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Jaafar's stressing about the perfect proposal, and you're just having a good time (he's so loverboy)
Naively, Jaafar had thought the hardest part about all of this would be finding a ring.Ā
He already knew the kind of jewelry you preferred, and he had a vision in his brain of exactly what the ring should look like. But, making that vision materialize proved harder than he thought. Every single ring he looked at was just a little off, not quite perfect enough for you. He spent hours scouring every website he could find, researching whenever he had a free second.
It was a miracle you didnāt find out.
Eventually, though, after months upon months of searching, he found the perfect ring. Just looking at it, he could picture your expression when you saw it for the first time, could picture how itād look on your ring finger every day for the rest of your life.
āThatās the hard part done,ā heād thought to himself, the ring box tucked safely in the back of his side of the closet, somewhere youād never look but somewhere he could find in an instant. All he had to do now was plan and pull off the actual proposal. He knew you so well, he figured he could have everything pulled together in a matter of weeks.
He should have seen the ring debacle for the sign that it was.
The worst part was that he just loved you so much, heād settle for nothing less than perfect. He needed you to know how much thought and effort he put into it, that this wasnāt just some spur of the moment thought, some impulse he acted on. Heād been thinking about it for weeks before he even started looking for a ring, and by the time the day actually rolled around, it had been on his mind for almost half of a year.
Sometimes, he thought about just asking you, desperate to spend the rest of his life with you. He started to bring the ring with him sometimes when you went out, thinking that maybe the perfect moment would just appear, that heād somehow be able to tell. Instead it just made him anxious and jittery, hand fumbling for the box every time you turned your head only to chicken out at the last second.
You deserve something spectacular, something that showed how much thought and care heād put into crafting the perfect moment. You deserved to feel like a princess, like you were living out a dream come true. All he ever wants is to make you feel loved, to make you know that youāre the most special person in the world to him.
And right now, that meant planning the perfect proposal.
Truth be told, he knew youād say yes no matter how he asked. He could pass you the ring across the table at your favorite restaurant, or ask you as you lounged on the couch together, pressed against his chest. Youād look back fondly however he asked, but he couldnāt get it out of his head that you deserve the best, deserved the big moment with the big declaration of love.
You loved each other quietly, in every way imaginable. He felt your love when you woke up early with him, when you waited up late at night to ask about his day. He felt it when you picked up his favorite things at the grocery store without him needing to ask, when you decided to buy matching shirts for the two of you and giggled with pure delight when you showed them to him.
And he did the same for you, pouring his love and affection into every moment, every teasing look and playful joke, every filled water bottle by your night stand and surprise drink in the fridge when you woke up in the morning. He loved you every second of every day, and he knew he didnāt need a big gesture to prove it to you.
Still, he wanted things to be perfect.
A few agonizing months later while the ring seemed to taunt him every day, he finally had what he thought to be the perfect proposal planned. Now all he needed to do was pull it off without you catching on.
For weeks now, you could sense something was up with him. Heād get all jittery sometimes when you went out together, as if he was expecting something to happen. Sometimes heād get a strange sort of look on his face, and itād be gone by the time you looked back. It didnāt seem like anything bad, though, so you let him have his secrets while you simply went about your business, wondering idly what he could possibly be up to.
āWhenās the last time you got your nails done?ā He blurts out, inspecting your hand in his, attempting to sound casual and failing miserably.
āFew weeks ago,ā you say as you look at your other hand, at your grown out nails. As observant as he is, Jaafar has never asked a question like that before, and your curiosity is piqued. āWhy?ā
āNo reason,ā he says with a shrug, as if he wasnāt the one who started all this. āI could make you an appointment for tomorrow afternoon, if you wanted?ā
āThatās very nice of you,ā you coo, pressing a kiss to his cheek as he beams at his own handiwork, as if you donāt suspect a thing.
āThe one by the coffee place you like, right?ā He asks, already searching for his phone. You nod, and he squeezes your hand once before going to make the call, leaving you to wonder what he could possibly be up to.
Itās entirely possible that heās just being sweet, that he simply wanted to do a nice thing for you. Itās not the first time heās made an appointment for you to get some sort of beauty treatment, a little surprise to make you smile during a busy week or a relaxing way for you to spend a free afternoon.
The thing is, heās never approached it quite like this. Normally heād simply book the appointment and text you the confirmation, all suave and casual like he wasnāt sitting there grinning as he typed. So even though youāre certain heās got something up his sleeve, you just smile when he comes back to tell you the appointment time.
āWhat color are you gonna get?ā He inquires, and the strange behavior continues.
āDunno yet,ā you say as you look down at your nails, tilting your head to the side as you think. The last few times, youād gotten something fun and vibrant for the summer, bright colors and flashy patterns. Maybe itās time to switch it up.
Jaafar nods, still failing at looking like this is all coming out of the blue. He resists the urge to say you should get something neutral, like white or that pale pink you seem to like. At the end of the day, this proposal is more about you than him, and if you want to get bright blue nails with some crazy pattern because it makes you happy, then he thinks thatāll be perfect.
Lucky for him, by the time your appointment rolls around, youāve settled on a baby pink chrome, something timeless and shiny and perfect for what he has planned. He practically feels the relief wash over him when you sent him a picture of the final product.
Hours later, the two of you are curled up in bed, his restless hands intertwining with your own. You lay with your head on his chest, feeling his heart thumping a frantic rhythm beneath his ribcage. You wonder whatās got him so worked up, the question on the tip of your tongue when he beats you to the punch.
āWe still good for tomorrow?ā He asks into the quiet of your bedroom. Heās been letting himself get consumed by worst case scenarios for the last few hours, internally spiraling as you went about your evening routine the same way you always did.
āCourse we are,ā you respond, trying to stifle a laugh at the idea that youād cancel your plans with him at the last minute, as if you could find something better to do. You turn your face to press a kiss to the bare skin of his sternum, and you feel him exhale deeply beneath your head.
āDāyou know what youāre gonna wear?ā His voice is small, like he knows the question is silly but canāt stop himself from asking it. Youāre burning with the desire to ask him why heās so tied up in knots, but you know heād tell you if he wanted you to know, that heāll tell you when heās ready.
āNot yet,ā you say, shifting your position. You gently tug your hands away from his, using them to prop yourself up on your side to look at Jaafar in the darkness. You can barely make out the shape of his face, but you donāt need to see him to imagine the look he has. āDo you?ā
He shakes his head, even though he knows exactly what heās going to wear. In fact, he has three different alternative options picked out depending on what outfit you end up wearing. Even in the dark of your bedroom, he can make out the expression on your face that says you know something is up. Heās worried that youāll ask, and heāll crumble because he can never lie to you. Heās practically bracing himself for impact when, luckily, you drop it.
You lean yourself down to press a kiss to his cheek, landing on the corner of his mouth. It makes you both smile, and you kiss him again in the same spot before lying back down. His heart feels steadier beneath your head, but itās still thudding away like heās about to run a marathon. Your head swirls with possibilities as you fall asleep, and Jaafar spends most of the night staring up at the ceiling.
Jaafar barely sleeps, his mind spinning as he plays through possibilities for how tomorrow goes. Your answer has never been a question to him, he knows youāre going to say yes. But you deserve nothing but the best, so he needs to make sure that tomorrow goes off without a hitch. Getting some sleep would probably help, and even as his mind continues racing, your soft, sleeping body next to his eventually lulls him to sleep as well, your breathing steady and your touch warm.
He wakes a mere few hours later, jolted awake with a sense of anticipation and excitement akin to what a child feels on Christmas morning. Jaafar manages to extract himself from your hold and get out of bed without waking you. Pulling on some clothes, he creeps from the bedroom, closing the store softly behind him.
Making his way to your favorite coffee shop, he suddenly wishes he knew exactly what you were in the mood for. Jaafar knows all of your go-to drinks, knows the way they change depending on the location and the time of year and your mood. He settles for getting three different drinks, all some of your favorites, and a selection of pastries for you to pick from when you wake up.
There has to be some sort of otherworldly force looking out for him, because youāre still asleep when he returns. He manages to double check every confirmation for later before you emerge from the bedroom, all rumbled from sleep.
āWhereād you go?ā You ask, voice scratchy, as you take in the sight of him fully dressed in the kitchen. At first, you donāt even register the drinks and bags of treats on the countertop, having eyes only for him.
āCouldnāt sleep, went to get breakfast,ā he explains, and your brain is still booting up so you donāt bother asking any more questions, until you realize just how many drinks there are.
āWhy so many?ā You tilt your head to inspect the labels on them, written in the familiar handwriting of the barista on the Saturday morning shift at your favorite spot.
āDidnāt know which one you would want,ā he says with a shrug, as if itās not one of the sweetest things youāve ever heard. Itās second nature to him where youāre concerned, and he never seems to realize the way these little things manage to rock you on your axis with the gentle force of his affection.
You inspect the cups some more, humming in delight when you find the one you want. Jaafar takes one that you passed over, placing the last cup in the fridge as you sort through the pastries.
āWhatās the plan for today, then?ā You ask as you brush the remaining crumbs from your hands onto your plate. Now that youāre caffeinated, you remember how strange Jaafarās been acting recently and how it all seems to be centered on today. You have your theories, but it would be too embarrassing to be wrong, so you keep them to yourself.
āItās a surprise,ā he responds as he takes your empty plate and brings it to the skin. You groan in faux frustration, tilting your head back over the chair.
āThen how am I supposed to know what to wear?ā Youāre reminded of his questions as you were trying to fall asleep, hoping this will get him to reveal something.
āYouād look perfect in everything,ā he says sweetly, with a smile that makes you want to squish his face between your hands or pepper kisses over every inch you can reach. Instead, you grumble.
āIrritating,ā you say lowly, not even breaking character when he laughs at your pout. You cross over to him, wrap your arms around his waist, and press a kiss to the nape of his neck. He seems to relax against you, as if heās made of pure tension and youāre the only relief. You press another kiss to the same spot before letting him go, grinning when he groans at the loss of contact.
āSorry,ā you call out as you make your way back to the bedroom, āI have to figure out what to wear.ā
Even though you always take care with your outfit choices, especially when you know Jaafar is doing the same, something about today feels different. You keep second guessing everything, wondering if thereās some correct answer that you havenāt found yet. When Jaafar joins you in the bedroom, freshly showered, thereās a pile of clothes where your bed used to be.
āBaby,ā he says, setting his hands on your shoulders softly and using the contact to spin you around, āthis is silly.ā
āYouāre the one who wonāt give me any details,ā you complain, rolling your eyes when he laughs softly at your frustration.
āI told you, anything would be perfect.ā He dips down to kiss your forehead, kissing you again when you preen at the contact.
āAgain, not helpful.ā You cross your arms and spin around again, surveying the mess youāve made of your room.
āHere,ā Jaafar says, reaching down to grab a dress youād tried on and then discarded a few minutes later. Itās short and flowy and white, a piece youād bought for a vacation you took together the summer before, and you both have very fond memories of it. āThis one works.ā
āYou think?ā You ask as you take it from him, inspecting the fabric in your hands. Youād thought it would be too much, that if he wasnāt doing what you thought he was doing youād simply feel like a fool. You try not to think about it too much, though, and lean up to kiss his cheek when he nods.
Dress in hand, you slip away to get ready. Jaafar still hasnāt told you anything, but based on the input for your outfit, heās got something nice planned. You take extra time with your hair and makeup, spraying on a perfume he compliments every time you wear it. When you re-emerge, Jaafar canāt help but think how perfectly the ring he picked out will compliment the rest of your jewelry.Ā
His plans, it turns out, are simple yet dreamy, the perfect way to spend a Saturday. You get lunch at your favorite restaurant, and youāre so wrapped up in the food that you donāt notice how sweaty his palms have gotten, how he keeps pressing his hand against the pocket of his jacket to make sure the ring hasnāt somehow disappeared. You donāt even question the fact that he brought a jacket, even though itās a perfectly beautiful summer day.
After lunch is a walk, where window shopping turns into actual shopping because Jaafar just loves seeing the way you smile. He canāt say no to you, even when youāre not even asking.
āCāmon, I just wanna spoil my girl,ā he tells you when you ask if heās sure for what seems like the hundredth time. He carries your bags, because he always does, and itās the perfect excuse for him not to actually hold your hand and have to explain the way heās shaking with nerves. You wrap your hand in the crook of his elbow, feeling his pulse beating away beneath the layers of fabric.
āArenāt you warm?ā You ask eventually, cocking an eyebrow in disbelief when he shakes his head. You come across an ice cream shop, and neither of you say a word before ducking inside, simply knowing that the other wanted to go in.
Itās a perfectly romantic day with all of your favorite things, so itās not entirely out of the ordinary. If he wanted to, he could just explain it away as wanting to spend time with you, wanting to take advantage of the nice weather. Youāre too wrapped up in it all to question him, though, and heās eternity grateful for that.
By the time the late afternoon rolls around, things get a little more suspicious. Jaafar keeps checking his phone, and youād think he was just keeping track of the time if the screen didnāt keep making him sigh. Whenever you looked his way, he just smiled, and it was so genuine that you didnāt have the heart to tell him that you could sense something was up.
āMaybe we should go down there,ā he says eventually, all forced casualness. Heās gesturing down a little pathway that leads to a garden, something a little more private than the streets and paths youāve been walking all day. You let him lead, feeling anticipation rolling off of him like waves. Your own heart rate starts to tick up when he sets the bags down on a little bench and grabs hold of your hand again.
You walk a little farther before he pulls you to a stop in front of a backdrop of blooming flowers, the sun just beginning to set and casting the both of you in an angelic sort of light. You sense movement from down the path, but then Jaafar is shifting to face you, to take both of his hands in your own, and the thought leaves your mind almost immediately.
Heās looking at you with so much love it makes you feel a little breathless, and he peaks his tongue out to wet his bottom lip, air stuttering out of him like he canāt quite manage to speak.
āBeen a good day so far, yeah?ā He asks, voice cracking towards the end of his sentence. Youāre not sure if heās asking for a confirmation or just because heās not sure how to start, so you nod eagerly, smiling up at him. He smiles back, and the force of it is enough to rival that of the sun setting behind you.
Jaafar takes a deep breath, letting go of one of your hands to fumble in the pocket of his jacket the way heās been doing all day, but this time, he sinks down to one knee.
āJaafarā¦ā you start as if you canāt quite believe what youāre seeing, even though it had been what youād suspected all along. Still, the reality made your heart beat faster than you ever thought possible.
āI wanted this to be perfect,ā he starts, taking a beat to steady himself when his voice breaks, ābecause youāre perfect. Youāre the most perfect thing in my life, and I want you to be with me forever, I want to show you how much I love you forever. Because I will love you forever, I know that.ā
āI love you too,ā you practically whisper, and Jaafar feels his eyes start to well up with tears. He blinks them away before they can fall, before heās too overwhelmed to ask the question heās been wanting to ask for months now.
āWill you marry me?ā Youāre already nodding before he can even finish, giddy and eager and full of so much love.
āOf course I will,ā you respond as Jaafar slips the ring from the box, slides it gently onto your finger, āof course itās yes.ā
With that, Jaafar stands and wraps you in his arms because he canāt stand the thought of staying away for another second. He squeezes you tightly, and you feel the stutter in his chest, the tears of pure joy that heās trying desperately to keep under wraps. When he pulls back, you set your hands on either side of his face, and the feeling of the cool band of your engagement ring against his skin is almost enough to send him over the edge and let the tears fall.
Youāre smiling so hard, when you kiss him itās mostly teeth but neither of you care. Youāll have an infinite amount of kisses to get it right again in the future, right now youāre both so wrapped up in each other youāre not even thinking about it.
Eventually you pull back, cheeks hurting from grinning as Jaafar sniffles, and you reach a hand up to wipe his eyes gently with your thumb. The person youād seen earlier was a photographer Jaafar had hired, since he knew he wanted the moment to be captured forever. She comes over to congratulate you both and confirm that sheāll send the photos as soon as theyāre edited before walking away with a wave, leaving you and Jaafar alone again.
Unable to help yourself, you settle your left hand against his cheek, admiring the way the ring glints in the light of the setting sun, and you kiss him again. Itās softer this time, and your teeth donāt clack together, but itās still so full of love you swear you can physically feel it in your chest.
After sharing a few moments of peaceful silence, letting the adrenal and anticipation run its course in your bloodstream, Jaafar speaks up.
āWe still have dinner reservations to get to,ā he says, and it makes you giggle, feeling utterly giddy. He laughs right along with you, kissing you twice more before youāre the one reminding him and you get on your way.
The whole evening, spent at a private little table tucked away at a restaurant youāve been talking about trying for months, you canāt stop yourself from twisting your hand this way and that, watching how the light reflects off your ring.
āItās perfect,ā you say, looking across at the man whoās now your fiancee.
āI know,ā he retorts, and that earns him a chunk of bread thrown softly at his face. It makes him smile at you like youāre the most perfect thing heās ever seen, so you just stick your tongue out at him.Ā
It only increases the lovesick look on his face.
once again thank you so much to @szalipcombo for coming up with the idea for me to expand on!!! ughhhh i loved writing this (got a bit carried away lmao) and i'd be happy to write more if y'all were interested <3
ā Pairing: offthewall!Michael x black!rockstar!reader
ā Summary: Michael has artist's block that melts away after he secretly attends your show and finds himself completely enamored with you. After finally going mainstream, your band is invited to appear on a talk show alongside multiple guests, including Michael, whom you admire. One thing leads to the other; you are pushed to reveal who your celebrity crush is (Michael) while he sits a few feet away from you, breaking your badass rockstar image.
A/N: Tom Holland's level of manifestation. Also, this is loosely inspired by @ghoulxeg fic idea post about the talk show.
ā Content/warnings: fluff, sfw, awkward in love, shy-and-cute-Michael, mention of Diana Ross, pushy/teasing interviewer
ā Word Count: 4.6k
March 1981.
Nothing should have brought Michael to you. You were working on two different sides of the industry; your paths were not meant to cross, despite the mutual friends.
He became aware of you on a random Monday. He had been browsing through the classic vinyl records in a music store in Los Angeles, Bill close behind him, per usual. It was then that he heard your voice through the speakers, the volume low not to disturb the customers. The voice of a dark angel, honey to his ears despite the fierceness it carried.
It was when it all began.
Spotting you during events became strangely easy, natural even. Your presence was so imposing that the room would shift as you'd walk in, accompanied by your band, the Lawbreakers. Chin up and perfect posture, it was as if you owned the world, your musicians as your generals. It was intimidating, yet Michael could not bring himself to look away.
He never mustered the courage to approach you or even ask about you. Frozen on the spot, his feet forgot how to function. In reality, he was nervous at the idea of making a fool of himself in front of you. You were overflowing with confidence and charisma, while he was shy and timid--too different to match.
Still, you had an established corner in his mind.
And something shifted on a spring night.
The quiet was usually a relief for Michael, clashing with the loudness and chaos of the show business. Now, at Westlake Studios, it had become unbearable, nearly driving him closer to madness every second more. It was the materialization of the artist's block he was facing, a wall that prevented him from reaching ideas, the perfect idea that even Prince could not come up with.
But nothing. Just silence.
"What about we try again tomorrow, man?" Quincy said. "Sometimes there are days when inspiration just doesn't hit."
Michael was well aware of that, but he refused to accept it. He refused to have this day be wasted with nothingness and no advancement made. If he wanted to make the best album ever that the Grammys could not snub, he had to be at the studio at all times.
But Quincy stood up from the swivel chair and gathered all his notes. Michael sat up, ready to convince him to stay another hour, when his eyes caught sight of a black paper in his folder.
"Wait," he said, leaning forward.
Under Quincy's curious eyes, probably thinking his mind had finally unlocked some ideas to explore, Michael took the paper. A flyer with a five-person rock band.
You posed in the middle, silver jewelry hanging from your neck, contrasting with the beautiful brown of your complexion that seemed to contain gold dust. An oversized leather jacket resting on your shoulders, you held a mic, hand decorated with many rings matching your necklaces.
But it was your eyes that caught Michael's attention. The sharpness of them, like a feline ready to pounce on its prey. The black eyeshadow deepened your gaze, only reinforcing its strength. Like the Medusa, it stilled him on the spot each time he'd look at them, a sweet shiver tickling his spine. Like a sailor to a mermaid, he was drawn to your eyes so mesmerising, rendering him unable to look away.
"They're in town?" Michael asked.
"Yeah, they end their world tour tonight."
Michael's eyes went wide. "Tonight? Their last date is tonight?"
Quincy chortled. "What? You wanted to go?"
"Well..."
Michael's eyes moved back to the flyer. He was a lover of music, though rock was not the genre he listened to the most. He was quite selective with the songs that he enjoyed. But there was something about you, the energy that you conveyed through your music, but also the versatility of the atmospheres, while not losing your identity. You could express pure anger and vulnerability while still having an electric guitar going off in the background.
So naturally, Michael was looking forward to seeing you perform at the American Music Awards as you were a contender (and winner) for Favorite Rock Band and Favorite Rock Album. But you and the Lawbreakers did not attend any award ceremony because you were still touring. So instead, he resolved himself to attend one of your shows. That is, until he got carried away with his own projects. Now seeing how late it was, the concert had already begun. There goes his dream.
"I think we can still make it," Quincy said. "I know the bassist, Jace. Security will let me through."
Michael's head snapped up. "You kiddin'?"
"C'mon, Mike. Or we'll miss half of it."
Michael rushed to gather all his stuff and got Bill to drop them at the Forum. The show had already begun, but just as Quincy promised, there was not much of an issue getting in. All he had to do was show his ID. Apparently, Jace had put him on a special guest list.
The venue was shaking when they entered a VIP lounge. Fans were going mad, the music booming, each strain in the bass sending waves of vibration through their bodies. The night was cool, yet the heat was turning the venue into a furnace, though no one seemed to be affected by it.
And he could understand why.
His feet moved on their own, bringing him to the balustrade as his eyes remained fixed on you.
You stood at the center of the stage, your jacket hanging from your elbows, showcasing your crystal-lined bralet, matching your signature black and thick platform boots. Your voluminous curls whipped, your head banging, as the music possessed you. Resonating throughout the venue, your voice reached him. Michael could feel the vibration of your vocal cords, a subtle growl in it, belting and singing the lyrics as if your life depended on it.
It was nearly frightening, the ease with which you commanded the stage, attracting all the eyes with your every move, enchanting every soul like a siren. It was almost paradoxical. There was no grace, only strength and fierceness that was so controlled it was bewitchingly beautiful. A dark beauty; Nyx, a respected goddess even Zeus himself feared.
"Alright," you said, breathless.
A chill tickled him. Michael had never heard your speaking voice, which was surprisingly softer, yet still assured.
Pacing around the stage as the music slowly came to a stop, you looked at the crowd.
"We've reached the fun part of the show." The corner of your tainted lips curled up. "You know, the part where you chose what I sing."
The crowd erupted into an excited roar of cheer, clapping and jumping.
"You can choose whatever." You stopped in the middle. "A song of our catalogue that didn't make the setlist, or a song from any artist of your choice. Doesn't have to be rock, can be pop or a ballad, you choose."
The fans hurried to recommend songs from all kinds of artists; Prince, Cher, Chaka Khan, and someone even threw out Frank Sinatra's name. All voices overlapping each other, it was impossible for you to discern any proposition.
You leaned forward, a hand behind your ear. "What? Wait, lemme get closer."
You jogged to the very edge, kneeling, and handed your mic to the closest fan who was bent over the barricade.
"Rock With You!" The fan exclaimed. "Sing Rock With You by Michael Jackson!"
His heart missed a bit. Quincy playfully nudged him.
You stood back up. "What do you think, people? Want us to perform Rock With You by Michael Jackson?"
The crowd answered with a loud 'yes', which earned them laughter from you.
"Alright." You turned to your bandmates, who all nodded. "Just hope we won't get in trouble with Epic, though. The things I do for you guys."
As the fans amusement in your words, you motioned to your drummer to start the music.
It was hard for Michael to put words to what he was feeling. Hidden from the world, he had secretly attended your show, for he had been harboring a concealed crush on you for months. And now you were singing his song. And it baffled him how much your voice changed to fit the music. Your entire demeanor shifted, a radiant smile on your lips, accompanied by smooth dance moves. There were a lot more skills and techniques you had never shared with the world, facets of your personality hidden that he craved so much to discover.
Your band did not make a rock rendition of his song, and you did not try to modify the melody to suit you. You sang the song exactly the way it should be sung, exactly how he imagined it.
And it made his stomach pleasantly twist.
There was something in hearing you sing his song so faithfully that made his heart flutter.
What a pretty young thing, Michael thought.
Inspiration found him again, at last, and he spent the next few days locked in his home studio in Hayvenhurst to work on demos. His new album was slowly coming to life, and he owed it all to you.
It was silly, he thought. You were not even aware of the aid you had provided him, that you had dissipated his artist's block with such ease. Yet he still wished he could thank you properly. But as soon as the idea crossed his mind, he chickened out. Why would you hang out with him?
But it was then that life decided to hear his wish.
Michael did not like doing interviews, nor attending talk shows. Any offer he would receive would be immediately turned down by his manager. And this one had, too, until LaToya went to him.
"They want us both on a multi-guest show," she had said with her high-pitched voice.
Michael's nose crunched, not looking away from the Peter Pan book on his lap. "I don't want to. I'm working on my album, I'm busy."
"It's a friendly show, Mike," she insisted.
"I said I'm busy."
"You're reading a book."
"I'll be busy when that talk show happens."
"I was told the Lawbreakers will be there--"
Michael's head snapped up, his eyes wide. "The Lawbreakers?"
LaToyal nodded. "Yes. They're confirmed to be part of the guest list."
Michael snapped his book shut and stood up.
"Lemme call my manager."
She laughed. "Oh, so now you're free for the talk show?"
He didn't respond and grabbed the phone's receiver instead.
The set's curtains were the only barrier between you and the live audience, barely doing anything to cover their excited cheers. Rubbing your sweaty palms against your black pants, you attempted to ease yourself with breathing exercises as Jace patted your back in support.
Talk shows were not your thing. Singing on a stage in front of thousands of people, yeah, you loved it. Sitting down to talk about you, not so much. Entertaining people with your personality was not something you were comfortable doing. You felt like a court jester amusing nobles.
Having a clear line between your persona on stage and who you truly were off-stage was more than practicality; it was a need. Because the difference was too striking, and you did not wish to disappoint people. You did not wish to end the myth of the cool rockstar. At least, that was what you told yourself.
But it was part of the job, so you obliged.
Especially now, as the tour ended. The Lawbreakers could finally focus on making new music. It was a good opportunity to utilize the momentum and ride the new wave of fame you gained. After nearly ten years of hard work and performing in pizza restaurants at fifteen, you had finally made a name for yourself, and the Lawbreaker was recognized around the world. And you were not ready to let it go.
The host introduced your band, and light struck you when the curtains were pulled open, the loud screams deafening your ears. With an assured grin, you lead your band to the set, occasionally waving at the live audience. Several signs were dedicated to the Lawbreakers.
As you neared the couch on which the other guests were, your gaze locked with a pair of big, shimmering doe eyes. You flashed a smile, but quickly looked away, feeling your face already heating up.
Let's just blame it on stage fright.
You knew Michael would be attending, and you had believed you had mentally prepared yourself for it. Clearly, you had not. Heart mad, sweaty palms, temperature rising; you were flustered.
Nothing should have brought you to him. You worked in two very different genres and had two very distinct styles of performing. So you would always stand on a different side of the room. He, with soul and R&B icons, and you with rock figures. Sometimes, both sides would merge because he was Michael Jackson.
But you would remain where you stood, watching him converse with the Bee Gees. Watching him giggle with a smile that could light up the world. Watching him look away so shyly as if he were unaware of his genius. Watching him help his female friends down the stairs so they wouldn't trip over their own gowns. Such a gentleman, something so rare in an industry so extravagant. Or a little puppy that was excited about life, just happy to be here.
Jace had tried to get you to talk with him. He was a friend of Quincy Jones, Michael's producer, so it would be rather easy to link you up to him. But you declined, each time. You didn't want him to think you were an opportunist, chasing him for increased fame. You were too different, anyway. What if he found you 'too much'?
You sat at the end of the couch, nearest to the host's desk, as your bandmates filled the remaining space.
"I gotta say," the host began, tuning to you as he leaned on his secretaire. "You are told to be intimidating, and I'll have to agree. I'm quite shy to ask you anything."
"Yeah, I get that a lot." You chuckled, with a one-shoulder shrug. "I have a very mean resting face, and people often tell me I look like Imma cuss them out. Which, if you don't irritate me, will not happen."
Laughter arose from across the room.
"So, I think it is the first time we've had such a disordered cast of people," the host continued. "It is the first time you all are in the same room, right?"
"Well, we've seen each other in passing," LaToya replied, looking at all your band. "At award shows and after parties."
"But it is the first time we actually stand so close to one another," Jace joked.
"Well, there's a beginning to everything," the host replied. "The Lawbreakers have been on top of the rock 'n roll world for the past two years. So, Hollywood is a brand new thing to you, right?"
You glanced at your bandmates, silently asking if they wanted to take the question, but they motioned to you.
"Hollywood, yes. Music, not so much," you replied. "We've been a band since we were fifteen, performing in local restaurants and school sporting events. So we were already kinda used to the stage when Mick Jagger asked us to open for the Rolling Stones. But, yeah, talk shows and interviews, I guess we're still getting the hang of it."
"It's quite baffling." He turned to Michael. "You've been through that, too, Michael, when you debuted with the Jackson 5. You know Hollywood, you have experience, what advice would you give them?"
Despite being the same age, Michael had the experience of a veteran, which broke your heart to think about it. It was hard to wrap your head around the fact that when you were playing tag outside with the neighborhood's kids, he was already an employee of Motown. It didn't feel right.
"Um, I'd say to have some fun," Michael replied. You had to stop yourself from grinning at his so soft-spoken voice, sweeter than honey. "We have the chance to create art that makes people happy, so we should not forget how lucky we are to live from it. We shouldn't lose sight of why we do what we do."
The interview continued smoothly for a while, sometimes slowing down with laughter as your bandmates would crack jokes. But Michael's eyes would often flicker back to you; to your sharp gaze, to the way the corner of your lips curled in that so attractive smirk, the way you leaned against the armrest, your legs crossed, and your head tilted, your curls gracefully falling on one side--so magnetic.
It was the closest he ever got to you, even though there were five people in between. And any Billboard or flyer truly did not do justice to your beauty. He wished he could be closer, though.
"Michael, you were recently featured on a Diana Ross TV special," the host said. "You were often seen with her this year. You once said she was your celebrity crush. Has it changed since?"
Michael let out a nervous chuckle, fidgeting with his hands as his eyes briefly darted to you for a split second.
"Um, I guess so, yeah," he replied, hoping the subject would change soon.
"Do you have any celebrity crushes?" the host asked the rest.
Everyone answered truthfully, sometimes receiving teasing, until it got to you. Michael was quite curious to hear your answer and, quite honestly, already envious of the person you would cite.
While you, on the other hand, were trying your best not to freak out. The moment the question was asked, your gaze had briefly moved to Michael before averting your eyes, all the while Jace stiffled his laugh, sensing your growing nervousness. Of all the questions the host could ask, it had to be this one. What should you do? Should you lie? Say a random name? But what if it follows you for years, and you have to keep the lie up for the rest of your life? Should you be honest? Hell nah. Never.
"What about you?" The host turned to you.
You controlled your face as all eyes turned to you. You had performed in arenas, in front of dozens of thousands of people, and delivered a stellar performance each time, yet here, under the scrutiny of the person you were attracted to, it was the most nerve-wracking thing you had ever gone through.
But you kept your composure, "I don't have any celebrity crush."
Your bandmates nearly burst into laughter. You did not react.
The host's eyes widened. "Really?"
"Yeah. No one."
"There has to be someone. Anyone you've ever admired."
You feigned thinking, then shook your head. "Mhm, no. No, no one."
"Well." He looked at you suspiciously, then at your friends. "Your bandmates clearly seem to know who it is."
You mentally cursed as Jace and the others were basically wheezing, trying to hold their laughter. Their faces red and tears in their eyes.
Jace coughed, trying to calm himself down. "She's too shy to admit it here."
Fucking traitor, you thought.
"Well, we're not going to judge," the host reassured.
"It's not the judging I'm worried about, honestly," you admitted.
You kept your eyes on the interviewer, your leg bouncing up and down as you felt his eyes on you. It only rendered you all the more nervous, your heart beating madly and resonating in your head.
"Come on, the audience is dying to know." The crowd screamed to second his statement. "Is it an unattractive man?"
You frowned. "What? No, he's--"
At this point, your bandmates were openly laughing. You nudged Jace, the closest to you, which only increased his amusement. You were truly contemplating airing all his business on live television as vengeance.
You cleared your throat. "I'm not gonna say who it is."
As much as Michael wanted to know who your ideal type was, he was feeling bad at how uncomfortable you were, and did not want you to be forced into something you did not want to do or say.
So he stepped in. "I think we shouldn't press further."
But the crowd shouted a loud 'no'.
"Well, it seems the people won't leave it alone," the host said, then turned to you again, eyes glimmering with mischief. "The only way to end this is to say who your celebrity crush is."
The audience encouraged you to speak, and it was clear that the host would not move on from the topic until you said a name. So you sighed, sinking into your seat, bracing yourself for the incoming endless teasing you were about to receive.
"Oh my God... okay." You cleared your throat, fidgeting with the zipper of your jacket. "Michael Jackson...," you muttered, but too low for anyone to hear.
The host frowned, leaning forward, "What?"
Your bandmates were left in a fit of dying laughter, while you, eyes closed, having lost all resolve, hid your already red face, "Michael Jackson...," you repeated, louder.
In an instant, the audience gave the loudest, most deafening screams of excitement ever as Michael stilled, his mouth agape as he stared at you. LaToya, beside him, giggled and nudged him, but he was too stunned to react. For a second, he thought perhaps he had heard wrong, or that it was a joke, but the way you hid your face behind both your hands, wishing the earth would swallow you, he knew it was real.
It was then that his heart began acting up, picking up in pace as his cheeks grew red. He was your celebrity crush. You had a crush on him. Him.
"Oh. I see now why you didn't want to say it here." The host said, enjoying a little too much seeing you completely and utterly flustered. "What's your favorite song of his?"
"Come on, please--"
"What attracts you to him?"
"Can we drop the--"
"Oh my, wait!" He held his hand, eyes twinkling as he remembered something. "When I asked about your crush's looks, were you about to say he was handsome? When did you fall for him exactly?"
Your face was so hot you thought you had been rendered a cartoon character with steam coming off your head. You completely hid behind your hands, unable to look at anyone and certainly not wishing to meet his eyes, for you knew it would only worsen your state. You could barely align a thought or utter a word.
So you could not see Michael biting his whole bottom lip, trying hard to control his wide smile.
The host chuckled at you state, then looked at him. "Michael, any comments?"
You sank even further into the couch as if trying to force it to absorb you. As the seconds passed, your confidence and cool image you had created melted away and disappeared into oblivion, turning you into a blushing mess. To admit this in front of the person, in front of a live audience, on national TV--if only you could just vanish already.
Michael giggled, scratching his arm. "Well, um, er, it's very nice to hear." He could barely hear the crowd losing its mind, the high of the moment clouding his head. His eyes moved to you, who could not look his way, which made him both pleased and flustered. "Um, if I'm honest..." he cleared his throat, fidgeting with his hands. "If I'm honest, she's my celebrity crush too, but I was too shy to admit it here."
You stilled, and it was only then that you moved your hands away, the crowd losing their voices once more. He was already looking at you, though he averted his eyes when he met yours. Jace gently shook your shoulder, as if to hype you up, saying, 'Heard that?'
"Oh, really?" The host asked, interested.
Michael nodded, a smile on his face. "I think she's a very beautiful girl with lots of talent. Her voice is amazing, too."
And you could have died just there.
"Would you like to sit together?" Jace teased, asking Michael, earning a sharp nudge from you.
Still, your entire band scooted away from you to give Michael enough space to sit next to you. He was hesitant; he, too, was a blushing mess, as his sister was encouraging him to take action.
And he did.
Under the cheers of the entire set, Michael stood up and shyly took the seat beside you. You sat up properly, moving the curls out of your face. The most you could do was look at his feet so close to yours. There was a little gap between the two of you, him not wanting to invade your space. But your mind had already short-circuited.
You were so used to watching him from afar, and now he was just a centimeter away from you. You could smell his perfume, so sweet just like him.
You finally mustered the courage to gaze up at him, but when your eyes locked with his, the two of you looked away. And just like that, the woman who was so fierce on stage was rendered shy and speechless by him.
Jace became the spokesperson for the rest of the interview, with occasional interventions from you. Most of the time, you were too focused on Michael's presence to listen to anything that was being said. Whenever his gentle voice reached you, a smile stretched on your lips. Whenever his hand would graze yours, your heart would nearly stop.
The awkwardness never disappeared until the ad break was called in.
"I'm sorry," he said. You looked at him, confused. "If I made you uncomfortable."
"No, no, you didn't," you reassured. "I should be the one to say sorry, I put you on the spot like that."
"No, it's fine. It's, uh, I was surprised, but I was happy." He looked down, timid. "Um, can I ask you why me?"
You scratched the nape of your neck, pursing your lips. "Um, well, obviously you're an amazing artist, and I really love what you do. But, er, really, it's your kindness."
He tilted his head, surprised. "My kindness?"
You smiled. "Yeah. You're always so polite and respectful to everyone. I've seen crazy things these past few years. It's easy to get carried away by fame and money. But you stayed... You. You're never rude to anyone, and you're so benevolent. And, I don't know, there's something reassuring in that."
All Michael could do was stare at you, at a loss for words. It had never occurred to him that you could be so aware of him. He expected, perhaps feared even, that you would bring up his career. That you would find him boring. Instead, it was his personality that caught your eye. It was his personality that attracted you. And there was no greater compliment.
"I feel a little dumb now," he admitted.
You tilted your head to the side. "Why?"
"Well, you have such a great answer, and I, um, well, I find you really cool."
You had to bit you lip to prevent yourself from smiling too hard. He's so cute.
"It makes me very happy to hear that," you said.
"Really?"
You gave an excited nod, your eyes twinkling with joy.
He could have just melted right there.
You were so different than when you were on stage. So much more approachable. So much more radiant. So damn adorable.
He absolutely loved it.
"I also think--" He got interrupted by the producer, who warned the crew that the ad break was coming to an end. Michael turned back to you, "Would you agree to dinner with me?"
You blinked. "What?"
"Dinner with me? After the show?" He repeated, hopeful.
You and Jaafar donāt get called up to the school often unless your two little ones are sick.
Unfortunately, the only thing sick is your stomach as you grimace at the busted lip child who is currently sitting next to your chubby-cheeked, doe-eyed, long-lashed, afro-wearing, chocolate babies. The call from their school came out of left field. You were at your office, going over papers for a very important case, while Jaafar was in the studio. Seeing as you both were called in meant it was serious, but now you see why. Your babies werenāt misbehaved children by far, absolutely not, you donāt play that, but they can get a bit rowdy and snarky sometimes, something they got from both sides of their family. Usually just a quick call about them having a giggle fest, or talking at the wrong moment. So, to say you were confused would be an understatement.ā
Walking into the principalās office and seeing your husband, who beat you there, you looked at him and then your twins. Holding up a hand to the principal that was about to say Ā ā Sorry, one second-ā squatting urgently in front of your twins, ā hi, babies, are you guys okay?ā moving their faces around to make sure there were no scratches on them. Taking a seat next to your husband, who intertwines your fingers and raises your hands to kiss your knuckles, ā Hi, loveā. You sigh, looking at him, ā J, baby, hey,ā exhaling, you turn to the principal, āWhat happened here?ā
āIām sorry, are you serious?ā āWhat happened here?ā scoffing, āThatās your question, your kids busted my kid's lip,ā comes the voice of Polly the parrot in the form of a tall white mom. Beady blue-brown eyes, too much lip filler, bad highlights, and a husband who looks two seconds from dropping because of steroids. The sweaty principal begins to explain after seeing you completely freeze and stare at the woman like she had 4 heads sticking out of her body.
Across in the little chairs are your babies kicking their legs as you listen to their principal tell you how they beat up their classmate. Snapping your head back so quickly, you were surprised the curls in your silk press stayed. You put a little reminder to take your uncle's wife out to lunch for doing such a great job. ā Iām sorry, did you just say that my two-ā pointing a sharp red almond-shaped acrylic at yourself ā beat him up?ā staring at him, you quirk an eyebrow. ā Elaborate quickly, please.ā
Jaafar steps in just as the principal goes, āWell, Mrs.Jackson, your boy and girlā. āI would prefer you address my children by their names and not boy and girlā. Stuttering, he tries to clean it up, āI intend no disrespect, Mr.Jackson,ā clearing his throat and fixing his tie. ā Itās just that well,ā smiling nervously ā Iām sure Jermiah and Daryl can explain itā
āHe was being rude to us, Mommy,ā exclaimed Jermiah, the nicer one of our babies. Sighing, you scratch your eyebrow. āWell, what did daddy and I say about handling rude people?ā
Daryl looks at Jaafar, then at you, ā Ā he was talking about you, so we listened to what daddy saidā
Turning to look at Jaafar, ā And what exactly did daddy tell you that was different from mommy?ā When Polly the parrot goes to speak, āSEE, obviously your parenting needs work, that's why these children are fighting. I say they should be suspended for a monthā.
Stuttering the principal wipes his bald head ā maāam thatās not necessary theyāre just in second gradeā Scoffing she stands up so fast it causes the chair to scrape across ānot necessary they hurt my poor robbyā grabbing said poor robby by the arm and swinging open the office door ā if you will not punish these people properly then I am taking my money to a better establishmentā slamming the door as her, her bad highlights, husband, and robby leave.
Sighing, the principal wipes his face. āI apologize for that, as you wereā. Nodding, you turn back to Jaafar, āYeah, there is a lot of restraint going on, so please explain,ā you say in a strained voice.
He sighs, wiping his hand down his face, speaking softly, and grabbing your hands. ā I spoke to the twins one day about defending the honor of the women they love, especially black women.ā With a half-way smirk on his face, he goes, ā I guess they took it a bit more literally,ā chuckling.
Dropping your head onto his shoulder, āOh, you goof, you know you got to clarify with them twoā.
Grabbing your purse, standing up, āWhatās the result of this whole situation?ā looking at the principal, who shakes his head, looking too stressed out to last another second. ā Mrs.Jackson, weāll just file this under a little spat between childrenā.
āCome on, things 1 and 2, also donāt think when we get home, we wonāt be having a conversation about keeping our hands to ourselves,ā holding the back of Jeremiah and Darylās necks. Hearing Jaafar chuckle behind you as you walk out, you speak without turning around. āUht, unt sir, donāt think youāre off the hook either.ā
Intertwining your hands, Ā āMama, they were defending you. This is a good lesson if you think about itā. Side-eyeing him, ā Mr.Jackson, letās not dig a bigger holeā
Making it around to your side after buckling the kids in, he gives you a light swat on your backside as you climb in, ā excuse you, sir.ā Hopping into the driver's seat, finding the situation funny, he begins to drive out of the school parking lot, full-on laughing now.
Looking at him, ā Jaafar, what is so funny, man?ā baffled. He turns to you, still laughing, ā I mean technically our lesson was successful, right like they listened to us.. rightā. laughing too, āYou know what you, your brother, and dad have in common?ā āWhat, mama?ā
āAll of y'all full of Jashit now, drive the car. I got to figure out what to cook for dinnerā
āI love you, Mrs.Jackson, donāt we, twinsā
The twins yell, ā WE LOVE YOU MOMMAā
Laughing, āI love you all tooā
Outer Galaxy Space Agents
Tags- @mamasturn @swavydadon @niyahctrl @neighbourscat @melaninjoys @darkseidex @mouthfullofrocki @moodymp4 @multifandomposts-blog @callmeoncette @cherrishkissed @herweirdass @angelfacediary @esioleren @allth3stars @sintizc @jaafarsaura @yourleogf @narratedillusions @bawdylanguageee (let me know if anyone wants to be removed)
i love this thought so bad bc like he wouldnāt even take your anger seriously at first, which only irritated you more. youād be sitting on the couch with your arms crossed or while heās following you around the house.
āyou still mad?ā no answer. ābaby.ā still no answer. āokay.ā then five minutes later. āyou real mad?ā and when that doesnāt work, thatās when he starts getting clingy like laying his head in your lap or wrapping his arms around your waist.
but the second he realizes youāre genuinely upset is when his voice drops into that sultry sweet tone. heād pull you against his chest and just mumble, ācāmon angel, donāt do thisā¦ā and because his deep voice was genuinely your weakness youād finally crumble, āyouāre so annoying.ā and heād just hold you in his arms.
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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 Seanāaffectionately 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 Michaelās 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 Blanketās 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,
āOh, Mike, he looks just like you did when you were a baby. Exactly like you.ā 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 babyās 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 āwho can build the biggest lego towerā.
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 bestā"
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! Itās 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 mindāburns, 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 pigmentāa 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 boyāyears, 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 Michaelās 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 Michaelās 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 breathānot 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 babyās 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."
seen this on tiktok earlier, it just reminded me about all the people who says heās a ātoxic baby daddyā now this comment might not be true butā¦š¤·š»āāļø itās kinda weird how people judge him based off his looks.
Literally thats why i said how much of his so called toxicity is really just stereotypes
hey girl! i love your retired life series, itās so cute and funny! you know the tiktok trend thatās going around, where you have ur parents say āare you digging in your ass?ā in different emotions? could you write michael and special guests, the rest of the jackson brothers engage in that trend pls? š¤
š¹šššššš š³ššš ā
Michael Jackson x Reader
Synopsis: When Michael's brothers see that Michael is going viral on Tiktok again, they decide they want in on some of the action. You help them film some trend at a family function.
Content/Warnings: Modern Au, Michael Lives, Tito lives, Gramps!Michael, fluff, Jackson Brothers, Tiktok, brainrot
W.C. 1k
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9 (Current)
Masterlist
Michael crossed his arms with a slight frown, "Do we really have to do this?"
He was sitting on the couch squished between Marlon and Jackie, looking at you with pleading eyes, silently willing you to give him an excuse to get up. You simply smiled at him and gave him a little wink.
Marlon clapped a hand on Michael's shoulder, "Come on, Mikey. You can't have all the fun, you gotta give us a little."
Michael smiled despite himself. Truthfully, he was kind of excited. Doing something silly like this reminded him of when they were all kids. Jermaine sat in an armchair, while Tito and Randy plopped themselves on the edge of the couch.
This whole thing had been Marlon's idea, of course. He had seen the trend bleeding over onto instagram reels, and thought it would be fun to join in with the younger generation. So when the family had gotten together for dinner at the house, Marlon had secretly asked you to help gather the brothers to make the video. You thought the idea was hilarious and agreed instantly.
"Okay, explain this again." Randy sighed, leaning back on the couch.
Marlon sat up excitedly, clearing his throat. "So, there is going to be a phrase that we all have to say. And all of us go down the line saying it with a certain type of emotion, like happy, sad, confused, befuddled, and so on."
"What the fuck is befuddled?" Tito glanced over at him.
"Confused." Everyone answered at the same time.
"So does everyone get it?" He looked around. The brothers all nodded slowly, trying to keep up their annoyed facade.
"So what's the phrase and how do we have to say it?" Michael looked at him.
"We're gonna do happy, confused, supportive, disappointed, and sad." Marlon read from the small list he had made.
Jermaine looked over, "Aren't sad and disappointed kinda the same?"
"What no?" Marlon crossed his arms defensively.
"They kinda are." Jermaine retorted.
Michael quickly took Marlon's side. "Yeah of course you would think that."
Jermaine side eyed him. Despite the back and forth, there was no real malice behind it, just old brotherly love.
"So what's the phrase?" Jackie finally asked.
Marlon and you shared a giggle before he spoke, "You've been diggin in your ass."
The brothers all immediately burst into retaliation, shaking their heads and calling him crazy if he thought they would actually say that. You laughed with Marlon at their reaction. "Oh come on, y'all are no fun, it's just a little joke." You spoke.
Michael folded immediately. "We should do it, there's no real harm in it."
Marlon wrapped an arm around his shoulder, "Exactly, Mikey. Good to know at least one of my brothers is still fun."
That comment alone was enough to make the rest give in, not wanting their fun card revoked from the family.
Marlon started. He cleared his throat before eagerly stating the phrase. "You've been diggin in your ass!!"
Everyone kept their lips sealed, trying not to laugh. Michael looked down, composing himself before saying the phrase with so much joy and whimsy that you couldn't help but laugh from behind the camera. You cut the video off mid take so that you wouldn't waste time. They went down the line trying to one up each other's performance of the phrase.
Jackie gave the most compelling, emotional, devastating delivery of the line. Jermaine managed to lock down the disappointed delivery, giving the camera a whole performance with the phrase. Tito naturally had the best confused delivery, mostly because he simply was still confused about this whole trend. And Randy gave the most giddy, supportive delivery of the phrase.
With each round, they all quickly leaned into the challenge, going over the top and putting on the whole works. Each take you had to pause the video for at least a minute so everyone could recover from the laughing.
When it was done, you showed them the finished video. They all giggled, making fun of each other for how serious they took a certain phrase.
Your youngest walked into the room to find the whole group huddled around the phone. "What are you guys doing?"
Michael smiled and showed her the phone proudly. "We did a fun trend!"
She stared at the screen with an unimpressed expression. "Y'all are so weird." She continued her path to her room.
Michael's brothers laughed at Michael's pout. Jackie patted his back, "Kids are hard, buddy."
Michael shrugged. "It's alright, she's going through a phase where she's embarrassed of anything and everything Y/n and I do."
Your daughter shouted from the top of the stairs. "It's not a phase dad!"
You and Michael shared a little laugh, knowing you were pushing her buttons. Marlon took the phone and posted the video. "Ugh, can't wait to get famous a second time." He said smugly.
Tito lightly hit him upside the head, "Don't be a smart ass, you were never famous to begin with."
His mouth dropped open in offense. "Excuse me, I was a fan favorite! I had the moves, what did you have a guitar and a big ass hat?"
The conversation quickly devolved into them arguing who was the favorite... besides Michael.
Michael came up and hugged you from behind, placing a kiss on the top of your head. "They're such dimwits."
You eyed him, "Yeah, don't exclude yourself from that statement." You laughed as he pouted.
"You're so mean to me." He placed his chin on your shoulder, making absolutely no move to leave your side.
"You're exactly where you want to be." You turned and gently kissed his cheek.
content: Off the wall/ Destiny Tour era Michael Jackson x Wife! Reader
michael canāt fathom the idea of being away from his wife for more than a day. he needs to come home to you, matter of fact heās not going on another damn tour if you canāt go.
warnings: 18+ minors dni, young married couple, p in v, almost caught, semi-descriptive body worship, curvy reader, freaky shit in the back of a tour bus, kind of getting caught.
wc: 930+
lover girl
The tension in the Jackson household had been thick enough to cut with a knife for weeks. Michael had been adamant, his voice trembling not with fear, but with a desperate, burning need. He wouldn't step foot on the stage for the US leg of the Destiny tour unless you were by his side.
To Michael, you were his sanctuary, and he cherished every curve of your body. He adored the lush, soft swell of your hips, the gentle, softness of your stomach that he loved to press his face into, and those thick, beautiful thighs that he claimed were the most perfect things heād ever seen. Your natural coiled hair was a crown he loved to stroke while he whispered promises of a future where no one could tell him who to love.
Standing in the hallway, you leaned against the wall, your heart hammering against your ribs. Beside you, Lotoya and Katherine stood in supportive silence, their expressions grave. Every other wife is going why canāt you? From the home office, the shouting erupted.
"I don't care about her! This is a professional tour, Michael! We have an image to maintain!" Josephās voice boomed, authoritative and cold.
"That's my wife, Joseph!" Michaelās voice cracked, raw with emotion. "I can't do this without her. I can't handle the pressure, the lights, the noise unless I have her to come home to at night. Please!"
"He's right, Joseph,ā Jackie chimed in, his voice calmer but firm. "Michael's been working himself to the bone. All our girls are going, why canāt his? If having her there keeps him focused and happy, why fight it?"
"Exactly," Marlon added. "She's good for him. Let him have this."
The argument raged for an hour, a tug-of-war between Josephās rigid control and Michaelās desperate love. You held your breath, tears pricking your eyes, until finally, a heavy silence fell.
"Fine!" Joseph spat, the word sounding like a defeat. "She comes. But she stays out of the way. One slip-up, one distraction, and she's on a plane home boy."
Fast forward to the US leg of the tour. The tour bus was a humming beast of chrome and diesel, cutting through the night. In the front lounge, the atmosphere was rowdy. Marlon and Jackie and their significant others were half-drunk, laughing loudly and playing card games with a few members of the stage crew, their voices echoing through the cabin. The others were on a second tour bus of their own.
In the back room, however, the world had shrunk down to just the two of you.
Michael had lost all his composure the moment the door clicked shut. He had stripped you with a frantic hunger, his hands gripping your wide, soft hips, pulling your plush body against him. He had ripped your underwear off with a guttural growl, but he didn't throw them away. Instead, he had stuffed the soiled fabric deep into your mouth, gagging you to stifle the screams of pleasure he knew youād let out.
Now, you were bent over the small built-in table, your ass hoisted high in the air, your heavy, soft thighs trembling. Michael was behind you, his lean frame contrasting with your generous, pillowy curves. He was buried deep inside you, his cock slamming into your pussy with a rhythmic, violent intensity.
Slap. Slap. Slap.
The sound of his pelvis hitting your full cheeks was loud in the small room. You could hear the wet, sloppy pap-pap-pap of your drenched pussy being hammered raw. To make it even more intense, Michael had shoved his thumb deep into your tight asshole, stretching you open, his digit hooking inside you while he drove his cock into your cunt.
You were losing your mind. Your eyes were rolled back, your muffled moans vibrating against the fabric in your mouth. You tried to push back, trying to fuck yourself back onto him, your wide hips grinding against him in a desperate search for more.
Michael was struggling to stay quiet. He had the bottom of his stage shirt clenched tightly between his teeth, biting down hard to keep from whimpering or crying out as he felt your tight walls squeezing his shaft. He was obsessed with the way your soft hips moved with every thrust, the way your hair spilled over the table.
Suddenly, the heavy footsteps of a drunk Marlon stumbled toward the back. He banged loudly on the door, his voice slurred and teasing.
"Y'all better not be in there being nasty!" Marlon yelled, laughing to himself. "I know you, Mike! Keep it clean!"
The sudden threat of being caught sent a jolt of pure electricity through your spine. Your pussy clamped down on Michaelās cock like a vice, flooding him with an explosion of heat and lubrication. You let out a muffled, high-pitched keen into the gag, your body shuddering.
Michael didn't slow down. If anything, the risk made him more feral. He let out a muffled groan into his metallic shirt, his thrusts becoming shorter, faster, and more desperate. He hammered into you one last time, burying himself to the hilt, his thumb pressing deep into your rectum.
"Oh god... yes..." he whimpered against the fabric of his shirt.
With a final, powerful thrust, Michael erupted inside you, his warm cum filling your pussy to overflowing. At the same moment, your own orgasm crashed over you in waves, your internal muscles pulsing violently around him. You collapsed onto the table, shaking and breathless, while Marlonās laughter faded as he stumbled back toward the front of the bus, completely unaware that his brother had just claimed you in the most explicit way possible.
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āą±Øą§Ėā”Ė ą£Ŗ iāve been seeing so many sad tribute post/edits from the exact time the clock hit 12, ITS MAKING ME DEPRESSED. yes we are allowed to grieve, yes we are allowed to be sad and cry. we MISS michael dearly. but can we please make this a positive celebration of his life? I BEG. i wanna see the upbeat, optimistic, and hopeful edits/post flooding my feed ASAP. this man wouldnāt want us to grieve to the point where we canāt even function, he would want us to celebrate positively, talk about all the good he did in the world, blast/sing his music, and remember him because he will always be with us.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Iām probably so annoying about this because i incorporate it into basically every fic, but i justā¦canāt stop writing you calling michael daddy solely to tease him, and not even because you like it for yourself. You do it just to get a rise out of him too, not even only in sexual contexts. Youāll greet him in your living room after a studio session, already feeling pent up from a day without his touch and wanting to tease him. āHi daddy, how was work?ā Youāll be golfing with him and his siblings and remember that they call him big daddy as a joke, so you join in because you know itās different when you say it. āYeah, big daddy. I thought you were good at golf.ā Heāll be balls deep inside of you, and you can feel his dick twitch, signaling heās closer to his unraveling, so you give him that extra push he loves to hear from you. āF-fuck, daddy. Cum inside. Make me a mommy.ā
The only satisfaction you get from it is his reaction; heāll be flustered and itāll stroke his ego a LOT, mostly because thatās the kind of stuff he saw in porn when he was inexperienced, so it makes him less insecure about being submissive. But itāll also mindfuck him because howās he daddy but youāre always in charge? Isnāt that reserved for girls who let their guys take control? Why does being called a name with suchā¦assertiveness behind it but being a living footstool for you turn him on so much? As much as he enjoys it, he still feigns being disinterested with the honorific.
The first time you say it, he almost loses his shit. āOh, God. Thatās so dirty!ā heāll giggle, trying to ignore the way it makes blood flow through his whole body. Or, the first time you actually find out about the siblingsā big daddy joke, and he gets flustered because of the devious look on your face at the information. When you two sneak off from the group, he almostā¦cockily explains to you how the nickname is because of his star power. āYeah, they call me that because of all the girls who used to say it to me on tourā¦Feels special cominā from you though.ā And there are the times where youāll have been teasing him all day, letting him āplayā dominant outside in public but making him try to take everything he wants in bed, saying stuff like āYou want me to touch you? Oh, but youāre daddy, remember? You should know exactly what to do. You should know how to take it on your own,ā and heāll respond by saying āS-stop calling me that,ā or, āYouāre right, Iām not daddy. Iāll stop pretendinā, pleaseā or, āNoā¦Iām angelfaceā¦ā when heās at his weakest.
į°.į bad!era michael angst to fluff childhood lovers michael crashing your wedding while devoting his love to you.
you were getting married.
you had already signed for your precious marriage license, the official document tucked away safely as a reminder that everything was becoming real. one by one, reservations were made, the venue secured, the catering, arranged, every little detail falling into place just like how you wanted it. your days seemed to blur together with planning, phone calls, and endless checklists.
everywhere you went, you were met with warm embraces and excited smiles. congratulations and Iām so happy for you became words you heard almost daily, especially from your husband-to-beās family, who welcomed you with open arms and treated you as though you had already been part of them for years. their excitement was contagious, making each passing day feel even more special than the last.
and then there was the dress. after countless appointments, racks upon racks of fabric, and more fitting rooms than you could keep track of, you found it. the one. the moment you stepped out wearing it, something in your heart simply knew. every delicate detail felt as though it had been made specifically for you, fitting perfectly in all the ways that mattered. not long after, you found the heels to match, complementing the picture you had imagined so many times in your head. for the first time, standing in front of the mirror, you could truly see it. the aisle, the vows, the ring on your finger, the look on your husbands face.
but marriage, for as long as youāve known it, was love made tangible. a vow to stay when life got difficult and a promise to celebrate when life became beautiful. it was looking at one person and deciding that every tomorrow felt brighter with them in it. marriage was the weaving of two threads into one tapestry, different colors, different paths, yet impossible to separate without unraveling the whole.
you had everything you were supposed to want. a soon-to-be husband, a home, a future, but not the one person you had always pictured beside you.
you grew up in indiana with michael, back when you were just the kids next door. you still remember the sharp clink of pebbles against your window glass late at night. he would stand below in the dark, begging you to slip outside so he could show you the stars at the perfect hour. when it was time for him to leave, he held your small hands in his, gently wiping away your tears. he promised he would come back for you, and you believed him.
and he kept that promise. through every step of his rising career, from the early rush of the jackson 5 to the explosive release of off the wall, michael always rushed right back to you to celebrate. he would show up at your door, holding fresh flowers for you and your mother, stepping into your home with a familiar warmth. late at night, your bedroom became a sanctuary where he could finally unwind. he would talk for hours about events, his dreams, and the eccentricities of his life, like the pet giraffe and the llama he walked down the street. on the nights the road kept him away, he would call and stay on the line until dawn. he talked until his voice grew tired, while you just sat in the dark, happily listening and twisting the tangled telephone cord between your fingers.
you were michaels ultimate escape from the pressure. through the brutal days of pushing his body to the limit, the endless rehearsals, and the strained vocal sessions, it all became bearable because of you. he kept going because he knew you were out there watching and cheering him on from afar. no matter how exhausting the world became, his only real comfort was knowing that at the end of it all, he was coming home to your face.
you were his reason, his why for everything he did. and slowly but surely, in the quiet spaces between the chaos, michael realized he was falling deeply in love with you.
it all became clear the day he visited you again, tangled up together in your bedroom. that was the night you shared your first kiss, the night you finally gave yourselves to each other and became whole. from that moment on, michael knew he could never leave you behind. he stayed glued to your hip, holding onto you tightly, completely unwilling to ever let you go.
but slowly, michaels promises began to ring hollow. his world grew heavier, swallowed by touring, endless promotions, and the crushing weight of being a global superstar. there simply weren't enough hours in his day anymore. the midnight phone calls faded into silence, and the surprise visits stopped. on your nightstand, the vibrant flowers he used to bring began to wither and droop, shedding dry petals until he eventually stopped showing up altogether.
the harsh reality finally struck you: he had moved on. to him, what you shared was just a childish crush, a sweet phase of his youth that he was completely willing to leave behind in the past.
and you did too. you forced yourself to move forward, but he still lingered in the corners of your mind, every single day. your life felt so bland now that you were committed to someone else. knowing you were supposed to spend eternity with another person felt like a quiet betrayal of those late-night whispers in your bedroom. all those futures you had dreamed up with michael had to be buried, forcing you onto a completely new path in life.
but you honestly didnāt want to.
you didn't want to let him go. your mother was the one who finally convinced you as you broke down, crying bitterly in her arms. she held you tightly, shushing your heavy sobs and whispering into your hair that it was all for the better. she swore it was the only way to save you from waiting for a ghost.
and even now, the reality of it heavy in your chest, you stood directly in front of your husband on your wedding day. you were inside a church, a quiet house of god, with the pews packed to the brim behind you with the familiar faces of family and friends. your sheer veil had already been tossed back over your shoulders, framing your expertly glammed makeup and the perfect curls cascading down your spine. the dress was everything you had ever dreamed of, fitting flawlessly just like you planned. your husband stood close, his fingers tightly intertwined with yours, never letting go now that you had both finished pouring out your vows.
but yet, everything felt so hollow. it felt like you were just a little girl playing dress-up in clothes that didn't belong to you. everything about this moment felt entirely wrong, twisting your stomach into tight, sickening knots.
ādo you, take her to be your lawfully wedded wife, to live together in the holy estate of matrimony? do you promise to love her, comfort her, honor and keep her, in sickness and in health, and forsaking all others, remain faithful to her so long as you both shall live?ā the officiantās voice echoed through the church.
your eyes lifted slowly, watching your husband nod. his eyes glossed over with tears as his grip on your hands tightened, pulling you just a fraction closer. āI do,ā he spoke.
ādo you, take him to be your lawfully wedded husband, to live together in the holy estate of matrimony? do you promise to love him, comfort him, honor and keep him, in sickness and in health, and forsaking all others, remain faithful to him so long as you both shall live?ā
you froze the exact second the question was turned on you.
paralyzed as the weight of the question crashed over your shoulders. the officiantās words rang out like a death knell in your ears, but instead of focusing on the man in front of you, you kept your eyes glued to the ground. the white fabric of your gown blurred in your vision. everything inside you screamed that this was a mistake; it didnāt feel right, and it shouldnāt be him receiving your forever. you didnāt want it to be him, you wanted the boy from indiana who used to throw rocks at your window. a heavy sob caught in your throat, making your chin tremble. you bit your bottom lip, the iron taste of panic sharp on your tongue as you fought a losing battle against your tears.
āIāā
āwill you?ā
at the sudden sound of a voice, you whipped around. a wave of shock rippled through the pews as the entire crowd erupted into a chamber of loud, horrified gasps. your heart didn't just skip a beat, it dropped completely into your stomach at the sight of the familiar figure standing right in the middle of the aisle. there he was, dressed in a sharp, tailored beige suit that clung to his frame. his face was a raw canvas of desperation, his eyes locking onto yours with a pleading intensity that instantly shattered the sanctity of the church.
michael.
he continued walking down the aisle, his boots clicking softly against the wood as he called your name, the sound barely above a whisper. yet, it cut through the shocked murmurs of the crowd like a knife. his eyes never drifted from yours, each step heavy with the weight of years spent apart.
āsir,ā the officiant spoke. āyou shouldnāt be hereāā
āIve loved you ever since we were kids,ā michael spoke, his voice cracking with the sheer weight of his confession. a groomsmen stepped forward, reaching out to intervene, but michael violently shrugged the manās hand off his shoulder, never breaking eye contact with you. he pointed a trembling finger at his own chest, his eyes wide and begging. āand if youāll have meāā
āI want you to be my wife,ā he declared, the words ringing like an absolute truth through the sacred space. you watched with glossed-over eyes as the shock in the room shattered into pure chaos. several groomsmen lunged forward, grabbing roughly at michaels tailored suit, pulling and holding him back as he fought against their grip just to stay facing you.
āwhat the hell are you doing?ā your husband barked.
āIām sorry, I love her!ā michael screamed back, his voice straining as his limbs were being pulled back. he violently struggled against the heavy weight of the men forcing him toward the doors, but he didnāt let up for a single second. through the chaos of flailing arms, he managed to lift his head, his frantic eyes locking completely onto your own.
āwill you have me as your lawfully wedded husband from this day forth, to have and to hold? in richer, for poorer!ā
you could feel the air leave your lungs, the suffocating noise of the church suddenly fading away. in an instant, your mind pulled you backward in time, bringing you right back to those quiet nights in your childhood bedroom. you were laying down side by side, facing michael in the dark. he would brush a stray lock of hair from your face while you peered up at him. he looked back down at you with nothing but pure love and admiration melting in his gaze, a soft smile tugging at his lips as he slowly leaned in to kiss your plush ones.
āone day, Iām gonna marry you.ā
but the memory shattered as reality rushed back. you couldnāt believe his words, and you certainly couldnāt believe that this was the way he would do it. waiting until you were standing at the altar, in the absolute middle of you getting married to another man.
ābaby, please!ā
but seeing his face now, hearing the raw desperation in his voice, it all took you back anyway. it dragged you right back to the days where he would show up at your doorstep every other day with fresh flowers in his hands. the days where he would still pull you out into the dark to watch the stars when they shined their brightest. the days that he would take you out, promising to bring you back home safe and sound before 10. you remembered him sitting on your bedroom floor, playing his unreleased music just to hear your opinion, making sure the song was absolutely perfect coming out of your mouth. the days where he would kiss you senseless until your brain turned to complete mush, and those sweet, ridiculous nights where you would stay up until dawn, talking about how you were going to get married and how you were going to have eighteen kids together.
the truth crashed over you, and it all came back in a rush of realization. over those long, miserable years, michael had never actually vanished. he was always there, keeping his promises in secret. he was the ghost throwing those faint rocks at your window late at night when you felt the most alone. he was the anonymous soul sending flowers to your door, accompanied by mysterious, unsigned notes. you finally understood why those silent, suited men used to arrive at your house with heavy packages, flooding your pantries with food, stacking your closet with clothes, and filling your room with stuffed toys. he had been taking care of you all along.
you felt the room spin as the realization hit you like a physical blow. in reality, michael hadn't abandoned you at all. it was you who pushed him away. you were the one who let the doubt creep in, assuming he had forgotten your face and moved on with his glamorous life. you were the one who started to think he was too high in power, too consumed by his pop star life, and ultimately too good to ever love a woman like you.
your body moved completely involuntarily, as if an invisible thread was pulling you straight toward him. you slowly began to walk down the altar steps, your cold hand sliding out of your husbandās tight grip without a second thought. as the distance between you and michael began to shrink, the tears blurred your vision, and your lips slowly curled up into a genuine, breathless smile for the first time all day.
āI do.ā
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