loren m.

mature! era

context: the beautiful background of how you and michael fell in love.

epilogue to— drabble, part one, part two

Michael Jackson was depressed.

He was a single parent to three children, including a newborn baby boy whose fragile, tiny life felt like a profound, terrifying weight on his chest, and he was quite literally fighting for his survival.

Every single day was a grueling, uphill battle against the crushing gravity of his own name. Despite being the undisputed King of Pop, despite the flashing lights, the gold records, and the roaring stadiums that echoed inside his memory, his world had shrunk down to the echoing, hollow hallways of Neverland and the heavy, suffocating silence of an isolated life. He was drowning, completely exhausted, and navigating a deep, dark winter of the soul.

Then came the 2002 World Music Awards in Monaco.

The backstage holding area was a chaotic labyrinth of security guards, frantic publicists, and artificial smiles. Michael sat in the dim corner of his dressing room, his fedora tilted low, his long fingers trembling slightly as he adjusted the silver armbands of his jacket. He felt entirely detached from the spectacle outside.

But then, the green-room monitor flickered to life, broadcasting the live stage.

You walked out to present the evening's highest honor. You were semi-famous—a critically acclaimed actress and humanitarian who had managed to maintain a pristine, grounded reputation just on the periphery of Hollywood's superficial glare. The moment you stepped up to the microphone Michael’s breath hitched.

"There is a difference between entertainment and magic. Entertainment keeps us occupied. Magic changes the way we see the world. Tonight, we are here to celebrate—."

Your voice wasn't loud, but it possessed a rich, velvet resonance that completely cut through the ambient static of the auditorium. There was an effortless grace to your posture, a gentle, intuitive warmth in the way you smiled at the audience, and an undeniable glint of sharp, grounded wit in your eyes.

Michael stood up from his chair, his dark eyes entirely glued to the screen. For the first time in years, a sudden, electric spark cut right through his numbness. He felt a magnetic, irrational pull toward you—a desperate, consuming need to be near whatever light you were radiating.

"Wow.." Michael whispered, his voice a breathless rasp as he turned to his manager. "Find out where she’s sitting. Now."

Twenty minutes later, you returned to your seat in the VIP front row, smoothing the silk of your dress as the house lights dimmed for a performance. The seat to your left had been empty all evening, marked by a reserved placard. But as the music swelled, a sudden flurry of tall security guards created a wall of black suits beside your aisle.

A slender figure slipped into the empty chair.

You turned your head slightly, your eyes widening in genuine surprise as Michael Jackson adjusted his pants and settled into the seat right next to you. He was a vision of old-school showmanship— the aviator sunglasses hiding his eyes, the military-style jacket gleaming under the stage lights.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. You simply offered him a polite, gentle nod, respecting his space. But Michael was a complete, frantic internal wreck. He could feel the soft scent of your perfume, and his heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.

"Um... hello," Michael suddenly blurted out, his voice cracking slightly in the quiet of the row. He quickly cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, his fingers nervously drumming against his knee. "That was... you did a beautiful job up there. With the speech. It was very... very poetic."

You turned fully toward him, a warm, genuine smile breaking across your face. "Thank you, Mr. Jackson. I appreciate that, especially coming from the king himself."

Michael froze, his jaw loosening slightly beneath his mask. He slowly reached up, his long, slender fingers trembling as he pulled his aviator sunglasses down to the bridge of his nose, exposing his large, liquid-dark eyes to you. They were wide, vulnerable, and completely starstruck by you.

"You... you know who I am?" he stammered, an incredibly endearing, awkward shyness taking over his entire demeanor. It was a ridiculous question—he was the most famous man on the planet—but in that moment, he felt like a nervous teenager.

You let out a soft, melodic laugh that made his chest tighten with affection. "I think the entire world knows who you are, Michael. But I’m honored to officially meet you. I'm Y/N."

"Y/N," he repeated, testing the syllables on his tongue like a sacred lyric, his voice dropping into that sweet, breathless melody. "That’s a beautiful name. Really beautiful. I... I think I read your interview in Vogue last month. About your charity work in South Africa. I thought it was amazing. Most people in this industry, they just... they just care about the clothes and the parties, you know? But you have a heart. I could see it."

He was completely talking your ear off now, the words spilling out of him in a nervous, rapid-fire rush. He was fidgeting with his silver cuffs, shifting his weight, and leaning in so close you could see the fine texture of his skin. He was incredibly awkward, entirely lacking the smooth, untouchable confidence of his stage persona, but it was the most genuine, raw thing you had ever witnessed.

"Michael," you whispered gently, leaning in slightly with a playful, witty grin to calm his frantic energy. "Are you always this chatty or am I just special?"

Michael’s cheeks flushed a deep, beautiful crimson. He let out a high-pitched, delighted giggle, hiding his face behind his black-gloved hand for a second before looking back at you, his eyes crinkling with absolute adoration.

"You're special," he murmured softly, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that made the rest of the crowded auditorium completely fade into white noise. "Very, very special."

Michael didn't just ask for your number; he pursued you with a fierce, unrelenting intensity that bordered on absolute obsession. The shy, bumbling man from the awards seat had transformed into a determined romantic hunter, though his methods remained entirely endearing.

The morning after the awards, you woke up in your hotel suite to find the entire living space completely transformed. There were no less than five hundred long-stemmed, rare white roses filling every available vase, corner, and tabletop. Tucked into the center arrangement was a small, heavy cream-colored card written in his distinct, elegant looping handwriting.

To Y/N,

I haven't been able to sleep because my head is filled with the sound of your laugh. All I do is think of you. Please let me take you to dinner. I promise I'll let you do most of the talking this time.

With all my love,

Michael.

When you finally called the private number left on the card, his voice picked up on the very first ring, raspy and breathless.

"Y/N? Oh my god, thank you for calling," Michael breathed, his relief palpable over the line. "I was so worried you'd think the flowers were too much. Was it too much? I can have them taken away if—"

"Michael, it looks like a greenhouse in here," you laughed softly, your voice instantly soothing his rising panic. "It’s lovely. And yes, I would love to go to dinner with you. But under one condition."

"Anything," he said instantly. "Whatever you want."

"No security walls, no flashing lights. Just you and me. Somewhere quiet."

But because Michael couldn't simply walk into a restaurant in Paris or Los Angeles without causing a riot, his version of a "quiet date" was spectacularly private. At exactly midnight, a tinted vehicle brought you to the gates of a historic, centuries-old botanical conservatory on the outskirts of the city. Michael had closed it out entirely for the night.

When you walked inside the massive glass dome, the air was warm and humid, thick with the scent of blooming orchids and damp earth. A single, small iron table was set up beneath a canopy of ancient ferns, illuminated entirely by thousands of tiny, warm fairy lights woven through the greenery.

Michael was standing by the table, dressed down in a simple black silk shirt, his hair loose and curling softly around his shoulders. He didn't have his glasses or his mask on. He looked entirely exposed, pale and fragile, but the moment his eyes landed on you, his face lit up like the sun.

"Welcome to my garden, Y/N," he said softly, stepping forward to gently take your hand, his touch warm and remarkably tender as he pressed a soft, old-school kiss to the back of your knuckles.

"I wanted you to see me where there are no cameras. Just the trees. They don't judge anyone."

That dinner blew your mind. As the hours drifted by, you deliberately maintained a gentle, protective perimeter around his heart, listening to him with a deep, intuitive empathy that he had clearly been starved of for decades. He spoke about his childhood, the bitter isolation of fame, and the absolute terror of raising his three babies in a world that wanted to tear him apart. He was still awkward at times—knocking his fork against his plate when he got too excited, stuttering over his words when he looked at you for too long—but you balanced his nervousness with a sharp, grounding wit that kept him anchored.

"You're staring, Mike," you teased softly, taking a sip of your wine.

"I can't help it," he whispered back, his dark eyes shining under the fairy lights as he reached across the small table, his long fingers gently brushing against yours. "You're just... you're so real, Y/N. You look at me like I’m a man. Just a man. I don't think anyone has looked at me like that since I was a little boy."

The true test of your connection didn't happen in a closed-out conservatory or a luxury suite. It happened inside the private living quarters of Neverland Ranch three months later.

Michael had finally invited you to meet his children, and he was a visible, pacing basket of nerves when your car pulled up to the main house. He met you at the door, his hands shaking as he took your coat.

"They’re a little wild today, Y/N, I'm so sorry," he apologized frantically, his eyes wide as he led you down the hallway. "Prince has a lot of energy, and Paris is being very quiet, and Blanket... Blanket has been crying all morning because of his colic. The nannies are trying, but he just wants me, and I—"

Before he could finish, you walked into the large, sunlit family room, and the reality of his daily struggle hit you like a physical wave.

Prince was running in circles around the sofa, making loud airplane noises, while Paris sat in the corner, holding a doll tightly to her chest, looking overwhelmed. In the center of the room, a frantic nanny was gently rocking a tiny, tiny infant wrapped in a yellow blanket. Little Blanket was only a few months old, his face flushed red as he wailed with a high-pitched, painful colic cry that echoed off the high ceilings.

Michael looked completely defeated. He looked like an exhausted single father who was drowning despite his millions, his shoulders slumped as he reached for the crying baby.

Your maternal instincts instantly kicked into gear. You didn't hesitate. You stepped right past Michael, offering the exhausted nanny a reassuring smile.

"May I?" you asked softly.

The nanny immediately handed the bundle over. You cradled the tiny, fragile baby against your chest, tucking his small head securely beneath your chin. You began to sway in a slow, rhythmic, grounding circle, pressing your palm firmly but gently against his tiny lower back to relieve the gas pain, while humming a low, soothing melody directly against his temple.

Within two minutes, Blanket’s frantic wails began to soften into quiet hiccups. Within five, his tiny, dark-haired head relaxed completely against your collarbone, his heavy eyelids fluttering shut as he fell into a deep, peaceful sleep.

The entire room went dead silent.

Prince stopped running, his eyes staring up at you in absolute awe. Paris slowly stood up from her corner, taking a few hesitant steps toward you, her little fingers reaching out to gently touch the fabric of your jeans.

You dropped to your knees on the plush carpet, keeping Blanket perfectly balanced against your chest, and looked up at the two toddlers with a warm, radiant smile.

"Hi, Prince. Hi, Paris," you whispered gently, keeping your voice a calm, protective anchor. "My name is Y/N. I hear you guys are the best helpers in the whole world. Do you think you can help me keep your little brother asleep?"

Paris nodded solemnly, a tiny, beautiful smile breaking across her face as she sat down right next to your knee, leaning her little shoulder against yours. Prince proudly sat on the floor in front of you, his airplane completely forgotten.

Michael stood in the archway, completely rooted to the spot. Tears were openly flowing down his cheeks, glistening under the warm California sunlight. He covered his mouth with his hand, his chest heaving with a silent, overwhelming sob of pure gratitude. He had spent his whole life looking for someone to protect him, but watching you effortlessly protect and heal his children with a fierce, quiet grace made him realize he had finally found his home.

You and Michael were inseparable. But the transition from the private sanctuary of the ranch to the brutal arena of the public eye was a terrifying hurdle for him. He was deeply traumatized by the media, and he was terrified that binding your name to his would destroy your career.

The moment of truth came at a high-profile, star-studded humanitarian gala in New York. The limousine was parked in the subterranean tunnels of the venue, the muffled roar of hundreds of flashing cameras and shouting paparazzi echoing from the red carpet above.

Michael sat in the dark interior of the car, his entire body visibly trembling. His breath was shallow, his long fingers gripping his knees so tightly his knuckles were white.

"Michael," you said softly, your voice a firm, unyielding anchor cutting through his panic.

You reached across the leather seat, slipping your hand into his. His palm was ice-cold and sweating, but the moment your fingers intertwined with his, he looked up at you, his dark eyes wide with a desperate, childlike fear.

"I'm scared, Y/N," he whispered, his voice cracking raw.

"They're going to scream at us. They're going to say horrible things. I don't want them to hurt you. I don't want my name to taint you."

You leaned forward, pressing your forehead gently against his, looking straight into his soul with a fierce, protective clarity. "Michael, look at me. Let them look. Let them scream. I know exactly who you are, and I am incredibly proud to be by your side. I am not going anywhere. Move your feet, pop star. We're doing this together."

Michael let out a long, shaky breath, your strength transferring directly into his veins. The fear in his eyes slowly solidified into a deep, regal resolve. He squeezed your hand back with incredible strength.

"Together," he murmured.

When the limo door opened, the wall of light from the flashbulbs was absolutely blinding. The noise was a deafening roar of shouting reporters. But Michael didn't drop his head. He stepped out of the car, pulled his shoulders back, and reached back to pull you out beside him. He locked his long fingers securely through yours, holding your hand high and tight against his chest as you walked down the red carpet hand-in-hand. It was a definitive, magnificent statement to the universe: he was no longer alone.

Facing the media was one thing; facing the legendary Jackson family estate at Hayvenhurst was an entirely different kind of theater. Michael was an anxious wreck during the drive to Encino, hovering over your outfit, checking your hair, and nervously repeating his siblings' names like a mantra.

"They have very... very big personalities, Y/N," Michael warned, his voice tight as you walked up the steps. "They can be a lot. If anyone makes you uncomfortable, you tell me immediately, okay? I'll take you right home."

"Michael, relax," you laughed gently, squeezing his arm. "I can handle a few Jacksons."

The front door opened, and the living room was a vibrant, chaotic symphony of noise. Marlon, Jackie, Tito, and Jermaine were gathered around the piano, talking loudly over each other, while Janet and La Toya were sitting on the sofa, trading sharp jokes. The entire room went instantly, suffocatingly quiet the moment you and Michael stepped through the threshold.

Michael immediately stepped a half-inch in front of you, his inner protective guard coming up as his siblings converged on you.

But you didn't flinch. You stepped out from behind his shoulder, your face split into a warm, deeply respectful smile. "Hi, everyone! Thank you so much for having me."

Jermaine was the first to step forward, his eyes scanning you critically as he adjusted his jacket. "So... you're the latest woman who managed to sweep him off his feet We've been hearing a lot about you, Y/N."

"Hopefully good things," you replied smoothly. "if he’s told you any secrets, he's a terrible liar, so don't believe him."

Marlon burst into a booming laugh, clapping Michael hard on the shoulder. "Oh, she’s funny!"

The rigid tension in Michael's shoulders instantly evaporated, a bright, delighted giggle escaping his lips.

The turning point of the evening happened closer to dinner. You had ducked into the large kitchen to offer your help, and found Mother Katherine standing over a massive pot of smothered greens, her face lined with the beautiful, heavy wisdom of a matriarch.

You walked up to the counter, rolling up your sleeves without being asked. "Mrs. Jackson, can I help you chop those onions?"

Katherine turned around, her quiet, searching eyes locking onto yours for a long, heavy beat. She looked into your eyes, reading the genuine depth and tenderness within your soul. Slowly, a beautiful, motherly smile softened her face. She stepped forward, ignoring the onions entirely, and reached out to take both of your hands in her warm, lined palms.

"Thank you, child," Katherine whispered, her voice thick with an emotional weight that made your throat tighten.

"I haven't seen my son's eyes look this bright since he was a teenager. He has carried a very heavy cross. Thank you for loving my boy."

You squeezed her hands back firmly, your voice soft but fiercely certain. "He’s safe with me, Mrs.Katherine. I promise you."

By winter, Michael knew he was going to ask you to be his wife. But the sheer gravity of the proposal had turned the global icon into a bumbling, frantic internal disaster. The brutal scrutiny surrounding his name had deeply fractured his self-esteem; deep down, he was genuinely terrified that asking you to legally bind your life to his was asking too much of you.

Desperate for a flawless execution, Michael called a highly confidential, top-secret family meeting in the back library of the Encino estate, gathering his siblings while you were out at a production fitting.

"It has to be the most magical thing ever," Michael paced frantically across the Persian rug, chewing furiously on his thumb, his hair a wild, curling mess. "I was thinking... maybe I can hire a private charter to fly us out somewhere at sunrise, and I'll have an orchestra playing on the plane? Or... or a hot air balloon that drops a million red rose petals over Neverland? What do you guys think?"

Marlon looked up from his plate, entirely unfazed by the theatrical display. "Mike, you are completely losing your mind. Just hand the girl the box and ask her. If she loves you, she’s not going to care about a hot air balloon. Plus, you know you’re terrible with heights. You’ll get up in that balloon, panic, and pass out before you even get the ring out."

"I’ve already done that before! " Michael hissed, his voice cracking in frustration as he turned to Jermaine. " 'Maine, please tell me you have a better idea." Jermaine shrugged. "I mean... you could write a symphony? Sing it to her by some pretty water? That always works for me."

"Too generic!" Michael whined, his hands flying into the air as he turned to his youngest sister with wide, desperate eyes. "Dunk, please. Help me. They’re completely useless." Janet sat back on the plush sofa, letting out a long, hearty laugh before shaking her head affectionately. "Mike, you are overthinking this because you're terrified she’s going to say no. Y/N isn't into the big, flashy stuff. She loves you. Just take her somewhere quiet, look her in the eye, and be the man she fell in love with."

Despite the chaotic intervention, Michael ended up following Janet's advice, though his nerves nearly got the better of him. He had driven you out to a quiet, secluded bluff overlooking the ocean in Malibu late on a Friday night. The air was crisp and chilly, the dark waves crashing violently against the rocks far below.

You were sitting on the hood of his vintage truck, wrapped in a heavy wool blanket, completely oblivious. "Michael, it’s cold as hell out here. Why are we staring at the dark ocean at one in the morning?"

Michael didn't answer. He was standing in front of you, his hands tucked into his jacket pockets. Suddenly, he let out a sharp, ragged breath that sounded dangerously close to a sob. He stepped forward, his long arms reaching out to gently catch your wrists, pulling you off the hood until your feet hit the ground, flush against his chest.

"Michael?" you murmured, your brow furrowing in instant concern as you felt the violent, frantic thudding of his heart against your ribs. He was shaking from head to toe. "Are you okay? Is something wrong?"

"No, everything’s…everything’s fine," Michael whispered, his voice incredibly raw, cracking with a deep, suffocating emotion that made your breath hitch.

Slowly, the he dropped to one knee right there in the damp grass at your feet. He pulled his hands from his pockets, holding a small, black velvet box. When he snapped it open, a flawless, emerald-cut diamond ring caught the pale moonlight, gleaming with a blinding brilliance.

But his face was completely covered in tears. He looked up at you, his dark eyes wide, entirely stripped of his legendary armor, exposing a raw, bleeding vulnerability that broke your heart.

"Y/N... I am a very broken man," Michael whispered, his breath hitching as the tears spilled over his eyelashes.

"The world has torn me apart, and my name carries a very heavy storm.

But the day you walked into my life, you brought the sun back.

You saved my babies. You held my hand when I was shaking.

I am so scared to ask you this because I don't want to drag you into my darkness...

but I don't want to live another day without you. Will you marry me, beautiful?

Will you be my queen?"

You stood completely frozen, your breath caught in your throat as your own tears instantly spilled over your lashes. The sheer, devastating beauty of his honesty completely stripped the world away.

You didn't answer with words. You dropped to your knees right into the dirt in front of him, throwing your arms fiercely around his neck. You buried your face into the crook of his shoulder, holding him so tightly you could feel his soul shifting against yours.

"Yes," you sobbed into his skin, your voice a fierce, unyielding promise that cut through the sound of the ocean waves. "Yes, Michael. A million times, yes. I am not afraid of your storm. I love you."

Michael let out a loud, shuddering cry of pure relief, wrapping his long arms around your waist and lifting you right off the ground as you both knelt there in the grass, holding you against his heart like you were the single most precious treasure in the universe.

The wedding, held on a crisp, golden afternoon in the early spring of '03, was the ultimate, seamless fortress of the life you had fought so hard to build. It wasn't a media circus; there were no cameras, no reporters, and no uninvited guests. The entire valley estate had been heavily fortified by security, creating a private, sacred sanctuary of pure love.

As the strings of a live seventy-piece orchestra swelled, playing a breathtaking, sweeping arrangement, the heavy oak doors of the private chapel swung open.

You stood in the entryway, a magnificent, jaw-dropping vision in a structured, high-fashion white silk gown. The bodice was perfectly tailored, the long, dramatic veil cascading down your back like a waterfall of lace. In your hands, you held a simple bunch of white roses.

At the end of the candlelit aisle stood Michael.

He looked absolutely striking in a crisp, custom black tuxedo, his hair neatly tied back into a sleek ponytail, his dark eyes fixed entirely onto yours. The exhausted, depressed single father was completely gone; in his place stood a man radiating a profound, majestic, and completely unbroken peace.

Standing right beside him as his proud little best man was Prince, looking incredibly sharp in his matching mini-tuxedo. Paris stood on your side as the flower girl, her hair decorated with flowers that matched yours perfectly, her small hands holding the basket with immense pride. Sitting in the front row in Mother Katherine's lap was Blanket, his wide, dark eyes watching the ceremony in quiet wonder.

When your father placed your hand into Michael's at the altar, the physical connection was instantaneous. His palm was no longer cold, sweating, or trembling. It was warm, perfectly steady, and completely certain.

The minister spoke the ancient, sacred vows, but you and Michael didn't hear the words; you were simply looking into each other's eyes, a silent, profound conversation passing between you. We made it.

"I do," Michael whispered, his voice echoing through the chapel with a ringing, powerful clarity that left no room for doubt.

"I do," you replied, your voice fierce and unyielding.

"I now pronounce you husband and wife," the minister smiled. "Michael, you may now kiss your bride."

Michael didn't wait a single second. He stepped forward, his long, warm hands sliding up to securely frame your face, his fingers tangling into your veil as he leaned down and pressed a deep, passionate, and incredibly sweet kiss to your lips.

The chapel erupted into a beautiful, deafening roar of cheers and applause. The Jackson brothers were shouting, Janet was crying, and your own family was on their feet, the two worlds seamlessly blending into one massive, roaring tapestry of joy.

The moment Michael pulled back, his eyes shining with absolute victory, Prince and Paris didn't care about protocol. They broke away from their positions and ran forward, throwing their small arms around both of your legs, tackling the two of you into a messy, laughing family embrace right at the altar.

Michael immediately dropped to his knees, pulling the children into the space between you, before reaching up to wrap his long arm around your waist, pulling you down into the center of his world.

Later that night, he pressed his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your cheek as he whispered into the sweet chaos.

"Thank you for keeping me grounded, my love."

You looked down at the beautiful, laughing faces of the children and the radiant, healed face of the man who held your hand so securely. The road behind you had been a battlefield of depression, isolation, and fear—but as you squeezed his hand back, you knew the slow burn had been entirely worth it. The King had found his queen.

He was happy.

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warnings: smut(mdni) unprotected sex (don’t be silly, wrap that willy), oral sex (male receiving), dirty talk, cursing. i think that’s everythanggg.

word count: 1100

the big black suburban truck came to a slow rolling stop in the driveway. big, tall palm trees blowing in the wind, multiple trees surrounding the cobblestone driveway.

the chauffeur grabbing the backseat door handles, quickly allowing you to exit the big bodied vehicle. the air filled with the humidity from the bright sun and fresh salt water.

“oh my gosh, jackie this place is beautiful.” your eyes scanned the exterior of the resort home. as you soaked up the atmosphere around you, you beamed with pure joy and excitement.

it was jackie’s birthday week so you both decided that as hard as the two of you work, you needed to be far away from everyone, just the two of you. what better place than the bahamas?

“it sure is doll,” he flashed you a gentle smile as the two of you walked inside the home. the two of you gasping at the interior design of the vacation home, it was even prettier than the outside.

jackie reached into his wallet, grabbing some cash to tip the chauffeur that brung the luggage inside, nodding thank you before sending him on his way.

the two of you decided to head upstairs to check out the rest of the house and unpack.

which started as a two person job ended up with you just unpacking and jackie relaxing out on the balcony. you didn’t mind it though, this week was about him, why not let the old man have as much relaxation as possible.

“hey you,” you said as you slid out of the glass door in the bedroom that lead to the second story balcony.

jackie peeked up from his book through his reader glasses, giving you a small, gentle smile. after dropping the book on the table adjacent to him, he extends his arms out to you.

you straddle each side of his legs before sinking down into his lap. you pressed your lips, smooth like butter, onto his plump lips, slowly kissing your way down to his slightly exposed chest.

“don’t start something you can’t finish now baby.”

“so you want me to stop, because your friend down here says other wise,” you say with a smirk as your hips continue to slowly grind against his hard bulge that sat underneath you. you relished as you watched his breathing become shadow, his eyes captivated by your curvaceous body that laid on top of him. he shook his head no rapidly.

“use your words birthday boy, do you really want me to stop?”

“no,” he whimpered as he watched you unzip his khaki shorts, pulling his hardened girth out of his boxers. you lick your lips, practically salivating as you saw the tip of his dick, glistening with precum. you watched his body stiffen as you softly blew onto his tip.

you ran your smooth, moist tongue up and down his shaft before wrapping your warm lips around his tip, slowly bobbing your head up and down as you softly began to suck.

“shit baby, that’s a good girl,” jackie’s falsetto tone moaned out, his hands tighly grabbing your curls, slowly thrusting his hips upward.

your dominant reaching down to softly caress his balls, tight and begging for release. you hummed around him, earning more whimpering and groans from jackie as you continued to please him.

his lengthy member drenched in your saliva as you released it from your mouth with a loud ‘pop’ sound. you stood up, rolling your pink panties down to your ankles before stepping out of them. you rolled your red maxi skirt up to your waist, slightly bending over the balcony railing. you giggled as you felt jackie creep up behind you, his warm hand pressing into the lower part of your back, assisting you with finding an arch.

“this pussy wet for me already huh?” his rough fingerpads running up and down your wet slit, earning soft moans from you. you nod your head eagerly whilst he continued to tease your aching pussy, dipping his fingers in and out of you slowly. running his thumb across your clit in circles.

the two of you moaned simultaneously as he slowly pushed inside of your yearning, dripping cunt.

“how that dick feel baby?”

“so fucking good!”

your eyes rolling to the back of your head each time you felt his tip brush against your spot. his thrusts slow and deep, your stomach feeling it each time he pushes deeper and deeper inside of you.

his larges hands tightly gripping onto your waist, face full of concentration and ecstasy as he pounded deep inside of your tight, wet flora. sweat beads gathering together on his caramel skin, the filthiest things coming from his lips.

“only daddy can fuck this good right? such a good fucking girl.”

“look at how deep i feel you up, how good i make you feel.”

“good girl, make a mess on it. it’s yours baby.”

your hand reaching back to place it on his stomach. he quickly caught wind and held it in his palm, pressing your arm into your back.

“no you a big girl right? take this dick like a big girl. don’t push me away.”

your moans echoed in the outside wind, luckily nobody was around. your pussy desperately needing release, the pit in your stomach getting tighter and tighter, with every inch of him you take.

“shit i’m gonna cum,” you cried out you free hand gripping the railing tightly, so harsh it was damn near giving you a cramp. but you didn’t care, you just needed to feel your sweet release, that was so close.

“you wanna cum huh? that’s it baby, cum all over me, i’m cumming too,” jackie grunted as the two of you began to ride out your climax highs together.

your bodies shivering and convulsing as both of your sticky, wet juices mixed with another. the two of you panting as you sat back down in the chair together, your body laid on top of his once again, your heartbeats in sync with each other.

“shit baby, you wore me out,” jackie says breathlessly, his hands stroking your hair as the two of you chuckled.

“yeah, surprised you can keep up old man,” you said sarcastically, earning a slap on the ass.

ᥫ᭡. Chapter One: That Night

Summary: You're working for MGM entertainment, when given the chance of a lifetime. Michael Jackson is looking for a new label and team. Despite his good looks and kind nature, you refuse to fall for the charming younger man. You have spent too long building a name for yourself in the entertainment business, to allow anything to happen, despite his attempts.

Topics: This includes themes of feminism, mentions race, and has an age gap (reader is around 5 or 6 years older than Michael).

𝗝𝗮𝗻𝘂𝗮𝗿𝘆 𝟱, 𝟭𝟵𝟴𝟬

You were speaking to your assistant, Tatiana, outside of the conference room. Despite being in your element, you understood a great deal was riding on this meeting. Michael Jackson would be considering signing with MGM, the company you were working for, and you were also hoping to pitch yourself to him personally.

Michael was breaking barriers with his music already, and you understood that he would undoubtedly go further, so long as he had the right team by his side.

mature! michael

context: you and Michael get an official vitiligo diagnosis for your son and try to make the best of it.

Tucked away in a secluded medical complex in Beverly Hills, the office was a sanctuary of discretion, designed specifically to shield high-profile families from the relentless lenses of the paparazzi. The air conditioning in Dr. Richard’s private clinic hummed with a low, clinical monotony that only seemed to stretch the heavy silence in the room. Yet, despite the plush leather chairs and the calming pastel watercolor paintings on the walls, the atmosphere inside the examination room felt quite suffocating.

You sat on the edge of the cushioned table, holding five-month-old Peanut against your chest. He was dressed only in a white cotton diaper, his rich brown skin soft and warm against yours, entirely oblivious to the tension radiating through the adults in the room. He was happily occupied with chewing on a teething ring, his round, dark eyes darting curiously toward the sterile silver instruments gleaming on the counter.

Beside you sat Michael. He was uncharacteristically still, his long legs crossed tightly, his hands folded in his lap to hide the subtle, persistent tremor in his fingers. For Michael, being in a dermatologist’s office wasn't just a routine medical visit. It was a doorway to a past filled with invasive biopsies, cold clinical stares, and the agonizing realization that his body was changing in ways he could neither stop nor explain to a cruel public.

Dr. Richard, a gentle, graying man who had been one of the few physicians Michael trusted implicitly over the decades, adjusted his glasses and leaned forward, a small magnifying light in hand.

"May I?" the doctor asked softly.

You offered a reassuring smile and shifted Peanut slightly, exposing the small, dime-sized patch of stark white skin just beneath his left armpit.

As the doctor carefully examined the patch, leaning in close and turning the baby gently to catch the light, you reached out with your free hand and found Michael’s. His palm was cold, his fingers instantly clamping onto yours with a desperate, crushing intensity. You used your thumb to trace slow, deliberate circles over the back of his hand, a silent, steady anchor keeping him grounded in the present. Moving your hand once more, you gently rubbed his lower back, feeling the tight knots of anxiety beneath his shirt. You needed him to know that he wasn't alone in the dark this time.

Dr. Richard straightened up, turning off his examination light. He sighed softly, his expression a mix of professional objectivity and deep personal empathy.

"It’s definitely vitiligo," Dr. Richard confirmed, his voice gentle but definitive. "It’s a localized patch of depigmentation. Given the age, it is quite rare for it to manifest this early, but considering the genetic predisposition, it is entirely consistent with the condition. The melanocytes in this specific area have ceased producing melanin."

The words seemed to hang in the air like heavy fog. You felt Michael’s entire body stiffen beside you, his grip on your hand tightening to the point of small aching.

"What does this mean for his future, Dr. Richard?" you asked, your voice remarkably steady, cutting through the rising panic before it could spiral. You kept your tone even, projecting a serene maternal strength that filled the clinical space. "Is it going to spread quickly? Is he in any pain?"

"No, there is absolutely no physical pain," the doctor reassured you quickly, looking at you with immense appreciation for your composure. "It doesn't itch, it doesn't hurt. He is a perfectly healthy, thriving baby boy. As for the progression, it’s completely unpredictable. It could remain this single, isolated patch for years, or we might see new depigmented areas form as he grows. The absolute most critical step is sun protection. High-SPF, zinc-based sunblock anytime he is outdoors, protective clothing, and avoiding peak sunlight hours."

"We can do that," you said firmly, nodding as you gathered Peanut back into your arms, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. "We will protect him. Thank you, Doctor."

The silence inside the SUV on the drive back to the ranch was thick, but it wasn't the scary kind anymore—it was the kind where Michael was staring rigidly out the window, completely trapped inside his own mind. You could practically hear the gears turning as he spiraled into a dark place, entirely blaming himself.

You decided right then and there that you weren't going to let him sink into that darkness.

"Michael Joe," you said loudly, breaking the quiet hum of the engine. He didn't move. You reached over the center console, bypassed his defensive posture, and playfully yanked his sunglasses right off his face.

"Hey!" he blinked, startled, his dark eyes wide and slightly bloodshot as he finally looked at you, a bit defenseless without his shades.

"You are wearing sunglasses inside a dark car, acting like a brooding cartoon character," you teased, giving him a playful, no-nonsense look. "I know that brain of yours is running a mile a minute. Stop it. We are going to handle this. But first..." You looked out the window as a familiar fast-food sign appeared on the highway. "Let’s get some food. You need to relax a bit, and I need french fries before I pass out."

Michael stared at you for a beat, completely caught off guard by your casual, unbothered demeanor. Slowly, the rigid tension in his jaw broke, and a tiny, breathless laugh escaped his lips. "Fries? At a time like this, applehead?"

"Yes, 100% at a time like this," you insisted, leaning over to poke his cheek. "Order me a large fry and get yourself some of those glazed apple pies you love. Mama’s orders."

By the time the SUV pulled up to the main house, Michael was munching on a warm apple pie and peanut was happily slobbering on a soggy fry you let him taste, the heavy, suffocating panic in his chest successfully disrupted by your stubborn, practical love.

When you walked through the front doors, Prince, Paris, and Blanket were practically vibrating with nervous energy in the foyer. They had been waiting all afternoon, knowing Peanut had been taken to a doctor.

"Mama! Is Peanut's skin okay?!" Paris asked, her lower lip trembling as she looked at the baby in your arms.

You sat the kids down on the living room rug immediately, keeping your voice completely calm, warm, and cheerful as Michael headed over to the kitchen phone to quietly call his mother. You explained the "magic trick" Peanut's skin played, how his melanin was just taking a nap, and that it was called vitiligo, just like Daddy.

"So," you concluded, "we are his official Protection Squad. Our main job is to keep the sun from burning his special spot. Can you help me?"

"Yes!" Prince shouted, taking the job with terrifying, older-brother intensity.

Within ten minutes, the "Protection Squad" had completely descended into absolute, hilarious chaos. Prince ran to his room and came back down holding a plastic toy sword and a clipboard. "We need to put this place on lock down! Peanut cannot go outside without the right gear!"

Meanwhile, Paris had sprinted into your master bathroom. Before you could stop her, she came barreling back into the living room holding a big, familiar jar of your moisturizer and a bottle of extra-dark Jamaican black castor oil that you used for your hair.

"I got the protection!" Paris cheered, and before you could slide across the floor to stop her, she slathered a massive, greasy handful of product straight onto any visible piece of skin on Peanut’s body.

"Paris, wait—no, that’s my good body butter!" you gasped, laughing as you lunged forward, your silk scarf slipping slightly back on your head.

But it was too late. Prince joined in, trying to put a giant, oversized adult bucket hat onto the baby, which completely swallowed Peanut's entire upper body. Blanket, wanting to contribute to the mission, toddled over with a container of baby powder he had scavenged from the diaper caddy. With a look of intense concentration, he aggressively squeezed the bottle, sending a massive, powdery white cloud directly into the air.

Poof!

Peanut, entirely unbothered, let out a loud, muffled gurgle from beneath the giant hat, now completely coated in white powder, smelling heavily of pure chocolate, and looking like a shiny, powdered donut.

Michael walked back into the living room just as you were coughing through the baby powder cloud, trying to untangle the baby from the hat. He stood in the archway, a hand over his mouth as his shoulders shook with uncontrollable, silent giggles. The sight of you covered in white dust, Paris trying to grease the baby up like a Thanksgiving turkey, and Blanket holding the half-empty powder bottle completely shattered his lingering sadness. He walked over, scooping up Blanket, and sat right down in the middle of the chaos, his heart bursting with love for the beautiful, ridiculous family he had built with you.

An hour later, the kids were roaming the house with the nanny, getting cleaned up for dinner. You and Michael stayed behind in the quiet nursery, gently laying a clean, fresh-smelling Peanut down into his crib. The baby immediately rolled onto his side, fast asleep.

You turned your full attention to your husband, stepping directly into his space and wrapping your arms around his waist. Michael instantly held onto you, pulling you flush against his chest. He looked tired, but the frantic panic that had consumed him earlier was gone.

"I called my mother, told her about his appointment," Michael murmured, his fingers idly playing with the edge of your shirt. "She reminded me that we already know how to handle this. She told me to look at how much joy is in this house, and she's right. I was so scared in that office, beautiful. But looking at you, and looking at our babies... I'm happy. I really am."

You leaned up, cupping his face in your hands and brushing your thumbs over his cheekbones. "I know you are, baby. You're allowed to be nervous, but you don't ever have to carry it by yourself. We have a family now."

"We do," Michael smiled softly, his eyes locking onto yours with a deep, peaceful relief. He leaned down and pressed a warm, lingering kiss to your lips. "We have the best family. And the best woman by our side."

"You’re damn right you do," you chuckled, leaning your head against his chest. "Now come on, let's head back downstairs before the Protection Squad starts raiding the rest of our cabinets."

Hand in hand, the two of you padded quietly back down the grand staircase and returned to the living room.

The kids hadn't gone far. Prince, Paris, and Blanket had dragged a giant, fluffy duvet cover right onto the center of the hardwood floor. They had laid a basket full of Peanut's new sunscreens and hats neatly at the edge, and all three of them were curled up together on the blanket, speaking in quiet, exaggerated whispers. Blanket was lazily chewing on the corner of his blue blanket, while Prince and Paris were intensely organizing the sunscreens by size.

"Hey! Daddy! Mama!" Paris squeaked in a loud whisper, her eyes lighting up as she spotted the two of you. "Come join the Protection Squad camp! We're making a blueprint!"

Michael didn't need to be told twice. He let go of your hand and practically slid onto the blanket, dropping face-first into the pile of pillows. Prince and Paris instantly giggled, scrambling over him like little monkeys, while Blanket lazily crawled straight onto Michael's back, patting his dad's shoulder.

You walked over, kicking off your slippers, and falling down right next to Michael, resting your head on his shoulder.

"Daddy?" Paris asked, her brow furrowing slightly as she picked up a bottle of zinc sunscreen. "Can we still go to the beach this summer? Even with Peanut's skin?"

Michael rolled onto his side, carefully balancing Blanket on his hip, and looked at his daughter with a bright, reassuring smile. "Of course we can, princess. We just have to be a little smarter about it. What do you think our strategy should be, Captain Prince?"

Prince sat up straight, pointing to his clipboard. "We go early in the morning before the sun gets too angry. And we build a giant umbrella fort!"

"A fort, huh?" Michael chuckled, his eyes crinkling. "I like that. And we can get Peanut those little baby sunglasses and a big bucket hat so he looks like a cool little surfer."

"And I can paint his sunscreen on like warrior paint!" Paris cheered, her anxiety completely forgotten as she started mapping out the beach trip with her hands. "We can make it a game!"

"That’s a good idea, Paris," you smiled, reaching over to squeeze her hand. "We'll pack a big picnic, we'll get the giant pop-up tent, and we'll have the whole beach to ourselves."

"Can we get ice cream?" Blanket asked in his tiny, quiet voice, peering over Michael's shoulder.

Michael burst out laughing, reaching up to tickle Blanket's tummy. "Yes, Blanket. We can definitely get ice cream after. A giant scoop for everyone on the security team."

As the five of you lay tangled together on the floor, mapping out summers, beach trips, and a future full of bright, protected sunny days, the living room was filled with nothing but warmth and laughter. The road ahead might have its unique twists, but looking at the smiling faces of your family, you knew your fortress was entirely, beautifully unbreakable.

offthewall!michael jackson x blind!reader

(pictures are purely for aesthetic !! zero racial descriptors. ALSO ARTWORKS ARE NOT MINE!!)

⋆ summary : a blind girl and a boy who spent his life being looked at, but never truly seen, meet through a wrong number. forming a bond that neither friendship nor romance could ever fully define.

⋆ word count : 6.3k

⋆ tags : one-shot, strangers to friends, friends to lovers, comedy romance, close proximity, fluff, idiots in love

⋆ a/n : heavily inspired by the manga 'veil' and many more !! ALSO sorry for not posting for a while (i just graduated YEY !!) i've been drafting ideas left and right and this story stuck with me, and i wanted to write it and share it w y'all. hoping you guys will love this story as much as i do^-^ !!! enjoy reading (tag list at the very end!!)

it started with a wrong number.

michael had been trying to call someone else.

ring!

ring!

“hello?”

a girl’s voice.

he glanced at the number, then frowned.

“…sorry. i think i have the wrong number.”

“congratulations.”

a pause.

“what?”

“you successfully identified the problem.”

michael blinked.

then the line went dead.

for a moment, he just stared at the receiver.

then his laugh slipped out. the kind of laugh that caught him by surprise. because what kind of response was that?

he shook his head and set the phone down. and that should’ve been the end of it.

…but it wasn’t.

the next evening, he found himself thinking about it again.

and because he was bored. he dialed the number again.

the phone rang twice before you answered.

“hello?”

michael grinned deviously.

“it’s the wrong number.”

silence.

“…you called me on purpose.”

“maybe.”

“that’s embarrassing.”

“i know.”

“should i be worried?”

“probably.”

a pause. then you laughed.

and somehow, the conversation lasted twenty minutes.

then forty..

then an hour.

you both talked everyday for a week.

neither of you intended for it to happen, it just did. like a habit forming before either of you noticed.

and neither of you knew much about each other—

not names, jobs, or ages— not even where the other lived.

the conversations simply happened so comfortably and effortlessly. it’s like you both were picking up in the middle of something that had started years ago.

michael was usually the one calling.

it’s not because you didn’t enjoy talking to him. you clearly did. you just never called first.

at first, michael just assumed you weren’t interested.

then he noticed something else.

you never asked for his number, never wrote anything down, and never mentioned calling anybody.

it struck him as odd.

but not odd enough to question. besides— every evening, after a ring or two. you answered, and that was enough for him.

⋆

“you sound upset.”

you said. a pause.

“…how did you know?”

“you’ve been clicking your tongue for ten seconds.”

“oh.”

silence.

“was it really obvious?”

“painfully.”

⋆

“you seem tired.”

“what gave it away?”

“you yawned.”

“…i didn’t yawn?”

“yes you did. you yawned in the middle of a sentence.”

“…maybe a little?”

⋆

“you sound happy.”

“really?”

“mhm.”

“what does happy sound like?”

“you talk faster than usual.”

“…i do?”

“and you keep humming.”

a beat.

“i didn’t know i did that.”

“now you do.”

the strange thing michael seemed to notice was how observant you seemed.

it’s impressive to think you knew when he was smiling, nervous, pacing, or lying during calls.

it was actually a bit terrifying how accurate you were.

“do i get any privacy?”

he said.

“nope.”

“that ain’t fair.”

“you called me.”

“and you keep answering.”

“…i’m gonna hang up on you now.”

“hey— i was kidding!”

⋆

and then there were the comments. the ones michael never thought much about— at least not at the time.

“…i didn’t see that coming.”

“yeah. nobody saw that coming.”

“actually, i never see anything coming.”

⋆

“you’ll have to paint me a picture.”

“okay.”

a pause.

“just so we’re clear, not a real picture— unless you paint.”

“i know.”

“just checking.”

⋆

“you should watch it sometime. it’s a great film.”

“a bit difficult.”

“how so?”

“i have a long history of not seeing movies.”

“…”

“…”

“you’re impossible.”

“i know.”

you laughed.

⋆

sometimes, you would make jokes that left michael completely lost and confuse.

“y’know what my biggest weakness is?”

“what?”

“stairs.”

you said seriously.

and michael tilted his head, confused.

“what about them?”

“never trust them.”

“what are you talking about?”

“they’re always plotting.”

the laugh escaped him was loud enough to make you grin.

“you make absolutely no sense sometimes.”

“neither do stairs, pal.”

⋆

“do you know how many things i’ve walked into this week?”

you said, out of the blue.

“why would i know that?”

“fair.”

“wait— how many?”

“five.”

“—five?”

“six if we’re counting my dignity.”

⋆

“how was your day?”

michael asked.

“fantastic.”

“you sound sarcastic.”

“i knocked over a lamp.”

“a lamp?”

“on the bright side—“

“you broke the lamp.”

“yeah… i did.”

you said defeatedly.

⋆

the thing is, michael assumed you were joking.

you joked about everything. nothing ever sounded serious or ever sounded like something worth asking about.

so he never did.

──────────────────────

the record store was nearly empty.

it was a blessing, really. especially for a young star like michael.

he discovered that if he picked the right places at right times, he could occasionally exist like a normal person.

not often. but occasionally.

and today was one of those days.

michael was wearing a pair of sunglasses and a hat pulled down low, covering half his face.

he wandered through the aisles, flipping through records, enjoying the rare luxury of not being surrounded by screaming crowds.

the store speakers hummed softly overhead. a record crackled through the listening stations.

it feels normal for once.

—thunk!

michael looked up at the sound.

it was a girl. who had just walked directly into a display stand. not hard or enough to hurt.. enough to make a noise.

you paused.

“…rude.”

you muttered, before continuing to walk as if absolutely nothing happened.

he blinked. the display stand remained innocent.

he continued to look around, not even for a few minutes before another—

—thump!

this time, you bumped into a shelf.

you frowned.

“okay. it’s doing it on purpose now.”

you muttered to yourself again, and continued to walk.

while michael was biting his cheek to contain his laugh. the shelf was also innocent.

‘what was she doing?’

the strangest part that michael thought was that you don’t seem embarrassed— because most people would. but instead, you looked completely unbothered like this happens every day.

which judging by your attitude, it probably did.

a few moments later, you appeared beside him.

you were close enough that he could see your mismatched socks peeking out beneath your jeans.

one striped and one plain.

he stared. then glanced down at his own shoes just to make sure he wasn’t somehow wearing two different ones.

“you work here?”

michael looked down at you.

‘oh. she was talking to me.’

“no, i don’t.”

a pause.

“hm.”

you tilted your head slightly.

“you sound like you work here.”

“what does that mean?”

you shrugged.

“i don’t know. you just do.”

michael laughed, and you immediately pointed.

“there.”

“what?”

“your laugh.”

“what about my laugh?”

“you sound nice.”

he stared. he’d never met someone determined a person trustworthy based solely on a laugh before.

“that’s a very strange thing to say.”

“i’ve been told that before.”

you turned towards the shelves.

“since you don’t work here, can i still ask a question?”

“sure.”

“i’m looking for something new.”

“okay, what kind of music?”

“good music.”

“well, that’s not very helpful.”

“i know.”

michael laughed again.

you smiled. not at him, toward the sound.

you folded your arms.

“so? can you recommend me something?”

he looked down at the records, then a terrible idea entered his head.

a funny one.

michael pulled his own album from the shelf.

“what about this one?”

you took it from him, and holding it carefully. running your fingers over the edges.

he noticed how you’d never looked at the cover. you just… held it.

“what is it?”

“off the wall.”

“any good?”

michael pressed his lips together.

“yeah.”

“you seem confident about that.”

“i’ve heard good things.”

you nodded seriously.

“no offense to your source, but i’m gonna listen to it first.”

you handed the album back.

“fair.”

you both walked toward one of the listening stations.. or rather—

michael walked.

you on the other hand somehow drifted through the store with complete confidence before lightly smacking her shoulder against another display.

“ow!”

a beat.

“rude as hell.”

he couldn’t help but laugh.

you slid into one of the chairs and settled the headphones over your ears.

you listened quietly, head tilted slightly. your fingers tapping against the armrest. occasionally humming along to the melody.

and by the end of the song, you were smiling. a genuine one.

you liked it. very much so.

and michael found himself smiling too looking at you.

a few minutes later, you removed the headphones.

“well?”

he asked. and you nodded approvingly.

“your source was right.”

“i told you.”

“i’ll buy it.”

he grinned.

then a voice called from the front of the store.

his bodyguard, bill.

“michael—“

bill immediately stopped and realized his mistake.

too late.

michael’s eyes widen, and turned to look at you.

you blinked.

“michael?”

bill recovered instantly.

“mike. his name’s mike.”

a beat.

“oh.”

you nodded.

“thanks for the recommendation, mike.”

you said, still smiling. then started to walk away—

—THUNK!

another display.

you scoffed.

“unbelievable.”

then you kept going.

michael watched you disappear into the next aisle. shaking his head and laughing to himself. completely unaware that there was now bothering you.

not the name or the album.

it was his laugh.

because you swore you heard it somewhere before.

for the first time in all week— you couldn’t stop thinking about where.

──────────────────────

the phone rang at exactly the same time it always did.

ring!

ring!

“hello.”

“hi.”

you smiled.

“there you are.”

the familiar sound of him settling somewhere came through the line.

a chair creaking. a fabric rustling. a quiet sigh.

you’d become strangely good at picturing his habits.

not what he looked like. but the little things— the way he paced when he’s restless, or the way he hummed whenever he was thinking, or the way he always seemed to smile before saying hello.

“how was your day?”

he asked.

“hm.”

you thought about it.

“that’s never a good start.”

“i got into a fight.”

michael choked.

“y-you what? a fight? with who?”

“a display stand.”

“…”

silence.

“you lost, didn’t you?”

“sadly.”

“i thought you were being serious for a sec.”

you laughed.

the conversation drifted naturally after that like it always did.

until eventually—

“oh.”

“what?”

“i bought a record today.”

there was a brief pause.

“yeah? what album is it?”

for a moment, you paused.

“i don’t know.”

“…you bought an album and you don’t know what it is?”

“apparently.”

“how does that happen?”

“it happens very easily, actually.”

“you didn’t ask?”

“he told me the name but i forgot.”

“did you look?”

“…no.”

“so you just trusted some random guy then.”

“his laugh was trustworthy.”

the line went silent.

“a trustworthy laugh?”

“yeah.”

“what does that even mean?”

“you sound trustworthy, too.”

“that’s not… how it works.”

michael shook his head.

“you’re unbelievable sometimes.”

“i know.”

“so what songs are on it?”

you thought for a moment again.

“i don’t know.”

“you don’t know the album.”

“no.”

“you don’t know the songs.”

“no.”

“you bought this thing completely blind.”

a beat.

then you snorted. your laugh uncontrollable.

“that’s usually how i buy things.”

michael immediately laughed too. a loud one. the kind that escaped before he could help it.

you smiled automatically—

then froze.

something tugged at the back of your mind.

the record store.

the guy who recommended you the record.

the guy with a trustworthy laugh.

your smile slowly faded.

“huh.”

“what’s wrong?”

nothing. you were listening— the way he caught his breath afterward. the slight hitch at the end. the exact rhythm. the exact sound.

michael—

or mike.

“hello…?” he asked.

“hm?”

“you got quiet.”

“oh.”

you leaned back in your chair. trying not to smile and not to laugh at yourself.

“sorry.”

“somethin’ wrong?”

“nothing.”

“seems like there’s something on your mind.”

you hesitated.

“you ever hear someone’s voice somewhere you’ve heard before?”

the line went quiet, but it was only for a second.

“sure.”

“…hm.”

“hm?”

“nothing.”

“you keep saying that.”

“you sure do ask a lot of questions.”

“that’s because you’re weird.”

“you’re the one who keeps calling me.”

the two of you laugh. but this time, as his laughter echoed through the phone again—

you listened very carefully.

because now you were certain.

you’ve heard that laugh before. and unlike him— you were starting to put the pieces together.

──────────────────────

a few days later, michael found himself back at the record store again.

there was something about the place that he found comforting. maybe because of how quiet it was or how calm it gets inside, while outside the record store, he found it very noisy and overwhelming.

and also, he wasn't back here again because he'd been thinking about a certain girl who had purchased his album without knowing who he really was.

definitely not. that would be ridiculous!

after spending nearly half an hour browsing, he left with a paper bag tucked beneath his arm.

he left without seeing the very clumsy, strange girl.

there was a pang of disappointment he felt. then he shook his head.

across the street sat a small cafe.

one he'd passed before but never entered.

and today, he did.

tinkle!

the bell above the door chimed. and the smell of coffee immediately drifted through the air.

a few people sat scattered around the room. a couple was sitting by the window, and an older man was quietly reading a newspaper. the sound of someone quietly turning pages in the corner.

it was normal and peaceful. the same comforting feeling he had with the record store across the street.

michael liked it immediately.

he stepped up to the counter and ordered a coffee.

the cashier apologized that they had just run out of one of the cafe's best-selling pastries, joking that michael had somehow managed to arrive at the exact wrong time.

michael played along and let out an exaggerated sigh before laughing, the bright, effortless sound filling the otherwise quiet cafe.

across a few tables away.

a girl's head lifted from the sound.

you.

the conversations around you faded in the background. and for a brief moment, you simply listened. a small smile forming across your face.

"...mike?"

michael froze.

his first thought was immediate, 'oh no, a fan.'

he slowly turned toward the voice and saw—

one striped sock. one plain sock.

the girl from the record store. what are the chances?

"you."

"me."

"you.."

you let out a laugh.

"you already said that."

the familiarity of the response hit him instantly. and suddenly, he remembered the phone calls, the record store, and the album.

everything slammed together at once.

his mouth opened. then closed. and opened again.

"no way."

"way."

"you were the girl from the record store."

'and you were mike."

"and—"

you pointed.

"you were the wrong number."

michael laughed immediately. because what was he supposed to do? the whole thing was completely absurd.

"you figured it out"

he said.

"it took me a minute."

"really?"

"...maybe a few days. i wasn't so sure."

"but how?"

"you have a very recognizable laugh."

michael dropped into the chair across from her, still laughing and trying to process the fact that somehow the girl he talked through on the phone and the girl from the record store had been the same person all along.

"what are the chances?" he said.

"very low."

"maybe you're following me and i didn't know."

"oh please! you're the idiot who called me by accident."

"okay you're never letting me forget that."

"nope."

his drink arrived, and michael thanked the waitress kindly. and the conversation somehow picked up instantly where it had left off.

surprisingly, there were no introductions, awkwardness— just natural conversations between the both of you.

eventually he noticed a small bookshelf tucked into a corner. it was a community shelf, leave a book and take a book. it was a sort of thing that he'd always liked.

he nodded toward it.

"you ever read one of those?"

"no."

you answered rather quickly.

"not much of a reader, i assume?"

"no."

michael smiled.

"then how do y'know they're any good?"

"i don't."

"you don't seem worried."

"i'm not."

he laughed again. he picked up a nearby book and flipped through a few pages.

"well, you should try reading sometime."

a beat.

"—i can't."

he snorted, thinking you were joking like you always do.

"there you go again."

"what?"

"your jokes."

"my jokes?"

"the seeing jokes."

a pause. then you tilted your head slightly confused.

"mike, i ain't kidding."

michael smiled.

"sure you are."

"no—seriously."

you were starting to laugh at how slow he was. it was getting kinda ridiculous that he still didn't get the hint.

"i'm blind."

you said, rather a bit casually, like saying the grass was green.

the cafe suddenly felt very quiet, and michael just stared. his smile fell from his face.

"...what?"

"i. am. blind."

you lifted a hand and waved it in front of your eyes and showed him you were really serious.

and suddenly, every conversation replayed inside his head.

"you'll have to paint me a picture."

"i have a long history of not seeing movies."

"actually, i never see anything coming."

"you bought this thing completely blind."

"that's how i usually buy things."

the record store. the mismatched socks. the way you were strangely observant of sounds. the way you'd confidently walked straight into a shelf and simply cussing at it, before moving on.

"oh my God."

his hand flew to his forehead. the realization hit all at once like he was struck by lightning.

in fact, you were amused by the whole thing.

"you... really didn't know?

"NO."

his answer came out louder than he intended, and he covered his mouth with his hand quickly after when he noticed several people glanced over his table.

"you didn't tell me."

he said, his voice now lowered.

"you didn't ask."

"i thought you were joking!"

"jokes are half-meant. it's not my fault you're an idiot with a nice laugh."

"holy shit."

you choked a laugh, didn't expect him to cuss at all.

"you gotta admit, this is kinda funny."

you said, still laughing.

michael dropped his head into his hands. because somehow you were right.

"you dropped so many clues... and i still didn't realize."

"twenty-three."

his head snapped up.

"what?"

"it was twenty-three clues."

"you counted?"

"i was curious how long it would take for you to realize."

michael stared, then bursted out laughing.

of course you counted.

his laughter faded slowly, and left something quieter behind— something thoughtful.

because for the first time since meeting you, things suddenly made more sense.

not your jokes or comments.

it's you.

the way you always knew when he's smiling, pacing, or how you could tell he was upset before he'd even say a word.

and most of all, how you'd recognize him from a laugh.

a laugh.

nobody else would've noticed a laugh. nobody else would've listened that carefully.

but you did.

because listening wasn't just something you did. it was how you moved through the world. it's how you understood people— how you understood him.

suddenly, michael found himself looking at you differently. not because you were blind, because you weren't.

not in the way he first imagined. if anything, you'd notice more about him than most people with perfect eyesight ever had.

and for reasons he couldn't quite explain, that realization stayed with him long after the conversations moved on.

⋆

eventually the afternoon faded into evening.

the cafe began emptying. chairs scraped softly against the floor, and the waitress started collecting cups from the tables.

michael glanced out the window, then glanced back at you.

"you headin' home?"

"eventually. i'll get there."

you shrugged.

your answer somehow raised more questions than it answered.

michael stood as you did, and the two of you stepped outside together.

the record store across the street was already preparing to close. the familiar neighborhood buzzed around them. and for a moment, they stood in comfortable silence.

then michael remembered something—

"oh."

"hm?"

he turned around and looked at you.

"how are you getting home?"

the question seemed perfectly reasonable to him. but the look you gave him suggested otherwise.

"the same way i got here?"

"right."

michael stared.

"you live nearby?" he asked.

"about fifteen minutes. give or take."

he frowned because you looked entirely unconcerned. which somehow concerned him more.

"and you're just..."

he gestured vaguely.

"...going?"

"i mean, what else would i do?"

michael opened his mouth. then closed it. then opened it again.

"i... don't know?"

"you don't know?"

"no."

"you called me by accident and somehow survived."

"well that's because this is different."

"tell me how it is different."

michael pointed at the road.

"there are cars."

"there have always been cars, mike."

"that doesn't make me feel any better."

"it wasn't supposed to."

you started walking suddenly, which michael immediately followed.

"wait—!"

"what?"

"you can't just leave."

you stopped walking and turned slightly toward his voice.

"michael..."

"yeah?"

"i've been walking myself for years."

"i know."

"then why do you sound panicked?"

"because now i know."

you bursted out laughing,

and michael groaned.

"i liked it better when you didn't know."

the worst part was that he heard how ridiculous he sounded now that he had realized.

but he couldn't help but worry for you.

the image of you casually walking into shelves all afternoon wasn't helping.

"seriously."

"don't you trust me?"

"of course i do."

"stop playin'! you clearly don't."

"i don't trust traffic."

michael crossed his arms.

"how do you even do it?"

"do what? get home?"

"safely."

you thought about it.

"genuinely. i mostly just hope for the best."

michael's eyes widened.

"you what?!"

you started laughing at his reaction.

"i'm kidding!"

"that is not funny."

"it was a little funny."

"you can't just say things like that and expect me to let you go home by yourself."

"okay, okay."

you finally relented.

"i know the route."

"okay."

"i know every crossing is. i know which bakery means i've gone too far."

michael blinked.

"what?"

"the smell. i use the bakery and among other things."

you said, then pointed vaguely.

"there's a florist, a bus stop, then a church."

he found himself listening really carefully to the way you described it. not as directions— but as sounds and smells, as familiar pieces of the world.

it was like you carried a map that nobody else could see.

for the first time since learning you were blind, he relaxed just a little.

because clearly, you've been doing this for years. you knew what you were doing and were clearly capable.

and yet—

—HONK!

a car honked somewhere nearby.

michael nearly jumped out of his skin, and you— you didn't even flinch.

"nope."

he was still worried.

"what now?"

"i'm walking you home."

"i told you mike, i can walk on my own."

"i'm not asking. i'm telling you i'll come with you."

you laughed again.

"you are unbelievable."

"so i've been told."

a pause.

then you smiled.

he smiled back.

"fine. you can walk me home."

michael tried not to look pleased with himself. but failing completely because you clearly heard it in his voice.

"oh my God. are you smiling?"

"what? no i'm not."

michael said, trying to play it cool. still smiling.

"you shmuck. you are."

"okay, maybe a little."

you both laughed.

──────────────────────

the strange thing was that after all the revelations.

nothing really changed.

he was still the boy who called the wrong number.

you were still the girl who would answer his call after two rings.

the only difference now was that he knew you were blind. and you now knew that he was michael jackson.

neither fact seemed to matter very much.

at least not to you.

⋆

the first time he told you, michael had been visibly nervous.

you both were sitting in your apartment, while jazz music was playing softly in the background.

and michael finally asked.

"so... y'know who i am now, right?"

"mhm."

"and?"

"and what? is there more to it?"

a pause.

"i'm michael jackson."

"okay."

"okay. that's it?"

michael stared. you just shrugged.

"you were mike to me yesterday."

he let out a loud laugh he nearly fell of the couch.

⋆

your apartment quickly became one of his favorite places.

there were no screaming crowds, no flashy cameras pointing at him, and no pressure and expectations around him here.

just you.

he'd sometimes stop by after recording sessions, or after surviving rude interviews he didn't want to do in the first place.

and whenever touring pulled him away...

he'd always find time to call you every night like clockwork.

"hello."

"hi."

"there you are."

the same routine everytime.

⋆

unfortunately for you, michael had been alarmingly protective of you.

especially when walking outside together.

"—stop!"

"what?"

michael grabbed your shoulders and physically rotated you.

"there."

"what was that?"

"a mailbox. you were about to walk into it."

"oh. again?"

"yeah."

"the mailbox and i have history."

he buried his face in his hands.

⋆

another time—

"WAIT."

"what??"

—HONK!

michael immediately hooked an arm around your waist and pulled you towards him.

a car sped past.

you blinked.

"oh. i didn't hear that one."

"you— you didn't ?"

"it can't be helped. it happens"

he looked like he was about to have a heart attack. you patted his arm gently.

"there, there."

"don't 'there, there' me."

⋆

one afternoon you nearly walked directly into a street sign.

michael grabbed your elbow before you walked into it.

redirecting you, then kept walking.

"thanks."

"you're welcome."

a pause.

"y'know, most people ask before manhandling me."

"you lost that privilege after walking into a fire hydrant."

⋆

but for someone so protective—

michael also forgot you were blind constantly.

"look at this."

silence.

michael froze, realizing what he just said.

"..."

"...i'm blind."

"right. sorry."

not even 10 minutes in—

"woah! did you see that?"

"mike."

"right."

⋆

one evening, he excitedly showed up to you holding a magazine featuring his album.

"look."

a pause. then immediate regret.

"oh."

he said.

you nodded.

michael groaned and you laughed.

"can you tell me what it is?"

"yeah— right. sorry."

⋆

the blind jokes never stopped once, and michael never knew whether he should laugh.

"well, i didn't see that coming."

"...should i laugh?"

"yes. i'm giving you permission."

⋆

"you're cooking, mike?"

"yeah. thought you might be hungry."

"m'kay, don't burn my kitchen okay? i've got my eye on you."

you pointed at him— or rather, pointing in the wrong direction where he definitely isn't there.

"you definitely don't."

you laughed out loud.

⋆

and the worst part was that eventually he started laughing at your jokes.

the jokes were objectively terrible, but your commitment made them funny to him.

there was one time, you were sitting together on the couch.

when suddenly, you leaned close.

closer.

and closer.

until both of your faces were only inches apart.

and michael forgot how to breathe.

"...what are you doing?"

"i'm trying to get a better look at you."

he looked at you for a moment, then laughed before he could stop himself.

he immediately covered his mouth.

"oh no."

you smiled, tilted your head. your faces still inches apart.

"what?"

"your humor is getting to me. it's contagious."

you laughed against his chest while he felt bad for laughing, but laughed anyway with you.

──────────────────────

by then, meeting up had become a routine.

sometimes it was the same cafe. sometimes it was the record store. or sometimes, a little family-owned restaurant tucked away in the city where michael could sit without being recognized every five minutes.

but today, it was the restaurant.

it was nearly empty.

just the soft clinking of silverware and quiet conversations drifting through the restaurant.

michael had barely settled into his seat before his eyes wandered beneath the table.

then stopped. he stared.

michael looked from one foot to the other.

one plaid. one striped.

"...those don't match."

you glanced down at your own feet out of pure habit, even though you couldn't actually see.

"...so i've been told."

"they're diffent socks."

"you say that like it's my fault."

you smiled, unbothered, and continued eating.

the conversation should've ended there—

but it didn't.

⋆

a week later, michael arrived carrying a small box.

"what is that?"

"a solution."

"to what?"

"your fashion crimes."

inside the box were neatly paired socks.

you laughed so hard you nearly dropped the box.

"mike..."

"i'm trying to help you."

"they're socks.

"and they matter."

and from there... things were escalated rapidly.

socks became shirts, skirts, dresses, jewelry, then shoes.

then somehow, michael had accidentally become your personal stylist.

⋆

one afternoon, he arrived at your apartment carrying multiple shopping bags.

and you heard them immediately before he even spoke.

"oh no. that sounds like it costs money."

michael laughed, and you smiled at the sound.

"you need better clothes."

"i have clothes."

"you have fabric. this is different."

the funny thing is that you genuinely don't care. it's not because you disliked fashion, because you literally couldn't see it, so you don't really see the use of it.

meanwhile, michael treated every outfit of yours like he was preparing someone for the red carpet.

"can you stand up for me?"

you shrugged and stood up.

then you hear michael circling around you. quietly thinking, analyzing, and judging.

"hm..."

"what is it?"

"the earrings have to go."

you snorted at how committed he was to your outfits, even if it's just a trip to the record store. people would think you were preparing to go to an event.

⋆

eventually, michael started doing your hair too.

at first, he was just fixing little things like a loose strand or putting on a ribbon to your hair.

the suddenly he was fully invested into it.

"stay still."

"what are you doing, mike?"

"fixing."

"fixing what?"

"everything."

you scoffed dramatically, offended.

"rude."

sometimes, he would recreate hairstyles inspired by women he'd admired growing up.

elegant curls. soft waves. vintage silhouettes. classic glamour.

the kind of beauty that michael loved seeing in old films.

and when he was finished, he would step back. admiring his work and felt completely satisfied.

meanwhile, you were restlessly sitting down. bored.

"can we leave now?"

⋆

there was one day where michael convinced you to let him do a little makeup.

it wasn't anything dramatic. it's the kind that enhanced rather than transformed.

you sat the entire time patiently and trusting him completely— which somehow made him more nervous.

"—there."

"is it done?"

"yeah."

"do i look somewhat nice?"

michael looked at you, and for a moment he didn't answer.

because the truth was...

you always had.

the dresses, the hair, the makeup...

they weren't what made you beautiful.

he simply loved seeing the person he already thought was beautiful dressed the way he imagined movie stars looked beneath golden lights.

sometimes he would smooth out a wrinkle from your sleeve, adjust a necklace, or brush a loose strand behind your ear.

he would quietly think...

'i wish you could see yourself the way i do.'

not because he wanted credit, and not because he wanted you to admire the outfit he'd bought for you—

just because he wished, even once, you could see what he saw every time he looked at you.

then, inevitably...

you'd ruin the moment.

"why are you so quiet? do i look ugly?"

you said, snapping out of his thoughts.

he nearly choked.

"no you don't!"

"good. don't tell me if i ever do."

he laughed.

──────────────────────

looking back, the clothes had never really been about clothes.

they were simply one of the many ways michael learned to care for you, and the more time he spent by your side... the more time those little acts of care quietly found their way into everything else.

because despite all his worrying, his redirecting, his hovering.

and all his constant—

"careful."

"watch your step."

"wait—"

michael never treated you like you were fragile. not really.

because he learned that you hated it. that you didn't want the pity. you didn't want people acting like you weren't incapable.

you didn't want someone to live your life for you.

so he adapted.

instead of doing things for you... he simply stood nearby you and was always ready when you needed him.

close enough to catch you if you fall— far enough to let you stumble if you insisted.

he'd quietly turn your shoulders before you walked into a street sign.

slide a chair beneath you before you sat down.

wordlessly move something out of your path.

it was small things nobody else would've noticed.

and somehow that meant more.

those tiny acts of care became their own language. a language that didn't make you feel incapable. only loved.

it became second nature.

so did describing the world for you.

just like your late-night phone calls, the mismatched socks he'd eventually given up trying to fix, or him spending an unreasonable amount of money filling your wardrobe because he refused to let you 'accidentally invent new fashion trends.'

just wandering into record stores, small coffee shops, bookstores—

anywhere the two of you could disappear for a few hours and simply exist.

when the city became too loud, the world felt unbearably heavy, and fame became too much for michael.

you both always ended up in the same place.

your rooftop.

it wasn't anything particularly impressive. there was no skyline, no luxury furniture, no grandview.

just a few chairs, a small table, and an outdoor sofa facing the view.

strings of fairy lights draped overhead above both of you, and the soft glow turned everything warm, comfortable, and safe.

it had quietly became michael's favorite part of your apartment.

not because of who was waiting for him there, but because of who was waiting for him there.

the evening breeze drifted through the air. neither of you had spoken for several minutes... just listening to the city below.

then—

"can i ask you something?"

michael looked over to you and nodded.

"yeah. what is it?"

a pause.

you hesitated. which was strange because you never did.

"what..."

you searched for the words.

"...do you look like?"

he blinked. because it wasn't a question he'd expected.

he laughed quietly.

"you've never asked."

"i know."

"do you want me to describe myself?"

"no."

another pause.

"i don't think words would help."

michael looked down at his hands. and for some reason, he couldn't explain. his chest suddenly felt tight.

because he'd spend most of his life wishing people would stop looking at him.

yet here you were—

the one person who never had.

"...can i..."

you hesitated again.

"can i feel your face?"

michael's heart forget what it was doing.

"oh."

a beat. then—

"...yeah."

he shifted a little closer, close enough that he could hear your breathing.

you slowly lifted your hand carefully.

tentatively.

as though asking one final time without using words, and michael answered by gently taking your wrist.

his hands were warm... and much larger than yours. he guided your fingertips to his cheek, and then he let go.

for a long moment, neither of you moved.

your fingers barely brushed his skin softly and curiously, but never invasive.

you traced the curve of his jaw, his cheekbones, the bridge of his nose, and his eyebrows. the gentle arch of them making you smile.

"hm..."

"what?"

"i thought your nose would be bigger"

michael let out an offended laugh.

"my nose?'

"i don't know."

"you imagined a bigger nose?"

"i had to imagine something."

he laughed again, and the sound made you smile.

your fingers found the corners of his eyes. his eyelashes fluttered instinctively against your fingertips.

"you blink a lot."

"because you're fingers are poking my eyes."

you laughed softly, muttering a 'sorry.'

then, you traced the outline of his lips carefully, almost reverently. as though committing every feature to memory.

michael had never felt more seen. not because you were looking at him— because you weren't. you couldn't.

but somehow... that made it mean more.

your hand slowly fell back into your lap.

"so...?"

michael asked quietly.

"what do you think?"

you tilted your head. thinking.

"i think.."

a tiny smile appeared.

"..you have a kind face."

and something in michael's chest ached.

nobody had ever described him that way before. not handsome, not famous, not beautiful...

kind.

you laughed softly.

"i wonder what i look like."

michael looked at you immediately.

"what do you mean?'

"i don't know. i've never seen myself."

your smile remained, but it was smaller now.

"i hope i'm pretty."

you said quietly.

and michael frowned.

"you are."

"you don't have to say that."

"i'm not saying it because we're friends."

"you kind of have to."

"i don't." "you do."

you smiled.

michael shook his head.

"no."

his voice came out softer than he'd intended.

"i just.."

˙⟡ warnings : literally none. mike is just very shy, love confession, lovestruck michael, soft romance, this is a pure fluff!

˙⟡ a/n : this is inspired by the 1979 interview! just pretend that michael still has his big big fluffy afro :D

˙⟡ wc : 691

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

⋆˙⟡ the interviewer was talking to mike about music at first. about recording, writing and being in the studio all night, and michael answered softly while absentmindedly moving the sliders on the soundboard beside him with his fingertips. every time he got embarrassed or shy, his eyes dropped to his hands automatically.

the interviewer smiled at him knowingly as she crossed her legs in her chair.

“so tell me… is there a young lady around these days?”

he immediately looked down with the prettiest smile spreading across his face.

a real smile too. slow and shy.

michael ducked his head at once, laughing under his breath. “oh boy…” he whispered into his hand, already blushing.

the interviewer laughed too. “is it true?”

he looked up with a smile that gave him away instantly. his eyes sparkling, “…yes,” he admitted quietly.

that made him chuckle harder, ducking his head while his shoulders shook a little from it. he looked so cute saying it too, like he couldn’t believe he was talking about you out loud.

“what’s she like?”

michael smiled to himself before answering.

“she’s real gentle.” the words came out instantly, no thinking at all.

“she has this way of speaking to me that makes me feel calm,” he said quietly. “even if i’ve had the longest day, even if I’m tired or upset… she talks to me and it all goes away somehow.”

“and her smile…” he shook his head immediately, almost embarrassed by his own feelings. “see, I can’t even explain it.” he giggled, eyes crinkling. “It’s the kind of smile that makes you forget what you were saying.”

the interviewer smiled softly and put her hands in her lap, listening carefully.

“she’s quiet at first,” he said softly. “real shy.” then he smiled bigger, “but once she starts talking she doesn’t stop.”

the interviewer laughed. “You like that?”

michael nodded immediately.

“i do.” he was still smiling to himself.

“she talks to me about everything. just little things.” he shrugged softly. “stuff she saw during the day, songs she likes, things she dreams about…”

his cheeks turned pink once again.

“i like listening to her.”

the interviewer watched him for a second with a soft smile on her face. “you sound pretty serious about her.”

he looked away shyly for a second before lowering his hand again.

“i dunno,” he mumbled, smiling. “maybe.”

his fingers kept moving the little sliders slowly while he talked.

“and she’s affectionate,” he admitted.

the interviewer smiled. “affectionate?”

michael laughed softly through his nose.

“yeah.” he looked down smiling. “always holdin’ onto me.” that sentence alone made him blush even harder.

“she fixes my collar all the time too.” he laughed quietly. “or she straightens my sweater.”

“and the hair?”

michael smiled instantly.

“oh! she loves the hair.” he touched the side of his soft afro automatically after saying it.

“she’s always puttin’ her hands in it.”

the interviewer laughed softly. “and you don’t mind?”

“no.”

he realized how fast he answered and immediately got shy all over again and he dropped his head laughing quietly while his fingers messed with the soundboard again.

the interviewer smiled at how red his face was getting.

“you really like her.”

“…yeah,” he said softly.

“she makes me feel good,” he admitted quietly. “real good.”

the room stayed quiet while he spoke.

michael glanced down at his hands again.

“sometimes things get real busy all the time, you know?” he murmured softly. “cameras, work, all of it y’know..”

then he smiled again.

“but when I’m with her it’s.. different.”

the interviewer let him continue.

“she looks at me real sweet,” he said quietly. “like I’m not… all this.”

he motioned vaguely around himself with one hand, still shy about explaining it.

“like I’m just michael.”

the interviewer looked like she was trying not to melt completely at this moment.

“you miss her when she’s not around?”

michael looked down instantly, playing with his fingers.

“…yeah.” a tiny laugh escaped him afterward. “real bad sometimes.”

the interviewer leaned forward. “are you in love with her?”

michael smirked. he looked down shyly, cheeks burning pink beneath the lights.

“…very much,” he whispered. ⋆˙⟡

mature! michael

context: you discover an early sign of vitiligo on your son.

"You look just like me,"

You whispered into the dark nursery, leaning over the wooden railing to poke his soft thigh. "Don't listen to your father. You have my toes. And my ears. We basically twins, Peanut."

The nursery was quiet at three in the morning, save for the rhythmic, mechanical hum of the baby monitor and the soft, heavy breathing of five-month-old Sean—affectionately dubbed "Peanut" by Paris the very first day he came home from the hospital.

You stood over the crib, your hair wrapped in a silk bonnet, wearing one of Michael’s oversized flannel shirts as a makeshift robe. Peanut was fast asleep on his stomach, his little knees tucked up under his chest, his diapered bottom sticking up in the air. He had a full head of thick, tight, jet-black curls that defied gravity, a tiny button nose, and a pair of chubby, dimpled cheeks that you spend half your days kissing.

"Who are you tryna to convince, applehead?"

A low, raspy whisper came from the doorway. You turned to see Michael leaning against the frame, his frame silhouetted by the dim hallway light. He was wearing black pajama pants and a loose white V-neck, his own hair tied back in a messy, loose bun. He looked exhausted from a long string of meetings with his management team, but the moment his eyes landed on the crib, that soft, incredibly smug fatherly smile broke across his face.

He walked over on quiet tiptoes, the floorboards barely groaning beneath his feet, and slid his arms around your waist from behind. He rested his chin on your shoulder, his skin warm against your neck, smelling of lotion and the lavender soap he used before bed.

"I'm not trying to convince anyone," you sniffed playfully, leaning back into his chest. "I carried this child for nine months, Michael. I endured swollen ankles, heartburn, and a literal midnight delivery. I deserve at least one feature."

Michael let out a breathless, silent laugh against your neck, his chest vibrating against your back. He peered down at the sleeping baby. "Beautiful, you are a vision, and I love you with all my heart, but that boy is a literal carbon copy of me from the Gary days. Look at that lip. Look at those curls. You just provided the penthouse suite for nine months."

"A penthouse suite is crazy." you mumbled, turning in his arms to face him. But you couldn't help the smile that tugged at your lips.

He wasn't lying. When Peanut had been born five months ago, it had been a whirlwind of emotion. The labor had been fast and furious, hitting you like a freight train in the middle of the night. You remembered Michael panicking, trying to grab the prepackaged hospital bag while simultaneously tripping over Blanket’s toys, while Prince and Paris stood at the top of the stairs in their pajamas, cheering you on like you were running a marathon.

When the doctor had finally handed the baby to you, wrapped in a striped hospital blanket, the room had gone completely still. Michael had wept openly, his hands shaking as he cut the cord, falling to his knees by the bedside to kiss your damp forehead over and over again. And when the rest of the Jackson clan had come to visit the ranch a few weeks later, the agreement had been immediate. Katherine had held the baby close to her chest, her eyes crinkling with tears as she whispered,

“Oh, Mike, he looks just like you did when you were a baby. Exactly like you.” Every single one of Michael's brothers had teased him about having a literal clone running around the house.

Life with a newborn had turned Neverland into a beautiful, chaotic playground.

Prince and Paris had adapted to their roles as big siblings with fierce, almost comical devotion. Prince considered himself the "Head of Security" for the nursery, strictly monitoring who entered and making sure anyone who wanted to hold the baby used a generous pump of hand sanitizer first.

Paris treated Peanut like her live-in doll, constantly picking out his little onesies, singing him off-key lullabies, and insisting on holding his bottle during feeding times. Even little Blanket, who was still the baby of the house himself, would toddle into the nursery just to press his favorite blue blanket against the baby’s tiny feet, making sure his little brother was warm.

By the afternoon, the heat of the California sun had mellowed into a golden, lazy warmth that flooded through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the main living room.

The house was filled with the comfortable, domestic sounds of a family at peace. Peanut was down on the rug, happily playing inside his large mesh playpen. He was surrounded by a generous assortment of soft plush animals and a bright plastic teething ring that he was currently gnawing on with pure determination. Prince and Blanket were sitting on the hardwood floor right next to the pen, intensely focused on a massive game of ‘who can build the biggest lego tower’.

They were building an elaborate, multi-tiered fortress completely surrounding the playpen, treating their baby brother like a royal king protected inside an impenetrable castle.

"Don't put that block there, Bigi, it's gonna fall on the perimeter," Prince instructed in his serious, older-brother voice, carefully balancing a wooden piece. Blanket just let out a quiet grunt, happily passing Prince another block, his eyes occasionally darting to Peanut to make sure the baby was still smiling.

A few paces away, the open-concept kitchen was separated from the living room by a wide marble island. You and Michael were working together in tandem, preparing a late lunch for the kids. The radio was playing a soft, soulful Motown track in the background. Michael was humming along, his hips swaying slightly to the rhythm as he expertly sliced up red apples and peeling oranges on a wooden cutting board. You were beside him, assembling ham and cheese sandwiches, spreading mayonnaise over the white bread with practiced ease.

"Think we should take them to the movie theater on the property later?" Michael asked softly, tossing a small piece of apple into his mouth. "Prince said he wanted to see that new cartoon again."

"Only if you promise not to let them eat their weight in snacks before dinner," you replied, nudging his hip with yours. "Last time, Paris had a sugar rush that lasted until midnight."

Michael chuckled, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners. "Hey, I can't help it if the concession stand has the best—"

The heavy, frantic slap-slap-slap of bare feet sprinting down the long hallway shattered the peaceful atmosphere.

The kitchen doors flew open with a loud thud. Paris stood in the frame, her chest heaving underneath her overalls, her eyes wide with a sudden, absolute panic. Her little hands were gripping the edges of her shirt.

"Mama! Daddy! Come quick!" she gasped out, her voice trembling with an innocent but terrifying urgency. "Peanut's skin is coming off! It’s gone!"

Your heart violently dropped into your stomach like a lead weight. The butter knife slipped from your fingers, clattering loudly against the marble counter. A cold, suffocating wave of pure adrenaline rushed through your veins. "What?!" you shrieked, your maternal instinct instantly flaring into overdrive.

Michael didn't even speak. The apple slice he was holding dropped to the floor as his face went completely pale. He vaulted past the kitchen island, his long legs carrying him down the hallway in a blur of motion. You were right on his heels, your heart hammering against your ribs as a million horrific medical scenarios flashed through your mind—burns, a sudden allergic reaction, an infection, ANYTHING.

Michael burst into the living room, practically sliding on the polished wood floor to reach the playpen. Prince and Blanket looked up, startled by the sudden, dramatic entrance of their parents.

You scrambled in right behind Michael, your hands shaking as you reached into the mesh pen and scooped a confused Peanut up into your arms. You frantically turned him over, inspecting his face, his chubby hands, his neck, his ears. Peanut just blinked his wide, dark eyes up at you, completely unfazed, letting out a wet bubble and waving his arms.

"Where, Paris? Where is it?!" you breathed, your voice cracking as you scanned his skin.

Paris rushed over, pointing a trembling finger at the baby's left side, right under his arm. "Right there! I saw it when he rolled over to grab his toys! His skin is rubbing off!"

You didn't hesitate. With trembling fingers, you gently gathered the hem of the baby's soft cotton onesie and unsnapped it, pulling the fabric up to expose his chubby little torso and ribcage. You carefully turned him toward the afternoon sunlight streaming through the window, your eyes scanning the rich, beautiful brown complexion of his skin.

And then, you saw it.

Right near his ribs, just below his tiny armpit, there was a small, irregular patch of skin about the size of a dime. It wasn't bleeding. It wasn't raw, or peeling, or inflamed. It wasn't a rash.

It was simply a patch of skin that was completely devoid of its pigment—a stark, milky-white contrast against the rest of his smooth, dark skin.

You let out a long, ragged breath, the immediate terror of a physical injury or a chemical burn leaving your body. You ran a gentle, soothing thumb over the spot. It felt perfectly smooth. Exactly like the rest of him. "It's... it's just a light spot, Paris," you whispered, trying to calm your own racing pulse. "Maybe a new birthmark. He's okay."

You turned your head to look at Michael, expecting him to give a sigh of relief.

The words caught completely in your throat.

Michael hadn't moved. He was frozen on his knees beside the playpen, his gaze locked entirely on the nickel-sized white patch on his son's torso. Every single drop of color had drained from his face, leaving him a ghostly, fragile shade of pale. His jaw was slightly slack, his lips parted, and his dark eyes were wide, glassy, and completely unblinking.

He didn't cry. He didn't make a sound. But the sheer, agonizing weight of a silent realization hung over him like a suffocating shroud.

He knew exactly what it was.

It was vitiligo.

It was the very same autoimmune disease that had ravaged his own body, turned his teenage years into a nightmare, and transformed his adulthood into a cruel media circus. It was the disease that had physically altered him, causing him decades of physical pain in the sun and unimaginable emotional scarring from a world that refused to believe he was sick.

And now, it was appearing on his innocent, five-month-old baby boy—years, decades earlier than it had ever appeared on him.

"Baby?" you murmured softly, your voice dropping into a cautious, protective register. The kids were watching, and the sudden, heavy silence in the room was making them uneasy.

Michael didn't look up. He couldn't. His hands, usually so expressive and steady, were visibly trembling as he slowly reached out. His index finger hovered just a millimeter above the white patch on Peanut's skin. He looked like he wanted to touch it, to wish it away, but he was too terrified that his touch would somehow make it real.

Prince looked between you and his father, his brow furrowing with that quiet, intuitive maturity he often showed. "Dad? Is Peanut sick?"

The sound of his oldest son's voice seemed to snap a cord inside Michael. He closed his eyes for a brief second, swallowing hard, forcing the raw panic down into the deepest recesses of his chest. When he opened his eyes, he forced a weak, incredibly gentle smile onto his face, though his eyes remained entirely hollow.

"No, Prince. Peanut isn't sick. He's perfectly healthy," Michael whispered, his voice remarkably controlled, though it carried a fragile, paper-thin edge. He looked at Paris, reaching out to tousle her hair. "You did a good job watching your brother, Paris. Thank you for telling us."

He cleared his throat, standing up with a deliberate, slow movement. "Prince, why don't you take Paris and Blanket back to the kitchen? Go ahead and start on the fruit slices. Mama and I will be right there in just a minute. We're just going to change Peanut's diaper."

Prince searched his father's face for a moment, then nodded solemnly. He took Paris and Blanket by their hands, leading them quietly out of the living room. The wooden doors of the kitchen swung shut behind them, leaving the room entirely silent.

The moment the kids were out of sight, the mask completely fell away.

Michael didn't cry, but he looked entirely, completely drained, as if the physical energy required to hold himself together had aged him ten years in a span of ten seconds. He sank back onto the couch, burying his face in his hands, his breathing shallow and ragged.

You didn't say a word. You carefully tucked Peanut back into his onesie, snapping it shut, and carried him over to the couch. You sat down right next to Michael, placing the baby gently in the space between you. Peanut, completely unaware of the heavy gravity in the room, immediately rolled onto his side and began to happily pull at the fabric of Michael's pajama pants.

You wrapped your arm around Michael’s shoulders, pulling his rigid, trembling frame against your side. "Michael," you murmured, your voice a steady, grounding anchor in the dark. "Honey, talk to me. Look at me, baby."

Slowly, Michael dropped his hands from his face. His eyes were bloodshot, staring blankly ahead at the wall.

"I passed it to him," he whispered, his voice entirely devoid of its usual melodic warmth. It was a flat, broken sound. "I prayed so hard. Every single night since you told me you were pregnant... I begged God to let him have your skin. To let him be safe from this."

He turned his head to look at you, and the sheer, raw vulnerability in his eyes broke your heart.

"Before I met you... my ex-partners, they... they didn't want to have children with me because of it," Michael confessed, his voice dropping into a raw, painful whisper, sharing a piece of trauma he had kept locked away for years. "They were terrified. One of them told me straight to my face that she didn't want to risk having a child who would get the vitiligo, or a child who would be too dark, or a child who would look like... like a freak to the world. They were scared of my genetics. They were scared of me."

Your grip tightened around his shoulder, your fingers digging into his shirt as a fierce, protective anger surged through you on his behalf.

"And I started to believe them," Michael continued, a bitter, hollow smile touching his lips. "I started to think that maybe I shouldn't have any more kids. Because look what I did to him. He's only five months old, and it's already starting. The world is going to tear him apart, Baby. They're going to accuse him of trying to change, they're going to call him names, they're going to look at his skin like it's a mistake. He looks just like me, and now he's going to have to suffer just like me."

"Michael, look at me," you commanded gently, reaching up with your free hand to firmly cup his jaw, forcing his eyes to lock onto yours. Your thumb brushed over his cheekbone. "Listen to me very carefully."

Michael blinked, his breath hitching as he looked into your eyes.

"Those women were blind, and they didn't deserve a single piece of the beautiful man you are," you said, your voice fierce, steady, and filled with an absolute, unwavering certainty. "You did not curse our son. You gave him life. You gave him those big beautiful eyes, that sweet smile, and a soul that is going to be just as kind and brilliant as his father's."

You leaned down, pressing a deep, lingering kiss to his forehead, then to his lips, letting him feel the entire weight of your love.

"And you listen to me," you continued, sliding your hand down to rest over his heart. "The world is different now. He is not going to go through what you went through alone. Do you know why?"

Michael swallowed hard, his dark eyes searching yours. "Why?"

"Because when you were a kid going through this, you didn't have anyone who understood," you whispered, a tear of your own finally slipping down your cheek. "But Peanut has you. He has a father who knows exactly how it feels, who can teach him how to be strong, how to hold his head high, and how to love himself. And he has a mother who will tear this entire industry apart before she lets anyone make her baby feel any less than perfect."

You shifted slightly, picking up Peanut and placing him directly into Michael’s lap. The baby immediately let out a happy coo, his tiny, chubby hands reaching up to blindly grab at the silver buttons on Michael's shirt.

"Look at him, Mikey," you murmured softly. "He doesn't care about a spot on his skin. He just wants his daddy."

Michael looked down at his son. He watched as Peanut's little fingers tangled in his shirt, his big, round eyes full of absolute, unconditional adoration for the man holding him.

Slowly, the heavy, suffocating tension began to melt out of Michael's shoulders. He let out a long, shaky breath—not a sob of defeat, but a release of the agonizing fear he had carried alone for decades. He wrapped his long, slender arms around the baby, pulling Peanut close against his chest, burying his face into the baby’s sweet, lotion-scented curls.

He reached out with his other arm, wrapping it securely around your waist and pulling you into the tight, fiercely protective circle.

"Thank you," Michael whispered against the baby's hair, his voice thick but finally steady, anchored by the strength you had poured into him. "Thank you, Mama. I don't know what I'd do without you."

"You'll never have to find out," you murmured, leaning your head against his shoulder as the three of you sat together in the soft sunlight. "We're a team."

..

CRAAAASH

“Oh my god, the kids.”

Summary: Michael and Y/N attend the world music awards in 2006.

Authors note: he looked so beautiful and happy to be there. She’s a big one; features anxious mature Michael, sleeping babies and a sneak peek into their life in their 40s.

~~~~~~~~~

London, 2006.

The roar started long before they reached the red carpet.

Inside the limousine, Michael sat quietly beside Y/N, his hand resting against her knee as London glittered outside the windows. Camera flashes were already exploding against the glass despite the fact that they had not yet arrived at the venue.

He watched the lights silently.

For all his fame, for all the decades he had spent standing in front of screaming crowds, there were still moments when anxiety settled heavily in his chest.

Years away from the spotlight had changed him.

Fatherhood had changed him.

Marriage had changed him.

The relentless need to constantly prove himself had softened beneath family dinners, bedtime stories, school runs, and mornings spent drinking tea with Y/N while their children argued over cereal.

For years, that life had been enough.

More than enough.

It had been everything.

But tonight was different.

Tonight he was stepping back into the world.

And he wasn't entirely sure the world wanted him anymore.

The thought lingered quietly as he adjusted the cuff of his jacket.

Beside him, Y/N noticed immediately.

She always did, reaching over and threading her fingers through his.

"You've gone quiet."

Michael offered a small smile.

"I'm thinking."

"That’s always a worry."

His laugh was soft.

She squeezed his hand.

"Nervous?"

He hesitated.

"A little."

"A little?"

He looked at her.

"A lot."

The honesty made her smile.

After twenty-five years together there was no point pretending.

She shifted closer.

The movement caused the diamonds around her neck to catch the interior lights.

Michael stared for a second.

God.

She looked breathtaking..

She looked like royalty.

Her gown flowed in liquid black silk, elegant and timeless, hugging her figure before falling effortlessly to the floor. Her hair was swept into a sophisticated style that exposed the graceful line of her neck, while diamonds glittered at her ears and wrists.

She looked like someone who belonged beside kings.

Which, Michael supposed, was fitting.

Because she had spent decades standing beside the King of Pop as his Queen.

Only unlike everyone else, she'd loved the man long before the title.

"You keep staring at me."

"I know."

She laughed.

"You've been staring since we left the hotel."

"I can't help it."

His voice softened.

"You look incredible."

The compliment still made her blush after all these years.

"You don't look too bad yourself."

Michael rolled his eyes.

She reached up and adjusted his lapel.

The gesture was intimate, automatic.

The sort of thing only a wife would do.

The sort of thing cameras rarely saw.

"Michael."

"Hm?"

"They still love you."

His eyes flickered toward the darkened window.

"You don't know that."

"I do."

She smiled.

"Because I know you."

Outside, the crowd erupted.

The limousine had arrived.

The noise hit them like a physical force.

Michael blinked.

Then blinked again.

The screaming only grew louder.

And louder.

And louder.

His expression changed instantly.

"Oh my God."

Y/N laughed.

"Told you."

~~~~~~~~

The moment they stepped from the car, London descended into complete chaos.

Flashbulbs exploded.

Fans screamed.

Security immediately formed a protective circle around them.

Yet even through the noise, one thing became immediately clear.

Nobody had forgotten Michael Jackson.

Not even close.

Thousands of voices echoed through the night.

"MICHAEL! Y/N!”

"WE LOVE YOU!"

"KING OF POP!"

"MICHAEL OVER HERE!"

He froze for half a second, completely overwhelmed.

Then the smile appeared, that famous smile, the one he hated.

The one that transformed his entire face and the one Y/N loved most.

The crowd somehow became even louder.

Michael laughed in disbelief before raising a hand.

The reaction was instantaneous.

People screamed so loudly that Y/N genuinely wondered if the nearby buildings might collapse.

He looked at her with wide eyes.

She simply mouthed,"See?"

His grin widened.

Then instinct took over, the performer returned.

The born entertainer.

The man who had spent his entire life loving people and being loved in return.

Michael moved toward the barriers.

Security nearly had a heart attack.

Fans burst into tears.

He signed programs.

Signed photographs.

Signed jackets.

Signed hats.

Reached for hands.

Quickly spoke to people.

Thanked them repeatedly.

And through it all, Y/N remained beside him.

Equally radiant.

Equally gracious.

She stopped to hug women who were crying.

Accepted flowers, before passing to security.

Thanked fans.

Asked names.

Laughed.

Smiled.

And looked entirely at ease.

Reporters couldn't stop photographing them.

Not because Michael Jackson was there.

That wasn't unusual.

It was because Michael Jackson and his wife were there.

Together.

Comfortable.

Happy.

Unmistakably in love.

The years away had done something remarkable.

Instead of creating distance between them, they appeared more united than ever.

When Michael moved forward, his hand automatically settled against Y/N's waist.

When she paused, he waited.

When she laughed, he looked at her.

Every gesture was unconscious.

Natural.

Married.

And people couldn't stop noticing.

~~~~~~

Inside the venue, the attention only intensified.

The audience rose to their feet the moment they entered.

Applause thundered throughout the room.

Michael visibly froze again.

The reception was far beyond anything he had anticipated.

For years he had quietly feared irrelevance.

Tonight shattered that fear within seconds.

The standing ovation seemed endless.

And when they finally reached their seats in the balcony, he looked almost emotional.

Y/N squeezed his hand.

"You okay, honey?"

He nodded.

Then shook his head and laughed.

"No."

She smiled.

"Good."

~~~~~~~~

Later, during a break, a host managed to catch Y/N as cameras moved through the audience, interviewing stars.

"Mrs Jackson, how are the children?"

The question instantly transformed her face.

Every trace of glamour disappeared beneath pure maternal pride.

Her smile became softer.

Warmer.

Real.

"Oh, they're wonderful."

The audience practically melted.

"They're growing so fast. They're happy, healthy, and keeping us very busy."

The reporter laughed.

"Do they know how famous their parents are?"

Y/N glanced toward Michael.

Michael immediately covered his face.

The crowd laughed.

"Honestly?" she said. "Most days we are just mommy and daddy."

The room erupted.

And for perhaps the first time all evening, people weren't seeing icons, they were just seeing parents.

~~~~~~~

When the time finally came for Michael's award, the Diamond Award, 100 million albums world wide. The entire venue stood before he even reached the stage.

The applause was deafening.

Michael walked toward the podium looking almost stunned.

For a brief moment he simply stood there.

Taking it in.

The faces.

The cheers.

The love.

The years.

Everything.

Then he spoke.

His voice was softer now than it had once been.

Older.

Gentler.

But somehow more sincere.

"I want to thank God."

The audience applauded.

"I want to thank my fans around the world."

More applause.

Then he paused.

His gaze moved toward the balcony where Y/N sat.

Their eyes met instantly.

The smile that appeared on his face changed completely.

The superstar disappeared.

The husband remained.

"And most importantly..."

His voice caught slightly.

"...I want to thank my wife."

The room erupted.

Y/N's eyes widened.

Michael never did this publicly.

Almost never.

He continued.

"For supporting me. For helping me with Thriller. For believing in me. For loving me."

The audience collectively melted.

"And to our children."

His smile grew.

"Daddy loves you very much."

By the time he finished speaking, Y/N was blinking rapidly.

Trying very hard not to cry and failing spectacularly.

~~~~~~

Then something unexpected happened.

Something nobody had planned.

Something that perfectly captured Michael Jackson.

The orchestra and the kids choir began playing the opening notes of we are the world.

The audience immediately recognised it.

Voices joined in.

Tentatively at first.

Then stronger.

Louder.

Thousands of people singing together.

Michael looked toward the stage.

Then toward the crowd.

Then back toward the stage.

The familiar spark appeared.

Y/N knew that expression.

Uh oh.

He was about to do something.

Sure enough, Michael stood.

The crowd exploded.

Within moments he was on stage.

Laughing.

Pointing the microphone toward the audience.

Encouraging them.

Conducting them.

Singing with them.

Not performing.

Sharing.

Touching hands and even throwing them his jacket.

And the joy radiating from him was impossible to miss.

The years seemed to disappear.

The uncertainty disappeared.

The fear disappeared.

All that remained was Michael doing what he had always loved most.

Connecting with people.

From her seat, Y/N watched quietly.

The lights reflected in her eyes.

A smile played across her lips.

Pride swelled inside her chest until it almost hurt.

Because she knew what nobody else knew.

She knew the doubts.

The sleepless nights.

The private fears.

The moments he'd wondered whether he still mattered.

And now she was watching thousands of people answer that question for him.

The answer was obvious.

They loved him.

They always had.

They always would.

Michael looked over the audience.

Then found her.

Instantly.

As if he always could.

As if he always would.

The noise of the room seemed to disappear for a second.

His eyes locked onto hers.

And he smiled.

Not the smile for the cameras.

Not the smile for the fans.

Not the smile for history.

The smile meant only for Y/N.

The one she'd been collecting for more than twenty five years.

The one that still made her heart skip.

When he finally returned to his seat, breathless and glowing with adrenaline, he immediately reached for her hand.

Their fingers intertwined and neither letting go.

And as the applause continued around them, Michael leaned close enough that only she could hear him.

"You were right."

Y/N turned.

"About what?"

His eyes shone.

"They didn't forget me."

Her expression softened.

She brought his hand to her lips and kissed his knuckles.

"No, darling, never."

Around them, the audience was still cheering.

Still standing.

Still celebrating.

But in that moment it felt as though they were entirely alone.

Just a husband and wife.

Still in love.

Still holding hands.

Still choosing each other after all these years.

And for Michael, standing in the glow of a world that had welcomed him home, there was no award more important than that.

~~~~~~~~~~

The after-party was held in one of London's grand waterfront hotels, occupying an entire ballroom that glittered beneath crystal chandeliers and walls of glass overlooking the River Thames.

By the time Michael and Y/N arrived, word had already spread.

Not just that Michael Jackson had attended the awards.

Not just that he'd received a standing ovation.

But that Michael and Y/N Jackson had arrived together.

For younger artists, it felt almost mythical.

Many of them had grown up hearing stories about the marriage. They had seen photographs over the years, occasional glimpses during tours, charity events, premieres, but the couple had spent most of the last decade living quietly and privately.

As a result, their relationship had acquired an almost legendary quality.

People knew they were married.

People knew they had children.

But very few had actually witnessed them together.

Now they were.

And what surprised everyone wasn't grand declarations or dramatic romance.

It was how utterly natural they were.

The moment they entered the room, Michael's hand settled against the small of Y/N's back. The sort of touch that came from decades of loving someone.

As conversations began and guests approached, they moved through the room almost as if connected by an invisible thread.

Whenever Michael stopped to greet someone, Y/N naturally slowed beside him.

Whenever Y/N became engaged in conversation, Michael remained close enough to hear her laugh.

Neither seemed conscious of it.

Everyone else was.

Across the room people watched them with quiet fascination.

Because despite all the fame, despite the awards, despite the history attached to their names, they behaved less like celebrities and more like a couple who genuinely enjoyed each other's company.

A young singer approached nervously, clearly terrified.

Michael immediately smiled.

"Hello."

The poor man nearly forgot how words worked.

"I—I just wanted to say you're the reason I became a performer."

Michael's expression softened instantly.

The compliment clearly still affected him.

"Thank you."

Then, without missing a beat, he turned toward Y/N.

"This is my wife, Y/N."

Not Y/N.

Not my partner.

Not some polished celebrity introduction.

My wife.

The word fell from his lips so naturally it almost startled the young singer.

Michael said it with obvious pride.

As though introducing her remained one of his favourite things.

Y/N extended her hand warmly.

"It's lovely to meet you."

The singer shook it before turning back toward Michael.

"I honestly don't know what to say."

Michael laughed.

"That's okay. Most of us don't."

The tension immediately disappeared.

Soon they were discussing songwriting, touring, pressure, and longevity.

Michael answered thoughtfully.

Y/N occasionally added her own perspective.

Together they offered advice that felt less like instruction and more like encouragement.

Several younger performers later admitted that speaking with them felt like talking to the cool parents everyone wished they had.

Neither acted superior.

Neither acted important.

Despite having achieved more than almost anyone else in the room, they listened as much as they spoke.

As the evening progressed, people noticed other things.

Little things.

The details that couldn't be staged.

When a server appeared with drinks, Michael automatically took Y/N's first before accepting his own.

When she mentioned being cold near one of the open terrace doors, he immediately guided her further inside without interrupting his conversation.

At one point she absentmindedly reached to smooth a strand of hair away from his face.

He leaned into the touch without even thinking.

The gesture was over in seconds.

Yet three separate photographers nearly dropped their cameras.

Because intimacy wasn't what shocked people.

Comfort did.

This was not a new romance.

Not a couple still trying to impress each other.

This was something deeper.

Something settled.

The kind of affection built over decades.

The kind that became part of everyday life.

Later in the evening, while speaking with producers and executives, Michael became animatedly involved in a discussion about music.

Y/N was standing nearby.

Not directly beside him.

Just close.

As she laughed at something someone said, Michael reached out without looking and found her hand.

The movement was so automatic it almost seemed unconscious.

His fingers brushed hers.

Then intertwined.

Conversation continued uninterrupted.

Neither acknowledged it.

They simply stood there holding hands.

People absolutely noticed.

One producer quietly leaned toward another.

"How long have they been married now?"

"Over twenty years."

The producer stared.

"Seriously?"

The answer seemed impossible.

Most couples stopped touching each other like that after two decades.

Michael and Y/N looked as though they still genuinely preferred standing beside one another.

As midnight approached, the atmosphere softened.

The room became smaller.

More relaxed.

Guests began leaving.

Conversations became quieter.

Someone started playing piano near the far side of the ballroom.

Michael had spent most of the evening talking, laughing, shaking hands and accepting congratulations.

Yet every time Y/N entered his line of sight, his expression changed.

It softened.

Every single time.

As though he never quite got tired of seeing her.

Near one in the morning she walked over carrying two glasses of water.

"You need this."

Michael looked offended.

"I've had water."

"You've had orange juice."

"It's mostly water and vitamin c."

She raised an eyebrow.

He sighed dramatically and accepted the glass.

Several people nearby laughed.

One executive shook his head.

"King of Pop."

Michael pointed toward Y/N.

"She's the boss."

"Good and just you remember that" Y/N replied.

The group erupted with laughter.

~~~~~~~~

By the time they finally returned to the hotel, the evening felt worlds away.

The limousine ride was quiet.

Peaceful.

The adrenaline had begun to fade.

Michael leaned back against the seat with a contented sigh.

"I had fun."

"You did."

"I wasn't expecting that."

She smiled.

"I know."

Outside, the London skyline sparkled beneath the night sky.

Inside, Michael remained unusually reflective.

"I really thought..."

His voice faded.

"What?"

He looked down at their joined hands.

"I thought maybe people were finished with me."

The confession sat quietly between them.

Y/N squeezed his fingers.

"They were never finished with you."

Michael stared out the window.

A small smile appeared.

"No."

His voice was softer now.

"I guess not."

~~~~~~~~~~

The hotel suite was silent when they arrived.

No cameras.

No crowds.

No applause.

Just home or at least as close to home as travelling parents could manage.

The moment the door opened, superstar and fashion icon disappeared.

Mommy and Daddy arrived.

The children's nanny emerged from one of the adjoining rooms.

"They were wonderful."

Michael instantly relaxed.

"Everybody asleep?"

She nodded.

"Hours ago."

"Thank you."

After saying goodnight and ensuring everything was settled, both of them immediately went to check anyway.

Because parents always did.

The suite was dimly lit, moonlight filtered through partially open curtains.

Their children slept peacefully beneath tangled blankets.

Michael stood in the doorway for a moment.

Watching.

Smiling.

The expression on his face always changed around his children.

It became gentler, younger somehow.

He quietly adjusted a blanket before pressing a kiss against a sleeping forehead.

Across the room Y/N did the same.

The sight never failed to affect her.

No matter how many awards Michael won.

No matter how many stadiums he filled.

This remained her favourite version of him.

Daddy.

When they finally left the room, they closed the door softly behind them.

~~~~~~~

The rest of the evening unfolded in familiar rituals.

The glamorous gown disappeared.

The diamonds disappeared.

The suit disappeared, the stage make up and wig.

Soon Y/N was standing at the bathroom counter in a robe, carefully removing her makeup while Michael changed into soft pyjamas.

The transformation was almost comical, two hours earlier they had looked like royalty and now they looked like exhausted parents.

Michael sat on the edge of the bed watching her go through her nightly routine.

Creams.

Lotions.

Hairpins.

An endless collection of mysterious products he had never fully understood.

"You have more bottles than a pharmacy, girl."

She laughed.

"You've been saying that since the eighties."

"Because it's true, but I love it."

He stretched out across the mattress.

For a few moments neither spoke, the silence was comfortable, familiar.

One earned over decades.

Eventually Y/N climbed into bed beside him.

The suite was dark now, quiet.

Far removed from the chaos of the awards ceremony.

Michael rolled onto his side, looking at her.

Still looking, after all these years.

"You know" he said softly, "I don't think tonight would've gone the same without you."

She smiled. "Because I forced you to go?"

"Partly." He giggled.

She laughed.

His fingers found hers beneath the blankets, pulling her towards him.

"But mostly because whenever you're there, I feel brave."

The admission was so sincere it stole her breath for a moment.

Michael had spent his entire life being larger than life.

Yet moments like this revealed the truth.

He wasn't invincible, never had been.

He simply trusted her enough to let her see the parts nobody else did.

She leaned over and kissed him.

Tender.

Affectionate.

Home.

"You were wonderful tonight."

His smile was immediate.

"So were you."

For a while they lay together in the darkness, hands intertwined and wrapped around one another.

The sounds of London drifted faintly through the windows.

Their children slept safely in the next room.

The awards had been won.

The speeches had been given.

The crowds had cheered.

Yet somehow none of those things felt like the best part of the evening.

Because when all the glamour was stripped away, when the cameras disappeared and the world stopped watching, they were exactly what they had always been.

A husband and wife.

Two parents.

Two best friends.

And as sleep slowly pulled them under, Michael's hand remained wrapped around Y/N's, unwilling to let go even in dreams.

~~~~~~~~~

Michael Jackson x Childstar!Reader Series 03

Summary: You and your sisters are the opening act for the Jackson 5’s short European tour, afterwards you and Michael spend time with each other any way you can while you climb in the music industry.

Contains: Sisters being sisters, the girls working on self promotion, Michael and Reader being attached at the hip, more fluff, maintaining long distance friendship.

Word Count: 4k

Song(s) of choice: Clean Up Woman — Betty Wright

Masterlist

1972; Amsterdam, Netherlands

The tour had begun for the Jackson 5 by the time October 30th of 1972 rolled around, only a few months after you all appeared on American Bandstand. They had three special events to play for the first three days of their short stint, and you and your sisters wouldn’t actually be joining them until November 2nd; you flew into Amsterdam, Netherlands during the evening of the previous day in preparation for your first show as an opening act.