's presence in the backseat before you even register the shift in weight beside you. Bill pulls off a few moments later, smooth and practiced, and you don't turn to him.
During the rest of the show, you and Michael sat next to each other, but didn't speak. The silence hadn't been accidental; it had been held, deliberate on both sides, stretched thin between you with everything that hadn't been said. You didn't even smile for the camera, not once, even when you could feel it lingering on you, waiting for something to soften. You knew the press was going to run stories tomorrow, speculating about what was going on between you and Michael, but you didn't care. Let them. None of it came close to what it actually felt like to sit next to him after six weeks of nothing.
You were angry, and your anger was giving way to the hurt you felt underneath it, something heavier, something that didn't flare as sharply but lingered longer.
You were hurt for every night that you cried yourself to sleep because Michael wouldn't call or come home. The memory sits too close, too easy to reach, your chest tightening slightly at the thought before you push it back.
Every time you tried to call him, a member of his team made up an excuse as to why he couldn't come to the phone; their voices polite, rehearsed, always just enough to end the conversation without giving you anything real, until eventually you stopped calling, because there were only so many times you could hear the same distance repeated back to you before it stopped being worth it.
You think about how you spent a short period of time feeling guilty for going on Fresh Prince, even though you knew you didn't do anything wrong, the doubt settling in quietly before you forced yourself out of it, because you refused to let his silence rewrite something you had every right to do.
Because you hated how Michael was using his silence to punish you.
And now Michael wanted to make it up to you, but you wanted to punish him. The thought doesn't come with hesitation; it settles in cleanly, sharp, and certain in a way that feels almost grounding after weeks of feeling like everything has been out of your control.
And you had an idea of how you were going to do it.
The car ride was silent; you didn't speak to Michael, and he didn't try to push you into conversation either. The quiet between you feels different now, heavier, aware, like both of you are sitting in it on purpose. He knew how badly he had messed up. It shows in the way he stays still, in the way he doesn't interrupt, doesn't push, doesn't try to force anything out of you before you're ready. He just wanted the chance to explain and apologize to you, because he knows he shouldn't have stayed away as long as he did.
Bill parks in the back and leads you and Michael through the hotel's private back entrance, the transition from the car to the quiet interior quick and controlled, away from the crowd, away from the noise. He takes you both straight to the elevator and presses the button for the penthouse floor. The elevator ride also passes in silence, the soft hum of movement the only thing filling the space as the numbers climb, the reflection of the three of you faintly visible in the mirrored walls.
When you finally make it to the top and the doors open, the men let you step out first, then Michael, and then Bill. The hallway is quiet and empty, like the rest of the world has been shut out completely.
You turn to Bill with a smile. "Goodnight, Bill," you say, and he smiles back at you, giving you a nod.
You use the keycard you were given upon arrival to unlock the door, the soft click sounding louder than it should in the quiet, and you and Michael walk inside. The room is dimly lit, still, untouched, and you move through it without hesitation, going straight to the bed and sitting down, the edge dipping slightly beneath your weight as you start to take off your heels.
Michael walks over before kneeling in front of you, the movement immediate, instinctive, like he doesn't want the distance between you to stretch any further now that you're finally alone.
"Baby... please, let's talk about this," Michael says, and you scoff, the sound sharp, cutting through whatever softness he's trying to bring into the moment.
"Oh, now you're ready to talk? Are you sure you don't need to get your representatives in here to do the talking for you?" You ask as you toss one of your heels to the side before unfastening the other, the small action giving your hands something to do, something to focus on that isn't him.
"I know I should have called you myself... I'm so sorry that I didn't," he says, and you nod, not because you accept it, but because you already knew that.
You toss your other heel to where the first one was, the soft thud barely registering, and only then do you look down at Michael, kneeling in front of you. The pleading was behind his eyes, clear in a way he isn't trying to hide, something open and vulnerable that you haven't seen from him in weeks. He wanted to do whatever he could to fix this, and you could tell.
"Okay," you say, the word coming out easier than it should, because you don't want to talk about this, not right now. Not when your head is still filled with everything from tonight, everything he stirred up without even trying.
Right now, you couldn't get how crazy he was driving you all night out of your head.
From his shorter curls to his performance, the way the stage lights caught every movement, the suit, his outfit change, the way he looked in his glasses, the way he carried himself with that quiet, effortless confidence, it lingers in your mind in pieces, replaying whether you want it to or not. It pulls at something familiar, something instinctive, something that doesn't care that you're still pissed at him.
You were losing yourself in your desire for him, despite being pissed at him.
Michael wraps his arms around your legs, the movement sudden but not forceful, grounding himself there like it's the only place he knows to go. He lowers himself, resting his head against your lap, the weight of him settling in a way that feels familiar, too familiar for how much distance has been between you.
"Please, mama... just tell me what to do. Tell me how to fix this. I'll do whatever you want," he whispers as he presses kisses against you over the fabric of your dress.
The nickname hits first.
It lands deeper than anything else he's said tonight, slipping past your defenses in a way you weren't prepared for, and you have to bite down on your lip to keep your reaction contained. His lips follow, soft and insistent even through the fabric, and it takes more effort than you want to admit not to respond, not to let your body lean into something it recognizes so easily.
"I can't stand you ignoring me, especially when you look this good," he whispers.
There's something raw in the way he says it, something honest and stripped down that doesn't feel practiced, doesn't feel controlled, and it makes it harder to hold your ground, harder to stay exactly where you've decided to be.
"So now you know how it feels to be ignored... try again in 5 more weeks," you say, your voice unsteady despite the words themselves being sharp.
Michael's hand moves along your leg, slow, absent-minded at first, like he's not even thinking about it, just following instinct, and the sensation pulls at you immediately, familiar and dangerous all at once.
"Stop," you say. His hand stills the second the word leaves your mouth, no hesitation or pushback. He lifts his head from your lap, the shift immediate, his attention snapping fully to you as he searches your face. "You think you can ignore me for six weeks and get to touch me?" You ask.
The question lands heavier than your tone, and you see it register in him instantly, his eyes widening slightly as the reality of it settles in. His arms loosen around your legs, and he lets go, pulling back without being told again.
"Baby..." he says, quieter this time. You don't let him finish. You point to the cushioned chair across from the bed.
"Go sit over there," you say.
Michael's eyes are still wide, and when he stands up, you can see the bulge pressing against his pants. Sitting in front of your lap, touching you, and kissing you has already made him hard. When he gets to the chair, your voice calls out again before he sits down. "Take off your pants and boxers," you say.
Michael's hands are already on his belt, unbuckling it, and he tosses it to the side before pulling his pants and then his boxers down. He had already taken his shoes off as soon as you two walked into the room. You resist the urge to bite your lip when you see Michael's length lightly slap against his stomach when he frees it. "Now sit down," you say.
Michael does what you say, sitting down in the chair, and you stand up from the bed. "Touch yourself," you say, and he sputters over his words as he speaks.
"W-What?" he asks, and you tilt your head to the side.
"You heard me... You don't get to touch me yet... so touch yourself," you say. Michael swallows, as he feels himself get harder, his dick pulsing almost uncomfortably at your commands. He grabs himself, slightly hissing under his breath as he does, at how sensitive he is to the touch. "Start slow," you say.
Michael nods as his hand slowly starts to move along his length. You watch his hand, slowly sliding the straps of your dress off your shoulders before reaching behind your back and unzipping your dress. You let it pool at your feet and step out of it. Michael, watching you the whole time, stills his hand, and you turn to him.
"Did I tell you to stop?" You ask. Michael swallows again and resumes his movements, his hand slowly stroking himself as his eyes are glued to you. You reach behind your back and unhook your bra, letting your breasts spill out, and your bra falls to the floor. Michael bites his lip as his grip on himself tightens, and his entire body is pulsing.
You reach for the waistband of your panties, slowly pulling them down your legs before you step out of them. Your movements are slow and deliberate, drawing it out because you know Michael is watching. "A little faster now," you say. Michael nods, increasing the speed of his hand down against himself, and you hear him whimper.
You stand fully bare in front of him, and then you move to the bed. You adjust the pillows before propping yourself up on them. Michael swallows as your legs slowly spread, your glistening folds exposed to him, and you won't permit him to come to you. You place two of your fingers in your mouth, coating them before reaching down and rubbing your clit, keeping your pace the same as Michael's.
His breath hitches when he sees you touch yourself, his hand almost stilling, but he doesn't. Instead, he whimpers again, desperate to join you on the bed, desperate to touch you. You shiver at the sensitivity of your clit, but you keep rubbing, running your fingers along your folds to slick them in your wetness, a soft moan slipping out of you.
"Faster, Michael," you say as you look at his hand again, moving against his length. Michael swallows, speeding up his hand, and you match his pace, speeding up the pace of your fingers against your clit. You close your eyes and moan louder this time, and Michael feels himself twitching. He's aching to touch you. He keeps stroking himself, his movements getting faster as he watches you pleasure yourself.
"Mama, please," Michael whimpers, and you look at him, your fingers speeding up against your clit when you see his hand moving faster. You're both watching each other, feeding off of each other. When your movements against your clit slow down, Michael's movements speed up. Every time you moan, he squeezes his dick, trying to keep himself under control, and every time he whimpers, you move your fingers faster, letting the sounds of him bring you closer to the edge.
Your hips buck as your back arches, and you move your fingers faster. Michael whimpers as he watches you, moaning and writhing on the bed, knowing that it should be him making you fall apart like that, but he doesn't get that he is making you fall apart like that. Watching him jerk himself off was wildly turning you on.
"A little more, Michael," you say, and Michael goes faster; he feels his release coming, and he wishes that he were spilling himself inside of you, and you also feel your orgasm building. "I'm so close," you moan out, and Michael is aching to have his mouth on you to help you finish. "Faster," you moan, and Michael obeys, stroking himself faster, his whimpers and moans coming quickly.
The orgasm hits you fast, your body convulsing against the bed as a moan pours out of you. Michael can't stand it, seeing an orgasm hit, and he's not connected to you to feel it. He loves the way you feel when you fall apart as your orgasm hits. He loves to feel your legs shaking around him, how tightly you grip him, how his name falls from your lips in a sob because of the pleasure.
You sink back against the pillows, your breath still quick and shallow as you try to regain it. You look at Michael, he's still stroking himself, his whimpering filling the room, and you can feel his desperation. "Come here," you say. Michael is up immediately. He walks over to the bed and stands over you at the side, waiting for you to tell him what to do next.
You slowly sit up, turning over until you're on your hands and knees. "Sit down... watch," you say. You don't have to turn around; you feel the weight of the bed dip as Michael sits down behind you. He swallows as he licks over his lips, seeing your glistening pussy in his face, still dripping with your release.
You reach behind yourself, pressing your fingers into your release and spreading it around your folds. Michael bites his lip as he watches. He whimpers again, trying desperately to control the urge he has to grab your hips and fuck you senseless until you speak to him again. You sink deeper onto your knees, spreading yourself more, and Michael whimpers again as more of you is exposed.
You rub your clit again, rolling your hips in the air. You can almost feel Michael inside of you, and you want him badly... but you also need him to feel the way you've felt for weeks. Your fingers rub your clit faster, and Michael bites down on his lip. Watching you play with yourself is making his dick twitch. He's so hard it's almost uncomfortable.
More of your cum from your first orgasm slips out of your hole, and Michael desperately wants to lap it up. "Mama..." he whimpers.
"Be quiet, Michael," you respond as you rub yourself harder, a louder moan coming from you as your legs shake. Michael watches intently, wanting nothing more than to press his face against you and fuck you with his tongue until you're shaking against him.
You slip one of your fingers inside of yourself, and Michael groans. You slip it back out, feeling it coated in your own cum, and you rub alongside your folds, purposely parting them, and you hear Michael swallow. He grabs his length again. He needs to feel the relief, the release of everything that's pent up inside of him. When you moan again, he squeezes himself, hissing under his breath.
You turn your head to look at him, and his eyes are locked on you. He's waiting for your permission to move. "Get behind me," you say. Michael gets on his knees behind you immediately. "You can touch me to line me up, and then you do nothing," you say. Michael swallows again as he nods, gently grabbing your hips to line your entrance up with him, and when you feel him let you go, you press back, feeling yourself sink against him as he fills you.
You moan on contact, and Michael stiffens as you continue to press back until he's filled you. You start to move, rocking yourself back and forth, feeling Michael moving in and out of you. You feel Michael's hand go to your hip, and you slap it away, shaking your head as you continue to move against him. Michael throws his head back. He hates that you won't let him touch you, but he will let you use him to take your pleasure.
You spread more, pressing your upper body more into the bed as you continue to move against him. Your ass slapping against Michael every time you move back, and he whimpers. Feeling your heat wrapped around him, sliding in and out, he's fighting the urge to hold you down and thrust into you until you can't remember why you're mad in the first place.
Your movements suddenly stop, but you keep Michael inside of you. Without turning to look at him, you speak. "Fuck me," you say.
Michael doesn't hesitate.
He grabs your hips and pushes you more into the bed. He pulls fully out of you before slamming back into you with one powerful stroke, making you cry out, and he groans. He keeps both hands on your hips as he fucks you, fast and relentless. Both of you are taking out your pent-up anger on each other. You reach down and rub your clit as Michael's movements get faster. Tears prick your eyes as you feel him deep inside of you, and you swear you can feel him in your stomach.
Wet sounds of skin slapping together, squelching sounds of Michael's thrusts inside of your slickness fill the room. "Just like that, mama... You take it so good," Michael says as he squeezes your hips, fucking you harder. You cry out, gripping the pillows tightly as your legs start to shake.
Michael lifts one of your legs, holding it so he can fuck you deeper, his body trembling against yours as he moves. "Come on.... come on," he practically growls as he fully pulls out and slams back into you again, rocking you forward.
His name spills from your lips in a choked sob as your orgasm hits you hard. Your body is shaking hard against his, and Michael doesn't slow down his thrusts to bring you through it. He keeps going at a relentless pace. His balls slapping against your swollen clit when he buries himself fully inside of you. Your vision blurs from the tears of pleasure as a second orgasm rips through you, your body still sensitive from the first one.
Michael's name spills from your lips as a scream. Michael leans down, pressing kisses against your back as he keeps fucking you. He doesn't want to stop; he can't stop. His arms wrap fully around you as he continues to move inside of you.
"M–Michael... I can't take another one... I–I can't," you whimper as he pulls you upright, your back against his chest as he keeps thrusting into you.
"You can take it, mama... keep going," Michael growls into your ear, his thrusts getting more erratic as he gets closer to his release. You're shaking, your full body is shaking against him, as a third orgasm hits you hard. The sheets beneath you are soaked as Michael's thrusts push through your juices, making them spill all over. "Look at the mess you're making," Michael says as he reaches in front of you to rub your swollen clit.
You twitch against him, your eyes falling closed as your head falls against his shoulder, the pleasure and ecstasy feeling like too much, and you genuinely think you're going to pass out. Your body twitches again as Michael keeps fucking you, every thrust pushing deeper, every stroke drawn out so you can feel it. Michael whimpers in your ear as his dick twitches inside of you.
You feel the warmth as it hits you, and your body twitches again, Michael still rubbing your clit as he fucks you through his orgasm. His cum mixes with yours, squelching out of you and dripping more onto the sheets. You cry out as a fourth orgasm hits, your body completely spent as you shake against Michael.
He slows his thrusts and slows his fingers against your clit, bringing you through the orgasm. He pulls out, pressing you back down into the bed, keeping you on your knees. He spreads your folds apart, watching as your combined orgasms spill from your spent hole.
Michael attaches his lips there, licking and sucking the release, and you start shaking again. You know you can't take another orgasm, and you feel on the verge of passing out from the overwhelming pleasure. Michael lightly slaps your pussy, making you shake again, before he attaches his lips back to your folds, licking up your full release before he pulls back. He turns you around and lays you back on the bed, his breathing heavy and erratic as he looks at you.
"Don't you ever do that to me again, Michael," You say as you look at him, and he knows what you mean, not just from the words but from the way you're holding his gaze, from everything still sitting underneath them. Don't ever leave you like that for that long ever again. He nods, the movement immediate, serious, before he leans down and kisses you, slower this time, like he's making sure you feel it. You taste yourself on his lips as you kiss him back, and it pulls something deeper out of you, something softer than the anger you were holding onto before. You missed him, you ached for him, you needed him, and now that he's here, that absence feels almost unbearable in hindsight.
You're the first to pull back, needing the space for just a second, and Michael leans his forehead against yours, keeping close anyway, like he's not ready to let any distance settle back in. "I promise I won't. I'm so sorry... I love you so much," he says, and there's nothing guarded in it, nothing held back, and you nod, taking it in even if you're not fully ready to let it settle.
"You have six weeks' worth of making it up to me to prove it," you say, and Michael laughs, the sound softer than usual, like the tension is finally easing out of him.
"Mama, I just made you cum four times," he says, and you shrug, your expression shifting just enough to let him know you're not letting him off that easy.
"That only covers one day. You still have 41 more to make up for," you say. Michael laughs again, more relaxed this time, and he leans in to kiss you again, the contact lighter, easier, like something has shifted between you. Your chest loosens for the first time tonight, the tightness that's been sitting there finally easing just enough to breathe through it without effort. You knew that this didn't fix everything, but you were willing to work through it with him, willing to meet him somewhere in the middle now that he was actually here.
You pull back and lay your hand on his jaw, your thumb gently rubbing across his skin, the gesture slow, absent-minded, something that comes naturally after all these years.
"I love you, too," you whisper.
Michael lies down next to you, pulling you into his arms, your back settling against his chest as he fits around you like he always has, like nothing about that part has changed. He buries his head in the nape of your neck, kissing the soft skin there, slower now, softer, and you feel him let out a deep breath, like he's been holding it in for weeks. The tension that had been sitting between you all night fades into something quieter, something steadier, and the two of you lie there, wrapped up in each other, until you fall asleep.
