marjorie

Black male bodies have always been a site of white supremacist control. During the era of chattel slavery, white men asserted dominance over black men’s flesh to dehumanize/emasculate them by violating and owning their bodies. Sexual and physical violence was forced on them, along with their bodies being used as property for labor. Every form of human degradation and domination was enacted to strip them of their autonomy and manhood. Black bodies were treated as a commodity meant only for white consumption.

There is also a caricature created by white supremacy, called the “black brute,” that was forced onto Black men to keep them controlled after the Civil War. Black men were painted to be hypermasculine “animals” with large genitalia who couldn’t control their sexual appetite. Eurocentric standards defined Black men very rigidly, leaving no space for their full range of humanness- physically and emotionally.

Black men have also been lynched throughout American history for white ritualistic entertainment, over made-up offenses and false social “violations.” They were violently mutilated as part of these lynchings. Removing their genitalia symbolized the white fixation on their bodies and the fear of white women becoming their “prey.” There were even medical articles written with ways to "cure" Black men of their “barbaric” sexual urges through castration. This racial violence stems from white supremacist insecurity, wanting control over Black men, while creating terror around their sexuality. These dehumanizing fixations and biased stereotypes are present in many areas of Michael’s life.

Michael’s existence as a Black man under the world’s spotlight made him the target of racist, intrusive attacks. His soft voice and sensitive nature attracted media speculation about his body and masculinity. Rumors about faking his voice, taking hormones, and childhood castration were just some of the speculations around his biology. There was also the intense social pressure for him to remain a cute child, making his puberty experience under white beauty standards (and a self-hating father) exceptionally traumatic.

While white conservative media initially praised him for being a "safe" Black idol, this endearing perception shifted over time. As he aged, Michael was criticized heavily for not conforming to the media’s idea of Black hypermasculinity. This conditional acceptance demanded conformity for white comfort, yet also denied his autonomy as a man outside of entertainment. The infamous New York Post headline, "Peter Pan or Pervert?," shows that the mainstream media would eventually only accept Michael as either a stunted adult or a sex criminal.

Throughout adulthood, he was infantilized by media outlets for not being traditionally masculine or “sexual” enough based on their racial standards. This attitude allowed audiences to consume his talent while denying his maturity, intelligence, and reality as an adult Black man. Interviewers would pry about his sex life and appearance, rather than his art and humanitarian work, framing him as an odd specimen. The public’s failure to understand Michael created room for biased suspicion. This was evident when Bashir weaponized Michael's childhood trauma and emotional vulnerability to portray him as a strange, unstable pedophile.

Once media couldn't paint him as a child prodigy or an untouchable pop god, it became lucrative to market him as eccentric and disturbed. Michael was not given the space to express his quirks, emotions, or inner child freely without biased opinions. Michael was forced to constantly defend his psychological maturity and personal life choices on camera, more than his white peers.

His interests, hobbies, and demeanor were sensationalized and used to portray him as a “weird" spectacle. The media felt entitled to deconstruct every aspect of his private life, turning interviews into interrogations. A well known instance of this is when Michael uncomfortably closed his jacket after Barbara Walters claimed he was eccentric and invited attention...a human reaction to being on display. His existence was pathologized as a strange anomaly. Headlines scrutinized Michael’s clothing, makeup, and hair choices that would be praised as “androgynous” or “groundbreaking” on a white performer.

His skin condition added to the prejudice against him. This phenomenon has historical parallels: Black individuals with vitiligo or albinism were often used as attractions in sideshows or by white scientists for racist theories. The European term “white negro” viewed them as a medical oddity and a different human species. For example, Henry Moss, a 17th century enslaved man with vitiligo, became a paid exhibition for white amusement, and the subject of research experiments. The stigma that treated Michael’s body as bizarre and contaminated with sin was already embedded into our culture.

The social panic around Michael also shows in the hysteria around his dancing. It reflects the colonial white gaze towards Black culture. It treats hip movements as something inherently hypersexual or “vulgar.” Pelvic, bottom, and hip movements are major parts of Afro-diasporic cultures, using the entire body as an instrument rather than confining dance to feet and a rigid, straight spine. Black dance throughout many genres (jazz, blues, soul, modern hip hop, etc.) represents liberation and autonomy. Dance has been an ancestral outlet for the soul throughout centuries of racist oppression.

However, Michael’s dancing was criticized by white media platforms for being too promiscuous and corrupting the youth. While dance does express Black sensuality, Western culture has historically viewed it as abnormally provocative and strange. This racist view traces back to minstrel shows mocking Black dance, as well as when enslaved individuals had to dance for white entertainment. Black dance has socially been seen as lewd and sinful when compared to Eurocentric dance standards.

The judgement Michael received shows the discomfort around Black sexuality, especially as a former child star facing racial double standards. White popstars and rockstars did not face the same systemic anxieties that Michael did, regarding bodily expression. While Oprah wanted to imply a sexually deviant reason for his crotch grabbing, Michael stated it came from the power of the music. Michael’s eroticism was subconsciously intertwined with the rhythm; his sharp pelvic and fluid hip movements became a physical embodiment of the drum itself. His creative, musical energy went hand-in-hand with his sensuality. These movements were always central to his choreography in the 1970s, yet outrage developed as his vitiligo progressed and he drifted from his commercialized “safe” Black superstar image.

His deliberate pelvic touch, zipper closeup, and slow hip grinding in the Black Panther dance was such a powerful way to reject the endless puritanical criticisms against him. The raw emotion in the video was also an animalistic, unfiltered reaction to racism, but was interpreted as promoting mindless public destruction. Consequently, the video faced immediate mainstream backlash and network censorship for alleged sexual and physical “aggression.” The public felt compelled to sanitize Michael’s image, viewing Black sexuality and emotion as dangerous. The objectification of Michael’s body was not exclusive to the stage and music videos; it bled into the dehumanizing legal battles he faced as well.

The world’s most famous and powerful figure being a Black man, loved by women of all races, challenged the racial hierarchies that America is founded on. It was a recipe for racial injustice and a curated enemy for the public. The 2005 trial was a modern-day lynching that degraded his image for the sake of greed and manufactured panic. The 1993 allegations were the calculated result of a vengeful extortionist seeking to humiliate him through the caricature of the sexually dangerous Black man. Tabloid malpractice profited off this moral hysteria, circulating baseless speculations and buying out fictional stories that portrayed Michael as a monster.

The 2005 trial was a dehumanizing witch hunt, at the hands of the white DA Thomas Sneddon who had a vendetta to prosecute Michael, even if it meant falsifying evidence. Michael's incarceration would have been a trophy for Sneddon, making an example of a beloved icon and supporting his professional reputation. That trial violated Michael on every level: subjecting him to an invasive strip search, documenting intrusive images of his private areas, forced court appearances while injured, raiding his safe space, and the destruction of his overall health. This public spectacle and media frenzy created an ignorant stigma around his legacy that still stands. The violent arrest and intrusive body search echo the centuries-old pattern of authorities robbing black bodies of basic human dignity.

I don’t believe it’s a mere coincidence that the first worldwide Black heartthrob was falsely accused of sex crimes, with white men leading the attack. Belittling a Black man through abusive media and mob mentality heavily mirrored the painful past of legal and physical violence inflicted on Black bodies. A racist, narrow cultural framework created the media circus of fascination and fear around Michael’s anatomy.

These themes are obvious in the media slur “Wacko Jacko” (which Michael was very aware of), reducing a complex, brilliant human being to an eccentric animal. Even immediately after passing, that name continued to follow him in the tabloids, alongside invasive images of his body. There was also an instant, hypocritical switch to falsified sympathy and celebrating his legacy once he passed, but it was superficially done just for the nostalgic bandwagon. The media economy exploited Michael to no end, by destroying him and then capitalizing on his memory.

But Michael's spirit and strength always proved to be Invincible, refusing to be victimized by bigoted judgement or compromise his art. This is why I view Threatened as an autobiographical anthem that plays on the narrative of Michael being a savage “monster.” It flips that haunting dynamic to intimidate the biased media systems, while recognizing Michael’s mass appeal and inescapable status. It tells the white patriarchal establishment, “Every time your lady speaks, she speaks of me. Threatened.” It directly targets the fragile egos of Michael’s critics and how institutions felt threatened by his refusal to submit to any boxes. “Half of me you'll never be, so you should feel threatened by me.” The song counterattacks anyone who has tried to take away Michael’s pride and manhood. It reclaims his power, despite the social campaign to label him as a “freak.”

Michael was catapulted into a world eager to shame his body and capitalize on racist, gendered panic. Abusive journalism demonized his sexuality and skin condition, portraying him as a “weird” criminal for tabloid profit. Additionally, Thomas Sneddon relentlessly pursued Michael for over a decade to prosecute him as a sexual predator. Tabloid Junkie strongly exposes how the obsessive press wanted to, “speculate to break the one you hate" and "circulate the lie" they confiscate. Michael was vividly aware of the systemic goal to "assassinate and mutilate" his character and legacy. The media manhunt around Michael mirrored the publicized, coordinated pursuits of black men for public spectacle in American history.

The historical fixation on Black biology and autonomy laid the foundation for the media attacks and weaponized sexuality used against Michael. His private, complex humanity was treated as a freakish anomaly that the media sought to brutally deconstruct. There was a permanent racialized lens observing his expression of Black masculinity, turning nonconformity and difference into a tabloid minstrel caricature. Deeply rooted social phobias and fabricated narratives stripped Michael of his presumption of innocence from the general public. The historical biases fabricated around Black men and their sexuality were triggered in hopes of his publicized downfall.

Your first memory embeds itself into your mind at three and a half years old. You’ve stopped to smell the flowers in the path by your pre school. A daisy brought to your little nose: fresh cut grass, morning dew, the familiar pressure of your teacher’s hand in yours. When you look over to the other kids, one of the smaller ones’ ear has begun to glow amber. The sun is shining through his ears. It’s a Saturday morning. Nothing is wrong with your world. Nothing has ever been wrong. You hope Daddy won’t be too mad if you sneak a bowl of cereal into your room. Well, he can’t get mad if he never finds out, right?

You’re pulled along the line, being told to keep up with everyone else. You keep the daisy crushes in your fist. Pretty daisy. Smells good. You’ve always loved daisies.

“I missed you.” Mark—this sick, wrong copy of him—can’t do anything it seems but paw at the curves of your body, his mouth huffing at your neck. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I missed you so much.”

Mark gave you daisies on your third date. Daisies only bloom after their second year of life. Plant a seed in the garden and you can’t be too impatient. You have to give it time to be beautiful; it’s only in their nature. You still remember the way he was grinning, how his cheeks flushed the same colour as the roses you were all too used to getting from boys who didn't know you half as well.

There are no daisies left on the Earth. There is nothing left on Earth. You’ll never see a daisy again, you’ll never be three years old again, Mark will never give you daisies on your dates. You and Mark will never go on another date. He’s dead. Everyone is dead.

“You’re so pretty. Taste good.” You wonder what this Mark is. What he’s been through to become this cannibalistic version of himself, fuelled only by a facade of an ego and the smell of your panic. He bites and laps and sucks at your skin, whining and cursing as he sits you down on his lap. “I’d never forget you.”

Daisies have 15 to 30 petals. You used to joke that you’d gotten so sick of university, your stupid guidance counsellor, the real world and its capitalistic hopelessness, you’d run into the wood start using the petals to keep track of the time. One petal for one day, picked and fallen onto the forest floor. Unable to do anything else, Mark would agree so long as he could come with you. And if he got to keep up with his favourite comics.

So cute. You loved the way he’d blush every time you laughed at his jokes. You loved his jokes. You loved him.

“Don’t hate me forever, angel.” Not-Mark runs a gloved hand through your hair. When you were too small to understand anything further than bed time and lullabies, your parents got divorced. Mom brought you to meet God on the weekends she had you. Dad could not rest if he didn’t tell you every night that you were the greatest mind the universe had to offer. You were their angel. “It won’t be so bad, I promise. You just can’t stay down there for a bit.”

That, at least, makes you blink back into reality. It's safe in the corner of your mind you'd clawed out for yourself, where no one—not even the alien wearing your boyfriend's face—could get to you. The room is cold and sterile and nothing at all.

"Down there?” You ask bitterly, almost a laugh. You’d often thought about how different you two were, how you could never truly understand what it was like to be in his world. God, you must’ve almost broken up six times by your first anniversary. You'd take it a thousand times over than forever with this thing.

He twists you around so that you’re under him, your hair spread out on the bed. Held stead above you, his fists on either side of your head, all he does for a second is look at you. Sometimes Mark looks like he wants to eat you alive. You're sure it won't be long until this one actually does. You think you'd almost like it better than waiting for it to happen. “There is a certain amount of rebuilding we have to do first.” He tells you.

You’ve been here for weeks. Five, maybe six. All you can do is stare at him. You remember when you first got here you’d fight like hell, scratching and biting and tearing. It didn’t do anything. You could never do anything to him, could you?

”Why don’t you just kill me?” You ask simply, the way you always do in the end. “There’s no use of keeping me here. What could I possibly do for you?”

This Mark is so fucking miserable. For as high as he is in the Empire he is as depressed as he was the day he betrayed his home planet. You can see the way his face twitches in discomfort, in guilt, shaking his head. “Come on, what could you do alive that you couldn’t do dead?”

”What the fuck?”

He tilts his head, offering a boyish smile. “Well, humans have strength in numbers, you know. All that communal hope?” Suddenly he’s floating in the air, his hands on the back of his head. “But one cute one just in my room? Not so much of a threat.”

You know you shouldn’t cry, that’s it’s pointless and it only reaffirms his belief that you’re some fragile flower that can’t be talked to too harshly. God, maybe it’s you that’s pathetic. You miss your parents, your real, kind, caring boyfriend. You miss your home where you were smart and capable of doing something real in the world. You were good at what you did. You were going to be so good. Fuck, now you’re crying. Tearing up and angrily wiping at your face aimlessly.

His face falls a bit, and he bundles you right up into his arms. Stupid, evil, pathetic fucking asshole. You protest loudly, furiously, pushing away as he holds you up to his chest. “Fuck, Mark, let go of me!”

”l’m trying to comfort you.” He says almost sadly. Oh God you want to kill him. 

“My entire family is dead! Everyone is dead and it’s your fault—it’s your fault! Fuck you, you sorry excuse of a—a—“

“So is mine.” Mark mumbles, like it should be some sort of sick shared comfort to you. “But look, I got you back.”

“You are not my boyfriend—you are such a selfish—“

”Shut up for a second baby.” He says idly with a kiss, dropping you gently back onto the bed. There’s a shocked silence that overtakes you, long enough for him to open a door in his fuck ass suit and speak to another severely dressed woman, who doesn’t give even a glance to your sorry state. Still, you can see the disdain radiating off of her. It’s a short conversation, but you take the time to pick up all of your clothes, buttoning your shirt all the way to the top, your breathing shaking horrifically.

When he turns back you’re completely dressed, staring at him with a haunted scowl on your face. He could just kill you. You know he doesn’t want to, and that’s the only reason you’re standing here. You’re not an alien, nor a superhero. You don’t know how to exist in space without billions of dollars worth of technology. Even if you did, what home is there to return to?

“You up for dinner? On me.” He’s grinning. Your Mark grins like that, too. Stupid jokes. Your heart aches for him so terribly you might die.

His face softens, approaching gently like he’s not the object of your misery. “I know it’s hard now.” Face in his hands. He could crush you right then. It’d make you feel better, wouldn’t it? “But I’m gonna make you happy. Just like we used to be. Promise.”

You don’t look at him. “I’m not that girl, Mark.” It’s croaked out, desperate. “I’m not your girlfriend.”

”I would recognize my girl even if you were a snail in this universe.” He tells you, brushing your hair from your face. “I know you. I know you’re her.”

In the month you’ve been here, you’ve screamed all your logical, thought based arguments at him until your throat was hoarse with a furious anguish. You miss your daisies, you loved them, you’d do anything to have them back. 

Fuck this.

𝑵𝑶𝑻𝑬𝑺: woahhhhh surprise i also love invincible. and every one of those marks variants had some crazy yan potential SO HERE I AM. are you guys really surprised? sorry there's no smut here I got really lazy but if it's in demand I'll write some for a potential second chapter or just another oneshot!!