hello, my name is zera, i'm not new to writing i've been writing fiction since i was a kid haha so i've got a backlog of insanely cringe fics from when i was 11...
i will always gladly reply to any message even if you think it's stupid, there's no such thing! don't be afraid to ask or talk to me <3
my inbox is always open for requests!
recent works:
out on a limb - FWB!Michael Jackson x F!Reader
lend an ear - Michael Jackson x GN!Reader
a night of dancing dreams - Michael Jackson x F!Reader
paper dolls - Michael Jackson x F!Reader
a reanimated dream - Touya Todoroki/Dabi x GN!Reader
one sweet day - Aizawa Shota x GN!Reader
little white lies - Shinsou Hitoshi x GN!Reader
pinocchio - Jolyne Kujoh x F!Stand User!Reader
hwyl i chi - Aizawa Shota x GN!Reader
his hidden notebook & part two - Akaashi Keiji x F!Reader
fight For Me & part two - Kuroo Tetsurou x GN!Reader
written in the Stars - Regulus Black x F!Reader
both Sides - Lily Evans x F!Reader
building bridges - Regulus Black x F!Potter!Reader
hello everyone! i’d like to share the first chapter of a new michael x reader fic i’ve been working on! any feedback would be greatly appreciated :p
1979
manhattan, new york
‧₊ ♪˚⊹
The music pulsed throughout the club, drowning out the exhaustion from your long day at work. Purple, blue, and green lights flashed overhead, each color fighting to outshine the last.
Your curled hair had loosened throughout the night, the soft waves now brushing your back as you moved your body to the rhythm of Night Fever. The familiar beat made it easy to lose yourself on the dance floor.
That was until you felt someone's gaze lingering on you from across the room.
At first, you paid it no mind, too focused on the beat. But when the feeling didn't disappear, you finally glanced up. Through the swaying bodies and flashing lights, your eyes met him for the briefest moment, and suddenly, the song wasn't the only thing making your heart race.
Though brief, the interaction lingered in your mind as you made your way to the table and took a sip of your drink. Night Fever now fading from the speakers, being replaced by the opening notes of Freak Out.
You couldn't shake the feeling that those eyes seemed familiar somehow, but you brushed the thought aside.
"C'mon girl!" Stella called, already making her way back to the dance floor.
You laughed and lifted your drink in response. "I'll be there in a minute." You needed a moment to catch your breath. Between the crowded dance floor, the music blasting, and the lingering feeling of being watched, a short break sounded more appealing than another song.
As you watched Stella disappear into the crowd, your gaze drifted back across the room almost instinctively, wondering if those familiar eyes were still there.
And across the room stood Michael, right beside his producer, nodding along as if he were listening to every word being said. In reality, his attention had drifted long ago. The moment he had laid eyes on you, he found it nearly impossible to look away. Even now, while his producer continued talking, Michael's gaze kept wandering back to where you sat.
There was something about you that drew him in effortlessly. Maybe it was the way you seemed completely lost in the music, moving with an ease that made the crowded dance floor disappear around you. Or maybe it was the confidence in the way you carried yourself, unaware of the effect you were having on him.
Whatever it was, Michael couldn't seem to pull his eyes away from you.
Before Michael could think too much about it, he excused himself from the conversation.
"Mike, are you even listening?" his producer asked with a laugh.
Michael glanced back. "Yeah, yeah. Sorry."
His producer followed his gaze across the room and smirked. "Sure you are."
Michael rolled his eyes, though he couldn't stop the small smile that tugged at his lips when he looked back toward your table, however, his expression fell.
You were gone.
The seat sat empty, your drink still resting on the table. His eyes searched the crowd until he spotted you near the dance floor with Stella, laughing at something she had said.
For a moment, he considered walking over.
Then a group of people stopped him, eager to talk, ask for photos, and congratulate him on his latest project. And by the time he managed to pull away, you'd disappeared into the crowd once again.
Unaware of the pair of eyes searching for you, you let Stella drag you through the crowd toward the opposite side of the club. "One more song," Stella pleaded, already bouncing to the beat before the music had fully changed. You laughed, shaking your head. "You've said that three times!"
"And I'll say it again."
"You're impossible."
"Yet you still love me."
You rolled your eyes, unable to hide your smile. The two of you found a small opening on the dance floor, and before long, Stella had succeeded in pulling you back into the music. For a little while, you forgot about the stranger from across the room.
At least that's what you told yourself. Because every now and then, your gaze drifted. A quick glance over someone's shoulder. A look toward the bar. A scan of the crowd when Stella wasn't paying attention. You weren't looking for anyone. Or so you claimed.
Yet every time you failed to spot him, a strange feeling settled in your chest.
"Okay," Stella said suddenly.
Your head snapped toward her. "What?"
She narrowed her eyes.
"You've been distracted all night!"
"I have not."
Stella laughed. "Girl, please."
"I'm serious."
"Then why do you keep looking around?"
Your mouth opened. Then closed. You didn't have an answer. Stella's grin widened immediately.
"That's what I thought."
"You're making things up."
"Am I?"
You groaned and pushed her shoulder, earning a laugh. The song ended moments later, and you welcomed the excuse to escape her teasing. "Drink?" you asked. Stella nodded enthusiastically. "Now you're speaking my language."
The two of you headed toward the bar, weaving through the crowded club. As you waited for the bartender's attention, you leaned against the counter and let out a quiet sigh.
Maybe Stella was right. Maybe you had been distracted. The thought made you shake your head. It was ridiculous. You didn't even know the man's name. All you'd exchanged was a glance. A glance that should've been forgotten by now. And yet, against your better judgement, your eyes wandered across the room one more time.
This time, they landed on him.
Standing only a few feet away.
Your breath caught.
Apparently, neither of you had stopped looking. And for a moment, neither of you looked away.
Though the closer you looked, the stronger that feeling of familiarity became. The dark curls. Those warm brown eyes. The unmistakable smile.
Suddenly, it hit you.
Oh my God.
Your eyes widened.
You'd spent the entire night trying to figure out why he seemed so familiar, and now the answer felt embarrassingly obvious. "Stella," you said, grabbing her arm.
"What?"
You pointed toward the man across from you. "Tell me I'm not losing my mind."
Stella followed your gaze. Her mouth immediately fell open.
"Is that-"
"Michael Jackson."
Neither of you spoke for a second. "That's Michael Jackson," Stella repeated, as if saying it twice would somehow make it more believable. Meanwhile, Michael had clearly noticed the realization on your face.
His lips twitched into an amused smile. Heat rushed to your cheeks. Great. He knew that you knew.
"Don't look now," Stella whispered dramatically.
"I'm literally already looking."
"Right."
"And I think he just caught me staring." Stella grabbed your arm tighter.
"He's definitely looking over here."
"Stop."
"I'm serious."
You risked another glance, and Michael was still watching you. And this time, instead of looking away, he gave you a small wave.
The crowd moved around you, people squeezing past the bar, laughter and music filling the air. Yet somehow, everything felt quieter. Then Michael smiled as he started making his way toward you.
Your stomach dropped.
"Oh my God, he's coming over here."
Stella nearly choked on her drink.
"Don't panic."
"'I'm not panicking."
"You're absolutely panicking."
Stella managed to disappear unnoticed, and Michael finally got close enough for you to hear him.
"Hi."
The simple greeting caught you off guard.
"Hi."
Smooth, you thought. Michael laughed softly, as if he could tell exactly what was running through your mind.
"I've seen you looking over here all night."
Your eyes widened.
"I've seen you looking over here all night."
"Fair point."
A few moments of silence passed.
"Ya'know, I liked it better when you didn't know who I was."
"What?" You glanced down, suddenly aware of how warm the club had become.
A grin tugged at his lips.
"Five minutes ago, you were just looking at me like I was a normal guy."
"And now?" You glanced up at him.
"Now you look like you're deciding whether to run away or not." He let out a chuckle.
You narrowed your eyes. "I haven't decided yet."
His grin widened.
"Should I be worried?"
"Depends."
"On what?"
"Whethere you're actually as charming as you think you are."
Before Michael could respond, a voice called from behind him.
"There you are."
Micheal closed his eyes briefly.
You looked over to find the same man he'd been speaking to earlier making his way through the crowd.
"I've been looking everywhere for you."
"I was gone for five minutes Q."
"More like twenty."
Michael groaned. Heat rushed to his cheeks.
His producer's gaze shifted toward you. A knowing smile appeared immediately.
"Ah. Now I understand." He shook his head as he patted Michael's shoulder.
"We're heading out soon."
Michael's smile faded slightly as his producer pointed toward the exit. With one last amused look, his producer disappeared back into the crowd. Michael watched him go before turning his attention back to you.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Do Ya Think I'm Sexy? was blaring around you both, and suddenly it felt like there wasn't enough time.
"Looks like that's my cue," he said.
And for some reason, the thought disappointed you more than it should have.
"Looks like it."
A small smile tugged at his lips.
"I'm glad I came over."
Your heart betrayed you with a sudden flutter.
"Me too."
The words came out softer than you'd intended. Michael's smile widened slightly.
"Before I go," Michael said, "I never got your name."
You told him.
He repeated it quietly, smiling to himself.
"Well," he took a step backward, "it was nice meeting you."
Then, after one final glance your way, he disappeared into the crowd. You simply stood there and watched until you could no longer see him.
"Girl." Stella appeared at your side.
"Don't."
"MICHAEL JACKSON ASKED FOR YOUR NAME."
She shook your shoulders as you tried, and failed, to hide your smile.
❛ dangerous era!michael jackson 𝑥 fan!reader ❜ ᛝྀིྀིྀིྀིྀིྀི you send michael letters never thinking much of it until the two of you end up growing close.
𐔌 ݁ 𓂃 ⓘ content ﹕ super feel good fluff, warning may cause heart to ache or feet to kick ok ok bye
May 6, 1993
Dear Applehead,
Hi applehead! It's babyface :) I know it’s been a while since I’ve last wrote. I want you to know I did receive your letters.
I’ve actually read them so many times that the corners are beginning to bend.
The one where you told me about feeding the animals made me laugh. I can practically hear you telling the story in my head. My mom thinks I’m ridiculous because every time a letter arrives, I disappear into my room for an hour and come back smiling.
I hope you’ve been taking care of yourself. I know you’re always busy and traveling somewhere new every week. Sometimes I see photos of you in magazines and wonder if you’re exhausted. You always look happy, but I know pictures don’t tell the whole story.
Things here have been pretty ordinary. University has been boring as usual. I spend most afternoons reading, listening to music, and waiting for the mailman to come down our street. I think he knows me by name now.
You asked me what my favorite place is, and I think it’s the little park near my house. There’s a bench beside a pond where I sit when I need to think. Listen to the birds chirping or the frogs croaking, even the crickets if I go late at night. Sometimes I bring one of your letters with me and read it there. It sounds silly when I write it down, but somehow it feels like talking to a friend.
Thank you for writing back all this time. I know there are millions of people who would love to hear from you, so the fact that you take the time to write to me means more than you’ll ever know.
Anyway, I should probably stop before this turns into another five-page letter.
Write back when you can.
Your friend,
Babyface.
P.S. I still think you should learn how to take a day off once in a while.
P.P.S. I know you’re probably rolling your eyes right now.
michael held the long awaited piece of paper between his fingertips as he read your letter over and over. he did indeed roll his eyes at the last part, before huffing a small laugh out of his nose because of course you knew. it had been months since he last heard from you. he thought maybe it was because he wasn’t home for a while or that you had been busy with school. either way, he was so excited to see the envelope with your name on it.
he had connected with millions of fans and yet you were the one that stood out. your first letter to michael consisted of telling him how much his music moved you, how much of an impact and influence he had on you and a little bit about your personal life. how you had grown up with an alcoholic father who was physically violent. michael seen himself in you and had to write back immediately. well, after a year and a half of writing back to back, exchanging photographs—you sent him one of you and your cat and a detail that stood out to him was the slight baby fat stored in your face that made your cheeks extra plump, which is what caused him to give you the nickname ‘babyface’ and even giving you his personal p.o. box specially for your letters, you two had grown exceptionally close. so close, in one letter michael had included his personal phone number for the two of you to be able to talk more often.
that first phone call was the most nerve wracking. your stomach jumped, turned and flipped as you hesitantly dialed the numbers in your home phone. all you kept wondering was how his voice would sound, what he would say. everything and anything was running through your mind. it took you a good thirty minutes before even deciding to push the call button. and after 3 rings the line finally clicked.
“hello?” said the familiar voice you’d hear through your headphones, but his speaking voice wasn’t as high pitched as you were expecting it to be. it was about an octave lower than what you were used to. hearing his voice made your heart fall to the bottom of your stomach though and it wasn’t some fan freak out, it was because now it felt real. instead of reading ink on a page like a book, you got to hear his tone in which how he said certain words or how he paused whenever he had to stop and think of what he’s saying.
“hi. it’s babyface.” your voice was quite small at first, just jumbled with nerves. you twisted the coil of the cord as you conversed, it was the only thing that helped you focus on his voice instead of your nerves.
“babyface!” he exclaimed over the line, “ahh, i’ve been waiting for your call.” was he really? it was so anomalous to believe that he was waiting for you. that first phone call, you two sat and talked and laughed for what felt like eternity but was really three-ish hours. and when you saw how long you sat on the line for, you couldn’t believe it. speaking with him just felt so nice, you felt like he could’ve been the only person in the world who understood you.
“i should probably let you go.” you laughed quietly, glancing over at the clock sitting on your nightstand.
there was a brief static of silence in your ear which made your stomach turn a bit.
“already?” michael said, almost a bit of a whine caught in his tone.
the disappointment in his voice caught you completely off guard but it made you smile to yourself.
“applehead, it’s been three hours.”
“has it?” the innocent playfulness showing through his voice.
“yes.” you replied, phone stuck between your shoulder as you reached for your glass of water.
there was another pause between you two before michael’s voice rang through once again.
“huh.”
you couldn’t help but laugh and neither could he.
the conversation continued for another few minutes, neither one of you really saying anything important anymore. the topics had long since run dry, yet neither of you seemed willing to be the first one to hang up.
eventually, the silence settled comfortably between the two of you.
“goodnight, babyface.”
the nickname made your heart do that familiar little flip yet you shook your head.
“goodnight, michael.”
another pause of silence.
“sleep good, okay?” his voice soft and low now.
“you too.”
and yet neither one of you decided to hang up which caused you to smile despite yourself.
“bye, michael.”
“bye, babyface.”
this time the line finally clicked.
you stared at the receiver for a moment before slowly placing it back on the hook. somehow, saying goodbye to him felt harder than calling him in the first place.
Synopsis: You and Michael get ready for one the first interview after the release of the Michael Biopic. It's been a long time since either of you have done any sort of interview, and he asks if you'll just sit with him.
Content/Warnings: Fluff, Michael lives, 2026, proud uncle moment.
W.C. 1.5k
A/N: This is the first story based off of this request I got! Up next is the grandkids having you and michael going tiktok trends lol
You and Michael sat in the dark movie theater, watching the lights flickering across the large screen. Jaafar sat a few rows ahead with the rest of the cast, but you could feel his nerves from your seat. You knew how badly he wanted your husband to approve of his portrayal of him. There had been a handful of times you had talked to Jaafar late at night after a hard day of filming. He would call you later at night when Michael was asleep, talking to you about how worried he was that he wasn't doing Michael justice.
You always reassured him, telling him that Michael will be proud of him no matter what.
And it was true. You could feel the pride radiating off of Michael beside you. He watched the screen with slightly glassy eyes, squeezing your hand hard. When the movie ended, Michael was the first to stand up to applaud, his eyes solely on Jaafar.
After people had filed out of the packed theatre, you talked quietly with Jaafar's mother, Alejandra. You didn't fail to notice Jaafar and Michael standing off quietly to the side. You could see the emotion on both of their faces, the mix of pride, gratitude, joy, relief, and love swirling around the conversation. Michael knew how hard Jaafar had worked on the role, had seen the blood sweat and tears his nephew had poured into every detail. The sight of them hugging tightly made both you and Alejandra tear up.
Having been married to Michael for around 35 years now, you knew him like the back of your hand. You knew that Michael loved the movie with every ounce of his being, not because it was spectacular or emotional, but because Jaafar had given him back some of his humanity.
People desperately wanted to know Michael's exact thoughts on the movie. They wanted to know if he was upset that things were left out or glossed over, if he thought Jaafar did him justice, just everything. You and Michael were old, you both didn't exactly want to get all dressed up and sit in a chair while being berated with questions. So when Jimmy Fallon offered to do a Zoom interview, Michael jumped on it. You had actually never seen him so excited for an interview before, it made you laugh as he explained it to you over breakfast one morning.
"It's all virtual! They said I really don't even need to set up nice lights or anythin, I can just sit on the couch and use a computer. So I can be in the comfort of our own house and I get to brag about my nephew. Isn't that awesome, mama?"
You smiled more at the nickname. Ever since you and Michael had children that was his all time favorite name for you. He always said that it reminded him of how lucky he was. "I like that, why don't people do that more?"
He shrugged, "M'not sure, but I think that's the only kind of interview I'm doin from now on." He sipped his tea.
"I think that's a wonderful idea. When is it?"
"In two days." He scraped the last bit of breakfast off his plate.
"Oh good. Oh, by the way, the kiddos are coming over later today." You watched his face light up. Your second oldest had just had their second kid, which absolutely thrilled Michael. You both often ended up watching the grand babies whenever your kids had to go out of town or just simply wanted a night off. It thrilled Michael. He loved getting to play with them and spoil them rotten.
"Why didn't you tell me sooner? I would've gotten the bouncy house up and runnin an hour ago." He slipped his readers further up his nose.
You smiled, "Cause you know the baby is too young to go on the inflatables. Plus those two like to be indoors more than outdoors."
He nodded, "Alright, well maybe we can get some arts and crafts for the girls. Can you do the shoppy cart order delivery thingy?"
You laughed lightly and pulled your phone out, "Y'know you're gonna half to learn how to use a phone properly soon, I can't be instacarting things for you forever."
He frowned, "The light on the phone hurts my eyes!"
"Michael, I got you blue light glasses for christmas cause that's always your excuse." You smiled when he had nothing to say in return. "It's alright, I still love you even though you're horrible with technology."
"I don't get it, we're practically the same age and you know way more than me!" He crossed his arms.
"Cause I'm not as stubborn as you."
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
Michael ran, well more like walked as quickly as a 67 year old can, around the living room. He was fixing up the area around him, making sure it looked great for the interview. Meanwhile, you set up the zoom.
"How do I look, mama?" He asked you.
"Like a very handsome and dapper gentleman."
"Do I look too old?"
You shook your head, "No, you look perfect." You pressed a kiss to his head. It made his body relax immediately. He sat beside you, placing a hand on your knee.
"Would you stay here with me? I'm sure they wouldn't mind you even being on camera. You keep me calm and help clear my head." He looked at you sincerely.
"Of course I will, Mikey." You squeezed his hand.
The two of you sat shoulder to shoulder on the couch, waiting to be connected to Jimmy.
His face appeared, and he smiled. "Ladies and Gentleman, please give a warm welcome to Michael Jackson and a surprise guest Y/n Jackson."
You both smiled and waved at the camera. The interview started off simple, Jimmy asking questions about your and Michael's life since retirement. You both answered honestly, saying you were absolutely loving it.
"So, Michael, I'm sure you've seen the Michael biopic?" It was just Jimmy's face on the screen, but you both knew there was an audience in front of him.
He nodded, "Yes, I have. I think I've seen it 3 times now."
Jimmy laughed, "Wow 3 times, that's a lot. So I guess you liked it?"
"I loved it? I thought everyone did an amazing job putting it together, especially Jaafar."
Jimmy smiled, "So you're happy with how he portrayed you?"
Michael eased a little bit, eyes becoming slightly glossy. "I'm more than happy. I loved every second of his performance. I'm just so proud of him."
You both heard the audience melt at his words. "So he did you justice?"
"I don't think it's about doing me justice. It's more than that to me. Yes he executed the voice and the moves, but he also gave me a new life. It wasn't an exact replication of me, and that's what I loved. I loved that he brought some of himself to the table, I mean I can see it in his eyes. He gave me something I've felt deprived of for a long time. He didn't make me this big superstar, performance machine. He gave me humanity. He really showed that there was more to me than just the dancing and performance."
You squeezed his hand. Watching him get slightly choked up. Jimmy smiled, "So you think he was the right choice?"
"He was the only choice." Michael confirmed. "I think he's the only one who would have put in that much effort. For two years he and I worked really closely together, and I could feel how bad he wanted to get things right. I don't think I would have seen that in anyone else. So yes, he was the only option."
The interview continued for a few more minutes before you and Michael waved goodbye to the camera and left the zoom. Michael sat back against the couch when you closed the computer. You sat next to him, leaning into his side. He wrapped an arm around you.
"You did great, Mikey."
"Well I had you there to calm me."
You smiled and felt your phone buzzing. Your eldest daughter had just sent you a screenshot, showing that Michael's song Billie Jean had taken the number one spot on the Billboard Hot 100. "Michael, Billie Jean is going viral... again." You laughed and showed him the phone.
He smiled, "I have a feeling there's going to be a lot more interviews we're gonna have to do."
FWB!Michael Jackson x F!Reader
era: thrad
world count: 4,350
tag list: @58applestall, @7viiseven
i broke my own rules and wrote smut, all because i love teena marie and satc
Summer 1985
It had been less than a month since Michael and I had last met, and I yearned for him like a drug addict. Nothing could ease me anymore other than him, and I hated myself for it.
Despite that, my workplace had just succeeded in a huge merger between us and the latest up and coming tech giant in the city - I was beyond ecstatic, more so giddy over how thrilling the celebratory dinner was. Everyone, from city socialites to the Wall Street big shots were there. And to my luck, I was being courted by a handsome young fellow, an aspiring broker who caught my eye by his unique approach at flirting. His hands were nimble and certainly well structured, his veins were poignant and I could imagine them wrapped around my neck and chest. He was alluring and a some what good kisser. His lips were soft and plump against my own, I loved how his tongue lightly brushed against my own each time we opened our lips for air. I melted with ease as he teased me through my button up shirt, the seams slowly pulling a part with how my chest with heaving from lust.
It was a great distraction from Michael. Unlike him, this New York fellow was far from the passionate type. He was rough and took what he wanted without a care. I wasn’t concerned for how he held onto my wrists tighter than how Michael did or how he squeezed my thighs more often than Michael did. I just wanted to slip away from these feelings of loneliness that he had left me from every morning of parting. Maybe I could be moulded into something else, something that meant I wouldn’t get hurt like before.
We had moved to a secluded alleyway behind the bar’s entrance, he had pinned me against the brick wall and I could feel his bulge poking me through his tailored chinos. He had a weird sense of fashion, his pants laid slightly above his ankle, making him appear lanky and disproportionate to his outward demeanour. His previously sexy, gruff beard at the dimly lit bar, was beginning to look scrappy under the street lights. His hair wasn’t as sauve as the warm lights at the dinner tables made him out to be - he was looking grosser with each kiss and I began to feel repulsed by his aggressive clinginess. His patchy beard was leaving harsh scratches upon my cheek with each kiss, I thought a bruise would appear with how rough he was shoving his throat down my mouth. With a brisk push, I called chicken and played it off as needing to piss - just to prepare myself before a night of fun with him. One that only I knew, would never happen.
I slipped back into the bar, and locked myself in an open cubicle.
Had I really stooped that low. Getting with such a disgusting man just to forget him.
I felt foolish, played and most of all, lonely. I missed Michael, I missed the way he could touch me and I would be at my knees for him with ease. Nothing was a game with him, everything felt purposeful. No other man could compare and I knew deep down that my heart wouldn’t let me try to.
I think it was the bell boy who let me use the bar’s telephone, I said my sister was left alone at home and I needed to call her. No such sister existed of course, but I knew only one number off by heart.
It took four rings for him to pick up.
‘Hello?’
‘It’s me…Are you busy?’ My voice was faint, croaky, maybe a small hair strand of that man’s beard was still left inside my mouth.
‘Oh Sunshine, where are you?’ I could tell he knew. Of course he did. I quickly gave the address of the bar and soon enough, a black Cadillac pulled up and without a word, I slipped into the night far from the world I occupied. Back to the sheets of a man who I couldn’t call my own.
I was lead to yet another penthouse hotel room, booked under an anonymous name. I was told to wait inside until he landed. There were murmurings beyond the locked door, I could vaguely hear coded talk through their muffled voices…estimated landing…0100…
I was left free range of the suite, I took it upon myself to freshen up. I knew he was coming.
The bathtub had a gorgeous view of the city skyline, the lights twinkled through the night and meant I had not reason to bath in the bright white light of the room. The stars and city lights will do me good. The water was warm to the touch, soothing my muscles like jelly. Slight bubbles had accumulated across the massive tub, which was triple the size of my own in my tiny apartment. Beside the tub, were a dozen roses in a vase. I picked on up and began to slowly pluck the petals in the water surrounding me.
When I felt met Michael, I felt like a budding rose, soon to bloom and relish in its new found beauty. But I was on edge, riddled with thorns - scared of the world beyond. Yet Michael still held me close. Still had me wrapped around his fingers. Had I become the blooming rose of my mind?
Was I slowly losing that beauty like how I was plucking each petal from its stem?
With each night we spent hiding our secret from the world, it felt like a part of me was being taken bit by bit, petal by petal. But I couldn’t help it, it’s undeniable just how beautiful our time spent together was. You can’t help but pick at the petals.
I was so focused on my bath that I hadn’t noticed two strong arms slowly wrap around my bare shoulders. I tilted my head up and I was left face to face with the man of the night.
‘Hey Sunshine, what you got there?’ He kissed the top of my forehead, delicately brushing my hairline.
‘Some flowers, a nice touch to the bath.’
He hummed in agreement, and slowly he began to strip away his clothes. His nearly ironed and tailored black suit, slowly came undone, his pants fell to the floor and soon I was blessed with the sight of his body. As he stepped into the bath with me, I couldn’t help but stare at his speckled skin, light and dark shades that rippled into a ravishing watercolour painting. His toned body became wet from the soapy water. His eyes never left my body, I felt him eyeing up by wet shoulders, collar bones all the way down to my bosom.
‘Let me clean you,’ without a word, I turned my back to him and laid my head against the bathtub, he took a washcloth and lathered it with soap, suds foaming against my back. His hands didn’t fail to caress the curvature of my spine as he scrubbed delicately against my skin. Pure serene silence. More intimate than most of our nights in bed.
‘Did I catch you at a bad time?’
He hummed a soft tune, ‘Not at all, I’ll always be at your call Sunshine.’
We spoke little of our lives whenever we were together, once the door shut nothing could enter and nothing could escape. It was mostly a rule I set up, from the beginning, I was afraid of the superstar that was Michael Jackson. I didn’t want him to know how much I struggled with my own debts and insecurities. How I hated the men at my job only saw me as a piece of meat rather than a valued colleague.
And, I guessed that he didn’t want me to know about his either. The real world of glitz and glamour, how false it all was. How manufactured and how lonely it truly is. So an unspoken rule was laid, never talk about life beyond the room. I regretted that rule more often than not, I wanted to know more about him. To be close to who he was, not just his body.
With a swift twist of movement from him, I was swung to face him. Chest to chest, my breasts pushed against his body. I could feel myself come undone yet again. A sweet embrace in shallow waters, all I remember was how warm I felt. He kissed me with his whole being, slow and passionate lips danced to a rhythm only we knew. So soft and delicate, he tasted sweet like oranges. I was addicted.
The water kept swirling around us as I hooked my legs around his waist, he was sat on a small step in the bath. His cock stiff against my belly, my lips were permanently stuck on suckling on the soft skin of his neck, scattering tiny marks from his chest up to the corner of his ear. I couldn’t get enough of his taste. Michael was no saint either. His large hand fondled my breast roughly, squeezing, twisting my hard nipple and playing with it against his palm. His other hand had a death grip against my ass cheek, grinding me slowly against his crotch.
Slowly, I pulled away and guided myself above the head of his dick. Hard and pulsating, I engulfed him fully and instantly he began to thrust so far up me, his tip began to kiss the entrance of my cervix. Loud moans and mewls echoed throughout the bathroom. The city skyline as our only witness, the water splashed rougher against our bodies and I could feel his cock swell between my tight walls, his moans and grunts ringing against my ear, his head hung low against the corner of my neck, kissing me with his sweet tongue. He refused to unhook his grip against my ass, imprinting his filthy large palm against my soft skin. His thrusts quickened and I lost control over my whole body. He mewled sweet whispers that set goosebumps all over my body.
‘Let go for me baby,’
‘Come with me.’
‘My sweet girl.’
My voice was getting louder with each thrust, my eyes blurred and I felt a release like never before, gushing against his pulsating cock still snug inside me. Michael followed suit, he grunted and stuffed me full of his seed, I felt every drop spew from him and mixed with my own. When I pull off of him, I felt my body go limp and his strong arms wrapped around my once again.
The morning sun caressed my cheek so kindly, I had never woken up to such a serene sight. For once, Michael had stayed for breakfast. At the end of the bed, he was perched covered in the fluffy hotel bathrobe, his eyes leaning down towards the newspaper in his hand, a distinct frown laid upon his face. His hair was unlike mine, unruffled as if the night before was just a distant dream. I could watch him a far for hours, the peace of mundanity - I had dreamt of a morning like this.
‘What you reading?’ I stood, dragging the bedsheets with me to hide my bare figure. Michael dropped his gaze and set his focus on me, as I stepped closer to him, I snuck a grape off of his pristine china plate and into my mouth.
‘Stuff about Madonna,’
‘Oh, I heard she’s gonna pose for Playboy later this year.’ Michael looked up confused.
‘How’d you know about that?’
‘Heard it through the grapevine.’ I shrugged and continued to munch on the spread of fruits and pancakes across the table.
‘…Don’t always believe what tabloids say Y/N.’ He was noticeably more stern than usual. Another first in the morning.
‘It’s not from any hack, my friend knows a guy at Playboy so…it’s just insider goss.’
‘Well I don’t like it when you play dirty like that.’ I could only smirk in response.
‘You liked it last night though.’
We only stayed in our domestic bubble for a matter of a few more minutes till Michael was called back to fly back to set for Captain EO, he didn’t speak much about it but from what he did say - the glistening twinkles in his eyes made me fall even more madly in love with him. Such pure passion that flows through that man was an incredible turn on for me. Such wonder, I couldn’t wait to suck him dry.
But just before he left, there was still a digging feeling I couldn’t get rid of. Despite everything last night, despite the repulsive memory of that New York jerk - nothing could compare to my feelings to Michael. As he packed his belongings and threw on a freshly pressed suit, despite his quiet demeanour, I could see his biceps bulging through the slightly tightly fitted shirt. His broad shoulders sat wide with his jacket. Everything about his screamed glamour and I just needed to eat him up. No, I wanted more. I wanted to be beside him, not just in bed but in life. Through the daylight and into the nighttime. I wanted to be so fully consumed by him that I couldn’t live without him.
But that was far from what he wanted. I knew we were just there when one of us called. That was it. I just thought, it wouldn’t hurt to try.
‘Hey, Applehead,’ I teased, now stood behind his back rubbing my palms against his velvet jacket.
‘Say, maybe next week - shall we go out for dinner? Just us two.’
He stifled a choked laugh, brushed my hands off of him and had somehow, already found himself at the door. ‘I’ll call you Y/N.’
And just like that, he was gone. I knew it was a hard no.
Weeks turned into months and he hadn’t called once. Michael was at the heart of the public zeitgeist - his name was everywhere, across entertainment and business. His name was scattered around like a hot potato in the office, all about his recent acquisition of the ATV Music catalog. One that my boss was regretting not investing in. I had drowned myself in the other beds of many other notable bachelors of the city, trying to fill the void of loneliness that Michael left behind. Maybe it was just wishful thinking that he could see me as more than just a night-pal.
His friendship with Diana Ross was noted on every newspaper and magazine. Hot new photographs hit the local news-stand and it made my blood boil. She was fabulous and he was dazzling whilst I stood in the rain of a metropolis full of unknown faces just like mine.
The monotonous world was eating me alive, till a certain black Cadillac appeared at the bottom of my apartment block. After 4 months, now he calls. Maybe I was naive or clingy or just plain dumb - but no matter how many months of silence between us, once I saw that car, I dropped everything and ran for him like it was my dying breath.
It wasn’t the first time Michael had sent me off in a plane to where he was. Last time it was whilst he was on tour with his brothers and one particular night had caused him to spiral and somehow, I was en route to Texas and had the most passionate night since our first encounter.
This time, I was escorted to a separate building amongst the Hayvenhurst lot. There in the dimly lit studio was Michael slouched over the studio workstation, his head held between his arms, cradling himself. The door shut lightly behind me, leaving the two of us alone.
I approached him slowly, my fingers trickling over to touch his fingers. Instinctively, they intertwined, locking into each other in silence. His breaths was heavy, with a slight sniffle in-between. No words could form from my lips, I could only wrap my arms around his slouched figure and embrace him as tightly as I could, as if he were to disappear right then and there.
We never spoke of that night. We embraced for what felt like hours on the sofa of his home recording studio, not one word spoken. His head laid softly against my chest, he listened intently to my heartbeat, lightly tapping along to it against my thighs. His complexion was changing, his features were sharper than before and the sparkle in his eyes were dimming. I didn’t have the guts to break the silence, so all I did was caress his head and let him lay against me like a baby. It’s a memory that I’ll always hold dear to my heart, both for showing me how much I cared for him and also showing me the truth of his vulnerability.
By ’86, Michael was out of my reach once again. He had fully thrown himself into recording once more, and I was to watch from a far, only hearing of him through passing tabloid news or television appearances. Talks of illicit affairs and secret escapades that smacked me back into reality. I couldn’t cling to the image of a man I desired so deeply, who I barely even know of from his own mouth. He only knew me under the moonlight, where my breasts were freed for his mouth to have free reign and he would trickle loving words against my skin. Where his hands found its rightful place across the curves of my waist and thighs. Where we would make love forever, frozen in time. I only knew him in the same sunset filled rooms, in bed with my limbs wrapped around him so tightly so he would never leave, and with each deep kiss I prayed that he would say he loved me. It was all false, something I should have just kept to myself.
I had to forget him, I had to let him go. He clearly had too.
No more last minute calls, no surprise appearances. Nothing. So with a regretful heart, I embarked on the pre-written path that all young women around me followed. Meet a guy, date and hope for the best, hope that he too will settle for you.
We met at a meeting over some absurd financial changes to the company, he asked me out for drinks and one thing lead to another. With each kiss and lingering hand against my legs - I couldn’t help but see Michael in him. So sweet and delicate, so soft and caring. I felt my lips constantly tremble, I couldn’t stop seeing him everywhere. Not just on papers, but in bed with another man.
What kind of scum was I to be thinking of another man when I had a perfectly suitable guy right next to me, softly snoring in his sleep, laying bare in my sheets after a night of passionate sex. Yet I could only dream of Michael.
He took me out on more dinner dates and even introduced me to his family in their townhouse, we had just celebrated our one year anniversary and I was finally thinking that I was over my fleeting crush. We had booked a table at the city’s hottest new fusion restaurant, I was so enamoured by its glamour that I hadn’t noticed that we had walked past the same black Cadillac that I knew like the back of my hand. The night was more than just fun, a jazz band sung softly in the background as my boyfriend spoke gently, rubbing his thumb over my hand over the table. I could finally relish in a public romance, a love that I wasn’t afraid of showing the world. I thought, I was finally happy with this arrangement. That, I too, could settle.
I noticed the car on the walk back, my heart began to race like never before, body visibly shook and was held in a moment of shock. He was here. Somewhere. Memories flooded my mind, there was no other man in my life now, I didn’t care for the one stood beside me begging for me to say something. Something switched inside me, and my body moved without a single thought, as if I were a puppet on a string. Ripping my hand out of his, I found myself entering the car with no words uttered. I was back, I had fallen back into the same old routine. I was out on a limb and nothing else mattered. Guilt filled my mind and tears began to follow, endless thoughts of self deprecation littered my mind. I couldn’t help it, I was so consumed by the man that I’ll always find myself chasing whether I liked it or not.
There I was, back in another hotel room. After two years of nothing, it was as if nothing had happened in-between then. But instead of a deep, passionate kiss to welcome me back, Michael was stood in the middle of the room, hands in pockets and eyes hidden by his shades.
‘Who is he?’
‘…What’s it got to do with you?’
‘I don’t know, maybe because you’re my girl.’
Silence, a pause so cut throat I felt my blood rush to my head, I almost fainted.
‘Your girl? Since when have I ever been your girl.’ My voice was shaking, ‘You know, that’s so rich coming from the guy who only calls me, when the world rejects him and only I can caress him to sleep. The same guy, who leaves at the break of dawn, leaving me bare in foreign sheets in a foreign city I can’t navigate. Do you know what that’s like?’
His breath hitched, I could see a bubble stuck in his throat so far down that he nearly choked.
‘Michael you act as if me, finally being with a man who treats me right, is the end of your life. When we never had a life together to begin with! Maybe I was the delusional one, thinking I could move on from the constant heartbreak you gave me. Endless promises of love, just us two - every night, I felt like I was the only girl in the world. Yet every morning I was left alone, cold and forgotten.’
I felt the floor begin to shake, I was on the verge of sinking into this void that was opening up beneath me. Years of pent up emotions, that I feared to tell him. The man I once fell for, for his beauty, his charisma, his pure magnetism - just stood there chained to his shadow. I was clawing for any grip back to reality, but I kept falling into this pit so wretched that every word that slipped from my lips was drenched in poison.
‘Fuck it, I’ll just say it all for the world to hear because I know damn well we aren’t seeing each other after this night.’ I gripped my chest so tight I could barely breathe. ‘I loved you Michael, I didn’t see myself ever thinking about romance or a relationship when we first had our thing. I never planned to day-dream about all the small moments with you, but somehow, over the years of being strung along by you - I was so infatuated with you, I couldn’t imagine my life without you.’ As my breath trembled, a stream of tears couldn’t help but flow down my cheeks.
‘But after every high, after every night where you made me feel so loved and cared for, I never saw the same look in your eyes that I had. Your touches were cold and temporary, I knew we weren’t anything to each other - but I wanted to believe that there was something more than just sex and nights where held each other. Maybe I wanted to be loved by you.’
It was getting ugly, snot was beginning to sink into my upper lip and my eyes were burning from focusing on him.
‘So I tried to step away, find a new life far away from you. And then I met a guy. Like every other girl, I met a guy, I fell for him and I want to be with him. Yet why is it when I finally find my own place in my own world - do you come and take it from me? Why is it am I always at your own convince?’
I fell to the floor, the wooden floorboards eating my whole, nothing was left. My heart-ached for heartbreak I had been experiencing for more than a decade. I saw his shoes slowly come into my line of view from the floor.
‘I may not know how I feel for you, but I know I hate seeing you hurt. It kills me.’
I hated to admit to it, but his soft touch on my shoulder, the light rub against my skin - calmed me. He always had that magic to his touch, something no one else can replicate. I couldn’t help but cry harder. Not because it hurt, but because it was the soft feeling I had felt in ages. And it was coming from the man I swore I would never think of again.
‘Do you love him?’
My heart was beating uncontrollably and Michael only made it worse. He cradled me in an embrace that my body always longed for, that my heart cried for. But my mind was begging him to stop. I couldn’t take it anymore. There was no one who could compare to his love, his kisses could kill me in an instant, my body felt as if it was on fire and he was the rain to quench it. I was an addict, and I could finally indulge on my drug that I thought I could live without. With a shaking hand, I drew him into a deep kiss. Our tongues blended together like they had never been a part.
pairing: jaafar jackson x reader (brother’s best friend)
summary: in which jaafar and y/n turn a kid's painting session into a competition neither of them is qualified to win.
part 1
word count: 5,711
an: thank you so much for the love you’ve been giving to the missing piece AHHH!
Saturday mornings were supposed to belong to Y/N. There was no ritual attached to them, no carefully protected routine she defended from the rest of the week. She simply liked the feeling of waking up without obligations immediately waiting for her. No alarms. No schedules. No messages demanding immediate attention. Just a few quiet hours where she could move through the day at her own pace before the rest of the world inevitably remembered she existed.
Unfortunately, the rest of the world had other ideas.
By ten-thirty that morning, she was standing in the middle of an arts and crafts store holding two different packs of paintbrushes and wondering how exactly she'd managed to get talked into this.
The answer, unsurprisingly, was Abu Bakr.
Three days earlier, she'd received a video call from Jermajesty's phone that had lasted almost fifteen minutes. Not because he wanted anything, but because Abu Bakr had apparently decided she needed to be informed that he was now an artist. The announcement had been delivered with the seriousness of a press conference. For several uninterrupted minutes, he'd explained colours, painting techniques and what Y/N strongly suspected were entirely fictional artistic principles. She had understood maybe half of what he was saying, but that hadn't really mattered. The excitement had been contagious enough on its own.
Now she was staring at shelves lined with children's paint supplies while trying to remember whether finger paint washed out of clothing but that felt like a problem for Future Y/N.
The shopping basket hanging from her arm had already become significantly heavier than intended. Paint. Brushes. Sketchbooks. Stickers. Markers. Somewhere along the way she'd completely abandoned the original plan of buying one small thing and had instead started shopping like she was personally funding a preschool art program.
The realization made her laugh quietly to herself.
Somewhere over the past few years, buying random things for Jackson family members had become alarmingly normal.
There was a strange comfort in that thought.
When she'd first met Jermajesty at university, she never could have imagined becoming so naturally woven into the rhythm of his family's life. At the time, simply being invited to family gatherings had felt surprising enough. She remembered spending nearly a week debating whether she should attend that first barbecue, convinced she would feel out of place the entire time. Looking back now, the memory felt almost ridiculous.
The Jackson house had stopped feeling unfamiliar a long time ago.
At some point, without ever announcing itself, it had become one of the places she instinctively associated with comfort.
By the time she pulled onto the familiar street later that afternoon, the feeling settled over her almost immediately.
The house looked exactly as it always did.
Cars parked along the curb, music faintly drifting through open windows, the distant sound of voices carrying into the warm California air. Nothing particularly remarkable.
There were very few places left where she could show up unannounced and know with complete certainty that she would be welcomed inside.
The Jacksons had always made it look effortless.
The front door was unlocked so Y/N stepped inside, slipping her sunglasses into her bag as she moved through the entryway. The familiar sounds of the house wrapped around her almost instantly. Somewhere upstairs, a door closed. A television played in another room. Laughter echoed briefly from deeper inside the house before dissolving into overlapping conversations she couldn't quite make out.
The house never seemed quiet, even on calmer days, there was always movement. Always life and that was part of its charm.
'Nini!'
As she was saying hi to the family and teasing Jermajesty for the story he had posted, the shout arrived before she even reached the kitchen.
Y/N laughed immediately.
'Hey you.'
A second later Abu Bakr came flying around the corner at a speed that suggested absolutely no concern for personal safety. He nearly crashed into her legs before wrapping both arms around her legs.
'You came.'
'I did.'
His eyes immediately dropped toward the shopping bag in her hand. 'You bring paint?'
Y/N stared at him. 'Well, hello to you too bud.'
'You bring paint?'
She lasted approximately three seconds before laughing. Slowly, she lifted the bag and Abu Bakr's reaction was instantaneous, his entire face lit up. The excitement was so genuine that Y/N found herself smiling despite having known exactly what the response would be.
'Okay,' she said, shaking her head. 'Let's go before you explode.'
Apparently that was all the permission he needed.
The backyard looked exactly as she'd expected. Warm sunlight spilled across the patio while a light breeze occasionally stirred the trees overhead. Somewhere inside the house, music continued playing softly enough that it blended into the background rather than demanding attention. It was one of those afternoons that seemed determined to move slowly.
Twenty minutes later, she was sitting cross-legged beside him, sleeves rolled up, trying to convince him that painting the sun green was perhaps a slightly unconventional choice.
'It green.'
'The sun?'
'Yeah.'
'Huh..interesting.'
'It green.'
'Yeah, I see buddy.' Y/N laughed and dipped her brush back into the paint.
Organization lasted less than a minute and chaos arrived immediately afterward. Abu Bakr approached painting the same way he approached everything else in life. With complete confidence and very little concern for consequences. Paint accumulated everywhere. On the paper. On the table. Suspiciously close to his sleeves. Y/N spent most of the next half hour alternating between working on her own painting and preventing various artistic catastrophes.
The afternoon settled into a comfortable rhythm after that. Conversation drifted wherever Abu Bakr decided it should go, which meant topics changed every few minutes without warning. Dinosaurs eventually became trucks. Trucks somehow became superheroes. Superheroes turned into a detailed explanation of why green was objectively the greatest colour ever created.
Y/N wasn't entirely sure how much time had passed when the back door opened.
The sound barely registered at first.
People moved through the house constantly. Family members wandered between rooms carrying drinks, conversations, plates of food, half-finished stories. The house existed in a permanent state of motion. Nobody thought twice about doors opening or closing.
What finally caught her attention wasn't the sound itself.
It was Abu Bakr.
One second he was focused entirely on his painting, tongue peeking out slightly in concentration as he added yet another questionable shade of green to the page. The next, his head snapped up so quickly that a paintbrush slipped from his fingers.
His entire face transformed.
'Jaja!'
The excitement in his voice made Y/N glance over her shoulder.
And there he was. Jaafar.
A week ago, the sight probably would have surprised her.
Now it mostly made her laugh.
Three years of somehow missing each other. Three years of hearing excuses about filming schedules, rehearsals, travel plans and impossible timing. Then suddenly they'd met once and apparently the universe had decided to overcorrect.
A gym bag hung from one shoulder. A baseball cap sat low over his curls. There was a faint tiredness around his eyes that suggested a long rehearsal, but it softened almost immediately when Abu Bakr launched himself in his direction.
Jaafar caught him effortlessly, the motion looked practiced. 'Hey, buddy.'
Abu Bakr immediately started talking far too fast for any normal person to follow, Jaafar somehow managed anyway. Eventually his gaze lifted toward the table. Toward her.
His smile widened slightly.
'Hey.'
Something unexpectedly easy settled into Y/N's chest.
As though they were continuing a conversation rather than starting a new one.
'Hey,' she said. 'Would you look at that?'
The smile on his face immediately turned amused. 'What?'
'I didn't have to wait another three years to see you.'
A laugh escaped him. 'Trying to do better, you know.'
'Good.'
'I heard my reputation suffered.'
'Suffered?' Y/N repeated. 'You were one missed family gathering away from becoming folklore.'
The conversation resumed so naturally that neither of them seemed particularly aware of it happening.
A week earlier, their first meeting had carried a certain novelty. Not awkwardness exactly, but awareness. The strange realization that they were finally speaking to someone whose name had existed in their lives long before the person themselves. Now, that initial curiosity had already softened around the edges. The introductions had been made. The polite questions had been asked and answered. Whatever uncertainty might have existed between two people meeting for the first time had quietly disappeared somewhere during those hours spent talking beneath string lights at Jermajesty's birthday.
Unfortunately, Abu Bakr had very little interest in allowing adults to dictate the flow of events.
The little boy had been watching the exchange closely, paintbrush still clutched in one hand, as though assessing whether enough time had been spent on greetings. Apparently reaching a conclusion, he marched forward with complete confidence and grabbed Jaafar's wrist before anyone could react.
Y/N immediately recognized that look.
It was the same expression Abu Bakr wore whenever he had already made a decision on behalf of everyone else.
The child stopped beside the outdoor table and pointed decisively toward the empty chair next to her.
'Sit.'
For a moment, Jaafar simply looked at him.
Then at the chair.
Then briefly toward Y/N.
'Honestly, I'd listen if I were you.' She said nodding to him.
Jaafar glanced toward her. 'Yeah?' His mouth twitched.
The exchange earned a look of approval from Abu Bakr, who appeared pleased that everyone was finally behaving reasonably.
With exaggerated resignation, Jaafar surrendered.
He dropped his gym bag beside the table and pulled out the chair, the movement itself should have been completely insignificant. Just a chair, a place to sit, yet Y/N found herself unexpectedly aware of his presence the moment he settled beside her. Close enough that she noticed things she hadn't during the birthday party. The faint scent of soap and cologne lingering. The way he immediately pushed his sleeves higher along his forearms without seeming conscious of doing it. The slight fatigue still lingering around his eyes despite the easy smile that seemed to come naturally whenever he spoke.
Normal observations.
For years, Jaafar had existed almost entirely through secondhand information. Stories from Jermajesty. Family anecdotes told around dinner tables. The occasional photograph that appeared during birthdays or holidays. A person she'd somehow become familiar with without ever actually knowing.
The reality sitting beside her felt considerably more human than the version she'd assembled from stories. And for reasons she couldn't quite explain, that realization lingered.
Oblivious to the brief spiral of thoughts occurring beside him, Jaafar surveyed the disaster zone spread across the table.
Paint covered almost every available surface, several brushes had somehow disappeared beneath sheets of paper, one cup of water had already turned an alarming shade of green.
His gaze landed on Abu Bakr's latest creation.
A long silence followed. 'Uhhh what exactly am I looking at?'
Abu Bakr brightened instantly.
The little boy lifted the painting with obvious pride.
The page was entirely green, not mostly green. Entirely green.
Jaafar studied it carefully, the seriousness on his face only made the situation worse. Eventually he nodded. 'Oh, is it the Hulk?'
'It's the sun.' The answer came with immediate confidence.
Another thoughtful pause followed.
Then Jaafar nodded again.
'Of course it is.'
Y/N immediately laughed, making Jaafar smile at that.
For the next hour, the afternoon settled into the sort of comfortable rhythm that seemed unique to days spent at the Jackson house. Time passed without announcing itself. Conversations drifted between topics without anyone noticing the transitions. At some point, painting became secondary to talking. Abu Bakr remained determined to create masterpieces, but his attention wandered frequently enough that most of the work fell to Y/N and Jaafar keeping him occupied between bursts of artistic inspiration.
The conversation moved just as easily. One topic led naturally into another: music became travel, travel became childhood stories, childhood stories somehow became Jermajesty.
That particular transition proved dangerous almost immediately.
'Wait,' Jaafar said, turning toward her slightly. 'He actually set off a fire alarm?'
Y/N stared at him. 'That's the story he told you? That's not even the worst one.'
'There are multiple stories?' The horror in his voice made her laugh.
'Several.'
By the time she finished explaining the incident involving microwave popcorn, a dormitory kitchen and what Jermajesty later described as a completely avoidable misunderstanding, Jaafar was laughing hard enough that he had to lean back in his chair.
For a moment she found herself smiling before she'd even registered why.
Abu Bakr chose to proudly hold up another finished masterpiece.
This one was completely blue.
The transformation from green to blue appeared to be the only major difference.
Jaafar studied it. 'Ocean?'
'No.'
'Whale?'
'No.'
Y/N looked at the painting.
Then at Abu Bakr.
Then back at the painting.
'What is it?'
The little boy beamed.
'The sun.'
For a moment, complete silence settled over the table.
'The sun, Y/N, how could you not see it?' Jaafar said mocking offense.
'Silly me!'
Then both adults dissolved into laughter.
For a while, the afternoon settled into the kind of comfortable rhythm that seemed unique to the Jackson house.
The conversation drifted wherever it pleased, moving between topics without any clear transitions while Abu Bakr remained convinced he was creating masterpieces. Y/N had long since stopped trying to understand the artistic logic behind his paintings. At some point, the sun had been green. Later it became blue. Then purple. None of these developments appeared to concern him. Every new creation was presented with exactly the same confidence as the last, and somehow that confidence made criticism feel impossible.
Jaafar, unfortunately, was no help whatsoever.
Rather than encouraging artistic accuracy, he seemed determined to support whatever increasingly questionable choices Abu Bakr made. Every time Y/N pointed out that the sun wasn't supposed to be purple or that trees generally weren't bright orange, Jaafar immediately took the opposite position simply because he found her reaction amusing. The realization arrived gradually, settling somewhere between irritation and reluctant amusement. He wasn't being difficult because he believed what he was saying. He was being difficult because he enjoyed watching her argue back.
It was a trait she recognized almost immediately.
'You know,' Jaafar said eventually, studying Abu Bakr's latest painting with a seriousness it absolutely did not deserve, 'I think mine would've been better.'
Y/N looked up from her own paper, for a moment she genuinely thought she'd misheard him. 'What exactly would've been better?'
'The painting.' His answer came so naturally that she almost laughed.
Across the table, he remained completely relaxed, one arm resting against the back of his chair while he observed the artwork in front of him like a professional critic evaluating a gallery exhibit. The confidence in his voice would have been impressive if it weren't so entirely unearned.
'You haven't painted anything.'
'I don't need to.'
The response arrived immediately and Y/N stared at him for several seconds, waiting for the punchline that never came.
'That's not how art works.'
'How do you know?'
'Because unlike you, I've actually touched a paintbrush today.' She said pointing at him with her paintbursh.
Rather than appearing convinced, Jaafar simply smiled. The kind of smile worn by someone who was fully aware they were being annoying and had absolutely no intention of stopping. 'I can already tell.'
'Based on what?'
He shrugged. 'Instinct.'
The laugh escaped before she could stop it.
The answer was so ridiculous that arguing almost felt pointless. Almost. Unfortunately, the longer she looked at him, the more she became convinced that allowing him to walk away from this conversation believing he'd somehow won would be deeply irresponsible.
Apparently, Jaafar reached a similar conclusion.
Because ten minutes later, despite neither of them being entirely sure how they'd gotten there, fresh sheets of paper had appeared on the table, clean brushes had been collected, and Abu Bakr had been officially appointed judge.
The title transformed him immediately, because one moment he had been painting and the next he was overseeing the competition with all the authority of a referee at a championship event. Y/N suspected the position had gone directly to his head.
The rules changed constantly. Every attempt to establish them turned into another argument. At one point they spent nearly five minutes debating whether artistic talent could be inherited despite neither of them having any evidence that either family possessed any artistic talent whatsoever. Another discussion followed regarding whether looking in the general direction of the opposing painting constituted cheating.
Jaafar argued no.
Y/N argued yes.
Abu Bakr solved the issue by announcing that everyone was cheating.
After that, things somehow became even less organized. By the time they actually started painting, both of them were taking the competition far more seriously than anyone reasonably should have. The realization might have been embarrassing if it weren't so entertaining.
At some point, Abu Bakr wandered away.
The little boy had spent most of the afternoon moving unpredictably between activities, appearing and disappearing whenever something else caught his attention. One of his cousins must have called him over because suddenly he was gone, leaving behind abandoned paintbrushes and half-finished artistic opinions.
The absence only became noticeable later.
By then, the backyard had softened around them. Conversations continued elsewhere. Music drifted faintly through the open back door. Family members crossed the patio carrying drinks and plates of food. The afternoon sun had shifted lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the grass. Yet somehow the world beyond the table had faded into the background.
Jermajesty eventually wandered into the backyard and stopped beside the table, his confusion felt entirely justified. He looked from Y/N to Jaafar and then to the papers they were aggressively hiding from one another.
For several seconds, he simply stared. 'Are you guys painting?'
Neither looked up.
The answer came simultaneously. 'Mhm.'
That only seemed to make him more confused.
For several seconds, he remained exactly where he was, drink still in hand, staring at the scene in front of him as though attempting to piece together a puzzle with several missing pieces. From his perspective, the situation probably did look absurd. Y/N and Jaafar sat on opposite sides of the outdoor table, both hunched protectively over sheets of paper they refused to let the other see, while paint pots, brushes and cups of cloudy water occupied every available inch of space between them. The fact that neither had bothered looking up when he arrived likely wasn't helping.
'You've been out here forever.'
'Busy,' Y/N informed him.
'Doing what?'
'Winning.'
Across from her, Jaafar immediately looked offended. 'That's a bold thing to say when you've got no idea what I'm painting.'
'I don't need to see it.'
The exchange did absolutely nothing to clarify the situation for Jermajesty. If anything, it seemed to make it worse.
Before he could continue questioning either of them, Alejandra appeared through the back door carrying a bowl of fruit. Unlike her son, she took one glance at the table and immediately understood exactly what was happening.
A laugh escaped her before she could stop it. 'Oh no.'
Jermajesty pointed toward them. 'They've been doing this for an hour.'
'Clearly.'
Alejandra looked entirely too entertained. 'Leave them alone.'
Jermajesty gestured helplessly toward the table.
'I feel like I should be concerned.'
'You should definitely be concerned.' The response came from Y/N.
Alejandra laughed again.
Then, without another word, continued across the backyard. Jermajesty lingered for a few seconds longer before eventually shaking his head and following her.
The moment they disappeared, silence settled briefly between the two painters.
For a while, the only sounds came from brushes moving against paper and the distant hum of conversations drifting from elsewhere in the yard.
Y/N found herself unexpectedly aware of how peaceful it felt.
The afternoon had started hours ago, yet somehow the day still seemed suspended in place. Nothing important needed to happen. Nobody expected anything from her. There were no deadlines waiting at home, no responsibilities demanding attention. Just sunlight, music drifting faintly through the open windows, and the strange reality that she was spending her Saturday afternoon arguing about art with a man she'd only met properly a week earlier.
The thought should have felt strange but instead, it felt oddly normal and the ease of it is what surprised her the most because some people required effort. Not necessarily in a bad way, but every interaction involved a period of adjustment, a process of figuring out rhythms and boundaries and personalities. Conversations took time to find their footing.
That never seemed to happen with Jaafar.
The words simply...flowed.
One topic became another without either of them noticing the transition. Jokes turned into stories. Stories became questions. Questions became entirely new conversations. The hours slipped past with a kind of effortless momentum that reminded her uncomfortably of how her friendship with Jermajesty had started years ago.
The realization lingered longer than she expected.
Across the table, Jaafar glanced up suddenly.
Immediately, Y/N narrowed her eyes.
'Were you looking?'
His expression shifted to one of complete innocence. 'Looking at what?'
'My painting.'
'I wasn't.'
'You absolutely were.'
'I literally wasn't.'
The speed of the denial convinced her of nothing.
In fact, it made her more suspicious. 'You looked.'
'I didn't, i just looked at you'
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, impossible to miss. The sight immediately confirmed her suspicions and his laugh arrived a second later.
Y/N felt herself smiling before she could stop it.
By the time they finally reached the end of their masterpieces, both of them had become entirely convinced of their own victory.
Both paintings were finished. Both artists had run out of excuses to keep adding details. Then, almost simultaneously, they turned the pages around.
The silence that followed lasted several seconds.
Not because either painting was impressive, it was quite the opposite.
Y/N stared at what was apparently supposed to be a dog or at least she assumed it was a dog.
The creature possessed four legs, which seemed promising, but beyond that she found herself struggling. Its proportions were questionable. Its facial expression suggested years of unresolved trauma. One ear appeared significantly larger than the other.
Across the table, Jaafar looked equally disturbed by what he was seeing.
'what is that?' The question left both of them at the exact same time.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Y/N looked down at her own painting and she immediately understood his concern. Somewhere during the creative process, her flower had developed features that no flower should ever possess. The petals were uneven. The colours made no sense. The entire thing looked vaguely alive.
The longer she stared at it, the worse it became.
A laugh escaped first and within seconds, both of them were laughing too hard to defend themselves properly.
The laughter lingered longer than either of them seemed willing to admit.
Part of it came from the paintings themselves. They truly were terrible. Not in the charming, accidentally impressive way people sometimes described amateur artwork to spare feelings. They were genuinely awful. The longer Y/N looked at them, the more details she discovered that somehow made the situation worse. What she'd originally intended as a flower now resembled something halfway through a transformation sequence. Meanwhile, Jaafar's dog appeared to possess an alarming level of emotional awareness. The expression on its face suggested it had witnessed events no animal should ever experience.
'It is clearly a dog.' He said pointing at his painting.
'Clearly?'
'It has four legs.'
'So does a table.'
Jaafar looked offended. 'That's not fair.'
'It absolutely is.'
'No, because tables don't have faces.'
Y/N pointed directly at the painting. 'Neither does that.'
The laugh that escaped him forced him to look away. For several seconds, he rubbed a hand across his face, unsuccessfully attempting to recover whatever remained of his dignity.
Unfortunately, Abu Bakr chose that exact moment to reappear.
The little boy approached the table carrying a juice box and immediately sensed that something important had happened. His gaze moved between the two paintings before settling on the expressions of the artists themselves.
'What happened?'
Y/N pointed at Jaafar's paper.
'Tell him.'
Abu Bakr leaned forward.
Studied the dog.
Then nodded.
'Doggie.'
The declaration was immediate.
Y/N stared at him. 'Are you serious?'
'Jaafar 1 - Y/N 0.' Jaafar looked entirely too pleased with himself.
For a while, the three of them remained gathered around the table, discussing artwork that absolutely did not deserve discussion. Somehow the conversation evolved into Abu Bakr explaining what he would have painted if he'd been allowed to compete. The explanation involved dinosaurs, race cars, three suns and something that may or may not have been a dragon. Y/N lost track approximately halfway through.
Jaafar nodded as though every word made perfect sense.
Eventually, he reached for his phone Y/N didn't think anything of it. Then she saw where he was aiming the camera.
'Oh, no.'
The response only made his smile widen.
'Oh, yeah.'
'Jaafar.'
'I need evidence.'
'You absolutely do not.'
The phone lifted higher.
Y/N immediately reached for the paintings.
The camera clicked.
By the time he finally lowered the phone, Y/N had accepted defeat. The evidence existed now. Nothing short of physically stealing the device would change that, and she suspected such an attempt would only create more photographs.
The competition dissolved naturally, losing importance the same way most things did at the Jackson house. Another conversation started nearby. Someone called Abu Bakr inside. Music changed. Family members moved through the backyard carrying plates and drinks and half-finished stories. The world continued turning around them without paying much attention to the fact that a fierce artistic rivalry had just ended in mutual humiliation.
Gradually, the table began to empty.
Without really thinking about it, Y/N reached for one of the cups and began gathering supplies.
She was halfway through stacking paint pots when she noticed another hand reaching for the same pile. Looking up, she found Jaafar doing exactly what she was. Collecting brushes, organizing supplies, wiping paint from the edge of the table.
The conversation simply continued. For a while they talked about nothing important. Childhood hobbies. Things they were terrible at. Subjects they hated in school. The sort of conversation that wandered without purpose and somehow became more interesting because of it.
At one point, Y/N found herself laughing over a story he'd started telling about one of his early auditions.
For a second she became aware of how comfortable she felt.
A week ago, Jaafar had been someone she'd finally met after years of near misses. Now she was standing beside him washing paintbrushes as though this were something they'd done dozens of times before.
By the time the last brush had been cleaned and the final paint pot put away, the afternoon had begun slipping quietly toward evening. Golden light stretched across the backyard, conversations softened and the energy of the day shifted almost imperceptibly.
And somewhere in the middle of it, Y/N realized it was probably time to go home. The realization carried a faint disappointment she hadn't entirely expected but she ignored it, there was no reason to analyze it.
So instead she grabbed her bag, said goodbye to the family, and convinced herself she was thinking about absolutely nothing when Jaafar automatically fell into step beside her as she headed toward the driveway.
The walk to the driveway happened so naturally that neither of them commented on it.
Y/N wasn't entirely sure when it had become a thing. Maybe it hadn't. Maybe two instances weren't enough to qualify as a pattern. Yet as they moved through the front yard side by side, following the familiar path toward the curb, she found herself remembering the birthday party the week before and the almost identical conversation that had taken place beneath a much darker sky.
At the time, everything had felt new.
The evening air felt cooler than it had earlier that afternoon. Somewhere down the street, a sprinkler hissed quietly across a front lawn. The sounds of the house remained audible behind them, laughter and conversation drifting through open windows as another gathering continued without them.
Eventually, Jaafar glanced toward her.
'I still think mine was better.'
Y/N stopped walking then stared at him. 'Are you serious?'
A smile immediately appeared. 'If we're being objective.'
'There is nothing objective about that sentence.'
'There absolutely is.'
'You painted a traumatized dog.'
His laugh arrived instantly.
'It wasn't traumatized.'
'It looked like it had seen things.'
'It had depth.'
By the time they reached her car, the argument had somehow evolved into a debate regarding artistic interpretation and whether emotional support should be offered to fictional animals.
Neither had managed to win.
The outcome felt appropriate.
As she unlocked the driver's side door, the conversation finally began slowing naturally.
The silence that settled between them carried none of the awkwardness people often associated with goodbyes. It felt familiar instead. Comfortable enough that neither seemed in any particular rush to break it.
Then Jaafar nodded toward her. 'Drive safe.'
The simplicity of the statement shouldn't have mattered.
Yet something about it felt strangely warm.
'Always do.' The immediate look he gave her suggested he didn't believe that for a second. Y/N laughed. 'Okay, most of the time.'
'Mhm, that's better.'
For a moment his smile lingered.
Then hers did too.
By the time Y/N finally made it home, the day had already begun settling into memory.
Not the distant kind. Not yet. The details remained clear enough to reach for. She could still picture the paint-covered table in the backyard. Still hear Abu Bakr passionately defending artistic choices that made absolutely no sense. Still see the expression on Jaafar's face when he'd insisted his dog looked perfectly normal despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary. Yet the afternoon had acquired that familiar softness good days often seemed to develop almost immediately, the edges smoothing before the day itself had even properly ended.
A shower, her pjs and a late dinner eventually signaled the transition into evening. The house had grown quiet around her. The television played softly in the background, providing more noise than entertainment, while she scrolled absently through her phone from beneath the blankets. Most of her attention wasn't really on the screen.
Somewhere between one post and the next, in the 'post you might like' section, a familiar username appeared.
Y/N's thumb hesitated, then tapped.
The post opened.
At first, nothing seemed unusual about it. A photo dump.
A photograph from rehearsal.
Another from what looked like a soundstage.
A sunset.
The kind of photo dump people posted every day.
Her gaze dropped briefly to the caption.
jaafarjackson: good things this week :)
The words themselves were simple enough. Easy to overlook. Yet something about them made her smile before she even continued scrolling. There was a casual sincerity to it that felt oddly familiar, as though it belonged to the same person who had spent an unreasonable amount of time arguing that a traumatised-looking dog qualified as artistic excellence.
The fourth slide appeared.
Y/N stopped immediately.
Then laughed.
The paintings.
For a moment she simply stared at the screen, unable to believe that those awful paintings had somehow survived the editing process. The camera had been entirely unforgiving. Whatever confidence either of them had possessed that afternoon had vanished beneath the harsh reality of photographic evidence. Her flower looked increasingly alarming the longer she examined it. Jaafar's dog hadn't improved either. If anything, the photograph had somehow made its expression even more concerning.
Yet there they were.
Side by side presented with the same importance as rehearsal photos, sunsets and family moments.
Y/N found herself lingering on the image longer than she intended. Long enough to remember the sound of their laughter when they'd first revealed the paintings. Long enough to remember how absurdly competitive the entire thing had become. Long enough to remember standing beside him while they cleaned the table afterward, talking about absolutely nothing important while the afternoon slowly dissolved into evening around them.
Eventually she kept scrolling.
A few more photographs.
Another video.
A family picture.
Yet by the time she reached the end of the post, she found herself returning briefly to the caption.
good things this week :)
The simplicity of it made her smile again locked her phone and set it on the nightstand beside her.
Several minutes passed when the vibration of her phone startled her slightly.
At first she almost ignored it.
Then she reached for it and glanced down.
The notification sat waiting on the screen.
jaafarjackson started following you.
For a second, Y/N didn't react.
Her gaze simply lingered on the words.
Not because the follow itself was particularly surprising. The possibility had crossed her mind more than once over the past week. They'd met twice now. Spent hours talking. Shared enough conversations that the gesture felt perfectly normal.
For years, Jaafar had existed almost entirely through stories she'd heard from other people. Through family anecdotes and secondhand conversations and photographs she happened to glimpse whenever Jermajesty was scrolling through his phone. Even after finally meeting him, part of her still occasionally felt like she was catching up to a person everyone else already knew.
For the first time, she no longer felt like she was standing on the outside of those stories looking in.
Without entirely meaning to, she'd become part of one.
The thought lingered long after the screen went dark.
And when Y/N finally placed her phone back on the nightstand, the smile that followed her into sleep arrived far too easily to blame on a pair of terrible paintings.
Content : it’s very common for best friends to be lovers but is this the case here?
Jaafar Jackson x reader. (Angst)
The first time Jaafar Jackson realized he was in love with you, you were sitting cross-legged on his kitchen counter at one in the morning aggressively peeling an orange because you were angry at your boss.
You had one of his hoodies on, sleeves covering your hands, ranting with complete seriousness while citrus peels piled beside you.
“And then she had the audacity to say,” you continued, mockingly deepening your voice, “‘let’s revisit this later.’ Revisit WHAT later? The fact that you embarrassed me in front of twelve people?”
Jaafar laughed quietly from where he leaned against the fridge.
“You’re scary when you’re mad.”
“You should be scared.”
“I am.”
“You should be.”
You pointed half an orange at him threateningly.
He remembered staring at you thinking, This is it.
The terrifying realization that his chest felt lighter whenever you were around.
He is seriously inlove with his childhood bestie, the girl he been around for almost 12 years.
And worse, he started building his life around that feeling without noticing.
You had your own drawer in his apartment over the years.
Neither of you acknowledged when it happened.
One day you opened a drawer looking for batteries and found:
• your charger
• your lip balm
• spare pajamas
• hair ties
• a toothbrush
You held up the toothbrush slowly.
“…Did you buy me a toothbrush?”
Jaafar glanced over from the couch.
“You come over a lot.”
“That’s not the point.”
“You were using your finger.”
“I could’ve bought my own.”
“You didn’t.”
You stared at him.
He stared back innocently.
Then you muttered, “This is how cults start.”
His laugh followed you into the bathroom.
The line between friendship and something else blurred so gradually neither of you noticed where it disappeared.
He’d reach for your hand automatically in crowds.
You’d fix his chains absentmindedly while talking.
Sometimes you fell asleep on his shoulder during movies and he wouldn’t move for hours even when his arm went numb.
One night, all of the close friends and cousins had a sleepover at the Jackson’s.
You woke up at 3 AM half asleep and wandered into the kitchen to find him sitting in darkness drinking water.
He looked exhausted, emotionally exhausted.
You leaned against the counter quietly.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re lying.”
He paused a bit then, “I think people forget I’m an actual person sometimes.”
Your chest tightened immediately.
You walked toward him without thinking and rested your chin briefly against the top of his head where he sat.
A silent soft, familiar gesture.
Jaafar closed his eyes.
“You know what’s weird?” he murmured.
“What?”
“You never ask me to be anything.”
You frowned slightly.
“What do you mean?”
“Like…” he searched for the words. “Everybody always expects a version of me. You just…” His eyes lifted to yours. “don’t.”
You smiled faintly.
“That’s because you are just Jaafar to me.”
Something about that expression on your face nearly ruined him.
Because you actually meant it.
People noticed before you did, his cousins, your friends, even strangers noticed.
A thought crossed your mind while he was driving you home late one night.
The city lights blurred past the window beside you as you rested your head against the glass, quiet for a moment before asking almost absentmindedly,
“Why does everyone always think we’re dating?”
His fingers tightened slightly on the steering wheel.
“…I don’t know.”
“You think we act couple-y?”
He chuckled and mumbled , “Probabl-y.”
You laughed softly. “Shut up.”
He smiled too but didn’t answer.
Because the truth was, he thought about kissing you almost constantly now, and that terrified him.
Not because he didn’t want you.
Because he did.
You were the safest thing in his life.
If he crossed that line and lost you afterward, he genuinely didn’t know what would be left.
So instead he stayed silent, careful, stayed your best friend.
Until Adam.
Adam was easy.
That was the problem.
He was kind and clear in uncomplicated ways.
He asked you on dates instead of dancing around feelings for years.
The first time you mentioned him, Jaafar felt something ugly twist in his stomach immediately.
You were sitting on his couch scrolling through your phone.
“Adam wants to take me to this place downtown,” you said absentmindedly.
Jaafar muted the TV.
“Who’s Adam?”
You looked up.
“Oh. Guy I met a few weeks ago.”
A few weeks ago.
The fact another man had existed in your life for weeks without him knowing made irritation flash through him instantly.
He hid it badly.
“You like him?”
“I think so.”
That answer sat wrong in his chest for the rest of the night.
Things changed after that.
You started spending less time at his apartment.
Your toothbrush stayed untouched in the drawer.
Sometimes he’d instinctively reach for his phone to text you something dumb, only to remember, you were probably with Adam.
And every time that happened, resentment curled tighter inside him.
Not at you but at himself, because he had created this situation.
He had every single opportunity and he never said anything.
The jealousy started leaking out in embarrassing ways.
One night you canceled movie plans because Adam surprised you with dinner reservations.
Jaafar replied :
“👍”
You stared at the message for a full minute.
Then immediately called him.
“What is wrong with you?”
“What?”
“The thumbs up.”
“…It’s a thumbs up.”
“It’s an aggressive thumbs up."
He scoffed.
“You’re insane.”
“No, you’re weird lately.”
“I’m literally fine.”
“You sound annoyed.”
“I’m not annoyed.”
“You are.”
“I said I’m not."
“Jaafar.”
“What?”
“…Did I do something?”
The irritation vanished instantly.
Because your voice suddenly sounded small.
And guilty.
Like you genuinely thought you’d hurt him somehow.
His chest ached immediately.
“No,” he said quieter this time. “No, you didn’t do anything.”
But after the call ended, he sat staring at his ceiling feeling sick.
Because he wanted to tell you,
I think I’m in love with you and it’s making me miserable watching someone else have you so easily.
Instead, he said nothing.
Again.
The fight happened on a Thursday.
You remembered that later because Thursdays used to be your night together.
No matter how busy life got, Thursdays somehow always ended with the two of you together.
Food.
Drives.
Movies.
Talking.
But lately Thursdays belonged to Adam too.
That night all three of you had ended up at the same industry birthday party through mutual friends.
Jaafar hated every second of it.
Not because of Adam specifically, but because Adam could touch and own you openly.
Hand on your waist, leaning close to hear you, kissing your temple casually.
Things Jaafar had imagined doing for so long that seeing another man actually do them made him feel physically ill.
And what is worse is that you looked happy.
Later that night, when Adam said he had to leave the party early, you started gathering your things too, until Jaafar casually leaned over and suggested that he could drive you home later, giving you a reason to stay a little longer..around him..without Adam.
The car ride afterward started silent.
Heavy silent.
The kind where both people feel the tension sitting between them breathing.
Streetlights flashed across Jaafar’s face as he drove.
Your heels were off, tossed near your feet.
You looked exhausted.
“So,” you said eventually, trying to ease the weirdness, “Adam wants me to go to France with him next week.”
The second the name left your mouth, Jaafar’s jaw tightened.
You noticed immediately.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You did the face.”
“What face?”
“That face where your jaw gets sharper than a knife.”
He stayed silent, “Jaafar.”
His grip shifted higher on the steering wheel.
“I said nothing.”
You looked back out the window for a second before muttering:
“You’ve been acting weird for weeks.”
“I haven’t.”
“You have.”
“Maybe you’re just spending too much time with him to notice.”
Your head turned slowly.
“…What?”
“There it is,” he muttered under his breath.
“There WHAT is?”
“You disappear constantly now.”
“Oh my God.”
“What?”
“Are you jealous?”
“I’m not jealous.”
“You absolutely are.”
He laughed sharply.
“Right.”
“You are! Every time I mention him you get all.. all passive aggressive and weird.”
“I’m not being passive aggressive.”
“You literally just accused me of disappearing!”
“Because you HAVE.”
Your eyebrows lifted in disbelief.
“I’m allowed to have a boyfriend, Jaafar.”
“I know that.”
“Then stop acting like I committed a crime.”
“I didn’t say that either.”
“But you’re treating me like it!”
His voice rose slightly now.
“Because suddenly everything revolves around him!”
“Yeah! Because he’s my boyfriend!”
The words echoed inside the car.
Boyfriend.
Jaafar felt something genuinely painful twist in his chest hearing you say it that casually.
You noticed his silence immediately.
And suddenly realization flickered across your face.
Not complete realization.
But enough.
Your voice got quieter.
“…Wait.”
He kept driving.
You stared at him.
“Don’t.”
“Are you actually upset because I’m with someone else?.”
“I said don’t.”
“You cannot be serious right now.”
Something in him snapped then.
“Do you know what it’s been like watching this?”
You blinked hard.
“Watching what?”
“Some guy getting every version of you I—” He cut himself off violently.
The car went dead silent, your heart started pounding.
Jaafar looked horrified at himself, because he’d finally said too much.
Neither of you spoke for a few seconds.
The only sound was the low hum of the engine and the blinker clicking as the city passed outside in streaks of gold and red.
Your heart was beating so hard it actually hurt.
Jaafar kept his eyes fixed on the road like if he looked at you something irreversible would happen.
“…What did you mean by that?”
He swallowed once.
“Nothing."
“Don’t do that.”
“I said nothing.”
“You literally just said—”
“I know what I said.”
“Then explain it.”
His jaw tightened hard enough for you to see the muscle move.
“You’re dating someone,” he muttered. “Forget it.”
Forget it.
After years of blurred lines and almosts and moments that meant too much, forget it felt insane.
You let out a breathless laugh of disbelief.
“No, absolutely not.”
He finally glanced at you then.
You looked shaken and angry.
“You don’t get to say something like that and then tell me to forget it.”
“I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“But you did.”
The car slowed at a red light.
Orange streetlight poured through the windshield, illuminating the tension in sharp pieces, his clenched hand around the steering wheel, your glossy eyes, both of you breathing too hard.
You looked at him carefully.
"the only valid explanation to this is that you are in love with me?”
The speculation hit him like a car crash and his entire expression changed instantly with fear, real fear.
And that answered you before he even spoke.
“Y/n…”
“Oh my God.”
The light turned green.
Cars behind you honked when Jaafar didn’t move immediately.
He jerked the car forward again with a curse under his breath.
You leaned back against the seat slowly like the air had been knocked out of you.
“You’re in love with me,” you repeated quietly, almost to yourself.
“Can we not do this right now?”
“Right now?” you stared at him incredulously. “When exactly were you planning on doing this, Jaafar?”
“I wasn’t.”
“That’s even worse!”
His frustration cracked through immediately.
“What did you want me to do?”
“I don’t know!” you shot back. “Maybe say something before I built an entire relationship with somebody else!”
His laugh came out sharp and humorless.
“Yeah, because that would’ve gone great.”
“At least I would’ve known!”
“You knew.”
Your head snapped toward him.
“What?”
“You knew.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did.”
“Jaafar, I thought we were—”
“What?” he interrupted suddenly. “Just friends?”
The words landed harder than they should’ve.
Because neither of you had treated each other like just friends in a long time.
Your throat tightened,“You never said anything.”
“And you never stopped it.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?”
He sounded angry now.
Not at you, but at himself and the situation.
At years of restraint turning poisonous inside him.
“You think it was easy watching you with him tonight?” he asked tightly.
Your brows furrowed.
“Then why didn’t you DO something before???”
“Because if I lost you, I’d lose everything!”
The confession exploded out of him so suddenly it silenced both of you.
Your breathing caught.
Jaafar looked stunned by his own words.
Then exhausted.
Like he was finally too tired to keep carrying them.
“You’re my best friend,” he said, quieter now. “You’re—”
He stopped.
Ran a hand down his face roughly.
“You’re the first person I look for everywhere.”
Your chest physically ached hearing him say it.
His voice got lower.
“When something happens to me, you’re the person I wanna tell first.”
“You know me better than anybody.”
You looked away quickly because your eyes started burning again.
“And you waited until I was with someone else to say all this?”
The second the words left your mouth, guilt flashed across his face.
Because you were right, that was the ugliest part.
You laughed weakly, shaking your head.
“This is unbelievable.”
“It’s not like I planned this.”
“No, you just let me move on while saying nothing.”
“I was trying not to ruin what we had!”
“But you already did!”
That hit him hard and you saw it immediately, the hurt flickering across his face almost made you take it back.
But you were hurting too now.
Years suddenly rearranging themselves in your mind..every touch, every look, every almost-confession.
You remembered every moment people assumed you were together.
Every time you secretly wondered, what if?
And now he was telling you it wasn’t imaginary.
The realization should’ve felt good, instead it felt devastating because the timing was horrible.
Because another person was involved now.
Because if he loved you this whole time, then why did you spend years feeling unwanted?
“There were so many times I thought maybe there was something between us and then you’d pull away and act normal again and I started thinking I was delusional.”
Jaafar’s stomach dropped.
Because he remembered every one of those moments too.
The nights he almost kissed you, almost said it, almost reached for you.
Then got scared and buried it again.
“You think I didn’t feel it too?” you whispered.
That nearly broke him as the car went silent again.
Not empty silence.
The kind too full to breathe inside.
Then he asked quietly, “Do you love him?”
You closed your eyes briefly. “…I don’t know yet.”
The honesty of it wrecked him anyway.
Because there was possibility in those words, a future, something IS growing, something he was already too late for.
Jaafar nodded once like he deserved that pain.
“We should probably stop being friends.”
Your head turned sharply.
“What?”
“I’m serious.”
“No.”
“You’re with somebody now.”
“So?”
“So this—” he gestured between you both helplessly “—whatever this is, it’s not fair to him.”
Your chest tightened violently because he was right.
And you hated that he was right.
You stared out the window suddenly because looking at him hurt too much.
The city blurred outside.
Then quietly, without looking at him, you said:
“I would’ve chosen you.”
The words shattered the air instantly.
Jaafar’s breath caught so hard it almost sounded painful.
You kept staring forward.
Voice trembling now.
“If you had said something… I would’ve chosen you.”
He looked destroyed. Actually destroyed.
One hand left the wheel briefly like he almost reached for you instinctively before stopping himself.
“Don’t say that,” he whispered.
“Why?”
“Because we can’t do anything with it now.”
Tears finally slipped down your face silently.
His grip on the steering wheel loosened.
His breathing became uneven.
His eyes shut briefly like he physically couldn’t handle hearing that.
And suddenly the car swerved slightly.
“shit,” you muttered, grabbing the door for stabilization.
He handled the steering wheel of the the car immediately.“Sorry.”
You stared out the window because looking at him suddenly hurt too much.
The city lights outside blurred together through the tears gathering in your eyes.
“I am trying to do the right thing.”
“The right thing?” you repeated. “After dropping this on me NOW?”
His frustration cracked instantly.
“What was I supposed to do?!”
“ANYTHING!”
Your voice echoed loudly inside the car now.
“Anything would’ve been better than this!”
He shook his head harshly.“You don’t understand.”
“No, YOU don’t understand.”
Your breathing turned uneven.
“You don’t get to suddenly tell me you love me after years and then act like I’m supposed to go home and continue my relationship normally!”
“I know that!”
“Then why are you acting like this is simple?!”
“It’s not simple!”
“Then stop pretending it is!”
The car fell into another suffocating silence.
You could hear both of you breathing.
Emotional exhaustion soaked every inch of the space between you now.
Then Jaafar said quietly, “Maybe we should’ve never crossed lines in the first place.”
That one hurt differently.
Like something cold sliding directly into your chest.
You stared at him slowly, pure hurt, because suddenly he was talking about your relationship like it was a mistake.
Like all those years together had become something shameful now that feelings were involved.
“You know what?” you whispered. “Stop the car.”
Jaafar exhaled sharply through his nose. “We’re five minutes from your apartment.”
You laughed once in disbelief.
A horrible little laugh.
His jaw tightened immediately.
“Y/N listen to me.”
“NO YOU LISTEN TO ME.”
The tension finally snapped completely.
“every time things get real between us, you decide my feelings for me!” you shouted. “You don’t get to confess something like that and then act like I’m the problem for having feelings about it!”
Pls read at ur own risk, this is A LOT OF ANGST NO COMFORT
Summary: After your final argument with Michael, you’re left grieving his absence. A year later you discover a box of his hidden letters
word count: 4.9k
Warnings: grief and loss, death of spouse, references to medical dependency / medication use (non-graphic)
2009
“Michael, look at yourself.”
He didn’t answer. The kitchen was dim except for the light over the stove, casting long shadows across the marble countertop. He stood there with his back to you, one hand braced against the bench as though he were trying to hold himself upright.
The sight of him made your chest ache. He was thinner than he’d been months ago. Darker circles sat beneath his eyes. His shoulders seemed permanently tense now, burdened by responsibilities he never allowed anyone else to carry.
“Michael.”
“I’m okay.”
“You haven’t slept properly in weeks.”
“I’m okay.”
“No, you’re not.”
His jaw tightened. You watched him reach for a bottle of water before setting it back down again, fingers trembling slightly.
“You rehearsed for twelve hours today.”
“I’m preparing.”
“You rehearsed yesterday too.”
“I know.”
“And the day before that.”
“I know.”
“And before that.”
His eyes finally met yours. Dark. Exhausted. Frustrated. “I know.” The words echoed through the kitchen. For a moment neither of you spoke. Outside, rain tapped softly against the windows. The sound filled the silence between you. “I just want you to slow down,” you whispered. Something flickered across his face. Pain.
“Do you think I’m doing this because I want to?” The question caught you off guard. His voice had become dangerously quiet. “I have people depending on me.”
“I depend on you too.” His eyes immediately dropped. The guilt on his face made you regret saying it. “I can’t do this tonight, Y/N,” he sighed, his head resting on his hand. He rubbed at his eyes and let out a shaky breath.
“Not tonight. I know what you’re saying, okay? I do. But I’m exhausted.” His voice was quieter now, rough around the edges. “Every conversation lately turns into this, and I just… I don’t have anything left to give right now.” He looked away, jaw tightening.
“I’m trying. Maybe it doesn’t look like enough to you, maybe it isn’t enough, but I’m trying.” A hint of frustration slipped into his tone. “And hearing that everyone depends on me like I’m supposed to carry it all… it just makes me feel worse.” His shoulders slumped.
“So please,” he muttered, tiredness outweighing the annoyance, “can we not do this tonight?”
“I know,” you said flatly. He looked up at that, like he expected something else. “You always say that,” you continued, voice even, almost detached. “And I always end up being the one who has to understand it.”
A pause.
“I get it. You’re tired. You’re overwhelmed. You don’t have anything left to give.” You nodded slightly, like you were listing facts rather than arguing. “But I can’t keep being the only one who shows up in these conversations.”
His mouth opened a little, but you didn’t let it go there. “It’s fine. Seriously. We don’t have to do this tonight.” Your shoulders lifted in a small shrug. “We probably shouldn’t be doing this at all, actually.”
You held his gaze for a moment longer, then looked away and turned toward the guest bedroom. “I’m going to sleep in there,” you said quietly, already walking. “If you need me, I’ll be there. You should actually rest properly tonight.”
As you said it, something flickered across his face before he could hide it. It wasn’t anger anymore. Not even exhaustion. It was that quiet, sinking kind of hurt he didn’t know how to stop showing.
His brows drew together slightly, like he was trying to process what you’d just decided without him. His mouth opened a fraction, then closed again, like any response he had didn’t feel worth saying out loud.
For a second, he looked like he might stand up, might call you back, might say your name in that softer tone he used when things weren’t already slipping away. But he didn’t.
Instead, his shoulders dropped further, the tension leaving him in a way that didn’t look like relief at all. More like resignation. He watched you for a moment too long as you walked away, like he was trying to memorise the shape of it, the distance growing between you in real time.
And when the guest bedroom door closed, he was still sitting there, staring at the space you’d just left behind him, jaw tight, eyes unfocused, like he’d just realised he’d lost the thread of something he didn’t know how to get back.
In thirty years together, it had never felt like this.
And it wasn’t a one time argument that came out of nowhere either. He almost wished it was. Something quick, something loud, something they could patch up after a long night and pretend didn’t cut so deep.
But this had been building for months.
Little moments that didn’t seem like much at the time, but stacked up anyway. The first time you went quiet instead of arguing back. The night he came home and you were already asleep on the other side of the bed, turned away from him. The conversation where you stopped asking “are you okay?” because the answer always sounded the same and never changed anything.
He saw it now in flashes, like his mind was replaying things he should have paid more attention to.
The sigh you tried to hide.
The way you stopped reaching for him first.
The silence that started sitting longer between sentences.
Each memory hit a little harder than the last.
Michael leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose, but it didn’t do anything to loosen the tightness in his chest. He wished it was just stress from work. He wished it was something he could fix by sleeping, or by taking on more, or by pushing through like he always did.
But this wasn’t that kind of tired.
This was something that had been growing while he was busy surviving everything else, and now it was sitting right in front of him, undeniable, in the shape of the distance between them.
In the guest bedroom, you sat on the edge of the bed, but it didn’t feel like sitting so much as collapsing into place. The door was closed. The silence behind it felt heavier than any sound. At first, you tried to steady your breathing. You told yourself you were fine. That you were just tired. That it would pass in the morning like it always somehow did.
But it didn’t pass. It sank. Your hands curled together in your lap, fingers pressing so tightly into each other it almost hurt, like you were trying to hold yourself in one piece. And then it hit you all at once.
Not just what you said. Not just the way you walked away. But everything underneath it that you hadn’t let yourself fully think about yet. You didn’t know anymore if you were being too harsh. If you were the problem for finally sounding like you’d given up.
If maybe, just like every other time, you were supposed to swallow it back down. Smooth it over. Go back out there and make it easier for him to breathe, even if it meant you couldn’t.
Your throat tightened. Because that’s what you always did, wasn’t it?
You softened your voice when it got too real. You explained your feelings in smaller pieces so they didn’t take up too much space. You turned your hurt into something more “understandable” so it wouldn’t feel like a burden.
And the worst part was, you didn’t even know when it started. When loving him became something that required you to edit yourself. A shaky breath broke out of you before you could stop it. Then another.
And suddenly you weren’t just thinking anymore, you were crying. Harder than you expected. Like your body had been holding it in for months and just decided it was done asking permission.
You pressed your hand over your mouth, trying to stay quiet, but it didn’t help. The sobs came anyway, messy and uneven, shaking through you until your chest hurt with it.
Because you didn’t even know what was true anymore.
Were you finally allowing yourself to express your emotions?
Or were you just being cruel to someone who was already barely holding on?
The confusion made it worse. It twisted everything together until there was no clear right answer, just guilt and exhaustion and love that didn’t know how to sit comfortably in your chest anymore. You leaned forward, forehead dropping toward your knees, breath breaking in waves you couldn’t control.
And in that moment, the only thing you were sure of was that you didn’t recognise where you stood in your own life anymore, or how something that once felt so safe could feel like this.
Michael didn’t sleep. He couldn’t sleep. He told himself he would. He lay there in the dark for hours, staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet of the house that felt too empty without you in the bed beside him.
Every time he closed his eyes, the argument came back. Your voice. Disappointed.
“I depend on you too.”
He turned onto his side, then back again. The sheets felt wrong. Too big. Too cold. Like the space you usually filled had turned into something he couldn’t ignore. Down the hall, the house staff moved quietly, aware of how this beautiful home, once full of unconditional love, is now a place where they have to walk on eggshells..
He tried to get up once. Stopped halfway. Sat back down. His hands shook slightly as he pressed them against his face, dragging down slowly, like he was trying to wipe the feeling away and couldn’t.
He took out his notebook and pen, and started writing, writing what he couldn't say, on some nights he would write until he naturally falls asleep but tonight felt different, sleep wasn't coming long after finishing his writing.
Eventually, he called out to a nearby staff, wrapping up for the night, voice rough and low, asking for something to help him sleep. “Please, please give me some milk... Just make me sleep”, the staff nods solemnly, knowing what he means by milk (propofol). Michael knows he shouldn’t. He knows how much you hate when he relies on his medication.
It didn’t feel dramatic to him. It felt necessary. Like he was drowning and just needed air.
The room dimmed further as time passed, though he wasn’t sure how much of it he was actually aware of anymore. Everything felt distant, softened at the edges, like he was slipping further away from himself without meaning to.
His breathing started to slow before he fully realised it was happening.
The tension that had been sitting in his shoulders for months, maybe longer, began to loosen in small, uneven pieces. Not all at once, not like peace arriving, but like something heavy finally slipping from his grip after he’d held on too long to something he didn’t have the strength to carry anymore.
The thoughts that had been crowding him all night started to blur at the edges. Your voice, the argument, the weight of everything unsaid between you, it all softened into something distant, like it belonged to another version of him, another moment he could no longer quite reach.
For the first time in what felt like months, there was no pressure to respond. No expectation to fix anything. No version of himself he had to keep holding together.
Just stillness. Quiet, unfamiliar, and deep enough that he didn’t have to fight it anymore.
And as it pulled him under, there was a brief, faint sense of relief he didn’t have the awareness to question.
And then there was nothing.
_____________________________________
1 year later
One year later, the house still didn’t feel like it had accepted what happened.
It hadn’t changed in any obvious way. Nothing was gone. Nothing had been replaced. It was all still there in careful, frozen placement, like moving anything would make the absence louder than it already was.
But you noticed it in smaller things. The way silence didn’t feel like rest anymore The way certain rooms felt like they were holding their breath. The way you still caught yourself listening for footsteps that never came.
You stopped counting time properly after a while. A year wasn’t a year. It was just a long continuation of the same night that never fully ended. And no matter how much time passed, you still came back to that last conversation in pieces you couldn’t control.
“I depend on you too.”
Your own voice, calm and tired, like you had been speaking from somewhere far away. Sometimes you wondered if that was the moment everything broke, or if it had already been breaking long before you said anything at all. That question never answered itself.
The phone rang before you had time to think. You stared at it for a moment too long, like recognition came before willingness did.
Latoya.
You almost didn’t answer, you knew what was coming if you did. Eventually you picked up.
“Hey,” her voice came through carefully at first, softer than usual, like she was testing how much strength you had left to give. Then it steadied. “I’ve been trying to reach you.” You didn’t say anything right away. Your grip tightened slightly around the phone, like holding it too loosely might make everything slip further away.
“I know you’ve been there,” she continued, quieter now. “I know you’ve been staying locked up in that house, around all of it. But you can’t keep doing this to yourself.”
A pause.
“I need you to hear me. He’s gone. And I don’t mean that in a cruel way. I mean it in the only way it is.” Your throat tightened, but your voice still came out flat and cold. “I know that.”
“No,” she said gently, but firmly enough that it cut through. “I don’t think you’re letting yourself know it. There’s a difference.”
Silence stretched between you.
You turned slightly, looking out at the room without really seeing it.
“I just…” her voice softened again, “I’ve seen you. I’ve seen how this has been sitting on you. And I’ve seen everyone around you trying to hold you up while you’re still holding onto him like he’s going to come back through the door.” Your chest tightened at that.
“He wouldn’t want this for you,” she added, more quietly now. “None of us do. You’re not meant to disappear into this.” Your jaw clenched slightly. “I’m not disappearing,” you said, but it didn’t sound convincing even to you.
Latoya exhaled.
“You are hurting,” she said. “And so is everyone else. Everyone is grieving him in their own way. But you…” her voice softened again, “you’re stuck in it. You’re still living like the argument is something you can fix if you just think about it enough.”
Your eyes burned slightly, but you didn’t let anything fall. “You don’t understand,” you said quietly. “I understand more than you think,” she replied. “And I’m telling you, gently but clearly, you need to come out of this space you’re in. Even for a moment. Just breathe somewhere that isn’t inside all of this.”
A long pause followed.
But instead of easing, something in you tightened. “No,” you said, voice breaking slightly now. “You don’t get to tell me to just move on. I can’t just… leave it behind. I can’t act like it didn’t happen.”
“That’s not what I’m saying,” she said quickly, softer again. “I’m saying you’re allowed to exist outside of it too.” But it didn’t land. Not in the way she meant it to. Because in your mind, letting go sounded too close to forgetting. And forgetting felt worse than hurting.
“I can’t,” you whispered, more to yourself than to her now.
The silence on the other end changed slightly, like she understood she couldn’t reach you in that moment the way she wanted to. “I know,” she said finally, quieter. “But I need you to stay here with us too. Not just there with him.”
And after that, neither of you spoke for a while. The line stayed open. But you felt further away than ever.
_____________________________________
You found the box by accident. It was tucked away in a place you hadn’t fully gone through since he was alive, like your mind had quietly agreed not to touch certain spaces yet. A closet you didn’t need. A shelf you didn’t look at properly. Purposefully avoiding it.
It was just there.
Plain.
At first you didn’t understand what you were looking at. Then your name. Written on the top in his handwriting. And your stomach dropped before you even opened it. You sat on the floor because your legs didn’t really agree with standing anymore. And for a long time, you just stared at it.
Inside were letters. So many of them it didn’t feel real at first, some were dated years ago and some more recent to his final days. Some were stacked neatly. Some were folded messily like he had written them in moments he didn’t fully plan. Some were sealed. Some weren’t.
All of them addressed to you. You didn’t open the first one straight away. You held it instead, like touching it properly might make it become something you couldn’t take back.
When you finally did open it, your hands were shaking before you even read a full sentence.
January 12th 2001
She fell asleep on my shoulder tonight while we were watching television. My arm went numb after forty minutes, but I didn’t move because she looked peaceful. Sometimes I look at her and wonder how I got this lucky.
You picked up another one,
November 26th 2007
My love,
I saw you this morning before you saw me. You were making tea and you looked tired, but you still did that thing where you try to pretend you’re fine by moving a little faster than you need to.
It doesn’t work, by the way. I notice everything.
I wanted to tell you I love you then, but I didn’t want to interrupt your thoughts. You always look like you’re somewhere else before the day even starts. So I’m writing it instead. I love you. Even when you’re quiet. Even when you’re busy. Even when you think I don’t see you trying so hard. I see it.
Also, you drank my coffee again. I’m not mad. I’m just observing.
Another one
April 7th 2005
Okay, I need to say this calmly,
We need to talk about the blankets. Because I am starting to believe you are physically incapable of staying on your side of the bed. But I know how you feel about this topic so I have avoided it
I woke up again with exactly 12% of the blanket and you wrapped like a very comfortable burrito on the other side. This is not sustainable. I am a world-famous man and I am losing battles to blankets.
Anyway, I still love you. Unfortunately.
Please fix this behaviour before it becomes a global issue.
You ugly laugh/cry at that.
December 30th 2008
We argued about something stupid. I don’t even remember what it was anymore. She’s asleep beside me right now. I keep looking over to make sure she’s still there.
I hate it when we argue
There were letters from good days. From bad days. From nights he couldn’t sleep. From mornings where he tried to convince himself things would be better if he just kept going.
You read slowly and carefully. You couldn’t make yourself rush something that felt like it had been waiting too long to exist in your hands. And between every page, something tightened in your chest.
But then you stop, because you see another letter dated ‘25 June 2009’ your hand freezes it already felt like too much. Your hand shake as it opens up the letter
My love,
I can’t stop thinking about tonight. I replay it in pieces I didn’t even realise I was keeping.
Your voice saying you were tired. In a way I didn’t know how to respond to properly in the moment. And me, sitting there, knowing I should have said something different and not knowing how to find the right words fast enough to stop it from becoming what it became.
“I can’t do this tonight.”
I hear myself say it now and I wish I could reach back into that moment and shake myself. Not because you didn’t deserve space. You did. But because I think I misunderstood what you were actually asking for.
You weren’t asking me to be perfect. You were asking me to stay. And I didn’t do that well enough. I let the moment get too big between us, and then I just let it stay there.
I’ve been thinking a lot about communication lately. About how I always assumed I had more time to get better at it. That I could learn how to say things properly later, when things were calmer, when I wasn’t so tired, when life wasn’t pulling me in ten directions at once.
But “later” has been doing a lot of work in my life. Too much, probably.
I keep thinking I need to come back to you properly. Not just physically, but emotionally. Fully. Without all the noise in my head making everything harder than it needed to be. I wanted to tell you that. I still want to tell you that.
Because the truth is, I didn’t want that to be the end of the conversation between us. I didn’t want it to sit like that, unresolved, unfinished, hanging in the air between two people who have known each other too long to leave things like that.
I regret letting you walk away feeling like I wasn’t trying.
Because I was. I just wasn’t doing it well enough in the moment you needed it most. And I think that’s something I will carry for a long time. I wish I could explain how much I’ve been thinking about changing things. Not in a dramatic way. Not in a “start over” way. Just in a “do it better this time” way.
Listen more. Stay longer in the hard moments instead of stepping away from them. Actually say the things I think instead of assuming you already know them.
Be present. Properly present. Not half there. Not distracted. Not always slightly ahead of myself. You deserved that version of me more often than you got it. And I hate that I only fully realised it in the quiet after you stopped looking at me the same way.
There’s something I never properly told you.
After everything started feeling too loud in my life, I kept imagining a different version of it. A quieter one. One where we weren’t always being pulled in different directions.
I’ve been thinking a lot about what comes after the final album and the tour, and I want you to know this isn’t just something I’ve imagined in passing, it’s something I’m going to do.
Once everything is finished, once the work and the noise and the constant movement finally stop, I’m taking us away somewhere no one will recognise us. Somewhere quiet, private, completely ours.
I want us to leave all of this behind for a while and live properly, without anything or anyone pulling at us. No expectations, no schedules, no version of me that belongs to anyone else but you.
Just you and me, waking up without pressure sitting on my chest, having mornings that don’t belong to the world outside, eating slowly, talking properly, being together without interruptions or distance between us.
I want to grow old with you Y/N. I want to be the nagging old husband that you complain about to everyone but secretly still smile at when I’m not looking. I want us to argue about the smallest things just so we have an excuse to sit next to each other again five minutes later like nothing happened. I want young teenage couples to look at us and roll their eyes because we’re still holding hands in public when we’re too old to care what anyone thinks.
I’m going to make that real for us. I don’t want it to stay something we only talk about when everything gets too much. After this is done, I’m choosing that life. I’m choosing us.
I used to picture it in detail more than I probably admitted. Not just the place. But the feeling of it and I wasn’t just thinking about escaping anything. I was thinking about coming back to us. Properly. I think that’s what I was trying to move toward even when I didn’t say it out loud.
Even after tonight.
Even when I didn’t know how to fix what I had already let slip. Because I didn’t think I had run out of chances yet. I still don’t think that.
I want to try again. Better this time. Clearer. More honest. Less distracted by everything else.
I want to come back to you and actually say, without getting lost in my own head, I’m here. I’m listening. I’m not going anywhere in the middle of this conversation.
I think I’m finally starting to understand how to do that.
And I wish I could show you what that version of me would have looked like in real time, instead of just leaving you with the version that was still learning how.
Because that wasn’t the end of what I wanted between us. Not in my mind. Not in my plans. Not in the future I kept building quietly in the background of everything else.
Tomorrow I’m going to wake up and be better for you, I promise. Not in a perfect way, not all at once, but in small, real ways that actually last. I’m going to come back to you properly this time, not halfway, not distracted, not already thinking about what comes next.
And if I mess it up, I’ll try again. That’s the part I think I’m finally starting to understand. I just want us to feel like us again in the way we used to, when things were simpler and we didn’t have to fight so hard just to reach each other across the room.
So I’m going to try.
Properly.
For you.
And I hope when you see me tomorrow, you’ll let me show you instead of just telling you.
From your dearest husband, Michael
Ps: I hope you're aware of how much I love you, my love for you never stopped, never faltered even if it feels like that sometime, and I know even though you get overwhelmed sometimes you still love me.
That I never doubted.
The letter slipped from your hands before you even realised you’d let go of it, like your body had simply given out under it. For a second, there was nothing.
No thought. No sound. Just this strange, hollow stillness in your chest, like something inside you had gone quiet all at once. Then it hit.
‘Tomorrow I’m going to wake up and be better for you. I’m going to try harder. I’m finally starting to understand.’
You let out a sound so piercing it breaks the silence of the house that has been ongoing for too long. You break down completely, hugging your knees, crying, sobbing. It came out sharp, uneven, like your body didn’t know how to carry what your mind had just been handed.
You pressed a hand over your mouth, like that could hold something in, but it didn’t help. The sound still came through, broken and disbelieving, spilling into the quiet room that suddenly felt too small for what you were feeling.
“No…” you whispered, but it didn’t sound like denial. It sounded like shock trying to find its footing. “No, no, no…” you rambled louder holding your head in your hands
The letter still somewhere near your knees. Your mind kept catching on the same thing.
He was trying, really trying, he had been planning it, thinking it through, choosing it, choosing you, a version of him that came back properly, and it was too late, the thought didn’t arrive loudly, it just settled in, quiet, permanent.
You pressed your forehead into your hand, breathing uneven, the guilt coming in waves you couldn’t stop. The distance. The words. The way you had walked away not knowing it would become final in a way neither of you had meant.
“I didn’t know,” you said out loud, like saying it could somehow change what it meant. Like it could reach him anyway. But the room didn’t answer.
Because he was there in a way you hadn’t been allowed to see properly when he was alive. Not the version of him you argued with or the version of him that felt out of reach. But the version that loved you so carefully it almost hurt to read.
The guilt didn’t come all at once. It built slowly, like it had been waiting for space to finally exist. At first it was just sadness. Then confusion. Then something sharper.
You started rereading conversations in your head. Replaying the last months of that year. Looking for things you might have missed, things you might have said differently, things you might have softened instead of standing your ground on.
Because you had stood your ground. You remembered that clearly now. You had been tired. You had been overwhelmed. You had been trying to hold something together that felt like it was slipping no matter what you did.
And you kept wondering if you had been asking for too much. Or if you had finally been asking for something real. That question didn’t settle either. It just stayed with you.
And in the end, all that was left was the quiet certainty that no answer you found could ever reach back and change what had already happened.
_____________________________________
... yh idk what to say
Summary: Its 2026 and your at the Michael movie premiere, but, someones missing :(((
angst
word count: 3.8k
(oh just a note, i know theres complications about the Michael movie, and like how its not accurate and very sugarcoated, but for the sake of this fic pls pretend it was perfect)
--------------------------------------
The lights of the 2026 premiere shimmer like something out of a dream.
You stand just outside the entrance for a moment longer than you mean to, fingers tightening around your clutch as the noise of cameras and voices rolls through the air. Flashes of cameras going crazy to catch a shot of the late Michael's wife’s rare appearance. Interviewers and journalists shouting over each other
“Y/N! Y/N look here—just one question!”
“Is it painful for you to watch someone else portray him?”
“Do you think the filmmakers exploited his life for profit?”
“Why appear now after staying private for so long?”
It is loud, celebratory, and overwhelming. But underneath it, there is something else too. Something quieter that you feel more than hear.
History.
Inside, the film is about to premiere. A story of him, ur best friend, ur husband. Of Michael. Except none of this feels right. He should be here beside you, shoulder brushing yours as you walk in, leaning in close to whisper that he already wants to leave, not even ten minutes into the night. His hand would be wrapped tightly around yours, like if he let go for even a second, you’d disappear into the crowd.
And then it hits you, sharp and sudden, twisting your chest into something hot and angry.
Why did he disappear?
How did he have the nerve to leave you standing here alone like this, in a world too loud, too bright, too full of people who don’t understand what he meant to you?
The anger should stay sharper than this, but it doesn’t. It softens against the weight of everything that came before it, against the long, careful process that made this film what it is. Because none of it was sudden. None of it was distant. It was built piece by piece, in the spaces between conversations, in the quiet insistence that if his story was going to be told, it had to be told right.
And your children, Prince and Blanket, are the ones who helped shape it into reality. You still remember the late-night conversations, the drafts scattered across kitchen counters, Blanket’s quiet intensity when he talked about preserving every detail with care, Prince’s steady determination to make sure it felt honest, not just polished. Nights where conversations never quite reached an ending, weighed down by the unbearable reality that Michael was truly gone, until eventually everyone would drift back to their own rooms, carrying their grief in silence, each person mourning him in their own way.
They had carried his legacy like something fragile and sacred at the same time.
And then there is Jaafar. Michael’s nephew. The one who stepped into Michael’s shoes on screen. The resemblance is almost painful in motion. The way he embodied his uncle doesn’t feel like imitation, but something closer to inheritance, as if fragments of Michael are being carried forward through him impossible to miss.
You finally step inside.
The auditorium glows gold and soft red, filled with family, collaborators, and people who once knew him in different chapters of his life. The Jackson family is scattered through the crowd, but you spot them easily. Familiar faces, familiar grief softened by time but never erased.
Jackie, Jermaine, and Marlon stand together in a loose cluster, talking quietly like they’re trying to keep the night lighter than it feels. Jermaine, as always, has done something unpredictable with his hair again, and it almost distracts you for a second before Jackie nudges him mid-conversation like he’s given up trying to figure it out.
A little further over, Katherine Jackson stands with La Toya beside her. Katherine holds herself with that composed presence she always has, like she’s learned how to carry an entire family’s history without letting it break her posture.
Prince catches your eye first from near the stage and gives you a small nod, like he is grounding himself through you. Blanket is beside him, quieter, hands folded, eyes flicking between the screen and the seats as if trying to hold everything together at once.
Then you see Jaafar.
He is already in costume for the Q and A afterward, still carrying traces of Michael even when he is just standing still. The way he tilts his head slightly when listening. The softness in his focus. The way his eyes light up when he smiles. It hits you in a way you are not prepared for.
Because for a second, it is not 2026.
It is years ago.
1970.
It is laughter in a sunlit room. It is running through corridors barefoot because someone dared someone else to race. It is a boy with a quiet smile and a loud personality whose only fault was loving too much.
Michael.
Your chest tightens before you can stop it.
“Hey,” a voice says softly beside you. You turn and find Katherine watching you, steady as always. She studies you for a second. “You alright, sweetheart?” You swallow. “It is strange, isn’t it?” you manage, voice a little uneven.
Katherine nods once. “Yeah. It always is for us.” You glance out toward the crowd, cameras flashing somewhere in the distance. “It feels like he should be here.”
“I know,” she says quietly. No hesitation, no attempt to fix it. A pause settles between you. Then Katherine adds, softer, “But he is here. Just not the way people expect.” Your eyes drop for a moment. You do not answer straight away. Before the silence can sit too long, another voice joins in.
“I keep thinking I’m going to see him walk in late like he always did,” La Toya says as she reaches you both, shaking her head a little like she is trying to smile through it. “And he’d act like nothing was wrong. Like he was here all along and we’re all just going insane.”
A small, breathy laugh slips out of you before you can stop it. La Toya notices. “See? You remember it too. He used to drive us all crazy.” “He drove everyone crazy,” Katherine says, but there is the faintest hint of warmth in it.
La Toya steps closer to you, her voice dropping a little. “He’d be so proud of you being here tonight. You know that, right?” That lands heavier than you expect. You blink, looking down. “I just wish…” You stop yourself before you finish it.
Katherine reaches for your hand, gentle but firm. “We all do.” La Toya nods. “But you know what he was like. He’d hate all this fuss and then secretly love it at the same time.” That finally pulls another small, shaky laugh out of you.
Katherine squeezes your hand once. “Come on,” she says softly. “You do not have to carry it all standing here.”
All together you start walking further down where it was filled with more interviewers and journalists, the press.
“Y/N! Over here!”
“Can you look this way?”
“Y/N, do you think you’ve ever fully processed his death?”
The last question hit you hard but there was no time to react, you weren’t new to all this and you knew any sort of reaction you gave would be picked on like crazy in the media tomorrow.
Flashes go off in sharp bursts. You try to keep moving, but it is impossible not to feel pulled in every direction at once. Everyone's saying your name.
“Do you think the film gets Michael right?”
“Is this premiere reopening old wounds for you?”
“Y/N, what would Michael think of this tonight?”
You pause as the questions overlap, your name being called from every direction, cameras flashing without a break.
When you speak, your voice is calmer, more measured.
“I think people will always have their own opinions about him,” you say gently. “But this film wasn’t made to answer everything or to change that. It was made with a lot of care, and a lot of love for who he was to us, not just who the world thought he was.”
You take a small breath, holding yourself steady under the lights.
“For me, what matters is that so many of the people closest to him helped shape it. It came from conversations, from memories, from trying to be as honest as possible with something that is never simple to tell.”
A brief pause.
“So I just hope people watch it with that in mind. Not as a final version of him, but as one way of remembering a life that meant a lot to a lot of people.”
You feel Katherine beside you before you see her. Steady. Present. La Toya is on your other side, close enough that you can hear her small, grounding “you’re okay” under her breath.
And then it becomes a blur of familiar faces moving through the same chaos.
Actors you recognised from the long nights of rewatching footage and personally meeting to make sure they completely encompassate the character they are playing. Colman Domingo pauses for photos, composed and calm in a way that almost feels unfair in all this noise. Nia Long gives a soft smile toward the cameras before leaning slightly closer to speak with someone off to the side. Juliano is there too, still carrying something of Michael's childhood in the way he stands, quiet but playful, like he is trying to stay inside the memory he helped recreate.
Ahead, the Jackson brothers is gathered in shifting pockets of movement.
Jackie, Marlon, and Jermaine stand together for a moment, Jermaine still somehow managing to distract everyone with his hair again, and Jackie and Marlon arguing, most likely over something that no one cares about.
Prince and Blanket are a little further in, staying close to each other. Prince’s posture is steady and humble. Blanket watches everything carefully, like he is noticing details everyone else is rushing past.
Jaafar moves through it all like he belongs in both worlds at once. When he catches your eye, he softens immediately, going back to all the conversations he has with you to perfect playing his uncle the best he can. There is a small nod, subtle but certain, like he understands exactly what this moment feels like for you without needing to say it out loud.
Someone calls your name again.
“Y/N! Over here!”
A wave of movement follows as you are guided forward again, the press finally loosening behind you. The sound shifts almost immediately. Not questions this time.
Cheering.
Your eyes lift before you even realise you are looking for it.
Fans packed behind barricades, signs held high, hands reaching out, voices overlapping in pure noise that is somehow warmer than what you just walked through.
“Y/N!”
“We love you!”
“Michael forever!”
You stop for a second without meaning to. La Toya glances at you and hesitates, like the words are too heavy to say out loud. When she finally speaks, her voice is softer than before, almost fragile.
“They’ve been waiting for this… for you,” she says, watching your face carefully, like she is trying to steady you with her gaze alone. A shaky breath slips out of her.
“You know, Y/N… ever since Michael,” her voice breaks and she looks down for a second, gathering herself, “ever since Michael passed away… it was like something in you went with him. Like you didn’t really leave, but you weren’t fully here either.”
The words land quietly at first, then all at once.
Your chest tightens in a way you can’t hide. For a second you just stand there, staring at the fans, your mind trying to catch up to what she actually said. Your fingers curl into your palm, nails pressing lightly without you noticing.
Your lips part, but nothing comes out right away.
When you finally speak, it’s barely above a whisper.
“I miss him,” you say, voice cracking on the edge of it. You blink quickly, like you can stop anything from spilling over if you just hold it in place. “I miss him so much it hurts in places I can’t even explain.”
“God I hate him so much” You let out a small, uneven breath, shaking your head slightly. You lift your hand, a small wave at first. The crowd erupts louder.
And then you’re moving again, gently guided forward by someone holding your arm.
You don’t resist. You just go with it. La Toya stays beside you as you walk, not saying much now, just keeping pace.
Ahead, you can see the entrance to the cinema where the film is being shown. People are gathered, lights brighter up there, voices louder again as you get closer.
Your breathing is still uneven, but you try to steady it. You keep your eyes forward and follow where they’re taking you, step by step, toward the screening.
You take your seat labelled with your name in it, sitting between Latoya and Marlon, Marlon gives you a warm familiar smile as the lights start to dim.
At the front, the director steps up first, speaking about the film, about Michael, about his work and legacy. Then the producers follow, talking about what it meant to bring everything together for tonight.
You listen, but it all feels slightly distant, like you’re hearing it through water. Then there’s movement at the front again. Prince steps up first, then Blanket beside him.
For a moment, they both just look out at the audience. Then Prince speaks first, his voice steady but emotional.“Thank you for coming tonight,” he says. “This film means a lot to us… to our family. It’s about our dad, but it’s also about everything he left behind for us.” They continue acknowledging the whole cast and thanking them.
Blanket takes a small breath before speaking, glancing briefly down and then back up. “And… we just want to say thank you to everyone who’s been here for us,” he says. “Especially our mum.”
There’s a pause. Prince looks toward your section of the room.
“She’s been everything to us, and we know this is hard for her,” he says simply. “But she is the strongest person we know. She’s kept us together.” Blanket nods slightly.
“And she’s been the best mum… and the best wife to our dad,” he adds quietly. “Even when things were really hard, she never stopped loving him.” The room is quiet for a second, then soft applause starts to build.
You don’t move right away. You just sit there, taking it in, your hands resting in your lap as people around you turn slightly in your direction. Marlon grinning and nudging you “Alright,” he murmurs with a small laugh, “I see what’s going on here… they’re trying to make you cry in public on purpose.”
You shake your head, smiling.
“If you start crying, I’m gonna start crying so you better not,” he adds lightly.
Eventually silence washes over the room like a held breath finally released. The screen flickers alive. For a second, anger flickers through you before you can stop it. And as much as you love Marlon, it’s not him you want here. It should be Michael.
He should be sitting there beside you, nudging you every few minutes during the film, leaning in to whisper something funny about a scene, or quietly complaining about the acting just to make you laugh. He should be there, like he always used to be. You shake your head, and look up at the screen.
On screen, little Michael appears.
Juliano.
The moment he steps into frame, something inside you fractures softly rather than breaks. It is not just the performance. It is the way he holds himself. The way his big brown bambi eyes search the world like it is both too loud and too beautiful at the same time.
He reminds you so much of him that it feels unfair.
Your breath catches.
Latoya notices first. She leans slightly toward you but does not interrupt. Just shifts closer, like an anchor without words. Marlon glances back too, softer now, like he understands without needing explanation.
“I’m fine,” you whisper automatically.
No one believes you.
You do not believe you.
The screen continues.
Young Michael smiles.
And suddenly you are somewhere else again, not watching a film but remembering a real moment that never fully stopped existing in your mind.
You are sitting across from him when he was still just Michael to you, not an icon, not a legend, just a boy with too much weight on his shoulders pretending it was normal.
He’s trying to act serious, but it doesn’t last long. You nudge his foot under the table. “You’re not concentrating at all.” He looks up immediately, pretending he’s been paying attention the whole time. “Yes I am.”
“You weren’t even looking at the page.” He glances down, then back at you, caught. “I was thinking.”
“About what?”
He hesitates for half a second, then says quickly, “Important things.” You squint at him. “That’s not an answer.” He smiles, a little cheeky now. “It is. Just a secret one.”
You shake your head, trying not to laugh, but you fail. “You’re so weird.” “Yeah,” he says, leaning back a little like he’s proud of it. “But you’re still sitting here talking to me, so it can’t be that bad.”
And he grins at you like it’s the easiest thing in the world to make you stay.
Back in the cinema, your hands are trembling now. You press them together so tightly it hurts.
On screen, the story moves forward. Pain and joy braided together. Fame and isolation. Love as both a gift and a burden.
And then he is there.
Not Michael, not exactly. But something close enough that your heart does not know how to separate the image from the memory. Jaafar moves across the screen with care, not imitation, but interpretation shaped by love and responsibility. Still, your mind does what it always does when it is overwhelmed.
It goes backwards.
Again you are not in a cinema.
You’re outside a house you barely remember the address of anymore, young and breathless, arguing over nothing important except everything feels important then. Michael is laughing at something you said, head tilted back, sunlight catching the edge of his hair.
“You always make everything sound like a story,” he says, smiling. “And you always act like you belong in all of them,” you reply.
He looks at you for a second longer than usual, grin softening a little. “As long as you're in them, I do belong,” he says quietly blushing.
You roll your eyes, but there’s a smile you can’t hide. “You’re so corny.”
“Was it?” he says, stepping a little closer. “I thought it was pretty good.”
The memory shifts again.
Years later, it’s quieter. You’re sitting on steps somewhere, shoulder to shoulder. He nudges your arm gently. “Be honest.” You glance at him. “That sounds dangerous.” He laughs softly. “It’s not. Not with you.”
You pause for a second, then look at him properly. “Fine. Ask.” He hesitates, then says a little softer, “Do you ever think we’ll still be like this when we’re older?” You bump his shoulder lightly. “Like what?”
“Like this,” he says, smiling at you now. “together.”
You don’t answer straight away. You just look at him for a moment, like you’re trying to figure out why that question feels heavier than it should. Then you shrug a little. “I don’t know about the future.”
His smile fades just slightly.
You bump his shoulder again, softer this time. “But I know you. So yeah… I think you’d still find me.” That makes his expression change. He looks at you properly now, like he’s hearing something he didn’t expect.
“Yeah?” he asks quietly. “Yeah,” you say, like it’s obvious.
He lets out a small breath, almost a laugh, but it doesn’t fully come out. Instead, he just looks at you for a second too long. “You make it sound easy,” he says. “It kind of is,” you reply.
A comfortable silence settles between you.
He shifts a little closer, knees almost touching yours now. “You’re really confident about that,” he says, softer, teasing but not quite. You raise an eyebrow. “About what?” “Me,” he says simply, like it’s not a big deal to say it.
That makes you pause.
You look at him again, really look at him, and your voice comes out quieter. “Maybe I just like you too much to imagine you disappearing.” His smile goes still for a moment, like he doesn’t know what to do with that honesty.
“Oh,” he says, barely above a whisper. You laugh a little, nervous now. “Don’t make it weird.” “I’m not,” he says quickly, but he’s still looking at you like that.
Another silence.
Then he shifts closer again, slow this time, like he’s asking without words. His hand rests lightly on the step beside yours, not touching you, just close. “Can I try something?” he asks softly.
You tilt your head. “Try what?” He doesn’t answer right away. He just looks at you, then down at your mouth for a split second, then back to your eyes.
That’s enough of an answer. Your breath catches slightly. “Michael…”
“Just tell me no,” he says gently, still not moving. You don’t.
Instead, you lean in first, just a little. It’s small, hesitant, like both of you are checking if this is real. When your lips meet, it’s soft and unsteady and over too quickly, like neither of you knows how to make it last yet. When you pull back, there’s no big reaction. Just quiet.
He’s smiling. Not his usual grin. Something softer. “Okay,” he says quietly. You let out a breath, trying to hide your smile. “Okay what?”
“I think I found my answer,” he says, still looking at you like he’s not planning on looking away anytime soon.
You do not notice you are crying until Latoya gently slides her hand into yours.
She does not say anything.
She does not have to.
Latoya reaches over a moment later, placing a steadying hand on your shoulder, grounding you between them like they are holding you in place so you do not drift too far into memory.
And slowly, the present returns.
The film is still playing.
Jafaar is smiling again on the screen, playing tricks with your fragile mind.
You swallow hard.
“He looks like him,” you whisper without meaning to.
Latoya nods once sadly. “Yeah.”
You look back at the screen and feel something shift inside your chest. Not healing exactly. Not closure. Something more complicated than that.
Understanding, maybe.
Or acceptance that love does not stop just because time does.
The screen fades to black at the end of the premiere segment.
Applause begins, slow at first, then rising like a wave.
But you stay seated for a moment longer.
Because for a second, in the quiet after everything, you swear you can still hear him somewhere in the memory of the room. Still your sweet lover boy, still your best friend, still Michael.
--------------------------------------
😢
Summary: Broadway's leading lady. The most famous man in the world. They've argued, they have made up, their bond is still undeniable. Is it make or break?
part 2 of Desire Interrupted
Tags: 18+, romantic! michael, soft, fluff, angst, romantic smut, YES i am capable. still filthy tbh. dangerous/history era, theatre/pop star setting, you are an actress in the 90s, michael is slightly avoidant, mentions of insomnia, time jump
Word Count: 13219+ (it might be more oop)
Author’s Note: I really didn't plan on making a part 2 to DI, but here we are, after y'all blew up my ask box and comments ;) its not perfect, and is much more of a drabble, with some timeline inconsistency (BLEGH I know) but i hope u enjoy it nonetheless. i may delete… this i am still undecided if im honest - dont rlly think it does the original plot justice YIKES ˙◠˙
If you'd to make a request, send me an ask ;)
You woke up first.
The light coming through the bedroom window was the grey of a New York morning after rain — it wasn't quite harsh, more like the gentler kind of sky that allowed you to keep the lights off at home, powered only by the cloud.
This kind of weather made the room look like a photograph someone had taken with an old SLR camera, slightly underexposed. Your bedside lamp was still on from the night before which brought a slight warmth to the otherwise still room.
You had no memory of getting into the bed. You had a vague memory of him carrying you, sometime around three, after the second round, when neither of you had been able to keep your eyes open any longer.
You were warm.
You were warm because Michael was wrapped around you from behind, one of his arms heavy across your waist and one of his legs hooked over yours, and his breath was slow and warm against the back of your neck.
You lay still for a long time. You did not want to move. To risk waking him would mean that he might once again try to leave, clouded by his insecurity.
Instead, you watched the grey light shift on the ceiling and you let yourself feel, properly, what it felt like to wake up with him actually in your life. He wasn't just a side character that reared his head when things needed to get interesting, or propel the plot forward. He was a real, living, breathing, perfect thing you wanted to hold onto forever.
Light.
That was the word for it.
Everything in your body felt lighter. Your shoulders. Your jaw unclenched. You had been carrying what felt like 3 tonnes of anxiety for three months without ever realising you were doing it.
All of it had loosened in the night. You had not understood, until now, how much you had been holding. How much energy it had taken to be the woman who held back, who let him set the pace, who was patient and grown up and careful.
You were not going to be that woman anymore. You would not hold back. Not with him. Not when you had so much to lose.
He shifted behind you. A small sound in his throat, sleepy, contented. His arm tightened briefly around your waist and then went slack again.
He wasn't quite awake yet. You could feel his eyelashes against the nape of your neck, him off in some dream world.
You closed your eyes. You smiled into the pillow.
He stirred properly about twenty minutes later.
You felt him wake up by degrees — first the shift in his breathing, then a small stretch of his arm across you, then a kind of confused pause where you knew he was working out where he was. You waited, happily on him letting it all come back.
His face pressed into the curve of your shoulder.
"Morning," you said.
He made a noise that was not quite a word.
"You alive back there?"
"Mm."
You laughed. You felt him laugh too, a small huff of breath against your skin.
He propped himself up on one elbow behind you. You turned over to face him.
His hair was a complete disaster. It had been wet when you fell asleep and had dried into something that looked like a small animal had been living in it. There was a faint pink mark on his cheekbone where he had been pressed against the rug for an hour before you'd made it to the bed. He blinked at you in the grey light, looking sleepy and rumpled and not at all like the most famous man in the world.
He looked at you for a long minute without saying anything.
Then —
"It's you."
"Hi." You said back, meekly.
He smiled. The real one. One you think you might have only ever seen a rare few times. There wasn't anything hiding behind it anymore.
"You're still here," you said.
"Where would I have gone?"
"I don't know. I half thought I'd wake up and find a note."
"A note." He said, surprised.
"On the kitchen counter. Something polite. Dear Y/N. Thank you for last night. I have several pressing engagements in Geneva."
He laughed, a loud, achingly cute cackle. He buried his face in the pillow next to yours after realising how loud he was.
"Geneva." He mumbled.
"It very well could have happened, knowing your crazy schedule."
"I don't even know where Geneva is."
"It's in Switzerland, Michael."
"Okay, well I do know where Switzerland is."
He turned his face back toward you.
The look on his face reminded you of the first dinner you had. It had only been a few months back, but everything just felt so different. You felt like you had known him in all of the alternate universes.
He reached out and brushed a strand of your hair out of your face. His hand stayed at your jaw afterward. He just held it there for a moment.
"How are you feeling?" he asked. Quiet and caring.
You thought about it.
"Lighter," you said. "I feel really light."
He nodded slowly.
"Me too."
There was a beat.
"I was so tired," he said. "I didn't know how tired I was until I flopped into your comfy bed."
"I know."
"I've been carrying this for so long. I don't know how long. Years, maybe. Just a genuine disbelief that anything romantic could ever work out for me"
"I know, love."
The word came out before you knew you were going to say it. You had never called him that before. Not in the time you had spent together You had been so careful with the names you used for him, so professional about it — Michael. It felt almost too formal now.
He didn't say anything. But you saw his eyes change. Soft and surprised and a little wet.
You watched him take the word and hold it.
Then he leaned over, and kissed you. Slow. Lazy. A morning kiss.
He tasted like sleep.
His mouth was warm and unhurried and there was no urgency in him, none of the desperation of last night, just a man kissing a woman, not allowing preconceived false truths to hold him back.
When he pulled back, he pressed his forehead against yours.
"I want to make you breakfast," he said.
"Do you cook?"
"I cook a… little."
"How little?"
He looked at you, eyes serious, still very close. You could see his smile lines, his eyes bare, no eyeliner, no makeup at all really. He was gorgeous his skin patchy in areas, but it felt a little like looking at constellations.
"I can make toast."
"That is not cooking, Michael." You stated, matter of factly.
"I have a range of toast techniques."
You couldn't help but cackle now. You threw your head back, completely unguarded. He looked so genuinely pleased with himself for the joke.
"Alright," you recovered. "Show me your range, Jackson."
₊˚°⊹˚
Your kitchen, in the daylight, looked exactly like what it was; a small, gritty New York apartment kitchen that had been chosen by a single woman in her early thirties, who did most of her serious eating at the restaurants other people took her to.
There was a kettle, and an old vintage toaster; a loaf of sourdough on the counter from the bakery on the corner, which you bought every Sunday and which lasted you until Thursday; you mostly ate it as toast at 3am when the adrenaline from the show was haunting you.
It sat lamely beside your fruit bowl, that looked like it belonged in a sad conceptual painting hung in a museum.
He stood in the middle of your kitchen in a pair of his boxer shorts and the undershirt he had been wearing last night, hands on his hips. He surveyed your countertop like a man planning an expedition.
"Right," he said. "Toast."
He whipped his head around to you as you hovered in the doorway.
"Do you have butter?"
"I have butter, in the refrigerator."
"Do you have jam?"
"I might have jam."
"Then we are well within my range, m'lady."
You sat down at your kitchen table in his dress shirt — the one from the night before, the white one, which you had pulled on while he was still asleep and which came halfway down your thighs — and you watched him.
He was so focused on the toast.
"Michael."
"Mm."
"You can walk away. It'll pop up when it's done."
"I prefer to monitor the cooking situation."
You just eyed him, unsure that toasting bread could be labelled 'cooking'.
"I have had bad experiences." He finally said, breaking the brief pause.
"With toast?"
He turned around and grinned at you, clearly not wishing to elaborate.
It was a cheeky and boyish look.
The toaster popped.
His face did something complicated.
"It's a bit dark," he said.
You got up and then looked into the toaster.
The toast was quite literally jet black.
Not lightly browned, or slightly singed like some folks liked. Black. Like coal. There was a faint wisp of smoke coming off it.
You pressed your hand to your mouth.
"Michael."
"I genuinely thought I had this in me!"
"It is on fire."
"It is not on fire."
"It was on fire, look at it."
He was laughing now, leaning on the counter with his hand over his eyes. It was coming from somewhere deep.
You had not heard him laugh like this before. You had heard the small relieved laugh in passing, and the soft, slightly cracked laugh on the phone. You had noticed around a month in that he faked so many aspects of himself, to fit in, to be like everyone else. You loved that now after your admissions to each other, and the unraveling of your feelings for each other – he was ready to bare the truth to you.
He reached for you and pulled you into him by your waist. You leaned your face on his chest, you were much shorter, so you could hear the beat of his heart from this angle. He was warm, and smelled a little like expensive aftershave and rain.
He kissed the top of your head.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm going to do better. I'm going to make you better food than this."
"You have a lifetime to redeem yourself, Michael."
He went very still.
You realised what you had said about half a second after you had said it.
You looked up at him.
He was looking down at you. His eyes were enormous.
"A lifetime," he said. Quietly.
"That came out before I —"
"No," he said. "No. Don't take it back. Don't take that one back."
You looked at him for a long minute.
"Okay," you said. "I won't."
He cupped your face with both hands. He kissed you, very gently, on the forehead. Then on the bridge of your nose. Then on your mouth.
You stood in your kitchen in your bare feet, in his shirt with his arms around you and the burnt toast still smoking faintly on the counter beside you, and you thought, this is the rest of my life. This is what the rest of my life looks like. This man, with his questionable cooking skills and boyish charm.
Later in the day, after hanging around the apartment, dancing to the radio and cleaning up the mess left in the wake of heated intimacy, you finally managed to witness him cook. Well, sort of.
The slice of bread had survived Michael's wrath.
He buttered it, put jam on it and then lovingly cut it into triangles, which charmed you completely.
He set the plate down in front of you with the kind of ceremony usually reserved for a state dinner.
"My masterpiece," he said.
"Michael."
"Eat it before it gets cold."
You shovelled the toast down, realising you had not eaten since lunch the day prior.
It was lukewarm, basically like heated up bread, soft in the middle. There was entirely too much jam on it, and it was the best piece of toast you had ever eaten in your life.
₊˚°⊹˚
He had to go.
Not back to LA; not yet. To his hotel, where his people were, where Wayne, his assistant was no doubt already trying to work out where his boss had spent the night.
He stood in your doorway in his ruined suit from last night with the buttons missing on the shirt you had just been wearing, and his hair still wild and he looked, somehow, more like Michael Jackson now than he had at any point during the previous twelve hours.
The world was already pulling him back. You could see it in the way he was bracing himself to walk out into it.
You straightened his collar.
"When do you have to leave the city?"
"Friday."
"Will you let me see you tonight? After your show?"
"Of course."
"And tomorrow?"
"And tomorrow."
"And the night after that? And then whenever we possibly can?"
You smiled at him. "Yes, Michael."
He kissed you, hard. He kissed you like he was trying to memorise it, the rhythm and the feeling of it.
He was feverish; a man who had spent the entire morning being given beautiful experiences he had not believed he was allowed to want and was still in disbelief about every single one of them.
He had the domestic bliss he'd always hoped for, from a lover. Finally able to have what most people took for granted on a daily basis. The space to not be the version of himself that was strung along in narrative by the press.
He pulled back.
"I'll call Frank," he said. "I'll have him pick you up at the stage door tonight."
"Okay."
"And Y/N —"
"Yes."
His eyes were so warm, his smile creating squishible cheeks and smile lines.
"Thank you for giving me a second chance," he said.
"I am glad I answered the door."
He kissed your forehead one more time. Then, he went off into the bustling city.
You closed the door behind him and stood with your back against it for a long time.
Your mind was racing a million miles an hour – so much had whizzed right past you.
It was a feeling; an instinctual gut reaction, that this was going to work out and be so worth the agony and all the questioning and the missed opportunities.
The situation before felt like you were both constantly facing each other across a busy road, not able to cross over because there was whizzing traffic; the threat of moving closer was too much.
You knew deep down that you were no longer going to feel alone like you had previously, not with Michael.
You went back to bed for an hour. You curled up on his side of the mattress, where the sheet still smelled faintly of him, and you slept properly for the first time in months, no more residual adrenaline to stop it.
₊˚°⊹˚
Three weeks went past in a blur.
He came to your show on the Wednesday after the morning of the burnt toast. And the Thursday. He flew back to LA on the Friday morning and called you that night, and then he was back in New York the following weekend, and the weekend after that, and at some point in the middle of the second week you stopped counting the flights and just started expecting his presence.
He stayed at your apartment. Not at the hotel anymore. The hotel had become a problem; your address was easier to keep quiet than a known suite at the Pierre — so Wayne quietly cancelled the booking and Michael's overnight bag took up residence in the corner of your bedroom. You found his toothbrush in the cup beside yours one morning and stood staring at it for a full minute. A crazy concept to have moved in with the most prolific person you'd met in your life.
He bought you a coffee machine. A proper one, the kind that ground the beans, because he had decided very seriously that the coffee press was not enough for you, when you worked such irregular hours. He didn't even like coffee.
He installed it himself, on the counter, looking very pleased with himself about the whole project. You came home from a Saturday matinee to find him reading the manual on your kitchen floor in his cute white socks and a Disney World sweater. His hair soft and unstyled.
You did not tell anyone about your relationship thus far. Sandra knew, obviously — Sandra had known the afternoon after you'd slept together for the first time, because Sandra had a good eye and knew when you were hiding something.
You and Michael had agreed that, mutually, nothing about the relationship was going public until you were both ready. Which was fine. It was preferable. You had a Tony nomination to do press for. He had an album to finish off. There was no part of either of you that wanted to poke the bear, but it had to be done at some point.
You wanted it off of your chest, so you could just start living your life. You felt anxiety at the press knowing you were “hiding” it, knowing that they would then make up some sort of elaborate story as to why that was the case.
The Tonys were the first time he was going to be seen in public with you and it made you feel sick with nerves. Mostly for him, as people had been so cruel to him throughout his life for no apparent reason.
It made you sad to read the tabloids on a daily basis extort his name and person for money. It was like vultures sweeping down and ripping more and more from a dead animal.
Michal always said he’d fine love in his heart to forgive them one day, but you could not find that grace deep down.
Your life had been sheltered for the most part — your parents had normal 9-5 jobs in the city, as you grew up there. You were the anomaly of the family, but it was nothing like the fishbowl Michael endured.
You wanted him to be able to feel validation from whatever the press were going to run the next day after the announcement.
You wanted them to see you weren’t just another girl he was closely associated.
Not as a friend. As his, loving and genuinely adoring date. You’d show them by just being in his presence how much you cared for him. and secretly you hoped that they’d just back off, understanding how that there is limited stories they could run now about Michael fathering 15 different children to 15 different mothers; or that he was gay, or even that he was an asexual aliens. It was foul what they did do him.
You'd had the conversation about it on a Tuesday, lying in bed at six in the morning before he had to leave for his car to the airport. He had said
“I want to come with you. I want to be there with you. I don't care what the papers do”
You had said “are you sure about this?”
He had said “I have never been more sure of anything in my life.”
So Michael's team briefed yours, and the publicists on either team briefed each other. It was all a bit overwhelming, all just to get fitted for outfits that sort of matched.
Michael hired a designer you had never even heard of, to pick out your looks. You'd been in the limelight, in the acting world for quite a few years, but had never had the opportunity to delve into high fashion.
You did three fittings. You went with the baby blue one in the end. Floor length, slim, structured at the shoulders. Michael's stylist had brought it as a backup to the first that the designer had chosen that you were not entirely sold on, and knowing your feelings on it; then quietly moved it to the front of the rail.
The morning of the Tony's had you viciously anxious. You had about 3 espresso's using the new coffee machine, and once again found yourself staring at the kitchen wall. You were trying to make sense of your brain wrestling with the thought that you might not win this award, and it could be utterly devastating considering how much blood, sweat and tears went into Blanche daily.
Michael had been at the studio early morning, to lay down vocals on a new song he was very excited about. He couldn't sleep the whole previous night, as he said he'd lose the beat if he didn't get it on tape, you didn't have a tape recorder laying around, so he flew out the door toward the nearest studio his assistant could find that would let him in for a session.
He came back after it in a hooded sweatshirt and sunglasses, the way he travelled when he didn't want to be photographed, and he kissed you in the hallway in your apartment on the way to the shower and told you he was sorry he left you so abruptly
"You're nervous, Y/N."
"I'm so nervous."
"Never seen you like this. Just pretend everyone is naked, like I do."
"Michael. You perform in stadiums. That's literally thousands and thousands of naked people, and honestly quite disturbing."
"MM yeah, maybe not the greatest thing to say aloud. This is —" he gestured vaguely at the air around the two of you "this feels so good. To support each other. I am going to be there to hold your hand and dissipate the nerves."
You just smiled shyly, thinking yeah, this is so very real now.
You spent the morning together. You ate eggs that he made after he showered — he had graduated from toast — and you switched from coffee to fresh orange juice, and you ran through the order of the night with him at the table. The carpet. The seating. The category. The afterparty. He listened to all of it with the slightly a slightly nervous attention. He wanted to do everything right for you.
At one in the afternoon, Wayne came with the clothes, the stylist by his side.
You spent the next four hours getting ready.
₊˚°⊹˚
Sandra came over at three. Hair and makeup were in your living room by four. By five you were in the dress and your hair was up and your makeup was done and you were standing in front of the long mirror in your bedroom looking at a version of yourself you almost didn't recognise.
Sandra came to stand behind you. She put her hands on your shoulders.
"Baby."
"Mm."
"You're going to win."
"Sandra, don't jinx it"
"I'm saying it, because I can see it."
"Ughh." You covered your face with your hands in anxious agony.
"I'm not going to jinx anything. You're going to win and you're going to walk up there in that dress and you're going to thank me by name of course." She squeezed your shoulders, jokingly, looking at you through the mirror at the vanity.
"And then you're going to come down off that stage and find your boy and you're going to kiss him on national television."
"I am not kissing him on national television, he might freak out"
"I have a good read on Michael, and I think he'd welcome it."
"Sandra."
She grinned at you in the mirror. "I'm just saying."
You laughed. You couldn't help it. You felt your nerves crack open slightly under the weight of her looking at you like that.
She straightened the strap on your dress. She picked an invisible piece of fluff off your shoulder. She kissed the back of your hair very gently and then she left to get herself ready, and you stood alone in the bedroom for a moment, looking at the woman in the mirror.
You had spent eighteen months becoming Blanche. You knew in your bones that the performance and the wider team around it, deserved the win of this award.
₊˚°⊹˚
Frank pulled up at the kerb of Radio City at six twenty.
You could hear the carpet before you could see it. The roar of the crowd. The bursts of sound when a famous name was announced down the line. The high whine of camera flashes somewhere further up the street.
Michael looked over at you, fondly.
"Ready?"
"As I will ever be. Are you?" You asked, you whole body vibrating with nerves.
"No. I always get nervous at these things, even if I have been doing it for 20 odd years,"
"Let's go anyway." He said with finality.
He squeezed your hand. He let it go. He got out of the car first.
The crowd at the far end of the carpet noticed him before the photographers did. A wave of sound moved down the line as people clocked who had just stepped onto the kerb — a low rolling oh that broke into a proper roar by the time the photographers caught up and the flashes started.
He did not look at the cameras.
He turned. He held his hand out for you.
You took it.
You stepped out of the car in the baby blue dress with your hand in his, and the entire press line completely lost their minds.
The flashes were physical. You felt them in your chest. You smiled — the trained smile, the one you had been practising in fittings — and you let him guide you into the position the publicist had marked for you, and you stood with him at the start of the carpet and let them take their first photograph.
Then he leaned in slightly, very close, his lips almost at your ear, and said — you are doing so well, my love.
You felt every muscle in your shoulders drop an inch.
You walked the carpet with shaking, aching legs.
He kept hold of your hand the entire way. He did not let go. Even thought the press were shouting at him 'Michael turn to us, look over here', even when the designer's lead talent escort tried to gently separate you for the solo shots the team had requested — you shook your head at her, smiling, and she got the message in about half a second and waved the photographers off, and the two of you walked the rest of the carpet with your hands locked together.
A reporter shouted from the line — how long have you two been together?
You felt Michael glance at you. You answered for him.
"None of your business." You laughed nervously, your eyes trying to adjust to how bright it had been.
The reporter laughed. Several reporters laughed. Michael leaned in slightly, under the noise, his mouth right at your ear again, and said — that's my girl.
Goosebumps raised on your skin, his voice had been sultry.
You did not know your face was capable of going as warm as it went in that second.
Another reporter, further down the line — Michael, can we get a comment from you?
He turned. He didn't let go of your hand. He gave a toothy smile genuinely seeming happy and content.
"She's extraordinary," he said. "She was extraordinary the first night I saw her on stage and she has been extraordinary every day since. I'm just glad I get to walk in with her tonight."
The press line went silent for a half second. You felt it. The collective intake of breath at his brutally honest statement.
Then the flashes started up twice as fast.
He squeezed your hand 3 times and started leading you to the entrance.
₊˚°⊹˚
The ceremony went past in a blur.
You sat with Michael's hand on your thigh under the table for the first five categories. The weight of it was the only thing keeping you grounded on earth and breathing.
When your category came up, you stopped being able to hear properly.
The whole room went slightly underwater. You watched the presenter walk out and you watched her open the envelope and you felt Michael's hand tighten around yours and you knew, in the half second before she said it, that you were not going to remember this moment afterward except in pieces.
She said your name.
The room exploded.
You turned to Michael first He was beaming, so earnestly proud of you, his eyes a little wet. He'd truly believed in your performance and you were so grateful it brought you together.
He nodded at you, frantically, and pushed you very gently toward the aisle.
"Go, baby. Go."
You don't remember the walk.
You remember the lights, though and squinting to make your way through the sea of tables to try to get to the stage.
You remember the weight of the trophy once they put it in your hand.
the presenter kissing your cheek and whispering I am so proud of you like she had been waiting all night to say it.
You stepped up to the microphone.
You looked out into the dark room, a lump in your throat and finally thought, despite all of your insane insecurity; tears shed after shows, the nightmares you would wake from that were centered around fumbling lines and misrepresenting a dear to all character, your lack of sleep, your borderline unhealthy relationship to food, it was all just worth it. All in that one moment your name had been uttered.
You had written a speech three different times. You had folded the most recent version into the small clutch at your table, but in the midst of the frenzy. You did not, in this moment, remember a single word of it and maybe talking more from the heart was better, anyway.
You thanked Greg. You thanked the production. You thanked your director, who you could just make out in the third row, and who had taught you that Blanche was not a tragedy but a woman of multitudes, a groundbreaking look into mental health and playing it had been a great honour. You thanked Daniel by name, properly, generously, for however many weeks of carrying you across a stage, or screaming and shouting at you with the kind of trust most actors never got to have with a scene partner. You watched him stand up in the audience and put his hand over his heart.
You thanked Sandra. You thanked her by name like you had promised her you would. You said she had been the woman behind every single show of yours for the last six years and that no version of you on any stage in any city existed without her. Your hair would simply not survive without her and neither would your heart.
The camera cut to her in the audience. She was already weeping into her napkin.
And then you paused.
You looked into the dark.
You looked toward where you knew he was sitting.
"And to a special man, who knows exactly who he is" you said. "Who has fueled my passion tenfold. Thank you. I turned a corner with my character 'Blanche' when I met you. I was a more, fully realised version of myself the moment you appeared. I love you."
The audience had been so still, hanging onto every single word you articulated, just like in the play. You could hear, somewhere in the dark, a woman saying oh very softly into her hand.
The camera cut to him, it seemed everyone had followed your eyeline.
You did not see it at the time. He had both hands over his mouth, hiding his gorgeous smile, like he did when he was nervous. Tears brimming in his eyes at the thought of being loved on this scale.
You stepped back from the microphone.
You held the trophy up.
The audience rose to cheer you on.
₊˚°⊹˚
Backstage was chaos.
Press. Photographers. Producers. A woman with a clipboard and headset trying to walk you to the official photography room. Sandra somewhere behind you, still buzzing, holding your clutch like a small animal she was responsible for.
You just wanted Michael.
The clipboard woman walked you through the photo line. She walked you through each of your marks, the press shot you on backdrops with the trophy heavy in your small hands.
After, she walked you toward the press room and you scanned every corridor as you went, because you wanted him, you wanted him, you wanted to see his face.
You came around a corner and he was there.
He was standing in a quiet area between the press room and the green room. Bill at the far end lingering, clearly concerned that Michael would be swarmed at some point. The clipboard woman, to her credit, took one look at his face and quietly disappeared.
He pushed off the wall and you ran to him, to completely surrender.
He caught you. He picked you up off the floor, both his arms under yours, and he spun you once and set you down and pressed his forehead against yours and he was shaking.
"I'm so proud of you. I'm so proud of you. I am so proud of you, baby —"
You couldn't speak.
He pulled back to look at you. His eyes were red. His mouth was open slightly.
"You said it."
"I said it."
"On national television," He said, "what a way to tell the world."
He laughed — a surprised, completely unhinged laugh — and then he kissed you. There, in the corridor backstage at Radio City, with the trophy still in your hand and the press room thirty feet away and the entirety of the Broadway industry about to come looking for you.
He kissed you, strong hands on either side of your cheeks. Strong, true and so honest.
When he pulled back, his thumb brushed the tear that had finally escaped onto all your makeup artist's hard work.
"I love you too," he said. "I know I don't say it too often due to my nerves. But, I think I have since I saw the curtain come up on that third performance of Streetcar."
₊˚°⊹˚
Streetcar closed in the September. You did not extend.
You signed on for a new play in October — a small, hard, brilliant thing at the Public, written by a woman you had admired since drama school. Rehearsals started in November. You found yourself, for the first time in your career, in a production where the press junket was kind to you. nobody asked you about what you were eating, or who you were dating, or your work out routine to stay skinny. It was a relief like no other to focus on the art, and only the art
He went back on tour in January.
Europe. South America. Then Asia. You knew the schedule by heart because Wayne had given you a printed copy and because Michael had pinned it to the inside of your kitchen cabinet so you could see it every time you went to get sugar for a coffee, which was a lot, admittedly.
You spoke every day. You spoke twice a day on the good days. He flew you out to Berlin for a long weekend in February for a date night at a premiere of an indie movie he’d been invited to and to Paris for two nights in March to just celebrate your relationship. How in love you were. Michael liked very much to be out of the limelight when he could, to keep some semblance of normalcy in his private life, but sometimes he would just become Michael Jackson in order to get something for you. And in the Paris situation - he was able to shut down the entire Eiffel Tower for you during the day, so you both could have a picnic at the top of it. Picnics were his favorite.
There were so many moments that you started to see the want to be a pop star diminish and unfurl. Like it just wasn’t worth it to him anymore. The arguments in the press with his siblings, the accusations, the settlements for large sums of money. It continued to greedily steel from his life force. You stuck around regardless, fighting every battle you could for him.
You stood in the wings of his stadium shows in a small private viewing area and watched him become the other version of himself time after time, despite illness or fatigue and you understood, properly, for the first time, what he had been protecting you from for so long.
He was tired. Oh so tired. A life of trauma and extreme wear on the body was showing. Maybe not to fans but…
You could see it. He hid it well — he hid most things well — but you had been watching him for nearly a year now and you knew his face better than anyone alive except his mother, and you knew, in a matter of months, that he was going to be running on fumes, and not enjoying it as he couldn’t be “perfect” anymore.
You told him to take a break.
He told you he was fine and that he needed to change the world.
You told him to take a break anyway.
₊˚°⊹˚
The London leg of the Dangerous tour started in July '93.
It was the eightweek leg. Two stadium shows at Wembley, then a break, then a press cycle for the album, then more shows. You'd ironically seen photos of him sold to the New York times, on the stands in the streets as you walked to the theatre you worked at daily; he looked very slim, his skin very pale and he just looked unbelievably over it.
He had been in London for ten days before it happened.
The call came at five past 3 in the morning, your time.
You picked up on the second ring. You had trained yourself – out of panic mostly – to not let the phone ring out, because when it rung, it was usually him.
"Baby."
His voice was wrong.
You sat up in bed.
"What's wrong?"
"I'm sorry."
"What's wrong, Michael."
"I'm sorry I'm calling you. I promised to myself I wouldn't let you see me falter, so you'd think I was strong for the both of us. I —"
He was crying.
He was crying a lot. You could hear it through the line, the unsteady catch of his breath, the small choked sound at the end of every word.
You turned the lamp on. You put your feet on the floor.
"Hey. Hey. Baby. I'm here. Just talk to me."
"I haven't slept."
"For how long, my love."
"I don't know. Four nights. Maybe five. I keep — I keep getting into the bed and I lie there and the second I close my eyes my brain just starts. It just starts and it doesn't stop. I can't get it to stop."
"What's it doing? Tell me what it's doing."
He took a ragged breath.
"The British papers have been awful. The whole week. There's a piece in one of them today about — about my face. Again. About the way I look. They've put it on the front. There's a doctor they've interviewed. He's never met me. He's never been in a room with me. He's making things up about me and they printed it like it's news."
You closed your eyes.
"Oh, baby."
"I shouldn't have read it. I know I shouldn't have. Bill told me not to. Wayne told me not to. They keep the papers out of my room every morning but somebody left it in the green room before the radio thing and I just — I saw it. I picked it up. I read the whole thing."
"Michael —"
"They do this every couple of years. I know. I know they do. I know it's a cycle. I know to expect it. It's just — this week it has been every single day. There's been something every single day. And I cannot — I cannot get my brain to stop reading it back to me when I try to sleep. It just plays. Over and over. Like a record."
You stood up.
You walked to the window in your bare feet. You pulled the curtain back. Manhattan was asleep beneath you. The lights of the Empire State Building were off for the night. The sky over the river was the early kind of dark that was already thinking about morning.
"How long since you slept properly?" you asked. Voice barely above a whisper.
"Properly?"
"Properly, Michael."
A long pause.
"I don't know. A while."
"Before the tour?"
"Maybe."
"Baby."
"I know."
"You have been running on nothing for four months."
"I know. I know I have."
You pressed your forehead against the cold glass of the window.
"What does your body feel like right now?" you asked.
A small, surprised laugh through the tears.
"Why."
"Because I want to know. Tell me."
"My hands keep going numb. The last show, the third song, I couldn't feel my hands properly for about a minute and a half. I played the rest of the show worrying I was going to drop the mic. My — my chest feels strange. It has done for a few days. Not bad. Just — present. Like I can feel my heart all the time. I cannot get warm. The hotel is warm. The bath is warm. I cannot get warm."
"Michael."
"I know."
"You need a doctor."
"I have a doctor."
"You need to call him."
"I'll see how I feel tomorrow morning."
"Now."
"Y/N —"
"Tonight, or this morning, or whatever fucking time it is there Michael. Whatever time it is there. Call him. Wake him up. I don't care."
"Y/N. I cannot — I cannot do that to him, he may be with other clie—"
"Then I will call him."
There was a small silence.
"You don't have his number," he said.
"Wayne has his number. Wayne will give it to me."
"Y/N."
"Michael."
He was quiet for a long moment.
"I love you," he said. Quiet. Wrecked.
"I love you too. Now stay on the phone with me while I figure this out."
So he stayed on the phone.
You did not call the doctor. You called Wayne. Wayne called the doctor. The doctor was at the Dorchester within forty minutes — a man Michael had known for years, who was used to being called in the small hours. He asked all the right questions and gave Michael something mild to help him sleep and told him, very firmly, that the next two days were going to be rest, full stop, no negotiation.
You stayed on the phone for the whole thing.
"Are you still there?" he asked quietly.
"I'm still here."
"Of course I am."
"I'm sorry I'm a mess."
"Stop apologising."
"I —"
"Michael. Stop."
He was quiet for a moment.
"Tell me something normal," he said. "Tell me about today. Tell me about anything that isn't this."
So you did.
You sat on the floor by the window with the phone in your hand as you'd yanked it off of the nightstand and were tangled in the wires trying to take it around the room with you. you talked to him about nothing in particular.
You told him about the second act of the play you were working on, one of the scenes was physically demanding.
You told him about the woman in the bakery downstairs who had started giving you extra helpings of the sourdough bread for free, because she knew you liked it. You told him about a dream you had three nights ago about a house with a yellow door that you couldn't remember the rest of, just the door, which had bothered you for two days because you thought you recognised it from somewhere but couldn't for the life of you figure out where from.
You heard his breathing change.
You kept talking, quieter, because you knew he was right at the edge of sleep and you did not want to startle him out of it. You told him about a song you had heard on the radio that had reminded you of him. You told him you had passed a bookshop in the Village yesterday and seen a book in the window he would have liked about claymation film techniques. You told him you loved him.
He made a small sound. Almost a word.
You waited.
His breathing slowed properly.
You listened to him sleep on the phone for almost twenty minutes before you allowed yourself to hang up.
You did not go back to bed.
You stayed where you were on the floor by the window. You let the light come up over the river. You watched the sky turn from dark blue to grey to the soft pink of an early summer morning in Manhattan, and somewhere in there, you made the decision.
You called Wayne again at 5am.
"Wayne."
"Miss."
"I need a flight to London. As soon as possible. Today."
There was a beat.
"What time, miss?"
"Whenever you can get me on something. Heathrow. First class, economy, the airline doesn't matter."
"Understood, Miss. And to speak plainly, he really needs you."
You couldn't even muster a response to that as it broke your heart.
"And Wayne – ."
"Yes, Miss."
"Don't tell him. Please. Don't tell anyone in his camp other than Bill. I want to surprise him."
"Understood, Miss."
"Thank you."
You hung up. You sat on the floor for another minute. You looked at the sky over the river.
Then you got up. You went to the closet. You started to pack.
₊˚°⊹˚
You landed at Heathrow at twenty past ten in the evening, London time.
You had slept on the plane in short pockets. You had spent most of the flight reading but you weren't really absorbing, you probably read the same paragraph of a novel over and over.
You gave up halfway and instead just stared out at the dark Atlantic for the rest of the flight, thinking of him. Thinking of how mad the director of your play was going to be when he realised that you were going to be out and that the star of his show was replaced by an understudy for however long it took to get Michael better.
A driver was waiting at the gate. Wayne had arranged it without Michael knowing. The driver took your bag. He drove you into the city. The Dorchester was on Park Lane and the trees in Hyde Park were full and dark against the streetlights as you came up Knightsbridge in the back of the car.
The doorman knew who you were. He had clearly been briefed. He nodded at you and waved you through without making a fuss, and the night manager met you in the lobby and walked you to the lift personally, and you went up to the top floor of the Dorchester at half past eleven at night with a small bag in your hand and your heart in your throat.
The lift opened.
The Harlequin Suite was at the end of the corridor.
You walked toward the door.
You knocked.
There was a pause. A long one. You could hear footsteps inside.
The door opened.
Michael was in pyjama bottoms and an old white tshirt. His hair was loose. His face was pale, blotchy and tired. His brown eyes were puffy and he was holding a book in one hand, his finger marking the page, and when he saw you standing in the corridor at the door of his hotel suite, his face contorted into joy, whatever of it he had left.
He did not speak. He could not.
You set your bag down on the carpet.
He pulled you into him by the front of your coat. He buried his face in your shoulder. He made a sound that was barely a sound at all — a small, broken release of breath, the sound a person made when something they had been holding for too long and their body could not hold it anymore.
He cried into your neck. The book fell out of his hand and onto the carpet behind him.
You let him cry. You stroked the back of his hair, waiting patiently for him to release you.
When he could speak, he pulled back. He looked at you. His eyes were filled to the brim with sorrow. His eyes never lied to you.
He looked at you like he could not believe you were standing there. Like he had not allowed himself to even consider that you might come.
"How are you here?"
"Frank booked the flight at like six this morning, my time."
"Y/N —"
"You needed me here."
"You crossed an ocean – what about your play?"
"I would cross a hundred of them, Michael if it meant I could make sure you were okay."
He just looked at you. You reached up. You put your hand on the side of his face. You held it there.
"I'm here," you said. "I am here. We are going to figure this out. We are going to figure out how to do this — all of it. The tabloid stuff and the tour. We are going to figure it out together – how to get you into a good mental place. I am not going anywhere. Not now, not ever. I don't care if I need to quit the play – I want you to be okay."
He nodded solemnly.
You pulled him back in. You held him in the doorway of his suite at the Dorchester until he stopped shaking.
₊˚°⊹˚
You did not leave the suite for two days.
Wayne quietly moved the album press around. Bill kept people away so that he could rest. The London leg paused for fortyeight hours and nobody in the press caught wind of why, because Frank, Wayne, Bill and Michael's team were good at what they did, and because Michael had spent twenty years building this team that knew him intrinsically. He rarely took time for himself and so when he did, they honoured it completely.
You ordered room service. You watched television with him. You sat on the balcony of the suite and looked out over Hyde Park in the rain and held his hand. You went for a walk together very late at night, around two in the morning, when there was nobody about, and he wore a baseball cap pulled low and you walked the length of Park Lane in silence with your arm through his. You spoke of cartoons, and dreams of his that weren't fully realised yet. You told him you'd been scribbling ideas down for a new play.
He apologised, on and off, for the first few days you were there. You told him to stop apologising. He apologised for apologising. You hated how broken he looked. How much the external teams pushed him, just complete disregard to his health.
The doctor came back on the third morning. He sat with Michael in the suite for an hour. He spoke to him gently. You couldn't make out a lot of it, but you hoped it would be okay.
He spoke to you afterward. He told you, very plainly, what you already knew — that Michael had been running on empty for a long time, that the sleep was the urgent thing, that the tour management was going to have to be looked at properly to figure out why this kept happening. Why the scheduling was so tight.
It was not normal for a person to travel and exert themselves so much as he did.
The doctor left a prescription and his number written down. He shook your hand at the door and said thank you for being here.
You closed the door and you cried for a few minutes in the bathroom and then you went back out and got into bed beside Michael and watched a film with him until he fell asleep on your shoulder.
By the fifth evening together, he was sleeping properly.
He fell asleep with his head on your stomach on the sofa in the suite, with a movie playing on the television neither of you were watching. You read a book over the top of his head and you ran your fingers through his hair and you felt him breathing slow and steady against your ribs.
You looked at him there.
This was what mine, properly meant. Caring even when things felt like they were never looking up. Even when it affected your life.
You leaned down. You kissed the top of his head, willing all of his pain to diminish.
₊˚°⊹˚
Day six was different.
Michael slept for fourteen hours. You woke at some point in the middle of it and watched him for a long minute, struck by the way grown men only really look like boys again when they are properly asleep — face turned into the pillow, one hand curled loosely against his jaw, the line between his eyebrows finally smooth.
The room was full of the grey light a London morning could offer. It could not decide whether to rain or not, and somewhere in the city a church bell was ringing the hour.
You let him sleep, ordered tea and read for two hours by the window.
When he finally stirred, just past eleven, the first thing he said was —
"I am extremely hungry."
You laughed.
"What do you want?"
"Everything."
"Be specific."
He rolled onto his back and considered the ceiling.
"Pancakes. The tallest pancakes they have. And toast with jam, please"
You picked up the phone on the nightstand and ordered the kind of breakfast that would have fed a small wedding. Pancakes, bacon, eggs, fruit, two pots of coffee in case one of them was wrong, a stack of toast, a small pot of marmalade because he had once mentioned, in passing, that he liked English marmalade and of course, the Jam.
The man on the other end of the line did not flinch.
A waiter arrived twenty minutes later with a trolley so elaborate it had its own subtle suspension system. He set the table by the window with the practised, eyesdown discretion of a man who had served stranger people in this suite than the two of you, and he was gone before you had finished saying thank you.
Michael came out of the bathroom in his red plaid pyjama bottoms and the same old white tshirt, his hair damp at the temples where he had splashed his face. He took one look at the trolley and stopped.
"Y/N."
"Mm."
"This is a lot of food."
"You gave a long list."
"I underestimated the amount, I think."
You watched him approach the trolley the way a person approaches something at a museum. He lifted the silver cover off the pancakes. He looked at them for a long moment.
Then he turned to you with his face completely serious and said —
"This is the best day of my life," his smile was reaching his eyes again.
"My sweet girl, and all these sweet foods"
You spent breakfast on the carpet by the window in the end. He insisted. He said the chairs were too formal for the magnitude of the meal, which made you laugh so hard you choked on your tea you had been nursing that whole time, and you ended up sitting crosslegged on the floor with the plates between you.
Hyde Park beyond the glass and the soft, even patter of London rain just starting against the window.
He cut his pancakes into perfect triangles, which you found a little neurotic but very endearing.
He poured maple syrup with the slow ceremony of a priest performing communion.
You watched him from across the makeshift picnic and felt something burn in your stomach. He was letting himself be a bit more free again – released from the prison of his mind. The prison of his job.
He looked up halfway through munching on the toast.
"You are staring at me."
"You are very entertaining to watch. You look at everything with such wonder"
He raised an eyebrow.
The rain picked up against the window in a soft, even rush, and for a moment neither of you spoke, it felt like a small holiday from the rest of complicated adult life.
₊˚°⊹˚
By the afternoon, the rain had settled in properly.
Michael was lying on the sofa with his head in your lap. He had a paperback open against his chest that he had not turned a page of in twenty minutes. You were reading too, one hand absently working through his hair, the soft thick of it sliding through your fingers in the same slow rhythm you had been doing it for nearly an hour. He had not noticed. You were not sure he was awake.
The television was on but muted. A music programme was playing — old footage of various artists from various decades, the kind of nostalgic midafternoon slot that British television loved.
You glanced up at the screen and immediately stopped reading.
Thriller.
The opening shot. The famous tracking shot. The video had just begun.
You looked down at Michael.
He had felt you go still. His eyes opened.
"What."
You nodded at the television.
He turned his head. He saw what was on the screen. His face contorted and he pulled away.
"Oh no."
"Oh yes."
"No. Y/N. We are not doing this." He grabbed the remote off of the glass side table and switched the TV off.
"I am proud of it, but my god is it awkward to see yourself act on the screen" He said.
"Tell me about it" You rolled your eyes playfully.
He turned around and looked at you incredulously.
"Are you getting feisty with me?"
He started trying to tickle your sides. You laughed and pushed him away but he, even with his small frame, was still much stronger than you.
He then dove in for a sneaky kiss.
The kiss started as a punctuation mark — a firm, grounding press of his mouth against yours, something to stop the laughter, to halt the teasing.
But it didn't end there. It deepened, softened, became a question instead of a statement. Can we do this?
His lips parted against yours, and you felt the warm, slow slide of his tongue seeking entrance.
You granted it with a soft sigh, your hands coming up to cradle his face, your thumbs stroking the high, sharp planes of his cheekbones.
He tasted of maple syrup and orange juice and the faint, clean mint of toothpaste from earlier.
The scent of him — sandalwood soap, the warm, dry smell of his skin, laundry detergent and the lingering sweetness of marmalade on his breath — wrapped around you, pulling you deeper into the moment.
The rain was a steady, hushed rhythm against the window now, sealing you both inside this quiet, private world. A world you never seen often.
He shifted, turning more fully toward you on the sofa, one knee coming up to bracket your hip.
The paperback was forgotten, slipping from his chest to the floor with a soft thump. His hands left your sides, one sliding up your back to tangle in your hair, the other coming to rest at the base of your throat, his thumb stroking the frantic pulse there.
"You're really here," he murmured against your lips, “real.” the words a warm puff of air. It wasn't a question. It was a wonder.
"I am now feeling fully awake, to realise it." He said, wonder struck.
"I'm really here," you whispered back, and you felt the shudder that went through him, a fullbody tremor of relief.
He kissed you again, slower this time, explorative. His tongue traced the seam of your lips, then delved inside, mapping your mouth, the line of your teeth, with a lazy, thorough curiosity that made your toes curl against the sofa cushions.
This wasn't the frantic, desperate clinging from the doorway. This was something else. Something reclamatory. He was rediscovering you, and in doing so, perhaps, rediscovering a part of himself that had been buried under fatigue and headlines.
His hand left your throat and drifted down, skating over the soft wool of your sweater. His fingers found the hem and slipped beneath, his palm flattening against the bare skin of your stomach.
You gasped into his mouth at the contact, feeling a little touch starved — his hands were always surprisingly warm, a contrast to his often cool exterior. He made a low, approving sound in his chest, the vibration of it against your own.
"This okay?" he breathed, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes. His were dark, pupils blown wide, the hazel almost swallowed by black. The puffy tiredness was still there, but it was overshadowed now by a kind of hungry focus that was entirely for you.
"More than okay," you managed, your voice rough.
He nodded once, a small, decisive movement, and then his mouth was on yours again, hotter, hungrier. His hand under your sweater roamed upward, palming the curve of your breast through the lace of your bra. He rolled your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, like he learned you like; pressure but still tender, and you moved into the touch, a sharp, sweet bolt of pleasure lancing through you.
You tugged at the hem of his old white tshirt. He broke the kiss long enough to pull it over his head in one swift, graceful motion, tossing it aside. The sight of him still caught your breath sometimes. He was lean, all elegant lines and taut muscle, the pale skin dusted with a faint sprinkle of dark hair across his chest and of course, patches of much darker skin. The v line down into his pants was just as distracting as the coily, dark happy trail. You throbbed with want.
A dark patch on his collarbone, another on his ribs — mapped a history of his life you knew only in fragments. You leaned forward and pressed your lips to the one on his collarbone, feeling him suck in a sharp breath. You thought he was an otherworldly beautiful.
“Michael, you genuinely are gorgeous,” you whispered against his skin. He threw his head back, probably euphoric at hearing that sentiment, “my angel face” you finished, basically whispering at his throat.
Your own sweater followed his shirt, then your bra.
The cool air of the suite pebbled your skin, but his gaze was hotter than any fire. He looked at you with that same museumintensity he'd given everything in his life he loved, but now it was layered with a possessiveness that made your core clench.
"Beautiful," he whispered, the word reverent. He leaned in and took one nipple into his mouth, sucking gently, his tongue flicking over the peak. You moaned outloud into the quiet air, your fingers digging into his shoulders. He switched to the other, lavishing it with the same devoted attention, one hand coming up to knead and tease the wet, abandoned breast.
The friction of his plaid pajama bottoms against your thighs was maddening. You reached for the drawstring, your fingers fumbling. He helped you, lifting his hips so you could push them down, along with his briefs. He sprang free, very hard, the tip glistening from pent up want.
You wrapped your hand around him, stroking slowly from root to tip, feeling the velvety skin slide over the iron hardness beneath. He dropped his forehead to your shoulder with a choked groan.
"Baby… wait, wait," he panted. "Not here. Not the first time in days. I want… the bed. I want to take my time with you."
You nodded, breathless. He stood, pulling you up with him, and then, in a move that made you squeal, he bent and scooped you up into his arms. He was stronger than he looked, dancer's strength and totally unassuming.
He carried you through the suite, past the remains of the grand breakfast, into the dim, raingrey light of the bedroom.
He laid you down on the massive bed with a tenderness that belied the urgency thrumming between you.
He followed you down, covering your body with his, and the feel of him — all warm, bare skin and hard angles settling against your softness — was a homecoming. He kissed you deeply, his weight a perfect, welcome pressure.
He began to move down your body, his mouth leaving a trail of fire. He kissed the hollow of your throat, the space between your breasts, the quivering plane of your stomach.
He hooked his fingers in the waistband of your leggings and panties and drew them down your legs ever so slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. When you were bare, he knelt between your thighs, just looking for a long, heated moment.
"So ethereal," he murmured, his voice thick. "All for me."
And then he lowered his head.
His mouth on your cunt was a revelation every single time. He was an artist here, too — meticulous, attentive, devastatingly skilled.
He had learned you over the year time had to together: listening out for what made you whine most and what had you bubbling over quickly. He was a quick study.
He started slow, broad, wet strokes of his tongue through your folds, gathering your wetness.
He licked into you, deep, and you bucked, a nonsensical mumble of pleasure coming from your throat. He held your hips down with surprising firmness, his moan of pleasure vibrating against your most sensitive skin. He genuinely enjoyed making you feel good.
"Mmm, you taste so good, sweet girl," he growled, the filthy words at odds with the angelic focus of his actions. "Always so sweet for me."
He zeroed in on your clit, circling it with the very tip of his tongue, fast, then slow, then fast again, reading your body's responses like sheet music. His fingers joined the symphony, one, then two, sliding into your tight, dripping heat with ease, curling upward to stroke that perfect, hidden spot inside you.
"Michael— right there, please—" you babbled, your hands fisting in the duvet.
He hummed against you, the vibration pushing you higher, higher. His fingers pumped in a steady, relentless rhythm, his mouth never leaving your clit. The world narrowed to the fourposter bed, the sound of the rain, and the exquisite pressure building tighter and tighter in your belly.
You were chanting his name now, a broken litany, your hips rolling against his face, seeking more, more, more. Grabbing his soft curls with your hand, guiding, frantic.
He slid a third finger into you, stretching you beautifully, and sucked your clit hard between his lips.
You came with a shattered yelp, your back bowing off the bed, your vision whiting out at the edges.
Pleasure soared through you, wave after wave of it, your inner muscles clenching rhythmically around his dexterous fingers.
He crawled back up your body, his face glistening with your wetness, and kissed you, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, and you moaned into the kiss, the sensation deeply, primally erotic.
"I need you," he gasped against your mouth, his cock, rockhard and leaking, nudging against your soaked entrance. "Please, Y/N. I need to be inside you."
"Yes," you breathed, wrapping your legs around his hips. "Now, Michael. Please."
He positioned himself, the head of his cock pressing against you. He looked into your eyes, his own blazing with a mix of love, lust, and a vulnerability that made your heart ache. He rubbed the tip up and down your core, exciting you even more. The sensation was so heightened from your unwinding before.
He then pushed forward, slowly, inexorably, filling you inch by glorious inch.
"Fuhhhck," he hissed, his entire body trembling with the effort of going slow. "So tight. So perfect. God, I missed this. I missed you, my girl"
When he was fully sheathed, he paused, buried to the hilt, letting you both adjust to the overwhelming feeling of fullness, of reconnection.
You could feel every heartbeat pulsing through him, deep inside you. You lifted your hips, a subtle, begging movement. His eyes were hazy looking, blown out and high on you.
He got the message.
He began to move, pulling out almost all the way before sliding back in with a deep, rolling thrust that punched the air from your lungs. He set a slow, deep, grinding rhythm, each stroke dragging against every nerve ending inside you. It wasn't frantic. It was profound. Each penetration felt like a vow, each withdrawal a promise to return.
"Look at me," he whispered, his voice ragged. You forced your eyes open, meeting his intense gaze. "See me in this moment. Only you see me like this."
Tears pricked at your eyes. You reached up, tracing the line of his jaw, his lips. "I see you, baby. I always see you."
He kissed you, swallowing your words, and his pace began to quicken, the slow grind giving way to more urgent snaps of his hips. The angle changed, and he hit a spot that made you see stars, over and over again. The wet, filthy sound of your bodies joining filled the room, a counterrhythm to the rain.
"You feel so good," he panted, his breath hot against your ear. "My sweet girl. Taking my cock so well. Gonna make you come again. Gonna feel you. Gonna make you shout my name so everyone can hear who makes you feel this good”
His dirty talk, so at odds with his public persona, never failed to unravel you. He only got this filthy when he was near his finish.
You felt the second orgasm building, deeper, slower, a rising tide rather than a crashing wave. He felt it too. He slipped a hand between your bodies, his thumb finding your swollen clit and rubbing tight, rapid circles.
"That's it," he coaxed, his thrusts becoming harder, less controlled. "Come for me, baby. Let go. I've got you. I'm looking after you now"
You shattered. This climax was different — less scream, more sob. A deep, fullbody unclenching that washed through you in warm, pulsing waves, pulling a guttural cry from your throat.
Your cunt clamped down on him, rhythmic and intense, and that was all it took.
With a broken shout of your name, he followed you over the edge. His hips stuttered, his body locking as he buried himself as deep as he could go, pulsing hotly inside you.
"Y/N— ah—!" He came in long, hot spurts, his release filling you, his whole body shuddering through the aftershocks.
He collapsed on top of you, his weight a blissful anchor, his face buried in your neck. You could feel his heart hammering against your chest, a frantic echo of your own. You held him, your hands stroking the sweatslick skin of his back, listening to his ragged breaths slowly even out.
The rain continued its gentle patter. A distant siren wailed somewhere in Mayfair and faded.
After a long while, he shifted, sliding out of you which made you both shiver with the intimacy.
He rolled to the side, pulling you with him, tucking you against his chest, your back to his front. He wrapped his arms around you, his legs tangling with yours, and kissed the top of your shoulder.
"I love you," he said, his voice sleepslurred and utterly satiated.
"I love you more," you whispered.
He made a soft, dismissive sound. "Impossible."
You lay there in the grey afternoon light, wrapped in each other and the quiet, the smell of sex and rain and his skin filling the air.
The world and its tabloids and its stages felt a million miles away. Here, in this bed, there was only this; the steady beat of his heart against your back, the warmth of his body curled around yours, and the profound, quiet certainty that, for now at least, he was safe. He was at home home. And so were you. You found it in each other, you realised.
₊˚°⊹˚
Two whole decades passed.
You got married, in the end, when you were forty one and Michael was forty two. A Thursday in October at Neverland, a very very small gathering.
You both, despite your lavish lifestyles, didn't enjoy such a fuss being made, and valued privacy more than anything. No ammunition to give to the press.
He had bought Neverland three years before that.
Not for himself. Not really. A two thousand acre estate in the Santa Ynez Valley, two and a half hours north of LA, with rolling oak hills and a lake and a stand of trees so old they predated California's statehood; and he had told you about it on a phone call at two in the morning from Tokyo. He said he wanted somewhere quiet and freeing. He said he wanted a piece of the world that was only his.
The other reason came out slower. In small admissions at different times, that he had not planned to make to you about his childhood.
He told you, one night in the brownstone you owned together in NYC, with his head on your stomach on the sofa, that he wanted a place where children could come and feel safe. Feel safer than he did as a kid, as he was constantly thrown into adult situations, and was robbed of the magic of playing make believe.
He planned to bring children who were sick. Children from hospitals. Children from all different circumstances. Children who had never seen a horse or sat on a Ferris wheel or eaten sweeties that had not been bought from a vending machine.
He wanted to build the kind of place he had never been allowed to have — a place that was just for being a child, with no schedule and no audience and no work attached to it. He wanted to give them what he had never got.
He said it with his eyes closed. He said it like a confession and something he could clearly see in his mind.
He started building within the year. A small fairground. A theatre. Then, a garden with a railway line that ran through it and a station.
He hired a head of operations and a small staff and started bringing groups of children up every other weekend, with their families and their nurses, and the press did not know about it for a long time because neither of you wanted them to ruin the perfect.
The first time he brought you up to see the property, you got to see him fully release the stress in his shoulders and frolic gracefully around in the grass. You felt so compelled to do the same, because you totally shared his vision.
It was the most honest thing Michael had ever done in his life; care for those kids. It came from such a deep gratitude for his fame, fortune and experiences within music – he could provide a wealth of experience to the greatly deserving.
It was also, you realised, over the years that followed, where he had finally become himself. Not the version on the stages and the magazine covers. The other Michael.
The one who walked the gardens in the early evening to check the train was running properly and would babble, cackle and play pranks on his staff.
The one who knew every member of the local community by name and the names of their children.
You'd watch fondly as he, now in his fifties, would sit on the low wall by the carousel with a cup of tea and watch the families come through and not need to be anywhere else in the world.
He had spent his whole childhood working. He had built himself a place to finally discover what it was like to be still. And just be… Michael.
₊˚°⊹˚
Jane was born thirteen months after the wedding.
It was a Tuesday in November. You went into labour at four in the afternoon at Neverland and the staff drove the two of you to the hospital in Santa Barbara, and Michael held your hand in the back of the car the entire way and did not let go of it for the next fourteen hours. He was there for every second of it.
"Breathe Y/N, in and outttttt" he sung the last word, strong vibrato. The nurse was giving him a major side eye.
You grabbed his hand as hard as you could and yelped out, another contraction wracking through your very heavily pregnant body.
"Fuck." You screamed, sweat lashing down your forehead, as you tried your best to breathe, and push, and also not shit yourself in front of the 15 people working in the room right now.
Michael didn't let go, but he proclaimed brightly; "She meant fudge everyone, fudge!"
You rolled your eyes as hard as you could and then gave him a death stare. He didn't seem to care about your reaction, the elation of his baby being born was keeping him on an untouchable plane, he was on cloud 9.
₊˚°⊹˚
He stayed at the head of the bed when the time came and he did not look away once, and when the doctor finally placed her on your chest; small and almost purple, screaming, with a head of dark curly hair that nobody had quite been expecting, he made a sound you had never heard out of him in your life and then just burst into the most happy sobs.
He sat down on the edge of the bed. He could not stand up, his legs so weak from pure, harmonious joy. You'd given him a daughter. A baby you had made lovingly.
He put one hand on her tiny back and cupped one hand on your cheek, catching any tears that spilled over from your eyes.
You both just wailed, of sheer, unfiltered happiness, for about ten minutes, while she screamed and the nurses moved gently around the three of you with the practised care, making sure everything was alright.
He named her, in the end. You let him. He had been carrying the name Jane around in his head since he was a boy, from the world of the infamous novel 'Peter Pan' by JM Barrie. His love of the Disney film was apparent early on in your relationship, and you smiled, reminded of the first time he explained the plot of the movie to you. 'Jane' was Wendy Darling's daughter in the book – and he swore that whenever he had a girl himself, that would be her name.
Oliver came two years later. A boy. Smaller than Jane had been. Quieter, even at birth, he didn't really cry that much. Michael wept again. He carried Oliver back and forth across the hospital room for two hours that night while you slept, just walking and talking to him quietly, and when you woke up at four in the morning he was sitting in the chair by the window with his son asleep against his chest, telling him very softly about the 'magical' trees on the grounds of Neverland.
Audrey was the surprise.
You were forty six. He was forty seven. You had both decided, maturely, that you could not have any more — mostly due to the post natal depression you experienced and had to pull yourself out of each time. He had agreed that it made sense to focus on the two little monsters you already had.
And then, 'pregnant' appeared on a test that you felt randomly compelled to take on a Saturday morning in your bedroom bathroom at the ranch, and you had walked downstairs in your dressing gown and shown it to him at the kitchen table and he had stared at it for ten full seconds before he started laughing and crying at the same time. He picked you up and kissed you so hard, you swore your lips would bruise.
"Jane, applehead, your mommy has a baby in her tummy" he explained proudly, whist kneeling down to cuddle your two other kids.
₊˚°⊹˚
He held her in the hospital with his face wet and said, very quietly — thank god we were wrong about being done.
He was there for every single one of them. Every single birth. Every single first feed. Every single sleepless night for the first three months after each baby came home.
He turned down a tour leg in asia the year Jane was born because he refused to leave her. He turned down a Disney soundtrack offer the year Oliver was born for the same reason.
He told his label, and management team, very politely and very firmly, that for the foreseeable future the children came first, and they could either work around it or drop him, and the label very wisely worked around it. His life’s work had led him to become a father and that was his priority.
₊˚°⊹˚
The brownstone in the Village was your refuge in the city. The ranch became your real home.
The children grew up between the two places, with a private tutor for the years they could not be in a normal school, and then normal school in the local community near the ranch, for the years they could.
They also had ecentric summers at Hayvenhurst with Michael's rather large family. They had so many cousins it got hard to count them all. Grand birthday parties, clowns and magicians that Michael would hire in to make sure his children, nieces and nephews would have exciting formative memories.
They had weekends with their grandparents on both sides and a childhood that you had both worked very hard, very deliberately, to make as ordinary as possible for children whose father was the most famous man alive and the least ordinary person to walk this earth.
You had never felt so alive, as to see Michael get along with his family again, after years of being distant from them. His brothers were fantastic uncles to your little ones and genuinely amazing company to keep. It was all relentless jokes, BBQ parties, mini concerts and A LOT of people. You loved the Jackson's but they were a messy bunch. Figuratively and literally.
Jackie, Michael's eldest brother, had cuddled you on a bright summer early evening, and told you that he was glad you were looking after his little baby, Michael. You had welled up at the thought of his brother finally seeing him happy, after a dark past.
₊˚°⊹˚
You retired from the stage at fifty two. You wrote two plays after that. The second one won the Pulitzer.
Michael, who had quite literally been your number 1 fan —and was still known to sneak into the stalls at performances of your written work, well into his 50s, even if you weren't there — went on to hang the certificate in his office.
He stopped touring at fifty six.
Not by choice exactly. His back had been going for a long time — the kind of slow wear that dancers know all too well. His knees had followed, and then somewhere in the year he turned fifty six there had been a show in Madrid where he had finished the encore and walked off the stage and quietly told Bill he was done.
He came home that week. He sat with you on the back terrace and he held your hand and he said — I want to be at home with them. While they still want me there. I don't want to be the dad who came back in the summer. I want to be the one who's just here.
Jane was twelve. Oliver was ten. Audrey was eight.
He told them himself, at dinner, the night he made the decision. He told them their dad was going to be at home from now on. He told them he was sorry he had been gone so much. He told them he was going to take Audrey to school in the mornings and pick her up in the afternoons and be at every single one of Oliver's tournaments and every single one of Jane's school plays.
Jane had cried.
Audrey, who had been eight at the time, had said — but Daddy, what are you going to do all day?
Michael had laughed. He had picked her up onto his lap. He had said; I'm going to be your dad, Auddie. That's the job.
You knew Michael loved you so, but he loved his kids even more and then sent sparks of unfiltered delight through your veins.
He had been your home for the best part of 30 years, and now he could live peacefully within the one he built to protect himself and his children, without burden and without harm.
- summary: childhood bestfriend!michael hired you to be his personal assistant since the beginning without any hesitation. you're there for the night they recorded 'we are the world' and it turns out you're also there for michael's moral support.
word count: 5k
» 5k word vomit abt nothing, honestly
warning: light cursing, michael's patience is being tested, woman tries writing comedy for the first time (me), very very mild angst, mentions of diana ross, bruce springsteen cameo, is michael ooc here? maybe, RUSHEDD with care
* no usage of y/n, michael refers to reader as 'girl' or 'sweetheart' or 'baby' platonically (at first)
author's note: I'm still really overwhelmed from all the feedback I've gotten over my last Jaafar fic, which was the first one I've ever actually posted properly here! So here I am, with a kind of a long oneshot for our lovely Michael. I had an idea but somehow it turned into a whole different thing. I was pretty much half asleep by the end of writing this, so not really proofread?
I love how the joke of him being irritated by the other singers doesn't get old.
Also, this is like, really bad. #tbh
+++ no disrespect to any of the celebrities mentioned here, i grew up loving 80s music and i happen to enjoy some of these artists very much
+++ english isn't my first language! also, I'M NOT A WRITER by any means. and this might be kind of a word vomit, and the beginning is just a summary of how the dynamic between reader and michael works (starts off platonic-ish and slowly evolves into something more)
•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•
Looking through the glass window, your eyes are set on the people scattered into small groups, lively conversations echoing through the walls with uplifting spirits easing into the room. Big names, singer celebrities most relevant in pop culture of today, are all gathered here to execute one song– all together.
Being a close friend of Michael's is something so surreal for you at times.
Well sure, you've known him since the days in Gary. There are photos of you watching the group practice at times, mostly when Joe wasn't around. Memories of you and Michael walking around the neighborhood streets, playing with whatever you could find within a limited amount of time.
But that was little Mike. Years later when he moved to Encino, tearful goodbyes and long distance didn't stop you both from exchanging letters as much as possible. And despite what everyone else thought, you never stopped.
Through years of writing letters, and only somehow seeing each other once a year, your friendship grew stronger than ever. He was there during your breakups with your boyfriends, you were there when the touring takes too much from him. It never felt out of place.
The year 1977 came around, and you were freshly eighteen with no clue of where your life was heading. Nothing you kept in mind except for one thing; Seeing Michael. Adamant to see your best friend again, you packed your bags and went ahead to Los Angeles and found a job. It didn't pay too well, but it paid enough for your rental room. You've never seen someone as ecstatic as Michael when he was waiting for you to get off the bus. Tight, long hugs were exchanged, and so were kisses on the cheeks. (On behalf of each other's mothers, of course.) Bill drove the both of them to your new apartment. However, the second Michael stepped into your apartment building, he turned back around and you remember how urgently he gripped your arm and basically forced you to follow.
"What's the big idea?" You grunt, trying to pull your arm away.
Michael turned to you, his face incredulous. "If you think I'm lettin' you stay in that creep shack, you're out of your mind!"
You gasp in offense, "It is not a creep shack!"
"It is so!" He says in response, wrapping his arm around your waist, stopping you from turning back. Michael softly murmurs into your ear, eyes focused to the front but his face was set in a firm, grim line. "I'm not playin', girl, I saw those men perched on those steps. You ain't staying there. For the last time, I beg you. Come live with me."
It took a while for you to admit defeat, every excuse was met with his own counter arguments.
‘It's taking advantage,’ was met with ‘No. I offered first. Move on.’
‘It would be weird for your family,’ had him reply in an exhausted manner, ‘Mother has been taking care of you since we were kids and so did your mom with me. Next.’
‘Joseph wouldn't like this,’ was quickly dismissed with his face turning smug. ‘I'm gonna buy the property in a few years anyway. Watch me.’ Which you didn't think was a valid point at all, but you were tired of arguing.
So, you lived in Hayvenhurst for a good few years with the family. Then, Off The Wall happened, and lo and behold, Michael did buy half the property, but at that point you were already moved into a decent place of your own due to the reason of having the wonderful job of being Michael's personal assistant.
This also took some more arguments, but it's draining for you to even reminisce those times. Michael did not want you to take any risk of being mistreated in any workplace — it's L.A, after all— and he knew you were the perfect choice for him. You could handle him when he's in any mood, shape or form, and he could understand how you were as a person. He liked the security of it. The nature of you and him. You were against it because you didn't want to leech off of him during what was supposed to be the best time of your youths. Michael just shook his head and clenched his jaw, denying such a thought before he simply told you; "I just want you to be by my side, girl."
That made you pause and actually look at him carefully. A good half a minute before you finally sigh and nod, reminding him you will accept no special treatments.
All he gave you was a sly grin, and at that point it was useless to even say anything else. He was going to give you special treatments whether you like it or not.
The rest is history, as they say. You were there with Michael for every single thing he's achieved so far, and you were there for his pains. You almost quite literally lost your mind last year when Michael had that accident, crying and praying to every kind of God there was while waiting with his family. The PA job be damned, that was your best friend in that hospital room, and you could not care about anything else other than knowing he was going to be okay.
All he did during that time was hold your hand and stroking the back of it. He wasn't talking much, and you understood why. But you stayed with him anyway, making sure he was comfortable, well-fed, alerting the nurses anytime he was feeling any pain. Michael wouldn't say this, but looking at your distraught face with red rimmed eyes the first time after he woke up, he'd never felt so destroyed. That face of yours will always be seared into his memory.
When he got better and was ready to leave the forsaken hospital room, he made sure to pull you into a firm hug. Kissing your temple and stroking your back up and down, needing you to come back down to him again. You were his constant, yes, but that was when he knew you were being everything at the expense of almost losing it with worry and paranoia. He didn't want that.
It took some more debating, but after everything settled down, he managed to talk you into taking a break from working for a few weeks. It was no different, really, you still saw him most of the time but without the workload.
So when you get a call at 2.45a.m on a Tuesday night, and it was Michael's voice responding to your half-asleep murmured hello, you knew he was up to something.
"Harry Belafonte, sweetheart! The Harry Belafonte. And Lionel would be there, and so will Q," his voice whispered through the phone excitedly.
You were still really, really sleepy but the first name made your jaw slack, “Harry Belafonte?”
“Harry Belafonte, baby!”
It was during lunch the next day when Michael explained what he was helping to create. You listen thoroughly with a smile growing wider by the second. This was when you can see Michael most in his element. Talking about creating music, the message he wants to send. Bringing communities together. The gleam in his eyes reflected the same in yours whenever you heard him talk.
“A message for the world… to help the world,” he said with a fond smile.
You nodded with a proud look on your face, “You’re the perfect person for this, Mike.”
So that's what led you here, in one of the rooms in A&M Studios. You’re currently looking through the list of names, checking who’s here and who’s not. It’s not really your particular job, but you wanted to pass the time until Michael fetches you for any reason during this recording.
The AMA’s finished just an hour ago, so the others have only started to show up in the building. You try not to look, but your eyes flick to the men beside you; they were loudly wondering where Prince was. Your mouth twitches, not knowing how to avoid any upcoming questions they might hound you for. You don’t know how on earth the rumours started, but one day, every one of your contacts were under the impression that you’ve become a personal assistant for both Michael and Prince… that did not go well at all when Mike heard from the rumour mill.
“Michael, are you being serious?” You asked with your mouth agape, aggressively knocking on the door repeatedly.
Michael Jackson, your best friend and the mega pop star, was sulking in his bedroom, and locked himself in it. His voice was heard through the doors, hoarse and almost whining, “If you wanted to leave me, just say so! Why was I out there hearin’ things from other people instead of you?”
You rolled your eyes and began to say, “Michael–”
“Prince, sweetheart? Prince?” he yelled out, “It could have been anyone! But no, you had to go to him. You could have said somethin’ to me! Was I terrible? Did I do anything wrong?”
“Michael Joseph Jackson, that bullshit was just a rumor! Get out of here now and stop crying to yourself!” You had about enough of his antics.
He immediately responded, defensive, “I’m not crying to myself!”
A beat of silence.
“It’s a rumor?” he asked with a small voice.
You groaned and knocked on the door again, this time a lot more gentle. “Mikey, open the door, hm?”
The door opened and you were presented with the view of Michael with a disgruntled frown etched on his face and glassy eyes. Oh. Good lord, he was crying. He kept his head down as you stood still in shock, heat rushing up his neck. “I was maybe cryin’ a little, none of your damn business,” he muttered, eyes on anywhere but you. His posture was weakened and his arms reached out to wrap around you, shifting closer. A long, deep sigh escaped him and his chin rested on top of your head. “You freaked me out, girl.”
A swat came fast on his arm, you scolded him, brows furrowed. “You freaked yourself out! Who do you think I am? Why the hell would I up and leave you just like that, huh?”
“Ow, okay, okay, I lost it for a second, okay?” he yelped when your hand kept swatting at him. Michael grabbed your wrist and pulled you into a proper hug despite your aggression. His lips ghosted your temple and his thumb stroked your jaw, murmuring quietly, “I lose my head when it comes to you, baby, you know that.”
The memory makes you blush, so you quickly snap out of it and clear your throat. Your eyes are alert to everything but your mind is still wandering away. The thing about Michael recently is that he confuses the hell out of you now. It started back when he was out of the hospital. From deciding it’s okay and normal to call you ‘baby’ or ‘sweetheart’, to hanging his arms around you for a major percentage of the time. You’ll be honest, obviously you both grew up really close so the physical affection had always been there… but this time around, it feels as if he wouldn’t even go past a minute without touching you in some sort of way. You’ve been meaning to ask what was his deal, but you don’t think you’re mentally prepared to open that can of worms yet.
The can of worms in question is your undying love for Michael. But let’s not address that right now.
“Hey, sweetheart,” a soft voice nearly makes you jump, but you turn to see Michael, clad in glittered get-up, looking like a beautiful bundle of a million bucks. You didn’t have time for a long sigh of want because the man already was pulling you into a hug.
He sighs and tells you quietly, “Where have you been today? I thought you would be here hours ago. I was recording by myself and you weren’t there to make your googoo eyes over my voice– Ow! Ow, okay!”
Michael was exclaiming in pain because before he could finish the rest of his stupid sentence, your fingers were already pinching his waist, hard. You hiss softly, “I was actually busy running things over at the office, but good to know you missed me.” You softly pat his waist at the area of your previous attack, feeling guilty of acting too harsh. He exaggerates his pained face and you shake your head with a chuckle, reaching to stroke his face. “Sorry, Mike.”
You realize there are people around you. You also realize they have probably never seen much of Michael when he’s not shy. Despite your annoyance at this feeling, you can’t help but feel a little happy and proud that his certain behaviours can only be brought out by you, and only you. You don’t become friends with someone for over a decade for nothing, and you liked the fact that a human as generous and loving as Michael was yours. And you also realize you’ve been standing way too close to him, considering you were both just friends, so you take a step back. Oblivious to the frown on Michael’s face.
“Come on, let’s go ahead and start, hm?” You tug on his arm, leading out the door to the recording space.
–
It feels weird when your hands keep shaking with other people’s, all of them being big stars. As personal assistant to Michael, of course you’ve met some of these people. But it has always been more of ‘hi-and-bye’ situations at award shows or red carpets. Personal and up-front? God, they probably possess more talent in their pinkie fingers than you do in your whole body.
The introductions lead to speeches by Lionel and Quincy, and the speeches lead to the singers figuring out their markings, and after that, practicing finally begins.
And with time passing, you think Michael is slowly losing it.
Every time you glance at him from afar, his eyes would flick to yours, widen slightly before flicking away. That widening could have meant a million things, you think to yourself. But when you keep looking back at him, he seems to get further and further away from the main center of the room… But you can’t be too sure.
You dart your eyes around, walking slowly to where he was at this point, which is at the back, which is also the last place you’d expect to see where Michael would be. He was staring at the singers in front of him, almost frozen still.
A clearing of your throat didn’t even faze him.
Instead, Huey Lewis’ voice did.
Michael lightly winces when the man begins singing. And it only got worse when Cyndi Lauper starts, and you look at him in bafflement when he almost buries his head into his hands. You softly hit his arm, hissing softly, “Oh my god, you’re kidding me. Neutralize your face, Mike!”
You can’t believe this man is so unbelievably bad at being subtle, he’s making faces when other artists are singing right in front of him.
“I can’t,” he whispers, eyes hidden underneath his black shades, but his tense posture tells you everything. “I can’t, baby.”
You shush him quietly. He retaliates by whisper-yelling in your ear, “He was singing it wrong!”
“He’s singing in his own style!” You try to persuade, turning your face to him with a pleading look.
Michael shakes his head, “No, he was singing the tune wrong, baby, I know what I’m talking about!” The hissing is almost catching some other people’s attention, so you lightly tug at his ear.
“Relax, they’re practicing! They’ll get it,” you try again, but only to receive an incredulous look in return. Michael’s lips slightly part in astonishment.
“Girl, this is the official recording.”
Oh?
You only sat there silently, wide eyes staring back at him. A downward tilt of your lips tells him all he needs to know and Michael nods in a defeated manner, sighing into his hand. “It’s gonna be a long night.”
–
A lot of times Michael had to step up and give some notes, though he did it so strategically kind and gentle that nobody realized he was actually telling them all to do better at their jobs.
"Right, right," he laughs off a joke Huey tells as he walks back towards you, the joy completely disappearing as Michael turns to face away from the former man. He grumbles all the way back to sitting next to you.
You hold back a snort and pat his back.
It gets a lot better over time, and Michael was finally less sulky. It was nearing the end of recording when artists began conversing lively again, having their spirits lifted during the successful session.
You’re sitting at a nearby bleacher, going over the itinerary for next week when Randy comes up from behind and sits next to you, slinging an arm across your shoulders. “Hey, pretty lady,” he says with an overly smooth voice.
“What do you want, Randy?” You ask him distractedly. Growing up alongside the Jackson family, the siblings were practically your siblings as well, Randy being the third closest to you, after Michael and Marlon. It was sweet that he was invited to the recording, he could always do something to light up the room.
Not that this particular one needed any more lightening up, considering the amount of booze that was delivered here earlier.
Randy shrugs, his sly grin growing. “Now, why do you gotta assume I want something? Can’t a guy be friendly for once?” Giving him a knowing look, you shake your head. He laughs out loud and raises his hands in mock surrender.
“Nothing much… It’s more of what someone else wants.”
“Excuse me?” You ask him, face contorted into confusion.
“That sounded really creepy, man, maybe I should just go for it myself, huh?” A low chuckle comes from behind the two of you.
You turn around to see Bruce Springsteen himself grinning down at you. “Hey, you’re just the girl I was looking for.”
“Excuse me?” You repeat the same thing, this time with an eyebrow raise.
“Right, that sounds weirder. Look, I know you’re Mike’s… whatever, but I heard you work wonders with promotional gigs,” Bruce talks quietly. “My guy’s leaving for a while, and I have a new album coming out soon, so I was wonderin’ if you’d be interested in helping out? Just for temporary reasons?”
When you finally understand what he was talking about, you feel a rush of bashfulness come to you. Nodding along to what he was saying, you were about to tell him you’d think about it and discuss it with Michael, when your eyes flick to the man himself, and there he was, laughing with Diana Ross.
Her arm wrapped around his waist, his hand grabbing onto her shoulder. Your breath gets stuck for a solid two seconds before regaining your composure and turning back around to smile widely at Bruce. “I’ll think about it! Really, I’m very honored.”
Oh, yeah, that can of worms will be screwed on freaking tight, you decide to yourself.
The talk with Bruce grew longer, and details were exchanged before he left to talk with Kenny Loggins. You couldn't even have a moment of breather before Randy comes up again and whispers teasingly, “You just wanna play with my brother, you sly.”
You swat him away, “Hush, Randy!”
He keeps bothering you and your laughs grow louder, messing around for a bit before someone clears his throat. It was Michael. He looks at you with something unreadable, his voice quiet when he gently tells you it was time to continue recording. Randy mock salutes him before walking down the step and back to the center of the room but Michael doesn’t move. He only looks back before turning to you, holding out his hand and tilting his head to the side in offering.
“Wanna get out of here for a bit? They don’t need me right now.”
All you could do is nod, noting his strange behaviour. You take his hand and let him lead you, though, because you knew whatever was causing his sudden tension will be exactly what he will tell you about once you have a room just for yourselves.
Exiting the recording room, it was just you two walking down the low-lit hallway. Stopping in front of a random door nearby, you take another look at him, concerned this time.
“What’s up, Mike?”
He sighs and leans against the wall, pulling you closer with one of his hands gripping onto yours. “What’s this I’m hearing from Bruce, sweetheart?” His voice a quiet murmur.
You tilt your head silently, eyes flicking back and forth between his.
“What do you mean Bruce hired you? When did that happen?” he asks, starting to sulk again. His hand never lets go of yours, though.
A sound of acknowledgement leaves your lips, “Oh, that? Just now. One of his guys is out sick or whatever and apparently Randy talked me up a great deal to him about my ‘promotional skills’,” you briefly explain to him, putting air quotes on the last part.
He looks at you with a more exaggerated grimace, “Oh, okay, thanks? For asking me before agreeing?”
You gasp, offended. “Excuse me?”
“Well, aren’t I your boss, still?” he adds with sarcasm lacing his words.
Then, Michael becomes immediately regretful. The poor choice of words by him, the tone, the attitude you don’t deserve. All of it was a mistake and he knows that only when he notices the glimpse of deep hurt in your eyes before your professional facade appears. God, he hates this the most. He hates when you put up this front for him. As if you were not his friend since forever ago, as if you were just an employee.
Which he had literally worded out to her in frustration just prior.
He beats himself up silently as he tries to take back what he said but you spoke up first.
“One, I didn’t even say yes yet, I just said I’d really consider it, but hey, thanks for being supportive of your friend’s career opportunities. Two, good to know where you actually stand on our dynamic. Talk with me for hours on end during movie nights but when things don’t go your way, you’re suddenly my boss again? Real nice, Michael,” you snap at him, staring into his eyes.
You’re not backing down or leaving. These arguments happen and he needs to realize he’s in the wrong.
You continue on, mild fury rising to your chest. “I’m very much aware of the professional courtesy in regards to telling you of my business dealings. But this wasn’t any dealing at all, so there was nothing to tell or ask you about beforehand. Even so, I may work for you but you don’t own my ass.”
“No, baby, I know, I’m sorry,” he raises his hands and cradles your face gently. “I know, I know, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that, I was just angry,” Michael continues to murmur, shifting closer, his voice laced with regret and shame.
Pressing his forehead against yours briefly, he repeats quietly. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I am proud of you.”
“Then why?” You ask, almost in a pleading tone, looking at him with concern.
Michael frowns a little before shrugging, his eyes flicking to the ground every few seconds. “I just didn’t like how he was around you. That’s all.”
“Oh please, he’s like ten years older,” you scoff, crossing your arms. Ignoring the curiosity of why he would feel bothered brewing inside, you add quietly, “I guess that’s not really important, considering how you are with Diana.”
A moment of stillness suffocates you. Michael looks at you with shock marring his features.
He knew you didn’t necessarily like Diana. You, yourself, have told him multiple times early on. From past conversations shared between you two, he learns that you somehow still hold respect for her as an artist and for his friendship with the woman, but you never forget to mention the fact that there’s something about Diana that stops you from fully liking her. But his hackles slightly raise when you mention it now, when she has nothing to do with the conversation.
“What’s she got to do with it?” he asks aloud, voice becoming more firm.
You roll your eyes, “Relax, I didn’t mean anything by it. God forbid you say anything less than pleasant about your woman.” The feeling of the little ugly green thing is crawling around your insides, and you'd do anything to be rid of it. You don’t really know where all this frustration is coming from.
It could be the can of worms.
It really could be that.
Michael shakes his head, eyes affronted, muttering in response. “She’s not my woman– Baby, what is this? Where is this coming from?” His grip on your hand slightly tightens and you roughly pull away, not noticing the pained look he gives you, and instead you huff in anger.
“Stop with the baby thing! Just enough, okay?”
Your tired face that’s close to crumbling immediately stops Michael from everything else. He firmly pulls you close, both hands cradling your face, thumbs slowly stroking the skin of your cheeks. With a soft and quiet tone, he says to you, almost desperate to know. “What is this, hm? What’s gotten into you? Tell me, please… baby?”
A deep sigh leaves your chest and Michael pulls you closer, if even possible, and tilts your face upwards to see him better. His hand strokes the back of your head while the other caresses the side of your waist. Your brainwires almost malfunction at the amount of physical contact, but maintaining the last bit of a clear mind, you try to find the words to say.
“Michael, I… We're…” you shake your head, looking at him, trying to show him through your eyes.
Because you think the things in your mind right now are unspeakable.
Impossible to be stringed with mere, simple words when everything you've ever felt for this man was anything but simple.
And it was like the universe allowed one of those rare times when humans unlock a special skill for a once in a lifetime thing, because it seems as though everything had clicked for Michael. As if your telepathic messages were actually delivered to him.
His face goes from realization to shock, to wonderment and to adoration in just under a few seconds. He lets out a low sigh, shifting closer and pressing his forehead against yours, this time not pulling away. “Oh, baby… you have to know by now.”
“Know what?” You ask so, so quietly. Almost terrified of what he'll say next. Your gaze suddenly is not brave enough to meet his eyes.
Michael gives a quiet hum, thumb stroking your jaw, almost lovingly. “Come on now… I've been crazy about you since I've known you, sweetheart.”
You finally look up and stare into his eyes, wanting to see if there's any sign of dishonesty. Which you knew you wouldn't be able to find. Your Michael is always an honest person.
He tilts his head to the side and frowns briefly, “Did you really not know?”
“I think I kind of did,” you start, “but Mike… I never gave myself a chance to really think about it. I figured…”
Trailing off, you look away in embarrassment. You’re not sure how you're gonna word it, and now maybe starting to think it's not a good idea.
“Baby, come back to me,” Michael softly murmurs against your temple. “What did you say?”
You finally let out a sharp exhale, shrugging in a rough manner. “I don't know, Michael. I want to say it's because maybe there are beautiful models lining up for you, and if all else fails, Diana is always there to fill your void. But I can't. Because I don't believe that. I know you and I know what you're like. I know every damn thing about you except for the fact that you somehow like me? And you care for me more than a normal friend should? And I don't know why.”
During the whole spiel, Michael could only look at you with growing concern and an aching expression. He shakes his head slowly, body almost trembling because he's had enough time waiting, and showing you is better than prolonging the conversation.
Michael’s head dips without warning and his lips lightly ghost against yours. Murmuring softly, his eyes focused on your parted mouth. “Please, can we stop this? I love you so much. I need to... I need to kiss you.”
His arms slowly snake around your waist as he talks, wanting nothing but you to be closer. You only could stutter a breath for two seconds before nodding, mind filled with vast emptiness save for him. Your Michael.
The second you nod, Michael presses his lips against yours properly. And your mind explodes. There you were, actually kissing your childhood best friend, Michael Jackson. And he was the one to initiate it. That's the last thing you think of before you get lost in the feeling.
Kissing Michael was nothing like you imagined. And you imagined quite a lot. Kissing Michael makes you feel as if he's about to worship you. As if the kiss was something that needs to be treated so gently but to be acknowledged for its passion and fervour. Your lips move in synchronization, finding the rhythm he's leading.
Shifting closer, he tilts your head slightly, thumb against your jaw. That makes you slightly gasp and he doesn't wait to slip his tongue between your parted lips, the tilted heads making everything easier. Your tongue glides against his, a soft moan escapes you. He groans ever so slightly in response, spinning the both of you around and gently pressing you against the wall.
It's two, three more small licks into your mouth before he pulls away and kisses down your neck. As you sigh and tilt your head back against the wall, he softly bites into the skin of your throat.
A light whine escapes you and he shushes you, kissing the spot briefly before biting it again. His voice gruff, “I'm sorry it took me so long, baby. I thought you knew. I'm crazy about you.”
Michael licks down your throat to the center of the collarbone, nipping slightly at the end. “Seeing you with other men… It kills me, sweetheart.”
You moan quietly and arch your back spontaneously, “Don't make me laugh. Diana–”
“–Is not you,” he cuts you off firmly. “She's not the one I grew up with. She's not the one who watched me practice day and night, looking at me as if I was her pride and joy. You're the one that did all of those. You're the one that stays with me through every damn thing, no matter how much toll it takes on you. You're the one who never, ever forgets to show me you love me for me. Baby, how can it not be you?”
You almost choke on your gasp before Michael leans down and kisses you again, this time almost fully consuming. His lips caress languidly against yours, tongues sliding, hands stroking every inch of skin it could find.
“My sweetheart,” he murmurs into the kiss. A few more pecks before he pulls away slightly to ask you with a soft pair of eyes. “Can we stop playing now?”
You nod, not able to focus on what he was saying. Your lips are still tingling from the kiss, and Michael tries to bite back a grin but to no avail. He smiles at you smugly before leaning in closer again and softly kissing the corner of your lips.
“Finally,” he sighs before pressing his lips against yours again.
